Witch Dust Read online

  Johnjoe was as good as his word, and it was a very different lion who rolled up for the next performance – languid no longer. What the audience was supposed to see, was the animal inside the cage doing his law of the jungle-untamed stuff, while my Mother entered an adjacent, square cabinet which was then elaborately padlocked left right and centre. Whilst this was going on, from two apertures in the cabinet, a slim white arm and an elegant foot would be extended and wiggled, to show she was all present and correct. With a number of dramatic flashes, explosions, drum rolls and gymnastic efforts from the support dancers, a voluminous, silver star-studded black cloth was lowered over both cage and cabinet and whipped back in almost the same instant.

  Revealed then, would be my Mother and Languid transposed. She pirouetting prettily in the cage, he ostensibly trapped in the cabinet as evidenced by a lion tail, lashing from where her arm had been, together with a lot of lion-type rocking, rolling and roaring. No sooner had the audience begun to gasp and clap, the black cloth would again descend and re-ascend. And lo and behold there they were – Languid livid in the cage and Ophelia liberated, completely unruffled from the cabinet. With all the effects in place it was enormously impressive, even to those like me, who’d watched it numerous times and knew exactly how it was done.

  There was naturally, some pretty nifty footwork required by all involved, not least Languid and Johnjoe. But a hungry lion isn’t always a co-operative lion and one night at the London Palladium, things went spectacularly wrong. Ophelia disappeared from the cabinet and duly pitched up in the cage, only to discover Languid, still in residence and mighty unimpressed to find he’d acquired a room-mate.

  The audience’s gasp of horror was echoed by that of the cast, who knew the routine and were aware this wasn’t it. Languid raised his massive maned head, opened wide his jaws and finally gave throat to just the sort of roar for which my Father had been begging. From my position in the wings I watched Adam, his face rigid with fear beneath the thick stage makeup, as a peeved and peckish Languid decided to find out whether Ophelia was as deliciously edible as she looked. The huge animal, horrifyingly close to the slim woman in the cage with him, crouched, snarled, sprang and vanished in mid leap into thin air.

  The audience was still surging to its feet applauding wildly, when the black cloth was swiftly lowered and raised again and yes, there was Languid, back in his cage – large as life and twice as confused. And there, safely back in the cabinet, was my Mother. Murray and I had clutched hands. When we stickily untangled, we had matching rows of nail indentations and as I turned to him I saw reflected my own relief, as well as something else I couldn’t quite identify.

  “What happened?” I hissed.

  “Blinking trap-door mechanism jammed, didn’t it?”

  “But…”

  “No harm done, they got it sorted.”

  “But…”

  “Have to get it checked.” And he headed off swiftly, picking his expert way over props and cast as he went. Turning back, I saw my parents taking their bow. They milked the applause extravagantly as normal and ran off, glowing, to the approbation of the rest of the team, who weren’t exactly sure quite what they’d seen either, but had leapt to the only conclusion possible. Wiley old Adam had pulled a fast one. And there indeed was wiley old Adam, preening, winking, laughing and talking about keeping everyone on their toes. But I’d seen the shock and fear on his face. Something didn’t smell right and it wasn’t just Languid.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  My Mother was also working the crowd, kissing, being kissed, laughing and accepting congratulations for a great show. As she moved towards her dressing room, I was right behind her. I waited quietly in the corner while Betty, her dresser, belying her impressive girth, flashed round the room like a highly motivated whirling dervish. She swiftly helped my Mother out of her costume and then her fishnet tights, tutting at a rip and gathering up assorted rollers, Leichner sticks and discarded tissues along the way. She was grumbling and muttering the whole time about damn fools, working with wild animals.

  “Mark my words,” she said, “One day something’ll go proper pear-shaped and then where’ll we all be laughing? T’other side of our faces, that’s blooming well where!”

  Conjuring order from chaos, and having helped Ophie into her after-show, blue velour dressing gown, ensured she had everything she needed to clean off her make-up and still holding forth at length, Betty bustled out bearing costume for laundering and tights for darning. Before she left, she’d boiled the kettle for the customary cup of Earl Grey which now gently steamed on the dressing table. I had an uncomfortable, unidentifiable feeling in the pit of my stomach. The sort of discomfort you get when you’re at the dentist’s and he’s umming and aaahing and the next news you’re expecting to hear is sure to involve needles and a hypocritical ‘This won’t hurt a bit’.

  “Ma?” I said.

  “Ophelia.” She tutted.

  “Ophelia then.”

  “Mmm?”

  “What happened?”

  “When?”

  “For goodness sake, just now, out there.”

  “Oh that. Just a new bit your Father and I…”

  “No.”

  “What d’you mean, no?”

  “Adam knew nothing about it – I was watching. He was as shocked as anyone.”

  “Rubbish. You know he loves nothing better than playing to the gallery.”

  “Where did Languid go then?”

  “Languid?” She was sipping tea, eyes closed, savouring the fragrant warmth.

  “Yes, Languid, you remember – bloody great lion?”

  “Don’t swear darling.” She hovered elegant, crimson-nailed fingers over the biscuits Betty had put out for her, opting for the chocolate one. “Languid disappeared, isn’t that the whole point of the trick? Now run along sweets, I’ve got a head coming on.”

  “Ma, he’s taken out through a trap door.” I could hear my voice rising, “I know as well as you how it works, but tonight he didn’t go out the trapdoor – he just disappeared, I saw him.”

  “Clever, n’est pas Serenissima?”

  “Sandra.” I hissed, and with the anger came unexpectedly hot, scalding tears. I must have been far more frightened than I’d realized, out there in the wings, preparing to watch something dreadful happen to her. She swung around on her chair, saw my distress was genuine and held out her arms. Kneeling awkwardly on the floor I buried my head against her stomach although, even in that instant, I felt her tauten instinctively, lest it seem too squashy. I wasn’t short of affection, we always hugged and kissed a lot, but they were generally fast, showbizzy efforts, finished almost as soon as they started, with maximum ‘mwah, mwahing’ and not too much body contact. This longer embrace felt strangely unfamiliar, but I knew it was a pivotal moment. I could leave well alone – or not.

  “I want to know how you did it.” I said

  “Told you.” She pulled away from me, turning back to the mirror and slapping on some Nivea. “Now I need to get dressed, your Father’ll be in any minute, we’re eating with the Caines and the Connerys and he’ll rush me, you know he will and I so hate that.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, just leave it alone, can’t you?” Ophie’s patience, not plentiful at the best of times, was rubbing rapidly thin. “It’s no big thing, just something I did.”

  “Did? What do you mean did?”

  “Sometimes I just… ” she waved a dismissive hand, “Oh I don’t know, make things happen if I need to.”

  “Happen?”

  “Don’t echo.”

  “What things? How?”

  “Things… oh I don’t know, stop badgering me.” She snapped.

  “Show me.” I demanded.


  “No.”

  “I want to see.” I said. She grimaced in anger, muttered something under her breath and with no warning whatsoever disappeared, right in front of my eyes.

  I’d sat back on my heels on the floor after our hug, so she was only a foot or so away, I could still smell her perfume all around me. I felt a little light-headed and a lot frightened. I leaned forward and waved my hand feebly above the dressing table chair, nothing. This was oh so definitely not magic as I knew it, this was irrefutably something else entirely.

  “Ma?”

  “What?” She was suddenly back. We stared at each other, shocked and defensive respectively.

  “How… ?”

  “For God’s sake, stop making such a song and dance about it.” She turned the chair decisively back to face the mirror and dolloped more cold cream calmly. For a few seconds, I couldn’t think of what I wanted to say next, then,

  “Does Adam know about… this?”

  “Naturally.” She tissued, turning her face from side to side, ensuring she didn’t miss any greasy patches, at the same time not meeting my anxious eyes in the light-bulb rimmed mirror. “Your Father and I don’t have any secrets.” But I knew when she was lying, I’d seen it often enough.

  “He doesn’t, does he?” My indignation grew. “How can he possibly not know something like… ” I paused and shrugged at the enormity of it, “…this?”

  She crumpled the used, now pinkly stained tissue, threw it into the bin at her feet and turned towards me. I rarely saw her, nobody did, without artfully applied make-up, stage or otherwise and her face looked strangely undressed; younger, yet far less vulnerable than I’d have expected. I began to wish I hadn’t embarked on this fact-finding mission.

  “Some things we just don’t talk about much, your Father and I.” She said.

  “Well what does he think happened today?” I persisted, she shrugged a shoulder,

  “Sometimes Adam has more than enough on his plate, sometimes it’s my job to just get things sorted.” I digested this, turning it over in my mind for flaws and finding plenty.

  “But how can he not want to know what happened?”

  “Told him it was something I organised – a surprise – he was thrilled.”

  “A surprise? That’s ridiculous.” I yelped. Her face hardened, so did her tone.

  “Ridiculous? And why would that be? He’s happy, the audience loved it. We’ll get great reviews, a longer booking next year. Not ridiculous at all – it’s our living, don’t knock it.” I couldn’t fault her argument, but was dimly aware of moral implications palely loitering. Trying, but failing to grasp them fully, I reverted to the original issue.

  “How can you do ‘things’?”

  “Just can. Honestly Serenissima, I’m very surprised at you, you’ve been brought up with all sorts of illusion, this’s only more of the same.” She was sponging on creamy foundation now, her lovely face untroubled. She made it all seem so completely normal. Indeed, and oddly enough, the thing that seemed to be bothering me most was the change in the way I viewed my Father. Confirmation though it was of what I’d suspected, I felt my world shift a little on its axis.

  “Does Murray know?”

  “Murray?” She sniffed, “Murray knows what Murray chooses to know. Enough questions now. Off you trot poppet, give me a bit of peace before I have to go out and send Betty in with some pills for my head.”

  ***

  When we’re young, we’re pretty adaptive, aren’t we? You’re probably thinking ‘How on earth…?’ – as indeed am I, reading this over, but despite having been shown something that would have rocked most people back on their heels, my biggest concern at the time, was the reassessment of my parents’ relationship. I do remember though, as soon as opportunity arose, broaching the subject with the surest source of knowledge on all manner of troublesome issues.

  “Murray?” I said casually, sitting myself down next to him one day. “Have you noticed anything kind of odd, about Ophelia?” Murray snorted, turning the richly embroidered costume he was darning – we’d gone heavily medieval in the swords-through-the-casket illusion.

  “Ophelia, odd? Is the Pope Catholic? Course she’s odd. Blimey what do those ruddy dancers do in these outfits to fray ‘em like this?”

  “No, I mean really odd?” He bit the cotton off and stowed needle and thread in the mending kit he carried around with him. It was a bit like the Tardis that kit, just a small square box, but whatever anybody needed was always there and usually in a choice of colours. He turned and looked at me over the little half-moon glasses he’d acquired for close work, much to the amusement of the rest of the crew. With the ruddy complexion and creamy hair, they made him look even more like he’d mislaid a pointed hat and fishing rod.

  “Listen to me, Sandy love,” he said, “Not everyone in this world’s the same as everybody else, it’d be boring as all-get-out if they were.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “But.” I persevered, “She’s really, really different isn’t she?”

  “She leans towards the unusual, give you that.”

  “Murray, if she leaned any farther, she’d fall flat on her face.” I said. He gave his short, rarely heard, bark of a laugh,

  “I’m saying nothing. Least said soonest mended.”

  “But,” I abandoned oblique for outright. “She does… you know… things.”

  “Ask her about it.”

  “Have, but…”

  “Well ask her again. Nothing to do with me.”

  “But Adam, what about Adam? If she’s not telling him the truth about things, It’s just not right is it? In fact it’s downright wrong.”

  “Now listen here young lady, listen hard and listen good. Your Ma and Pa love each other in their own way, what they do or don’t do, see or don’t choose to see, is their business, not yours, and certainly none of mine.”

  “You mean, you think he does know, but she doesn’t know he knows?”

  “Bloody ‘ell, Sandy – you’re giving me ‘eadache not to mention earache. Drop it now.”

  “But…”

  “And fetch me a couple of aspirin – throat’s dead scratchy too.” He shook his head gloomily, “My luck, it’ll spread to my chest, I’ll not shake it off all winter.”

  So, there it was. And there it stayed. Not exactly out in the open but perhaps not quite so much in the shadows as previously. Was I really any the wiser? No. Was I curious? Yes. Should I have asked a hell of a lot more questions? Certainly. Did I actually want to know the answers? Probably not. After all, growing up, you adjust to a heck of a lot, don’t you? And you see the things you want to see and you turn your back firmly on those you don’t. Perhaps I just turned my back more firmly than most.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “You haven’t really killed him, have you?” I asked now, with some apprehension. My Mother absentmindedly selected an errant chocolate from amongst those strewn over the coffee table and popped it thoughtfully in her mouth.

  “I suppose if I had, the police would have been round by now to tell you, wouldn’t they? He must have a cast iron head, goodness knows I hit him hard enough – you know that bronze horse… ?” I sat up straighter and stared at her appalled.

  “Good God, Ma, that thing from the fireplace? What were you thinking?” Accustomed as I was to my parents hurling things at each other in the midst of one of their ferocious rows, this sounded a blunt instrument too far. I reached for the phone,

  “I’m calling an ambulance.”

  “No, no, no.” She flapped a hand, “Murray’s there, it can’t be that bad or we’d have heard. You can ring him later and check if you want. Anyway, what about my poor ankle, it’s agony.”
She’d cracked it sharply on the wrought iron leg of the coffee table when she arrived and now she raised, for my inspection, an elegant if rapidly swelling extremity.

  “Serves you right.” I was unsympathetic. Materialising unexpectedly was, of all Ophelia’s unsettling proclivities, the one I disliked the most.

  If you’re thinking, at this point, that I wasn’t half as agitated as you might expect, I should probably point out that my Mother leaving my Father was not an infrequent occurrence, their relationship being nothing if not explosive. Over recent years, as he hit his fifties and had been caught, ever more frequently leching in the direction of the girls in the company, hysterical showdowns had become even more regular. One or other of my parents was always storming off in high dudgeon, swearing they never wanted to see the other ever again and not to bother arguing, because teams of flaming wild horses wouldn’t be able to drag them back!

  These partings were invariably acrimonious and accompanied by bellowing (Adam), hysteria (Ophelia) and frantic phone calls to their patient, albeit put-upon solicitor for urgent divorce settlement discussions. Luckily the spats, although always heavy on the glassware, usually only lasted a few hours. I think the longest had been when my Father yelled he was getting on a plane and didn’t care where it took him, as long as it was far away from her. Unfortunately, just after he flew out of Heathrow, the airport closed down, due to fog. He couldn’t get back for four days and was forced to cool his heels and bad humour elsewhere. Of course, whilst the arguments and dramatic walk-outs were unsettling, the inevitable making up periods were even more so, and not the sort of thing you really wanted to be around for.

  I rose from my chair to extract a pack of peas from the freezer for the ankle and some milk from the fridge for Ink, who’d spread herself expansively on the sofa – she’d lived through almost as many of these dramas as I had, and tended to take them in her elegant stride. Martin not surprisingly, had departed a while back, almost certainly I thought glumly, for good.