Read by Tony Bell
"No thank you, I shall carry it myself." Mr Jingle clutches his battered suitcase like Al Capone clutching his gun, or Al Capone's grandfather, perhaps. The young receptionist shrugs and leads him through to the old dressing room, as if he didn't know the way. She waves some lacquered fingernails at a kettle, some teabags, and a mince pie on a chipped plate.
Making sure the door through to the restaurant is unlocked, she flashes a plastic smile and leaves him to it. Back in the day the staff here were a bit more talkative, they checked he had everything he needed, maybe even admired him. But Back In The Day is a long time ago.
By the time he opens the suitcase, it's running late, so he takes off his glasses in order to smudge the clock. Everything is packed in its proper place. There are marbles, cups and cards; handkerchiefs and silk snowflakes; small, fluffy reindeer and robin figures; some candy canes for the children; hats; little parcels; sacks; a bow tie; cards with and without pictures, and envelopes for them to fit into; miniature snowballs made of rubber and of foam; a top hat; his magic wand. Everywhere is brightness and colour, glittering sparkles, more gloss and shine than on the receptionist's hands, except that when he puts his glasses back on the sun falls behind a cloud and the razzamatazz fades. Coming into focus instead is dust and loose threads, tears and patches. No time to worry about that, he fills his pockets, both open and hidden, putting everything exactly where it should go. He could do with a bit of a polish himself, a new lease of life. Nothing a lick of paint won't brighten up again.
There's a knock, but he's nearly ready.
Mr Jingle puts on his rainbow jacket, snatches up his top hat, waves his magic wand, takes a breath, and then strides through the door.
Out in the restaurant, wandering between tables, flashing tricks and producing trinkets out of the air, Mr Jingle is a roaring success. His audience gasp and cheer; shriek out for him to alight upon their table next; applaud riotously. At least, his younger audience does. The adults reluctantly lower their conversation to a murmur and smile when the missing piece mystically reappears, but mostly they watch their children. The magician focuses inward: he stuffs foam snowballs between bent fingers, hides playing cards under torn cloths and extracts excited smiles with grubby soft toys appearing in shaking hands. The moves were more slick back when the parents wore a shirt and tie or a dress for a meal out, but the youngsters are lost in the act and see only wonder. One girl is so taken with the pink card with a picture of a snowman, produced from under her table napkin, that he presents it to her. He smiles happily, with well-worn creases around his eyes, only the slightest line of some clear liquid escaping down the side of his mouth. He'll need to conjure up another one from somewhere now.
The tree stands in front of bay windows near the corner, decorations from the last owners but one; new, plastic streamers are strung between the lights; some drawings from the local primary school, a touch of community that Mr Jingle hadn't expected; the tables are filled with different generations, anxious workers with childhood on one side and second childhood on the other; students run between them, dressed up like real waiters, dropping sprouts, on time and a half; taps behind the bar fill an endless line of glasses with regular pints and with cocktails; the magician works the floor once more, old reliable when regular acts are booked elsewhere, on standard rate.
One father stands out from the blurred background. He watches carefully, like the little boys on either side of him, while their older brother does his best to spoil their fun by announcing each trick before it appears from the creaking fingers. A young man, but dressed in a way that looks dated even to Mr Jingle: bristly moustache too narrow to be fashionable, oily hair plastered over his scalp, the sort of checked shirt that doesn't really sell any more. He has the eyes of a hungry rook, devouring each movement, digesting each revealed card, staring not at the hands in front but rather at the jacket and hidden pockets behind. His brow is deeply furrowed above thick eyebrows, fingers tap his side plate.
Mr Jingle feels a line of sweat run against his collar, but he has been stared at before. Probably an amateur magician looking at technique, perhaps they'll exchange a word later, he could pass on a few tips. Then suddenly he stumbles over his moves. A tiny foam robin pops out from a gap between ring and middle finger, where no gap used to be, so he pulls it into the act. The experienced old pro, no need for panic. There is laughter from somewhere, but not from the two cubs who gaze up at him with unblinking eyes. Not from the audience he cares about.
Show's over and Mr Jingle retreats. The children gossip in high-pitched voices, there's tattered applause from the others. Made it through another one. He pours himself a cup of tea, settles in the chair, glances at the hardening mince pie, untouched from earlier. Time for a quick cuppa before clearing up.
But then what's this? The door from the restaurant crashes open and The Rook struts in, bristling feathers and clicking his feet on the wooden floorboards. Those hard eyes are fixed on Mr Jingle, head cocked forward. The magician really ought to defend his invaded privacy, but it's not easy to catch his breath and he doesn't want to start a struggle out of the chair, so he waits for the other to speak.
"What was all that about then? What's going on?"
"Can I help you?" It comes out with a rasp, he's missing the tea which is now out of reach. "Did you enjoy the show?"
"It was all the standard stuff, knackered old tricks from last century. Child's play. I saw all the hidden balls you know, all the cards. I know what to look for."
"I see." Mr Jingle considers his reputation, thinks about calling upon age and experience to defend him against accusations of having mislaid his youth, but he is tired. He's not sure how to respond, hasn't settled on what is really at stake here. "I'm not as young as I was, it's not surprising that a few cracks are showing. I think the children enjoyed it, though."
The Rook still stares. He ruffles up again, taps ominously on the table.
"I want to know what you're up to. I saw the foam balls through your fingers and they weren't the same ones you produced in the pot. You still had that silk snowflake hidden in your sleeve after it had reappeared again. The card in your inside pocket was torn and dirty, but the one you gave my son was spotless. You never took another card out, I would have seen you. They weren't proper tricks. What's going on here? What are you trying to pull?"
The violence of the accusation is unexpected and Mr Jingle’s at a loss for words, old age and experience notwithstanding. He swallows, but not quickly enough to prevent some saliva seeping out between his lips. Wetness is gathering around his eyes, threatening to form into actual tears. The line of sweat around his shirt collar has returned. Who would have expected advanced years to be as moist as this? And still without his tea. He swallows again.
"Would you believe, it was magic?"
That produces a splutter of cough and outrage, but at least the direct approach seems to be enough to send The Rook away again. He waves a departing, furious fistful of feathers.
"Don't think you can pull a fast one on me. I see what you're up to. I'm watching you now!" And with that he bangs the door behind him. It slips back off the latch again, wobbles ajar. It wouldn't have done that back in the day.
Mr Jingle sits motionless in the armchair, still with his unhappy, defensive face on even though he's alone in the room again. That kind of thing is upsetting, no denying that. He's not able to shrug it off as carelessly as he once did. In fact, shrugging at all upsets his sciatica.
The cup of tea has gone cold, grey and unappetising, the milk separating out already. He sighs.
Once he has composed himself he stretches forward and waves crooked fingers over the tea in a distraught way. A small shower of tired, grey sparkles fall down over the cup, which warms up to a perfect temperature, just out of the pot, pink, sweet and lovely. He scoops it up with an arthritic hand and takes a deep draught. Perfect.
The magician sighs again and rests his eyes, gazing upon an out-of-focus middle distance. He's not sure how much longer he can keep this up.
(c) Pete Armstrong, 2021
Pete lives in central Sweden, spending the days in jeans, looking after children, writing, and playing a little Bach on the guitar. He has published a chapter of short stories and a book of irreverent hiking anecdotes. He enjoys walking through Swedish skog, trying not to bump into moose. Again.
Evening Standard Award nominee for A Man for All Seasons,Tony Bell has performed all over the world with award-winning all-male Shakespeare company, Propeller, playing Bottom, Feste, Autolycus and Tranio. TV includes Coronation Street, Holby City, Midsomer Murders, EastEnders & The Bill. He is also a radio and voiceover artist.
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