Fiction

As if by Magic (novel extract)

Prologue
Wednesday 4th June 1913

The moment her head touches the ground, history will be made. Of course, I don't know this yet and neither do the rest of the crowd, swelling impatiently under the midday sun. It is a fine Wednesday in June and I'm sitting on the front step of the house, fussing over a blouse. Miles away in Surrey, the King and Queen look out onto the course from the Royal Box. Perhaps the King is nervous, twitching impatiently at his gloves as he wonders where his colt will place. Perhaps the Queen sips lemonade indifferently or glances anxiously at her husband from under the brim of her hat.
While I thread my needle the leaders thunder around Tattenham Corner. Craganour and Aboyeur lead the way, champing and biting at each other. Day Comet, Great Sport and Louvois all follow: flashes of silken grey and brown bolting down the green under the cloudless sky. I pull the thread taut. The horses flash past and flick turf into the faces of the crowd. Do the people cheer with excitement? Are they taken back to some childhood memory by the pungent smell in the air? Mother calls to me from the kitchen and I reply, the work drooping in my lap. This could be when it happened. Maybe, when my mother's voice rang out across the court yard, the idea first took flight.
A woman stands on Tattenham Corner. The woman is Emily Davison: a perfectly ordinary looking person, as ordinary as myself, with dark hair and a white blouse. She does not know that in the next five minutes she will sustain fatal injuries for which she will be remembered in years to come. She doesn't know that people will write articles about her, hoping to unravel the mysterious enigma of her death.
The leaders are on the home straight now. A wrong stitch causes a drop of blood to blossom on the fabric. The King dabs at his brow. Emily looks around frantically, breathlessly, as she grips the white rail (or is she calm and collected? Does she steady herself with deep breaths?)
I sigh and squint. The sun is unbearable. It glares through the smoggy clouds that obscure the sky line of the city. There is tension in the air and a prickling down my neck that tells me a storm is brewing.
Dare she do it? Can she persuade her shaking legs to move? She feels leaden, sinking into the ground. Time has stopped and the thundering hooves in the distance are the sounds of the world turning as my hands work the fabric.
I suck my finger and scowl at the ivory blouse, which is turning grey in the sooty air. It's too hot to sew today and I feel irritable, provoked, wishing that the clouds would break. The finish line is in sight. People shield their eyes from the sun with hands and parasols. Emily takes a deep breath —  then she moves.
Nobody notices her, not at first. She totters out, stumbling over the divots that the horses have made and breathes unsteadily. At the last moment, she finds her feet. Already the horses are coming, quicker — so much quicker than she could have ever expected. She reaches out, not thinking it would have been like this, not realising quite how powerful they are until their muscular bulk is upon her and the air is knocked effortlessly from her lungs. Her body jerks, twists, jarred and strange like a mannequin with snapped strings. She hurtles across the ground. The camera is rolling; the horses whinny and buck. She falls. Her eyes roll, unfocused. The body makes impact, touches the ground and then skids to a halt. At last it is all over. Aboyeur wins the race. I tire of the heat and finally turn back into the house.

When I would look back at the article, years later, I'd always think that the photograph made her seem suspended in midair, levitating inches from the ground, as if by magic. Francis sometimes joked that he was the one doing it but I never cared for jokes about things like that.
She died four days later, Lord bless her. I didn't know that then. I reckon there was a lot I didn't know actually.
I was only 17, living in what would come to be known as the slums of Sheffield, a rundown back- to-back in Park Hill where four of us crammed into three tiny rooms. Whether I'm a true Yorkshire lass or not, I guess I'll never know. My real mother appeared from nowhere and was gone just as quickly. Even so I've always taken Sheffield to be home, regardless of my true origin. Although, with every passing day, it feels like I was born into a different world entirely. Lamplighters and corsets only exist in history books now; gone are the music halls and the stars that trod the boards. The horses no longer trot up Fargate and the farriers' fires have long gone cold.
It's a strange sensation to look into your past and feel as though you are viewing it through amber. Everything seems hazy, half preserved. Perhaps I've looked at one too many photographs over the years because sometimes the colour bleeds out of my memories and they become black and white too … but the year before the first war, my life was a riot of colour and smell.
It was the shine of Francis' hair under the stage lights, parted down the middle and as polished as Whitby jet. It was the white and red of grease paint sticks; the working men coming straight to the halls from the factories, glistening with ebony sweat. It was bolts of purple and jade satin, imported from across the ocean and the smell of pipe smoke, spices and spilled ale. It was the year that I had my first kiss and the year that I got my first proper job.
Yes, 1913 is a lifetime ago now. Before concrete buildings and women in trousers and even before I met Cornelius, I was just plain old Margaret Finnely; but even the plainest of people can do remarkable things. This is a story about family, friendship and how you should never judge a book by its cover. And most of all, it's a story about magic.

‘It was her! I know it was!’
‘Why would I bother with that? As if I haven't got enough to do without making extra work for myself!’
Oh bugger. There wasn't much point in trying to defend myself. I'd been sussed out already.
‘Girls, just calm down please!’
The problem is, whenever I've done something wrong, I have the overwhelming urge to laugh. Like when somebody tells you something sad. You know you should be upset that their granny has finally popped her clogs or that their dog has died but instead of making you sad it fills you up with the desire to laugh, bubbling all the way up your throat until you have to pretend that you just need to yawn or sneeze. I suppose it sounds cruel but maybe it's just because I never had a granny or a dog or anything like that, so I don't care so much. I shove my tongue into my bottom lip and ignore the burn of mother's eyes on my cheek.
‘You're a lying little trollop Margaret Finnely and everybody knows it!’ Cecily snarls.
She is glaring down at me, looking like she is just about ready to pounce. I brace the step with my hands. It wouldn't be the first time I've come a cropper when trying to get one over on Cecily. We've grown up together, her house being just along from ours, so everyone supposes we should be good chums but I can't stand the bitch. (That's a word Francis taught me. I've heard it in quite a few of the acts at the hall too but I don't dare say it aloud, not if I don't want my block knocking off anyway.)
‘Eh! We'll have less of that if you don't mind!’ Mother steps in at last, drawing herself up to her full height. Cecily backs away, steaming. I've had a few shiners from Cecily before and I'd be glad not to have another one if I can help it.
‘Whether Maggie did it or not, I'm not having that sort of language around here!’ She turns to face me now, her jowls trembling in spectacular fashion. ‘And you!’
She's quite a good egg sometimes, mother is. Not that she's my real mother. Even if they didn't know already, the neighbours wouldn't have to be bright sparks to know that the stork left me under the wrong mulberry bush. She isn't even obliged to stick up for me but she gives me a helping hand whenever she can. I don't reckon it's even out of kindness. I just think she feels bad for how small and sickly looking I turned out, that's all.
‘You fix this!’ The beads of sweat on her upper lip glint in the sun as she throws the ruined petticoat at me. It whips my face before landing in my lap. Cecily starts to laugh cattily but one glance from mother's dark eyes and she quickly pipes down. Mother sniffs and pushes past me into the kitchen.
Truth be told, Cecily scares me something rotten. She's left me with more than my fair share of bruises over the years, which is easy enough to do considering she's twice the size of me. Once she is satisfied that mother is out of ear shot, she gets up close to me again and folds her arms over her vast bust. She smells of face powder and bacon fat.
‘Not so smug now, are you?’ Her smile is aggravatingly catty too, which is bizarre really because she looks much more like a piglet.
‘Now then, what was it you've been calling me? Oh yes, that's it — Jam Roly-Poly. Well, I'd much rather be a Jam Roly-Poly than a skinny, unwanted little bastard like you!’
A door slamming somewhere on the street makes us both start but it's just Mr Jones, running for the privy again. We watch as he hobbles down the lane, clutching at his stomach as he goes. Lasses scrapping isn't an uncommon sight down this way.
‘Nothing to say back to that? What a surprise. I don't know why they put up with a juggins like you. I'd be carting you off to the nut house if I had half a chance.’
A nasty sneer flits over her features and then she turns on her heel, swaying away like she's Lady bleeding Godiva. I flick my thumb up at her but only a little bit, just in case.
Fucking Cecily! (Another one I've picked up from the halls — a real London swear that one is!)
She likes nothing better than to get me riled up with a few choice words. At least they don't smart so much anymore. I've heard it all before. There isn't much point in pretending that I'm not a skinny little bastard, because I am. Francis tells me not to say it about myself but I don't care either way.
The weather is horrible again today, sticky and thick, just like yesterday. It's even worse down here because we're so close to the works that all the smog keeps the heat in like a big black blanket. The privy bloody reeks as well — I can hear Mr Jones groaning now. Everybody is waiting for the rain; I'd happily put up with the leaking roof in the attic if it just meant I could cool down.
In the distance, the Cathedral bells are chiming. I listen closely and count. Eleven o'clock. That means Francis will be home soon.
There's nothing much wrong with the rag in my hand, just a split seam. It won't take more than a minute to fix. Besides, I wouldn't have done it at all if she hadn't have pinched me so hard. The bruise is still there on my arm, inky blue, looking queer among my red freckles. I won't show Francis though, he always gets so upset.
The heat of the kitchen is sweltering. Mother has the fire ready to make dinner. What with being so tall, she always looks out of place stood by the range. She has to stoop almost double just to get the coals going. At six-foot-four, she's intimidating for a bird and has more of a moustache than most blokes. Mother is dark all over. Dark thick eyebrows and large brown eyes, with skin like an Italian. Children always ask her if she is but she says it's just because she's been in the city for too long and the smog has got inside her, staining her from the inside out.
There is a certain way she holds herself when she is feeling mardy. She tenses her back and shoulders, bending her head close to her chest, pretending that she can't see us at all. She never keeps it up for long though. The muscles on her back ripple and quiver until finally she erupts with a question or another telling off.
I take my work basket down from the mantle and pull the stool away from the range. Normally that's where I'd take up my perch, stitching away by the light of the range. But it's too hot for that today and the soot will only make the petticoat even grottier. Besides, I don't fancy getting all that close to mother, not while she's holding the paring knife.
Above my head, the floor boards creak. We share the house with Mrs Biggins who has the room above the kitchen, leaving us three to share the attic. Luckily for Francis, he is usually on the road and doesn't have to put up with mother's snoring and murmurings and the screams of Anne Marie next door when Mr Peterson comes in leery from the pub.
Mrs Biggins used to have the house next door when she had children. Six children in total and she outlived them all, to her greatest regret. Mr Biggins is long gone too, finished off when a cart overturned and crushed him. After all that, it seemed a bit unkind to leave her there by herself, without a penny to her name. I know mother would never have forgiven herself if she ended up in Fir Vale.
Despite her coughing and complaining, I don't mind having her here. Mrs Biggins is the only person who ever saw my real mother in the flesh; it sounds to me as though she was the only one who ever showed her a bit of kindness too. It makes giving her the tar medicine that bit more bearable, knowing that maybe the same wrinkled lips that purse at the spoon once kissed my real mother's cheek.
My mother now, or Mrs Finnely if I was being proper, is still riled. She grabs the big pan off the hook and slams it onto the range with a deafening clang.
‘You're being awful quiet Mam.’
She snorts at that and grabs hold of a turnip.
‘I should think I am — wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of one of your comments, would I? Hate to think what you would call me … Spotted Dick, probably.’
She doesn't laugh but I have to chew my lip to stop myself from spluttering. A few embers fall out of the fire and blow across the hearth.
‘What I don't understand,’ she says, turning to the table, ‘is why you insist on winding her up! You've a real cheek, you know that?’
‘She's the one that starts it!’ But even I can hear how petulant I sound and my cheeks burn hard. When will the storm come and take away this bloody heat?
‘You ought to know better by now. You're 17, a grown woman.’
‘I don't look like a grown woman.’ The needle freezes in my hand. I didn't mean to say it out loud but it came out nevertheless. Upstairs, the boards creak again and Mrs Biggins hacks out a cough.
‘Is that what you're upset about? Is that what all this name calling and pinching is about? Because you don't look like Cecily yet?’
I keep staring down at the fabric. My cheeks feel hotter than ever now.
‘Because if that's it, you're daft! I never saw any two women who looked the same…’ She blinks and adds, ‘Well, not unless they was twins, of course.’
Mother wasn't one to speak about beauty and looks. She didn't bother with rouge and she had never even sniffed a jar of cold cream. I told her once that I needed some cornmeal to brush through my hair, and she laughed like I'd said I wanted to run away and join the circus.
At the time, I took it as it was. I never doubted her for moment. She always seemed so strong to me, the kind of strong where it doesn't matter what you look like because nothing can ever break you. I didn't think she even heard the little comments when we were out and about, the whispers and snide remarks, but that was just testimony to my young naivety I suppose.
She is about to go on, her lined face taught with worry when suddenly Francis appears from the lane, battered and sleepy. He dumps his suitcase and flashes us a tired but winning smile.
‘Francis!’
I leap up at once, grateful for the opportunity to bury my face in the collar of his jacket. He smells wonderful and familiar, pipe smoke and grease paint.
‘Ayup, Magpie!’ Francis is the only one who stills calls me that. It's an old childhood nickname. I grin into his neck and feel the press of his sweaty skin against my cheek. He feels soft and crumpled like a sleep worn blanket in the early hours of the morning. After he kisses my cheek he unceremoniously hands mother a bouquet of travel-wilted carnations.
‘Hello mam, you putting a brew on?’ She's so much taller than him that he has to crane up to kiss her cheek. She takes the flowers and smells them with delight, though there can hardly be any perfume left in them at all.
‘Hello love — good trip was it? You've caught the sun I see. Pull up a chair for him, Maggie, that's a good girl.’
I pull his chair out from the table at once and he slumps into it, loosening his collar with two fingers. There is a band of burnt red skin about his neck but his face is the usual olive colour.
‘It was alright … nothing quite like home though is there?’
Mother smiles at him and takes the kettle out to go and fill it. Her eyes linger on me for a moment but she shakes her head and decides whatever she was going to say isn't worth saying. Or maybe she doesn't want to embarrass me in front of Francis.
I bring the stool up to his feet and pat my lap. It doesn't much matter whether my dress gets dirty; it's all old rags, anyway. Some folk would think it was weird, me rubbing his feet like that and being his sister. But sometimes, Francis is the only person in the whole world who understands me. We've never been apart. We might not be blood but we're as good as.
‘What do you know then Mag, anything good?’ My fingers are nimble and quick like always over his laces, even though he makes a right job of knotting them.
‘Not much,’ I shrug. ‘It's been quiet with you gone.’ I don't fancy telling him about the Cecily incident so instead I look up at him to see what he is thinking, easing the soft leather over his heel. He is staring at the range with a detached dreamy expression. That's how he gets after a long journey. It's the trains that do it I think. He gets so used to the world rolling by, fields and cattle and rivers and such, that it takes him a while to adjust back to things how they are. Here in the house everything is nice and still, just the embers scuttling across the hearth and the clock ticking.
‘Was it nice where you've just been? Was it the seaside again?’
‘Brighton? Course it's the seaside, you ninny!’ He grins. ‘I'm going to take you and our mam there next summer when I've got some more money saved up. The crowd was a riot. Birds were all good sports as well.’ I slap him on the calf but smile too. He's only joking.
I don't think Francis is much for ladies really. I never saw him so much as peck a girl up here — and that's saying something because I know for a fact that Annie Phillips will go with a lad for two farthings round the side of The Albert if you ask her. In the pub he spins a real web, telling everybody that the girls down South are real goers but the truth is I think he couldn't tell if he wanted to. Maybe I should let him know about Annie Phillips.
‘How long you staying for?’
‘Oh, a month or what have you. Not got any other plans yet, I'll do a few spots up here.’
Some turns would be worrying if they weren't booked solid until December but not our Francis. He's got a charmed life. The act never gets old, you see, not like other magicians who all get found out sooner or later. What Francis does is real magic. That's what keeps them coming back, toffs and regular folk alike, the mystery of it. Sometimes in life, things happen and you can't explain how. Sometimes people are given gifts that you can't explain either. The story of how Francis got his gift is all to do with family and it's a story that I have to tell you if you want to really understand what sort of a person Francis is.

My real mother arrived in Sheffield in November 1896, when I was only a few weeks old. It was bitterly cold and there was already deep snow on the ground, although it wouldn't have been pearly white by any means. Snow in the city rarely was back then. She was dreadfully sick and couldn't get a boarding house to take her in, on account of her suspicious circumstances and terrible cough. Without a farthing to her name, she wandered around the streets, until at last she found herself in Park Hill … she must have desperate, poor love. She was just about to lie down in the snow and give it all up when Mrs Biggins came out to empty the bed pan. At first she assumed it was just a bunch of rags but then she heard a baby cry and realised it was a person. One look at my mother's face sealed the deal for her. She swore that my mother was the spitting image of one of her own lost daughters, so she couldn't have possibly left her outside. I often wondered whether that bit was true. Mrs Biggins often thought young women resembled her daughters.
So she let her in the house and put her up in the attic room. Mr Biggins was still alive then and said that they could spare a bit of coal — a kind man, he was — so they even lit a fire in the grate for her. I was blue with cold, they said, and barely moving at all. While my mother slept in the attic, they brought me down to the kitchen and held me in front of the range, giving me sips of gin to get the blood flowing again. I like to think of it, even now. Old Mr Biggins, rubbing my skin in front of the fire with his large calloused hands until I bleated like a lamb and woke from the cold at last.
Whilst I was gasping air into my tiny lungs, my mother, unbeknownst to any of us, was taking her last breath. When they went back upstairs to check on her, she'd already died. They never managed to find out her name or where she'd come from. She didn't have a purse or a locket or anything. The only thing she left behind, other than myself, was a few spots of blood on the pillow by her mouth.
Mrs Biggins did the only thing she could think of and cut off a lock of her hair, intending to keep it for me if I grew up, so that I might at least have some small part of her.
This may not have a lot to do with Francis but I promise you, I'm getting there. While I was just starting out in life, Francis Finnely had already been around for three years. At that time, his father was still alive and the attic room was rented out by cousins. Even though the slums were just as dirty and poor as they are now, these were happy times for me. As soon as I was old enough, Francis and I spent nearly every day together. We played in the streets with the other children or went for long walks, hours from home, hoping to find ponds and lakes to collect tadpoles. An empty jar was hard to come by though, so we just had to look at them in our hands before we threw them back in.
He always made me laugh, even when we were hungry or cold, which was more often than not. Between Mr and Mrs Biggins and the Finnely's, I had a strange sort of extended family. If I had known my mother I'm sure I would have missed her, but I keep the locket of hair as a tribute to Mrs Biggins and her kindness more than anything else.
When Francis was seven and I was four, things changed suddenly. Mr Finnely did not come home from work one day. He was killed in an accident at the steel foundry. For a while, Francis was very quiet. He didn't come out to play much anymore. He spent a lot of time in his room doing … well, I don't know what. Although I missed him, I was too young to understand and I still played out with the blissful ignorance that only children can have.
Then, about three months after that, Francis got his powers.

Hannah White