haircut. 'I’m doing a charity gig…'
Bruce raised his eyebrows.
'Not like you, William.'
I ignored the gibe.
'See if I give you the details will you send folk my way? It’s for a good cause.'
'Course I will.' He took a sip of his own tea, frowned and added another teaspoonful of sugar. 'Now, tell me what you’re really after.' The bell pinged and Bruce cocked his head like a bright-eyed parrot that’s just heard the lid of the cracker jar being unscrewed. He waited three beats then said, 'Excuse me a sec…'
I peeked through the hole in the curtain as he strolled down the counter to serve two ten-year-olds, treating them like maharajas. When he returned ten minutes later he was grinning.
'Fake dog poo.'
'Still your fastest seller?'
'From eight to eighty.' He laughed. 'It’s a classic gag.'
'Aye, a fucking hoot.'
Bruce raised his eyebrows.
'You’ll have to ditch that language if you’re going into kiddie conjuring.'
'Sorry, I’ll go and wash my mouth out with some of your special soap.'
Bruce laughed.
'Not as popular as it used to be, but still funny.'
'Not everything has the longevity of plaster of Paris poo.'
'No,' Bruce shook his head sadly. 'It’s a pity that.'
We sat drinking sweet tea and eating ginger biscuits, while Bruce filled me in on what had been happening in the Scottish magic scene. Genie McSweenie’s rabbit had been kidnapped at a rugby club social and held to ransom — it wasn’t funny, William, the poor beast was traumatised; Stevie Star had crashed his van on the way back from Perth; Peter Presto had moved to America to take a shot at the big time; and Manfred the Great had been exposed as a kiddie fiddler.
'I always thought there was something not right about him.'
Bruce dunked his gingernut into his tea and nodded then sat up straight. The tea-soaked end of the biscuit lost out to gravity and plopped into his mug.
'That reminds me …’ he shook his head. '… See, that’s what happens when you get to my age, bloody senility. There was a chap phoned a few weeks ago looking for you.'
'Yes?'
'English bloke, said he’d seen you somewhere and mislaid your number. I told him I didn’t have a contact for you, but he sounded keen.'
Bruce looked worried; concerned I might have missed a gig or even my big break.
'Pushy even?'
'A wee bit, typical cocky cockney, you know the kind. I met a lot of them in the forces.
Nice enough fellas once you get to know them but they think anything north of London’s outer space.'
'Did he leave a number?'
Bruce’s face brightened.
'He did indeed.' His mouth dropped again and he looked around the tiny backroom piled high with mysterious parcels. 'But where did I put it?'
I selected what I was going to need for Johnny’s show while Bruce rummaged through the drawers and boxes that constituted his filing system, cooing over odds and ends he thought he’d lost, until eventually he found the scrap of paper he’d scribbled my name onto and a mobile number below.
'Bingo! I knew I had it somewhere.' Bruce looked at the props I’d assembled. 'You want me to wrap that lot up for you?'
'If you want.'
He shook his head, lifted a fluffy toy rabbit from the top of my pile and looked at me from between its long ears.
'Changed days, William, changed days.' Bruce totted up my purchases and started to putting them into bags. He put on his best shopkeeper manner. 'Now, will Sir be requiring anything else?'
I told him and he shook his head.
'You always were a bloody pain in the arse, William, even when you were a kid.'
'A minute ago I was the best Saturday laddie you ever employed.' I grinned at him.
'Come on Bruce, it’s in a good cause, wee Down’s Syndrome kids. I’ll get you a mention in the programme. The place’ll be full of weans. Who knows how much fake dog shite you’ll sell on the back of this.'
'The word is poo, William, we don’t say shite in this shop.' His expression softened.
