School was over. Mike and I pedalled along the main street.
Up ahead, past the Post Office, we noticed a crowd, a gathering of blue uniforms with maroon trim. We nodded in solidarity. We’d investigate–almost our duty as Seniors with 17th birthdays next month.
Our mothers would have afternoon tea ready for us, tick. A list of jobs, and instructions to do homework, cross. No hurry to get home then. A diversion would be welcome.
‘What’s goin’ on, you lot? Should be home doin’ your homework.’ Mike announced his presence.
Apart from some murmuring, attention didn’t waver from that sign outside Pollard’s Store.
‘Move back and let us see. Prefects’ rights!’ I chimed in.
We forced our way through to the sign, ignoring any dissent.
What a whopper. Best poster I’d yet seen in our backwater.
The blurb captured my attention.
BE BAFFLED.
BE BEWILDERED.
BE BEDAZZLED.
BELLA AND BEAU, Hypnotist Show
Join the crowd etc, etc…
Close-ups of Bella and Beau, dominated the poster. Their costumes, their flamboyance, their pizazz, made it a no-contest. I’d go to the show. My mates would too.
We’d smooth-talk our mothers, who’d smooth-talk our fathers. That was a given for me. Imaginary violins would accompany my spiel. A teenager starved of social life: pictures at the Civic once a week, an occasional school dance, and visiting relations, (considered an outing by my family).
My strategy worked. During days that dragged, I allowed my anticipation free-reign. This promised to be a Thursday night of highlights. I wore, what proved to be ill-fated, a white dress shirt and a pair of dark slacks. (A few years prior to blue jeans passing the dress code.)
Dad let me use some of his Californian Poppy on my curly locks. Mum insisted on no cap. I conceded defeat before that battle began.
Pocket money had covered the one-florin admission price. Mike and I arrived early and found good seats.
The Shire Hall was a mass of bodies and voices.
Excitement mounted as 7.30 pm approached. A pause. The crowd settled. Silence spread. Music began. Crooning from Frank Sinatra. Most oldies knew the words. Some tapped their feet. Elvis would have been the choice of the young in our midst.
The curtain parted. In freakish unison a roar reached a crescendo.
And the stars sashayed out.
The poster duo was a visual feast. My mates and I couldn’t take our eyes off Bella. What a doll. I felt instant adoration.
Beau, the alpha male, in form-fitting black from head to toe and blood red tie, introduced himself first. Then the doll spoke. Her tinkly tone was a perfect match for her silky red dress, cascading blonde hair, and glittering stilettos.
When Beau invited volunteers to the stage, Bella’s comment was drowned out. In lieu, she fluttered her eye-lashes and beamed at the stampeding mob. I stayed in my seat, keen to be entertained by Mike’s antics. He’d sprinted forward, determined to stand near Bella.
But there was a ‘glitch’, or whatever word served that purpose in the 1960s. A problem. Few of the keen applicants proved suitable. Beau and Bella exerted their considerable personal charms to entice others to fill the ranks. No-one warned me. I clamped my hands together, fingers interlaced, as Beau’s dulcet tones prompted prospective (gullible) guinea pigs.
I can recall what ensued. Bella played her role, ‘Thanks for your kind cooperation, ladies and gentlemen,’ she simpered. ‘You many unclench your hands.’ (Pause) “Difficult for you? Please join Beau on stage. He’s here to assist.’
I strived with all my teenage strength. My fingers wouldn’t budge. Then realization hit. I’d been conned. I wasn’t the only sucker dragging my feet towards the stage steps.
What happened next? Never will I know more than exaggerations and distortions of the truth. I regained consciousness clutching two free tickets for Friday night; the hall emptying. Done in, speechless, I walked home. The poster’s words were true. I was bewildered.
Without fail, my parents would sit by the wireless, listen to the 9 o’clock ABC news, then call it a night. Phew. Reprieved from facing awkward question, I flopped on my bed.
Then slept in; dashing through the school gates as the Parade Bell rang.
What awaited me? Uproar.
Voices from all directions. Calling my name. Laughing and whooping. Teachers looking exasperated and ineffectual.
‘Bella’s boy now, Alfie?
‘Fantastic watching you chase the imaginary monkey around the stage. Under the mat, too. What a hoot.’
‘You sure suited the tutu, Alfie. Smooth ballet moves.’
‘Star material, Alfie!’
All day, I bore taunts of cruel mates and basked in empathy of sweet girls.
Home was no refuge. Dad was boiling. Mum had shown him my ruined-by-an-imaginary-monkey-chase shirt. No explanation or excuses would he consider. ‘You couldn’t unclasp your hands? Unlikely!’
© Tropical Writers Inc 2026