Legerdemain Chapter 5
Title: Legerdemain or The Enchanting of Charles East
Genre: Fantasy, Steampunk, Alternate History
Rating: PG- some swears. Ladies cover your sensitive ears.
Summary: In 1800s London-Aldwych, stage magic always comes second to the scientific and engineering advancements that are quickly becoming the new marvel of the age. But Charles East (The Enchanting East, Monday-Saturday at 1:30PM, half-price on Sundays at 4PM) stumbles upon other magic that is practiced by an altogether other sort of Londonite. And sometimes when you pull a rabbit out of a hat, there is no place to put him back.
Note: Just so you dudes know, I'm taking a few historical liberties here. For instance, the postcard wasn't distributed till the 1890s.
I'm posting this before rushing off to work, so hopefully it's reasonably free of typos. *sweatdrop* Anyway, short chapter. Sorry.
In honour of Gay Pride Week, LJ's adorable purple rhino, and Charles East, I want to feature the National Organisation of Gay Lesbian Scientists and Technical Professionals, a group for LGBT + advocates employed or interested in scientific or high technology fields such as engineering, medical, physical science, social science, etc. GO GEEK!
“How is your hand?”
Charles sighed and clutched at his teacup so he wouldn’t worry the bandage. “It’s fine. Itches a bit.”
Actually his whole body itched. It was too hot out to wear an undershirt, an overshirt, a waistcoat, and a jacket all at once. He felt a dribble of sweat run down his back and gritted his teeth. Wasn’t it just typical for Londonites to dress however they wished and expect the weather to accommodate them? He took out his handkerchief left-handedly and put it against his forehead.
Henry didn’t miss the gesture and looked down at his sandwiches. “Listen, I know I keep saying this, but I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, Henry,” Charles said amiably and leaned back to watch the people mill by the cafe. Markham’s on Strand was a nice little place, and he, Henry, and Margaret went there often for lunch. The rain on Tuesday had made it slightly cooler outside, so they were sitting in the outdoor area with their sandwiches and cups of tea. It was extremely popular for such a small cafe but that might have been because it was very central to the theatre districts and served the best fish and chips in southern England.
“It bloody well is!” Henry argued. “I bought the blades-”
“We all agreed to purchase them. They were quite cheap, after all.”
“Yes, and now I can see why,” Henry muttered. “If I ever get my fingers around that bastard Collins, I swear I’ll-”
“No swearing around the lady, please,” Charles said coolly, and Margaret paused long enough in attacking her steak and kidney pie to send a rude gesture his way. He grinned into his teacup.
At least that trick was the finisher, she pointed out, still eating the pie with her other hand.
“Yes, thank god for small mercies,” Henry agreed. “You did a good job hiding the blood, Charles. Even I barely saw it.”
“If by ‘good job’ you mean cowering behind the Disassembler while Margaret flirted with the crowd,” Charles said dryly.
“Yes, a regular actress, that one,” Henry agreed. “Ouch! That was a compliment! Stoppit!”
“I can never take you two anywhere,” Charles said exasperatedly although he did nothing to stop Margaret or attempt to take the newspaper away from her.
Henry had been somewhat educated through his grandfather, but he didn’t much care for reading, and Margaret couldn’t read at all. Charles bought a paper once in a while to keep up with the times or relieve boredom, but truthfully it was much more enjoyable to pore through it with Henry and Margaret and make fun of all the pictures. By god, he was regressing.
Charles took another sip of his tea and polished off his bowl of soup. A bird was chirruping somewhere in the next street, and he wondered what the hell it thought it was doing in central London at this time of year. At any time of year, actually.
“You think we should scrap the Disassembler?” Henry asked after he’d managed to thwart his own demise at the hands of ‘Wales to Implement Public Education.’ Then he rubbed his eyes. “God, we need a better name for the damn thing.”
“No,” Charles replied. “We should just take it apart-”
“Oh, why am I not surprised at that suggestion, you little bot-brain-”
“-And build it back up. It will save most of the materials costs. Come on, be sensible.”
Henry sighed. “I know, I know. It’s just...the damn thing’s tasted your blood now. Seems like bad luck- part of me just wants to burn it.”
“It’s not a shark, Henry,” Charles said patiently. “It’s not suddenly going to start thirsting for human flesh.”
Henry shrugged and somehow crammed two sandwich slices into his mouth at once. “Mm, Eichmann’s sweeper machine seems more likely to end up down that road. You know, if we taunt it enough.”
“By all means,” Charles said flatly. “Let’s taunt the potentially violent wood-chipping machine.”
I could dangle my wooden-heeled shoes in front of it and then run away, Margaret volunteered.
Henry pointed at her. “Excellent idea. Margaret darling, you do have the best ideas when it comes to strategic cruelty. Ouch! No! That was a compliment too!”
Charles went on calmly eating his lunch, not even flinching when the newspaper zinged by his ear; he was becoming far too inured to this.
He looked back at the street clock to check the time. He was supposed to meet his uncle for lunch here sometime after noon. If Henry and Margaret weren’t gone by then, he would have to do something drastic like spill the contents of the teapot on Henry’s trousers. He had no qualms about that- in fact, it was one of his foremost backup plans- Henry and Margaret were far too unhealthily curious about his family and would have buzzed around his uncle like flies given the chance. They didn’t seem to understand that his family was not his favourite topic of discussion.
“Oy, isn’t that Peter Fletchley or whatsit?” Henry said suddenly, and Charles stopped eating.
He looked across the little plaza and spotted Fletcher having lunch at a small table in the corner. He must have stared too long or too fiercely, because a moment later Fletcher looked up from his newspaper to pour himself more tea, saw him, and ducked his head politely. Charles ducked his head back.
“Aren’t you supposed to be hated rivals?” Henry asked him incredulously, watching the exchange.
“Yes,” Charles replied. Then he decided to be bold (or perhaps goad Henry) and smiled a bit. After a moment, Fletcher gave him a wry ghost of a smile back and returned to his paper. Charles turned nonchalantly away to gulp down the rest of his lukewarm tea and starting going through his wallet for change as Henry gaped at him.
“You’re friends with the Lunch Magician?” Henry shouted, attracting several stares from nearby tables.
“Mid-Day. We’re not really friends,” Charles said and realised it was true. He and Fletcher were friends like he and Briggs were friends. Warmly and respectfully at an appropriately large distance. “And keep your voice down.”
“I will do no such thing,” Henry said fiercely. “Consorting!” He seized his hair with both hands as if he would tear it out. “Oh Ruthie, we’ve been consorting with the enemy, and I didn’t even know it.”
“I haven’t been consorting,” Charles protested. “I just spoke to him once or twice.”
“Spoke! Twice!” Henry repeated faintly.
“Maybe for forty minutes, in all.”
“Forty minutes!” Henry mourned, and Charles decided he would stop before Henry’s heart burst. Henry jabbed a finger at him. “You’re not to speak to him again!”
“Really, keep your voice down,” Charles pleaded, then looked up and swallowed. “I mean, isn’t this such a nice cafe?”
Henry frowned. “What-”
A large bulky shadow fell across the table, and a heavy hand clapped down on Henry’s shoulder.
“Something troubling you fine gentlemen? And lady,” Tom the Hook said, nodding graciously to Margaret.
Charles had once asked Henry how Tom the Hook had got his nickname. Henry had told him to buy Tom a few brandies, insult the St. Thomas’ Hospital Football Club, and then he’d find out. Tom Darby had once been an unmatched boxer at the top of his league at Lillie Bridge. Charles forgot how many consecutive times Tom had purportedly won the Queensberry Amateur Championships, but the number got more fantastic (and ironically, probably closer to the truth) the more times he heard it told.
But then a lucky hit in the semi-finals had damaged Tom’s left eye, so he’d been forced to quit boxing for good, effectively ending everything he had ever lived for. Tom had been on his way to becoming a roaring alcoholic till he’d married Adeline Markham, who had been wise enough to understand exactly how to straighten him out. So she’d kept him occupied in her father’s shop, first running orders at the tables and then helping with the cooking and the grilling, which he had turned out to be astoundingly good at. So now Tom ran the West London shop on Strand Street and his wife ran the original shop by the train station.
Tom was now almost completely blind in his left eye, but he still had arms like a blacksmith from heaving tables and towers of pans during the day. Even his closest friends were still slightly afraid of him, to say nothing of the customers in his shop. There was a reason Markham’s on Strand was the most peaceful orderly café in all of London-Aldwych. Well, with the exception of Markham’s At Euston, because even late night drunks and London-Aldy scum knew better than to give Mrs. Addie Darby any trouble.
It looked like Henry had just realised all this in a very short amount of time. “No, Tom. We’re...ah, we’re doing well,” he said nervously.
“Good to hear,” Tom said ominously. “Hope you’re not going to cause trouble in my restaurant, scare off all my customers.”
“Of course not,” Henry replied quickly. “We were just er, discussing something...Loudly, I’ll admit. Er, sorry?”
“S’fine,” Tom said genially and clapped Henry heavily on the shoulder again. Henry winced. “I’d say you’re welcome to discuss it as much as you like outside my establishment. Ey,” He raised his large meaty hands. “No offense meant, you understand.”
“No!” Henry squeaked. “No offense taken. I understand. I understand completely. I always say-”
“Good, good,” Tom said. “Always nice seeing you, Jones. Come by again sometime, eh? Only more quiet-like.”
“Oh, more quiet definitely,” Henry agreed, nodding convulsively. “Silent as the forest in the-” Tom gave him a look, and Henry clamped his mouth shut.
“Good to see we have an understanding,” Tom continued. He turned his head toward Charles, who had been sitting in his blind spot. “Nice seeing you too, East. How’s the soup?”
“Delicious,” Charles replied politely. “New recipe?”
Tom looked pleased. “Glad you noticed. You want seconds?”
Charles gripped the bowl tightly and had the chilling feeling his life was hanging in the balance. “Yes, of course.”
“Corky. I’ve got another pot just heating up- be out in twenty minutes. Hang around, yeah?”
“Uh, yeah. I mean, yes. Send my regards to the missus.”
“Will do, East.” Tom nodded politely to Margaret and went back into the kitchen. Henry waited until he was out of an earshot and then expelled a breath, clutching his chest. “Why do they always like you?” he hissed.
Charles sliced a finger across his throat. “Shh! I’ll thank you not to turn our show into Margaret and Her Enchanting Unconscious Friend.”
I’ve always wanted to headline, Margaret put in wistfully, and Charles reached over for the last piece of her pie. She lunged across the table, but he’d already eaten it in one ruthless bite.
So in the end, Tom the Hook turned out to be Plan A and Charles found himself sitting alone at the table eating admittedly excellent soup and rereading the letter he’d received in the post a few days before.
My favourite nephew, it began, which was always a nice start. I will be passing through London-Aldwych on business on the third Monday of April and would be delighted to see you again during my short time there.
If you are available, I shall be having a late lunch at that wonderful cafe on Strand we ate at last time. No need to respond, as it will most likely reach here too late. I hope to see you then.
Fondest Regards, Uncle James.
Charles folded up the letter and put it in his front pocket, afraid that it would start coming apart at the folds if he read it too much.
James Magnus was his mother’s elder brother, a slightly absent-minded man in his middle years who had a penchant for strong coffee, German classic literature, and Merchant's Queen cigars. He was the one who had first put a screwdriver in Charles’s hand and let him take apart the clock in the living room. Later, he had also been the one to talk to his mother, who’d thrown a fit.
Magnus himself sat on the judicial bench in Greater Manchester and had no mechanical expertise whatsoever, but he was still irrevocably in love with machinery of any kind. Perhaps that was why he had been so supportive of Charles’s early attempts at fixing household devices and then his later studies into electricity and mechanics in school. His uncle had been removed from the family too early to see Charles leave for Titus Salt, but Charles had squeezed an address out of his cousin and mailed his acceptance letter. It had been weeks and weeks till Charles had given up on it, but then he’d received a letter back in an anonymous envelope from the same location. The letter had just said, That’s my boy.
His uncle hadn’t been there when his family had informed him that he had been taken off their records. Or when they had helped him pack up his things and set up him in a flat in central London, which Charles had vacated in two weeks because his family clearly knew nothing about living expenses in London-Aldwych.
But a week after he’d moved into the flat, which he’d mostly spent unpacking and moping around trying to find out what he’d done wrong, (perhaps they thought he wasn’t respectable enough or hadn’t done well enough in university. Or maybe they knew- oh god, maybe they knew) when there had been a knock on his door. When he opened it, his uncle had been standing there beaming and out of breath with his travelling coat over one arm. And Charles could only gape, because he hadn’t seen him in seven years, and he looked so different yet still exactly the same.
“Welcome to the other side,” his uncle had said, smiling at him and had hugged Charles hard enough to crush the breath from him. Somehow, life had become easier after that.
Charles started as someone flung an overcoat over Henry’s vacated chair. “Is this table occupied?”
Charles turned around. “Uncle James!”
He stood up, and his uncle clapped hands on his shoulders and shook him heartily. “Charlie! Look at you all grown up.”
Charles grinned. Magnus had been saying this since Charles was sixteen, never mind that he’d stopped growing in his early twenties and the only things he had to show for living in London-Aldwych for the past three years were slightly more prominent ribs and a healthy suspicion of cheap machine parts, which he supposed was growing up of a sort.
Charles gestured at him to sit down. “You made it here alright?”
His uncle took the seat and pushed his tiny wire spectacles firmly onto his nose. “Mm, took the new train from Chesterfield. Marvellous things, these trains.”
“It’s certainly made getting about much easier.” He looked up as Tom came over. “Uncle James, you remember-”
“Tom the Hook,” his uncle finished. “Why yes, I remember. I had the best fish and chips I’ve ever eaten here.”
Tom looked immensely proud. “Thank you, sir. Good of you to remember.”
“It’s why I came back,” his uncle said. “Two orders, please.”
“Certainly,” Tom said with relish and left to fetch them.
“Oh, but I’ve already eaten,” Charles protested.
His uncle held up a hand. “Eat, Charlie. Looks like you need it. You know Marjorie always worries you’re not eating enough.”
“Not by choice,” Charles muttered.
“Well I’ll be paying for the fish and chips, so it’s perfectly alright then, isn’t it?” His uncle took off his gloves and lined them up neatly. “So how are you? Still doing magic?”
“Yes,” Charles said and handed his uncle’s handkerchief back to him.
His uncle took it and laughed, shaking his head. “You can never sneak that by Marjorie.”
“That’s because Aunt Margie pays attention,” Charlie said, smiling.
“I suppose so,” his uncle agreed. “You always did love magic when you were a boy, but I confess it isn’t the first thing I thought you would be doing.”
“Yes,” Charles admitted. “I didn’t think so either.”
“Charlie.” His uncle leaned forward intently. “Just because it’s where they wanted you doesn’t mean you should stop just to spite them.”
“But I do a lot of it for my magician’s job,” Charles said defensively. “I’m quite happy with it.” Tom brought the plates of food, another pot of tea, and an extra teacup for Magnus. Charles refilled his own teacup and sipped it. “I would show you one of our most recent machines, but it’s in pieces right now.”
“I expected nothing less from you,” his uncle replied, smiling. He crunched into one of the battered fish and got crumbs in his beard, which he brushed off. He suddenly jerked his chin at Charles’s bandaged hand that was curled around the cup. “What did you do to your hand, dear boy?”
“Er...” Charles fingered the bandage. “There’s a reason the machine’s in pieces, actually.”
His uncle looked at him sharply. “How badly did you get hurt?”
“Not much. Got the skin. The blade broke during the show. Nicked my hand a bit.”
“A bit,” his uncle repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“Really, Uncle James, it’s fine. The only real injury is everyone making fun of the damn machine all the time.”
“Ah yes, how are your friends- Parker and the other one?” his uncle asked fondly. “Nice young men, I thought. Clever as anything.”
Charles frowned and shook his head. “I don’t see them anymore. Hall graduated before I did. Lost track of Prosser after he moved to Kent.”
“But you told me they came to visit you once over the holidays,” his uncle said in confusion. “You remember, that postcard you sent me with the-” He waves his hand indistinctly. “Picture.”
“Yes, the card with the Saltiere mill watercolour. That was five years ago. In college.”
“Devil take it, I knew that,” his uncle muttered. “Which ruffians are you hanging about with now?- I know you’ve told me before.”
“Er.” Charles darted a glance at Fletcher’s table, but he was long gone. “My manager Henry Jones and my stage assistant-”
“Marigold,” his uncle said triumphantly, snapping his fingers.
“Margaret,” Charles corrected, smiling fondly.
“Mm, quite right,” Magnus grumbled, taking a cigar from his pocket and lighting it.
It was quiet for a moment except for the bird still chirruping its daft head off in the next street, and Charles fidgeted with his cutlery. “Uncle James?”
“Mm?”
“Do you ever...miss leaving them?”
His uncle clicked off the striker and puffed out a mouthful of smoke thoughtfully. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But if I’d stayed inside, I would have never seen any of this.” He spread out his arms as if gathering up all the London streets and alleys. “And I think they made the mistake of weeding me out into a world I don’t want to come back from.”
“Yes,” Charles said, feeling for the first time that his irrational rebellious thoughts against his family made perfect sense. His uncle had always been good at that. “I think I agree with you.”
They clinked teacups and drank them in unison. It was a comforting gesture of solidarity.
Genre: Fantasy, Steampunk, Alternate History
Rating: PG- some swears. Ladies cover your sensitive ears.
Summary: In 1800s London-Aldwych, stage magic always comes second to the scientific and engineering advancements that are quickly becoming the new marvel of the age. But Charles East (The Enchanting East, Monday-Saturday at 1:30PM, half-price on Sundays at 4PM) stumbles upon other magic that is practiced by an altogether other sort of Londonite. And sometimes when you pull a rabbit out of a hat, there is no place to put him back.
Note: Just so you dudes know, I'm taking a few historical liberties here. For instance, the postcard wasn't distributed till the 1890s.
I'm posting this before rushing off to work, so hopefully it's reasonably free of typos. *sweatdrop* Anyway, short chapter. Sorry.
In honour of Gay Pride Week, LJ's adorable purple rhino, and Charles East, I want to feature the National Organisation of Gay Lesbian Scientists and Technical Professionals, a group for LGBT + advocates employed or interested in scientific or high technology fields such as engineering, medical, physical science, social science, etc. GO GEEK!
“How is your hand?”
Charles sighed and clutched at his teacup so he wouldn’t worry the bandage. “It’s fine. Itches a bit.”
Actually his whole body itched. It was too hot out to wear an undershirt, an overshirt, a waistcoat, and a jacket all at once. He felt a dribble of sweat run down his back and gritted his teeth. Wasn’t it just typical for Londonites to dress however they wished and expect the weather to accommodate them? He took out his handkerchief left-handedly and put it against his forehead.
Henry didn’t miss the gesture and looked down at his sandwiches. “Listen, I know I keep saying this, but I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, Henry,” Charles said amiably and leaned back to watch the people mill by the cafe. Markham’s on Strand was a nice little place, and he, Henry, and Margaret went there often for lunch. The rain on Tuesday had made it slightly cooler outside, so they were sitting in the outdoor area with their sandwiches and cups of tea. It was extremely popular for such a small cafe but that might have been because it was very central to the theatre districts and served the best fish and chips in southern England.
“It bloody well is!” Henry argued. “I bought the blades-”
“We all agreed to purchase them. They were quite cheap, after all.”
“Yes, and now I can see why,” Henry muttered. “If I ever get my fingers around that bastard Collins, I swear I’ll-”
“No swearing around the lady, please,” Charles said coolly, and Margaret paused long enough in attacking her steak and kidney pie to send a rude gesture his way. He grinned into his teacup.
At least that trick was the finisher, she pointed out, still eating the pie with her other hand.
“Yes, thank god for small mercies,” Henry agreed. “You did a good job hiding the blood, Charles. Even I barely saw it.”
“If by ‘good job’ you mean cowering behind the Disassembler while Margaret flirted with the crowd,” Charles said dryly.
“Yes, a regular actress, that one,” Henry agreed. “Ouch! That was a compliment! Stoppit!”
“I can never take you two anywhere,” Charles said exasperatedly although he did nothing to stop Margaret or attempt to take the newspaper away from her.
Henry had been somewhat educated through his grandfather, but he didn’t much care for reading, and Margaret couldn’t read at all. Charles bought a paper once in a while to keep up with the times or relieve boredom, but truthfully it was much more enjoyable to pore through it with Henry and Margaret and make fun of all the pictures. By god, he was regressing.
Charles took another sip of his tea and polished off his bowl of soup. A bird was chirruping somewhere in the next street, and he wondered what the hell it thought it was doing in central London at this time of year. At any time of year, actually.
“You think we should scrap the Disassembler?” Henry asked after he’d managed to thwart his own demise at the hands of ‘Wales to Implement Public Education.’ Then he rubbed his eyes. “God, we need a better name for the damn thing.”
“No,” Charles replied. “We should just take it apart-”
“Oh, why am I not surprised at that suggestion, you little bot-brain-”
“-And build it back up. It will save most of the materials costs. Come on, be sensible.”
Henry sighed. “I know, I know. It’s just...the damn thing’s tasted your blood now. Seems like bad luck- part of me just wants to burn it.”
“It’s not a shark, Henry,” Charles said patiently. “It’s not suddenly going to start thirsting for human flesh.”
Henry shrugged and somehow crammed two sandwich slices into his mouth at once. “Mm, Eichmann’s sweeper machine seems more likely to end up down that road. You know, if we taunt it enough.”
“By all means,” Charles said flatly. “Let’s taunt the potentially violent wood-chipping machine.”
I could dangle my wooden-heeled shoes in front of it and then run away, Margaret volunteered.
Henry pointed at her. “Excellent idea. Margaret darling, you do have the best ideas when it comes to strategic cruelty. Ouch! No! That was a compliment too!”
Charles went on calmly eating his lunch, not even flinching when the newspaper zinged by his ear; he was becoming far too inured to this.
He looked back at the street clock to check the time. He was supposed to meet his uncle for lunch here sometime after noon. If Henry and Margaret weren’t gone by then, he would have to do something drastic like spill the contents of the teapot on Henry’s trousers. He had no qualms about that- in fact, it was one of his foremost backup plans- Henry and Margaret were far too unhealthily curious about his family and would have buzzed around his uncle like flies given the chance. They didn’t seem to understand that his family was not his favourite topic of discussion.
“Oy, isn’t that Peter Fletchley or whatsit?” Henry said suddenly, and Charles stopped eating.
He looked across the little plaza and spotted Fletcher having lunch at a small table in the corner. He must have stared too long or too fiercely, because a moment later Fletcher looked up from his newspaper to pour himself more tea, saw him, and ducked his head politely. Charles ducked his head back.
“Aren’t you supposed to be hated rivals?” Henry asked him incredulously, watching the exchange.
“Yes,” Charles replied. Then he decided to be bold (or perhaps goad Henry) and smiled a bit. After a moment, Fletcher gave him a wry ghost of a smile back and returned to his paper. Charles turned nonchalantly away to gulp down the rest of his lukewarm tea and starting going through his wallet for change as Henry gaped at him.
“You’re friends with the Lunch Magician?” Henry shouted, attracting several stares from nearby tables.
“Mid-Day. We’re not really friends,” Charles said and realised it was true. He and Fletcher were friends like he and Briggs were friends. Warmly and respectfully at an appropriately large distance. “And keep your voice down.”
“I will do no such thing,” Henry said fiercely. “Consorting!” He seized his hair with both hands as if he would tear it out. “Oh Ruthie, we’ve been consorting with the enemy, and I didn’t even know it.”
“I haven’t been consorting,” Charles protested. “I just spoke to him once or twice.”
“Spoke! Twice!” Henry repeated faintly.
“Maybe for forty minutes, in all.”
“Forty minutes!” Henry mourned, and Charles decided he would stop before Henry’s heart burst. Henry jabbed a finger at him. “You’re not to speak to him again!”
“Really, keep your voice down,” Charles pleaded, then looked up and swallowed. “I mean, isn’t this such a nice cafe?”
Henry frowned. “What-”
A large bulky shadow fell across the table, and a heavy hand clapped down on Henry’s shoulder.
“Something troubling you fine gentlemen? And lady,” Tom the Hook said, nodding graciously to Margaret.
Charles had once asked Henry how Tom the Hook had got his nickname. Henry had told him to buy Tom a few brandies, insult the St. Thomas’ Hospital Football Club, and then he’d find out. Tom Darby had once been an unmatched boxer at the top of his league at Lillie Bridge. Charles forgot how many consecutive times Tom had purportedly won the Queensberry Amateur Championships, but the number got more fantastic (and ironically, probably closer to the truth) the more times he heard it told.
But then a lucky hit in the semi-finals had damaged Tom’s left eye, so he’d been forced to quit boxing for good, effectively ending everything he had ever lived for. Tom had been on his way to becoming a roaring alcoholic till he’d married Adeline Markham, who had been wise enough to understand exactly how to straighten him out. So she’d kept him occupied in her father’s shop, first running orders at the tables and then helping with the cooking and the grilling, which he had turned out to be astoundingly good at. So now Tom ran the West London shop on Strand Street and his wife ran the original shop by the train station.
Tom was now almost completely blind in his left eye, but he still had arms like a blacksmith from heaving tables and towers of pans during the day. Even his closest friends were still slightly afraid of him, to say nothing of the customers in his shop. There was a reason Markham’s on Strand was the most peaceful orderly café in all of London-Aldwych. Well, with the exception of Markham’s At Euston, because even late night drunks and London-Aldy scum knew better than to give Mrs. Addie Darby any trouble.
It looked like Henry had just realised all this in a very short amount of time. “No, Tom. We’re...ah, we’re doing well,” he said nervously.
“Good to hear,” Tom said ominously. “Hope you’re not going to cause trouble in my restaurant, scare off all my customers.”
“Of course not,” Henry replied quickly. “We were just er, discussing something...Loudly, I’ll admit. Er, sorry?”
“S’fine,” Tom said genially and clapped Henry heavily on the shoulder again. Henry winced. “I’d say you’re welcome to discuss it as much as you like outside my establishment. Ey,” He raised his large meaty hands. “No offense meant, you understand.”
“No!” Henry squeaked. “No offense taken. I understand. I understand completely. I always say-”
“Good, good,” Tom said. “Always nice seeing you, Jones. Come by again sometime, eh? Only more quiet-like.”
“Oh, more quiet definitely,” Henry agreed, nodding convulsively. “Silent as the forest in the-” Tom gave him a look, and Henry clamped his mouth shut.
“Good to see we have an understanding,” Tom continued. He turned his head toward Charles, who had been sitting in his blind spot. “Nice seeing you too, East. How’s the soup?”
“Delicious,” Charles replied politely. “New recipe?”
Tom looked pleased. “Glad you noticed. You want seconds?”
Charles gripped the bowl tightly and had the chilling feeling his life was hanging in the balance. “Yes, of course.”
“Corky. I’ve got another pot just heating up- be out in twenty minutes. Hang around, yeah?”
“Uh, yeah. I mean, yes. Send my regards to the missus.”
“Will do, East.” Tom nodded politely to Margaret and went back into the kitchen. Henry waited until he was out of an earshot and then expelled a breath, clutching his chest. “Why do they always like you?” he hissed.
Charles sliced a finger across his throat. “Shh! I’ll thank you not to turn our show into Margaret and Her Enchanting Unconscious Friend.”
I’ve always wanted to headline, Margaret put in wistfully, and Charles reached over for the last piece of her pie. She lunged across the table, but he’d already eaten it in one ruthless bite.
So in the end, Tom the Hook turned out to be Plan A and Charles found himself sitting alone at the table eating admittedly excellent soup and rereading the letter he’d received in the post a few days before.
My favourite nephew, it began, which was always a nice start. I will be passing through London-Aldwych on business on the third Monday of April and would be delighted to see you again during my short time there.
If you are available, I shall be having a late lunch at that wonderful cafe on Strand we ate at last time. No need to respond, as it will most likely reach here too late. I hope to see you then.
Fondest Regards, Uncle James.
Charles folded up the letter and put it in his front pocket, afraid that it would start coming apart at the folds if he read it too much.
James Magnus was his mother’s elder brother, a slightly absent-minded man in his middle years who had a penchant for strong coffee, German classic literature, and Merchant's Queen cigars. He was the one who had first put a screwdriver in Charles’s hand and let him take apart the clock in the living room. Later, he had also been the one to talk to his mother, who’d thrown a fit.
Magnus himself sat on the judicial bench in Greater Manchester and had no mechanical expertise whatsoever, but he was still irrevocably in love with machinery of any kind. Perhaps that was why he had been so supportive of Charles’s early attempts at fixing household devices and then his later studies into electricity and mechanics in school. His uncle had been removed from the family too early to see Charles leave for Titus Salt, but Charles had squeezed an address out of his cousin and mailed his acceptance letter. It had been weeks and weeks till Charles had given up on it, but then he’d received a letter back in an anonymous envelope from the same location. The letter had just said, That’s my boy.
His uncle hadn’t been there when his family had informed him that he had been taken off their records. Or when they had helped him pack up his things and set up him in a flat in central London, which Charles had vacated in two weeks because his family clearly knew nothing about living expenses in London-Aldwych.
But a week after he’d moved into the flat, which he’d mostly spent unpacking and moping around trying to find out what he’d done wrong, (perhaps they thought he wasn’t respectable enough or hadn’t done well enough in university. Or maybe they knew- oh god, maybe they knew) when there had been a knock on his door. When he opened it, his uncle had been standing there beaming and out of breath with his travelling coat over one arm. And Charles could only gape, because he hadn’t seen him in seven years, and he looked so different yet still exactly the same.
“Welcome to the other side,” his uncle had said, smiling at him and had hugged Charles hard enough to crush the breath from him. Somehow, life had become easier after that.
Charles started as someone flung an overcoat over Henry’s vacated chair. “Is this table occupied?”
Charles turned around. “Uncle James!”
He stood up, and his uncle clapped hands on his shoulders and shook him heartily. “Charlie! Look at you all grown up.”
Charles grinned. Magnus had been saying this since Charles was sixteen, never mind that he’d stopped growing in his early twenties and the only things he had to show for living in London-Aldwych for the past three years were slightly more prominent ribs and a healthy suspicion of cheap machine parts, which he supposed was growing up of a sort.
Charles gestured at him to sit down. “You made it here alright?”
His uncle took the seat and pushed his tiny wire spectacles firmly onto his nose. “Mm, took the new train from Chesterfield. Marvellous things, these trains.”
“It’s certainly made getting about much easier.” He looked up as Tom came over. “Uncle James, you remember-”
“Tom the Hook,” his uncle finished. “Why yes, I remember. I had the best fish and chips I’ve ever eaten here.”
Tom looked immensely proud. “Thank you, sir. Good of you to remember.”
“It’s why I came back,” his uncle said. “Two orders, please.”
“Certainly,” Tom said with relish and left to fetch them.
“Oh, but I’ve already eaten,” Charles protested.
His uncle held up a hand. “Eat, Charlie. Looks like you need it. You know Marjorie always worries you’re not eating enough.”
“Not by choice,” Charles muttered.
“Well I’ll be paying for the fish and chips, so it’s perfectly alright then, isn’t it?” His uncle took off his gloves and lined them up neatly. “So how are you? Still doing magic?”
“Yes,” Charles said and handed his uncle’s handkerchief back to him.
His uncle took it and laughed, shaking his head. “You can never sneak that by Marjorie.”
“That’s because Aunt Margie pays attention,” Charlie said, smiling.
“I suppose so,” his uncle agreed. “You always did love magic when you were a boy, but I confess it isn’t the first thing I thought you would be doing.”
“Yes,” Charles admitted. “I didn’t think so either.”
“Charlie.” His uncle leaned forward intently. “Just because it’s where they wanted you doesn’t mean you should stop just to spite them.”
“But I do a lot of it for my magician’s job,” Charles said defensively. “I’m quite happy with it.” Tom brought the plates of food, another pot of tea, and an extra teacup for Magnus. Charles refilled his own teacup and sipped it. “I would show you one of our most recent machines, but it’s in pieces right now.”
“I expected nothing less from you,” his uncle replied, smiling. He crunched into one of the battered fish and got crumbs in his beard, which he brushed off. He suddenly jerked his chin at Charles’s bandaged hand that was curled around the cup. “What did you do to your hand, dear boy?”
“Er...” Charles fingered the bandage. “There’s a reason the machine’s in pieces, actually.”
His uncle looked at him sharply. “How badly did you get hurt?”
“Not much. Got the skin. The blade broke during the show. Nicked my hand a bit.”
“A bit,” his uncle repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“Really, Uncle James, it’s fine. The only real injury is everyone making fun of the damn machine all the time.”
“Ah yes, how are your friends- Parker and the other one?” his uncle asked fondly. “Nice young men, I thought. Clever as anything.”
Charles frowned and shook his head. “I don’t see them anymore. Hall graduated before I did. Lost track of Prosser after he moved to Kent.”
“But you told me they came to visit you once over the holidays,” his uncle said in confusion. “You remember, that postcard you sent me with the-” He waves his hand indistinctly. “Picture.”
“Yes, the card with the Saltiere mill watercolour. That was five years ago. In college.”
“Devil take it, I knew that,” his uncle muttered. “Which ruffians are you hanging about with now?- I know you’ve told me before.”
“Er.” Charles darted a glance at Fletcher’s table, but he was long gone. “My manager Henry Jones and my stage assistant-”
“Marigold,” his uncle said triumphantly, snapping his fingers.
“Margaret,” Charles corrected, smiling fondly.
“Mm, quite right,” Magnus grumbled, taking a cigar from his pocket and lighting it.
It was quiet for a moment except for the bird still chirruping its daft head off in the next street, and Charles fidgeted with his cutlery. “Uncle James?”
“Mm?”
“Do you ever...miss leaving them?”
His uncle clicked off the striker and puffed out a mouthful of smoke thoughtfully. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But if I’d stayed inside, I would have never seen any of this.” He spread out his arms as if gathering up all the London streets and alleys. “And I think they made the mistake of weeding me out into a world I don’t want to come back from.”
“Yes,” Charles said, feeling for the first time that his irrational rebellious thoughts against his family made perfect sense. His uncle had always been good at that. “I think I agree with you.”
They clinked teacups and drank them in unison. It was a comforting gesture of solidarity.