Relatively Strange (5 page)

Chapter Five

Lots of children have an imaginary friend. Beady was mine and I suppose it was inevitable she should prove more problematic than most.

Afternoon get-togethers with Auntie Cynthia, so her daughter Stephanie and I could play together, were never something I particularly looked forward to. An ex work-colleague of my mother’s, Cynthia had acquired in rapid succession a husband in Ladies Underwear, a substantial house in Temple Fortune, a Poggenpohl kitchen and an inflated idea of her own importance.

On that particular afternoon, when we seated ourselves for tea at the massive, ornate dining room table with its surfeit of carved cherubs in unlikely and uncomfortable places, I noticed, next to Auntie Cynthia’s plate, a small bronze hand bell. She utilised this almost before we’d started on the sandwiches. A moment or two brought the new daily help, Irene, to the dining room door, wiping water-reddened hands on her apron,

“Wot?” she demanded, obviously not as skilled in the fine art of service as Aunt C might have wished.

“Ah, Irene,” Aunt Cynthia had apparently forgotten her background was Kingsbury not Kensington, “A little extra hot water please, and some more milk for the girls.” Eyes raised ceiling-ward, an audible sniff and a grudging stomp across the room to collect the empty milk jug, gave an indication of Irene’s take on the situation.

“I’m in the middle of the potatoes,” she grumbled “If you want that stew on I can’t keep running up and down the flaming ‘all.”

“Casserole Irene, casserole.” murmured Aunt Cynthia, dabbing her lips with a monogrammed napkin and a weary air. “And just the milk and the water will be fine thank you, then we’ll look after ourselves.” My mother had by this time turned an interesting shade of pink, I could see she was struggling manfully not to laugh. She busied herself giving Stephanie and me another sandwich apiece.

Stephanie, was a stodgy-minded child – the inside of her head seemingly jammed as full of fat, soft Shirley Temple ringlets as the outside. A couple of months younger than me, she wasn’t exactly a riot as playmates go. Her mother was fond of telling mine that Steph had never given them one moment’s aggravation from the time she was born. My mother loved me dearly, but even she had to admit I didn’t measure up too well in any non-aggravation-giving stakes. I always appreciated though, how adroitly she could move to another subject when a comparison arose, which might prove odious.

For a short while, we sat and munched our crustless sandwiches in ladylike silence, but clearly it was going to be the usual boring afternoon unless a livelier note was introduced. Luckily, I knew just the person.

“I brought Beady to see you today,” I announced cheerfully “We can play fairies and witches if you like.” My mother paled.

“Who’s Beady then?” asked Stephanie without much interest.

“My invisible friend, haven’t you got one?” Stephanie chewed for a moment or two while she thought.

“No.” she said finally. And there the subject might well have safely languished and died, had it not been for Aunt Cynthia, sticking her oar in. With a light laugh she pointed out that Steph had so many real friends she’d never felt need to make one up. Well, I’m sorry, but I took umbrage, so would you, so certainly, did Beady.

The little bronze bell next to Auntie Cynthia’s plate suddenly jerked up and swung irritably from side to side. Long and loud it rang – once, twice and then, just as it was sinking slowly down, a third time, for good measure.

“That’ll be Beady.” I said helpfully. Two pairs of horrified eyes fastened on the bell, a third pair, equally horrified, on me. Two mouths fell unattractively open on half-chewed egg and cress, another pursed into an unmistakeable and familiar wait-till-I-get-you-home shape.

And into the following, heavily pregnant pause, strode an irate Irene. A satisfyingly swift response, I felt. Flushed-faced, breathing hard and divesting herself fiercely of her apron, she was not best pleased and proceeded to put forward a couple of startlingly frank and interesting suggestions as to exactly where Auntie Cynthia could stick her bleeding bell. She went on to suggest that room might also be made there for her frigging airs and graces, her shitty wages, her stinking stew and last but certainly not least, her sodding silver candlesticks, the polishing of which apparently fell into Irene’s regular sphere of activities. Having thus made her feelings abundantly clear and giving a good trample to the abandoned apron for final emphasis, Irene swung neatly on her heel and exited, slamming the dining room door behind her. On an adjacent shelf, one of Aunt Cyn’s precious Capo di Monte pieces teetered. We all watched. I could, of course, have stopped it falling. I chose not to.

“No,” my mother muttered tersely as we made our way briskly home, “An imaginary friend wasn’t a
bad
thing as such. However, it was precisely because she was
imaginary
that people such as Auntie Cynthia,” last seen pouring herself a recuperative glass of sherry with a shaking hand, “Were entitled to be somewhat startled if she suddenly started
doing
things.”

“But,” I protested, trotting to keep up with her agitated stride and grasping at last with relief exactly wherein lay the problem, “It wasn’t really Beady, it was
me
.”

“Oh sweetheart, I know.” she said. And she sighed heavily and then, unexpectedly she gave a little snort.

“It’s not funny at all.” she said, “And I’m certainly not laughing young lady.” but inside her head, she kept seeing the gob-smacked faces on Aunt C and Steph and her mouth twitched all the way home whenever she thought I wasn’t looking. I don’t remember going round there for tea again.

*

As I recall, it was shortly after Beady was given her marching orders that I was taken for a sixth birthday treat, to a variety show at the London Palladium. It was a wonderful, unforgettable evening – supper at the Corner House and good seats in the stalls. Although a long-planned and looked-forward to outing, possibly my parents hadn’t really thought things through enough. Certainly I suspect they might have been assailed by a first tremor of apprehension when I leaned forward in sheer wonder as the star turn, Mr. Magica made his spectacular entrance. He was flying. Effortlessly and gracefully, soaring and swooping high above the stage, acknowledging the delighted applause of the rapturous audience and my heart soared with him.

“Oh,” I breathed, “Like me!”

The bouquet of blooms produced from empty air; the miracle of multi-coloured scarves all coming out of his mouth; the sawing in two of his assistant so both bits of her waved from opposite sides of the stage – it was almost more excitement than I could bear. Entranced, I applauded each new triumph longer and louder than anyone else. And, had he not asked for a volunteer from the audience to fly with him, the evening might well have remained one of wonder, revelation, undiluted magic and the happy conclusion that I wasn’t quite as odd as I was beginning to think. But he said he needed a lovely young lady from the audience and faster than you could shriek abracadabra, or in my parents’ case, “No!”, I was out of my seat and trotting busily down the centre aisle, hotly pursued by my panic-stricken mother whose restraining hand had grabbed a tad too tardily.

Eyes closed, finger to forehead, the better to ‘Perceive vibrations with his inner eye’, the great man was slowly making his way along a catwalk extending into the auditorium. He was, he intoned, getting warmer and could see clearly a beautiful blonde destined to take to the air tonight. With a triumphant cry he swung round, pointing a dramatic forefinger at a giggling, jiggling, glamorous effort in low-cut top and tight slacks. She was just rising to her feet, reaching for his outstretched hand when I arrived, breathless but determined, at the foot of the catwalk and tugged urgently at his trouser leg.

I was of course, blissfully unaware that the comfortably-upholstered young lady was a well-rehearsed and integral part of the act. However, presented with an eager, best party-frocked, curly haired moppet in front of some 2000 people chorusing “Aaahhh”, what was the poor chap to do? Piqued, but professional to his beautifully manicured fingertips, he released the blonde abruptly and leaning down, swung me up beside him, to a round of applause all my own.

Of course, as soon as he touched me I knew and disappointment hit me like a punch to the stomach. He knelt to equal our heights. He wanted to know my name, my age – and this brought the house down – was this my first flight? And throughout the easy and effortlessly warm and amusing ad libs, he was furiously computing the risks of going ahead, against the damage if he didn’t. Close up, he didn’t look so good either, trickles of slowly sliding sweat were forcing shallow runnels in thick make-up and there was a strong, decidedly un-magical aroma of body odour. I could have cried and it was probably the sight of my trembling lower lip that spurred him into action. He rose and signalled to the conductor who was anxiously watching and wondering from the orchestra pit. The drummer started a roll, and the backdrop behind us rose, to reveal a shimmering expanse of blue-tinted silver curtain.

As he led me, his newly acquired and somewhat truculent partner to centre stage, a distinctly worried-looking assistant appeared and draped each of us in
Magic Flying Cloaks
. The cloaks smelt even mustier than he did and as she’d arranged billowing folds, I’d seen very clearly the fine wire harness he was wearing – what a phoney. The drum roll intensified and as he stooped to lift me, I really don’t know which of the two of us was more peeved. He gathered me up, one arm under my knees, the other round my waist and told me tersely to hold round his neck and hang on for Christ’s sake. And then we were jerkily airborne, to a gasp of delight from the multitude of upturned, expectant faces. His assistant passed a large wooden hoop over and round us, with almost imperceptible sleight of hand to demonstrate no wires and as we rose higher, my new friend adopted a suitable, flying-through-the-air position, one leg bent, the other stretched elegantly behind.

“Don’t wriggle kid and you won’t fall,” he hissed spittily in my ear. His thought, amplified by stress was, “If the little cow stays still, I might just do it. Shit, she weighs a ton.” Well, I may have been a bit of a solid six year old, but that’s not the sort of thing a girl of any age needs to hear. I didn’t like this man. I didn’t like him one little bit. Not only was he a rotten smelly fake, but he was now clutching me so tightly, his nails were digging uncomfortably into the flesh of my leg.

I gently began to unclasp my hands from the instructed position behind his neck which had become unpleasantly moist. We were now suspended high above the stage and looking up, I could see a chap sitting on a wooden platform. Hidden from the audience, by the top drapes of the curtain, he was busy operating the winching equipment that was hauling us upwards. As I’d now taken my hands away from his neck, Mr. Magica was bearing all my weight and I suspect his fine wire harness was pinching painfully, in places best not pinched. It certainly wiped the smile off his face, or perhaps he just thought we were too high for it to matter. Eyes on his, I grinned, relaxing completely in his now quivering arms.

“What the f…???” he started. Now that really wasn’t polite. So I left.

As I rolled outwards and away, there was a gasp of excited shock from the audience although naturally this was as nothing compared to that from my companion and his mate up top – after all they knew the routine and this wasn’t it. For a few dramatic seconds I allowed myself to plummet, terror on my face, arms thrown out, flailing in a desperate bid to save myself. I think I may have even thrown in a “Help me, oh help me.” Every upturned face was frozen, including those of the orchestra, who were petrified in mid-play, making for a pleasingly dramatic silence.

With the stage hurtling rapidly towards me, I let out a blood curdling scream then, with inches to spare, I changed direction and looped up smoothly again, blowing kisses to the crowd who were now raising the rafters with relief. Arriving back at the side of the riveted Mr. M. I stopped and hovered courteously, waiting for the next move. Unfortunately, he appeared to have temporarily lost the plot and was repetitively muttering,

“Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod.” As professional patter it left a lot to be desired. Well, someone had to do something, we couldn’t hang around indefinitely. I took his arm and smiled encouragingly up at the man above, whose mouth was hanging open, I hoped he wasn’t going to dribble. I gave a little downward flap of the hand, indicating now might be a good time to begin descent. And swinging gently, we began to head down, although halfway, I couldn’t and didn’t resist a small impromptu swoop round my rigid co-star, I was really getting into this performance lark, although you can always be let down by your fellow artistes. Indeed, by this time, he’d completely dropped his one leg bent thing and was just letting both dangle in a very sloppy manner. He’d also turned a rather alarming and unflattering pasty colour which, hopefully, was only visible up close and personal.