So I followed her inside.
The weight of the world
(Full of DEEP THOUGHTS, mainly May’s, not mine, so don’t shoot the messenger.)
As I had anticipated, I envied May and Barry's house even if their garden was too well organised for my liking. It was about the same age as ours I guessed, although smaller. Unlike ours it had been
thoroughly modernised. ‘Completely ruined’, Dad
might have described it but who cared. It’s not as
if Dad was that pure himself anyway, he wasn’t intending to keep our place in its pristine, original form.
Here, at least one of the internal walls had been taken out to let the morning light flood through. Panelling had been stripped back to the bare wood and re-varnished a light, golden colour; while the plaster walls above the panelling had been painted a soothing apricoty-white. Some of the ceilings had been lowered while all of the old wooden window frames had been replaced with aluminium look-alikes. (You see, I know what to look for in a house. All those years of shifting from place to place and listening to Dad have sharpened my real estate skills. Unreal!) There was an air con unit in the lounge into which I followed May and no musty smells anywhere. Lovely.
‘The photo album I want is in here,’ said May opening one of two doors at the bottom of a china cabinet. She rummaged for a while and eventually surfaced with a red-covered album. ‘Sit down. I’ll show you.’
‘This is actually our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary album,’ she said, her already quiet voice dropping another decibel or two. ‘I remember putting Laurie’s photo at the back where there was a spare pocket.’
‘Twenty-five years is a long time,’ I said, wondering if I’d been wrong about the in-
compatibility of May and Barry. Mum and Dad had been married for sixteen years and in some ways that felt like forever to me.
‘I suppose so,’ said May. ‘Sometimes it feels shorter than that, but mostly a lot longer. Which of
course it is. It’s just over thirty now. Probably from your perspective a quarter of a century seems
a long time.’
‘From anyone’s, I would have said. Have you and Barry got any kids?’ I added, scaring myself by my own inquisitiveness (although for a writer this was a perfectly natural thing to be). It wasn’t something I’d been particularly curious about but as soon as I asked it I realised that I was. I hadn’t seen any family photos anywhere. Perhaps there were some in the anniversary album.
May shook her head. I couldn’t tell if she was annoyed with me or not. ‘No,’ she said, adding, ‘We never got round to it.’
I wasn’t sure what to say to that so I said nothing. Never got round to it. She made it sound like not having kids was sort of accidental when for lots of people the accident was in having kids! ‘Curiouser and curiouser’ as Alice said.
May flicked efficiently through the pages. I could see only fleeting glimpses of her and Barry. At a dinner table somewhere, eating, chatting, posing, toasting, being toasted . . .
‘Must be nice to have those memories,’ I said.
‘One of our friends took the photos and presented us with the album,’ May said. ‘She was my bridesmaid at our wedding, in fact.’
‘It’s great you’re still in touch with each other,’ I said. ‘I don’t think Mum is in touch with her bridesmaid anymore.’
‘She didn’t only take the photos, she organised the dinner and everything,’ May said. ‘Invitations, the lot. Without her . . .’ She hesitated. ‘You’re obviously a perceptive young woman,’ she said to me, out of the blue. ‘So perhaps you’ll understand
when I say that I wonder sometimes if all the trouble she went to for Barry and me was really worthwhile and if her friendship was misplaced.’
I wanted to believe May when she said I was perceptive but then, when I realised I didn’t entirely understand what she was talking about, I wondered if it was her judgment that was misplaced.
‘But aren’t you glad you’ve got all those memories, ’ I said a second time.
‘I wanted to be happy with them and I was for a while but, honestly, they matter less and less now. Memories are funny things, Athena. You think you’ll have them forever, unchanging, but like everything else they shift about and what you think was an accurate recollection goes and changes on you. Or, at least, you as a person changes and your memory alters at the same time. You look back and ask yourself, was it really like that, the way it seemed, or was it totally different?’
Maybe I was perceptive, after all. ‘Is it Barry?’ I asked. ‘Is it because of him that you can’t enjoy remembering things the way you want to remember them?’
Naturally I hadn’t expected any of this. To be honest I didn’t really need May telling me her private stuff, not on top of everything else that was happening, but what could I do? I couldn’t run away from her. For some reason she was trusting me with her secrets, me, a person she hardly knew
and had only met once before. I guess I felt I had to meet the challenge of the trust she was placing in me.
May said, ‘It’s maybe more that at the start I let him stop me, while these days I stop myself.
Because he stopped caring, ages ago. Now I don’t
know if he ever cared. Time doesn’t stand still,’ May went on. ‘We have to go along with it even though some of us resist. These days Barry looks in the mirror and he doesn’t see in it what he’d like to see.’
I could relate to that!
‘And when he looks at me,’ May went on, ‘it’s the same story. He doesn’t like what he’s seeing anymore either.’
‘Then why don’t you . . .?’ I began.
‘Get away? Leave him?’ said May, looking round the room towards the brow-beaten garden. She shook her head. ‘Somehow we’re locked together and we can’t get free of each other. I can’t explain why. Not to you. Not even to myself. Don’t get me wrong. Barry’s not violent or abusive. Mostly when it’s just the two of us, he’s simply silent. The silence is crushing sometimes. It weighs on me. It’s so heavy I can’t seem to move. I can't act.’
‘Perhaps my Mum can help,’ I ventured.
‘What can she do?’ May asked.
‘She’s a lawyer,’ I said. ‘Specializes in relationships. ’
May shrugged as if to say, ‘Lawyers, what possible use are they?’ (A lot of people seem to think that about the legal profession. I suspect legal beagles get an even harder time than pen-pushers.)
‘It might be a place to start?’ I said. ‘She’s good at giving advice, anyway.’
‘Maybe I will,’ said May. She sighed again and, with an effort, refocused on the album, turning to the last page. ‘But you haven’t come here to listen
to the story of my life,’ she said. ‘It’s Laurie
you’ve come about. And here he is.’
The man in the mirror
She turned the album for me to see. ‘This is Laurie, alone in the photo just as he was in real life at the time.’
I looked at the picture. The Laurie in the photo was different from the Laurie I had seen in the mirror, something that was not in the least surprising given that here he was a lot older. But the harder I stared at him, the more familiar he became. A long face; straight, badly cut hair at the sides; head bald in the middle; a mouth unsmiling, serious, sad and . . . yes, angry too.
The Laurie in the mirrors had straight, thinning hair too, he just wasn’t bald like his older version. His younger face was rounder but still long and his mouth had a serious look even then. In the mirrors it had been smiling and, as far as I could re-member, there hadn’t been any anger there at all. But in those early days Laurie had had Iris to keep him company. In May’s birthday photo of him you could tell straightaway that, despite the celebration with friends and neighbours, Laurie was miserably alone.
‘It’s not a great shot but it’s all I have,’ said May apologetically. ‘Perhaps not enough for an illustrated project?’
I felt g
uilty. The project excuse had gone straight out of my head.
‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re probably right. It’s quite a small photo and, like you said, it’s the only one you’ve got.’
‘The only thing I can think of that you could do,
if you still want to go ahead with your project about Laurie and Iris, is to write to him. I’ve got Laurie’s rest-home address.’
‘You’ve only heard from him the once though, isn’t that what you said?’
May nodded. ‘The chance that he would write back to you is slim, I’m afraid.’
‘Probably zilch,’ I said. ‘I mean, why would he write to me, someone he’s never even heard of, when he wrote only that one time to you guys? To you. What if he’s died since?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ said May. ‘But there’s no harm in trying if you want to pursue it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’
‘You could give me the address,’ I said. ‘I can think about it.’
May found where she had kept it and wrote it on a piece of paper for me.
‘Thanks for showing me the photo,’ I said, getting up to leave. ‘It was nice seeing what Laurie looked like, in any case.’
Why I’d used the meaningless word ‘nice’ I didn’t know. Just being polite. It confirmed that Laurie (and Iris by default) was the man in the mirror but what was ‘nice’ about that? At least I knew now that they weren’t some other people altogether, that would have been even harder to deal with. I would have been back at square one knowing even less than I knew now.
‘I think Iris must have been very good-looking when she was young,’ May said. I wondered if this was going to be the start of another drawn-out conversation, like the one at our house when a tap seemed to have been turned on.
‘They had a lot of photos of themselves in the
house you know, wedding ones, family ones and so on. I thought she was quite beautiful. It’s so sad that she died young, well relatively young, and sadder still that Laurie found it so difficult to live life without her.’
May sounded terribly stricken herself almost as if . . . well, almost as if she was jealous of Laurie and Iris, not only of their happiness but also Laurie’s sadness. Weird but, given the sort of uncaring person Barry appeared to be, maybe understandable, too. Perhaps sadness was a kind of parting gift when it came from happiness to begin with, because you couldn't have the one without having had the other.
‘Anyway, you know I have this photo if you decide you do want to do your project on Laurie and Iris,’ said May, ‘and I’m sure I could dredge up some other useful verbal memories for you. But if I were in your shoes I think I’d tackle an easier subject.’
That was the chance for me to go. I hadn’t planned on staying so long anyway. But now something kept me talking. I guess I sort of felt I’d be abandoning May if I left immediately. Besides, I didn’t have the impression that she was in a hurry for me to go.
‘Harry keeps telling me I should do my project on Houdini,’ I said. ‘That’s his hero. But there’s screeds written about him already. Everyone
knows about Houdini.’
‘But it would be easier wouldn’t it?’ May said. ‘To pick someone famous.’
‘I guess. But a bit boring as well. I don’t know. Maybe I will.’
‘I thought your brother seemed very focused,’
May said. ‘Quite an intense young man.’
That was very observant of her, I thought, especially considering she’d met him even more briefly than me.
‘He mentioned he had to go and practise his tricks,’ she went on.
‘That’s right. He’s forever practising. He’s entered a talent quest,’ I explained. ‘He’s mainly done magic tricks and stuff for fun but now he thinks he’s going to win big bucks. The thing is, he hasn’t even got through the preliminary audition yet and that’s the hardest nut to crack. He could easily be eliminated right from the word go. And
the act he was planning to do hasn’t turned out to be the thing he can do very well. At all, actually. He’s got to start all over again.’
‘Starting from scratch isn’t easy,’ said May. ‘But I have a feeling he’ll find a solution. He struck me as that kind of person. Resilient. You as well,’ she said.
Well, I guess she’d recognise someone resilient when she saw one. She only had to look in the mirror.
‘I guess he is,’ I said, not commenting on myself. Did I have the same sort of staying power as Harry? The fact was, he had almost given up until I’d pushed him along a little. Perhaps I was equally as resilient as Harry, even more maybe. I felt a little cheered. For a resilient person there just
had to be a way of solving the mystery of the mirrors.
‘Wish Harry luck from me,’ said May. ‘He reminds me a little of my brother at the same age. He knew exactly what he wanted to do and he
went ahead and did it. Didn’t matter what other
people thought.’
‘What was your brother’s obsession?’ I asked.
‘Jazz,’ said May. ‘His trumpet drove me mad.’
‘Did he grow out of it?’
‘Heavens no,’ said May. ‘He formed a jazz band when he was twenty-three and they’re all still together, touring the world. I hardly ever see him these days. He’s always sending me postcards from exotic locations. Just goes to show, doesn’t it?’
Of course I started to wonder if May had ever had any grand ambitions. More importantly (at least as far as I was concerned) I felt nervous that she would ask me about mine. I didn’t think I had any, except to become a writer, and I felt a jab of jealousy to think that Harry’s fixation could turn out to be his fortune. He was younger than me but he’d leave me far behind if I wasn’t careful. My dream of writing seemed a lot more airy-fairy, arty-farty and illusory than his magical ambitions even though Harry was the one who dealt in actual illusions. Harry had real skills, ones he’d proven to us, his own family. And here he was, about to try out for a major talent quest. That was really putting your neck on the line.
What had I done except read books and fallen in love with words? How many, out of all the people like me who wanted to become writers, actually ended up famous? Not many.
I think it was then I realised I should start writing down the stuff that was happening to me. I mean, what a story it was! I just wished I knew how it was going to end.
May and I made a bit more small talk and then I
thanked her and said goodbye.
‘Come round anytime,’ she said. ‘I’m usually at home. And good luck with whatever you decide to write about.’
That last sentence seemed like a kind of omen.
‘Thanks,’ I said a second time. ‘I’ve really appreciated your help. And,’ I added, before May closed the door on herself, ‘I’m sure you’ll work out what to do, too.’
Help
As it turned out Harry was waiting impatiently for me when I got back. It rattled me somewhat, his impatience following on from May’s revelations.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked.
‘Charming,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been next door, not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Next door? What for?’ Harry didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’
‘There’s a first time for everything. It’s usually the other way round. Now you’ve found me, what do you want?’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said.
‘What did you do that with?’ I asked.
‘Look, cut the crap,’ Harry said. ‘It’s only because of what you said before. I wouldn’t waste my time otherwise.’
‘You wouldn’t waste your time talking to me,
or thinking?’ (You can see from this exchange how devoted a brother and sister we were.) ‘What did I say?’ I asked him. ‘Remind me? Let’s see if you’ve got your facts straight.’
‘You said two things. One, that I should find
another escape routine and, two, that you’d help
me if I did.’
‘The first is true. The second - well, I’m not sure I said that exactly. But I suppose it was close enough. (What had I let myself in for?) Tell me what you’ve come up with in the short time I’ve been away,’ I asked him.
‘I’m sure I can do something even better than the straitjacket escape,’ Harry said.
His earlier dogged enthusiasm seemed to have returned with a raggle-taggle collection of puppies in tow. Unfortunately for him I found it hard to empathize. Mirror images, missed appointments, disconcerting discussions with next-door neighbours . . . today had been full-on enough already.
‘But I can’t do it on my own,’ Harry continued.
‘That’s radical,’ I said.
Harry was actually admitting something he’d never admitted before. Despite my diversity of distractions I was starting to get worried, suspicious and curious about what this cry for ‘help’ was going to entail.
‘Yes,’ Harry agreed. ‘I need help.’
It was still my cue to be kind but I’d already overdosed on kindness. ‘So you’ve said. And that’s not something I can argue with. Before the men in white coats come to cart you away you mean?’
‘Will you stop being so clever-bloody-sarcastic
all the time!’ he snapped and that almost shut me up. When on earth did he discover the word ‘sarcasm’?
‘I need you to be my assistant.’
‘What!’ My worst worries and suspicions had
come true, my curiosity more than satisfied. ‘Your assistant?’
Harry watched me calculatingly.
‘Do you mean what I think you mean?’ I eventually managed to ask. ‘Assistant as in on stage.’
Harry nodded. ‘I wouldn’t ask you unless it was
important.’
‘Unless you were desperate!’
‘Whatever. Well, will you?’
‘I’m sure my offer of help never extended as far as that,’ I said.
‘Come on,’ he said using his wheedling tone, very rare these days. I hadn’t heard it for a few years. ‘I really could do with some help.’
The Houdini Effect Page 9