television star. That’s where the money is these days, believe me. But magic would never work on television.People need to watch magicians up close. No, you’re finished, my friend.’ He lapsed in silence.
‘Television will never take off in Britain,’ said Edgar. ‘I can’t imagine people gathered round one of those boxes watching fuzzy little shapes. It’s not like the wireless.’
Tony’s burst of eloquence seemed to have exhausted him. He slumped in his chair, ash from his cigar dropping on the floor. Max gestured for the bill.
‘Let’s get the great television star home,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a hard day’s magic ahead of me tomorrow.’
Edgar got out his wallet, but Max waved him away. ‘I may be finished,’ he said dryly. ‘But I can still pay the bill.’
Chapter 8
The view from the cemetery was spectacular: gently rolling fields, a perfectly positioned windmill, the houses making a soft smudge in the valley. And the sea, the picture-postcard sea, encircling them, making the outskirts of Brighton feel like Amalfi or some Caribbean island. Max was pleased that Ethel would rest in such a lovely place, a location suited to her mysterious exoticism, so unexpected in a fishmonger’s daughter from Margate. It was less fitting though that her only mourners should be Edgar and Max. Max who hadn’t seen Ethel in twelve years and Edgar who never knew her at all.
It was Wednesday morning, halfway through the run at the Theatre Royal. In only a few days, thought Max, I can leave this place and never come back. I can leave England and never come back. He had forgotten that he identified with Brighton’s raffish glamour. Just at this moment, Brighton was the town where Ethel had died. And who would visit her grave, up here on the lonely hillside?
Max had paid for the headstone. ‘I haven’t the money to spare,’ said her husband, when Max had telephoned him. Nor the time, apparently. It was from the husband, though, that Max had obtained the bare biographical details inscribed on the stone.
Ethel Williams (née Townsend)
1920–50.
A Shining Star.
He had added the ‘née’ because he wanted to remember her before she had met Michael Williams and buried herself in the Isle of Wight. Why had she left Williams? Why had she ended up in Brighton, answering ‘Girl Wanted’ advertisements? If she was in trouble, why didn’t she come to him? She’d kept the cutting from Manchester, she must have known that he was still on the circuit. Maybe she thought that he had lost interest in her. That was what hurt most of all.
‘Maybe she was ashamed,’ said Edgar as they stood looking out over the sea. The entire service and burial had taken less than half an hour.
‘Ashamed of what?’
‘That her marriage failed, that she wasn’t a success. All sorts of things.’
‘She was only thirty,’ said Max. ‘What a waste.’
‘My age,’ said Edgar.
‘Thirty’s still young,’ said Max, lighting a cigarette. ‘Believe me, I’d kill to be thirty again.’
He wished he hadn’t put it quite like that, but Edgar didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He was breathing in the hill-top air like a man who spent his life indoors. For his part, Max could never see what was so great about the countryside. Give him a London club any day, a whisky in his hand and the promise of a show in the evening. And mornings were overrated too. Like all pros, he was a creature of the night.
They walked back towards Max’s car, looking absurdly opulent beside the vicar’s rusty Morris.
‘Where to?’ asked Max, getting behind the wheel.
‘The station,’ said Edgar. ‘We’re following up possible sightings of the man who left the boxes at the station.’
‘Do you think you’ll find anything?’
‘No.’ Edgar sighed. He was fiddling with the window handle. Max wished he would stop. ‘Too much time has gone past. They can all remember a tall, short, thin, fat man who might or might not have had a German
‘Television will never take off in Britain,’ said Edgar. ‘I can’t imagine people gathered round one of those boxes watching fuzzy little shapes. It’s not like the wireless.’
Tony’s burst of eloquence seemed to have exhausted him. He slumped in his chair, ash from his cigar dropping on the floor. Max gestured for the bill.
‘Let’s get the great television star home,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a hard day’s magic ahead of me tomorrow.’
Edgar got out his wallet, but Max waved him away. ‘I may be finished,’ he said dryly. ‘But I can still pay the bill.’
Chapter 8
The view from the cemetery was spectacular: gently rolling fields, a perfectly positioned windmill, the houses making a soft smudge in the valley. And the sea, the picture-postcard sea, encircling them, making the outskirts of Brighton feel like Amalfi or some Caribbean island. Max was pleased that Ethel would rest in such a lovely place, a location suited to her mysterious exoticism, so unexpected in a fishmonger’s daughter from Margate. It was less fitting though that her only mourners should be Edgar and Max. Max who hadn’t seen Ethel in twelve years and Edgar who never knew her at all.
It was Wednesday morning, halfway through the run at the Theatre Royal. In only a few days, thought Max, I can leave this place and never come back. I can leave England and never come back. He had forgotten that he identified with Brighton’s raffish glamour. Just at this moment, Brighton was the town where Ethel had died. And who would visit her grave, up here on the lonely hillside?
Max had paid for the headstone. ‘I haven’t the money to spare,’ said her husband, when Max had telephoned him. Nor the time, apparently. It was from the husband, though, that Max had obtained the bare biographical details inscribed on the stone.
Ethel Williams (née Townsend)
1920–50.
A Shining Star.
He had added the ‘née’ because he wanted to remember her before she had met Michael Williams and buried herself in the Isle of Wight. Why had she left Williams? Why had she ended up in Brighton, answering ‘Girl Wanted’ advertisements? If she was in trouble, why didn’t she come to him? She’d kept the cutting from Manchester, she must have known that he was still on the circuit. Maybe she thought that he had lost interest in her. That was what hurt most of all.
‘Maybe she was ashamed,’ said Edgar as they stood looking out over the sea. The entire service and burial had taken less than half an hour.
‘Ashamed of what?’
‘That her marriage failed, that she wasn’t a success. All sorts of things.’
‘She was only thirty,’ said Max. ‘What a waste.’
‘My age,’ said Edgar.
‘Thirty’s still young,’ said Max, lighting a cigarette. ‘Believe me, I’d kill to be thirty again.’
He wished he hadn’t put it quite like that, but Edgar didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He was breathing in the hill-top air like a man who spent his life indoors. For his part, Max could never see what was so great about the countryside. Give him a London club any day, a whisky in his hand and the promise of a show in the evening. And mornings were overrated too. Like all pros, he was a creature of the night.
They walked back towards Max’s car, looking absurdly opulent beside the vicar’s rusty Morris.
‘Where to?’ asked Max, getting behind the wheel.
‘The station,’ said Edgar. ‘We’re following up possible sightings of the man who left the boxes at the station.’
‘Do you think you’ll find anything?’
‘No.’ Edgar sighed. He was fiddling with the window handle. Max wished he would stop. ‘Too much time has gone past. They can all remember a tall, short, thin, fat man who might or might not have had a German
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