The Peppers and the International Magic Guys

“You are in the right frame of mind,” he continued. “You have been so absorbed in your work that your brain is emitting what Dr Pompkins calls ‘mega waves’.”

Although Esmé thought that “mega waves” sounded utterly ridiculous, she did think that “mind magic” was interesting. She had seen a certain Derek Brown perform this sort of routine on TV and she had been fascinated by how he made ordinary people believe in all kinds of nonsense – from ghosts and spirits to making them think that they could rob a bank or steal a race horse. Esmé liked the idea of hypnosis, but only on other people. Would Monty make her fall into a trance – only to find he was not able to wake her up again? And would he also send himself into a reverie? Esmé could not remember Monty doing anything even vaguely hypnotic before, apart from a very odd dance on Christmas Day last year after he’d eaten a large bowl full of profiteroles.

And if Esmé remembered rightly, Monty had been sick fifteen minutes later.

“Look into my eyes,” Monty suddenly commanded. “Go on, really concentrate.”

Esmé did what she was told. Maybe this time she would suspend her disbelief. She looked into Monty’s left eye, then his right, then back to the left again.

“My eyes are wiggling,” she said. “Is that normal?”

The longer Esmé stared, the more her eyes wiggled, and the more she thought about her eyes wiggling the less hypnotised she felt.

Now Monty spoke in a low, long voice: “Your mega waves are definitely vibrating. I want you to draw whatever comes into your mind.” He handed Esmé a blank sheet of A4 paper.

“When you’ve finished, fold the paper once,” Monty said, taking his own sheet of paper. “And I, the great Montague Pepper, will draw the exact same thing using my own mega waves that are connecting with yours, miaow.”

“Draw anything?” asked Esmé. “Anything, miaow,” he replied.

Esmé was not sure she’d heard right. “Anything, miaow?” she repeated.

“Use your, um, miaow imagination,” said Monty quickly, under his breath, to drive the point home.

Esmé raised an eyebrow at her brother. Feeling mischievous, she thought it would be funny to draw a small sausage dog. She did so and folded the paper up twice.

“Once, not twice,” Monty said, sighing. “Oh, well. Now let us show the powers for enjoined mega waves and open our pictures! 1 – 2 – 3!”

Dramatically, they each opened their drawings.

“A cat!” exclaimed Monty proudly of his picture, before realising that Esmé was holding up a picture of a dog – and what’s more, a sausage dog.

Monty looked devastated.

“You didn’t draw a cat,” he said.

“Er, no,” said Esmé. “You kept saying miaow so I thought…”

“…that you’d do the opposite.”

“Sorry, Monty,” Esmé said, realising that her brother was upset. “I’ll try harder next time.”

Four days of magic and chaos later and Esmé was standing in the devastated kitchen, wondering just what to do. Some of the plastic floor tiles looked like they were curling up at the edges under all that water, not helped by Uncle Potty’s low quality mopping. Uncle Potty heard Esmé sigh again and reached into one of his many waistcoat pockets and brought out a bunch of silk flowers.

“To cheer you up,” he said. Esmé tried to smile, but the corners of her mouth were not having any of it.

Uncle Potty reached into another pocket with some difficulty and found a sweetie tube that contained a selection of nuts and bolts. He put it back and then found a five-pound note from another pocket. His waistcoat certainly had a lot of potential.

“Here, Esmé. I know I can’t replace everything, but you could at least get yourself some chocolate from the CostSnippas convenience store,” said Uncle Potty kindly. “Maybe even a new pencil from the stationery shelf.”

“And a homework book as well?” asked Esmé.

“Why not?” said Uncle Potty. “Monty and I will finish clearing up here while you’re away and everything will be shipshape when you come back.”

“OK, thanks,” said Esmé, reaching for her coat.

As she went for the front door, Esmé heard her brother say, “I’ve got a new trick, Uncle Potty,” he said. “What about turning a pineapple into a bicycle?”

Esmé sighed as she stepped out of the door and closed it quietly behind her.

Take a coin between the fingers of your right hand and announce that you will make it disappear.

Wave your left hand over the right, as if to grasp the coin with this hand [misdirection], while secretly keeping the coin in your right hand.

Shouting “Pompkins! Pompkins! In all totality!” might also help startle your audience, as you point your right index finger (still concealing the coin) to the left hand which opens up to reveal... nothing.

It also helps if you change

your name to Pompkins.

Traditionally, the magician adopts a stage name to inspire a certain appeal. My advice in this area: take stock of who you are, what your most interesting qualities might be, and devise a “persona” to fit.

When I became Dr Pompkins I took to wearing a stethoscope and many times was asked to perform vital surgery when out and about. I saved as many lives as those I tragically cut short… Just joking – everyone survived!

In all totality,

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.”