A Stately Affair

It is mid-morning in the ante-room of a stately home near Plymouth in 2019.  A small group of unpaid volunteer guides have assembled for a meeting with their Manager.  Doreen, Maralyn and Sonia are all senior citizens who have worked together for over 20 years.  They come from totally different backgrounds, with Doreen being a former CEO of major companies.   Whilst they are volunteers they are fiercely proud of their stately home and determined to face future challenges together.  Their Manager Cliff Edge has just returned from a meeting with other stately home managers and senior managers.

ACT ONE, SCENE ONE (Door opens and Cliff comes rushing in).

DOREEN Oh at last.  

CLIFF Apologies girls, sorry I’m late.

MARALYN Girls?  I wish.

CLIFF Sorry.  Ladies.  Had a hell of a meeting.  

SONIA What’s wrong?

CLIFF   Numbers/

DOREEN What about them?

CLIFF Does the word “Footfall” mean anything?  (Pauses)  Anyone?

MARALYN Don’t you know?

CLIFF   Course I do.  Just wondered if you three did.  Cos it’s important. Head Office is getting worried.  Our footfall is a lot less than others in the group.

SONIA Footfall?

DOREEN The number of people coming round the estate.  It’s a trendy word. Came from the States, like most annoying things do.

MARALYN So what’s the problem, Cliff?

CLIFF   Well our operation is costing more than others.  Fewer people visiting, less car parking, fewer meals served, less income from the portable loos, less direct debits.  It’s all less.

SONIA Well we don’t get paid a penny.  So we ain’t less. Perhaps we should start using the portable loos rather than the staff ones.  Stop bringing a flask in and buy a coffee from the cafe. Would that help?

CLIFF Hardly Sonia, but thanks for the offer.

MARALYN Glad about that.  Those portaloos are awful.  Fancy paying 20p a pee.

DOREEN So what are you saying, Cliff.  We cost more than others to run?  (Cliff nods)  So what?

CLIFF If we can’t increase our footfall…/

SONIA Visitors!

CLIFF Visitors.  We must increase our visitors………(Pause) or else.

MARALYN Or else what?

CLIFF We could close.  Either permanently, or only open a few months of the year.  My job would go, so would other paid staff. (Pauses)  As for yourselves, if we weren’t open, there wouldn’t be any need for you.  Sorry to be brutal.

DOREEN Oh that would be awful.  Since my husband died, this has been my lifeline.  Sonia and Maralyn have become my best friends. Hardly a day goes by when I don’t put my coat and hat on, and look forward to coming here, seeing my friends, (ironically) “us girls”, meeting the public, telling them about their heritage/

MARALYN Don’t forget, looking for a new husband.  Since my old man died. It gets very lonely…./

DOREEN Maralyn, can I assure you that I am not here “looking for a new husband”.

MARALYN No that’s me.  (sniffs)  Still, ain’t found one.  Fancied one or two, but they were already taken…….or they fancied Sonia instead.

SONIA (Flustered)  Don’t bring me into this.  I’ve never married, and never want to…ever!

CLIFF Ladies, girls,……please.  This is serious. Now, I may have never said this before, and if I haven’t, I do apologise but I wanted to place on the record my appreciation for all your hard work and efforts over many, many years.

DOREEN That’s the closest we’re ever going to get to a P45.  Sounds like cheerio to me Cliff. Have you given up already?  Cos we haven’t. This place is really important to us (Other two nod), so get used to it.  We’ll find a way, a solution, we’ll sort it.  Footfall, Football, Freefall – don’t matter to us.  We’re the 3 Musketeers and if you want to be D’Artagnan all well and good.  

MARALYN Well said, Doreen!  Love it!

SONIA So do I.  It’s really exciting.  What about you Cliff? Up for it?  (Waves an imaginary sword in the air)  All for one and one for all!  

CLIFF   You missed a bit…Dumas.  “All for one and one for all.  United we stand divided we fall!”  Yes indeed. I’m in! (Pauses)  Although not quite sure what I’ve just signed up for.  Got a bit carried away by all the emotion and camaraderie.  Not used to it.

DOREEN Wait and see.  First of all the 3 Musketeers need to meet in private.  Then D’Artagnan can join us. (Pauses)  We’re having a “pre-strategy planning meeting”.  They haven’t got a clue what it means, but it was in one of the magazines in my Dentists.  Anyway sounds good. So off you go Cliff. We’ll see you in the morning.

(Cliff leaves the ante-room looking pensive)

MARALYN What now Doreen?  You seem to know what’s going on.  I’m completely lost.

DOREEN If this place is going to survive, we need to do some serious thinking and take some real actions.  Didn’t want to say much in front of Cliff, but he’s not a Winston Churchill figure./

SONIA What?  We going to “fight them on the beaches” and all that

DOREEN Sort of.  Right now listen to me…………

END OF ACT 1, SCENE 1.

ACT 1, SCENE 2 (The volunteers are sitting in the lounge.  There are bits of paper all over a table, and Maralyn is writing furiously.)

DOREEN Done?  (Maralyn nods)  Right.  That was a good couple of hours work.  When I was in business, we used to call it brainstorming.  Can I say, Sonia, how impressed I was with your contribution.  Some of the stuff that came out of your head was amazing – even concerning.

SONIA (Enthusiastically) Couldn’t help it.  Once you said what you wanted my mind simply took over.  Thoughts kept rushing in. Needed to shout them out before I forgot them.

DOREEN That’s brainstorming for you.  Now we need to go back over all the ideas, have a look at them, see what are feasible and put them to one side, but don’t forget the others, because we might need them later.

MARALYN There are dozens here.  How are we going to sort them out?

DOREEN Right before we start, let me summarise.  Our stately home is under threat. I said “ours” because we’ve been working together for over 20 years and long before all of us ended up being on our own.  This place means a lot to me and I’m damned sure I’m not giving up without a fight.

SONIA (Claps)  Well said, Doreen.  Brilliant. Now I can see the Churchill connection!

MARALYN Me too.  I love this place.  The atmosphere, the history, heritage, the chance to meet my friends and do something useful.  We simply cannot let them close it. (Defiantly)  No matter what we have to do.

SONIA But what do we have to do Doreen?  I just had a little panic then. What is it?  What can we do?

DOREEN It’s simple.  (Points) Get more people through those doors, visiting, spending money.  We’re in the game of selling – like anyone else.  And do you know what the best salespeople rely on?  Throughout history. What sells? What makes people dish the cash to buy things or visit places like this?

MARALYN History?  Heritage? Lovely gardens?  The Tea Room? (Pauses)  Well, it can’t be us!

DOREEN Nearly Maralyn.  Nearly. (Long pause then triumphantly)  “Sex, Drugs and Rock n Roll”

SONIA What?!  “Sex, Drugs and Rock n Roll”  Help!

DOREEN Look at all the adverts.  The successful ones I mean.  Cars, clothes, perfumes, holidays even a bar of chocolate for goodness sake.  They all had an element in them. Sexy, desirable, enticing, inviting, a memorable piece of music.  Remember that Hamlet cigar theme. Massive.

MARALYN I’m OK with the idea till I get to drugs?  How?

SONIA I’m a bit nervous about the other thing…..you know……not the drugs or the music…(softly) the other thing (looks guilty and whispers)  “Sex?”

DOREEN I’d never have guessed Sonia.  As for drugs, not so obvious, but drugs are about people wanting more.  Get them hooked, then make sure they can get more and more when they want it.  Look at those kid’s games, the rush for Xmas toys. (Mimics)  “Must have this Mummy.  Must have that Mummy”  How many mobile phones can any one person want or need?  Yet every week they seem to have a new model.

SONIA Don’t want to be a wet blanket, but this is a 500-year-old stately home.  How are we going to make it more attractive to visitors? A couple of years ago, they had Queen with Brian May playing on the roof of Buckingham Palace with thousands watching down the Mall.  We can’t compete with that/

DOREEN Brilliant Sonia.  Maralyn, write that down.  Live music festivals. Top name acts.

SONIA What about Sex?

MARALYN I thought you weren’t keen on it.  (Laughs)  When we were talking about men earlier on, you got all humpety.  (Pauses)  I’ve got it.  (Excitedly)  Last year that woman was found to be running one of those bondage clubs in an industrial unit in Plympton.  Doing a bomb. We’ve got the original cellars, sorry dungeons here where they used to put difficult serfs in.  Perfect. Yes?

DOREEN You’re a natural for this Maralyn.  What a smashing idea.

SONIA I was wondering about costumes.  (Pauses)  You know.  At the moment we show visitors around the House wearing our day to day clothes.  What if we dressed up?

MARALYN What as Bunny Girls?  Don’t think that would fit.  Mind you some of the weirdos we take round would enjoy it.  Remember that retired Vicar? And that German last year. “Hans On” or whatever his name was.  Even wore one of those funny raincoats.

SONIA (Excitedly) I’m getting the hang of this.  Now I know what we need to do. (Pauses) I wasn’t exactly suggesting Bunny Girl costumes, but what about a bit of Nell Gwyn?  Bit of oomph, show off some cleavage.

DOREEN There’s a bit of a darkness in you, Sonia.  Some of the ideas you’ve come up with show a side we’ve never seen before.  Definitely keep an eye on you madam.

MARALYN What about enhancing the information we provide to visitors?  You know. Stretch it a little…../

SONIA Do you mean lie?  Oh, how exciting.

DOROTHY Maralyn used the word “enhancing “but I think you’ve got it in one.  Maralyn, can I ask you to take that option away with you? Work on it a bit.  Look at what we say now, and think of better ways of describing the heritage, facilities and history.  Perhaps add on a couple of extras. The sort of things that might entice the stately home punter and put us more firmly on the map.

MARALYN Of course.  However, there was one option that I was thinking of, but it might be a little dubious.

SONIA Depends on how desperate we are.

MARALYN You’d definitely be desperate for this one.

DOREEN Stop teasing us.

MARALYN My nephew’s been away for a couple of years.  Guest of Her Majesty. He’s looking for new facilities for his next venture.  He’s a keen gardener. Learnt a lot of new skills these past few years. At the back of the house, there is a heap of empty Victorian glass houses.  Haven’t been used for ages.

SONIA What a good idea.  Grow lots of delicious fruit and veg.  Sell them direct to the visitors. Should make oodles.   Health living and all that.

DOREEN Don’t think fruit and veg are on the menu.  Eh, Maralyn? (She nods)  But it’s clearly a very lucrative option, and would most certainly increase the number of visitors.

SONIA What are you talking about Doreen?

MARALYN Hash, grass, cannabis, call it what you like.  It’s green money.

SONIA Oh my God.  (Pauses)  Wahoo!

DOREEN I take it you’re in favour.  Needs to be carefully thought through, but desperate times means desperate measures.  Now Maralyn. Read something off your list of ideas. Pick something at random.

MARALYN 2020.  Someone shouted out 2020.  Next year the whole city will be going mad.  It’s the 400th anniversary of the Mayflower sailings.  There’ll be thousands of visitors, masses of Yanks. Lots of money, totally obsessed with our history and culture.  They’ll be dying to see the rooms George Washington used when he stayed at our stately home and especially the tree where he carved his initials.  

SONIA (Puzzled) Don’t think he ever left the USA, let alone visited here?

MARALYN It was a discreet visit, but I’ve found a recent document that suggests otherwise, so we’ll go strong on a suggestion rather than absolute fact.  And the initials on the tree will be a definite.

DOREEN Which tree?

MARALYN The ones by the meadow.  

SONIA They weren’t planted until George Washington had been dead over a 100 years.

DOREEN That’s a matter of the small detail, which we can deal with.  However, I think Maralyn has identified a major source of future visitors drawn to our stately home by a whole series of events and a couple of coincidences.  This could be it, ladies. Mayflower 2020. Let’s get down to some authentic research as well. It always helps, although sometimes the truth is even more bizarre.  

SONIA I guess you’re going to give us an example.  

DOREEN How’s about the whole crew and passengers of the Mayflower were invited to stay in the house prior to their embarkation?  It needed urgent repairs. I’m sure some of the artefacts and other items littered around the house have Mayflower connections from their short stay here.

SONIA So this was a stately hotel for the Mayflower team?

MARALYN More of a village inn for some, and a place of custody for others.  Hence the dungeons. Don’t forget they had a contingent of slaves with them.  They would have needed to be looked after, apart from the Hoi Polloi – the common people.  Then there were the elite, who actually slept in the same beds as our previous historic visitors.

SONIA Such as?

DOREEN I’m sure Maralyn’s list includes Charles I & II, Oliver Cromwell that sort of thing.

SONIA Elizabeth I?  What about her?

MARALYN Don’t enhance the truth too much Sonia.  She died before the House was built. (Pause)  Now. (Pause) Michael Jackson.  (Pause)  Was definitely in the UK lots of times, and I know for a fact he visited Exeter cos he was friends with that Uri Geller who lives there.  Only 40 minutes down the road. Visited, slept over and even tried to buy the place. Wanted to start one of those Zoos like he had back in the States, in the grounds near the river.  Yeah. What about a small safari park? There’s a nice hook. That’ll bring them in.

SONIA Who the Fraud Squad, or Trading Standards?  You’ll never get away with it.

DOREEN Desperate times, desperate measures Sonia.  (Pauses)  Remember.  (Pauses)  Right now let’s brief our Manager on what’s happening.

END OF ACT 1, SCENE 2.

ACT 1, SCENE 3. (3 months have elapsed and there is a meeting in ante-room with Cliff, and the three volunteers present.  Cliff has opened a bottle of wine and poured four glasses. Each takes one as Cliff proposes a toast).

CLIFF   I choose my words carefully here, but Ladies can I say how delighted I am.  The results for the past quarter have been stunning, and it’s entirely down to you.  D’Artagnan once said, “No difficulties can ever daunt me.” You’ve taken the challenge and thrashed it to pieces.  I propose a toast to my special 3 Musketeers. Well done all. (All lift glasses and toast one another).  More visitors than ever before, new facilities, masses of interest from the USA about next years Mayflower 2020 celebrations.  Bookings flooding in. Amazing. How did you do it?

DOREEN Well it was a mixture of teamwork, innovation, and a nice dollop of good luck.

SONIA I loved the innovation, the freedom, the opportunities that developed.  

CLIFF Was it your idea to introduce an evening of history and briefings in the Cellars.  Seems to have caught on. (Laughs)  Someone told me it was better than going to Plympton, whatever that means?

SONIA (Giggles)  Well some of our regular customers get a little too hung up on the history.  Soon sort them out. Give them a good old thrashing if they don’t behave. (Doreen and Maralyn smile)

DOREEN Those nights are very much Sonia’s pride and joy.  She’s developed a regular little group, all with a common interest.  Maralyn was the lucky one. (Pauses)  Why don’t you explain?

MARALYN Well it was odd really.  This rather shabby old man became a regular visitor to the House, always had a small notebook with him, and kept writing things down.  Been watching too much CrimeWatch, because at first, I thought he was one of those Gypsy people who’ve been breaking into stately homes throughout the country and stealing valuable artwork and whatever else they can lay their hands on.  (Puts on an American accent)  “Thought he was casing the joint”

CLIFF What happened?

MARALYN Had a chat to him during a quiet moment and realised he had been doing research on our House for over 50 years.  He had masses of notebooks, tons of information, and some of it was quite mind-blowing. Especially about previous historical figures who had visited.

CLIFF Is that where the George Washington thing came from?

MARALYN Definitely.  Like you I was a little sceptical at first, but when he showed me his notes about old records, it became clear it was absolutely true.  And there were others which I’ve now included in our “Enhanced Visitors Guide.”  It’s like an upmarket Watchtower magazine, without the Jehovah’s.

CLIFF It would be really nice to meet him.  Seems like a really interesting character.

DOREEN Well he’s a bit of a recluse.  Hates publicity, very shy, and disappears for months on end apparently.  However, we’re sure that if we need his expertise and knowledge it will be made available.

CLIFF Anything else?

MARALYN We haven’t discussed the garden project, and in terms of openness and honesty between us, I really wanted to be clear on how it’s developing.  As you know my nephew is running it; as a volunteer of course. He had a difficult start in life, but has turned his life around and is now making a real effort to develop the project.

CLIFF   I’ve seen quite a lot of activity there.  Lots of visitors and it’s very encouraging to see he attracts the younger person, about time too.  What’s he growing?

MARALYN Initially he’s concentrating on green plants.  The sort of stuff that a person can take home and grow on, in their own environment.  Low cost, low maintenance and should prove profitable in the longer term. Most importantly he’s increasing our visitor numbers and raising awareness of what we do.

CLIFF   That’s brilliant.  I’m really impressed with you all.  Now, what do you want me to take the lead on?

DOREEN We thought the Musical Concert in the grounds.  

SONIA We were inspired by Queen at Buckingham Palace a couple of years ago.  On the roof and all that.

CLIFF I’m game for anything.  So will this be part of the Mayflower 2020 tribute and reconstruction?

MARALYN I’m told the devil is in the detail.  Go on. Be a Devil! You have a blank canvas.  Think outside of the box. (Pauses)  I’m really beginning to love those American business expressions you know.  

DOREEN So can we put it down as a matter of record?  Cliff responsible for organising a concert in the grounds.  That’ll draw them in if nothing does. Try and get some big-name artists.

SONIA  I might be able to help you there.  One of my neighbour’s son Eugene plays in a band and has lots of contacts.  Say’s a few of them owe him a favour.

CLIFF Can I ask what group he’s in?

SONIA Not sure of his group, but his Grandad is one of the Rolling Stones.  I think they’re still playing. Would they do?

CLIFF (Gibbering)  Do?  Sonia if you can pull this one off I’ll run naked around the grounds of this stately home.

SONIA Well you might have company.  Eugene says his Grandad’s band are still a bit lively.

DOREEN Wonderful.  A geriatric rock n roll night.  That’ll put us on the map.

MARALYN Do they still need groupies?  Been looking for a husband for so long, might have to lower my sights.

DOREEN You keep your tights on.  Don’t embarrass us all.

SONIA Lower her sights, Doreen.  Sights. Your batteries need changing.  

CLIFF Well ladies, I must be off.  (Rubs hands together then clenches fists) I’m getting a real buzz about this.  Feel quite euphoric. Just like the other day, when I went in to see your nephew Maralyn.  Those greenhouses really do make one feel revitalised, energised ready for anything. There’s an atmosphere about the place.  It’s unique. The place was heaving. (Pauses)  Right, see you all tomorrow.  Important meeting.

END OF ACT 1, SCENE 3

ACT 1 SCENE 4

(Interior of ante-room, mid-morning, Doreen and Maralyn are comparing notes at the table.  There is a knock at the door. They ignore it at first, but after further knocking, Doreen gets up and opens it.  Sonia is stood there in full Nell Gwyn style costume. She turns, twirls and enters the room. Doreen and Maralyn are stood watching her.)

SONIA Well?  What do you think? (Pauses and twirls again, going slightly off-balance, stops, steadies herself and pushes her breasts back up and into place in the low cut costume.)

MARALYN Amazing.  Thought just then we were going to have the first topless moment in this stately home for a few centuries.

SONIA (Pulling at costume)  Still needs a bit of adjustment.  However, it wouldn’t have been a few centuries since the last time.  Don’t forget the Yanks were billeted in the grounds during WW2. My mother said there were plenty of topless shenanigans.  (Pauses/flustered)  Sorry, I wasn’t suggesting she was……/

DOREEN I can guess Sonia.  Yes, they were here, with their cheap stockings, chocolate, perfume and cigarettes.

MARALYN Sounds like Lidl’s or Aldi.  

DOREEN That’s another German invasion.  No Yanks this time to win the war for us.  Huh!

MARALYN Sonia, are you expecting us, (Pauses)  Let me re-phrase that, are you expecting me to get into the sort of costume you’re wearing?  Is this to be the official garb of the volunteer guides?

SONIA (Laughs)  Well you wouldn’t need as much padding as some (looks at Doreen) but yes.  I was hoping you might like my idea.  Borrowed this costume from the Theatre Royal.  They hire them out but gave me a 48-hour free trial.  Said I might be able to help them out with a big problem they’ve got.  What do you think Doreen?

DOREEN I think they’re perfect Sonia.  Well done. This new image together with the work Maralyn has been doing on the guide for visitors will really make an impression and draw in the visitors.

SONIA Glad, you said that Doreen, ‘cos last night I tried wearing one for my Tuesday night meetings in the cellars……I mean dungeons.  Went down a bomb. Even the rubber brigade found the image attractive, and they are usually into sniffing car tyres.

MARALYN And wearing those awful masks with the cutouts.

SONIA Well not all of them wear masks.  The ones with psoriasis find them uncomfortable.

DOREEN OK.  Stop!  The mind boggles.  (Pauses)  Right Maralyn, let’s have a run through of the new scripts for the house guides.  You’ve obviously done masses of work……….(Pauses)…Ladies and Gentlemen. May I present Maralyn’s monologues.  (Claps then sits down at the table with Sonia and Maralyn).

END SCENE 4.  END OF ACT 1.

ACT 2, SCENE 1

(One month later.  Interior of ante-room.  A door at the end opens and Maralyn dressed as Nell Gwyn character enters followed by a small group of visitors (male, female, young, old etc, different ethnicities, including one person wearing a burka)

MARALYN Ladies and gentlemen, please follow me and if you could gather round I’ll continue the tour briefing.  (Visitors move closer and wait expectantly)  (Pause)  I do hope you have all enjoyed your tour so far.  We have one other major room in the home that we will be going into next which is our “piece de resistance”  This room has had more historical figures tread its hallowed boards, than the Old Vic.  It is drenched in history. There is an aura about it. Something magical, memorable, historical is waiting for your presence.  Your grand entrance is close. (Pauses)  

However, a little bit of Admin first.  I did explain earlier that because of the unique nature of the experience there would be a small surcharge/

VISITOR A. How much?  The bloody cafe was expensive.  Two quid for a cuppa. Rip off. How much (mimics) “for this unique experience.”  

MARALYN (Nervously)  Would a pound be alright?  

VISITOR A Each?  Or for a couple?

MARALYN (Flustered)  Well it should be a pound each really….(pauses) but you’ve been such wonderful and interesting visitors, I’m only going to ask for a pound per couple.  (Forcefully)  Mind you it’s still a pound for a single.  Is there anyone single here? (Flushes)  I don’t mean single in a marital or relationship sense………..although……no what I meant was/

VISITOR A We know what you meant Nell Gwyn.  Right, can we get on with it?

MARALYN Right this way Ladies and Gentlemen.  (Person in the Burka hesitates then follows group out of door following Maralyn.)

END OF ACT 2, SCENE 1

ACT 2, SCENE 2

(Later that week.  The 3 volunteers are sitting in the ante-room drinking coffee.)

DOREEN I must say how impressed I was with the new Visitors Guide.  Went down an absolute bomb. Couldn’t believe some of the tosh I was coming out with/

SONIA Me neither, but the visitors all seemed to like it especially when I gave them a chance to meditate.

MARALYN What?  Meditate?

SONIA Just a little experiment.  Got them all together in the Blue Rooms, and had them hold hands, close their eyes, deep breathing and use their imagination.  Went down extremely well.

DOREEN Were the windows open?

SONIA Yes why?

DOREEN That explains it.  The Blue Room windows are right above the extractor fan in the greenhouses.  They were probably stoned! Mind you what a bloody good idea. I’ll try it this afternoon with my group.  Do they have to chant?

SONIA No Doreen.  A few moments of deep breathing does the trick.  And here’s me thinking I had some mystic influence.

MARALYN Had a couple of awkward customers yesterday.  One chap objected to everything. Apparently, when he’s normally on holiday, he pays one price for his break.  All inclusive he called it. Food, drinks, entertainment all paid for in the price. He objected to the surcharge for the Yellow Room, objected to the price of a cup of tea, and paying for the loo.  (Pauses)  Had another strange one as well.  Dressed in the full face Burka.

SONIA She was on one of my groups a couple of days ago.  Tall with big feet, and had a funny smell about her.

DOREEN What do you mean funny smell?

SONIA I’m not being horrible.  It wasn’t B.O. or something like that.  It was more like the smell of aftershave.  Men’s aftershave. Strange.

DOREEN I’d better let Cliff know.  He’s ex-Army. Knows about these things.  What if it were one of those terrorists? Perhaps thinking about blowing the place up.  Look at all those damaged temples in Syria and Iraq.

MARALYN But us?  No. More likely to do with our potential visitor for the Mayflower celebrations.  Saw Cliff just now, he was running around like a headless chicken with a letter in his hand.  Really excited. I won’t spoil his news.

DOREEN (Sniffily)  Well I would hope that such news – whatever it is, would be shared with us all.  Equally. At the same time. And without exception…../(Door of the ante-room bursts open and Cliff comes rushing in).  Speak of the devil.  I understand you have something important to tell us.

CLIFF Too blooming right I have.  He’s said Yes! Yes! Yes!

SONIA Who for goodness sake?  Jeremy Corbyn? Is he coming to our pop concert?  Made a complete fool of himself at Glastonbury. Is he coming, or is it the Messiah?

CLIFF President Trump!  President bloodyTrump!  He’s accepted our, I mean my, invitation to visit when he’s in Plymouth for the 2020 celebrations.  Passed on the information that Maralyn found, about his great, great, great grandfather who used to work on the estate and married one of the aristocracy.  That was it. Hook, line and sinker. The world press will be crawling all over the place. Need to get myself some new clothes. Bound to be doing masses of interviews.  Wow! Wow!

DOREEN Don’t get too excited.  He’s prone to changing his mind like his underpants.  Besides…/

CLIFF Besides what?

MARALYN We’ve had a strange visitor.  Might be suspicious.

SONIA Tall, with big feet and dark.  And I mean dark. (Pauses)  Wearing a full face Burka.  Visited twice.

CLIFF Well what’s wrong with that?  We have growing population of Muslims in Plymouth, we’re bound to attract visitors from different backgrounds.  What’s wrong with that. Simply because someone dresses that way doesn’t make them a terr………(Pauses)  Oh my.  President Trump the target of a (stutters)  terr, terr, terrorist plot?

DOREEN The person was wearing aftershave.

CLIFF What sort.  What did it smell of?

MARALYN (Indignantly)  I don’t know.  It’s been years since I worked in the perfumery of Dingles.  But I think it was called Al Qaeda or something like that.

CLIFF I must go.  Need to ring the US Embassy and take advice.  This could bugger everything up. Let me know if you see the person again. (Cliff exits ante-room rapidly)

DOREEN Sonia, a little while ago you said you’d been talking to the Theatre Royal, about their costumes and something else.  You said they had a problem we might help with.

SONIA Yes.  Big time problem.  And I mean big time.

DOREEN Go on…..

SONIA Well if you remember about two years ago they decided to put that statue outside the Theatre.  Thought it would be arty like. Meant to be a courtesan from one of Shakespeare’s plays?

MARALYN Blooming Bianca!  Courtesan! My backside.  She was a prossy and the statue cost £500,000.  Everyone told them to forget the idea, but no, the arty-farties had their way, and there she is, bigger than a double-decker bus and thirty feet wide.  Theatre said they expected people entering the theatre would want to go through and under her legs. Dirty buggers.

DOREEN Trust Plymouth to have its own version of up-skirting!  Anyway, Sonia, what’s the problem?

SONIA Well ever since it’s been erected people have been complaining.  It’s been vandalised, had graffiti, eggs thrown at it, the students climb it for a rag-week dare, and now someone has managed to fix a blow-up doll just above its right ear.  They’ve had enough.

MARALYN I bet they want someone to kidnap it and take it away.  Surreptitiously steal it away and drop it in Plymouth Sound. Yes?

SONIA (Puzzled)  How did you know?  Well not quite like that.  They want it out of sight as soon as possible, and certainly before the 2020 celebrations start and the US Mickey Mouse appreciation society arrive and start to adopt it.  That would be the ultimate embarrassment. They would make a fuss in the local media for a day or two. Get the pavement repaired, put some new trees back and hopefully it would be soon forgotten.

DOREEN And we, I mean the stately home funds would inherit half a million quid’s worth of bronze.

SONIA To be melted down and sold to visitors as genuine early medieval coins, suddenly found in a secret cache.

DOREEN In business Sonia, that’s what we called a win:win situation.  Now I’ve got a friend in the Gypsy and Traveller camp. He’s got one of those big cranes.  Owes me a favour as I’m suing him at the moment for botching up several drives in our road.  We put in a collective order and his team cleverly buggered every one up. He’d want a cut of course.

SONIA Well give him an arm.

MARALYN Or a leg.  There’s two of them.

DOREEN I didn’t mean literally, but your suggestion will appeal to him.  Leave it to me. So it’s an early morning kidnap, relocate to our grounds, hide it away for a while, then start smelting.  (Pause)  Agreed.  (All three nod, then clench fists and 3 Musketeers style shake their hands together).

END OF ACT 2, SCENE 2

ACT 2, SCENE 3

(One week later the three volunteers are in the ante-room and looking out of the window)

SONIA That statue is absolutely huge, even lain on its side with one leg and one arm missing.

DOREEN My gypsy friend insisted on “an arm and a leg”, said it was standard haggling language, but in this case, it was for real.  Anyway, it’s here, tucked away and is a nice little earner for the future. Local headlines are full of outrage, but comments from the Theatre Royal and the Council are very muted.  Lots of regrets, but one Councillor who’s retiring, nearly gave it away when he said it was a relief really. Think they want the memories to fade as fast as possible.

MARALYN What’s going on over there, near the Orangery.  Isn’t that our manager Cliff? Looks like he’s having some sort of argument with a customer.  (Pause)  Oh, No.  (Pause)  He’s not.  (Pause)  He is.

SONIA He’s what Maralyn?  Got me all excited. And that doesn’t happen very often.  What’s he doing?

DOREEN Our illustrious leader appears to have argued with a member of the public.  That member of the public is now lying on the ground and our Manager is removing the person’s clothing.

SONIA What!  That’s incredible.

MARALYN Not so incredible when you realise the customer is……(Pauses) rather was wearing a Burka.  Our mysterious visitor has returned and Cliff is doing his ex-military bit.  

DOREEN Well something’s up because the visitor is clearly a man, not a woman, and clearly an angry man.

SONIA How can you tell that from here?

MARALYN Well a punch is a punch in any language.

DOREEN And Cliff has just been punched and is lying prone on the ground.

SONIA Where’s the visitor?

MARALYN On his mobile phone.

SONIA Ambulance?

DOROTHY Don’t think so.  Cliff tried to get up and the person hit him again.  Really angry. We’d better go and help. (All three leave ante-room)

END OF ACT 2, SCENE 3

ACT 2, SCENE 4

(Shortly afterwards.  Interior of ante-room, the door opens and three volunteers enter supporting their manager Cliff, whose head is bandaged as are his right hand.  They sit him down and Sonia opens her flask and offers him a drink).

SONIA Get this down, you Cliff.  (Cliff tries to pick up the drink with normal right hand but cannot manage it).  Oh, how silly of me.  You’re immobilised. Let me help you (Holds cup to his lips and spills it down his trousers)  Oh I am sorry. .(Pulls hanky out of handbag and attempts to dab at Cliff’s crotch before realising what she is doing)  (Flustered) Oh good heavens.  (Lifts hands up).  Aaagh.  Sorry.  Sorry

CLIFF Leave it Sonia.  Don’t worry. I’m not upset.  In other circumstances, I might have enjoyed it.

DOREEN What on earth was that all about.  I mean two grown men fighting.

CLIFF No!  One grown man fighting.  The other one trying to protect himself.  That maniac.

MARALYN Who was he?  Thought you were tackling a terrorist for a moment.

CLIFF So did I.  Spotted him lurking around the Orangery.  Way off the visitor routes so went over and challenged him.  He replied in some sort of gibberish, so I thought that’s it, and brought him down.  My army training kicked in, immediately.

SONIA But he was beating you.  What happened?

CLIFF Well his talking gibberish, was because he’d just been to the dentists and his face was still frozen.  Soon as he got up and before he hit me, I knew him. Regional Manager. Couldn’t believe our results. Didn’t trust me apparently and wanted to check up personally and “have the visitor experience“.  Well, he got that alright.  Even if it nearly cost me my job.

DOREEN Nearly?  Surely you’ve had it, Cliff.  Grappling with your Regional Manager.

CLIFF No.  I’ve got him bang to rights.  It was the Burka that did it for him.  Head Office would go bonkers at him denigrating those of the Muslim faith by wearing their dress and apparel.   So we’ve called it a draw. I stay stuumm if he stays stuumm. And……….(smiles broadly) I’ve been promoted.  Going up to Windsor Castle to try and help increase their footfall.  Apparently, since the wedding, there’s been an absolute slump. Want my expertise.  Any of you fancy joining me.

ALL THREE (Shout)  Remember our motto.  “All For One And One For All”  (Pause then in unison)  But not this time Cliff.  (Pause)  This time D’Artagnan is on his own.  We’re home birds at heart! (Sonia looks ruefully at Cliff then holds her hanky to her nose).

END OF ACT 2, SCENE 4 AND END OF PLAY.

PC and me

 

The interaction between John and Alan takes place at the 40th reunion of Class ABC of a Grammar School of the 1970’s.  The reunion is held in the local village pub.

 

ALAN Bloody hell.  (Shouts) It’s John everyone.  John. This really is a treat.  Heard a rumour you might attend.  This is our 10th reunion and your first.  Well done. Come here you old bastard and shake hands.  Well done.

JOHN (Quietly).  Hello Alan.  Could you tone it down a bit….please.

ALAN What the hell are you talking about John?  We’ve just met. Tone what down? Can’t be my hair colour.  Haven’t got any – any more. Remember when we both had it done pink.  Went in for that fancy dress competition as a couple of candy floss woofters.  What twats we were. Anyway, tone what down?

JOHN Well I wondered if you could stop the swearing.  You also referred to me personally in derogatory terms  (Pause)  You called me a bastard, whereas you know I’m not, and your reference to “woofters” is quite out of order in respect of male sexuality.  I think it’s clear whom you were referring to – Gay men? Yes?

ALAN (Indignantly)  No us.  We were the twats.  Nothing to do with gender-benders..

JOHN Oh my goodness.  You’re doing it again.  (Pause)  Are you not aware how distressing your insensitive comments are.  Have you never heard of PC?

ALAN (Pause)  Course I’ve heard of it.  Just didn’t think I’d catch it.  

JOHN You don’t catch PC, you live it.  You express yourself in terms which reflect your sensitivity to the needs, values and culture of others.  PC. Politically correct. No?

ALAN Well I’ve never voted Labour.  Voted UKIP once. Is this what that Momentum lot are banging on about?  Being PC?

JOHN Not necessarily, however, having said that, in a progressive liberal political party…..

ALAN Definitely haven’t voted for them.  Bloody liberals. Sandals and sex. That’s them.  Did you see that programme couple of weeks ago? About Thorpe?  My God. What a bunch of tossers they were. They were all at it.  

JOHN Alan please.  You’re using stereotypes and quite unjustified descriptions.

ALAN OK John.  (Pause)  Understand.  (Pause)  I think.  I’ll withdraw the comments about sandals.  (Laughs)  They may have been wearing trainers.

JOHN This is hopeless.

ALAN John, you’re really worrying me now.  Have you got a twin? Cos if you haven’t what happened to the John I knew.  Used to call you John the Baptist. Cos you kept wanting to lay your hands on people.  Mainly the girls in our class. And you really fancied one of two of the unusual ones.

JOHN Unusual?

ALAN Different.  

JOHN Different?

ALAN Yeah.  Like that Kwame from Nigeria or Wang Shu.  Dad had the Chinese on the High Street. Always said that’s what you were after.  A quick takeaway. Nudge. Nudge.

JOHN (Indignantly)  I was never like that.  

ALAN Weren’t you?  What about Dalilah, and I’m not talking about Tom Jones.

JOHN She was Egyptian.  I’ve always respected ethnic minorities.  

ALAN  So that was being PC, was it?  OK. What about the two birds from Woolworths that we picked up and, sorry you, went off with.  Pick & Mix you called them.  Two at once. You were my hero.  Was that PC cos you treated them equally?  Came them both one!

JOHN In the current climate yes.  Very much so. (Pauses)  It seems to me Alan that you’ve been locked in a time warp, and significant changes in society have passed you by.  No?

ALAN Well I did a couple of years……but I was totally innocent.  It was a setup. Anyway kept my nose clean since then.

JOHN I had no idea, but that explains a lot.  

ALAN Tell you what.  Give me a couple of examples.  (Pause) You know. Examples.

Of being this PC thing.  Rights and wrongs. I’m a good learner.  Go on. Try me. Try me.

JOHN I have a sense this might prove difficult.  (Pauses)  OK.  How would you describe yourself?

ALAN What’d yah mean?

JOHN Pretend you’re looking in a mirror.  

ALAN Yeah OK.  I’m looking.

JOHN What do you see?  Describe yourself.

ALAN A short, fat, bald old man.

JOHN (Triumphantly)  Exactly.  Now what I see is a folically and vertically challenged person, calorifically enhanced, who is gerentologically advanced.  (Pauses)  Now doesn’t that sound better than your own description.  Isn’t it more sensitive and respectful? Don’t you feel more valued?

ALAN Well it sounds posher, but I don’t understand a bleeding word of it.  Vertically challenged? I’m a short arse. Always have been, always will be.  Ain’t nothing anyone can do about that. Is there?

JOHN But you don’t have to be reminded of it in such a brutal manner.  A careful, considered approach and description focused on the sensitivities of the individual.

ALAN That’s just like slopping out in the nick.  A “careful, considered approach, focused on the sensitivities.”  Yeah right. If you didn’t do it properly in there, you got hammered by your cellmates – or worse.  Didn’t need PC there I tell you. Anyway, I’ve got an example for you. (Pauses)  You ready?  

JOHN (Puzzled) Fire away.

ALAN Right.  This Council has stopped its road work teams from calling those things in the road “Cat’s Eyes”.  (Pauses)  Why?  Cos some young girl heard the name and burst into tears.  She thought they were real eyes taken out of cats. Mother complained.  They’re now called direction indicators. What a load of tosh.

JOHN On reflection (laughs)  sorry about that pun, on reflection they may have a point.  The child was clearly distressed and it was directly attributable to the language used.  

ALAN But that’s bonkers.  So every time a kid cries about something the whole world has to change…..well here’s another one.  Down the road, there’s a senior school. It’s been baking hot, so the lads asked if they could wear short trousers rather than long ones.  They got told no, cos the girls might feel discriminated against. However, they could wear summer skirts like the girls! Now, who’s discriminating……..

JOHN That’s a rather unusual incident, and I think I’d need more information before being able to comment.  

ALAN Hang on a minute.  In the same school the Head Mistress, sorry Head Master, no sorry, perhaps Head Person advised her teachers not to use the word genius when praising children, as it had a male-dominated connotation.  What a load of round orifices, and you’ll notice I didn’t use the word “bollocks” then – just to prove I am capable of change.  

JOHN You’re taking things too literally Alan.  It is an important issue, however, as happens in today’s society, the media invariably distort and discredit the good intentions of those seeking to support the principles within PC.

ALAN What principles?  

JOHN Someone who is politically correct believes that language and actions that could be offensive to others, especially those relating to sex and race should be avoided.  

ALAN OK.  Here’s a question for you.  Mrs Fletcher in our local cake shop got told off.  A customer said she wasn’t being PC. Do you know why?

JOHN I think you’re going to tell me……

ALAN She makes Xmas cakes.  Last year this customer bought one, and as she served her, Mrs Fletcher said “Merry Xmas”.  The customer said the proper term is “Happy Holiday” because not all customers are Christians.  That was a nice seasonal exchange of greetings.

JOHN Well perhaps the customer may have thought she was being helpful.

ALAN Mrs Fletcher clearly didn’t agree.  She told her to piss off, took her cake back and refunded the money.  (Pauses)  By the way, Mrs Fletcher is a Pakistani, born in this country, married a Brit and don’t need people telling her how to behave.

JOHN Well it’s a growing movement, I think there’s an inevitability about it.

ALAN How do you know so much about it?

JOHN Well I lost a couple of jobs, got made redundant.  Others more junior to me were kept on. Realised I needed to embrace the current climate.  Move with the times. So I read up on it, went on a couple of courses,..(Triumphantly) and changed.  Transformed my life!

ALAN So you didn’t lose your job because you’re wearing a dress?

JOHN No….

ALAN With a full beard?

JOHN No.  Definitely not.  In fact, it’s been a distinct advantage.  Just been shortlisted for three jobs.

ALAN You crafty sod.  I know what you’re up to.  (Pauses)  Bet they’re all female shortlists!

JOHN (Laughing)  Correct.  And now that I’ve begun my transition to female, they dare not interview me, and I’ve got a red-hot chance to get the job.  They’re all London Council vacancies. Loads of birds. PC and me! (Pauses)  By the way, is that Wang Shu coming tonight?  Never did get my takeaway. Come on then. Time for a pint or two.  Want to get “Spacially Perplexed”.

ALAN  The correct term is getting pissed.  See I can be PC. Anyway, it’s your round.  END

Saving Alfreda

David Squire

 

Even as Mrs. J. G. Morgan swept down our drive I knew trouble was brewing. Whether it was the rigid set of her jaw, military-style beret or determined crack of metal-heeled boots on paving slabs I realized that just crossing myself would not be enough.

  “It’s your bloody chickens again,” she spat.  

At such times, it is an instant judgement whether to return aggression for aggression, or to play the innocent choir-boy. My decision was for the latter.

  “How nice to see you again, Mrs. Morgan,” I offered. “What can I do for you? And how is Moggy?”

  With hardly a pause to confirm her husband Moggy’s health since retirement she focused on the nub of her visit. “I’m weary of being woken at the effing crack of dawn by one of your sodding chicken’s painful attempts at a crow,” she grated.

  Playing the choir-boy card further, I foolishly succumbed to the temptation to suggest that the animal was doing its best and just needed time to get it right.

  My wife, who is the font of all wisdom and good neighbourliness, had long warned me about adopting the role of an innocent. I should have listened to her as Mrs. J. G. Morgan suddenly unleashed her vitriol.

  “Listen here, my young dozy neighbour. I don’t know if you’re playing the bloody fool or just trying to rile me.”

  I felt a reply would not have added any warmth to the conversation and therefore remained silent.

  “I previously suffered from your now departed cretinous rooster and I don’t now mean to settle for what sounds like one of your up-and-coming trainee male birds. If I have any more trouble I’ll broad-side you with my solicitor.”

  With that she pivoted on her heels and rapidly disappeared up our drive. The sudden silence took me by surprise – well, apart from a dull, gargling, crow-like noise emanating from our back garden.

 

*       * *       * *

 

  Steering our lives nearer to nature had long been our ambition and a few months earlier Suzie and I embarked on keeping chickens. Suzie’s sister, a guru on all things rural, provided a starter kit of a Sussex rooster and several hens for him to organize. And so rapidly did he impose his authority that we named him ‘Alfred the Great’. Subsequently, every morning he would stride among his ladies, crowing and revealing his presence for everyone to hear which, tragically, included Mrs. J. G. Morgan, who we were soon to learn did not take prisoners. Within a few days Alfred had to be sent on sabbatical to my sister-in-law’s rural retreat. This left six hens without a male caretaker and like many other groups of closely cloistered females they started to squabble and vie with each other to be top dog or, in this case, supremo hen.

 

*       * *       * *

 

  Mrs. J. G. Morgan’s antipathy to men was legendary, difficult to explain but regrettably apparent. It clouded her life, like a Victorian winter smog. And no one escaped it.

  “I still hear squawkings from your inept trainee rooster,” Mrs. J. G. Morgan railed a few days later as she leaned over our fence. “Shall I come over and wring his bloody neck?”

  Even a choir boy has his limits of intolerance and at that stage Suzie and I determined to save Alfreda, our head girl, from expulsion. Her only sin, we reasoned, was being an alpha hen – perhaps paralleling Mrs. J. G. Morgan’s behaviour.

*       * *       * *

 

  Several times we tried to convince Mrs. J. G. Morgan that the current noisy culprit was not a male bird, but one of her own gender. But she was so entrenched in her derision of all males that there was not a soupçon of reasoning left in her.

  “Hens,” I hesitatingly proposed, “when not controlled by a rooster fight between themselves and usually the hen sporting the largest comb becomes dominant.”

  I could not resist a fleeting glance at Mrs. J. G. Morgan’s stiffly upright beret badge, but a sobering stare from Suzie instantly stymied that offensive. Fortunately, I had other raw chicken facts up my sleeve and determined to reveal them.

  “Do you know,” I began slowly, so that the sexual element of my disclosure had full impact. “Apart from imitating a rooster’s crow, a dominant hen often tries to mate with other hens.”

  If the ground could have trembled it would have been in sympathy with Mrs. J. G. Morgan’s pulse. Ashen faced and drawn she fired another salvo at us. “It’s a bloody disgrace, a perversion – you’ve created a flock of chickens steeped in sexual depravity.”

  “But this is part of chicken heritage, Mrs. Morgan,” I claimed. “And just consider this, a rooster does not have to be present for hens to produce eggs.”

  She went quiet. The thought of hens not requiring the presence of roosters was a revelation; I could almost hear strains of the Halleluiah Chorus passing through her head.  

  “It’s a pity my sisters in the fight against male oppression can’t do the same,” she muttered under her breath.

  And so it came to pass. For Mrs. J. G. Morgan the sexual frolics of an alpha hen without the necessity of a rooster to initiate the production of eggs more than compensated for a few diminutive crows. Surely, she no doubt argued with herself, hens executing their natural dominance is acceptable.

  An offer of fresh eggs each week sealed her bond of tolerance towards our chickens. But perhaps I should have clarified that to ensure a clutch of young chicks the presence of a rooster would be essential. I consoled myself about this sleight of word; it had been in a good cause.  

  Thus, we had saved Alfreda from eviction and Mrs. J. G. Morgan from rooster dominance. Perhaps it was case of live and let crow.

To fill an empty heart

Norman Coburn

 

“Thank you Sariel. Thank you for everything.”

“Come on Henry. You make it sound like we won’t see each other again.”

Henry reaches up and grasping my arm, he lets a few seconds of silence pass between us. “Yes, of course. But it won’t be the same. These years we’ve had together. How long is it now?”

“Eighty eight.”

“Yes. Six more than I had on the earth.” He pauses and shakes his head. “I’m sorry I detained you so long.”

“Like I said to you at the start, we keep doing this until you’re ready. And today Henry, you’re ready. Tell me, what are you going to do first?”

He releases his grip and looks off into the far distance. “I’ve met many people since I’ve been here. But I want to go back a few generations. See who’s around. What they make of it all.”

“And you’ve still got some reading to do.”

He glances at my feet then looks up and nods. “I met a man last month. Chatted for a full day before I realised who he was. I’m so embarrassed.”

“No shame Henry. We talked about that.”

“Yeah.” He nods and smiles at me again. “So long then.”

“Until the next time Henry.” I tap the polished copper band on my left wrist. “If you ever need to talk…”

Then with a deep breath, he raises a hand high in farewell, then steps onto Emerald Street and disappears among the throng.

I watch him go until I can’t see his head anymore, then settle back onto the bench and think awhile. I don’t need to block out all the voices, but I choose too. I look around the park and lose myself in trying to count the many shades of green. I give up after a while and try to catalogue the scents instead, from faintest rose, smooth buttercup bluebell, all trumped by a wave of chocolate. I close my eyes and a friend comes and rests with me. We talk awhile and agree it’s good to be in the garden.

Words whisper across my wristband and I’m shaken out of my reverie. “Report to central for immediate despatch.” That grips my attention. I’ve not had one of those for years. Feeling a tickle of alarm I survey the traffic, my eyes fleeting across the faces of my kin. Their restful expressions as they walk and talk, their forms standing head and shoulders above their people, reassure me. It’s not ‘General Quarters’. This message is just for me.

I stretch, then walk for a time. Soon I stand before Lord Gabriel.

“Sariel. Come forward. I’ll be with you shortly.” His hands are flashing across the polished copper disks hovering in rows in front of him. After a minute, his motion slows and with a flourish, he sweeps the whole fixture away. Meeting my gaze, he studies me.

“And how was Henry MacAllen this morning?”

I nod twice, a modest reflection on all my years of work. “Reconciled to eternity. In fact I’d say he’s looking forward to it.”

Gabriel’s slight bow suggests he concurs. “It’s so much easier to give eternity to a youth. To those full of years it can seem like a sentence. You did well Sariel. Tell me. Is he ready to meet Majesty?”

“I believe he is sir. Nervous perhaps, but assured.”

Gabriel nods and looks away. This small talk does not come easy to him. “Look, I need to put you on another case. Straight away.” I must look surprised because he continues. “It’s a rush job. Just come in. I didn’t know for sure it would come our way until a few minutes ago.”

“But isn’t every arrival known about years in advance?” I bow after speaking. It’s not my place to debate with my superior.

“Yes most are. Some are more, how best to put it? Spur of the moment. Look upon it as another aspect of human free will.” He pulls back the panel and taps a disk in the bottom left hand corner. An image pops out and expands. I see a young man lying sleeping in a white cell reserved for emergency suspensions. He is slim, athletic, about six foot two with light brown hair. He is wearing black jeans and a blue cashmere sweater. Aside from these details, everything else around him is white.

“Where’s his context?” I ask.

Gabriel looks at me. “He doesn’t have any.”

I’m starting to understand. “So he’s deceased prepartum?”

“Yes.” Gabriel winces. “But it’s a little complicated.”

I raise an eyebrow, seeking clarity.

“He was aborted Sariel. Just a few moments ago. Fourteen weeks gestation.”

I turn away from him and stare the man on the screen. He looks so perfect, so complete and for a moment I’m speechless.

“We’ve given him his life-optimal body shape and a basic language platform. His clothes and body condition are contemporary”, Gabriel continues. “But other than that, he’s got nothing.”

“Sir”, I pause long enough to see his fingertips rise together in expectation. “Aren’t there experts to handle this kind of thing?”

“Oh indeed. A legion seconded from other duties. But I’m getting over five thousand of these an hour. Nearly a quarter like him. Last minute, hasty decisions, botched or forced. We will manage because we always manage, but frankly Sariel, we’re inundated.” He peers at me over the top of the screen. “Look, take a seat for a second.”

Without looking I sweep my right hand behind me and sink onto the resulting white bench. “I’ve heard these cases can take centuries”, I say.

He nods empathically. “To help the discarded understand they are loved? We can’t do that in a hurry.”

I pause and think. “Will he experience hatred?”

Gabriel shakes his head. “Can’t exist here. But for his heart to be filled, he’s first got to realise how empty it is.” He tips his left palm towards the screen. “Look at it from his perspective. His one interaction with his mother resulted in his murder.”

I cover my face with my hands and shake my head. “Strong words sir. I wonder if the mother sees it that way.”

He leans back in his chair and looks away. “She’s not due in here for another twelve years. When she’s ready, you may discuss the morality of her choices at her leisure.”

“She’s coming here!”

Gabriel raises two hands to my outburst. “We don’t make the rules Sariel. And the day she finally meets her boy will need the greatest sensitivity. Now, can we focus on the task in hand?”

“Yes, Lord Gabriel.” I stand and heel back the bench with my left foot. “How should I proceed?”

He reaches out to the left of his panel and places a forefinger on a glowing disk. “In light of your inexperience I’ve prepared a few files on similar cases. Familiarise yourself with these before you wake him. And keep to the protocols Sariel. No going off script.”

“May I ask sir, is his election secure?”

He sits back sharply like I just flicked wine in his face. “Of course. That’s standard procedure for these cases. The challenge here isn’t his election; it’s bringing him fully into the light.” He stops and closes his eyes for a second. “To comprehend love Sariel, from where he is sitting, is no small thing. I’ve known too many like him who have been welcomed in this city, but remove themselves to its most distant rooms. That my friend is no way to spend eternity.”

I nod at this, reflecting again on the challenge presented by the human heart, then stand straight and salute.

“Any last questions”, he asks, closing the image and tossing the file onto my wristband.

“Yes sir. One last question. What is his name?”

“He doesn’t have one yet. Naming him will be your duty and your privilege when you first wake him.”

“Thank you sir.”

He nods. “You’re dismissed.”

I leave him and return again to the garden in the square, my heart heavy, but the conviction of my calling deeper than it’s ever been. I review the files, especially the outcomes for the forty cases on my disk. Then I close my eyes and sit again with my friend in the garden. All too soon it is time. I kneel at the young man’s bedside and pray. I look into the eyes of Majesty and ask for the boy’s name.

The lad is stirring now and gently I place a hand on his shoulder. His eyes open and immediately he recoils from me.

“Do not be afraid child. I’m bringing you good news. Your name is David and truly, truly, you are loved.”

Beyond the Dawn

Ian Manning

Once again, the morning came upon him like a thief. Eyes shut tight, he lay in the no-man’s land between sleep and waking that, for him, had become normality. For a lingering moment, he thought he smelt her hair next to him, the faint muskiness quenching his nostrils. The years bled away as morning mist lifts into the day, breath loitering expectantly. His mood gathered pace with his stiff loins and together they made preparations to rise, like the sun. He tilted towards her side of the bed, smiling. Then his synapses, slow shuffling in the geriatric dawn, caught up with themselves and here he was again – Groundhog Day. He rolled back and sighed. Eyes opening reluctantly, the sunlight that had played tricks with his mind now warm on his face, he stared at the ceiling and contemplated the day ahead.

Once off the horizontal, what he chose to do next was immaterial. At one time, to be up naked from the sheets and into a deluging shower was automatic. To be clean, to match her smooth, pink energy as well as for the childish pleasure of finger-squeaking his hair, was essential. Done without thought. Now, the choice was wide but barren. Coffee or tea? Dress or dressing gown? Toast or cereal? Or, as was often the case, simply nothing at all? Such choices were weightless, hence the slightest breath of wind might stir the sails into one direction or into quite another. Eat, wash, drink, stay in, go out? It was of no moment to him now.

Today, he sat at the kitchen table, toast hovering between table and mouth (precisely what need had he of a plate?), cheek resting thin on his hand. The day was settling into a well-worn and familiar groove. His thoughts turned ever inward, repining, as always, offering the line of least resistance. Why in all their long fallow time together had he not been kinder to her? He recalled their first years together. How his astonishment that such a girl should have consented to marry him had been turned upon its head when she suddenly fell dangerously ill. As she hovered close to death, he recalls events now with such precision: the acrid cleanliness of the ward, the mitred bed corners and flashing monitors. But it was her lank, unwashed hair and grey skin that had taken centre stage, obliterating pity, obscuring love. All he could feel was revulsion and not least with himself. As she recovered, he found himself awash with a guilt that drove deep.

Why had he never been able to show her how deeply he really felt? If there was such a fountainhead of love and affection, why had he been so niggardly towards her, his carping eyes forever unable to see the real person? (Or maybe it was just too well concealed?) Most painfully of all, why had he continued to find any illness or injury she suffered disgusting, her temporary frailty not evincing compassion but irritation? He recalled his final sight of her, lying in the hospice, her once strapping frame shrunken beneath the covers, cheeks sallow and cold. As he leant over dry eyed, the sour smell of death drifted across his nose and that same flinching response filled him with a familiar self-loathing. In the brief flirtation with a bereavement support group that had followed, the earnestly vouchsafed advice that he should ‘Learn to love himself’ had engendered only a mocking hoot. How could he, who apparently seemed incapable of loving anyone adequately, achieve such an astonishing feat?

Lifting out of his reverie, he began to chew the now cold toast and gazed blankly out of the kitchen window. The cat appeared like the Cheshire variety: one minute absent, the next there in all her marmalade glory. They startled one another and the cat’s mouth opened soundlessly as if in answer to his surprised ‘Hallo!’ Shuffling across to the door, he opened it. An orange shadow fell lightly onto the step and paused, but only momentarily. With a brief yowl, she breasted his defences and took possession of her objective. She had to make her demands abundantly clear before the vanquished brought forth sustenance. Then, after an initial sniff of displeasure, the four-day-old tuna was swiftly despatched and she set about assaying her conquest. The sour pit of his sheets seemingly entirely to her liking and the occupation was complete. He sat on the end of the bed and looked down at her sleek tawny completeness, enthralled.

Unlike any normal captive, he felt no animosity, no rancour towards his new gaoler. Indeed, it was as if she had always been there. His mornings now began with her feet kneading his sheets and his ears filled with her hungry rumbling. His days fell into sync with her movements. He became doorman to her duchess, opening and closing them as and when she required, ridiculously pleased by the occasional chirruped acknowledgement. His evenings, once as much a wasteland as the rest of his day, became a cocoon of mutual pleasure. The weight of her on his thighs became as fundamental as breathing. He arranged the flat to suit her needs and happily accommodated her ever-changing taste in food. Like a true aristocrat, she was gracious with her staff, bestowing a lick here or a passing chin rub there and a rumble of pleasure when settled on his lap. In those moments, he cared nothing that someone else might have a claim on her. Indeed, if anyone were to come asking, he knew he would fight tooth and nail to keep her.

Where she had come from, he had no idea. Likewise, he had no idea how old she was – with cats, age is harder to assess than with humans. When she began to lose weight, but still ate like a horse (‘Although surely I’m more of an Arab filly?’, she might have said), he was concerned. When the rich plush of her coat began to fade and surrender its sleekness, he worried and took her to the vet.

• No, he didn’t know how old she was.
• Yes, she was eating well, always had.
• Don’t worry, they said, it’s just old age. Nothing to be done.
• ‘It happens to us all’, the smooth faced child vet announced with a knowing smile quite empty of any knowledge.

He took her home gently, cradling the cat box against the autumn wind and the jarring of his steps. Once home, she faded like a brilliant flower past its best, her tonal range diminishing until in the spectral glow of the television, she descended into monochrome. He began to find pools of urine or loose bowel movements around the house. As he mopped them up, he saw the mortification in her averted head and found himself saying: ‘Don’t worry, love. You can’t help it’. As she washed herself less, he took to brushing her now lifeless coat, gently negotiating the bony terrain of her frame. Sensing something, she took to creeping from his lap up onto his chest and almost touched noses, her rancid cat breath curling into his, unnoticed.

One morning, as he knew it must, the end came. He woke to find her stretched out beside him as always, but now her head and ears seemingly too large for the shrunken body. There was still some life in her, though and he brought water in a dropper to moisten her thin black lips. He wiped her leaking eyes with a cotton bud and wept as she chirruped faintly. He felt her purr as he stroked her head, her eyes widening, twin almonds of green dazzling in the pale room. Her purr deepened as the now half closed lids fluttered like faulty shutters and then slid down for the last time. The rumbling continued, finally entering a slow decline into stillness.

In the half-light of the growing day, he brushed her fur with a pad of velvet until it gleamed almost as of old and then gently arranged her in her favourite sleeping position, all toes touching and curled like a comma.

His tears dried finally and in their place, he found a bewildering wellspring of contentment. He felt somehow purified by the trauma and alone with his destiny, yet at peace with the knowledge, finally, that he had given quite as much as he had received.

THE ONE THING

Christina Hollis

This looks like a good hole. A short drop through the coal hatch—is there any danger of a rough landing on fuel? Oh, no, that would be too much like good luck. We haven’t come across a decent heat source for months.

I help the others down into this cellar—the Gershons, the Farhardi flock, Mr Tran, the Madukeles, Mrs Djokic and the rest of our army of the dispossessed. Once upon a time, each of us was on the Home Front in any one of a dozen different nations. We’re now the Homeless Front, trudging on from cellar, to shed, to plastic sheeting tied over branches. Down all the days, through the years, across the centuries, forever moving on toward a common fate.

Today has been hard. But then…every day is hard. We woke to snow. A cloud of big heavy planes let it fall. The cold stuff can be melted for water, but this morning’s blizzard was the sort we could have used to light a fire, if it hadn’t been soaked with rain.

The worst you can get from a propaganda drop is paper cuts.  Later, the planes came back and strafed us with a more solid form of persuasion. “Harvesting fanatics” they call it, although anybody in our company with the strength to fight would stick out like a bandaged limb. All ten of the Madukele family added together wouldn’t make one complete human body. The bits that haven’t been blown off or infected have been lost to river blindness, or leprosy. Mr Tran is so old, he gets to ride in the cart. He’s a veteran of the Cu Chi tunnels. They were probably more palatial than this dark, dripping refuge.

The last bombardment killed our mule, but you have to look on the bright side in this travelling life. It was heavy work, getting the animal into the cart and we’ve had to take turns carrying Mr Tran, but at least we’ll be able to taste meat again. Shouldering the empty harness and helping to pull the cart was tricky with Baby bundled up in my shawl. The bare night sky sucked away her warmth soon after she was born, but I can’t leave her.

We’re all exhausted. Mrs Djokic makes a fire while the Farhardis butcher the mule. There isn’t time to roast it all, so they hack it into chunks and spike them on green olive branches over the blaze.  The smell of fat waxing onto hot stones makes the Gershons think of home. Rebecca cries, rivulets creasing her walnut face. Isaac says it’s a pity we can’t collect the salt from her tears to go with the dripping. That would be a feast, smeared onto thick slices of bread. Except we don’t have any bread. We huddle together for warmth, swapping food porn as we remember the sort of meals that made us the people we once were.

I wish the television crews would catch up. Baby feels like a candle-stump that’s been left overnight on a windowsill. I can still remember candles. Unbroken windowpanes are harder to recall, although we—or people like us— have visited lots of places. Dresden in the North, Moyamba in the South, Guernica in the West. We gather and reform, tidal waves of us, large in number but invisible to everyone until we get in their way. A sea of refugees without the strength to make ripples. Only rich and well-fed voices carrying through marble halls can do that.

Vibrations silence us. It must be bombers. First we feel them, then we hear them. They drag anti-aircraft fire along in their wake, inflaming the small square of night sky we can see through the coal hatch. We start counting seconds between blasts when the rockets begin. Those are fired in multiples of four, and they say that as long as you hear the ‘phwee’ you’ll live to hear the ‘flump’. Who are they? How do they know? It’s like those dreams of falling… you’re supposed to die if you hit rock bottom. But how many dead people have come back to say how they landed?

I wish those guns would shut up. They’ll wake Baby, and I don’t have anything for her. It’s been days since she’s eaten.

The artillery stops. We go on listening. The only sounds come from our cooking fire. The hiss and pop of damp tinder trying to burn makes me wish for the sound of the guns again. Silence isn’t always a good sign. It can be too quiet.

A dog barks. Another joins in. A distant sound of shouting comes running. It’s ground troops. The Enemy. It doesn’t matter what they call themselves—Boxers, Balkan freedom fighters, Generals from Spain, soldiers who bayonetted Belgium, Communists… the list goes on. They’re all loyalists to a man (and woman).  The hungry, angry look in their eyes gives them away.

Mr Tran can’t go on. He begs us to push him up into the street, and back out onto the road. Powered by self-preservation, we force him upward so that the top half of his body blocks the hatch. Then we douse the fire, and flatten ourselves into the darkness. If The Enemy assumes he was alone, they’ll kill him and move on without searching.

In my experience, those who die are lucky. The rest of us, the ones who can’t let go of life,  are left to carry on suffering.

We hear more running. There’s shouting, gunfire, and we wait for the bottom half of Mr Tran to go limp. It doesn’t. Instead, he jerks his feeble legs with excitement, and calls down to us.

The Allies have arrived! They’ve chased The Enemy away!

Hooray.

We’re saved.

But for what?

Pity, gritty in The Allies eyes, announces to the world that they are Our (current) Saviours. The message will run round the world loud and clear in selfies, Facebook posts, and news reports despatched from The Front. The truth is that these are marines, aircrew, and peace-keeping forces. They’re somebody’s Brave Boys, chock-full of the Right Stuff. They are all patriots, right down to the last gender-non-specific one.

Mrs Satō recognises them. These are the sort who fried her grandparents in Nagasaki.  They wiped all traces of Mrs Khan’s village from the face of the earth, for the greater good. Mrs Barzan saw her family massacred after their help. The sight sent her limping to the shores of the Mediterranean, and on to a leaky boat heading for Lampedusa.

All of us used to rely on our homeland, our families, and ourselves. Then The Enemy took away our land, our culture, and our identities, so there’s nothing for it. We have to let The Allies rescue us.

We abandon our dignity in the loving arms of The Allies, each clinging on to the one thing that keeps them going.

The Enemy wanted us dead. All The Allies will take is our reputations. There’ll be a limit to the food, shelter, and friendship they offer. Crossing the invisible lines that divide Syria from Turkey, Bangladesh from India or any one country from any other transforms locals into foreigners, and plucky freedom fighters into refugees.

Nobody loves a loser. That means us. Right now it doesn’t much matter whether we fall under the tank-tracks of friend or foe.

Baby and I accept a hand up from the cellar, and out into the night. I squeeze into a truck along with everyone else. I know it’s temporary help and pointless, but there’s only one thing worse than being a nameless face in a troop of refugees. That’s getting left behind. It’s the flip side of Darwin’s theory. The survival of the fittest doesn’t mean gym bunnies rule. It means the ones who fit in get to live. If you’re without a voice, poor, old, sick or alone, you lose the one thing that has kept all refugees going, down the centuries and along this same bitter, beaten track.  

What is it? Hope. The last illusion left in Pandora’s box of tricks. The final refuge of the optimist. It used to be called religion. Be good, and you’ll go to heaven. Only the bad go to hell. That isn’t the way it works these days. Life moves faster as the globe warms, and hearts get colder. Soft-centred intellectuals lose out to hard-nosed opportunists, every time. Those empty vessels which make the most noise are filled with backhanders, expenses and honours. Good people become veterans of a living death. They go through hell, so the bad can avoid it.

Don’t waste a second worrying about us though, will you? We’re sure to see you again soon—looking out from your TV screen, your phone, or tablet.

So here’s to the next time…

The Woman who slept with a Monkey

Barbara Lorna Hudson

Where do we come from and where are we going? – our Quaker discussion group was never afraid to tackle the Big Questions. But taking on evolution and the life after death in a single two-hour session (including a comfort and coffee break) did seem over-ambitious, even to me.

Sitting next to me was a stout woman with faded red hair streaked with grey, at least ten years older than anyone else in the room. She seemed shy – overawed, perhaps, for we were an assertive, articulate lot, perhaps as a reaction to all the long silences during the Quaker meeting that preceded our discussion. After someone mentioned a recent wildlife documentary, the red-haired woman made a tentative contribution: “I once met David Attenborough. I had come to clean his office…”

Everyone looked at her expectantly. She flushed. “At the time I’m afraid I didn’t realise how important he was, but I’d seen him on the telly. And I knew he was a wildlife expert, so I asked him for some information. But he just said, “Why don’t you write to me?” and when I did, I’m afraid he didn’t reply. I expect he was too busy.”

Nobody troubled to enquire what she had asked David Attenborough about and I felt sorry for her because she obviously thought she had a big story and it had cost her a great deal to speak out.

The discussion continued and changed direction. What should be done with our bodies after death? Some favoured traditional burial; some urged ‘green’ burial in woodland; others wanted to be cremated and scattered about the place. There were even advocates of burial at sea and of exposure on a tower of silence to the ministrations of vultures. A few, like me, simply didn’t care, but we joined in just as loudly as those who did care. My neighbour tried once to say something, but someone else talked over her.

“I’m Charles Barton,” I said afterwards. “I think you’re a new member?”

“I’m not really a member. I came because the topic interests me. Discussion groups aren’t my thing – I either get tongue-tied or all muddled up. My name’s Jenny Jones.”

Since she lived in my part of London, I offered her a lift. I wanted to make her feel a bit more welcome and, besides, I was a proud new driver, and the owner of a red second-hand Mini Cooper; at that age I enjoyed giving people lifts.

Away from the large group, Mrs Jones became more talkative. “Myself, I’d prefer to be cremated,” she began. “But I do want a headstone. Will they let you have one just for ashes?”

“Oh, anybody can have a headstone,” I replied, though I really didn’t know. I was aiming for an academic career and in those days I thought one ought never to admit to ignorance. “Forgive my asking – why is a headstone important to you?”

“I’ve found a stonemason who could do a carving of an orang-utan for my headstone. I’ve priced it and everything and I want to put it in my will.”

I jerked my head round. “Why a carving of an orang-utan?” She must be some kind of nutter.

“It’s complicated.”

“Please do tell me.” I was hoping that at least she would provide me with a humorous story to tell my mates at college.

“I’ve had a thing about them pretty well all my life. I think it began with a monkey I slept with when I was young.”

The Mini Cooper swerved. I wasn’t used to such confidences from an older lady, especially on first acquaintance. I glanced at Mrs Jones. She looked deadly serious, and not at all embarrassed. She was dressed like my mother – discreet, old-fashioned skirt and jacket, sensible shoes. Nothing to suggest – well, what exactly? Surely not…

“How do you mean – you slept with a monkey?” Only animal behaviourists out in the wild would have the opportunity for that. And then it would only be ‘sleep’ in the sense of ‘take one’s rest’. I took my eyes off the road and glanced at her again.

“Oh, it’s not what you’re thinking. Oh dear, I keep saying the wrong thing. I just mean I used to take my stuffed toy monkey to bed.”

I was disappointed; not much of a story there. “And after you grew up?”

“I came across a photo of an orang-utan in a magazine and I sort of fell in love; he – I think it was a he – looked so very like my little stuffed Bimbo. I visit them at the Zoo whenever I can, and collect pictures of them. It’s my dream to go and see them in the wild, but I’ll have to win the lottery for that.”

“Was it orang-utans you asked David Attenborough about?”

“Yes, how did you guess? I enquired if he had any contact with orang-utans. But immediately I’d posted my letter to him I realised I had expressed it badly. What I meant to say was, did he know any experts on orang-utans? Anyway, that came to nothing.”

I tried to keep sarcasm out of my voice. “What a pity! You must have been dreadfully disappointed.” David Attenborough probably couldn’t think how to respond, I thought. Poor man! he probably gets sackloads of loony letters every day.

“I don’t really understand evolution,” she went on. “But they say we’re descended from the apes, don’t they? And all this new stuff about genes and DNA – we didn’t do it at school. Will scientists really be able to prove that people are fifty per cent the same as apes?”

“Or fifty per cent the same as bananas – or rhubarb,” I replied in my superior ‘I’m a science graduate’ voice.

“Surely that can’t be right? People don’t look at all like bananas or rhubarb. And nor do apes.”

Jenny turned away, and I realised I’d hurt her feelings. But before I could apologise or try to explain, she continued, speaking fast and sounding emotional. “I look into their eyes and they look into mine and I just know we’re family. I believe I’ve got more of their DNA than other people. A sort of spiritual bond. I’m proud of it. I think they’re better than us and…”

“But would they share their dinner with you?” This was my stock question when people got too anthropomorphic for my liking.

“Of course they would.”

That was me told. Becoming impatient, I tried to take our conversation in a different direction. “Have you a family?”

“I’m divorced. I’ve two daughters, and three grandchildren. I adore them all, but I must admit I have a favourite: my daughter Coral’s baby. Coral and Rufus have lived with me since the father ran off with a floozy he met in the King’s Arms. Rufus is bright as a button, and so cute! Lovely auburn hair, a squashed little nose, and a big forehead like in that famous picture of William Shakespeare. He looks just like a baby orang-utan. Not Shakespeare – Rufus, I mean.”

“Does Rufus’ mother share your opinion of him?”

“Oh yes, but she has no interest in orang-utans and I’m afraid she keeps calling the poor mite an ugly little b–. But I’m going to make sure he has the best of everything. I’m saving up for school fees. He’ll be the first of our family to go to a private school and you never know – perhaps he’ll get into Oxford or Cambridge. And if his mother doesn’t love him enough, I’ll always be there to make up for it.”

We reached her street in a run-down council estate somewhere between Southwark and Greenwich, and I dropped her off. I waited till she was safely inside the block of graffiti-covered flats.

I never saw Jenny Jones again. The memory of that unusual conversation made me chuckle, and I enjoyed repeating it in the students’ bar. I did not appreciate Jenny’s devotion to the ill-favoured, fatherless baby, nor did I take seriously her ambitions for poor little Rufus; I felt these details made my story even funnier.

***

That was forty years ago.

Although I’ve been a Green Party member for many years, I’m thinking of voting Labour in the General Election because I can’t help admiring our Prime Minister. It’s true, his looks are against him: his hair is a peculiar reddish-brown, and he has a large head, deep-set eyes, long arms and short legs. But what really matters is that he’s concerned about poor people, single-parent families and animal welfare. He doesn’t seem to mind being dubbed the Ugliest Prime Minister in Europe.

There’s a photo of the Prime Minister on the front page of today’s Independent. He’s laying flowers at his beloved grandmother’s grave. (Those insensitive paparazzi will follow him anywhere). The headstone is in shot. Carved upon it is an orang-utan.

Indiscretions

Two things told me I was in trouble.  The porch light was off, and I fumbled with the front door key, before realising it was for the shed.  I’d only been down the pub for a couple of hours.  Met some mates, watched Sky football.  I knew Nancy was still up ‘cos the front room lights were on, which meant, she’d deliberately turned the porch lights off.

The television seemed louder than usual.  I was tempted to walk straight upstairs, and go to bed, pretending I hadn’t wanted to interrupt the programme she was watching.  If I went straight up, she’d think I was just going to the loo, and would be sat waiting for me, to open the lounge door, and get both barrels.  I was getting quite anxious.  My palms were sweaty, and my breathing tight.  All this for a couple of pints on a Saturday night; was it worth it?  

I decided to pre-empt the strike, so popped a mint in my mouth and opened the lounge door.

‘Hello my love.  Alright?  What’re you watching then?’

No reply.  Nancy was in her usual place.  Feet up on the sofa, coffee table laden with magazines, titbits, sweets and nuts.  Xmas goodies, which kept us going for months into the New Year.  The telly was definitely blaring out, but Nancy didn’t seem to care.  

I exhaled alcoholic fumes quickly, then leant over the back of the sofa touched her hair, and stroked the back of her neck.  That usually did the trick.  Not this time.  She was rigid, then shrugged and moved her body away as my hand touched her.

‘Wassup?  I’ve only been out for a couple of pints.  You knew I was going. I thought you didn’t mind.’  I hadn’t asked her permission, but earlier simply said casually ‘I’m popping down the pub for a couple of hours later.  Do you want to come?’

I was kind of glad she didn’t say yes.  I’d have taken her if she’d wanted to go, but was still relieved when she said no.  We’ve been together now for years, and apart from an odd night down the pub, I hardly ever manage to get out of the house.

Nancy still hadn’t spoken, so I shrugged and walked towards the lounge door ready to go to bed.  Her timing was perfect.  Just as I touched the door handle.

‘Who is she John?’  I paused, feverishly trying to remember if any of my recent dalliances with the fairer sex had caused enough gossip to get back to her.  They were only a bit of fun and I’d have run a mile if someone had said yes.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Who is she?’ repeated Nancy frostily.  This time she at least looked at me, before reaching to the coffee table, picking up a photograph and throwing it towards me.  It fluttered slowly in the air before landing face down at my feet.  I didn’t need to turn it over, yet I innocently reached down and picked it up.

‘Nancy, what are you doing with this?  What’s this all about?  Come on love what’s going on?’

‘You tell me lover boy’ she said cynically.  ‘Cos that’s what it says on the back of the photo.  Lover boy.  My lover boy.  Since when?’

‘Where’d you get this from?’  I said calmly, breathing deeply, trying to conceal the turmoil within me, as my mind raced.  Nancy was almost snarling.

‘Well one of the nice things about living with you, is that I have the dubious privilege of doing your washing and ironing.  This evening I was putting your underpants away, when I realised there was something hidden underneath the drawer lining.  I pulled it out and what did I find.  A photograph of another woman.  So I say again John, who is she?  And what’s her photograph doing in your underwear drawer?  What’s going on?  And no lies!.  Please’

‘That’s going to be difficult’.  I thought.  ‘Especially with most escape routes closed.’  I decided to stall for a while until I knew the extent of her challenge.

‘If I told you it was my sister, what would you say?’

‘Apart from the word liar, not a lot really.  Liar.’ she said.

‘You’ve never met my sister’ I said triumphantly ‘ So how can you call me a liar.’

‘John, there’s a date on the back of the photograph.  Your sister  according to you died 10 years before this photograph was taken.  I’ve never met her, so either we have a case of reincarnation, it ain’t your sister, or if it was, you’re a perv.  Now who is she?’

I looked down at the photograph.  Memories came flooding back.  I still needed to turn it over.  What date was she talking about?  If I knew that, I could at least have a chance of lying my way out..  For the moment I was well and truly knackered.

‘O.K.  You want the truth?  I went to the Library a couple of weeks ago.’

‘You haven’t been to the Library in years’ Nancy interrupted.

‘I know that but I was passing by, and just dropped in.  They had an exhibition on the Second World War, and I thought well let’s have a look at that.  And I did.’

‘What’s that got to do with the photograph?’ said Nancy suspiciously.

‘Well, having walked in, I thought why not have a look round the latest fiction.  I haven’t done any serious reading for years.’

‘And?’ she said impatiently.

‘Well.  I picked up this novel and as I did so the photograph fell out.  When I turned it over and read the back it said ‘To my lover boy’.  I don’t know why but when I looked at the girl in the photograph it seemed as if the years had rolled back and she was saying it directly to me.  It must have been fate.  I walk in the library for the first time in years.  I happen to choose one particular book, and in the back is the photograph’

‘So why’d yah keep it?  And more importantly why hide it?’ said Nancy.

I didn’t know if I would get away with this one.

‘Well you might not believe this Nancy, but there was something about her that reminded me of you, when we first met.  I think that’s what made me want to keep it.  Your hair was styled just like that, and you dressed in a similar way’  Emphatically  ‘You also used to call me lover boy didn’t yah?’

In reality, my memory was fine.  I didn’t need any prompting.  Yeah it was true that I’d gone to the library for the first time in many years, and chosen a book at random just before a photograph fell out.  Fact.  The difference was, I knew who it was instantly.  I’d never forgotten Helen.  We’d been lovers for a couple of years on and off.  Mainly on when her husband was away in the Navy, and off when he came home again, although sometimes we got it a bit mixed up.

At first I couldn’t believe it when the photograph landed at my feet.  Kismet?  Why me?  I wasn’t the only one in Helen’s life.  I knew that.  She was a lovely, but often lonely young woman, and generous with it, although, I don’t think I knew any of the others.  Besides, Nancy and I had just met, and I was becoming increasingly attracted to her.

Now whilst I liked to fantasise about being an object of desire, it was only that.  A fantasy.  So I’d discretely put the photograph in my pocket, stuffed the book back on the shelf and came home.  I wanted to tear it up, but felt strangely compelled to hang on to it even though I knew it might get me in trouble one day.  And that day seemed to have arrived, through my underpants drawer.

I was still seeing Helen for about a year after I’d met Nancy.  Funny ennit?  I’ve been reading about Prince Charles and apparently he was seeing that woman Chameleon, or whatever her name is, for years before he married Diana, and then carried on afterwards.  At least I’d packed Helen in eventually.  And really meant it – then.

Two years later, I’d just come out of a fish and chip shop when a bus came by and pulled in further up the road.  As it passed, I saw this image in one of the bus windows.  They were a bit steamed up, but Helen always had a distinctive hairstyle, and face.  I recognised her instantly, and throwing my chip supper on the pavement ran after the bus.  I was carrying a bit of weight at the time, so was a bit slower than I wanted to be.  I was running in slow motion, just like in one of those adverts.

A bloke who got off the bus, at the stop, had a problem with his balance after I smashed into him.  By the time I got up off the pavement, the bus had gone, and so had Helen; until my recent visit to the library.  That’s why I’d really kept the photograph.

But what could I say to Nancy?  She was still looking at me, although her face had softened.  What else.  I’ll be 75 next week.  

‘Want a cup of tea love?’

The Park

I like sitting in this park.  This is the one I used when I had a tea break on my round.  There was usually an empty bench somewhere, so I’d park my trolley up, dig out my old flask and sandwiches, and for a little while, I’d be back on a picnic, in Devon.  Perfect.  There was even a shelter near the middle, so even if it was raining, I could usually squeeze in.  Met a few of my customers there, so after I took early retirement, once or twice a week, I’d jump the bus with my flask and sarnies and catch up with them.  Still had some regrets about transferring up to London.  Followed this lady; but it didn’t work out.  At heart though, I’d remained a local postman, and this park was slap bang in the middle of my round.  

Saw Mrs Amis the other day, from No.46.  She didn’t sit in the park; just used it as a short cut to her hairdressers.  She was quite nice, most of the time.  However, there was an edge to her, especially if Mrs Evans was around.  She lived a few doors down.  Should remember the number; cos delivered to it for over ten years.  Mrs Amis and Mrs Evans, had a fall out, a while back.  Big time.  Everyone in the immediate neighbourhood knew about it, including a few others who lived nearby.

Two older women, both of whom should have known better, engaging in a bit of old fashioned playground behaviour.  Name calling, some swearing by Mrs Amis, an attempt at hair pulling by Mrs Evans, and a passer-by, namely me, on my rounds, having to separate them, and calm them down.  Why?  Mrs Amis had a cat Pip, that wandered and could be aggressive.  Mrs Evans’s flat was immaculate.  One day, Pip got in and did it’s business on her carpet.  Simple.

As individuals they couldn’t be nicer.  They’d both invite me in for a quick cuppa, and sometimes a cake or biscuit.  Both were widows, neither had big families, and they lived on their pensions.  When you deliver a variety of letters over the years, you come to know quite of lot about your customers.  Birthdays, special events such as Xmas, the deluge of junk mail which I’d often bin for them, the inevitable brown envelope from the Government, and occasionally, especially for Mrs Evans, welcome letters in familiar handwriting from Canada.  She told me it was from her son, although I already knew that, as in the States and Canada, they have a habit of putting their name and address on the envelope.  I’d also stick a few anonymous Valentine’s cards through some letter boxes.  That caused a stir on occasions, especially for those that didn’t need one.

When I was in the park yesterday, Mrs & Mrs Khan came by with their youngest in the pushchair.  I was quite taken aback.  They looked quite worn out, worried like.  They used to be such fun.  Mr Khan was born in London, but his wife came over from Pakistan on an arranged marriage.  One minute he was single, and working in his Dad’s restaurant, next thing he’s gone to Islamabad and comes back with a new bride.  Moved in with his parents.

That was about a year after I started on my round, when time seemed to fly.  She could hardly speak English, but was very friendly and tried out new words on me, when I was doing deliveries.  Should have taught her the word “No” because within a few years she had numerous kids, but was still smiling.  Until yesterday that is.  Hadn’t seen her for a couple of months, and she looked really down in the dumps.  I nodded but they didn’t seem to want to talk, so I left it at that.

One of the nicest people on my round was a retired ex-Army bloke, Jack Street.  He was disabled, and spent his life in a wheelchair, so had one of the specially adapted flats at No.60.  His daughter Mandy lived away.  She visited every week, and used to stay overnight, then make sure he had a bath and changed his clothes, before getting his shopping for that week.  Home help came in morning and night.  Outside of that, he had little contact; but never moaned.  

Jack was a horse racing man; followed the gee gees, and was always offering me a dead cert.  Couple of times, I took his advice, and found they were dead, but not dead certs.  He kept a bottle of Scotch in his cupboard, and whenever I had to make a special delivery that he had to sign for, that was a bonus.  He liked a drink, that was clear, but he also liked to raise a glass with someone else, and I was happy to oblige.

My large round, gradually got larger and heavier.  We went from carrying post bags, courtesy of HM Prison workshops, and doing one round a day, to lugging blooming great trolleys and doing two rounds, in the time we used to stretch one.  Gradually, I saw less and less of my older, more established customers, whilst new ones, remained simply a name and address on the envelope, rather than a real person, which is a bit sad really.  

As a postman, I’ve occasionally spotted people on my round, who needed help.  I’ve called out the Police, Ambulance service, the Council, Environmental Health, and a couple of voluntary organisations.  Gave up trying to get the local GP practice on the phone, so usually popped into reception, when I was on my way back to the depot and gave them the heads up there.

Over the years, my round became a bit like the United Nations.  The old familiar names, Smith, Brown, Jones, Flanagan, Reilly, replaced by Adebayo, Okafor, Kowalski, El Mustafi, Yang, Cheung.  All the local shops also began to change, not only in what they sold, but when they sold it.  It was the same with the schools.  

Schools had special deliveries of mail, and were also on the internal Council mail system, but I still had to visit occasionally, but most days would walk past at playtime.  Seeing a young girl wearing the hijab was a rarity; now it’s the exception not to have one.  This didn’t suddenly happen.  Most of the time, even someone like myself, around most days, didn’t realise what was going on, and how much things were changing.  

It was only when I sat down one day and read a list, that I realised.  Although, I’m out of it now, I still think a lot about my customers, and remember those individuals like Jack and his horses, Mrs Amis and her blooming cat, and some of the kids in the new development, especially the dance troupe.  That was made up of about fifteen girls, all from the estate, and they got a got a room in the local Community centre, for their music and practice.  I’d watched many of them grow up.  They were fantastic.  Melanie from No.85 was a former professional dancer, so when her daughter and a few mates got together, and asked her to help, it really took off.  Their highlight, was to appear on one of those television talent shows.  Didn’t win, but I was sitting at home cheering them on, and when they came back the whole place turned out to welcome them back.  

I’m still on my own, so perhaps that’s also why, I found it difficult taking early retirement.  Started to have sleepless nights, kept waking up with the sweats, even found myself having conversations with some of the people that I delivered to.  When I realised it was getting a bit obsessive, I went and saw my GP.  She was quite switched on and asked me to see a local Psychology team.  Apparently it wasn’t an unusual phenomenon.  

Although I wasn’t actually there when it happened, I was suffering a form of PTSD.  Me the local postman.  All I was meant to do was deliver the mail as quickly and efficiently as possible, get back to the depot, help out with sorting, or do another round even.  But the bosses knew I wasn’t just an ordinary postman.  I still had the Devon in me.  After all, I’d had the same round for over ten years.  

It was my patch, and I knew so many of those men, women and children.  The two older Khan children and their elderly grandparents, Melanie, her dancing daughter and several of her friends, Mrs Evans, Jack, his daughter, and his whisky.  All gone.  Grenfell Tower and so many residents, gone.  Their memories are here, living in my mind every day.  Seared in.  I know they’ll never go, despite what the Psychologist says.  

Meanwhile the letters continue to stack up at the depot.

THE AGENDA

A short play for 3 characters by Alan Grant.

THE AGENDA

THE SETTING IS THE LOUNGE BAR OF A QUIET, HISTORIC PUB NEAR THE WATERFRONT.  SIMON AND HIS SECRETARY JANE, ARE MEETING FOR A DISCRETE SUPPER.  BOTH ARE MARRIED.  THEY HAVE WORKED TOGETHER FOR 2 YEARS, HOWEVER THIS IS THE FIRST TIME THEY HAVE MET OUTSIDE OF THE OFFICE.  

THERE IS A JUKE BOX PLAYING QUIETLY IN THE CORNER, ELVIS PRESLEY IS SINGING “ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT” AS JANE ENTERS THE BAR TO MEET SIMON WHO IS ALREADY SEATED IN THE CORNER.  A WAITER IS NEARBY BEHIND THE BAR.

Cast

Simon, 40’ish, handsome, well dressed , successful businessman.  

Jane Mid 30’s, very attractive, slim and self assured.  

Waiter/Barman Youngish.  Smartly dressed in white shirt, bow tie, and waistcoat with black trousers.  

(LOUNGE DOOR OPENS, AND JANE ENTERS HURRIEDLY, THERE IS THE SOUND OF SEAGULLS IN THE LOCALITY, AND WIND AND RAIN BEATING ON THE PORCH OF THE DOORWAY.  SHE CLOSES THE DOOR BEHIND HER.  JANE HAS RAIN ON HER RAINCOAT AND UMBRELLA, WHICH SHE TRIES TO SHAKE OFF.  SHE LOOKS NERVOUSLY AROUND THE LOUNGE, WHICH HAS SUBDUED LIGHTING.  SIMON NOTICES HER ENTRY, SMILES AND GIVES A LITTLE WAVE, BEFORE STANDING UP AND MOVING TOWARDS HER.  TAKES UMBRELLA AND SHAKES IT).  

SIMON Hi Jane.  Glad you could make it.  Miserable isn’t it?  

JANE (Laughs) Miserable?  Us or the weather?  Can’t remember the last time someone stood up for me.  Been waiting long?

SIMON No not really.  Understand this pub can sometimes get busy.  Difficult to predict.  Told it does nice food though.  

JANE Uhm, a discrete table in a discrete pub.  Must’ve done this before.  (Pauses and stands looking at Simon who is still fiddling with the Umbrella, trying to close it) Shall I sit here?

SIMON Sorry?  (Flustered) Oh how silly of me.  Of course, let me move my coat and newspaper (Pauses) Jane I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve already ordered….crab salads, and white wine.  

JANE Oh……OK.  Thank you.  (Picks up glass).  Cheers.  Anyway how did you know what I’d like?

SIMON Uhm…..I guessed.  

JANE Really?  (Pauses)  Do I look a “crabby” sort of person?  You’ve spoilt my self image now.  Always thought of myself as more of a romantic Italiana.

SIMON I cheated.  Knew you brought a packed lunch into the office.  So I checked the fridge.  

JANE (Mock indignity)  Anything else you’ve been checking up on……….

SIMON (Pauses)  Some.  I’ve spent quite a time wondering about your likes, dislikes, even what you might be doing at any particular moment.  

JANE Is that why you’ve asked me here tonight?  Or as my boss, are you going to give me an off duty performance appraisal and pep talk (Pause) or is this is going to be something different?  Simon?  (Pauses)  Simon are you blushing?  

SIMON If I am it’s because I’m really pleased to see you.  Even if you might be teasing me.  (Pauses and looks at her breasts for a moment) I do like your blouse.

JANE Thank you kind sir.  Now is it my turn to say something nice.(Laughs) do you want to borrow it?  (Teasingly) Closet cross dresser?  Cos I’ve got quite a nice wardrobe.

SIMON Why not?  Let’s go for it (Pauses) Jane your face is a picture. No thanks, the blouse looks great, on you!  (Pauses) .Anyway what about saying something nice, to me?

JANE (Picking up menu from table) Well I’ve just noticed the description of this pub at the bottom of their menu.  “A place for family, friends and lovers to enjoy sea views, fine food and good company.”  

(JUKE BOX MUSIC CHANGES FROM ELVIS PRESLEY TO ROY ORBISON SINGING “PRETTY WOMAN“)

SIMON Which are we?

JANE Well we’re clearly not family and it does say friends and lovers.  OK on the first part?

SIMON That depends on why you’re here.

JANE Excitement?  Talking to you about things that really matter  (Pause) or maybe because you’re my boss, and I felt I had to.

SIMON (Indignantly)  Jane.  If I thought you felt obliged to be here, then I’d be/

JANE I’m pulling your leg.  I’m here because I want to be.  Simple as that really.

SIMON Did you have any difficulty in getting away?

JANE No.  Monday night is evening class.  What excuse did you make?

SIMON Told Sonia I had an evening meeting.

JANE Well at least that bit’s true and I am your PA after all.  So lets draw up an agenda.  Come on boss.  First item (Pauses)  Come on boss.  Play the game.

SIMON (Pauses) First item.  Manager’s declaration of interest and opening statement.  (Long pause)  I think I’m falling in love with you.

(JUKE BOX MUSIC CHANGES FROM ROY ORBISON TO TEDDY BEARS SINGING “TO KNOW HIM IS TO LOVE HIM”  WAITER MOVES FROM BEHIND BAR, AND APPROACHES THEIR TABLE.  WAITER PUTS MEALS ON TABLE, SETS OUT CROCKERY, NAPKIN ETC)

WAITER There you go Sir, madam.  Enjoy your meal.  Crab’s fresh this afternoon.  Anything else?

JANE (Holding wine glass up)  Yes can you bring the bottle?  

WAITER Certainly madam.

JANE (Pause)  How long have you felt like that, or was it simply an impulsive statement?  

SIMON No impulse.  How long?  Long enough to want to do something about it.  And you?

JANE Me?

SIMON Yes you Jane?

JANE I think you’ve sensed something already Simon.  If not you’ll just have to work it out.

SIMON (Gently) Can I share something with you?

JANE Of course  (Teasingly)  you do want to wear my blouse/

SIMON Be serious Jane.

JANE I’m nervous Simon  (Pauses) but I do want to know  (Pause)  really.

SIMON Jane, I’m so attracted to you.  I’ve been on edge ever since I asked you out.  This is the first time I’ve really felt able to do something/

JANE So that’s what tonight is really about.  Simon I’m here, cos I feel something similar, but we also have to be honest with one another.  (Pauses) I mean I do find you quite/

SIMON Handsome?

JANE Definitely

SIMON Irresistible?

JANE Given time/

SIMON Sexy?

JANE That’s usually the first question/

SIMON From whom?  (Jane smiles but does not respond)  Jane answer it, please.  

JANE That’s one I’d like to find out more slowly.

SIMON Well I’m glad I ordered a salad for you.  If it had been steak and chips I probably wouldn’t have got a word out of you.

JANE (Laughing)  What are you on Simon?

SIMON Confession time, I checked your original job application this afternoon.  Hobbies, favourite meals – steak and chips, etc.  Pastimes (Pauses)  Do you still Salsa?  Wow.

JANE (Nods) Yes.  Only nowadays, only in a bowl, with crisps and watching a film on telly.

SIMON With John?  

JANE Why ask?

SIMON Don’t you think I should?

JANE Not sure Simon.  Unlike you, this is not my first time/

SIMON For what?  First time for what?

JANE Simon I’ve been in this situation before, only..

SIMON (Pauses)  Only what Jane?

JANE Look my husband just upped and went after 2 years of what I thought was a reasonably successful and happy marriage.  Felt betrayed  Hated his new partner, and yet we’d never even met  (Pauses)  unlike Sonia, whom I like and respect.

SIMON Where’s John in all this?

JANE John and I have been together nearly 5 years.  I’m talking about my first husband.  I was married at 20 and divorced by the time I was 23.  Spent a year in shock, drifting, till I met John.

SIMON Well OK.  Uhm.  (Pauses)  Hadn’t realised, but it doesn’t change anything for me/

JANE It’s just that I often remember how I felt  (Sighs)  Simon moving from where we are, into to a full blown relationship, it’s huge.  Don’t forget it’s company policy that personal relationships between staff aren’t allowed.  

SIMON Now you’re really are making me nervous……………

JANE Well as the Chief Exec you should be.  Anyway, forget us – there are other people who might be harmed

SIMON Only might be harmed?

JANE I’m excluding John from this equation.  He’s already had enough.  You and I spend more time together.  He’s either drinking, down the rugby club, or sleeping.  Plus his long trips to Scotland to see his “mother”  if she exists.  

SIMON So you’re primarily concerned about Sonia?

JANE Not just Sonia, all of us.  I can assure you this will hurt.  I mean look at you, what are you, 40, 42?  You’ve been married for what?  12, 15 years?

SIMON And?  (Pauses)  Listen.  Please.  My decision to ask you out tonight was not made on the spur of the moment.  I’ve spent weeks thinking about us, and  that included doing nothing.

JANE Simon this is not a business negotiation.  (Points to herself) With this lot you will get huge emotional baggage, and even a few regrets (Laughs)  And that’s just me!  Then you’ll have your own issues to deal with, if we decide/

SIMON You said “if” I we decide to do something.  Are you still on “if” rather than “when”?  (Pauses)  Jane?

JANE (Pauses) What do you think?  You’ve got the most to lose.

SIMON I’m not in love with Sonia.  We share the same house, bed, friends, children, even occasionally the same interests, and I’ll put sex in that category/

JANE Sounds like love to me.  (Pauses)  Or at least a good enough version of it.

SIMON (Emphatically)  Stop it, please.  I know I’ve been with Sonia for a long time, but I’ve never,  (Pauses)  never experienced the feelings and attraction that I feel for you.  I’m frazzled.  I think about you, day and night.  When you leave on a Friday, all I do is wish the weekend away.  I’ve even been tempted to phone you at home and pretend there’s a crisis in the office, just so we could talk.  

JANE Why didn’t you?  Then you’d have understood my home situation a long ago.

SIMON (Pauses) Jane.  Listen, these past few moments, (Pauses)  tonight have been really quite difficult.  I’m being honest here.  Put me a bit on edge.

JANE (Assertively) Well what were you expecting?  (Pauses)  Simon whatever we decide now, someone is likely to get hurt.  Neither of us want that, and at the end of the day, it could be one of us.

SIMON What’d you mean?

JANE Look Boss.  My position is clear.  John and I will inevitably part the waves and move on.  Your situation is quite different.

SIMON Is it really?  Aren’t we both in relationships that aren’t working?

JANE Sonia might not agree with your statement, besides you’ve got kids/

SIMON Ouch.  (Pauses)  Well you certainly know my Achilles heel.  Anyway my boys are older, plus Sonia is tremendous at dealing with family issues, and if she and I can remain civil then, given time, who knows?.

JANE That doesn’t make it any easier Simon.  (Pauses)  Anyway I also think it’s time we resolved a certain subject matter before we go any further..

SIMON Children?  (Jane nods)  (Pauses)  Well?

JANE Your sons will always be welcome.

SIMON That wasn’t what I was asking.

JANE I know.

SIMON And?

JANE (Pauses)  Simon I’ve got used to the idea that nappies will never be a part of my life.  (Pauses and then wistfully) although once found myself walking round the maternity department of my local store.  Just touching things.  Holding them.  Really weird.  

SIMON (Looks disappointed)  Right issue?  Wrong time?/

JANE No.  (Pauses)  In fact it helps me.  Shows that you have thought some things through, even if you didn’t get the answer you perhaps wanted.  (Pauses)  Wow.  I feel quite exhausted.  Where’s the waiter gone with that bottle.  (SIMON STANDS UP AND BECKONS WAITER USING EMPTY GLASS TO ATTRACT HIS ATTENTION.  WAITER HURRIEDLY APPROACHES TABLE WITH FRESH BOTTLE).

WAITER Sincere apologies sir, madam.  Sorry for the delay.

JANE No problem (Pauses) Just leave the bottle, we’ll sort ourselves out, thank you.  (WAITER PUTS WINE BOTTLE DOWN ON TABLE AND LEAVES.  SIMON PICKS UP BOTTLE AND FILLS BOTH GLASSES).

SIMON Well?  Are we drinking to our future?  (Pauses)  Or shall we both get sloshed and drown our sorrows?  (Pauses, then a deep sigh.)  I’m pushing it, aren’t I, Jane?  (Long pause, then Jane picks up her glass, takes a sip from it, smiles ruefully, then nods)

JANE (Gently) Simon I think for now, we’re going to need some more wine.  (Pauses) lots of it.  (Smiles)  Meanwhile, tomorrow you’ll still be the Boss and I’m still the PA.

(JUKEBOX CHANGES SONG TO ROY ORBISON SINGING “ONLY THE LONELY”)

Lights down.

END.