by Wesley Stace
Even the teachers were distracted by the impending collapse, and it was hard to either get or pay attention. Break was spent at windows, looking out at the wall as it swayed precariously. Fire chiefs held on to their yellow hats and shrugged. A section of scaffolding flew off with a jangling crash, and a murmur of admiration went around the school. Still the wall clung on.
After lunch the wind had died down somewhat, and the boys, strictly monitored, were allowed outside at the safe distance of the all-weather pitch. George slipped away, walking behind the squash court. Here he sheltered from the wind, and here he intended to wait, till the collapse or till his dash for the end of the driveway, whichever came first.
He had some playing cards in his pocket, but out of boredom, he felt around for the hidden copy of Swinger. Despite its glossy cover, the print quality was only a few steps above a photocopy, but the activities on its pages were clear enough. George struggled to make sense of what was on offer: DP, TS, SM, Fr. The only one he understood was XXX. A woman with lustrous dark brown hair offered a sensuous massage in luxurious surroundings adjacent to Kings Cross. Just ask for Sylvia. George thought of his aunt, her warm voice, her dark hair, but the woman in the picture was hard and brittle, nothing like her. George had never sent the postcard he had been writing in his head. Beneath Sylvia, a woman in old-fashioned underwear looked at the lens, coaxing her camera-shy breasts towards the viewer.
He was just about to reposition himself in his Y-fronts when the rest of the wall fell with a groaning crash, blowing dust towards him. He didn’t dare move in case someone saw him, and he half feared that the impact would bring the squash court down around his ears. He ran for the copse without looking back. All eyes would be fixed out of the windows, he knew, so he made sure to keep the squash courts between him and the school.
Once in the copse, he shinned up the nearest tree, from where he had a perfect view of the new assembly hall, which now lay in ruins beneath a cloud of dust. Gravity had done its worst. There was nothing left to fall.
The sun had the nerve to come out for the first time in days. The headmaster and Mr. Blackstock emerged from the school, shaking their heads, gazing on the wreckage, as a steady trickle of teachers joined them. After a brief conversation, Blackstock started to erect a makeshift cordon around the area. George remembered his mission. The opportunity had presented itself; the spirit of Vox rose from deep within him.
“Help!” he moaned into his walkie-talkie. “Help!”
Nothing happened. He would need more volume, much more.
“Help!” he shouted. “Help! Anybody!”
Blackstock stopped, still as a statue.
“Help!” George said again, more feebly this time. He knew there would be some crackle on the voice, but he hoped that the walkie-talkie was buried so far down that this would not be noticed, that it would just sound muffled. Blackstock ventured as near as he dared to the rubble and started shouting. Everybody else ran towards him. George could hear only the shouts. He dubbed their conversation:
“What is it, Blackstock?”
“You’re not going to like it, Headmaster. A child.”
“Surely not!”
“No doubt about it. I heard his feeble voice.”
“How long can he go without water?”
In reality, everyone was shouting at one another. It was mayhem. There was Bird, running around in an overcoat, which he had hastily thrown over his brand-new Roman toga, and next to him Hessenthal: what would he be feeling when they found out who was missing? The headmaster yelled, and Bird flitted to him before being dispatched on Hartley’s bidding. George delighted to see these little men under his control. This was how Valentine had felt.
“Help!” George said again. And again everybody stopped whatever he was doing. “Help!” They had all heard it now. A school assembly would undoubtedly be called. Realizing who was absent, would they put two and two together, or would they just think he had been so foolish as to go precisely where he shouldn’t have?
Sirens screamed down the main drive, and George realized that this meant real trouble: when the outside world got involved, it was all over. In the world outside books, the victims didn’t smile and say, “Oh, Vox, you devil!” They took revenge. George had to stay outside till 5:30, when, under the cover of darkness, he would escape to his rendezvous.
He’d let them stew for a bit. He got himself comfortable among the branches of the tree and took Swinger out of his back pocket. The firemen, standing out in their bright oranges and yellows against the grey of the rubble and the browns of the Upside staff, started carefully to remove the bricks and concrete, all the while calling out, trying to see where the voice might have come from.
George allowed himself one further “Help!” but this did not have the intended effect; perhaps they hadn’t heard. When the bell went for afternoon lessons, the crowd of teachers slowly dissipated, but the firemen kept working. As it grew dark, they trained their high beams on the area. He didn’t bother to tease them anymore, as they worked diligently, like ants around their hill. One of the firemen got the attention of the others, and they gathered around. Another went into the school. The rest were giving up for the day. They hadn’t found the missing boy; perhaps they feared the worst.
George huddled into the crook of the tree. He noted with satisfaction that his watch read nearly five p.m. All was silent in the copse. Lights glowed all over the school.
His walkie-talkie spluttered to life. Startled, he grabbed on to a branch.
“George Fisher . . . can you hear me?” The static made the tone of Hartley’s voice harsher than George had ever heard it. “Answer me and quickly. NOW!”
“Yes, come in, Headmaster. I am reading you. Over.” George didn’t care anymore. He would be gone in less than an hour. They could do nothing.
“Where are you, Fisher?”
George started to climb down. He swung off the last two branches and fell to the ground.
“Where are you, Fisher? Over,” the headmaster repeated. “Are you in the school?”
“No.”
“I will meet you and your grandmother at the bottom of the driveway at six o’clock. We’ll have an end to this once and for all. Over and out.”
Hartley knew, but Queenie would be George’s salvation. Nothing would happen as long as she and Reg were on time.
George took the longest way he could find through the woods. He thought about his time at Upside, about how he’d come to be there, how it was all ending, and what he would miss. Now Don wasn’t there, there was nothing. But he had let Hartley down. He sang to himself.
Miraculously, at 5:50 p.m., Reg’s car was waiting. George sprinted blindly towards it to avoid any ambush on the way. Queenie was driving, and she waved to George out of the window. The back door opened.
Inside was Hartley, sitting calmly on the backseat. Reg and Queenie both wore their poker faces.
“Ah!” said Hartley, whose tone had none of its previous harshness. “Here he is! The Guglielmo Marconi of Upside. Climb aboard.” George got in, realizing that the car was going nowhere.
“Hello, Reg, Queenie,” he said.
“Hello, George,” they both answered contritely.
“Firstly, here is this,” said the headmaster. He handed George the walkie-talkie, covered in brick dust. “Sturdy little things. Military issue, I should think.”
“Donald gave them to me.”
“Did he? Did he?” Hartley nodded. His tone was wistful. “So this is a getaway car, is it?” No one said anything. “You never did get back to me, George, with the answer to that question.”
“What was that?”
“About what we could do to make your life happier.”
George thought about it. “Well, I’m happier now.”
There was silence.
“Have it your own way. We did our best. All it remains for me to say is good-bye, George, good-bye, Mr. and Mrs. . . .”
“Queenie and Reg,” said Queen
ie.
“Queenie and Reg,” said the headmaster with resignation.
“One thing,” said George. He took the envelope out of his back pocket. Hartley refused it with a shake of his head, opened the door, and walked back up the driveway.
* * *
They sat quietly in the car for a few moments.
“Seemed like a nice chap, really,” said Reg.
“Yes. Quite nice,” said Queenie. “You drive, Reg. I’ll sit in the back with Georgie.”
George was shattered: it was all he could do to comprehend that he was going home. “You rang the headmaster, didn’t you?” he asked her.
“Of course we did, darling. We were so worried.”
“What did he say?”
“He told us to come just like you said.”
“And you don’t have to go back there again,” said Reg. “Bugger that for a game of soldiers! Learn a trade!”
“Shh!” said Queenie. “We don’t know what will happen. We don’t even know what happened.” Queenie asked George to tell her everything, and he did. “Well,” she said in summation. “It was an experiment: an experiment that failed. Everyone tried their best. There’s nothing more to say.”
He fell asleep just as they entered the suburbs of London. The last thing he remembered Queenie saying before he finally succumbed was, “I can’t imagine what Frankie will say. A Fisher in the skin part! Honestly!”
He woke up as the car arrived at 34, Cadogan Grove, only one thought in his mind: It’s time to grow up.
7
The Moment When I Come Alive
Joe supplemented the family income with the odd spot of close-up magic. There was no call for me to accompany him.
One evening, however, I was delighted to find myself in the insalubrious backstage of an unfamiliar establishment in the West End. A large sign above the dressing room read, THE DRURY MANAGEMENT REQUESTS: NO GUESTS BACKSTAGE!
“Needs must,” said Joe, as he spruced me up.
In bowled the impresario, announcing himself with a fanfare of sneezes. “You’re the dep?” A large man whose cold made him huddle inside his pumice skin, he squinted at a piece of paper, eyes welling with tears, mouth open in anticipation of another blast. “Joking Fisher? Funny man?”
“Joe Fisher. King is my middle name.”
“Joe King. Joking. Very good. A gag, is it?” Joe shook his head, and the man mulled the name for a further second, put his handkerchief to his peeled-wallpaper nose, and trumpeted. “Why don’t you ditch the Joe? King Fisher.”
“. . . and George,” I added.
“Just George?” he asked, disappointed.
I looked at Joe, wondering what else I should be. “George Fisher?” I suggested, but he was looking for something more.
“Have it your own way. I’m Maurice Large. Max. Decimated by the flu, we’ve been: hence your good self.” He sneezed again and moaned in self-pity. “And you’re on . . . soon. . . .” The orchestra broke into a waltz. “Make that now!” And it was less than a minute later that the chairman proclaimed: “You want them! You deserve them! Joking Fisher and Gorgeous, Garrulous Geeeeeeeeee-orge!”
Gorgeous, Garrulous George — that was what Large had wanted: adjectives, alliterative adjectives. And I liked it! On we swiftly went, without time to get nervous. Joe put his leg on the chair, and I landed with a bump on his waiting thigh. We peered out into the orchestra, trying to get a feeling for the size of the place, but could make out nothing beyond the pit, where the band-leader, his baton poised, his face a question mark, attended us nervously, letting us know that he could strike up some exit music at any moment.
I scratched the side of my face and wore my bored expression. There were a couple of titters, which were shortly replaced by the throat clearing and coughing of growing unease. Joe leaned down, and I whispered, “Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb.” He shook his head, shrugging. Still we did nothing. I could picture Max Large pacing the wings, wiping his sweaty forehead with his snot-drenched handkerchief, thinking he’d made a big mistake. We shouldn’t let it go so far as “Geddorf!” but I liked the worried coughs. We could end it all at any moment. We would.
“Ooh, sorry!” I finally said, pointing at Joe and mugging. “I haven’t had him long!” There was laughter, mostly of relief.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced Joe, seeking some decorum. “Please, ladies and gentlemen . . .”
“Oi!” I stage-whispered through a clenched smile. “We haven’t rehearsed!” The audience laughed again.
“We don’t need to rehearse,” quoth he.
“Don’t need to rehearse? That’s easy for you to say! I need all the help I can get. Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, he hasn’t been out recently.” Another big laugh. “What about the script? My lines?” This was an aside, hissed loudly enough that they could hear me under the balcony.
“Leave it to me. Don’t worry yourself,” he said, and cocked an amusing eyebrow towards the stalls.
“Leave it to you?” I exclaimed in exasperation. “Leave it to you? The last time I left it to you . . .” I kept moving my mouth, but no sound came. It was a good gag: the audience loved it. Finally, after much silent up and down, I spoke again, chastened: “OK, Joe. I’ll leave it to you.” I cleared my throat, newly serious. I cleared my throat again. “Ladies and gentlemen!” I shouted this rather, coughed, and then apologized: “Good lord, I think I may be coming down with something. . . . Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you my partner, Joe.” Joe bowed.
“. . . In case there’s any doubt who’s in charge,” said Joe to a round of applause, and we were up and running.
We eased our way through a selection of adult jokes: high society was the upper crust, made from crumbs and held together by dough; the definition of a bachelor — footloose and fiancée free. When an audience begins to laugh, the fun begins. A good performer can ride the wave, and Joe knew how to draw out the laughter, to dampen it, to let it ascend slowly and then crash; they were in the palm of his hand as surely as I was at his fingertips. And the wonder of it was, we were making it up, going where the laughter took us. There was material, of course, but we weren’t reciting lines. We were actually living, as we had during those few precious moments at the Drolls. I had never thought we could pull this off, but it was simply a matter of confidence, of letting ourselves go. It was the performance of our lives, resulting in a call for an encore that Joe ignored. Echo was wrong: the audience hadn’t simply seen through him. He had touched them. They had believed in him. They had breathed him in. I was delighted, as was Max Large, whose cold seemed much improved.
“You’ve done this before, my lad. Where have you been hiding?”
“Just starting out. I have an entertainment for children’s parties,” said Joe.
“Dearie me. Here’s five crown. Same time tomorrow.”
Since there was nothing booked in the next afternoon, we were able to escape to the Drury a little earlier. The rest of the bill was run-of-the-mill, with emphasis on the brash: several deep-voiced women sang throatily and made saucy comments; a juggler made a lot of jokes about his balls. Backstage, Joe was a little out of his depth, but once on, he was in charge. Again we left to an ovation.
“Someone for you to meet, Fisher,” said Max Large, as he rushed by, handing Joe a card. “They’ve had a lot of luck with vents. Look smart and be nice to the secretary.”
“ ‘Duke Duval,’ ” read Joe. “ ‘Duke Edwardes and Franchot Duval. Representation to the Stars. Wardour Street.’ Thanks. We’ll go tomorrow afternoon.”
Ten chairs lined Duke Duval’s waiting room and all were taken. This wasn’t the “special look” we had expected: it was a cattle call. Joe had turned himself out nicely, as instructed, but he needn’t have bothered; no one would notice.
Beneath a sign that said NO ANIMALS — NO EXCEPTIONS, an unimpressed secretary sat behind a desk, doling out numbers. She dangled a spare hand over a pile of forms while she continued her more pressing work, and recit
ed, “Name there . . . Name of act . . . Address . . . Previous representation . . .” As she called the next number, I found myself sitting on Joe’s lap, eyeing the competition. Another hopeful joined us — unfortunately another ventriloquist, his act in his case.
“Just under the wire, Bobbie,” said the secretary to this most recent arrival, a handsome young man with a straight nose and wide sparkling eyes: paint him gold and he’d have the face of an Egyptian sarcophagus. “I can just squeeze you in.”
“I’m sure I can fit. I’m only small.” He crowned his remark with the sauciest of smiles before adding confidentially, “Worry not, petal. We’re here on other business!” Then, mocking the tense atmosphere of the audition, he mouthed, We’ll just take a seat, pointing ornately at a newly vacated chair and making a solemn bow of apology to the room. He sat down directly opposite us, opened a rather scruffy suitcase, and, in playful imitation, put his boy on his knee.
But hold on a second: it wasn’t a boy at all!
There weren’t many men with female dolls. In fact, there weren’t many female dolls, full stop. Beyond the curiosity value, however, there was something magnetic about her. I didn’t dare, but how I longed to stare. If only I could get a proper look.
“Aye, aye, Bobbie,” said an emerging auditionee.
“How did it come off, Bill?” Bobbie placed inverted commas around any words that took his fancy. I had never seen such archness off a stage, even in Echo. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. Or her.
“Number twenty-three. Rollo Rothschild,” came the announcement. Up stood a tiny man, nervously wringing the life out of some sheet music. How I wished Joe had brought a book — what better camouflage when you’re trying to sneak a peek at a young lady? Luckily, he found a small stack of The Stage and, clipping one page to my right hand, holding the other side with his left, started reading a drab editorial about the possible consequences of a war to the West End. This did not quite obscure my view of the new arrival, and if I kept my head down yet looked up as far as I could, my view was perfect. Quite perfect.