written my last ‘proper’ missive. This had been to my Gran thanking her for a birthday present she’d sent me. I was around six or seven at the time, I
think, so you can imagine what sort of letter it would have been. Very short probably and written in splaying, angular letters. (I got the word ‘missive’ from Gran, by the way.)
I might have been tempted to text Mitchell if I’d had his mobile details but I probably wouldn’t have actually done so. For some reason a formal letter seemed the best way of communicating with someone I didn’t know and had never met.
The writing of formal letters is a dying art, believe me. It’s even harder than creative fiction writing so that probably explains why hardly anyone does it anymore. Letters make you think in a strange and unusual way about what you have to say to another person. A letter isn’t like a text or an email because the recipient expects it to be different from either of those two. Not sort and snappy and definitely not written in text language. Letters, above all, have to show considered thought.
Considered, thoughtful thinking of the letter-writing kind is tough on the brain. It took me ages and several drafts before I got it right or at least as right as I could get it. I didn’t dwell too much on the fact that the letter told only half of the truth and even that half-truth was a bit iffy.
This is what I eventually finished up with.
Dear Mr Laurison, (In this case formality of title seemed the right thing to do.)
You won’t know me, my name is Athena (Yes, I lied outright here. What did you expect?) and I
now live with my family in the house your parents once used to own. You might think this is an odd request (it is) but I am writing to ask about your
father, Mr Lawrence Laurison. His neighbours May and Barry, who are our neighbours now, told us a bit about him and his wife (your mother) Iris.
I am doing a school project for my English
teacher, Mrs Tyrell. It’s a biography of someone who interests me and because your parents sounded like interesting people I was thinking of writing a biography about them and about their life and times. I’m hoping you can help me, either with information about your parents or, preferably, by letting me know if it is possible to talk to your father in person. May told us he had moved north to live closer to you. I hope that he is still alive and I’m very sorry if he is not. (At
the time I couldn’t think of any better way of putting this. In retrospect it did sound a little insensitive.) I hope you won’t think this is too strange a request and that you will be able to help me in some way.
Yours sincerely, (if slightly deranged. (( No, I didn’t actually write this in the letter. Duh!)) )
Athena Riley.
Naturally when I read this over I felt like tearing it up and tossing it away with all the other drafts that had ended up in the shredder but because I didn’t think I would be able to achieve anything better, I scanned and printed a copy for myself (I have to keep copies of important documents), signed the original and stuffed it into an envelope. I found a stamp (self-adhesive. I’d didn’t even know they made them like that!), stuck it onto the envelope and posted it in the box down the road. (This was the first time all week I’d been away from the house, apart from the visit to May. I
felt like an escaped prisoner, or a stranger in an alien land.)
Afterwards I wished I hadn’t posted it because I realised I had well and truly messed up. Once
again I tried imagining being the recipient of this letter and wondering how on earth I was be supposed to know what sort of information the writer of the letter wanted. Was it words, or pictures, memories or what? And why would I, getting a letter such as this, even if I understood what the writer was asking for, be bothered spending what could likely take ages sorting out information and sending a reply.
It wasn’t, in the end, even a very thoughtful letter!
Truly, what an idiot I’d been! My face burned when I dwelt on it. The best I could hope for, I knew, was that the son would send me his father’s contact number and that I could talk directly with Laurie on the phone about what was happening in the mirrors. After all, that was what I really wanted - needed - to do. Assuming that Laurie was still alive. And that wasn’t certain, not by a long shot.
Later, when I thought less agitatedly about it, I realised that I had actually enjoyed the physical, if not the mental, effort of writing a traditional letter, brief though it was, and affixing a stamp and posting it. It felt archaic but in a fashionably retro sort of way. And also strangely satisfying.
Me being a writer, you may think it odd that I had such an aversion to letter writing but, before, it had always seemed such a bore and a chore. I think that’s because Mum and Dad made us write thank-
you letters and we - at least I. I can’t remember what Harry thought about it - had rebelled at the age of around eight.
Amazingly, I felt withdrawal symptoms after
finishing my missive to Mitchell. I felt like writing another one. So I did. My second letter was (believe it or not) addressed to Troy.
Message to Troy
Dear Troy, (no ‘Mister’ here. ‘Dear’, normally a term of endearment, was, I told myself, perfectly acceptable and neutral-sounding in the context of a letter, unlike ‘hi!’ or ‘hey!’ or nothing at all, as in texts or emails.)
I wanted to thank you for sharing your enthusiasm for palindromes. I had never really thought about them before. I like writing so I know how easy it is to get caught up in one’s own
enthusiasms. Here’s a palindrome I found on the internet. I’m sure you will already be familiar with it but, if not, please enjoy.
“A man, a plan, a canal: Panama.”
I also know you got caught up in the minor
machinations of my friends Emma and Rachel. I can quite understand how you might feel about that. I am sorry if I embarrassed you by asking if you had asked after me, the day I wasn’t at the pool. There is of course no reason why you should have done so.
I was a little curt with you when you texted and then rang and I finished by hanging up on you. I’ve been under some pressure recently, the details of which I don’t want to go into (Well, I did, but I couldn’t) and the discussion about palindromes
was a little unexpected. It also takes time to get used to someone who is exceptionally good at talking backwards. Everything will be back to normal soon, I’m sure. I look forward to seeing
you again either at the pool or at school.
Yours sincerely,
Athens. (No point lying here. Troy knew my real name.)
I scanned and printing a copy of this letter also and again made the mistake of re-reading it soon after I had posted it. Cringe-making I know and far too formal! Yuck, yuck, yuck!
But I suppose it was thoughtful, at least.
I think.
Having sent the letters I tried to forget about them both (the letters, I mean, not the addressees.) That wasn’t too hard as, almost the next second it seemed, Harry was on my case about our rehearsals for the forthcoming audition.
And the next mirror episode occurred.
Point and wave
I’ll start with the rehearsal. It was stressful but less so than the mirror events.
A few days after I’d written and sent the letters, Harry waved me furtively into his room. Secretively he shut the door. The first thing I saw was that he’d shoved his bed under the window. The resulting expanse of floor space in the centre of the room was taken up by the refurbished chest, not that I would have said the chest looked particularly different. Certainly not much cleaner
than during its sojourn in the garage.
‘You finished it?’ I asked.
‘Course.’
‘Fast worker.’
‘Focused, that’s me’
‘That’s what . . .’ I stopped.
‘What?’ asked Harry.
‘Nothing.’ I’d been about to say that May had used that very word about Harry - focused and
intense - but did I want Harry to know that May and I had talked about him? No. He’d ask why. He’d get paranoid.
As it turned out I don’t think it would have mattered much what I’d told Harry. He was much more interested in the talent quest than about a half-finished sentence. Now that he had given up on getting dressed in a straitjacket having ‘perfected’ (his word. Highly unlikely, in my humble opinion) the chest-escape, Harry was just going to wear his ‘normal’ clothes. Normal for his magician’s clothes, that is. Top hat, tie, tails. Very trad I said and Harry said it was the retro look. I guess he had a point. He could have been echoing
my musings about the retroness (is that a word? I don’t know. Who cares!) of letter writing. Retro is obviously in fashion.
‘This is what you have to do as far as the pointing and waving is concerned,’ Harry explained.
‘I’d almost forgotten I had to do that,’ I said.
‘I hope not.’
‘No, not really,’ I assured him.
‘Stop wasting time then,’ he said. ‘This is the deal. You point at me. You wave at the chest.’ He demonstrated by rippling his hand and arm
alluringly in the air. ‘But,’ he emphasised, ‘only when you’re supposed to. That’s critical. You have to get people to focus on what I want them to focus on.’
‘Yes, you told me. Distraction. Besides, I’m getting to know your methods Houdini.’
‘It’s not really distraction as such, it’s misdirection and . . . well, never mind.’
‘Professional secret, right?’
‘Maybe.’
‘So when is the right time to do this . . .’ and here I imitated his flowery gesture, ‘. . . and how will I know it’s the right time?’
‘We’re going to have a rehearsal right now,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you through your paces.’
‘Are we? Appreciate the advance notice. And I’m not a racehorse to be taken through my paces I’ll have you know.’
‘Neigh,’ agreed Harry.
Sometimes that boy is infuriatingly and deviously clever. In spite of the recurring rancour between us I have clearly been a positive influence on his language life.
What else did I have to do that day? Everything and nothing. I felt exhausted but, all the same, I acquiesced. As things turned out, in the end Harry realised (if he hadn’t already planned this in advance) that I could actually become a much more active part of his new, improved act, if I were game enough to try.
Harry had, in fact, practised the chest escape really well. He impressed even me. He folded himself inside the chest, minus his top hat and tails (these
he flung to me in a dramatic gesture and I had to catch them, not part of the original deal I protested but I did it anyway), and got me to chain and padlock it. (Someone from the audience would be
asked to do this in ‘real life’. I refrained from asking where Harry had got the chains and locks from in case it was the same person who had provided him with the straitjacket. If it were, I decided it was better not to know. I’d only be even more curious about this person who knew where to get hold of such a random collection of restraining devices.)
Thirty seconds later Harry was out of the chest. I couldn’t believe it. From straitjacket struggles to chest escape success. Amazing!
My role was a little more than just to point, wave and be a catcher of clothes. During the rehearsal I had to hoist a curtain over the chest and hold it in place. Harry had rigged up a circular screen using my old hula hoop (Q: ‘Where did you find that?’ A: ‘In the garage along with the chest.’) with a shower curtain looped around it. I did inquire as to the origins of said curtain since it looked suspiciously like one that Mum had bought
a while ago and stored away until Dad did up the bathroom. Harry, needless to say, did not reply. He certainly hadn’t found it in the garage.
The curtain had to be held up high enough to shield Harry immediately before he reappeared on top of the chest in which he had been locked. Because it was too hard on my arms to hold it that high, I stood on a stepladder. I had to face the audience (imaginary at this stage) as I wasn’t allowed to look down into the screen and see how Harry managed his escape.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ he said.
‘You’d better,’ I replied.
It wasn’t until we’d practised the trick (or ‘illusion’ as Harry preferred to call it) a few times
and I was rather un-expectedly imagining myself being on a real stage with real people watching the real performance, TV cameras ogling nearby and feeling nervously excited about the whole thing, that Harry suddenly had another ‘brainwave’.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘we could make this thing even better. Bigger and better.’
‘We could, could we, secret-keeper? How? And do I really want to know?’
‘Maybe you do,’ said Harry. ‘Listen. This is what happens now. I get locked up and I can escape, real quick.’
‘You don’t say.’ (Remember, irony is wasted on Harry.)
‘Other magicians do a swap as well as an escape. Houdini did it brilliantly.’
‘That figures.
‘It’s called the Sub Trunk Illusion,’ said Harry. He was getting really excited now.
‘Swap? Sub Trunk? Explain, maestro. Are we
talking submarines here, or what?’
‘Just be quiet a minute,’ Harry said. ‘Sub stands for substitution. Swap, in other words. The assistant who holds up the curtain, or whatever it happens to be, swaps places with the magician. He gets out, she ends up locked in the chest.’
‘Are you serious?’ I said, feeling my throat and chest suddenly constrict at what Harry was implying. Me, shut inside the wooden chest?
‘I know you get scared in small places,’ said Harry, ‘but this wouldn’t be for long. You won’t
have time to get scared, believe me.’
‘Long enough,’ I said. ‘No way.’
‘I’d have no choice but to let you into the secret then,’ Harry said.
‘You don’t have any choice but to tell me anyway. You promised,’ I reminded him.
Harry made no response to that. Instead he said, ‘Maybe you’re right Athens. You wouldn’t be any good at it. Just forget I asked.’
I knew his game and wasn’t going to fall for it. On the other hand he was correct about me always having been claustrophobic. Maybe Harry was unknowingly offering me a way of, as they say, facing my fear and doing it any-way. It was worth thinking about. What’s more, although the idea of a more active participation in the performance, especially in the way Harry was suggesting, spooked me greatly, it also strangely tempted me (and this was the part that I found really hard to comprehend.)
‘I’ll have to think about it,’ I said, playing for time.
I never thought I would have felt anything like excited about getting hooked up into the public
performance thing. I‘d always thought of myself as the ‘typical’ writer, re-served and shy, saving my true self for the written word. I didn’t have a page on social media and I’d never contemplated the idea of having my own blog, both of those things being way too ‘out there’ for my liking. So what was I thinking, implying to Harry that there was even the slightest possibility that I would become an integral part of his act?
Harry, as I could have predicted, was in a huge
hurry.
‘Don’t take a long time thinking about it,’ he warned me. ‘We’re moving into a critical time period here. Soon there won’t be any going back,
whatever you decide.’
I’d forgotten the talent quest was so soon. There were too many competing concerns. But I seemed to be on a treadmill that kept on turning, compelling me to turn along with it. There wasn’t any going back for me either.
Party time
That afternoon I saw Laurie and Iris again. While I’d been expecting another ‘mirror-vision’ (mirror ‘invasion’ to be more accurate) when it came it was still accompanied by that disconcert
ing mix of disbelief, fascination and fear, not to mention disconnection from the real world.
Again it was in a different mirror, the large one in the lounge (a.k.a. the séance room) just to the right of the dry-rot infested and dangerously disintegrating chimney. Because it was a large mirror the picture leapt out of it as if it were in 3D.
I almost expected stereo surround-sound effects but of course there was none of that. Like the previous images this one was flat, still and silent . . . a mirror image of another one of the photographs that Laurie and Iris would once have had on their walls. Maybe this connection (still conjectural, I hasten to add) made the image even more potent. The past and the present merging for a few brief moments of time.
A birthday party was in progress. Whose birthday
was it? Well, there was a cake that had what looked like far too much food colouring in the icing and a little boy who was gazing longingly, eagerly and expectantly at the cake, waiting for the
word to blow out the candles that were burning brightly. I could count eight of them so the probability that this was Laurie and Iris’ son’s birthday was pretty high.
I brought my face closer to the mirror to get a better look at Mitchell. This was my first glimpse of the boy - in real life a man now - to whom I’d so recently written. I was scared my breath would mist up the mirror before I got a clear view although, even when my lips were almost touching the glass, nothing seemed to disturb its surface. The boy had short back and sides and a chubby, cheerful face. You couldn’t help but smile with him, enjoying the promise of the celebration that was about to happen. He seemed a nice enough, ordinary sort of boy. (But then so does Harry and you know what sort of ratbag he is!). I wondered if Mitchell’s birthday had been an especially good one. I wondered what he’d been given for presents and if he’d had friends at his party or if it had been
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