The Peppers and the International Magic Guys. Sian Pattenden
alt="Image"/>smé made her way to the shop, thinking how she had never had this much bother over a tangerine before. She wondered why she was always the sensible one, always buying cleaning products and worrying about her watch, while the rest of her family were singing odes to pot plants, or now making string appear from crisp packets.
While Uncle Potty did the magic, Esmé’s parents were self-confessed hippies – they were spiritual, enlightened, at peace with the rhythms of nature, but perhaps at odds with bringing up a very practical young daughter. They had gone on a woodland holiday as a chance to “reconnect with nature”, which meant incredibly long, arduous walks for hours. As Monty and Esmé were now, at the grand old age of eleven, finding these hikes less appealing, Uncle Potty had been given the job of babysitter for the week.
Jane and Roger Pepper had first met under the light of a May Full Moon, when they had both travelled to an ancient stone circle near Penge to celebrate the Goddess of Worms (or something like that, Esmé did not quite remember). Jane had a very prominent spiritual side that manifested itself in buying Eastern religious icons, small spears of dull-coloured crystal and a great many beaded skirts. (Mr Pepper had joined in recently by growing a beard.) There were wind chimes outside the front door and a large Buddha that sat in the hallway just to the left as you came in – it was from Thailand and it had taken a considerable amount of effort to get it all the way back to London.
Monty was entirely fine with the wind chimes and the Buddha – in this respect, Montague Pepper was his mother’s son – but Esmé had always thought that the Buddha could at least have been put in a corner somewhere, which would have reduced the risk of injury to visitors.
The way Esmé saw it, the world was an incredible place already, without the need for wind chimes and rambling walks. Her parents were spiritual people, which was fine, but Esmé liked facts. That scientists could communicate with a whale was impressive, and more so because it was based on solid evidence, nothing wishy-washy. Esmé imagined having a chat with a parrot, writing a letter to a kangaroo – even sending an email to a horse. Maybe one day she would visit a beluga whale and ask just exactly what the bottom of the ocean was like. Hopefully, the whale in question would have learnt to say more than “goggles”, as that could make conversation somewhat limited. Maybe by the time she got there it would have learnt to say, “I can help with your homework,” or “Would you like to be a marine biologist?” in a deep, whaley voice. Esmé really hoped so.
As Esmé approached CostSnippas, the International Magic Guys (IMG) HQ opposite came into view. The building itself was impossibly old and rather dark, with battered brickwork and leaded windows. There was a crooked spire that cast a deep shadow across the road, and ugly gargoyles were situated at points along the roof edge. The huge front door was made from oak, but had warped slightly. The windows were thin and narrow. The IMG looked mysterious and out of step with the modern world. Even the hedges looked dusty.
In front of the old oak door was a statue of Barry Houdini, the IMG’s founder. Houdini’s most celebrated trick involved him escaping from a large wooden chest that had been dropped into the middle of the ocean. Houdini would always be shackled and chained, sometimes with a mouth full of sewing needles or maybe some razor blades. Sometimes he filled the trunk with lead, to make the trunk sink faster in the water, adding more danger. Sometimes he dangled off buildings or was “buried” under six feet of soil. He would always escape. The bronze statue outside the IMG depicted the great magician dressed in his underpants, chains round his feet, holding an open padlock aloft in victory. It was an arresting pose.
Esmé enjoyed going to the CostSnippas shop, especially if she was allowed to go on her own. Music tinkled from the radio – pop songs about driving big cars and going out on a Saturday night – but most of all, Esmé liked the new stationery shelf.
Esmé picked up an A4 lined notebook, spiral bound and sporting a green cover, which shimmered slightly, reflecting the strip lighting above. She chose a chocolate-covered wafer bar, that had extra crunchy blue cracknel on the top, then, after a moment’s thought, she bought a cleaning spray, just in case they had run out at home.
Jimi Sinha ran CostSnippas and over the years he’d often helped Esmé out with anything from difficult maths homework to practical stuff like fixing her bike. Jimi knew Uncle Potty, and Esmé thought that he might have some good advice for her on how to cope with the squashed fruit, disappearing watches and the terrible, terrible mess. Jimi watched her, wondering why she was so different from the rest of the kids who came in here. Most of them just lingered by the sweets, although some of them came in just to steal lollies from the freezer cabinets. Esmé was happy buying paperclips and Mr Muscle.
He smiled at her as she approached the till. “Buying another?” he asked, pointing to her notebook. She had bought one only last week.
“My last notebook was ruined just now,” Esmé explained. “An accident with a bowl of water and a citrus fruit.”
“One of Potty’s tricks gone wrong?”
“How did you guess?” Esmé replied, genuinely surprised.
Everyone in the local area knew the Potty Magician. He had spent a lifetime at the International Magic Guys HQ, sometimes hanging out of the window performing card tricks on pigeons or trying to make the ornamental shrubbery round the building disappear.
“I don’t mind a few magic tricks now and again,” said Esmé, “but Uncle Potty can’t stop. Plus he keeps messing things up.”
Jimi looked extra pensive. He had looked through the shop window on many occasions to see Uncle Potty trying to make traffic wardens levitate. He chuckled to himself. Uncle Potty was a “wild card” – a true eccentric.
“Could he be messing up the tricks on purpose, as part of a new routine?” asked Jimi.
“I don’t think so,” replied Esmé. “Yesterday he tried to produce twenty tins of baked beans from a long silk scarf. There were an awful lot of beans to clean up afterwards. The living-room carpet was ruined.”
Jimi scratched his left eyebrow pensively. “The tins were open?”
“Yes.” Esmé warmed to her theme. “And yesterday, Uncle Potty managed to get stuck in the bathroom for an hour while he worked on his ‘Underwater Sea’ trick and somehow fused the boiler at the same time, so we have no hot water. Plus he’s broken the door bell, my watch, damaged the Hoover trying to suck up the beans and spilt water over Mum and Dad’s laptop.”
“Oh, dear,” mused Jimi. “My brother could look at the laptop for you and maybe the vacuum cleaner, if you bring it in. The doorbell might just need a new fuse. Not sure about the boiler – maybe Potty knows a good plumber.”
Esmé shook her head. “I don’t think he knows what a plumber is.”
“Do you think he’s nervous about the IMG performance the day after tomorrow?”
“What performance?” replied Esmé.
Jimi lowered his voice, although the only other person in the shop was a man who had been staring at light bulbs for half an hour.
“Rumour has it that the show is being put on for the Pan-Continental Magic Corporation, who own and fund the club. If the IMG doesn’t make the grade it could face the axe.”
“If the IMG closes, Uncle Potty will be devastated!” said Esmé.
“I’ve heard the PCMC are very hard to please – in particular the boss, Nigella Spoon,” said Jimi, who seemed to know a lot about the matter. “She takes a great deal of pleasure in closing down a failing club. Nigella is as hard as nails. I met her once and she trod on my toe – although she claimed it was an accident, it is hard to forget. I’m sure that she meant to do it.”
Esmé was worried. If Uncle Potty’s tricks were anything to go by, the whole club could be in trouble.
“If the IMG closes, each