THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (6 page)

‘Pick a card - any card you like!’ Herman announces, making sure everyone in the lounge can see what he is doing as, with diverted gaze, he fans out the full deck and offers it to the elderly gentleman standing before him.

‘All right,’ says the gentleman, his walking stick tucked under one arm and tottering on unsteady feet. ‘I’ve done what you said. It’s the …’

‘No, no, don’t tell me what it is!’ Herman cries with mock exasperation, accompanied by roars of laughter from all the others.

With its faded wallpaper, its dusty corners of potted foliage, and illuminated this dull afternoon by an assortment of lamps and candles, the William Blake Residential Home for the Elderly and Infirm is not one of his most prestigious venues, to be sure - and for the coffers of Manny Magic Enterprises not a particularly lucrative one, either, with a fee of precisely zero. But no matter. He loves coming along here to entertain the old folks. Ranged upon an arc of chairs and sofas in the lounge, they sit and applaud and laugh until the tears run down their wrinkled old faces. So easily pleased. This is, he knows, magic made easy. There are no expert eyes here; no would-be adversaries to scrutinise his every move for trickery or lack of innovation. And, what’s more, they love him. They laugh at his corny jokes, they tease him about his extravagant waistcoats and colourful neckties, and they sigh in admiration at anything he might care to mention concerning his dubious triumphs on the London stage or in the music halls of the East End. Sometimes, too, at the climax of a particularly clever trick, they all draw a collective intake of breath and produce a long ‘Ooooh!’ of amazement. It really is quite touching.

Buoyed up by their approval, the young entertainer, with his handsome moustache and a wispy dusting of fair beard about his dimpled chin, brushes away a tangled lock of blond hair from his forehead and continues his performance, speaking with renewed gusto, holding forth both arms in typical theatrical fashion. ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, I know many of you will have seen me do things like this on the London stage, but …’

‘No we haven’t!’ one of the old boys cries out from the rear of the room. ‘Our memory don’t go back
that
far, Manny!’

And there is yet more uproar.

‘All right, I accept that my appearances on stage might seem a bit few and far between lately,’ the entertainer responds, undaunted, ‘but listen everyone, I should tell you that I am due to make a comeback shortly - yes, at the end of October, in fact, when I am booked for a really top event, entertaining the nobs at a special dinner dance on Halloween. That’s right - all the nobs - wealthy people just like you lot. All exclusive and rather hush, hush. So don’t tell anyone. It’s a big chance for me - with lots of other famous individuals from …’

‘What, famous, and
you
as well?’ the old boy interrupts again, indefatigable.

‘Shut up you silly old fool!’ an elderly lady in a pink frock shouts, turning angrily to look over her shoulder towards the heckler, her various chins wobbling in agitation. ‘You’re the greatest, Manny,’ she adds, turning her unsteady, bespectacled gaze vaguely back in his direction and wagging a demonstrative finger. ‘They’re lucky to be having you - and so are we.’

Applause actually breaks out at this.

‘Thank you. Thank you, one and all!’ Herman declares, with a bow and warming to this latest piece of audience participation - especially their use of the shortened version of his name - Manny - the one they tend to use more and more often these days, due to the increasingly unwelcome Germanic connotations of
Herman
. This is important - since the German race, as every loyal reader of every national newspaper well understands, is the very devil incarnate and, what is worse, an industrial power growing in might to rival that of the British Empire, which just won’t do at all. Being as English as anyone could ever be, however, he is more than content for this gradual change of name to take place and has even incorporated it into his publicity slogans - the celebrated ‘Manny Magic’ as proclaimed on his calling cards and brochures.

‘And now, ladies and gentlemen,’ he continues, ‘with regard to the performance of our little trick: I want you, sir, in a moment to show everyone present in this room the card you have chosen. I’ll turn my head away, so there is no possibility of my seeing what you have in your hand. That’s right, show everyone what it is - put that monocle of yours back in if you need to - then return the card to the pack. That’s right, don’t show me. Jolly good.’

Herman waits patiently until the card is restored to the deck. Then, seconds later, to everyone’s amazement, the magician, turns round and, reaching into the old gentleman’s lapel pocket, instantly withdraws the very same card, which has somehow miraculously managed to transport itself there - six of diamonds, adroitly displayed between finger and thumb and held aloft for all to see.

‘Sir! Is this the card you chose?’ he inquires loudly, chin in the air and confident that it is. Success. Everyone roars their approval. They are entirely under his spell now, and he concludes the morning’s entertainment with an equally amazing feat of mind reading before actually producing a bunch of carnations from out of a top hat, and which had previously been shown to everyone present as being utterly empty until tapped on the side thrice with the tip of a magic wand.

Afterwards, and as is customary here upon the conclusion of a typical ‘Manny Magic’ performance, the curtains of the lounge are drawn back to allow the full daylight in and all those present rise and take their places among an assortment of hastily rearranged tables and chairs to take tea - another well-rehearsed routine, in fact, because there is, it should be recorded, always lots of tea at The William Blake; lots of cakes and biscuits, and salmon sandwiches not too demanding on the dentures.

Herman invariably finds this part of his visit the most daunting: the clattering of trolleys and tapping of walking sticks on tiled floors, the reek of vanilla and sticky buns, mingled with the ever-present fragrance of antiseptic and carbolic soap that hangs about the place and, for that matter, likewise clings to the clothes of most of those present. Yet he cannot help but admire them, all these wonderful old folks - cannot help but marvel at their bravery; at how smart the men always appear, time travellers from some bygone age in frock coat and cravat, their shoes immaculately shined. And the ladies, as well: amazing with their crimped hair and floral dresses - their thin, shrunken lips on a continuous collision course with this or that buttered scone or home-made jam tart. And he knows, too, sadly, how it all looks when he isn’t here. He knows they just sit around then, most of them, dozing, waiting for their next meal, or next spoonful of medicine from an array of mysterious pink bottles. At least they become more animated when he puts on his shows, or so the staff always assure him.

This morning’s socialising is shaping up to be a particularly challenging event for Herman, because he has been cornered at a table by two of the most belligerent of the men in residence, namely Jack and his brother, Smudge - both strong characters, former soldiers and often critical of the world at large with all its loose morals and decadent ways. The fact that Herman, is also their neighbour, living alone in a fine Georgian villa just a short distance along the banks of the river, renders him a permanent target of their curiosity, and today is no exception.

‘Well, we are all in awe of you, Manny,’ Jack remarks with a rare outpouring of deference, scratching his balding pate and taking a seat next to him. ‘How do you do it? This is what we can’t understand.’

‘Well, it’s just that I’ve been doing it a jolly long time, Jack,’ Herman replies modestly and with a smile he hopes would not appear too condescending. ‘All these uncanny abilities of mine are really just a rigorously crafted piece of trickery, an exercise practised over and over again. It’s all perfectly easy, once you have the knack. My grandfather, for example, he had the knack. He was on the road with the fairs and the circuses for decades. And my father, too - he had it passed on to him, then down to me when I came along. None of us has ever really made
the
big-time
, as they say, but it’s something we’ve always enjoyed. So I suppose you might say I’ve got magic in my veins, eh!’

The two old fellows, approving of all these references to ancestry, each nod their understanding, and Jack even goes so far as to tap the side of his nose with his index finger in a gesture of complicity, as if glad to be in on the secret.

‘So what’s this you say you’ve got coming up - Halloween you call it?’ Jack inquires, a look of suspicion on his face. ‘What’s that, then?’

‘Halloween - oh, basically it’s just All Saint’s Eve, but with a modern twist. Lots of fun and games with spooky things, masks and dressing up. It’s a new idea from America …’

‘America?’
Jack echoes, his brows furrowed deeply. ‘Listen, mate: nothing good ever came out of America.’

‘Yea,’ the silver haired Smudge concurs with additional disapproval. ‘The youth of today, eh!
Dressing up?
Ha!
What we need is another war, I reckon. Dress 'em up in a bit of military kit and send them off to fight in the Crimea. That’ll soon teach 'em.’

Herman, grievously aware that just such another bloody and pointless conflict is about to ignite in the Transvaal, can only nod dismally by way of response. But his trials are not over just yet.

‘By the way, Manny, I was meaning to ask you,’ Smudge continues, though with a twinkle in his blue eyes this time, ‘where’s that attractive young assistant of yours gone to lately, the one we always used to see you with - you know, with the long legs?’

Of the two men, he is invariably the one who comes up with the most embarrassing questions, always probing.

‘Oh yes, well I’m afraid the lovely Marcia and I went our separate ways some time ago,’ Herman admits with a shrug of the shoulders and wondering in the face of such an interrogation how soon he might be able to make good his escape. ‘I suppose she did add a touch of glamour to proceedings. But, really, I can manage most of the tricks without her.’

‘Wasn’t she your sweetheart as well, though?’ the indefatigable Smudge enquires further, pursuing his quarry relentlessly. ‘Weren’t you gonna get married?’

Herman, embarrassed by this time almost beyond endurance, tries not to feel perturbed, but he can almost hear what they are thinking of him. Yes, he is single these days; alone and a man clearly to be pitied.

‘Life’s too short for being on your own, mate,’ Jack states with categorical certainty, and Herman obliges with a nod, pulling on a long face - suitably dismal at what appears to be a future of utter desolation.

‘Do you know what it’s like getting old?’ Smudge asks, and takes a cautious sip of what looks to be still very hot tea, the cup rattling in its trembling saucer as he raises it to his lips.

Herman shakes his head in response. No, at just thirty-one years of age, it is obvious he doesn’t.

‘Well, think of it this way,’ Smudge, continues. ‘Think of what it’s like when you’ve got a hangover - you know, like when you’ve had a night on the town, and you wake up feeling really rough, see?’

‘Do you know what that’s like?’ Jack joins in, unusually serious, his face with its sharp, pointed nose all covered inside with white curly hairs, examining Herman at close range for any telltale signs of life’s bitter experiences. ‘Do you know how that feels?’

‘Oh, absolutely, yes, as a matter of fact I do,’ Herman replies, playing the part they have set for him - as one who, despite his sheltered life, could perhaps still just recall the occasional moment of indiscretion.

‘Well,’ Smudge goes on with a touch of triumph to his voice, ‘that’s what it feels like when you get old, see - only it feels like that all the bleedin' time! You have headaches. You have pains everywhere. You feel tired, and dizzy. You can’t be bothered with noise and with people and animals. And the worst of it is, it doesn’t wear off, see. It’s like a permanent hangover. Not only that, but you feel cold all the time as well. Your hands are cold, your feet are cold …’

‘All your ruddy bits are cold!’ Jack concurs loudly. ‘All the extremities.
Nothing works any more!
’

‘And you can’t chase the girls when you’re feeling like that,’ Smudge adds with a wink.

‘Yea, and even if you catch them, you’ve forgotten what it is you’re supposed to do with them by then,’ his brother confirms more solemnly.