"I think I have found him" she says.
The one who keeps making magic happen.
I wait for the next words.
‘Your Great Grandfather was a ventriloquist’.
‘No, no,’ I answer, ‘he owned clock shops. You have the wrong man.’
I speak to my mother and she gasps, her inhaled air stuffing the phone with all kinds of revelation.
'I remember the dummies hung up in their house,’ she says.
'A ventriloquist changes his or her voice so that it appears that the voice is coming from elsewhere.'
On my father’s side of the family my great grandfather was an escapologist. I hear he used to be friends with Harry Houdini and jump of piers chained up, pumped with escape.
There’s a slightly off centre performer moving through us all. Those members of our family, out to find the magic of the world and make it sing.
Singing My Mother's Song