The Peppers and the International Magic Guys Read online

  But Maureen did not panic. She told herself everything she’d learnt from her father: patience, deep breathing and a greater understanding of the cyclical nature of the universe – i.e. if she had got into the box, she would be able, somehow, to get out of it.

  As night began to fall outside, Maureen felt sleepy. Trunk number twenty-seven was warm and cosy – and although she had wanted to test her ability to escape the trunk, the IMG leader fell asleep right inside it.

  Place in front of you a very solid, normal dinner fork. Explain to your audience how sturdy it really is.

  Then hold the fork in a firm grasp with one hand, grab the handle with the other hand and tussle with the fork, claiming you can “bend” it.

  If you keep your hands covering the spoon, and move the spoon back slowly, but maintain your hands as if they are holding the spoon upright, the fork looks like it’s bending!

  Now “unbend” the spoon by stroking it to reveal a restored piece of cutlery.

  The trick is all in making the audience look

  at the prongs of the fork, not your hands.

  The skill of magic – many people would imagine – is to have very thin arms teamed with very large sleeves. Or to look good in a bow tie. But to the true insider, the art of magic is misdirection – performing the trick while your audience’s focus is elsewhere.

  And with that, in all totality,

  nce the other magicians had left Highwood Road, Uncle Potty and Clive Pastel had continued to practise their routine. Clive made a very good spaghetti bolognese for dinner, then he and Uncle Potty rehearsed some more, improvising around the fact that they would have none of the exact props needed – or special effects – until the show itself. The trick, as far as Esmé and Monty could make out, involved Clive as a “mouse” sitting in a box, inside a cage that was twirled round and round on its wheels by Uncle Potty and at one stage lifted high into the air – although Clive would have already secretly escaped the cage by that point and been replaced by the Great Stupeedo dressed as a lion. For the rehearsals in the living room, they had used a cardboard box on a skateboard, which did not have the right wheels, but Uncle Potty was a professional – and Clive appeared to know what he was doing.

  It was getting late now, but Monty was still overly excited.

  “I can’t wait to see the show tomorrow!” he gasped. “The lights, the smoke, the cage… It really will be different with an audience, won’t it? Maybe you could add a dragon to your show or stick Clive’s hand in a giant toasted sandwich maker. I’ll just go and get Dr Pompkins and see what he suggests…” replied Clive.

  Clive gave Uncle Potty a stern glance.

  “You have told them, haven’t you?”

  “Er, no,” replied Uncle Potty sheepishly.

  “I think now might be the time...”

  Uncle Potty looked at Esmé and Monty under his eyebrow. “I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to come to the IMG show tomorrow. Children are not allowed inside the building.”

  “What?” Esmé was flabbergasted. “After all we’ve done to help!”

  “Sorry,” replied Clive. And then, slightly annoyingly: “Them’s the rules.”

  Esmé winced at Clive’s grammar – Monty looked at Uncle Potty in disbelief. Monty had never been so disappointed. They had devised the programme with the magicians and gone through every page of the Dr Pompkins book – now they weren’t allowed in to see the show.

  “The problem is,” explained Uncle Potty, sitting down on the sofa, his red bow tie half undone, “that the Pan-Continental Magic Corporation brought in a strict “no children” policy a few years ago – something about safety concerns, blah blah. All those trap doors and levers…”

  Esmé looked at Uncle Potty blankly. She had supposed magic was all about fun and entertainment – for grown-ups and children: everybody. You would have thought that the last place to have a no-children policy would have been a magic club.

  “At least you have a Maureen Houdini badge...” said Uncle Potty, fully aware that this was not much of a consolation.

  “It’s not the same,” said Monty crossly. “We want to come along, Uncle Potty, we deserve to...”

  “It’s late, I must be going,” said Clive, uncomfortable with the conversation. He was a kind man; he disliked seeing the children let down like this.

  “See you tomorrow, Pots,” he said, closing the front door behind him.

  “Well,” said Esmé, hiding her utter and absolute and enormous dismay. “If health and safety rules say we’re not allowed, then we can’t argue. Maybe it’s better that we stay safe with all those big levers...” But even Esmé could not quite convince herself that she was happy with the arrangement.

  “Please, Uncle Potty, please,” said Monty. “We won’t tell anyone.”

  Uncle Potty sat on the sofa, crossing and uncrossing his legs, trying to think his way out of the dilemma. Esmé and Monty had, in the last few days, been vital to his tricks. They had helped him prepare them, Monty had helped execute them – and they had both been good at tidying up the mess afterwards. The Pepper twins had been nothing but encouraging, even when the beans tipped on the floor and the water spilt everywhere and the boiler broke and... they had even helped devise the programme. How could he prevent the children coming to the IMG tomorrow? Only a very cruel person would deny them the greatest show on earth...

  “All right, children, you can come in with me.”

  “Brilliant!” shouted Monty and he started jumping up and down.

  “Thanks,” said Esmé, beaming. “But only under certain conditions,” said Uncle Potty. “If you are to join me you will both be in danger of being found out and you will also be at risk of possible harm from various magical contraptions, as previously discussed. Therefore, I propose:

  “One. No coughing or sneezing – we don’t want you being discovered.

  “Two. No handling equipment – whether it looks safe or otherwise – you could be sliced in half.

  “Three. No touching levers or pulleys – you might get an electric shock and be fried to cinders.

  “Four. No handling animals - I once witnessed a dear friend disappear completely live on stage, never to be seen again. He was placed into a large velvet box with a tin of sardines and a very hungry polar bear and when they opened it up he was gone. Mind you, he owed the Inland Revenue a lot of money at the time…”

  Esmé and Monty nodded. Instead of discouraging the children, Uncle Potty’s speech had only served to make the IMG more glamorous. The very idea of danger – levers, pulleys, polar bears and sardines – was extremely exciting. Even sensible Esmé had to try hard to contain her anticipation. They were to be allowed in at last.

  Make two plastic balls turn into three. Take two Ping-Pong balls and move them around with your fingers, from digit to digit, like the old masters do.

  Another half-ball you chopped beforehand is secretly cupped over one of the balls, so when you’re ready, take it out and show it, face on, to reveal an extra, mysterious sphere!

  Watch those astonished faces when performing – and check there are no other magicians who knew the trick already, in your audience.

  Most magicians see others as rivals. My advice? Join your local magic organisation – it provides a community for magicians and it inspires loyalty. Thus it becomes unacceptable for a performer to steal another’s act when they are part of the same club. Clever stuff.

  In all totality,

  he next day, after a long and restful night’s sleep, Maureen Houdini awoke to find herself still in trunk twenty-seven. There were breathing holes at least, and room to wiggle her toes, but this was not an ideal situation to be in.

  Maureen knew that Deidre, Stupeedo and Uncle Potty were scheduled to be here any minute and she dearly hoped that they could free her. Nigella’s visit was fast approaching and Maureen was not going to be at her most useful stuck in a trunk. As a member of a prestigious magic club you have access to certain secrets and the condition of y
our membership is that you never disclose these to the public. That is accepted. But if you are the president of a magic club, then you are in receipt of more secrets than anyone else, especially the ones your father told you not to tell anyone else while on his deathbed after what proved to be a fatal choking incident while eating a KitKat.

  Without Maureen’s knowledge of the levers and technical details, today’s performance was unlikely to go well. Miss Houdini dared not think that was the case, but it was true. If Maureen was not out of the trunk in an hour, the IMG was doomed.

  Uncle Potty had managed to find a floor-length tweed cape, which, while looking quite odd on a warm summer’s day, hid the two young Peppers very well. As they made their way to the IMG, all Esmé and Monty had to do was scurry in time with Uncle Potty’s feet, without tripping over. Esmé envisioned scuffed knees at any moment now and so was pleased that she had remembered to bring some plasters with her.

  The first few minutes of the journey had been tricky, but soon the Peppers found the right pace. Esmé had never travelled this way before. She had suspected the world of subterfuge and deception to be fraught with guilt and bad feeling, but in fact she was enjoying it.

  When they got to the IMG HQ, there was a long queue of people already waiting to get in. The show was open to anyone who could get a ticket, and a handful of interested magicians who wanted to see the International Magic Guys in full effect. A few people recognised Uncle Potty – they had seen his shows before – and he waved to them enthusiastically.

  “Hello!” he said. “It’s going to be one jelly-belly humdinger this afternoon!” No one noticed that Uncle Potty had two extra sets of legs or, if they did, they assumed this might be part of his act.

  A high, tinkling bell rang and the audience began to shuffle into the venue. Uncle Potty walked towards the “performer’s entrance” and Esmé and Monty slipped into the building with no trouble at all.

  “To the backstage area!” cried Uncle Potty as the Peppers emerged from his cape. “Via the props department.”

  Esmé and Monty saw that they had arrived in a vast room that held various IMG contraptions. But these were not small, spindly little tables or tiny cabinets you could fit inside a wooden box. Before them was an array of towering objects, some bigger than the biggest Egyptian stone in the British Museum.

  “It’s all… simply… gigantic!” gasped Monty. This was another side of magic completely – a world away from close-up, magic performed to a small gathering of people. This was the world of the big stadium show. In the half-light Esmé and Monty could see a tall guillotine, set up for a trick. Uncle Potty told them it was, rather chillingly, known as “The Murderer”.

  Esmé shivered. Even Monty looked fearful.

  “It’s extremely Victorian,” said Uncle Potty, matter-of-factly. “Firstly you slice an apple in half to show that the guillotine is fully working. Then, after some well-rehearsed patter with your assistant, he or she admits to the theft of a huge diamond, blah blah. The assistant looks a bit remorseful, but then you invite an audience member to come on stage and look for the diamond. Of course, they find it not on the assistant, but on their own person! You subject the audience member to the guillotine and they lean their head on the wooden neck rest. With a bit of drama the blade comes down and it looks as if the innocent person’s head falls off.”

  “Wow!” Monty gasped.

  Esmé was equally amazed.

  Potty spoke plainly. “What happens is that while the audience member puts their head on the guillotine, no one notices the assistant quickly remove the blade – although your participant is obviously made aware of this in case of heart attack, etc.”

  “But what about the head?” asked Esmé. “You said that it falls off.”

  “The magician holds a fake papier-mâché head in his jacket and as the ‘blade’ comes down he lets it drop to the floor and quickly covers the shoulders with a cloth,” replied Potty. “You just have to remember to choose an audience member who has the same colour hair as the one on the papier-mâché model.”

  “That’s amazing,” said Monty, walking up to the guillotine, just to see what it might feel like to put his head on it.

  “Careful now!” shouted Uncle Potty. “You are well served to remember the list of rules I gave you last night.”

  Monty backed away and Uncle Potty moved them to another part of the room where stood an enormous goldfish bowl, which in itself was magnificent, without the children even knowing what it might be used for on stage.

  “In the old days a magician would fill the glass bowl up with water,” explained Uncle Potty. “Then he or she would reveal a giant goldfish, swimming around – which was an illusion in itself. Then the magician would get into the bowl and suddenly it would be dry inside and the goldfish turned into a dragon. In a variation the magician might “slay” the dragon, then add noodles and pass round this delicious “dragon soup” to members of the audience. Sometimes the assistant might add a real shark to the water for extra danger. The bowl’s uses are manifold.”

  Uncle Potty moved to the rear wall, where there stood a collection of tall mirrors hinged together.

  “Then there’s the hall of mirrors, in which you can hide most of your audience, an elephant or maybe even a lorry full of cobras. You can make anything disappear – at different angles the mirrors reflect and also hide different parts of the stage. Mirrors are still the first port of call for the modern illusionist, although the idea goes back centuries.”

  “That’s right,” said Monty, the idea dawning on him like a spectacular sunrise. “I saw a video on the internet of a cat who seemed to disappear in mid-air – that must have been through mirrors.”

  “Yes, it most probably was,” said Uncle Potty. “Highly persuasive.”

  “That’s magic, isn’t it?” Esmé responded, who was beginning to see just how exact these performances had to be. “Persuading people to suspend their disbelief. So… you have to get all the angles right with the mirrors – and the timings right with the guillotine. And the projections of goldfish have to be realistic and bang on time.”

  Esmé pondered for a moment more. “Now I see why you need Maureen’s technical know-how. It’s not just patter, it’s all the behind-the-scenes action and split-second timing.”

  “Exactly!” said Uncle Potty. “It’s how you create the mystery! Everyone wants to believe in magic. There are very few people who would wish the magician to fail. Your audience want to feel that expectation, revel in the tension, their own anxiety and nervousness. Sometimes they want blood and gore! Sometimes they need plain silliness and hats made out of sausages. A magician’s job is to deceive, yes, because the audience wants to be deceived.”

  By now, Uncle Potty was fiddling with a light switch on the side of the wall.

  “If you turn the lights on, someone might discover us,” Esmé warned.

  “No, no, this is not a normal light switch,” said Uncle Potty. “I am trying to find the way to…”

  “Where?” asked Monty.

  “To the dressing rooms… It’s just… the concealed exit…” Uncle Potty wiggled the switch and then thumped the wall.

  Monty put his hand out and instinctively located what looked like a shelf and lightly tapped it. A small panel in the wall slid open just like in an action movie.

  “Come along, Esmé and Monty, no time to waste,” said Uncle Potty as he made his way through the exit. “And remember, if anyone sees you your heads will end up on that very guillotine!”

  Esmé and Monty gulped and slipped inside the cape with Uncle Potty, and into the next room. The twins would have to stay undetected for the whole day and that was not going to be easy. Esmé dreaded to think what would happen if they were found out.

  Find a small box with a concealed compartment in a local magic shop.

  One moment, the box will be empty; flick a switch and now it is filled with organic peanuts! Or treasure! Or whatever you fancy.

  If your catchp
hrase is “Who buried all the treasure?”, and your persona is a bit pirate-y, you’ll cause a sensation.

  Remember, you can tailor your act at all times

  to make it your own.

  There is nothing wrong in having a catchphrase as long as it is original and not too long. I invented “in all totality” on a long walk to a particularly exquisite patisserie down Basingstoke way. Similarly, Pat Daniels’s “You’re going to like it, not a lot, but you’ll like it,” was invented when he was grouting his bathroom.

  In all totality,

  n the other side of the magic door, Uncle Potty and the Peppers found themselves by the dressing rooms. “Let’s see how the boss is doing,” muttered Uncle Potty, adjusting his Maureen badge and knocking politely on her dressing room.

  There was no reply, so Uncle Potty opened the door, which gave a huge creak, and entered.

  “Maureen?”

  Uncle Potty spotted the locked trunk on the floor. “Maureen?” he enquired of the trunk. “Are you in there?”