Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1 – The Sea Spray Theatre
Chapter 2 – Teapots and Light Bulbs
Chapter 3 – Keith Chalk
Chapter 4 – Incomprehensible
Chapter 5 – Sir Stuart Crisps’ Aquarium
Chapter 6 – Nothing Broken
Chapter 7 – Luxury Yacht
Chapter 8 – Crab Pie Island
Chapter 9 – Pier Again
Chapter 10 – Potty and the Failed Distraction
Chapter 11 – The International Magic Guys
Chapter 12 – Operation Potty
Chapter 13 – High-visibility Jet Pack
Chapter 14 – Another Flying Machine
Chapter 15 – A Bright Future
Afterword by Dr Pompkins
Copyright
About the Publisher
Dr Pompkins – Totality Magic
Welcome once more to the magic world of Dr Pompkins. As I sit at my study chair with a small pot of tea and a basket of fresh pastries there is just one word I’d like to mention: style. Now that you have learned the basics of magic, you need to know how to augment your tricks with verve and panache – this is as necessary as your practical know-how. If you follow me through these colossal pages, dear reader, you will learn how to make every trick your own. The world is our oyster… and we are but hungry explorers on a mountain ledge of possibility…
In all totality,
Dr Pompkins
Boomph!
Esmé and Monty Pepper were on the beach when they heard the first explosion.
“What was that?” asked Monty, turning round.
“It came from that tiny island just out to sea,” replied Esmé, who had been looking for fossils. “I wonder what could have caused it.” Esmé wrinkled her brow and stood up facing the island, which looked like a palm tree pudding in a bowl of blue custard.
Boooomph!
There was another bang, bigger this time and closer.
“Oh, dear,” said Monty.
“It’s Potty!” said Esmé. “Come on, take your flippers off, Monty – we’d better go and check if he’s all right.”
It was springtime and the Pepper twins were spending the school break at the seaside with Potty – a professional and very tall magician with wispy, worm-like hair and one long eyebrow.
Potty had done a good job of looking after Esmé and Monty last summer. When they had arrived back from holiday, Mr and Mrs Pepper were impressed to hear how the twins had saved a local magic club and organised its new junior division. Now, Esmé and Monty’s hippie parents wanted to use the springtime school break to catch a quick glimpse of the Sacred Mountain of Terry in Goa, and sing a hymn to the Indian Goddess of Soil – or something like that. So again they entrusted Potty to look after their children at the seaside while he put on his latest Sea Spray Theatre show at the end of Crab Pie Pier.
Had Mr and Mrs Pepper been given details about last summer’s exploding toaster, flooded kitchen, spilt baked beans, damaged laptop, etc. then they might have thought twice about leaving their children with Potty again. But, luckily for Esmé and Monty, they weren’t told anything of the sort.
By the sound of explosion number two, Potty was up to his old tricks again. The twins ran towards the theatre as fast as they could.
Esmé, dressed with practicality in mind for a spring break on the British coast, was wearing a yellow mac over a sweatshirt and navy blue straight-fit trousers. Her plimsolls had plenty of grip that helped her to run across the pebbly beach without slipping. Monty, on the other hand, had dressed this morning in a Victorian blue-and-white striped bathing suit, complete with rubber ring and flippers, and his usual black velvet cape. Having been on the beach for the last two hours, Monty had picked up plenty of seaweed, which hung from his rubber ring and made him look like a cross between a sea monster and a chandelier. The curling fronds of seaweed trailed behind him as they ran up the steps to the Sea Spray Theatre.
The Sea Spray Theatre had been built on Crab Pie Pier in the 1930s. Throughout the decades it had played host to many top names: Pat Daniels, Timothy Cooper, Fay Presto. It was a great example of art deco architecture – featuring a curved facade, wooden panels around the front entrance and magnificent geometric arches along the roof. Well, it would have been a great example if the exterior had not been crumbling away – decades of salty air biting into the smooth, rendered surface, destroying the varnish on the wooden panels and bleaching the once-bright colours. The seagulls that always sat in a line along the top of the building had also added their own, rather sticky, decoration over the years.
The twins came running in through the main entrance, knocked over the spider plant by the main door and rushed into the auditorium.
“Potty, Potty!” called Monty. “Are you OK? We heard a loud noise…”
Potty stood alone on the dim, unlit stage.
He was wrapped up in a huge fishing net, struggling to get out. Underneath he wore a brand new cape, which had replaced the old tweed one because it smelt of smoked mackerel. This cape was yellow with vertical satin stripes and had the words, ‘The Potty Magician’ sewn on the back. Esmé thought that it made Potty look like a particularly happy banana.
“Oh, totality,” said Potty when he saw the Pepper twins, his huge eyebrow knotting into a frown. “I’ve blown the lights.”
“What happened?” asked Esmé.
Potty sighed. He was not a happy banana.
“I was trying to come up with the main trick for my new show,” he explained, gesticulating under the net. “I heard the sound of the waves lashing against the beach, the wind whistling over the sea and the seagulls squealing outside. I closed my eyes, trying to capture the essence of the great briney oceans thereof.”
“Briney oceans thereof?” asked Monty.
“Certainly, and very cold too,” replied Potty. “One minute I’m experimenting with the Flying Fish trick – the next minute the small turbot in my hand explodes and fuses the lights.”
“You had a live fish in your hand?”
“It’s not a real one,” answered Potty. “It’s made out of rubber.” He pointed to his left. “It’s over there.”
“I see,” said Esmé, glancing at the small fish lying on the ground.
“Then I got caught up in the net…” explained Potty. “And now I can’t get out.”
“We’ll help,” said Esmé.
“Wonderful,” beamed Potty. “The fact that I had spring-loaded the fish beforehand may have added to the problem.”
“Oh, dear,” said Esmé, trying to disentangle Potty. She remembered the toaster incident from last summer, when Potty decided to heat up a dynamite sandwich. “We had better phone the theatre owners.”
“No need,” replied Potty, his long, banana-coloured limbs now almost free of the net. “The Table sisters own the place – they live down the pier in the gypsy caravan, to the left of the coconut shy.”
“OK,” said Esmé, moving towards the auditorium door. “You and Monty stay here and tidy things up a bit and I’ll go and let them know what’s happened…”
An excerpt from
Dr Pompkins – Totality Magic
TRICK: How to Walk Through a Postcard
Friends, this is a marvellous trick, which goes back to Victorian times. Tell your chums that you can walk through a postcard.
It seems impossible, but fold a postcard lengthways, take a very sharp pair of scissors and cut like so {see fig. 1}, making a series of sideways slits.
Carefully open the card and see how it expands into a ring of enormous girth. Step into it, pull it up to your middle then over y
our head.
A resounding, “Amazing!” will be the cry from your audience.
Opening Act
At the start of your show, when the curtains open and you walk out on stage or at a simple gathering, the first thing that everyone will notice is your outward appearance… Walk briskly, as soon as your name is announced – the audience will see that you mean business. Smile to acknowledge the applause and start your act immediately. Confidence is all – get in there and do it.
Your exit is just as important; take your time to smile and bow. If you have performed well, come back on stage again – but only if the audience still applauds. If they have run away, have a big think about becoming a magician. You might want to look into the role of a chartered surveyor instead.
In all totality,
Dr Pompkins
Esmé walked out into the afternoon sunshine. The pier was buzzing with activity. Visitors munched from large bags of candy floss and gnawed at brittle Crab Pie rock. The radio from the coconut shy was playing loud pop music and the seagulls squawked sharply overhead. It was a splendid day, a perfect seaside morning. Apart from the strong breeze Esmé could detect from the ocean. And was that a storm cloud in the distance?
Esmé reached the gypsy caravan within a minute. Outside was a plyboard sign that read “Tabitha and Twinkle Table, fortune tellers to the stars – £10 for a future you’ll never forget!” Underneath was pinned a signed photograph of the boxer Frank Pruno.
Esmé raised her hand to knock at the wooden door of the caravan.
“Come in, deary,” came a voice, a fraction of a second before Esmé’s knuckles touched the wood.
Esmé popped her head through the door. It was completely dark inside. “H-hello?” she stuttered. “I’m Esmé Pepper, the Potty Magician’s niece.”
“We know,” said a voice from the void. There was a fumbling sound and a bare light bulb flickered on. Two smiling ladies were at once visible, sitting around a square table. The Table sisters must have been in their eighties but their eyes shone like baubles on a Christmas tree.
“I’m Tabitha Table, and this is my sister, Twinkle.” Tabitha thrust out a large hand in greeting and smiled, revealing slightly fewer teeth than Esmé had expected. She wore a dusty-pink cardigan, a white shirt and green nylon trousers.
Twinkle Table seemed smaller – and shyer – than her sister. She had a kind expression on her face, and fine features, with a distinctive beauty spot painted on to her left cheek. She wore a purple dress with tassels falling from the hem, and long lengths of russet-coloured chiffon hanging loosely around her shoulders and over her head. From her ears hung large dangly earrings shaped like feathers, which made a soft sound whenever she moved.
The small table in front of them was filled with objects. Two pairs of binoculars, a china teacup and a gleaming crystal ball. From the ceiling of the caravan hung various items – an old gas lamp, a set of wood chimes, a large metal teapot, tea cups, a bundle of small white crystals and what looked like a long jawbone filled with three rows of pointy teeth.
“Mandible of the trout,” explained Tabitha matter-of-factly. Esmé noticed her fingers were adorned with enormous mystical-looking jewellery: a large ring in the shape of a frog, one that looked like a crown and another a skull. They clicked sharply together as Tabitha pointed to the jawbone. “Brings us good luck and you can also use it as a cake ingredient.”
Esmé thought that sounded rather horrible, but chose not to say anything.
“Do sit down,” said Twinkle softly to Esmé. “Would you like us to read your destiny?” she asked, trying to reach the teapot hanging from the ceiling. “The tea leaves perhaps?”
Tabitha took one look at her sister struggling and grabbed the object herself with her well-ornamented hands.
“I’m pretty sure we should be talking about practical matters, like mending the theatre lights,” Tabitha said.
Esmé blinked. How does Tabitha know? Maybe I said something when I came in…
Tabitha eyed Esmé’s practical clothes. Esmé’s cheeks began to go red – she felt out of place in the caravan with all its trinkets and wonder.
Meanwhile Twinkle fiddled with the chiffon on her head, producing a teaspoon from one of its many folds. Once her sister had finished adding tea leaves and water from the freshly boiled kettle to the pot, Twinkle stirred the contents slowly and thoughtfully with her spoon.
Tabitha brought out a packet of sweets from her pocket and offered one to Esmé. “Werther’s Original?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” said Esmé, politely.
“Aha! I can see that you are a very sensible young lady,” said Tabitha. “You worry that if you take a sweet you will ruin your teeth. You don’t sit down in a stranger’s home until you are asked. Hmm… I can also tell that you do a good job looking after your twin brother and your beloved uncle.”
“Tabitha, don’t start yet – I haven’t even spoken to the tea leaves,” said Twinkle, who was still messing about with the teapot and the spoon.
“Twinkle, you know that if I am inspired I like to do my personality readings as quickly as possible,” replied Tabitha, breathing in deeply, jewellery still clinking. “I can see that Esmé Pepper is a logical person and good at problem solving. I would even go so far as to say that she has a talent for it, and in the future she would make a great scientist or indeed a super sleuth.”
Esmé was taken aback – and secretly impressed. Tabitha gave her a big, not-so-toothy grin.
“I’m ready now,” said Twinkle Table as she concentrated hard on pouring the remnants inside the teapot into the cup in front of her. She swirled the cup in a clockwise direction and peered in. Esmé watched as Twinkle closed her eyes and wrinkled her nose. “I see a long, happy life ahead of you. I also see a small notebook and a sharpened pencil that you carry with you at all times.”
Esmé flushed again – this was true.
Twinkle went silent and, teacup still in hand, her head dropped to one side and her mouth fell open. She made a small gurgling sound.
Esmé stared at Twinkle, fascinated. She had never seen anything like this before – was there something wrong?
“Is Twinkle all right?” Esmé asked Tabitha.
“She’s fine,” came Tabitha’s reply. “Just a swoon. It’s part of the reading, part of the fun.”
Twinkle started murmuring. “Ah, I see a vision. An illumination, a fire in a fish tank. Yes, that’s it – flames, rising high, engorging everything in their wake. Trouble, Esmé, trouble. You must be on guard at all times.”
Twinkle abruptly opened her eyes. “There was also something about ‘Thai summer rolls’, but I couldn’t make sense of that.”
Esmé was startled, but as if nothing had happened, Twinkle put the teacup down on the table and shook Esmé’s hand.
“Thank you,” said Twinkle, eyes shining bright. “That was a very intense reading.”
“Now that’s enough of the mystical stuff,” remarked Tabitha. “Let’s get on with fixing those theatre lights.”
“We’d better phone Keith,” said Twinkle, slipping into the back to make the call.
“Keith is our fix-it man,” explained Tabitha. “He’s very talented. He can fix or make just about anything – lights, fuses, entire air-conditioning systems that also emit the smell of patchouli oil. He built us this caravan out of two hundred empty cola cans, half a canoe and some cement.”
“Keith’s on his way to the theatre,” said Twinkle, replacing the receiver. “Let’s head over and meet him there.”
They all left the caravan into the sunshine outside and the three of them walked arm in arm up the pier, passing posters for Potty’s show along the way.
“Our last magic show,” said Tabitha, with a broad sigh.
“Why ‘last’?” asked Esmé.
“Well, the truth is, we may not be in charge of the Sea Spray Theatre much longer,” Twinkle told Esmé. “A local businessman named Mr Portobello is interested in buying
it from us. We are relying on him to make a good offer.”
“You’re selling the theatre?”
“Yes,” said Twinkle. Esmé noticed she was wearing tiny satin shoes with pointed toes. “We’ve been running the theatre for thirty years – but it’s a sideline, really, to our more spiritual calling.”
“If Mr Portobello offers us a healthy sum,” said Tabitha brightly, “then we can not only concentrate on the psychic readings but there’s a lovely bungalow on Tide Street that we would very much like to move into – more space, more light, more resonance. The spirits are getting sick of the caravan, there’s not enough room for them. They keep bumping into each other.”
Esmé smiled. She had never met anyone who believed in spirits before, apart from Monty’s dabbling in what he called ‘vibrations’. She was beginning to like the Table sisters very much.
“We tried to sell the Sea Spray last year but Mr Portobello made us such a low offer we had to pull out of the deal,” confided Twinkle. “It was after the famous magician Gary Meringue had been due to perform. People were queuing all the way along the pier to get a ticket…”
“Only he dropped out at the last minute,” revealed Tabitha. “He simply disappeared. Whatever happened we will probably never know. We tried the spirits but they couldn’t tell us either.”
Esmé and the Table sisters arrived at the theatre, walking through the front door in turn. “This is why we need Potty to wow the audience and wow Mr Portobello,” Tabitha confirmed as she stopped to examine the spider plant. “The soil is a bit dry,” she said, then turned to Esmé. “The offer we get rests on Potty’s success.”
“We will do our very best,” said Esmé. “I’m sure that Potty will perform the show of a lifetime. If he can just manage to avoid getting caught up in his fishing net and his props exploding.”
The Peppers and the Island of Invention Page 1