Frozen Billy Read Free

frown at him for lolling his muddy boots on my polished fender, and he would make a face. ‘Little Miss Disapproval,’ he’d chide me. On days like these, he’d scowl at the burning coals till it was time to hurry back to the music hall for the evening show.
    Will and I didn’t fret. We knew all about Uncle Len’s moods from whispers we had overheard. Father always said they happened when his act didn’t go well. Uncle Len feared he’d lose his place at the Alhambra Music Hall and end up where he’d begun, singing and telling old jokes in clubs while the working men pelted him with nut shells; or strumming his banjo at the end of the pier, rolling calf eyes at ladies he hoped might take pity and toss a few coins into his frayed cap.
    And that would have been such a waste. Because, from the day he’d found Frozen Billy hanging on the back of that shop door and badgered Father into lending him the money to buy it, Uncle Len had worked so hard. He’d made good his promise to learn the art of ‘throwing his voice’ from scratch. He’d practised every day, and even risked the odd beating by sneaking into theatres without the price of a ticket, to watch other illusionists and pick up tips.
    And soon he was a brilliant ventriloquist. He might lie abed for hours. (‘Don’t give me that fish-eyed look, Clarrie. You know I think the streets aren’t properly aired till noon.’) But the moment he lifted Frozen Billy from the box, his face took on a glow. He seemed to grow taller, and his eyes darted and shone. He was so skilled that he could keep the dangling wooden dummy blinking and shrugging and tipping his head to one side without anyone noticing his busy, busy fingers.
    Even the theatre manager admitted it. One day, when we ran across her in the street, Madame Terrazini said, ‘You have the makings of a great act there, Len.’
    Uncle Len preened himself. And I knew why, because I’ve heard him saying it to Father often enough: ‘Once Madame Terrazini takes you under her wing, you’re set fair for fortune.’
    â€˜So I’ll be moving up the bill, will I?’ Uncle Len dared to ask.
    Madame Terrazini didn’t answer. She just kept smiling, and made to move on down the street.
    â€˜Soon?’ Uncle Len persisted. ‘A whole twenty minutes in the top half of the show?’
    Madame Terrazini shook her head. ‘I said “the makings” of a great act, Len. You have a thing or two to straighten yet.’

    Again, she made to move on.
    Stubbornly, Uncle Len grasped me tighter, to keep us all in her path. ‘What things?’
    Madame Terrazini met my eye. I knew she was uneasy about criticizing Uncle Len in front of Will and me. But, then again, I sensed she wasn’t prepared to be bullied out of saying what she truly thought, just because he was holding us hostages to listen.
    â€˜Well,’ she admitted finally, ‘there is your terrible affection for the beer, Len. And though it’s true I never see your lips move, night after night that dismal old patter lets your act fall flat.’
    We knew about the fondness for the drink. We had heard Mother and Father speak sharply to him often enough. (He’d only laugh. ‘Beer is the best broom for troubles,’ he would say.)
    But later, at home that night, Will dared to ask him, ‘Uncle Len, what’s “patter”?’
    â€˜The chat,’ said Uncle Len. ‘You know. What I say to the dummy, and what the dummy says back.’
    Will was puzzled. ‘What’s wrong with your patter?’
    Uncle Len scowled. ‘Madame Terrazini thinks it’s not witty enough. She says that it’s dull and the audience gets restless.’
    â€˜Can’t you go round the other music halls?’ Will asked. ‘Find the ventriloquist with the smartest patter, then copy it exactly.’
    Uncle Len roared with laughter. ‘Steal