30

‘Well, I must say, I didn’t expect to see so many of you!’ he began.

Zack, Jonny, Sophie and Alex looked at one another as they surveyed the packed auditorium.

‘Oh wow!’ said Sophie in a low voice. ‘Perhaps Steve was right. Perhaps there are members who’d like to see young magicians let in.’

‘I don’t know why my wife insists on getting this young lot in,’ President Pickle continued. ‘Most of them can’t even tie their booties!’ The audience chuckled on cue, as if this was a routine they’d seen before.

Zack shook his head at the clear disgust in the man’s voice.

‘They’ll probably have gone off magic by the time they come of age.’ More laughter (and a couple of wheezy coughs from the older members). ‘You know what kids are like nowadays – always going through phases. Not like in our day.’ Groans of approval from the wheezers. ‘No, in our day we took magic seriously: we read, we studied, we understood, we were patient. We didn’t have it nearly so easy. But see what we became!’ Cheers from the aged crowd.

Sophie studied Cynthia, who was standing beside her husband. How she managed to stop herself from clopping her husband around the head every time he spoke, Sophie didn’t know.

Jonny was frowning. ‘He knows we can all hear him from back here, right?’

Sophie shrugged. This was hardly the encouraging pre-performance pep talk they had expected.

‘Still,’ said President Pickle, sounding more solemn now, ‘it would be wrong to deny these youngsters the opportunity of performing in front of Council, even if only to separate the wheat from the chaff.’ More groaning nods and nodding groans. ‘And my wife will have my guts for giblets if she doesn’t get her own way on this!’ The audience roared with laughter, always pleased to hear any rousing speech end with a slightly inappropriate remark.

Zack looked at his watch, anxious for the president to get on. Didn’t he know they were on a tight schedule? Or was that the whole point of this tiresome, protracted address.

‘Anyway,’ bonged President Pickle eventually. ‘Before any of that, on to far more important matters: let us all please be upstanding and remember the many members who have passed away, which, this year –’ the four listened as President Pickle pulled out a piece of paper to double-check the figure – ‘is more than the number of people who’ve died in train crashes. Ever.’

Cynthia looked towards her youngsters at the back of the stalls, gesturing for them all to lower their heads as the members in the auditorium got to their feet, their chairs squeaking and crackling, some seats retracting back if their aged hinges were still strong enough.

Zack, Jonny, Alex and Sophie listened as crackly music filled the auditorium: luxurious, elegant and moving, while a slideshow of black-and-white photos projected on to the back wall of the theatre. Melvyn Shalks, Arthur Russell, Cliff Lount, Ron Spencer, Ray Shirley, Ali Bongo, Paul Daniels, Tony Clarkson …

The list of names seemed endless as the music ebbed and flowed, many members moved to tears judging by the soft sound of sobbing Alex could just about make out, punctured occasionally by the odd little cheer or cackle as a particular photo reminded them of a forgotten good time. A time when the people projected on to the back wall of the theatre – their friends – were still alive and playing the fool, making goldfish appear inside duck eggs, acting up – seemingly invincible, until age finally caught up, their bodies slowly decaying like old apparatus that once functioned so perfectly but now couldn’t quite do what it was intended to do, the moving parts beginning to rust, the varnish starting to chip and fade.

Zack noticed a tear swelling in Cynthia’s eye. And in that moment he was adamant. Adamant that they would do everything they could do to keep this magical society alive. Whatever it took. And despite what those who thought they knew better said. There was just so much life ingrained in these walls, so much to celebrate and continue, it was simply too cowardly to give in. Surely it couldn’t be what all those ‘Broken Wands’ projected on to the wall would have wanted. No, they needed to be remembered, in the way that one day hopefully Zack, Sophie, Jonny and Alex would be remembered by progressively younger generations who would stand where they now stood looking on (albeit in hopefully more accepting and accommodating circumstances!). Yes, that’s what it was all about. And if it meant overthrowing the presiding president – then so be it!

Eventually the music began to fade, slowly replaced with respectful, mournful silence as President Pickle and Cynthia took their seats at the front.

Tap, rumble, thump, squeak … The sound of Steve being reunited with the microphone at the side of the stage. ‘Ladies and … sorry … gentlemen, please welcome your warm-up for this evening … Deanna!’