Illusion Read online

  ‘Master Tom Winter!’ he cried, looking up at him with his bright hazel eyes.

  ‘Hello Kayan. You have a good audience I see.’

  ‘A hungry audience. They eat all my props.’

  The two girls giggled.

  ‘Where’s Walter?’

  ‘Having happy time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come, I’ll take you.’

  For a child who’d only been in London for a short time, Kayan already seemed to know the ins and outs of the East End as if he’d lived there all his life. They plunged down narrow alleys and courts where barely a glimmer of the day’s thin sunlight filtered through. An old man raised his hat to him and Kayan nodded back with the assured solemnity of a local business magnate.

  Eventually they fell upon a battered yellow door at the top of a few brick steps.

  ‘Happy time!’ the boy announced, flashing his perfect white teeth. He beckoned Tom in whilst showing no interest in entering himself. By the time he’d pushed the door open the boy had gone.

  The interior of the establishment had red walls and was barely lit. The air was filled with a hazy, sweet-smelling smoke. Tom’s eyes slowly adjusted and he began to feel his way forward unsteadily. It felt like he was walking through a dream. As he moved deeper into the belly of the building, silhouettes appeared to be moving around him and the pungent air grew thicker with smoke. In a doorway a half dressed woman lounged idly. She smiled at Tom as he passed, the tip of her tongue just appearing between lips with the offer of something unspoken.

  ‘I’m looking for Walter Balanchine,’ he said.

  She smiled back with sweet, disturbingly innocent eyes and nodded at a door across the way.

  The room was windowless and lit only by three or four small candles in alcoves. There were a number of divans against the walls. On the nearest one lay a heap of clothes with Walter somehow ensconced within them. A preposterously long pipe extended from his mouth, from which he inhaled deeply. The opium vapour was thickest in this room. Tom’s eyes watered profusely and it took him some moments to realise that there were two others in there as well: a black-haired woman, deeply asleep, and a bald headed little man with a pencil-thin moustache.

  ‘Tom,’ beamed Walter, removing the pipe from his lips. ‘How charming of you to come and visit me here.’ His voice was drowsy and much deeper than usual. His mouth curved into a childish grin. ‘Meet my new friend Cornelius,’ he said, indicating the bald man with the moustache. ‘He’s going to help make us rich.’

  The bald man nodded and smiled at him in such a dignified way that Tom felt as if he’d just joined them for afternoon tea.

  ‘Walter, get up,’ he hissed. ‘I have to get you out of here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve got us a job. For tomorrow night!’

  Walter raised his eyebrows and sucked deeply on his pipe again. The puff of smoke that exuded from his lips was, could it possibly be … rose shaped? Tom rubbed his eyes and shook his head. The place was making him feel drowsy.

  ‘And to whom will we be performing?’

  ‘Miss Rosalind Gallop.’

  ‘One of your portly piano princesses?’

  ‘Exactly. And if her mother knew that she’d just hired an inebriated rogue in an opium den, then we’d hear the explosions all the way from Fleet Street. Now come on, we have plans to make.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘Thank you so much for staying tonight.’

  Sally spread an extra blanket over Ma. ‘Not a problem. Look, she’s sleeping soundly already, even with all that fog out there. That potion has done wonders for her breathing.’

  Tom watched the gentle rise and fall of his mother’s back. It was always a relief when she slept, despite the shadowy twinge of guilt that came with it. She just looked so normal, lying there peacefully with her eyes shut. Still now he imagined, hoped, that when she woke up she’d simply rise from her bed and busy herself about the house like she once did. All as if nothing had ever happened.

  ‘I wish you could have known her, before,’ he murmured. ‘She and my father… they were a pair, a perfect pair. I know that doesn’t sound particularly special, but it was. We had a wonderful house, nothing grand, but it was clean and light and there was a silver birch tree in the front garden. Its branches used to brush against the windows.’ He looked over at Ma. ‘She always made the house so … warm, and they played the piano together; lovely music at the end of each day. He liked to bring her flowers too. Funny, but whenever they greeted each other, it was as if it had been months, years since they’d last met. Oh Sally, I’m sorry. I’ve upset you.’

  ‘No no,’ she smiled, brushing the moisture from her eyes. ‘It’s comforting to know she had a good life, once. Her mind is with God now, even though she’s still here with us. I believe that Tom,’ she said earnestly. Her gentle face looked golden in the candlelight; he wanted to embrace her, but didn’t dare. What damage would that do? What hope would it implant?

  ‘I hope so. I hope she’s at peace, somewhere.’

  There was a gentle tap at the door and Walter’s face appeared, muffled up against the fog outside in a hooded cloak. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  The night air was thick and putrid. A pony and trap waited outside, laden with several large wooden boxes and some long rectangular structures bound up with sacking. Kayan sat amongst them in a thick cloak like Walter’s. He nodded a hello, teeth chattering. Another figure sat at the front, holding the reins. He tipped a felt hat towards him in cheery recognition,

  ‘Evening!’ he exclaimed through a scarf that was wrapped around much of his lower face.

  Walter must have caught Tom’s baffled look. ‘Our new associate, Cornelius, will be joining us tonight. He has done much work in theatre and music hall and will be of great help with lighting.’

  Tom gazed back at the man, lost for words. Was this the same bald-headed individual he’d found Walter smoking opium with? And now…now he was bringing both of them into the company of the Gallops.

  ‘Come on, my friend,’ exclaimed Walter, slapping him heartily on the back. ‘Hop on. Make haste. Time to blow the petticoats off the pretty folk.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Tom murmured.

  ‘Just a joke, a mere joke!’

  They made slow work through the fog, edging their way at first through the narrow streets, Cornelius urging the pony on in low, comforting tones. The odd cat darted away, chasing shadows through the dark, but barely a soul dared to busy the streets. Only the gas-lit glow of pubs and theatres cut through the darkness, the garbled sound of voices echoing from within. These establishments provided them with as good a map as any for the route out of East London and at last they fell upon Fleet Street. The sleeping mass of St. Paul’s bulged almost invisibly in their wake.

  ‘Walter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have a question,’ Tom swallowed hard. ‘Why is that large box next to Kayan… growling?’

  Walter listened intently for a moment to the gravelly grumble behind them.

  ‘I’d say that was more of a purr than a growl,’ he answered.

  ‘Do I want to know what’s in there?’

  ‘Possibly not.’

  *

  They entered the Gallops’ residence through an archway at the back of the house. A manservant ushered them in and they worked quickly, heaving the props through a corridor to a large drawing-room. The sound of animated voices and music drifted towards them from the rooms at the front of the building. Tom caught his pale reflection in a mirror; the party had begun.

  They hauled the large rectangular objects around a make-shift stage of blackened wooden boards and ripped off their hessian coats to reveal a sequence of tall mirrors. For such a small man, Cornelius proved to be strong and adept. He worked hard and could heave twice the weight that Tom and Walter could muster onto his solid back. When the stage was ready, he unfastened a crate and drew out a series of lamps, which he bega
n to arrange at the back of the room with an air of busy professionalism. Tom and Kayan set the chairs around the stage, making sure to leave a wide aisle through the middle.

  ‘My dear, dear Mr Winter!’

  Mrs Gallop came rolling in towards them through the double doors of the room, her body swathed in curtainfuls of velvet. She put the tips of her fingers briefly into Tom’s palm.

  ‘I can’t be kept away for long but I rather thought that I should meet this wizard you’ve brought with you… before I unleash him on my guests,’ she trilled nervously. ‘What was his name again? Mr Bal…Bala…,’

  ‘Walter, please call me Walter.’

  At the sight of him Mrs Gallop froze in a way that, up until that moment, Tom would have thought impossible. Even her jaw remained suspended in mid-sentence, jutting out and slightly to the right of her face. Because it was at this precise moment that Walter chose to disrobe himself from his great hooded cloak and reveal the costume he was wearing underneath.

  Even Tom, accustomed to Walter as he was, had to stop himself from gaping, and also squinting slightly, at the sudden onset of bright, lime silk. The costume ballooned out at the legs, ending half-way down his calves. His feet were clad in matching gold embroidered slippers with voluminous, curled toes. On the upper half of his body he wore a cotton shirt covered with a jewel encrusted waistcoat, and around his neck hung his chain with its locket and claw and two new small bottles of red and amber glass.

  ‘It is a joy to meet you Mrs Gallop,’ said Walter, fixing his eyes on hers. He extracted a length of blue silk from his pocket and began to wrap it around his head. ‘Your family and guests have quite a treat waiting for you tonight. I hope that you will be pleasantly surprised.’

  Mrs Gallop’s jaw remained locked in the same sideways position as Walter secured the fabric to his head with a jaunty, feathered hatpin.

  ‘I think my costume is ready now,’ he smiled.

  At once, Mrs Gallop seemed to come out of her reverie, as if something had suddenly snapped inside her. She blinked her large eyes and then beamed a disarmingly trustful smile. ‘Oh good, I hope that this room is to your liking.’

  Walter surveyed the spacious gilt expanse with a critical eye. ‘It is excellent, but not quite perfect. If you would please allow us ten minutes or so…,’

  ‘Of course, of course!’ she exclaimed, retreating hastily. ‘Take your time, please. We want it to be perfect, don’t we?’

  She rippled back into the noise of her guests and they were alone again: Cornelius fiddling with his lamps, Kayan lighting incense around the room and Walter, resembling a sort of malnourished genie, now creating smoke plumes around the stage. In a matter of moments they had transformed the drawing room into something not entirely different from their opium den.

  ‘What on earth are you wearing?’ asked Tom. He realised, to his astonishment, that he was actually beginning to chuckle.

  Walter gave the sides of his ballooning breeches a satisfied slap, and stretched his narrow chest up and as wide as it would go. The effect made him look even funnier.

  ‘The Missus Cornelius crafted this for me,’ he replied, raising an eyebrow. ‘Awful impressive, isn’t it?’

  Cornelius smiled proudly. ‘My wife, she can do anything with a needle. Cloth’s her trade you see; supplies all the dressmakers and at no great cost. She’s not greedy, my Missus.’

  Tom tried to gulp down his laughter, which instantly doubled the force of the urge.

  ‘I’ll leave you to get ready,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Ten minutes, then herd them in,’ called Walter, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

  *

  Tom edged forward through the house, his eyes adjusting to the glare of gas. The sound of laughter and chatter grew louder, the air warmer. He ducked to one side as one of Mrs Gallop’s many silver platters swept past him in the arms of a servant. The man plunged into a room to the right and Tom followed him. He didn’t dare step inside, but allowed himself to peer around the doorframe; to gaze at the throng of Walter’s soon-to-be audience.

  Slowly his eyes began to digest it all: the glittering cut glass, the diamonds, the wine. All sparkling and golden under the beam of chandeliers. It seemed miraculous that such brilliance could emerge out of the putrid, yellow fog outside. He thought of Sally and Ma, trapped in the semi-glow of their small home; a mere swamp in comparison to what he beheld here, just a few meagre miles away.

  In the centre of the room Mrs Gallop held reign, gesticulating grandly as she spoke whilst Rosalind, ensconced in a white fur shrug, stood mutely beside her. He scoured the room, wondering where her entourage of suitors might be.

  And then he saw her.

  She was standing at the edge of the room, set aside from the rest apart from the small company around her. She was tall and willowy with dark, almond-shaped eyes and deep brown hair that was gathered up tightly from her face. It was the saddest and most beautiful face he’d ever seen and all he could do was stare, and blink, and stare again.

  She wore a dark dress, deep blue, which made her seem different, older, than the Rosalinds of the room. And yet he imagined her to be the same age as them, because her face seemed so young, and pale. She spoke a little to her companions; her eyes were wistful, her long neck slightly craned like a swan, as if she were rather embarrassed by her height. She had bold features: her mouth a little too wide, her nose a little too long, but together…together they created magic, real magic.

  There were two others with her. The first was an older woman, whose face he couldn’t quite see, and the second was a thin, balding man with the features of a hawk. Could such a gaunt, fierce looking individual be her father? With her great eyes she seemed almost to be indulging the other two with the odd remark here, a veiled smile there. But her posture and her expression seemed taught, strained even. She glanced at the door repeatedly, as if eager to get away. A few times it felt as if she were looking right back at him, through him almost, with glassy, faraway eyes.

  The older woman turned so that he could now see her face. She was clearly the young woman’s mother; they shared the same almond-shaped eyes. But this face was hard. Its lovely features were carved into it as if it were a piece of marble. She held her chin up high and, as she glanced across the room, her eyes sparkled in a whimsical sort of way. It was an expression that reminded Tom of something. Had he seen her before? If she was a friend of Mrs Gallop, although this was not easy to imagine, then perhaps she had attended one of his piano recitals. This was quite possible, although she certainly hadn’t brought her daughter before. He would have remembered.

  An elderly couple encroached on the small group and the young woman seized the opportunity to slip away from her companions. She approached the silver platters, carefully examining them all before deciding on an exquisite pyramid of chocolates. She popped one into her mouth, glanced around the room to make sure no one was looking, and then popped another two in so that her cheeks swelled up like a squirrel. Tom began to laugh.

  ‘Is all as it should be?’ came the raspy voice of Mrs Gallop in his ear. He started a little, entirely unaware of her approach. The corner of her mouth twitched nervously. Her ambition was almost tangible.

  ‘Yes Mrs Gallop, I believe we can now summon in the guests.’

  As the doors yawned open, the sound of Indian pipe music filled the air. The guests filed into the room, whispering excitedly, and a feeling of hushed expectation seemed to ripple through them. Walter was sitting in the centre of the stage, cross legged on a large, flat cushion. His eyes were closed in meditation. Gentle flurries of white smoke rose up from around his legs, like mist on a lake on a cold winter’s day.

  Tom remained by the doorway as each guest entered to take their seat. Eventually the mother of the beautiful girl passed by him with the hawk faced man at her side. And then the girl herself moved by, her long gloved arm only inches from his own. Her closeness sent a thrill of energy right through him. He had to do something, say something,
anything to gain her attention, however futile it might be.

  ‘Hello,’ he murmured. It was so quiet he barely heard it himself. But she paused, as if suddenly aware of something distant but vaguely alarming, like a fly caught against a window pane. She turned her face to him and he nodded gently to account for himself, grinning in a way that almost certainly made him look quite foolish. She gazed at him uncertainly for a moment, her exquisite eyes digesting his face, his shabby clothes, his ridiculous grin. And then, for the first time since he’d laid eyes on her, her face broke into a wide smile. It was as rich as honey; so beautiful and unexpected that his whole body seemed to fill with the warmth of it. He took a step towards her. Every nerve inside him seemed to be poised in her direction, yearning to touch her skin and wallow gloriously in that yellow, honey smile.

  ‘Tamara!’ came a voice. It was quiet but stern, with a hint of a foreign accent to it.

  ‘Coming Mother,’ she murmured.

  He watched the dark head turn, walk onwards into the crowd. The people milled about, took their seats; hushed banter humming through the air. And then someone shrieked, loudly. Up on the stage Walter, still cross-legged, began to levitate. He rose several inches off the floor and the mist encircling him rose up too, as if he were sitting on a cloud. He continued, higher and higher, and murmurs of growing excitement oozed across the room. When Walter had risen about five foot into the air, he paused and opened his eyes.

  ‘Good Evening Ladies and Gentlemen and, most particularly tonight, Miss Gallop,’ Walter said in a calm, almost rhythmic voice. Rosalind visibly quivered in her chair.

  ‘Welcome to my spectacular cavern of delights. Ah! I see my serpent has arrived.’

  At once the lights dimmed to the barest glow and a deep, thick shadow slithered across the ceiling above them. There were cries of horror and many ducked their heads down against the velvety blackness. Two red flashes, like angry eyes, pierced the air, and the end of a long blade of a tail swished behind them.

  ‘Have no fear!’ cried Walter, who was now suddenly no longer levitating but standing on the stage. He clapped his hands together crisply. ‘With one clap I can turn this fiend into something much more to your liking, I’m sure.’ In an instant the shadow seemed to disperse and the sound of birdsong filled the room. Sparks of blue and pink flitted through the gloom, so fast that they were barely visible. Some members of the audience reached up, trying to catch at them with clumsy hands. ‘Humming birds,’ explained Walter. ‘But they’re very shy, and far too quick for us humans.’