Alison wipes her boots on the scraper and opens the back door. Toffee pushes his fat body ahead of her into the kitchen and bustles about aimlessly, his claws clicking on the floor-boards, his tail thumping against the cupboard doors. Alison takes off her knitted hat and scarf and lays down a large bunch of holly and assorted greenery on the table. She feels brisk and festive after her woodland walk and is looking forward to wiring the foliage into an wreath like the one in Country Life.
"Oh, you're back." Douglas wanders into the kitchen and opens the fridge door.
"It's a lovely day." Alison says, sniffing through her cold red nose. "Quite frosty still but bright and sunny. I do love these crisp winter days, don't you?"
"Mmmm." Douglas notices that there is some mucus glistening in her left nostril.
"I'd sooner have cold and sunny," Alison continues, "than warm and overcast." She takes a tissue out of her cardigan pocket and blows her nose.
"Are we out of yoghurts?"
"No, I just bought a pack. Bottom shelf."
"Oh yes." Douglas snaps off a French Vanilla.
I just saw Eleanor at the Post-office."
"Mmmm, did you."
"Eric's a bit upset with Glandice."
"Really?" Douglas looks up from his yoghurt.
"Mmmm, apparently." Alison has started foraging in the cutlery drawer for a pair of scissors.
"In what way?"
"Oh Toffee, get out of the way!"
"In what way?"
"It's no use looking up at me like that, you've been fed you old greedy guts. Yes you are. Yes you are. You're an old greedy guts." She rubs Toffee's ears.
"In what way is Eric upset with Glandice?"
"Hmmm? Oh, she suggested that TADS might dress up in Tudor costumes and hand out programmes for the Festival. I gather Eric feels it's a little beneath our dignity."
"Well, it is isn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know. I think it sounds rather fun. And it's nice of Glandice to include local people."
"Well..." Douglas stretches out his legs, "I think local people in Tendringhoe have a little bit more to offer than that." He explodes a little puff of incredulous air. "I mean, we're not your average village. We already have a thriving local arts scene and I think Eric was hoping to be more directly involved, on the literary side, certainly."
"Well, I think Glandice is being quite fair really. After all, the Festival's not just some local amateur thing, she's roped in some big names, and Geoffrey Lamb is organising the literary side of things. We're lucky to have something like that in the village. It'll put us on the map. Be good for local business. And, well, actually, I think it all sounds lovely."
"Yes. Yes. You're quite right." Douglas says. "You're quite right."
Alison straightens her back slightly and smiles. "Well, I think so."
"Absolutely, my dear. Leave the professionals to it." He opens the pedal bin with his foot and drops in the empty yoghurt pot. Good. Let the Morgan's drift away from the heart of village life. Let them establish their own exclusive London clique that doesn't include any of his parishioners. Excellent in fact!
Monday, September 25, 2006
Thursday, September 14, 2006
TT 35 - Michael Can't Wait for Christmas
"Where does the Church of England stand on homosexuality, exactly?"
Douglas' eyes widen momentarily. "Oh, gosh, good question." He laughs and pours himself some more tea. He's hoping this is one of Michael's random issues. Last week it was stem-cell research. He tips his tea-pot at Michael and raises his eyebrows. "More?"
"No. Thank you."
"So. 'The Big Question'." Douglas says, theatrically, hoping to indicate the complexity of the issue without actually having to say anything complex.
"I mean" Michael leans forwards slightly "what is the official line at present?"
Douglas finds his mind filling with set phrases from the various working papers he's read on the issue. "Well the church aims to be inclusive, of course."
"Aims to be, perhaps" says Michael. "But is it?"
"I believe it is. Yes. There are a number of openly gay clergy in the Anglican church, you know."
"But not Bishops." Says Michael, pulling the first emboucher of the evening.
Normally, Douglas would take a quick toot down the air-oboe himself at this point, but he's already feeling slightly defensive. "Small steps. Small steps."
"I'm never quite clear on where the church stands on the whole issue of gay sex, though." Michael says.
"Well, physical expressions of love within a covenented relationship are certainly more acceptable to God than unloving or promiscuous sexual relationships, whether heterosexual or homosexual."
"So gay sex isn't sinful. That's the official line."
Douglas rests his tea cup on the arm of his chair. "Well of course sex outside marriage isn't encouraged."
"But gay people can't get married."
"Well, no." Douglas feels irritated. He feels put on the spot. He wants to say "Look kid I don't make the rules!" Instead, he draws in a discrete breath and crosses his legs in the opposite direction.
"Suppose I'm your parishioner." Michael says. "And I come to you, and I say, I'm gay, I'm in a close and loving relationship. How far should I go with my boyfriend?"
"I would advise you to examine your own conscience."
"I have." Says Michael, who is good at role-play. "And I feel comfortable with all aspects of my sexuality, but I want to know whether gay sex is sinful in the eyes of the Lord."
Douglas, who isn't comfortable with all aspects of role-play, pulls on his left earlobe. "My role would be to listen sensitively to my parishioners, whatever their sexual orientation, or cultural background, or class, for that matter. I certainly wouldn't consider it my place to pry into the intimate details of their personal life."
"But if they asked?" Michael persists.
"If they asked, I would say that ideally, an unmarried couple, whether straight or gay, should refrain from expressing themselves genitally. But that's the ideal."
"Expressing themselves genitally?!" Michael laughs. "What does that mean? Peeing art-works into the snow?"
Douglas throws his head back and laughs loudly. The sudden levity is a huge relief. "Oh, that's very good. Yes. Strange way of putting it perhaps."
"Well it's a useful way of not saying 'anal sex' I suppose. Michael feels very bold saying these words and is a bit disappointed that Douglas seems to take them in his stride.
"Well, I suppose it's intended to cover a range of sexual...procedures."
Michael sits back and thinks for a moment. "So basically, sex outside marriage is a sin, and same-sex couples can't get married in the Church of England."
Douglas suppresses a sigh and looks beleaguered. "As things stand, at present, yes."
"I'm sorry." Says Michael, suddenly relaxing his body posture. "I realise this must be difficult for you.
" No, no. Not at all." Douglas leans back in his chair and smiles broadly to prove it. "It's a common misconception that vicars are embarassed by the topic of sex but it's a central part of Christian love..."
"I just meant, you know, for you personally."
"For me personally?"
"Well...you know...!"
On the one hand, Douglas knows exactly what Michael means, but on the other, he has no idea whatsoever. The opposing pressure of these two equally slippery hands forces Douglas to pop up like a bar of soap. Finding himself on his feet, he grabs a packet of milk chocolate digestives from his desk and waves them in Michael's face to fend off further comment. "Biscuit?!"
"No, thank you."
Douglas goes and sits behind his desk and clasps his hands together. He pulls a copy of the Parish Newletter towards him as though he were perusing Michael's rather disappointing end-of-term report. "Well, I'm glad we've had this little chat." He says. He gathers himself together. "And important, too, I think. One mustn't become complacent. And you're right. There are some ...inconsistencies in the church's position at present."
"Mmm." Michael chews at his nails thoughtfullly. He's about to say something but changes his mind.
They sit in silence for a moment. Both men would like to change the subject and cheer themselves up a bit, but neither have the energy to effect the conversational shift. Douglas tries to pour some more tea from the empy pot. He takes the lid off and peers inside as though this will solve the strange mystery of the barren spout. "Oh, we're out of tea. I'll make a fresh one."
Michael holds up his hand. "Not for me, thanks Douglas. I ought to be getting off. Busy day tomorrow." Actually, he's planning to drop in on Marcus, a German philosophy student, on his way home.
"Of course." Says Douglas. "I still have a few things to do myself."
Douglas sees Michael out then returns to his study. He stares out into the dark High Street at the Christmas lights and strokes his upper lip. Did Michael Glebe just come out to him? Of course he did. He wasn't just posing a hypothetical question, he was looking for guidance. Douglas feels that he didn't do a very good job. He decides to do some more reading on the issue. The thought of this peculiarly modern pastoral challenge rather pleases him. He's dertermined to help Michael on this difficult journey, however he can. His eyes lazily scan the framed print of Michelangelo's Ganymede that hangs over the small, white-painted wooden fireplace. He wonders whether Michael really does have a boyfriend or whether that was hypothetical, too. No, he decides: Michael's a pretty cautious young chap. Quite naive in many ways. Douglas very much doubts he has 'acted out' as modern parlance would have it. He takes a chocolate digestive and settles back into his chair with The Guardian and a ball-pen. There's still one clue in the Cryptic crossword he just can't get and he's determined to nail it by bedtime.
Douglas' eyes widen momentarily. "Oh, gosh, good question." He laughs and pours himself some more tea. He's hoping this is one of Michael's random issues. Last week it was stem-cell research. He tips his tea-pot at Michael and raises his eyebrows. "More?"
"No. Thank you."
"So. 'The Big Question'." Douglas says, theatrically, hoping to indicate the complexity of the issue without actually having to say anything complex.
"I mean" Michael leans forwards slightly "what is the official line at present?"
Douglas finds his mind filling with set phrases from the various working papers he's read on the issue. "Well the church aims to be inclusive, of course."
"Aims to be, perhaps" says Michael. "But is it?"
"I believe it is. Yes. There are a number of openly gay clergy in the Anglican church, you know."
"But not Bishops." Says Michael, pulling the first emboucher of the evening.
Normally, Douglas would take a quick toot down the air-oboe himself at this point, but he's already feeling slightly defensive. "Small steps. Small steps."
"I'm never quite clear on where the church stands on the whole issue of gay sex, though." Michael says.
"Well, physical expressions of love within a covenented relationship are certainly more acceptable to God than unloving or promiscuous sexual relationships, whether heterosexual or homosexual."
"So gay sex isn't sinful. That's the official line."
Douglas rests his tea cup on the arm of his chair. "Well of course sex outside marriage isn't encouraged."
"But gay people can't get married."
"Well, no." Douglas feels irritated. He feels put on the spot. He wants to say "Look kid I don't make the rules!" Instead, he draws in a discrete breath and crosses his legs in the opposite direction.
"Suppose I'm your parishioner." Michael says. "And I come to you, and I say, I'm gay, I'm in a close and loving relationship. How far should I go with my boyfriend?"
"I would advise you to examine your own conscience."
"I have." Says Michael, who is good at role-play. "And I feel comfortable with all aspects of my sexuality, but I want to know whether gay sex is sinful in the eyes of the Lord."
Douglas, who isn't comfortable with all aspects of role-play, pulls on his left earlobe. "My role would be to listen sensitively to my parishioners, whatever their sexual orientation, or cultural background, or class, for that matter. I certainly wouldn't consider it my place to pry into the intimate details of their personal life."
"But if they asked?" Michael persists.
"If they asked, I would say that ideally, an unmarried couple, whether straight or gay, should refrain from expressing themselves genitally. But that's the ideal."
"Expressing themselves genitally?!" Michael laughs. "What does that mean? Peeing art-works into the snow?"
Douglas throws his head back and laughs loudly. The sudden levity is a huge relief. "Oh, that's very good. Yes. Strange way of putting it perhaps."
"Well it's a useful way of not saying 'anal sex' I suppose. Michael feels very bold saying these words and is a bit disappointed that Douglas seems to take them in his stride.
"Well, I suppose it's intended to cover a range of sexual...procedures."
Michael sits back and thinks for a moment. "So basically, sex outside marriage is a sin, and same-sex couples can't get married in the Church of England."
Douglas suppresses a sigh and looks beleaguered. "As things stand, at present, yes."
"I'm sorry." Says Michael, suddenly relaxing his body posture. "I realise this must be difficult for you.
" No, no. Not at all." Douglas leans back in his chair and smiles broadly to prove it. "It's a common misconception that vicars are embarassed by the topic of sex but it's a central part of Christian love..."
"I just meant, you know, for you personally."
"For me personally?"
"Well...you know...!"
On the one hand, Douglas knows exactly what Michael means, but on the other, he has no idea whatsoever. The opposing pressure of these two equally slippery hands forces Douglas to pop up like a bar of soap. Finding himself on his feet, he grabs a packet of milk chocolate digestives from his desk and waves them in Michael's face to fend off further comment. "Biscuit?!"
"No, thank you."
Douglas goes and sits behind his desk and clasps his hands together. He pulls a copy of the Parish Newletter towards him as though he were perusing Michael's rather disappointing end-of-term report. "Well, I'm glad we've had this little chat." He says. He gathers himself together. "And important, too, I think. One mustn't become complacent. And you're right. There are some ...inconsistencies in the church's position at present."
"Mmm." Michael chews at his nails thoughtfullly. He's about to say something but changes his mind.
They sit in silence for a moment. Both men would like to change the subject and cheer themselves up a bit, but neither have the energy to effect the conversational shift. Douglas tries to pour some more tea from the empy pot. He takes the lid off and peers inside as though this will solve the strange mystery of the barren spout. "Oh, we're out of tea. I'll make a fresh one."
Michael holds up his hand. "Not for me, thanks Douglas. I ought to be getting off. Busy day tomorrow." Actually, he's planning to drop in on Marcus, a German philosophy student, on his way home.
"Of course." Says Douglas. "I still have a few things to do myself."
Douglas sees Michael out then returns to his study. He stares out into the dark High Street at the Christmas lights and strokes his upper lip. Did Michael Glebe just come out to him? Of course he did. He wasn't just posing a hypothetical question, he was looking for guidance. Douglas feels that he didn't do a very good job. He decides to do some more reading on the issue. The thought of this peculiarly modern pastoral challenge rather pleases him. He's dertermined to help Michael on this difficult journey, however he can. His eyes lazily scan the framed print of Michelangelo's Ganymede that hangs over the small, white-painted wooden fireplace. He wonders whether Michael really does have a boyfriend or whether that was hypothetical, too. No, he decides: Michael's a pretty cautious young chap. Quite naive in many ways. Douglas very much doubts he has 'acted out' as modern parlance would have it. He takes a chocolate digestive and settles back into his chair with The Guardian and a ball-pen. There's still one clue in the Cryptic crossword he just can't get and he's determined to nail it by bedtime.
Friday, September 08, 2006
TT 34 - Gabriel Buys a Box-full
Gabriel Lamb can hear the tinny christmas music coming from the High Street. He turns over on his side and stretches out an arm but the bed is empty. He remembers that Jasmine had to get back to London for an audition. He tilts his watch up from the bedside cabinet. It's nearly half-past seven. Since he came to Tendringhoe his hours have become increasingly erratic. Now he is practically on a night shift. Last night he stayed up to the early hours with friends, drinking whiskey and catching up with the latest theatrical gossip from London. He's glad Jasmine stayed over. He knows that since the play closed she's been seeing a musician, much closer to her own age, but it's nice that they can still enjoy the occasional night together. He rolls onto his stomach and luxuriates in the softness of the sheets for just a few moments more, then gets up with a huff of concentrated effort and puts on a CD. It's Brahm's piano quintet in F major: one of his favorites. It's just so intense.
He stands naked at the window, his hands cupping his nose in a praying gesture, his thumbs hooked under his well-defined jaw-line, and comes to terms with the day that is already night. He can see the church tower with its Christmas lights. He doesn't pull the curtains. Only the small illuminated angel on the tower's west face can see back in through the window and she won't tell anyone. He takes his cigarettes from the chest of drawers and lights one. He scratches his right eyebrow then his left armpit and wonders how he should spend his waking hours until the sun comes up again and he retreats to his bed. Perhaps he should wander up to the High Street and see what's going on. He might be able to get some ideas for the radio play he's working on. Yes. That's what he'll do. He'll go up to the church and collect some material from the real world.
Gabriel dresses in black jeans, a grey cashmere sweater, a pair of hand-made brown brogues and his trade-mark long, dark overcoat. At the last moment he adds a silk paisely scarf. It belonged to his grandfather and he always feels a little more protected from the world when he's wearing it.
When Gabriel gets to Joyce Kettle's stall all the best cakes have gone but this doesn't matter because Joyce herself has plenty to offer. Joyce remembers Gabriel from when he was so-high, and now he's all grown-up and on the telly and its nothing short of a miracle. Joyce has also sprained her wrist. Her spaniel Tucker pulled her over on some wet leaves outside the post-office but she's got it well strapped up now and she'll survive. Gabriel gathers Joyce's verbal flotsam carefully in the nets of his literary memory and moves on to the next stall. He wants to know how long the grey-haired lady with the two butterfy hair-clips on either side of her brow spends making quilted cosies in the shapes of animals? Where did she get the idea? Do the cosies have names? All of which comes under the general heading of 'How mad are you exactly?', although he never articulates the question as such. She says she got the idea from Bella. Gabriel, who is not familiar with this publication, thinks Bella is the quilted-cat-lady's best friend. Since he has just divined that the quilted-cat-lady's own name is Ella he enjoys this detail.
Gabriel pushes his way up to the ever-popular second-hand book stall.
"Hi." He says to the woman who is tidying up the Jilly Coopers to make room for an unexcepected donation of the entire series of 'Confessions' books.
"Hi." She says back with a smile. She is about his age, maybe a little younger, and more attractive than the average stall-holder. "I can recommend this if you're looking for a challenging read?" She says, holding up Confessions of a Plumber.
"Oh, I've read that one, thanks." He says, matching her ironic twinkle. "Mind you" he adds, "I should think these are collectors items now."
"You're probably right." She laughs. "I can do you the whole lot for a fiver."
"Yeah. Go on. Why not!"
"Really?"
"Sure." Gabriel is laughing now, not just socially but because he really does find the whole idea amusing. The woman pops the books back into the box and exchanges them for a five pound note.
"It's for a good cause." She says, pointing to the Sight-Savers International poster cellotaped to the front of the table.
"Even better."
She holds his eye for a moment and a thoughtful expression comes over her face. "Do I know you from somewhere? You look very familiar."
This presents something of a problem for Gabriel. If someone says this to him in London he can be pretty sure they recognise him from his TV work; mostly bit-parts in Casualty and The Bill, but recently a more substantial role in a Ruth Rendell mystery. (He's never recognised for his theatrical work.) Here, in his home town, on the other hand, it's possible that someone genuinely recognises him, perhaps from school.
"Well, I grew up here." He explains. "And my father still lives in the village. Geoffrey Lamb?"
She shakes her head. "No. I don't think I know you from here. I've only lived here a couple of months myself."
"Well" Gabriel supresses a smile. "I'm an actor, actually. I've done a few little TV roles... so maybe..."
"Oh yes - that's it!" She puts her finger tips on her mouth. "I'm sorry. That must be really annoying."
"Not really."
"Oh God - I remember now!" She says, suddenly excited.
Gabriel braces himself for "You're the mad doctor that killed all his patients" but instead she starts to sing.
"Tiny Tom, Tin-y To-om. Your little toilet pal that lasts the whole flush lo-ong"
"Oh Good Lord, that was years ago!" Gabriel says as though he can scarcely cast hs mind back that far.
"Wow! The guy from the Tiny Tom ad., I can't wait to tell my friends." She says with a big smile. Gabriel can't help finding her ironic twinkle somewhat less charming now.
She composes herself. "So what are you doing these days?"
"I've just played The Duke of Norfolk in A Man for All Seasons at the Haymarket." Gabriel Lamb says rather crisply and he picks up the entire set of Confessions books and tucks them under his arm.
"Oh that's great." she says but her eyes are still dancing from her Tiny Tom performance.
"Well, it pays the rent." he says. Then he gives her one of his sexy smiles but her expression doesn't change.
"Well, enjoy the books." She bursts out laughing again.
Gabriel squeezes out a smile. "Mmmm, well, I'll try." He turns and walks away with what he hopes is a stylish swagger, which isn't easy when you're balancing 5 kilos of comic erotica on your hip.
He stands naked at the window, his hands cupping his nose in a praying gesture, his thumbs hooked under his well-defined jaw-line, and comes to terms with the day that is already night. He can see the church tower with its Christmas lights. He doesn't pull the curtains. Only the small illuminated angel on the tower's west face can see back in through the window and she won't tell anyone. He takes his cigarettes from the chest of drawers and lights one. He scratches his right eyebrow then his left armpit and wonders how he should spend his waking hours until the sun comes up again and he retreats to his bed. Perhaps he should wander up to the High Street and see what's going on. He might be able to get some ideas for the radio play he's working on. Yes. That's what he'll do. He'll go up to the church and collect some material from the real world.
Gabriel dresses in black jeans, a grey cashmere sweater, a pair of hand-made brown brogues and his trade-mark long, dark overcoat. At the last moment he adds a silk paisely scarf. It belonged to his grandfather and he always feels a little more protected from the world when he's wearing it.
When Gabriel gets to Joyce Kettle's stall all the best cakes have gone but this doesn't matter because Joyce herself has plenty to offer. Joyce remembers Gabriel from when he was so-high, and now he's all grown-up and on the telly and its nothing short of a miracle. Joyce has also sprained her wrist. Her spaniel Tucker pulled her over on some wet leaves outside the post-office but she's got it well strapped up now and she'll survive. Gabriel gathers Joyce's verbal flotsam carefully in the nets of his literary memory and moves on to the next stall. He wants to know how long the grey-haired lady with the two butterfy hair-clips on either side of her brow spends making quilted cosies in the shapes of animals? Where did she get the idea? Do the cosies have names? All of which comes under the general heading of 'How mad are you exactly?', although he never articulates the question as such. She says she got the idea from Bella. Gabriel, who is not familiar with this publication, thinks Bella is the quilted-cat-lady's best friend. Since he has just divined that the quilted-cat-lady's own name is Ella he enjoys this detail.
Gabriel pushes his way up to the ever-popular second-hand book stall.
"Hi." He says to the woman who is tidying up the Jilly Coopers to make room for an unexcepected donation of the entire series of 'Confessions' books.
"Hi." She says back with a smile. She is about his age, maybe a little younger, and more attractive than the average stall-holder. "I can recommend this if you're looking for a challenging read?" She says, holding up Confessions of a Plumber.
"Oh, I've read that one, thanks." He says, matching her ironic twinkle. "Mind you" he adds, "I should think these are collectors items now."
"You're probably right." She laughs. "I can do you the whole lot for a fiver."
"Yeah. Go on. Why not!"
"Really?"
"Sure." Gabriel is laughing now, not just socially but because he really does find the whole idea amusing. The woman pops the books back into the box and exchanges them for a five pound note.
"It's for a good cause." She says, pointing to the Sight-Savers International poster cellotaped to the front of the table.
"Even better."
She holds his eye for a moment and a thoughtful expression comes over her face. "Do I know you from somewhere? You look very familiar."
This presents something of a problem for Gabriel. If someone says this to him in London he can be pretty sure they recognise him from his TV work; mostly bit-parts in Casualty and The Bill, but recently a more substantial role in a Ruth Rendell mystery. (He's never recognised for his theatrical work.) Here, in his home town, on the other hand, it's possible that someone genuinely recognises him, perhaps from school.
"Well, I grew up here." He explains. "And my father still lives in the village. Geoffrey Lamb?"
She shakes her head. "No. I don't think I know you from here. I've only lived here a couple of months myself."
"Well" Gabriel supresses a smile. "I'm an actor, actually. I've done a few little TV roles... so maybe..."
"Oh yes - that's it!" She puts her finger tips on her mouth. "I'm sorry. That must be really annoying."
"Not really."
"Oh God - I remember now!" She says, suddenly excited.
Gabriel braces himself for "You're the mad doctor that killed all his patients" but instead she starts to sing.
"Tiny Tom, Tin-y To-om. Your little toilet pal that lasts the whole flush lo-ong"
"Oh Good Lord, that was years ago!" Gabriel says as though he can scarcely cast hs mind back that far.
"Wow! The guy from the Tiny Tom ad., I can't wait to tell my friends." She says with a big smile. Gabriel can't help finding her ironic twinkle somewhat less charming now.
She composes herself. "So what are you doing these days?"
"I've just played The Duke of Norfolk in A Man for All Seasons at the Haymarket." Gabriel Lamb says rather crisply and he picks up the entire set of Confessions books and tucks them under his arm.
"Oh that's great." she says but her eyes are still dancing from her Tiny Tom performance.
"Well, it pays the rent." he says. Then he gives her one of his sexy smiles but her expression doesn't change.
"Well, enjoy the books." She bursts out laughing again.
Gabriel squeezes out a smile. "Mmmm, well, I'll try." He turns and walks away with what he hopes is a stylish swagger, which isn't easy when you're balancing 5 kilos of comic erotica on your hip.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
TT 33 - Dave has a Plan.
If Michael Glebe, who is only now beginning to question his anglican upbringing, finds some of the Christmas stalls in St Maggies contemptibly familiar, Dave Gill, after a life-time of biblically proportioned sin, finds the whole thing not just charming but positively exotic. He has stopped at the home-made cake stall with his youngest daughter Jemima, who is 6, and his son from his first marriage, Xag, who is 39. Xag's own son, Octavian, is strapped to his chest in a high-tec rig that allows the baby to look outwards, his arms raised at his side as though he's enjoying the view from the helm of the Titanic. The knot of curious villagers who are now loitering in front of the stall to eavesdrop on their local rock-guitarist, are surprised to find that the recent subject of Hot Riff's 'Senior-Hitizens of Rock' feature is discussing the relative merits of Dundee and Fruit Cake.
"What would you like, darling?" Dave asks Jemima.
Jemima, who is wearing stripey tights, a fairy costume, and a $300 cardigan from Wooky-Wah of Greenwich village, holds Dave's hand and surveys the goods laid out before her on doily-covered paper-plates.
"I think we should have these ones, Daddy." She points at a plate of Joyce Kettle's parkin.
"You like the look of those do you babe?" Dave says, delighted. "My old gran used to make them."
"The one that lived in that funny white hut with bits of wood on the front?" Says Jemima, looking up at him with her striking pale green eyes.
"In the bungalow, yeah. How d'you remember that?" Dave says, impressed. He only showed Jemima the photograph once, when she was about four.
Jemima shrugs and plays with her nephews toes.
Dave tucks the parkin into the pocket of his patchwork leather coat. As they turn to go he spots Reverend Carduggan chatting to a rather nerdy-looking young blond guy.
"Word up, Vic!" He ambles over with Jemima.
"David! Nice to see you here. And hello Jemima." Douglas leans forwards and puts his hands on his knees. "How are you?" Jemima holds onto Dave's hand and huddles into his body.
"I'm fine." She says, shyly, then recovering slightly, adds "Daddy bought me Parkin. That's what people used to eat in the olden-days."
"That's right, they did." Douglas smiles at her, then returns his attention to Dave.
"Um, David. This is Michael Glebe. Michael is a research student at the University."
"Ah, a scholar!" Says Dave, warmly, and shakes his hand. "Good to meet you, man."
Michael, suddenly confronted by the cool, slightly bleary self-assurance of the sixty-year-old rocker, retreats into his 'elegant young intellectual' posture.
"How do you do?" He smiles one-sidedly and lets his fringe flop over his forehead.
"I do bloody good, thanks." Says Dave, and gives out a laugh that sounds like water sucking on gravel.
"Hey Vic!" Dave puts his arm round Rev. Carduggan's shoulder, an expansive gesture that exceeds Douglas' capacity for physical spontaneity and forces him to clasp his hands self-consciously behind his back. "I've been thinking about our idea for a Sacred Rock Spectacle."
"Oh yes?" Says Douglas, who has no clue that they have shared an idea for a sacred rock spectacle.
"I met up with an old friend of mine, Jay Mitchell." Dave continues. "Great bloke. Used to do the special effects for our shows. Bloody wizard with the old electrics. He's a healer down in Dorset now - very spiritual guy." He nods earnestly and holds Douglas' eye. "I love him."
"Oh well that's nice." Says Douglas.
"Yeah." Dave gives Douglas' shoulders a squeeze. "But here's the really wierd thing, man. He says to me, Dave, I'm thinking of doing some kind of spiritual event. A festival, sort of thing, but with a really beautiful, spiritual kind of vibe, yeah?"
"Sounds interesting."
"And I'm like, that's amazing, cos I've been talking about exactly the same thing with a mate of mine."
"What a coincidence."
"Cos, you know, Vic, we don't need the money, right?"
"Well, no..." Douglas has lost track slightly.
"But it's such a bloody joy just bringing people together, through the music, you know?
"Indeed, music is a central part of worship."
"Oh well, yeah." Dave pulls his craggy, drug-addled features into something approximating pious. "Your lot got there, first, of course."
Douglas laughs modestly.
Dave can feel Jem starting to hang off his arm with boredom.
"Anyway, we'll have to talk about it some time."
"Absolutely." Says Douglas.
"Right then, angel." Dave looks at his daughter. "Let's go find Xag and Tavey. He looks at Michael, whose been standing by with a fixed grin on his face the whole time trying not to mind that Dave hasn't made eye-contact with him once. "Nice to meet you, man." He struts away, clicking his heels slightly on the ancient tomb slabs and whilstling an old blues number.
"Likewise." Says Michael Glebe.
"What would you like, darling?" Dave asks Jemima.
Jemima, who is wearing stripey tights, a fairy costume, and a $300 cardigan from Wooky-Wah of Greenwich village, holds Dave's hand and surveys the goods laid out before her on doily-covered paper-plates.
"I think we should have these ones, Daddy." She points at a plate of Joyce Kettle's parkin.
"You like the look of those do you babe?" Dave says, delighted. "My old gran used to make them."
"The one that lived in that funny white hut with bits of wood on the front?" Says Jemima, looking up at him with her striking pale green eyes.
"In the bungalow, yeah. How d'you remember that?" Dave says, impressed. He only showed Jemima the photograph once, when she was about four.
Jemima shrugs and plays with her nephews toes.
Dave tucks the parkin into the pocket of his patchwork leather coat. As they turn to go he spots Reverend Carduggan chatting to a rather nerdy-looking young blond guy.
"Word up, Vic!" He ambles over with Jemima.
"David! Nice to see you here. And hello Jemima." Douglas leans forwards and puts his hands on his knees. "How are you?" Jemima holds onto Dave's hand and huddles into his body.
"I'm fine." She says, shyly, then recovering slightly, adds "Daddy bought me Parkin. That's what people used to eat in the olden-days."
"That's right, they did." Douglas smiles at her, then returns his attention to Dave.
"Um, David. This is Michael Glebe. Michael is a research student at the University."
"Ah, a scholar!" Says Dave, warmly, and shakes his hand. "Good to meet you, man."
Michael, suddenly confronted by the cool, slightly bleary self-assurance of the sixty-year-old rocker, retreats into his 'elegant young intellectual' posture.
"How do you do?" He smiles one-sidedly and lets his fringe flop over his forehead.
"I do bloody good, thanks." Says Dave, and gives out a laugh that sounds like water sucking on gravel.
"Hey Vic!" Dave puts his arm round Rev. Carduggan's shoulder, an expansive gesture that exceeds Douglas' capacity for physical spontaneity and forces him to clasp his hands self-consciously behind his back. "I've been thinking about our idea for a Sacred Rock Spectacle."
"Oh yes?" Says Douglas, who has no clue that they have shared an idea for a sacred rock spectacle.
"I met up with an old friend of mine, Jay Mitchell." Dave continues. "Great bloke. Used to do the special effects for our shows. Bloody wizard with the old electrics. He's a healer down in Dorset now - very spiritual guy." He nods earnestly and holds Douglas' eye. "I love him."
"Oh well that's nice." Says Douglas.
"Yeah." Dave gives Douglas' shoulders a squeeze. "But here's the really wierd thing, man. He says to me, Dave, I'm thinking of doing some kind of spiritual event. A festival, sort of thing, but with a really beautiful, spiritual kind of vibe, yeah?"
"Sounds interesting."
"And I'm like, that's amazing, cos I've been talking about exactly the same thing with a mate of mine."
"What a coincidence."
"Cos, you know, Vic, we don't need the money, right?"
"Well, no..." Douglas has lost track slightly.
"But it's such a bloody joy just bringing people together, through the music, you know?
"Indeed, music is a central part of worship."
"Oh well, yeah." Dave pulls his craggy, drug-addled features into something approximating pious. "Your lot got there, first, of course."
Douglas laughs modestly.
Dave can feel Jem starting to hang off his arm with boredom.
"Anyway, we'll have to talk about it some time."
"Absolutely." Says Douglas.
"Right then, angel." Dave looks at his daughter. "Let's go find Xag and Tavey. He looks at Michael, whose been standing by with a fixed grin on his face the whole time trying not to mind that Dave hasn't made eye-contact with him once. "Nice to meet you, man." He struts away, clicking his heels slightly on the ancient tomb slabs and whilstling an old blues number.
"Likewise." Says Michael Glebe.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
TT - 32 Michael Has a Plan
Michael Glebe leaves his flat above the cafe and strides ebulliently into the High Street. Tendringhoe's Christmas lights have just been switched on, bringing an air of the sea-side promenade to the wintry village. The ladies at the Fat Cat Cafe are giving out veggie sausage rolls and serving tea and hot-chocolate in polystyrene cups. Slightly further down on the other side of the road, Jason is serving mulled wine and ginger biscuits from a trestle-table in front of the Deli. St Maggie's is crammed with bric-a-brac and cake stalls which spill out into the churchyard. Only Ellison and Copp, the local estate agents, slightly mar the scene by giving out lurid, helium-filled orange baloons on which they've had printed their loathsome logo, but even these, for the hoards of glow-stick waving toddlers who have taken to the streets in their hundreds, are as much a part of the magic as the more tasteful contributions.
The Christmas lights are not the only thing to have been switched on this evening. Michael Glebe is officially on good form and more than ready, after several months in the social wilderness, to rekindle his love for mankind. He wends his way smiling and touching and bantering through the villagers like a cat weaving through the legs of strangers. He is particularly keen to wipe his scent all over Glandice Morgan, but she is already wedged into a love-scrum with other village notables. Michael joins the nearby queue for Jason's mulled wine. To keep his social charm on full charge, he delivers a warm and intimate discourse on the nature of childhood memory to the woman behind him, his eyes glowing almost as brightly as the lights that glitter through the leaves on the trees. She responds graciously and Michael can tell that she's very taken with him.
The exchange with Jason is also very pleasant. Michael didn't used to like him but he does now, and he smiles to himself when he sees that Jason has filled his cup right to the top and given him the largest biscuit. He looks around for Glandice but she has been lost to the crowds. Next to him, a small child lets go of his Ellison and Copp merchandise and Michael watches with satisfaction as the over-inflated orange balloon bobs up through the branches and into the velvety blackness. He feels as though he could follow it, right up into the night sky, for Michael has done it. He has had sex with another guy. He has pulled a fit, young American sports science student called Greg in the University Gym and he has done it.
If there's one thing Michael hates, he decides, as he walks, with his slightly bouncing step towards the church gates, it's repression. He looks at all the faces of the people around him and feels irritated, threatened even, by their strange composure, their flatness. He can only imagine what kind of secret desires they are tragically holding in. He squeezes his way through the church porch and into the nave. The series of cheery greetings that he recieves as he makes his way up the south aisle are as satisfying to his ear as the sound of a stick pinging across railings.
"Hi Michael."
"Michael."
"Evening Michael."
"Ah, it's Michael!"
At the sound of this last voice he swings round.
"Doug-las!" He launches himself towards the vicar and hugs him with a delighted laugh. He draws back slightly, but continues the love with a hearty handshake and a beaming smile. "Douglas!"
"Well, you're certainly in the Christmas spirit!" Says Douglas, who can't help but be moved by this overwhelming display of affection.
"Where's Mrs Miggin's plum duff stall?!" Michael asks, looking around him.
"I don't think I know a Mrs Miggins...?"
"And little Timmy and his sugar-frosted goose-legs?!"
Ah, now Douglas sees that Michael is on a 'comic flight of fancy', and he suddenly feels rather literal and foolish by comparison. He tries to let himself go a bit.
"Ah well, I'm sure they're hiding round here somewhere."
"Hiding? Hiding?!!" Michael lifts up a hand-made quilted cat from a nearby stall and peers inside it with a mischievous giggle."
Douglas would like Michael to know that he doesn't take the quilted cat marmalade-cosy entirely seriously either, and allows himself a judicously supressed laugh.
Michael leans the cat against a quilted tartan rabbit so that they look as though they are sharing a dirty joke.
"So, Douglas, how are things with you?" Michael says with an engaging tilt of his head.
"Not at all bad, actually. Just honing the Christmas sermon." Douglas rubs his hands together.
"Excellent! I look forward to it."
"Oh, you'll be in Tendringhoe for the festive season then?" Douglas knows Michael has family in Cheshire, and he's rather surprised he won't be going home for Christmas.
"Well, yes. Thought I'd hang around here this Christmas. Catch up with all my friends" Michael drops just below brimming for a second.
"Ah, well, you must come over to the vicarage for supper one evening."
"I'd love to." Says Michael.
And he would love to. He feels like a man who has struggled up the side of a densely wooded hill and, having finally arrived at the prow, finds a wide open vista suddenly stretched out before him. He looks at Reverend Carduggan with a mixture of affection and frustration. Now I shall do the same for Douglas, he thinks to himself. He has helped me out, and I shall help him out. I will set the vicar free!"
The Christmas lights are not the only thing to have been switched on this evening. Michael Glebe is officially on good form and more than ready, after several months in the social wilderness, to rekindle his love for mankind. He wends his way smiling and touching and bantering through the villagers like a cat weaving through the legs of strangers. He is particularly keen to wipe his scent all over Glandice Morgan, but she is already wedged into a love-scrum with other village notables. Michael joins the nearby queue for Jason's mulled wine. To keep his social charm on full charge, he delivers a warm and intimate discourse on the nature of childhood memory to the woman behind him, his eyes glowing almost as brightly as the lights that glitter through the leaves on the trees. She responds graciously and Michael can tell that she's very taken with him.
The exchange with Jason is also very pleasant. Michael didn't used to like him but he does now, and he smiles to himself when he sees that Jason has filled his cup right to the top and given him the largest biscuit. He looks around for Glandice but she has been lost to the crowds. Next to him, a small child lets go of his Ellison and Copp merchandise and Michael watches with satisfaction as the over-inflated orange balloon bobs up through the branches and into the velvety blackness. He feels as though he could follow it, right up into the night sky, for Michael has done it. He has had sex with another guy. He has pulled a fit, young American sports science student called Greg in the University Gym and he has done it.
If there's one thing Michael hates, he decides, as he walks, with his slightly bouncing step towards the church gates, it's repression. He looks at all the faces of the people around him and feels irritated, threatened even, by their strange composure, their flatness. He can only imagine what kind of secret desires they are tragically holding in. He squeezes his way through the church porch and into the nave. The series of cheery greetings that he recieves as he makes his way up the south aisle are as satisfying to his ear as the sound of a stick pinging across railings.
"Hi Michael."
"Michael."
"Evening Michael."
"Ah, it's Michael!"
At the sound of this last voice he swings round.
"Doug-las!" He launches himself towards the vicar and hugs him with a delighted laugh. He draws back slightly, but continues the love with a hearty handshake and a beaming smile. "Douglas!"
"Well, you're certainly in the Christmas spirit!" Says Douglas, who can't help but be moved by this overwhelming display of affection.
"Where's Mrs Miggin's plum duff stall?!" Michael asks, looking around him.
"I don't think I know a Mrs Miggins...?"
"And little Timmy and his sugar-frosted goose-legs?!"
Ah, now Douglas sees that Michael is on a 'comic flight of fancy', and he suddenly feels rather literal and foolish by comparison. He tries to let himself go a bit.
"Ah well, I'm sure they're hiding round here somewhere."
"Hiding? Hiding?!!" Michael lifts up a hand-made quilted cat from a nearby stall and peers inside it with a mischievous giggle."
Douglas would like Michael to know that he doesn't take the quilted cat marmalade-cosy entirely seriously either, and allows himself a judicously supressed laugh.
Michael leans the cat against a quilted tartan rabbit so that they look as though they are sharing a dirty joke.
"So, Douglas, how are things with you?" Michael says with an engaging tilt of his head.
"Not at all bad, actually. Just honing the Christmas sermon." Douglas rubs his hands together.
"Excellent! I look forward to it."
"Oh, you'll be in Tendringhoe for the festive season then?" Douglas knows Michael has family in Cheshire, and he's rather surprised he won't be going home for Christmas.
"Well, yes. Thought I'd hang around here this Christmas. Catch up with all my friends" Michael drops just below brimming for a second.
"Ah, well, you must come over to the vicarage for supper one evening."
"I'd love to." Says Michael.
And he would love to. He feels like a man who has struggled up the side of a densely wooded hill and, having finally arrived at the prow, finds a wide open vista suddenly stretched out before him. He looks at Reverend Carduggan with a mixture of affection and frustration. Now I shall do the same for Douglas, he thinks to himself. He has helped me out, and I shall help him out. I will set the vicar free!"
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
TT31 - An Upset in the Deli
“And a large tub of green olives.” Glandice comes to the end of her shopping list. “
"Stuffed or unstuffed?” says Jason, with a facial expression that makes his chin ruckle up like a peach stone beneath his lower lip.
Glandice gives a big, fleshy laugh. “Oh definitely stuffed.”
Jason fills a polystyrene tub. “So - you having a bit of a soirée?” The peach stone disappears and the neck tendons take over.
“Just a couple of friends over for supper.” Glandice says, but she is slightly distracted by a tweed elbow that is agitating in her peripheral vision. She turns.
“Oh hello Eric.” She smiles warmly. She is aware of Eric's keen interest in the festival and he is rather on her guilt list.
“Ah, Glandice. How are you? How are you?” Professor Briding says, clutching the handle of a willow shopping basket awkwardly with one hand, and waving a jar of capers around with the other.
“I’m good, thank you, Eric. Although”, she rolls her eyes upwards, “horribly busy as usual.”
“Ah yes, of course. How are the festival plans coming along?”
“Oh lord, I haven’t even had time to think about that, I’m so busy with recitals right now.”
“Ah, I see, I see.” The reply subdues Eric somewhat and he is able to finish placing the capers into his basket.
“Although actually, I’m glad you've mentioned it. There’s something I want to ask you.”
“Of course. Fire away! Fire Away!”
Glandice pays Jason and guides Eric over to the chutneys. “You’re pretty involved with the local Am Dram scene, I gather.”
“I am indeed. President of TADS no less!” He laughs self-consciously.
“Oh, well that’s just great! Because I’ve been thinking…” she drops her head to one side thoughtfully, “it would be really terrific if you guys could dress up in Tudor costumes and hand out the programmes.”
Eric blinks as though Glandice has just tapped him on the nose quite hard. He would like to say ‘my book on membrane proteins has been translated into 17 languages’, Instead, he adopts an air of wry bafflement and says “Well, I’ll certainly put it to the committee…”
Glandice is impervious. “Well, that would be just terrific.” She says enthusiastically. “We really want local people to feel involved.” She looks at her watch. “Oh, Good Lord, I have to dash! Great to see you though, Eric.”
“Well, yes, you too Glandice.”
Eric maintains his expression of quizzical amusement until Glandice has left the shop then scissors up to the counter as though he’s been pinched on the arse. He waves a dismissive hand in the general direction of the cheeses. “Oh the Brie will do, I suppose."
Jason sucks in his cheeks. “de Meaux or de Melun?”
Eric adopts the facial expression of a man who has just been asked whether he'd prefer a free holiday or a slap round the face. “The de Melun , of course."
"Stuffed or unstuffed?” says Jason, with a facial expression that makes his chin ruckle up like a peach stone beneath his lower lip.
Glandice gives a big, fleshy laugh. “Oh definitely stuffed.”
Jason fills a polystyrene tub. “So - you having a bit of a soirée?” The peach stone disappears and the neck tendons take over.
“Just a couple of friends over for supper.” Glandice says, but she is slightly distracted by a tweed elbow that is agitating in her peripheral vision. She turns.
“Oh hello Eric.” She smiles warmly. She is aware of Eric's keen interest in the festival and he is rather on her guilt list.
“Ah, Glandice. How are you? How are you?” Professor Briding says, clutching the handle of a willow shopping basket awkwardly with one hand, and waving a jar of capers around with the other.
“I’m good, thank you, Eric. Although”, she rolls her eyes upwards, “horribly busy as usual.”
“Ah yes, of course. How are the festival plans coming along?”
“Oh lord, I haven’t even had time to think about that, I’m so busy with recitals right now.”
“Ah, I see, I see.” The reply subdues Eric somewhat and he is able to finish placing the capers into his basket.
“Although actually, I’m glad you've mentioned it. There’s something I want to ask you.”
“Of course. Fire away! Fire Away!”
Glandice pays Jason and guides Eric over to the chutneys. “You’re pretty involved with the local Am Dram scene, I gather.”
“I am indeed. President of TADS no less!” He laughs self-consciously.
“Oh, well that’s just great! Because I’ve been thinking…” she drops her head to one side thoughtfully, “it would be really terrific if you guys could dress up in Tudor costumes and hand out the programmes.”
Eric blinks as though Glandice has just tapped him on the nose quite hard. He would like to say ‘my book on membrane proteins has been translated into 17 languages’, Instead, he adopts an air of wry bafflement and says “Well, I’ll certainly put it to the committee…”
Glandice is impervious. “Well, that would be just terrific.” She says enthusiastically. “We really want local people to feel involved.” She looks at her watch. “Oh, Good Lord, I have to dash! Great to see you though, Eric.”
“Well, yes, you too Glandice.”
Eric maintains his expression of quizzical amusement until Glandice has left the shop then scissors up to the counter as though he’s been pinched on the arse. He waves a dismissive hand in the general direction of the cheeses. “Oh the Brie will do, I suppose."
Jason sucks in his cheeks. “de Meaux or de Melun?”
Eric adopts the facial expression of a man who has just been asked whether he'd prefer a free holiday or a slap round the face. “The de Melun , of course."
Saturday, August 05, 2006
TT - 30 Mrs Green's system
To understand Mrs Green's casting system for the Tendringhoe JMI nativity play you will neeed a ruler, a pencil and a blank sheet of paper. Draw two twenty-centimetre lines at right angles to make a graph. On the horizontal axis, subdivide the line into twenty and plot all the parts of the play. Start with the back-end of the donkey, work up through the sheep, the inn-keeper's wife and sundry messangers, then Gabriel and the narrator until you arrive at Mary and Joseph. Now subdivide the vertical axis into twenty and plot the professions of the children's parents according to the Registrar General's Scale. Remember this is a Church of England school so Vicar comes above Doctor. Finally, plot the twenty children in Miss Green's class between these two axes and you should have a nice left to right rising diagonal.
Only this year Mrs Green is running into difficulties at both ends of the scale. According to her system Basil, the son of a university professor and a GP, must be Joseph, but Basil's parents are not like other group 'A' professionals. Last summer, when Eric was away teaching in America, Eleanor took her two children to Glastonbury for their annual holiday. Basil's vivid and fully illustrated account in his News and Story Book of camping in mud, having his face painted, and singing along to Keane on the main stage received a tart 'adequate' from Mrs Green. Not surprisingly, Basil is 'not like other boys' and his disgusting theatricality is hardly something his teacher wants to encourage. Val Green comes up with a clever solution and casts Basil as the black Magus, a part she normally reserves for any child who in her opinion has had 'a slap from the tar-brush' at some point in their genetic history: which in a village like Tendringhoe usually means divining some ancient Spanishy genes in a child with a Welsh surname. It amuses her that the Bridings will be too 'left wing' to complain.
The other problem child is little Rita Magma. Her parents, a clinically depressed single mother with two other children by different fathers and an alocoholic unskilled father who smells, fall so far outside the usual social parameters of the village school that Mrs Green has had to toy with the possibility of inventing an entirely new part just for her. But whilst the role of 'stable door' is perfectly coherent in terms of the Christams narrative even Mrs Green realises that she cannot simply duck-tape a child between two pallettes and leave her standing in the middle of a stage for 40 minutes. Instead she has introduced the equally inanimate role of the Star of Bethlehem. Rita doesn't get to actually sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, she just gets to stand on the side of the stage whilst little Bethany Tidwell of Tidwell Farm Pork Products sings it.
Rita's grandmother says Rita is the 'star' of the show, and then she repeats it in case the sutlety of the pun has been lost: "Rita is the 'STAR' of the show!" Rita is pelased that Granny thinks its lovely and has started to make her a pretty sparkly costume, because Rita understands only too well her place in Tendringhoe JMI's Great Chain of Being: objects, even celestial ones, come below animals come below people come below angels come below Holy Family. Mrs Green's place in the great scheme of things is not yet something that she is able to articulate to herself.
Mrs Green is delighted with the casting of Suzie Carduggan in the lead role. Such a bright and creative child and a pretty little thing, too! She'll make such a sweet little Mary. Suzie, outraged that Basil, by far the best actor in the school, has been relegated to a non-speaking bit-part, has other plans.
Only this year Mrs Green is running into difficulties at both ends of the scale. According to her system Basil, the son of a university professor and a GP, must be Joseph, but Basil's parents are not like other group 'A' professionals. Last summer, when Eric was away teaching in America, Eleanor took her two children to Glastonbury for their annual holiday. Basil's vivid and fully illustrated account in his News and Story Book of camping in mud, having his face painted, and singing along to Keane on the main stage received a tart 'adequate' from Mrs Green. Not surprisingly, Basil is 'not like other boys' and his disgusting theatricality is hardly something his teacher wants to encourage. Val Green comes up with a clever solution and casts Basil as the black Magus, a part she normally reserves for any child who in her opinion has had 'a slap from the tar-brush' at some point in their genetic history: which in a village like Tendringhoe usually means divining some ancient Spanishy genes in a child with a Welsh surname. It amuses her that the Bridings will be too 'left wing' to complain.
The other problem child is little Rita Magma. Her parents, a clinically depressed single mother with two other children by different fathers and an alocoholic unskilled father who smells, fall so far outside the usual social parameters of the village school that Mrs Green has had to toy with the possibility of inventing an entirely new part just for her. But whilst the role of 'stable door' is perfectly coherent in terms of the Christams narrative even Mrs Green realises that she cannot simply duck-tape a child between two pallettes and leave her standing in the middle of a stage for 40 minutes. Instead she has introduced the equally inanimate role of the Star of Bethlehem. Rita doesn't get to actually sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, she just gets to stand on the side of the stage whilst little Bethany Tidwell of Tidwell Farm Pork Products sings it.
Rita's grandmother says Rita is the 'star' of the show, and then she repeats it in case the sutlety of the pun has been lost: "Rita is the 'STAR' of the show!" Rita is pelased that Granny thinks its lovely and has started to make her a pretty sparkly costume, because Rita understands only too well her place in Tendringhoe JMI's Great Chain of Being: objects, even celestial ones, come below animals come below people come below angels come below Holy Family. Mrs Green's place in the great scheme of things is not yet something that she is able to articulate to herself.
Mrs Green is delighted with the casting of Suzie Carduggan in the lead role. Such a bright and creative child and a pretty little thing, too! She'll make such a sweet little Mary. Suzie, outraged that Basil, by far the best actor in the school, has been relegated to a non-speaking bit-part, has other plans.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
TT - 29 Alison Holds Back
When Eric and Eleanor moved into Anchor House they were so besotted with the place they hardly dared furnish it. Objects were not so much chosen for their new home as offered up to it for its approval: if they fell in with the rhythms of the time-worn interior they stayed, if not, they went back to the antique shop or were returned to the ever rotating stock of Briding family heirlooms. Conversely, the temporary items that were bought from junk shops to stop the gaps in this long organic process received no thought or care whatsoever. Inevitably, some of these items grafted themselves onto the house by default, eventually becoming as much a part of its personality as the 'beautiful pieces'. The Bridings, encountering the familiar contours and surfaces of their home on a daily basis, have gradually ceased to distinguish between the two classes of furnishing. It is only the visitor who is surprised to find that the Victorian brass light switch in the hallway illuminates a red plastic light shade, or that the walnut escritoire on the upper landing is complimented, or rather insulted, by an old school chair.
Today it is Alison Carduggan who sits in the Briding's kitchen and enjoys the unconventional relationship between a splay-legged Formica-top table and a beautifully restored fireplace with working bread oven. She is less bothered by the aesthetic shortcomings of the table, however, than by an almost perfect circle of jammy clag that sits just centimetres from her right elbow. Alison knows she has the self-control not to grab a damp dishcloth from the draining-board but she doesn't trust herself not to set about the offending smirch with a spit-dampened tissue. To lessen the temptation she turns her chair slightly to the left.
"I'll give them another shout." Eleanor says.
Alison has popped round to collect Suzie who has not returned home at the agreed time. This is because Suzie is busy upstairs playing the lead role of Mrs Green in Basil's latest musical extravaganza and is quite properly reluctant to interupt the artistic process for something as prosaic as 'tea'.
"Just five more minutes then." Alison hears Eleanor call up the stairs.
The shuffles and thumps that can be heard on the ceiling are the sounds of Suzie and Basil perfecting the choreography to their big show-stopping number 'Oh Dem Tartan Cardies!' in which Valishiana Green, the colonial plantation owner, is tied up with her own Pringle cardigan by her angry slaves, led by Lame Gordy but much aided by lil' Sue and Blind Boy Bridie.
Eleanor comes back into the kitchen. "Glass of wine? I've got a nice white already opened in the fridge."
"Oh that's kind of you..." Alison is prepaing to decline the offer but then changes her mind. "Oh go on then, why not!"
Alison feels quite devil-may-care as she sips the cold Vouvray and simply pushes aside the mental image of her cassoulet drying out in the oven at home.
"God, I need this." Eleanor says with a sigh.
"Bad day?"
"Well, just the usual really, although I can't say being bollocked by an octogenarian for being five minutes late whilst I've got my finger up his rectum is my ideal way to end the day."
"Oh dear!" says Alison.
"How about you?"
"Oh, quite busy. Drove Douglas's mother to her hospital appointment this morning. Then picked up Mr Dudly's pension. Cleared out the under-stairs cupboard." She casts around for more things that she has done that day. "Oh, and made Suzie's costume for the nativity play."
"Oh God, have you done that already!" Eleanor says. "You're so organised. I'll be doing it the night before the dress rehearsal."
"Well, yes, but I don't have a career..."
"Well, I should think full-time mum and vicar's wife is demanding enough."
Eleanor pours some more wine and both women manage to feel inadequate for exactly converse reasons.
"How's Douglas? Haven't seen him for ages." Eleanor says, then gives an embarrassed laugh. "Oh dear, that's not a very good admission to make to the vicar's wife is it?"
"Well, you're out ministering to the sick. I'm sure that's a much better way of expressing your love for the way of the Lord than droning though a few hymns on a Sunday morning."
"Mmmm, that's a nice way of putting it." Says Eleanor. The truth is, since Basil left the church choir she's been enjoying her Sunday morning lie-ins again.
"Douglas is fine, by the way." Alison says.
"Good."
"Well, I say fine." Alison frowns slightly and turns her wine glass in her hand. She takes a breath as though she's about to say something but doesn't. She looks Eleanor in the eye, opens her mouth, but still nothing. She looks down again and smiles.
"Is something worrying you, Alison?"
"Oh it's nothing, really."
Eleanor tops up her glass. "Come on, what is it?"
"I don't want to bore you with it."
"You won't bore me."
Alison drinks some more wine. She can hear the children still romping around upstairs.
"This is absolutely between you and me."
"Of course."
"Well, Douglas and I. We're not...We've stopped... How can I put it..."
"You've stopped having sex."
"That's about the long and short of it." Alison laughs nervously. "I mean, I know we're not love's young dream, anymore, but still..."
"But still, you miss the intimacy."
"Yes. Yes, I do."
"Listen, Alison, I have people coming to me all the time with exactly the same problem."
"Really?"
"Of course. Work demands, tiredness, children, it all takes its toll. I mean, when was the last time you both got into bed together when you weren't completely exhausted. I know there are times when Eric and I hardly get to speak to each other let alone make love."
"Yes, you're right. And Douglas has been so busy lately." She pauses. "It's just that...sometimes...it's as though we've stopped connecting on some level."
"It sounds to me as though you need to make some time to be with each other. Pack the kids off and have a romantic meal or something."
Alison laughs. "Douglas would wolf it down, say thanks, that was delicious darling, then be back in his study working on his play, or his sermon, or engrossed in one of his books!"
"Well, take him out somewhere then. Look, I know it can't be easy with Douglas's work schedule, but if you could manage to get a couple of days away you know I can always have Suzie."
"That's kind." Alison fiddles with the clasp on her bracelet. "Yes, perhaps you're right. Perhaps we just need some 'quality time' together.
"It's amazing how just making some time to be a couple again can really 'rekindle the spark'."
"It's such a relief to have someone to talk to, Eleanor. Thank you for listening."
"Of course. What are friends for. But look, if it doesn't resolve itself, I can recommend a really good marriage guidance councillor."
"Oh goodness, it's not that serious!”
"People always think of Marriage Guidance as the last resort, but all marriages have their ups and downs and a good councillor can really help."
"Maybe."
Alison can't see Douglas agreeing to discuss their sex life with a third party. There are good reasons why he won't discuss it with her, his own wife. Alison suppresses a sigh and drains the last of her wine
"Is there something else?" Eleanor says.
"No, no." Says Alison, quickly. "Just what I've told you."
They hear children’s voices followed by the thump of boisterous feet down the stairs.
"I'm sure it'll be fine." Eleanor rubs Alison's arm reassuringly.
"Of course." Says Alison brightly. "I mean, that's the wonderful thing about Douglas and me. First and foremost we're the best of friends."
Today it is Alison Carduggan who sits in the Briding's kitchen and enjoys the unconventional relationship between a splay-legged Formica-top table and a beautifully restored fireplace with working bread oven. She is less bothered by the aesthetic shortcomings of the table, however, than by an almost perfect circle of jammy clag that sits just centimetres from her right elbow. Alison knows she has the self-control not to grab a damp dishcloth from the draining-board but she doesn't trust herself not to set about the offending smirch with a spit-dampened tissue. To lessen the temptation she turns her chair slightly to the left.
"I'll give them another shout." Eleanor says.
Alison has popped round to collect Suzie who has not returned home at the agreed time. This is because Suzie is busy upstairs playing the lead role of Mrs Green in Basil's latest musical extravaganza and is quite properly reluctant to interupt the artistic process for something as prosaic as 'tea'.
"Just five more minutes then." Alison hears Eleanor call up the stairs.
The shuffles and thumps that can be heard on the ceiling are the sounds of Suzie and Basil perfecting the choreography to their big show-stopping number 'Oh Dem Tartan Cardies!' in which Valishiana Green, the colonial plantation owner, is tied up with her own Pringle cardigan by her angry slaves, led by Lame Gordy but much aided by lil' Sue and Blind Boy Bridie.
Eleanor comes back into the kitchen. "Glass of wine? I've got a nice white already opened in the fridge."
"Oh that's kind of you..." Alison is prepaing to decline the offer but then changes her mind. "Oh go on then, why not!"
Alison feels quite devil-may-care as she sips the cold Vouvray and simply pushes aside the mental image of her cassoulet drying out in the oven at home.
"God, I need this." Eleanor says with a sigh.
"Bad day?"
"Well, just the usual really, although I can't say being bollocked by an octogenarian for being five minutes late whilst I've got my finger up his rectum is my ideal way to end the day."
"Oh dear!" says Alison.
"How about you?"
"Oh, quite busy. Drove Douglas's mother to her hospital appointment this morning. Then picked up Mr Dudly's pension. Cleared out the under-stairs cupboard." She casts around for more things that she has done that day. "Oh, and made Suzie's costume for the nativity play."
"Oh God, have you done that already!" Eleanor says. "You're so organised. I'll be doing it the night before the dress rehearsal."
"Well, yes, but I don't have a career..."
"Well, I should think full-time mum and vicar's wife is demanding enough."
Eleanor pours some more wine and both women manage to feel inadequate for exactly converse reasons.
"How's Douglas? Haven't seen him for ages." Eleanor says, then gives an embarrassed laugh. "Oh dear, that's not a very good admission to make to the vicar's wife is it?"
"Well, you're out ministering to the sick. I'm sure that's a much better way of expressing your love for the way of the Lord than droning though a few hymns on a Sunday morning."
"Mmmm, that's a nice way of putting it." Says Eleanor. The truth is, since Basil left the church choir she's been enjoying her Sunday morning lie-ins again.
"Douglas is fine, by the way." Alison says.
"Good."
"Well, I say fine." Alison frowns slightly and turns her wine glass in her hand. She takes a breath as though she's about to say something but doesn't. She looks Eleanor in the eye, opens her mouth, but still nothing. She looks down again and smiles.
"Is something worrying you, Alison?"
"Oh it's nothing, really."
Eleanor tops up her glass. "Come on, what is it?"
"I don't want to bore you with it."
"You won't bore me."
Alison drinks some more wine. She can hear the children still romping around upstairs.
"This is absolutely between you and me."
"Of course."
"Well, Douglas and I. We're not...We've stopped... How can I put it..."
"You've stopped having sex."
"That's about the long and short of it." Alison laughs nervously. "I mean, I know we're not love's young dream, anymore, but still..."
"But still, you miss the intimacy."
"Yes. Yes, I do."
"Listen, Alison, I have people coming to me all the time with exactly the same problem."
"Really?"
"Of course. Work demands, tiredness, children, it all takes its toll. I mean, when was the last time you both got into bed together when you weren't completely exhausted. I know there are times when Eric and I hardly get to speak to each other let alone make love."
"Yes, you're right. And Douglas has been so busy lately." She pauses. "It's just that...sometimes...it's as though we've stopped connecting on some level."
"It sounds to me as though you need to make some time to be with each other. Pack the kids off and have a romantic meal or something."
Alison laughs. "Douglas would wolf it down, say thanks, that was delicious darling, then be back in his study working on his play, or his sermon, or engrossed in one of his books!"
"Well, take him out somewhere then. Look, I know it can't be easy with Douglas's work schedule, but if you could manage to get a couple of days away you know I can always have Suzie."
"That's kind." Alison fiddles with the clasp on her bracelet. "Yes, perhaps you're right. Perhaps we just need some 'quality time' together.
"It's amazing how just making some time to be a couple again can really 'rekindle the spark'."
"It's such a relief to have someone to talk to, Eleanor. Thank you for listening."
"Of course. What are friends for. But look, if it doesn't resolve itself, I can recommend a really good marriage guidance councillor."
"Oh goodness, it's not that serious!”
"People always think of Marriage Guidance as the last resort, but all marriages have their ups and downs and a good councillor can really help."
"Maybe."
Alison can't see Douglas agreeing to discuss their sex life with a third party. There are good reasons why he won't discuss it with her, his own wife. Alison suppresses a sigh and drains the last of her wine
"Is there something else?" Eleanor says.
"No, no." Says Alison, quickly. "Just what I've told you."
They hear children’s voices followed by the thump of boisterous feet down the stairs.
"I'm sure it'll be fine." Eleanor rubs Alison's arm reassuringly.
"Of course." Says Alison brightly. "I mean, that's the wonderful thing about Douglas and me. First and foremost we're the best of friends."
Saturday, July 22, 2006
TT 28 - Who's Been Cleaning Geoffrey’s Toilet?
“There you go, Dad.” Gabriel puts a mug of tea on the table beside Geoffrey’s armchair.
“Ah, bless you.” Geoffrey opens his eyes.
“I see you’ve got a cleaner in at last, then.” Gabriel has been gently nudging his father in this direction for some time.
“A cleaner?" Geoffrey laughs. "Dear me no! What made you think that?”
“Well, the place is looking a bit more…well, I just thought the place was looking nice and cosy.”
“Well I haven’t done anything to it.” Says Geoffrey. “And I haven’t had a cleaner in, either. They’re more trouble than their worth. Your mother and I tried it once, couldn’t find a bloody thing.” He chuckles at the memory.
It is true that Gabriel’s mother, the actress Sophie Masson, was just as ‘free-spirited’ in the domestic sphere as her husband and Gabriel himself grew up quite happily amongst a chaos of books and papers and dogs. But under his mother’s reign the house was at least clean if not tidy. But now his Mum is gone. His Dad’s mobility isn’t what it was, and his eyesight isn’t brilliant these days either, even with his glasses on. It isn’t that Gabriel cares about the dirty loo per se, but it makes him anxious about how much longer his Dad will be able to live independently. On his last visit, he noticed mould growing on the bathroom towels. Which is why this time he’s noticed that the towels have been washed. And the toilet brush holder replaced by one almost identical. And the toilet looks as though it has had a bit of a bleaching. So who is secretly cleaning his father’s house?
“What have you been up to this week then?” Gabriel asks, thinking this might shed some light on the matter.
“Oh, not much. Too cold to go out. They’ve had a very nice play on the radio this week, though. You should write for radio. It’s such a lovely intimate medium.”
“It’s a thought. Had any visitors?”
“No, not really. How’s your play coming along?”
“Oh God, I don’t know.” Gabriel slumps back into his armchair with a sigh. “I had this idea. Well, you know, the one I told you about. Which I really liked. Only when I came to write it… I don’t know. It would be impossible to stage, really. Maybe it should be a novel. Or maybe I should just start again.” Gabriel rubs his right eye and looks slightly beleaguered. “What about Eric. Has he been up lately?”
“Not recently, no. So what is all this with the writing anyway?”
Gabriel gets to his feet and walks over to the mantelpiece. “Oh I don’t know Dad. Something different. Thought I’d give it a go.” He picks up his graduation photograph. “Good Lord. Who’s this handsome young beast?”
They both laugh.
“Well, you were.” Geoffrey says. “And still are.”
“Jesus, Dad, how does it happen?”
“What?”
“Age.”
“You’re not old.”
“I’m nearly 50.”
“You’re 45.” Corrects Geoffrey sensibly.
“I’m as near to 50 as I am to 40.”
“You should try being nearly 80” Geoffrey says.
Gabriel picks up the painting of the two horses. “This is very sweet.” He turns it over. On the back in a child’s handwriting it says ‘Dear Geoffrey, thank you so much for my beautiful astrolabe. With lots of love from your friend Basil.’
“Is this from Eleanor’s boy?” Gabriel asks.
“Ah yes.” Says Geoffrey affectionatley and is about to add something but thinks better of it.
“Does Eleanor ever come up with Basil?” Gabriel can just imagine Eleanor sneaking up to the bathroom with a phial of bleach and a j-cloth.
“Not usually.” says Geoffrey, reading the question quite
differently. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about Dad.” Gabriel says, smiling broadly.
“No, of course not Gabe.”
“Another cuppa?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Ah, bless you.” Geoffrey opens his eyes.
“I see you’ve got a cleaner in at last, then.” Gabriel has been gently nudging his father in this direction for some time.
“A cleaner?" Geoffrey laughs. "Dear me no! What made you think that?”
“Well, the place is looking a bit more…well, I just thought the place was looking nice and cosy.”
“Well I haven’t done anything to it.” Says Geoffrey. “And I haven’t had a cleaner in, either. They’re more trouble than their worth. Your mother and I tried it once, couldn’t find a bloody thing.” He chuckles at the memory.
It is true that Gabriel’s mother, the actress Sophie Masson, was just as ‘free-spirited’ in the domestic sphere as her husband and Gabriel himself grew up quite happily amongst a chaos of books and papers and dogs. But under his mother’s reign the house was at least clean if not tidy. But now his Mum is gone. His Dad’s mobility isn’t what it was, and his eyesight isn’t brilliant these days either, even with his glasses on. It isn’t that Gabriel cares about the dirty loo per se, but it makes him anxious about how much longer his Dad will be able to live independently. On his last visit, he noticed mould growing on the bathroom towels. Which is why this time he’s noticed that the towels have been washed. And the toilet brush holder replaced by one almost identical. And the toilet looks as though it has had a bit of a bleaching. So who is secretly cleaning his father’s house?
“What have you been up to this week then?” Gabriel asks, thinking this might shed some light on the matter.
“Oh, not much. Too cold to go out. They’ve had a very nice play on the radio this week, though. You should write for radio. It’s such a lovely intimate medium.”
“It’s a thought. Had any visitors?”
“No, not really. How’s your play coming along?”
“Oh God, I don’t know.” Gabriel slumps back into his armchair with a sigh. “I had this idea. Well, you know, the one I told you about. Which I really liked. Only when I came to write it… I don’t know. It would be impossible to stage, really. Maybe it should be a novel. Or maybe I should just start again.” Gabriel rubs his right eye and looks slightly beleaguered. “What about Eric. Has he been up lately?”
“Not recently, no. So what is all this with the writing anyway?”
Gabriel gets to his feet and walks over to the mantelpiece. “Oh I don’t know Dad. Something different. Thought I’d give it a go.” He picks up his graduation photograph. “Good Lord. Who’s this handsome young beast?”
They both laugh.
“Well, you were.” Geoffrey says. “And still are.”
“Jesus, Dad, how does it happen?”
“What?”
“Age.”
“You’re not old.”
“I’m nearly 50.”
“You’re 45.” Corrects Geoffrey sensibly.
“I’m as near to 50 as I am to 40.”
“You should try being nearly 80” Geoffrey says.
Gabriel picks up the painting of the two horses. “This is very sweet.” He turns it over. On the back in a child’s handwriting it says ‘Dear Geoffrey, thank you so much for my beautiful astrolabe. With lots of love from your friend Basil.’
“Is this from Eleanor’s boy?” Gabriel asks.
“Ah yes.” Says Geoffrey affectionatley and is about to add something but thinks better of it.
“Does Eleanor ever come up with Basil?” Gabriel can just imagine Eleanor sneaking up to the bathroom with a phial of bleach and a j-cloth.
“Not usually.” says Geoffrey, reading the question quite
differently. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about Dad.” Gabriel says, smiling broadly.
“No, of course not Gabe.”
“Another cuppa?”
“That would be lovely.”
TT -27 Len in Love
Winter has finally set in. The trees are black and bare. It is dark when the villagers get up in the morning and dark when they come home from work. And it is cold. The whispering North Sea breeze that wafts gently up the estuary in the summer has become a continual icy drone. Up in his loft, Len Magma lays blinking in the darkness. It was a lock-in the night before at The Railway and his clammy rumpled bed, so gratefully received when he’d stumbled back at nearly 2 O’clock that morning, is now a vast and inhospitable plain of loneliness and self-loathing.
Len didn’t used to drink this much. He’s always ‘liked a drop or two’ as Douglas puts it, but he would make a gradual descent into a boozy blur each evening and still be up for work the next morning with a reasonable degree of spring in his step. It is Len’s job to go around the village with a sack and a stick and pick up bits of rubbish. This might seem a lowly profession to some but for Len it is something of a vocation. Urban Bushman, Human Fox, One Man Recycling System, see it how you will, Len finds beauty and meaning in that which others carelessly discard. He is particularly fond of rubber and plastics, particularly if they have a vaguely clinical look about them - his most treasured item is the prosthetic leg he found a skip behind the old folks home.
In fact, up until now, Len’s life has been like a scruffy old item of clothing, the kind of thing that anyone might lounge around in when no-one is looking, only in Len's solipsistic world, no-one is ever looking. Now it has all gone wrong because Len is in love. Mrs Carduggan has knocked on the door to Len’s heart and Len has had to answer it in a gravy-stained vest. “How’s the barn?” “Busy again I see.” And if that weren’t enough provocation, there she is, wherever he looks, disporting herself before him in a dizzying array of saucy rubber hand-wear: pink, yellow, dimpled, lined, reinforced, until, by some strange process of transference, he has fallen in love with her. Now she is unhappy with him, but try as he might, Len can’t understand why. He pulls the turmeric stained quilt more tightly around him. Clearly Alison Carduggan is a sex tease.
He must make her a gift, he decides, to win back her affections. Len uses this thought to pull himself, hand over hand, out of his love-sick inertia. Very soon he is able to lever himself from the dank hollow of the collapsed mattress and pull on some wear-sodden clothes. They smell like a dish-cloth that has been left in sprout water but continuous usage has imprinted into the fibres the memory of every possible position of his knees, arse and elbows, making them sumptuously comfortable. He must be especially vigilant for new materials today, he thinks as he descends the stairs, and by the time he arrives at the front door he is whistling in joyful anticipation of a morning well spent.
Len didn’t used to drink this much. He’s always ‘liked a drop or two’ as Douglas puts it, but he would make a gradual descent into a boozy blur each evening and still be up for work the next morning with a reasonable degree of spring in his step. It is Len’s job to go around the village with a sack and a stick and pick up bits of rubbish. This might seem a lowly profession to some but for Len it is something of a vocation. Urban Bushman, Human Fox, One Man Recycling System, see it how you will, Len finds beauty and meaning in that which others carelessly discard. He is particularly fond of rubber and plastics, particularly if they have a vaguely clinical look about them - his most treasured item is the prosthetic leg he found a skip behind the old folks home.
In fact, up until now, Len’s life has been like a scruffy old item of clothing, the kind of thing that anyone might lounge around in when no-one is looking, only in Len's solipsistic world, no-one is ever looking. Now it has all gone wrong because Len is in love. Mrs Carduggan has knocked on the door to Len’s heart and Len has had to answer it in a gravy-stained vest. “How’s the barn?” “Busy again I see.” And if that weren’t enough provocation, there she is, wherever he looks, disporting herself before him in a dizzying array of saucy rubber hand-wear: pink, yellow, dimpled, lined, reinforced, until, by some strange process of transference, he has fallen in love with her. Now she is unhappy with him, but try as he might, Len can’t understand why. He pulls the turmeric stained quilt more tightly around him. Clearly Alison Carduggan is a sex tease.
He must make her a gift, he decides, to win back her affections. Len uses this thought to pull himself, hand over hand, out of his love-sick inertia. Very soon he is able to lever himself from the dank hollow of the collapsed mattress and pull on some wear-sodden clothes. They smell like a dish-cloth that has been left in sprout water but continuous usage has imprinted into the fibres the memory of every possible position of his knees, arse and elbows, making them sumptuously comfortable. He must be especially vigilant for new materials today, he thinks as he descends the stairs, and by the time he arrives at the front door he is whistling in joyful anticipation of a morning well spent.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
TT - 26 An Entertaining Evening
Tony Styles, Editor, Reporter and Photographer for the Tendringhoe and Chasmundham News knows the rules when it comes to reviewing amateur productions: just enough criticism to make it credible then unadulterated praise from there on in. So it is that Eric Briding, as he stands at the makeshift bar in the foyer of the Reginald Spurgeon Hall, is still glowing from “Captures Perry’s pomposity perfectly”, “a decent first attempt at a principal part…” and “ a wholly entertaining evening.” Having taken a dreadful bollocking from Meg on the opening night for saying “Sorry Ann, I didn’t quite catch that” to the prompt, he feels quite exonerated. Alison too is pleased with “Alison Carduggan, as the vapid, twittering Felicity, provided some unexpected comic moments.”
It is true that they are both slightly niggled by the totally disproportionate amount of praise that has been heaped onto ‘undoubtedly the star of the show’ Gordon Green. In their opinion, Gordon’s was a rather clownish performance, based principally on much ad libbed ‘business’ with his trousers, that did nothing to enhance the development of the plot and a great deal to upstage the rest of the cast. Nonetheless, in the general after-show buzz they are all the best of friends and are certainly more interested in each other than they are in the friends and relatives who have turned up to give their support.
“Did you like the way I stood in front of Perry when talking to Hugh at the cocktail party.” Alison asks Douglas.
“Hmmm, very good, dear.”
“Yes, I thought that was quite a telling moment. Quite poignant.”
“Absolutely.” Douglas has no idea what she is talking about. Like everyone else, his attention at that moment had been on Gordon who had thrown himself onto the couch with such force that he had tipped it over backwards, ending up sprawled beneath it. What had made this even more hilarious was that, judging from the look of surprise on Gordon's face as he flipped backwards, it had been entirely unintended. His impromptu decision to deliver his next line comically from within the upturned piece of furniture had met with a foot-stamping cheer.
Alison, realising that she has milked all the praise that she is going to get out of her husband, wants to gravitate back towards the other cast members who still glow with self-congratulatory excitement. Douglas is trying to move in precisely the opposite direction. He is still extremely perturbed by Cleanth’s accusation. He is particularly anxious that Eric, once he realises that Douglas is being excluded from the Festival plans, will go digging around to try and find out why and, in the process, excavate the extraordinary slander. Douglas knows that for a man in his position any suggestion of sexual impropriety, particularly that kind of sexual impropriety, is a serious matter. The less people that come into contact with it the better, which means the longer he can put off discussing the festival with Eric the better. He is about to manoeuvre Alison just a little further away when feels a large hand clamp down on his shoulder.
“Reverend Carduggan!” It’s Gordon Green. “Enjoy the evening?”
“Oh Hello Gordon." Douglas lets out a little laugh. "Yes, yes, very much.” He leans back on his haunches and prepares to deliver a generous verdict.
“Good-good!” Gordon, who has already received more than enough love from the hilarified villagers, turns his attention to ‘his leading lady’.
“You were marvellous!” He says to Alison.
“Oh well, you were the star of the show” Alison says, and is annoyed to see that Gordon believes her.
“Oh darling! That’s so sweet of you! Bless you!”
“Gordon!” Val Green approaches closely enough to be within Gordon’s earshot, but not close enough to be drawn into the group.
“Hello Val.” Alison calls over.
“Oh hello Alison, hello Reverend.” Val, realising who Gordon is talking to, arranges her face into a more amenable expression and comes closer. She smiles at them obsequiously, “You were very good, Alison!”
“Oh, well, thank you!” Alison is delighted.
Val squeezes out another little smile in response then takes Gordon by the elbow and says more quietly “Are you getting me a drink or not...darling?
Gordon moves away with His Lovely Wife. There’s plenty more sharing of himself to be done at the bar and he can get Val off his back with a G&T at the same time. He propels Val in front of him . “Anything you desire sweet love of my life!” he proclaims, beaming, and without changing his facial expression adds, sotto voce, "And here's hoping you choke on the slice!"
It is true that they are both slightly niggled by the totally disproportionate amount of praise that has been heaped onto ‘undoubtedly the star of the show’ Gordon Green. In their opinion, Gordon’s was a rather clownish performance, based principally on much ad libbed ‘business’ with his trousers, that did nothing to enhance the development of the plot and a great deal to upstage the rest of the cast. Nonetheless, in the general after-show buzz they are all the best of friends and are certainly more interested in each other than they are in the friends and relatives who have turned up to give their support.
“Did you like the way I stood in front of Perry when talking to Hugh at the cocktail party.” Alison asks Douglas.
“Hmmm, very good, dear.”
“Yes, I thought that was quite a telling moment. Quite poignant.”
“Absolutely.” Douglas has no idea what she is talking about. Like everyone else, his attention at that moment had been on Gordon who had thrown himself onto the couch with such force that he had tipped it over backwards, ending up sprawled beneath it. What had made this even more hilarious was that, judging from the look of surprise on Gordon's face as he flipped backwards, it had been entirely unintended. His impromptu decision to deliver his next line comically from within the upturned piece of furniture had met with a foot-stamping cheer.
Alison, realising that she has milked all the praise that she is going to get out of her husband, wants to gravitate back towards the other cast members who still glow with self-congratulatory excitement. Douglas is trying to move in precisely the opposite direction. He is still extremely perturbed by Cleanth’s accusation. He is particularly anxious that Eric, once he realises that Douglas is being excluded from the Festival plans, will go digging around to try and find out why and, in the process, excavate the extraordinary slander. Douglas knows that for a man in his position any suggestion of sexual impropriety, particularly that kind of sexual impropriety, is a serious matter. The less people that come into contact with it the better, which means the longer he can put off discussing the festival with Eric the better. He is about to manoeuvre Alison just a little further away when feels a large hand clamp down on his shoulder.
“Reverend Carduggan!” It’s Gordon Green. “Enjoy the evening?”
“Oh Hello Gordon." Douglas lets out a little laugh. "Yes, yes, very much.” He leans back on his haunches and prepares to deliver a generous verdict.
“Good-good!” Gordon, who has already received more than enough love from the hilarified villagers, turns his attention to ‘his leading lady’.
“You were marvellous!” He says to Alison.
“Oh well, you were the star of the show” Alison says, and is annoyed to see that Gordon believes her.
“Oh darling! That’s so sweet of you! Bless you!”
“Gordon!” Val Green approaches closely enough to be within Gordon’s earshot, but not close enough to be drawn into the group.
“Hello Val.” Alison calls over.
“Oh hello Alison, hello Reverend.” Val, realising who Gordon is talking to, arranges her face into a more amenable expression and comes closer. She smiles at them obsequiously, “You were very good, Alison!”
“Oh, well, thank you!” Alison is delighted.
Val squeezes out another little smile in response then takes Gordon by the elbow and says more quietly “Are you getting me a drink or not...darling?
Gordon moves away with His Lovely Wife. There’s plenty more sharing of himself to be done at the bar and he can get Val off his back with a G&T at the same time. He propels Val in front of him . “Anything you desire sweet love of my life!” he proclaims, beaming, and without changing his facial expression adds, sotto voce, "And here's hoping you choke on the slice!"
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
TT - 25 Douglas Takes Michael by Surprise
Michael Glebe steps out into the cold November air and thinks about gloves for the first time in seven months. It seems so long since he's had to think about dressing his hands before leaving the house that he recalls the old routine as though it were some some strange and forgotten ritual from his distant past, like the annual letting down of his school blazer cuffs. He slings his bag across his body, courier style, and decides to brave it manually naked. He has already spent more time than seems possible in a hamster wheel of self-defeating tasks that morning and he can’t face going back into his flat above the cafe for another round of re-losing his keys whilst looking for his gloves which he knows he had right before he started looking for his library card...
Michael passes down the narrow side-passage between the cafe and the Morgan’s house and opens the gate into the little courtyard garden where Sal lets him keep his bike . Roz is standing outside the loo which has been tacked onto the back of the cafe. Her wild, aubergine hair is in two bunches today.
“Not planning on going in there, are you?” She says, nodding her head towards the lav door and dipping into a packet of Revels
“Hmm? Oh no - just getting my bike.” Michael says with a brief smile and takes hold of the handle bars.
“Good. I’m waiting to do a second flush.” She takes another handful of brown shiny nuggets and pops them into her mouth.
Michael is now in a bind. His flat is an existential horror scene of overdue library books, belching bins, and unopened mail. Beyond the passage is the High Street with its endless stream of beaming villagers looming up at him like manikins in a ghost ride "So?! How did it go? Should we call you Doctor Glebe? Not yet? Oh well, never mind. Chin up!" And between the rock and the hard place: Roz, hand dipping rhythmically into the Revels, waiting to go back in for a second flush.
Michael decides to make a dash straight across the High Street and into the church yard. Then it’s just a short stretch up Blythe Lane before escaping onto the footpath. This will take him across the railway tracks and out through the new housing development where he doesn't know anyone - where nobody knows anyone - and bring him back onto the University road a safe quarter of a mile beyond the village. He wheels his bike back up the passage, checks for oncoming pedestrians in both directions, then darts across the road and through the wrought iron gates of St Maggie’s churchyard. It’s a clear bright morning and the large trees cast strong shadows across the grass and the old tombs. One or two leaves still spin on invisible threads beneath the branches. The air smells of cold.
As Michael approaches the small gate that opens onto Blythe Lane he realises he is not yet ready to leave the tranquility of the churchyard. He leans his bike against a bench and sits down. Emboldened by the quietness of the village, he starts to fantasise about making it to the Village Deli unaccosted for a capuccino and a still-warm pecan slice. He’s already been through the ‘failed my viva, oh dear, how sad, never mind’ routine with the exuberantly camp proprietor, Jason (“never mind lovey, the examiner was probably just jealous of your biceps.”), and the shop should be quiet at this time of the morning.
Michael leaves his bike unlocked, not because Tendringhoe is idyllically free of crime, but because he has faith in its inbuilt anti-theft device, which is to say, only he knows that the handlebars have to be directed 6º east of the actual direction in which the rider intends to travel. The Deli dash is successful. The bike is still there when he returns. The Capuccino keeps his hands warm. It’s too good, of course, and sure enough, just as Michael has dabbed the last remaining dob of maple syrup from the paper wrapper he hears the vestry door open. Looking up he sees Douglas Carduggan swishing towards him in his Church of England frock, his crisp white surplus as beautifully shadowed as sculpted marble, and an oversized green and gold book-mark hanging round his neck.
Of all the silhouettes that currently threaten to pop up at windows, spring out of doorways, or lever up from the ground like a Western-themed target practice, Douglas’s is the most dreaded. Although he has never articulated it to himself explicitly, Michael intuitively understands that Douglas relishes a role; whether it be liberal vicar, godly gastronome, or Post-Bultmannian centre-forward, and he understands perfectly the bit-part that he is expected to play. Indeed, this is his own particular area of expertise. But how can Michael be Phaedrus to Douglas’s Socrates when he comes from the house of Lysias not with an exquisitely crafted speech but with a big fat turkey of a fail.
“Well if it isn’t young Mr Glebe!” Douglas sits beside him on the bench. Michael feels the wooden slats bow slightly beneath him.
“Hello Douglas, and before you ask - No - not good news I’m afraid.” Michael says with a grim smile.
“Oh dear.” Douglas replies, then adds quizzically “In what sense ‘not good news’?”
“The viva.”
Douglas looks lost for a moment, then he takes a sharp little breath of recognition. “Ah, yes. You’ve had that already, have you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh dear. Sounds like it didn’t go too well.”
“Referred. Six months.”
“But you were expecting that you’d have to make some changes.”
“Well, minor corrections yes. But another six months! It was a bit of a blow to be honest with you Reverend.” Michael screws up the sticky cake wrapper and squeezes it inside his cardboard cup.
Douglas sits back on the bench and pretends to admire the day for a few moments. He has noted Michael's untypical use of his title and he guesses correctly that it is an implicit request for professional counsel. “Hmmm.” He says, after a while. “Suppose I were to ask you this - who are the people in your life whom you most admire? You don’t have to tell me, just make a little list in your mind.”
Michael thinks for a while. His grandfather comes instantly to mind, then he has to cast around a little further. He realises that there is something to admire in most of the people he loves, but his thoughts keeps coming back to his friend David, still fighting back from a devastating car accident.
“What do you admire about these people?”
“Oh God. Lots of things.” Michael sighs. “I suppose…I suppose I admire their dignity. And courage! And perseverence.” He stops talking and looks at Douglas. “Ah - I think I see your point.” He gives a little laugh but it unexpectedly catches on a tiny sob and he has to squeeze his eyes tightly shut for a moment.
Douglas puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Sometimes God allows us to fail one test so that we can pass another.”
Michael thinks it has nothing to do with God, but he’s comforted by the general gist. "Thank you." Michael smiles at Douglas appreciatively. "That helps, actually."
"Of course, of course." Douglas stands up with a grunt of effort. “I'm afraid I do have to dash off. Hospital Day today. But pop over later if you feel like a chat.”
“I might, actually, if that’s OK.”
“Of course.”
Michael gets up and throws his cup into the waste-paper bin then wheels his bike round onto the path.
“No cycling till you’re out of the gate!” Douglas says jokingly, as he walks away.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Vicar!” Michael says, rather camply. His spirits are quite improved.
Douglas continues across the churchyard. “Poor old Michael.” He thinks. He can see that he his young friend has had a bit of a blow to the old self-esteem. He rather imagines that this is Michael’s first brush with academic failure.
As Douglas strides through the church gates he is spotted by Cleanth Morgan, who is staring idly from an upstairs window with his extra strong cup of early morning decaff. The sight of the vicar, a billowing pillar of black and white, still fills Cleanth with the unpleasant memory of a situation left unconfronted - unconfronted because of his own impotence and cowardice. As Douglas turns into the High Street, Cleanth suddenly puts down his cup and flings open the window, sending a pigeon flapping into the air. Douglas looks up, startled.
“I KNOW EVERYTHING!” Cleanth announces.
Douglas can only assume that Cleanth is enjoying some kind of obscure joke. “Surely only The Lord knows everything, Cleanth” He replies, adopting the usual embouchure.
The Vicar's smug jocularity only enflames Cleanth further. “Pervert!” He shouts, his Canadian ‘r’s’ almost entirely swallowing the consonants, but although he forces his head agressively forwards his shoulders are already retreating and his arms have begun to pull the windows closed behind him.
Douglas stands in the street below, stunned. What does Cleanth think he knows? What riduculous conclusions has his nasty little mind drawn from what he's just seen? Was it because he put his hand on Michael's shoulder?! Douglas consciously directs his mind to the thought that Cleanth must have gone quite insane, either that, or he's projecting his own fears and desires, but another voice says ‘How could Cleanth know? How could Cleanth possibly know!"
Michael passes down the narrow side-passage between the cafe and the Morgan’s house and opens the gate into the little courtyard garden where Sal lets him keep his bike . Roz is standing outside the loo which has been tacked onto the back of the cafe. Her wild, aubergine hair is in two bunches today.
“Not planning on going in there, are you?” She says, nodding her head towards the lav door and dipping into a packet of Revels
“Hmm? Oh no - just getting my bike.” Michael says with a brief smile and takes hold of the handle bars.
“Good. I’m waiting to do a second flush.” She takes another handful of brown shiny nuggets and pops them into her mouth.
Michael is now in a bind. His flat is an existential horror scene of overdue library books, belching bins, and unopened mail. Beyond the passage is the High Street with its endless stream of beaming villagers looming up at him like manikins in a ghost ride "So?! How did it go? Should we call you Doctor Glebe? Not yet? Oh well, never mind. Chin up!" And between the rock and the hard place: Roz, hand dipping rhythmically into the Revels, waiting to go back in for a second flush.
Michael decides to make a dash straight across the High Street and into the church yard. Then it’s just a short stretch up Blythe Lane before escaping onto the footpath. This will take him across the railway tracks and out through the new housing development where he doesn't know anyone - where nobody knows anyone - and bring him back onto the University road a safe quarter of a mile beyond the village. He wheels his bike back up the passage, checks for oncoming pedestrians in both directions, then darts across the road and through the wrought iron gates of St Maggie’s churchyard. It’s a clear bright morning and the large trees cast strong shadows across the grass and the old tombs. One or two leaves still spin on invisible threads beneath the branches. The air smells of cold.
As Michael approaches the small gate that opens onto Blythe Lane he realises he is not yet ready to leave the tranquility of the churchyard. He leans his bike against a bench and sits down. Emboldened by the quietness of the village, he starts to fantasise about making it to the Village Deli unaccosted for a capuccino and a still-warm pecan slice. He’s already been through the ‘failed my viva, oh dear, how sad, never mind’ routine with the exuberantly camp proprietor, Jason (“never mind lovey, the examiner was probably just jealous of your biceps.”), and the shop should be quiet at this time of the morning.
Michael leaves his bike unlocked, not because Tendringhoe is idyllically free of crime, but because he has faith in its inbuilt anti-theft device, which is to say, only he knows that the handlebars have to be directed 6º east of the actual direction in which the rider intends to travel. The Deli dash is successful. The bike is still there when he returns. The Capuccino keeps his hands warm. It’s too good, of course, and sure enough, just as Michael has dabbed the last remaining dob of maple syrup from the paper wrapper he hears the vestry door open. Looking up he sees Douglas Carduggan swishing towards him in his Church of England frock, his crisp white surplus as beautifully shadowed as sculpted marble, and an oversized green and gold book-mark hanging round his neck.
Of all the silhouettes that currently threaten to pop up at windows, spring out of doorways, or lever up from the ground like a Western-themed target practice, Douglas’s is the most dreaded. Although he has never articulated it to himself explicitly, Michael intuitively understands that Douglas relishes a role; whether it be liberal vicar, godly gastronome, or Post-Bultmannian centre-forward, and he understands perfectly the bit-part that he is expected to play. Indeed, this is his own particular area of expertise. But how can Michael be Phaedrus to Douglas’s Socrates when he comes from the house of Lysias not with an exquisitely crafted speech but with a big fat turkey of a fail.
“Well if it isn’t young Mr Glebe!” Douglas sits beside him on the bench. Michael feels the wooden slats bow slightly beneath him.
“Hello Douglas, and before you ask - No - not good news I’m afraid.” Michael says with a grim smile.
“Oh dear.” Douglas replies, then adds quizzically “In what sense ‘not good news’?”
“The viva.”
Douglas looks lost for a moment, then he takes a sharp little breath of recognition. “Ah, yes. You’ve had that already, have you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh dear. Sounds like it didn’t go too well.”
“Referred. Six months.”
“But you were expecting that you’d have to make some changes.”
“Well, minor corrections yes. But another six months! It was a bit of a blow to be honest with you Reverend.” Michael screws up the sticky cake wrapper and squeezes it inside his cardboard cup.
Douglas sits back on the bench and pretends to admire the day for a few moments. He has noted Michael's untypical use of his title and he guesses correctly that it is an implicit request for professional counsel. “Hmmm.” He says, after a while. “Suppose I were to ask you this - who are the people in your life whom you most admire? You don’t have to tell me, just make a little list in your mind.”
Michael thinks for a while. His grandfather comes instantly to mind, then he has to cast around a little further. He realises that there is something to admire in most of the people he loves, but his thoughts keeps coming back to his friend David, still fighting back from a devastating car accident.
“What do you admire about these people?”
“Oh God. Lots of things.” Michael sighs. “I suppose…I suppose I admire their dignity. And courage! And perseverence.” He stops talking and looks at Douglas. “Ah - I think I see your point.” He gives a little laugh but it unexpectedly catches on a tiny sob and he has to squeeze his eyes tightly shut for a moment.
Douglas puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Sometimes God allows us to fail one test so that we can pass another.”
Michael thinks it has nothing to do with God, but he’s comforted by the general gist. "Thank you." Michael smiles at Douglas appreciatively. "That helps, actually."
"Of course, of course." Douglas stands up with a grunt of effort. “I'm afraid I do have to dash off. Hospital Day today. But pop over later if you feel like a chat.”
“I might, actually, if that’s OK.”
“Of course.”
Michael gets up and throws his cup into the waste-paper bin then wheels his bike round onto the path.
“No cycling till you’re out of the gate!” Douglas says jokingly, as he walks away.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Vicar!” Michael says, rather camply. His spirits are quite improved.
Douglas continues across the churchyard. “Poor old Michael.” He thinks. He can see that he his young friend has had a bit of a blow to the old self-esteem. He rather imagines that this is Michael’s first brush with academic failure.
As Douglas strides through the church gates he is spotted by Cleanth Morgan, who is staring idly from an upstairs window with his extra strong cup of early morning decaff. The sight of the vicar, a billowing pillar of black and white, still fills Cleanth with the unpleasant memory of a situation left unconfronted - unconfronted because of his own impotence and cowardice. As Douglas turns into the High Street, Cleanth suddenly puts down his cup and flings open the window, sending a pigeon flapping into the air. Douglas looks up, startled.
“I KNOW EVERYTHING!” Cleanth announces.
Douglas can only assume that Cleanth is enjoying some kind of obscure joke. “Surely only The Lord knows everything, Cleanth” He replies, adopting the usual embouchure.
The Vicar's smug jocularity only enflames Cleanth further. “Pervert!” He shouts, his Canadian ‘r’s’ almost entirely swallowing the consonants, but although he forces his head agressively forwards his shoulders are already retreating and his arms have begun to pull the windows closed behind him.
Douglas stands in the street below, stunned. What does Cleanth think he knows? What riduculous conclusions has his nasty little mind drawn from what he's just seen? Was it because he put his hand on Michael's shoulder?! Douglas consciously directs his mind to the thought that Cleanth must have gone quite insane, either that, or he's projecting his own fears and desires, but another voice says ‘How could Cleanth know? How could Cleanth possibly know!"
Saturday, July 15, 2006
TT 24 - Douglas Has an Unexpected Pleasure.
When Douglas hears the side-gate open he is convinced that it is Michael Glebe, and he adopts the attitude of a man deeply immersed in thought.
"Alright Vic!"
It's not Michael at all, but St Maggie's newest parishioner.
"Don't mind if I join you, do you?" Dave Gill plops down onto the bench beside Douglas and lets out a sigh of effort. 30 years of Cocaine, alcohol and blonde model-actresses have taken their toll on his ticker. "What a fantastic bloody day, eh Vic?!" Dave clasps his hands beneath his grey pony tail and stretches out his drain-pipe legs.
"Ah, Mr Gill, an unexpected pleasure."
Whilst the Reverend Carduggan is not immune to the celebrity status of the former lead-guitarist of Crimfish, nor uncognizant of the fact that he could pay for the much needed repairs to the church organ with a single flourish of his cheque-book, he feels somewhat perturbed by Dave's bullish familiarity. Since leaving school, Douglas has successfully created a cordon-sanitaire of intellectualism and cultivation around himself: his little white collar the final ring of protection against the oppressively 'cool', easy-going popularity of Dave types. He is certainly not accustomed to being addressed as 'Vic'. To regain his priestly dignity, Douglas adopts a position of wry detachment in relation to Dave, and there is plenty to be wry about. At the same time, there is, in this battered old rocker, an openness, a curiosity, an innocent ability to relish the part without bothering with the whole, that Douglas can't help being drawn to.
"What you reading then?" Dave picks up Douglas's book, and nods his head sagely. "Ah, the old Saccry Representatziony eh? Quite interested in that myself."
"Really?" Douglas is slightly affronted for a moment, then the wryness returns. "In what capacity?"
"When we were doing the really big stadium tours back in the 70's, we did some pretty spectacular shows. For our 'Flick of the Devil's Tail' tour, yeah?, we kind of took some ideas from old christian mystery plays and spectacles, then twisted them, you know..." Dave trails off. He has realised what he is saying. "It's quite interesting though, that whole history of Christian theatre, isn't it Father"
Douglas winces. He wonders whether Dave cares at all which denomination provides his spiritual fix.
"I'm not a Catholic Priest, Dave."
"No, I know that, Vic." Dave is slightly puzzled.
Douglas decides to let it go. "So - to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I want to talk to you about Isaiah, chapter 40, that bit about the voice that crieth in the wilderness...” Dave holds out his hands and looks skywards. Douglas puts his arm over the back of the bench and prepares himself to listen. Which other of his parishioners, after all, would bowl in full of the joys of spring to talk about Isa.40:3.
By the time Dave leaves, Douglas decides he rather likes the fellow, extraordinary as he is. What's more, he's left Douglas with some interesting thoughts about how the rock gig is today's equivalent of the old religious spectacle. No wonder the Anglican church faces an uncertain future when it leaves the task of affecting the mind, memory and will of the unlearned masses to scruffy young rock stars. He picks up his empty mug and his book and makes his way back to the house. Again Alison catches sight of him and again he is lost in thought. This time, he is pondering whether he would look preposterous in a leather jacket, not unlike the one Dave was wearing. Which is odd, because as Dave drives back to the farm in his Land Rover he’s thinking he’d quite like a proper tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows like the Vicar’s - and perhaps a cap to match.
"Alright Vic!"
It's not Michael at all, but St Maggie's newest parishioner.
"Don't mind if I join you, do you?" Dave Gill plops down onto the bench beside Douglas and lets out a sigh of effort. 30 years of Cocaine, alcohol and blonde model-actresses have taken their toll on his ticker. "What a fantastic bloody day, eh Vic?!" Dave clasps his hands beneath his grey pony tail and stretches out his drain-pipe legs.
"Ah, Mr Gill, an unexpected pleasure."
Whilst the Reverend Carduggan is not immune to the celebrity status of the former lead-guitarist of Crimfish, nor uncognizant of the fact that he could pay for the much needed repairs to the church organ with a single flourish of his cheque-book, he feels somewhat perturbed by Dave's bullish familiarity. Since leaving school, Douglas has successfully created a cordon-sanitaire of intellectualism and cultivation around himself: his little white collar the final ring of protection against the oppressively 'cool', easy-going popularity of Dave types. He is certainly not accustomed to being addressed as 'Vic'. To regain his priestly dignity, Douglas adopts a position of wry detachment in relation to Dave, and there is plenty to be wry about. At the same time, there is, in this battered old rocker, an openness, a curiosity, an innocent ability to relish the part without bothering with the whole, that Douglas can't help being drawn to.
"What you reading then?" Dave picks up Douglas's book, and nods his head sagely. "Ah, the old Saccry Representatziony eh? Quite interested in that myself."
"Really?" Douglas is slightly affronted for a moment, then the wryness returns. "In what capacity?"
"When we were doing the really big stadium tours back in the 70's, we did some pretty spectacular shows. For our 'Flick of the Devil's Tail' tour, yeah?, we kind of took some ideas from old christian mystery plays and spectacles, then twisted them, you know..." Dave trails off. He has realised what he is saying. "It's quite interesting though, that whole history of Christian theatre, isn't it Father"
Douglas winces. He wonders whether Dave cares at all which denomination provides his spiritual fix.
"I'm not a Catholic Priest, Dave."
"No, I know that, Vic." Dave is slightly puzzled.
Douglas decides to let it go. "So - to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I want to talk to you about Isaiah, chapter 40, that bit about the voice that crieth in the wilderness...” Dave holds out his hands and looks skywards. Douglas puts his arm over the back of the bench and prepares himself to listen. Which other of his parishioners, after all, would bowl in full of the joys of spring to talk about Isa.40:3.
By the time Dave leaves, Douglas decides he rather likes the fellow, extraordinary as he is. What's more, he's left Douglas with some interesting thoughts about how the rock gig is today's equivalent of the old religious spectacle. No wonder the Anglican church faces an uncertain future when it leaves the task of affecting the mind, memory and will of the unlearned masses to scruffy young rock stars. He picks up his empty mug and his book and makes his way back to the house. Again Alison catches sight of him and again he is lost in thought. This time, he is pondering whether he would look preposterous in a leather jacket, not unlike the one Dave was wearing. Which is odd, because as Dave drives back to the farm in his Land Rover he’s thinking he’d quite like a proper tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows like the Vicar’s - and perhaps a cap to match.
TT - 23 An Incumbent amongst the Cucurbits
When Glandice Morgan sets about a piece of Wagner, it is less like a lark ascending than a drill hitting masonry: her top C the vocal equivalent of maximum torque. Douglas, unable to take the strain any longer, has removed to the vegetable patch at the bottom of the vicarage garden, which is mercifully out of range. It is unusually mild for late October, and not only is he wearing his favourite tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, but Alison’s bonfire is still crackling gently and giving off the occasional swirl of sweet smoke. He looks at the garden fork stuck at an angle into the earth between the two neat rows of leeks and wills a Robin to land on the handle. It doesn’t. But it’s pretty damn good, all the same.
Douglas balances his mug of tea on the arm of the bench, leans back against the wooden slats and opens his book. He is reading a very interesting account of 15th-century Florentine Sacre Rappresentazioni by P. O. Flanhandy, S.J. He is particularly interested in the special effects used in these popular religious dramas: candles in coloured jars suspended high above the stage; small boys in taffeta tunics lowered on winches from specially constructed platforms; holy doves shot down wires amongst exploding fireworks. He is, of course, thinking of his own modern day mystery play, only now he’s wondering whether it wouldn’t be rather wonderful to reconstruct one of these sacred spectacles in Tendringhoe’s own, very beautiful 15th-century church, perhaps as a play within a play.
It is as he muses on this thought that Alison catches sight of him through the kitchen window. There he is, her husband the Vicar of Tendringhoe, his commanding physical stature evident even as he pours over his text, every inch the scholar. He had his nose in a book the first time she saw, him, almost 25 years ago, at a residential trumpet workshop for Christians in the Brecon Beacons: Baudelaire’s Fleur du Mal, she remembers, in the original French of course, but using his Derby County season ticket as a book mark - that was so Douglas!
Alison peels off her yellow marigolds and hangs them over the edge of the sink to dry. She looks again with satisfied approval at her husband as he sits amongst the mellow fruitfulness of the Vicarage garden. His mind might be lost in anything, she thinks to herself pleasurably: speculative theology, early Byzantine church music, renaissance art, and she’s not far wrong, for Reverend Carduggan is indeed rummaging around in all these areas of learning in order to find something with which he might legitimise the oddly persistent image of Michael Glebe suspended from the rafters of St Maggie’s in nothing but a rudely short taffeta tunic.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
TT 22 - Excitement at the Fat Cat Vegetarian Cafe
Gabriel Lamb is charming the ladies at the Fat Cat Vegetarian Cafe. He is leaning against the doorpost, his actor's coat draping expensively behind him, blowing cigarette smoke out into the street and filtering charm back in through the open doorway. Roz, who favours stripey tights, T-bar shoes and brightly coloured jumpers, fares slightly worse in the onslaught than Sal, who favours women.
"So, what's your play going to be about?" says Roz, whose metabolic rate is cracking on at such a pace she could have a deep fried Mars Bar with her mid-morning coffee and still not break her 1200 calorie limit.
"Well, it's a comedy, really" says Gabriel, and gives Roz a smile to warm her hands on, which is just as well, since he is letting in a cruel draught through the open door.
"Oh...!" says Roz excitedly, and her arms lift slightly at her side as though she wants to say 'yippee!'
"It's about a man who's paid to cry."
"Oh, quite dark then." Says Roz, and the arms come back down again and the eyes widen.
"Um..?" Gabriel draws down the corners of his mouth and stares out across the street into the leaf strewn church yard, "well, I suppose it is, really. Well, perhaps more 'magic realism'."
Gabriel finishes his cigarette and finally closes the door with a tinkle of the bell. He joins them at the large round wooden table in the geranium filled bay window. "He starts off as a lad on street corners," He says, suddenly animated, as though his mind has just ignited with the idea and he is sharing it for the very first time. "People pay him to cry for their own griefs. It's set in the Edwardian era, in the east-end of London, so they're too stoic to cry for themselves, you see." And Roz does see.
"Then the first world war comes along, and of course, business is booming. He ends up in Vaudeville. At first he's the warm up act for The Great Rolando, the renowned sentimental tenor, but soon he's top of the bill, a household name."
"So what happens then?" Sal, who has been pretending to busy herself with the coloured chalks and the menu board is hooked.
"Well, it all goes a bit wrong. After the war, he ends up in the circus. A freak show. I haven't decided how it ends yet. Perhaps it is a tragedy after all."
"Is it an allegory?" Asks Roz.
"Not an allegory, exactly. Although it is...there are symbolic resonances. It's going to be very visual! Increasingly visual, as we go from street to theatre to circus."
"Sort of hard to stage." Says Roz, who has a tendency to innocently drop these teeny-weeny remarks that turn out to be horribly incisive.
"Well, the staging will be ambitious." Gabriel says, picking up a pepper grinder from the table and fiddling with it for a while. "But I like the idea of going back to the spectacular." He puts the pepper down. He's caught up with Roz's comment and he needs both hands free. "I want to stage it like an old fashioned Music Hall, or Cabaret. Dancers, acrobats. I'd love to actually use limelights. Pump the smell of greaspaint into the crowd." His hands intuitively cup with the sheer plenitudinous viscerality of it all.
"You know, the more I think about it, the more I think it is a tragedy." Gabriel Lamb decides. "Here's this character, trapped inside a performance, the performance of other people's emotions. And the more he martyrs himself the more they clap and cheer."
"Oh yes, that's very good!" Says Roz.
"Very clever!" Agrees Sal.
"So, what's your play going to be about?" says Roz, whose metabolic rate is cracking on at such a pace she could have a deep fried Mars Bar with her mid-morning coffee and still not break her 1200 calorie limit.
"Well, it's a comedy, really" says Gabriel, and gives Roz a smile to warm her hands on, which is just as well, since he is letting in a cruel draught through the open door.
"Oh...!" says Roz excitedly, and her arms lift slightly at her side as though she wants to say 'yippee!'
"It's about a man who's paid to cry."
"Oh, quite dark then." Says Roz, and the arms come back down again and the eyes widen.
"Um..?" Gabriel draws down the corners of his mouth and stares out across the street into the leaf strewn church yard, "well, I suppose it is, really. Well, perhaps more 'magic realism'."
Gabriel finishes his cigarette and finally closes the door with a tinkle of the bell. He joins them at the large round wooden table in the geranium filled bay window. "He starts off as a lad on street corners," He says, suddenly animated, as though his mind has just ignited with the idea and he is sharing it for the very first time. "People pay him to cry for their own griefs. It's set in the Edwardian era, in the east-end of London, so they're too stoic to cry for themselves, you see." And Roz does see.
"Then the first world war comes along, and of course, business is booming. He ends up in Vaudeville. At first he's the warm up act for The Great Rolando, the renowned sentimental tenor, but soon he's top of the bill, a household name."
"So what happens then?" Sal, who has been pretending to busy herself with the coloured chalks and the menu board is hooked.
"Well, it all goes a bit wrong. After the war, he ends up in the circus. A freak show. I haven't decided how it ends yet. Perhaps it is a tragedy after all."
"Is it an allegory?" Asks Roz.
"Not an allegory, exactly. Although it is...there are symbolic resonances. It's going to be very visual! Increasingly visual, as we go from street to theatre to circus."
"Sort of hard to stage." Says Roz, who has a tendency to innocently drop these teeny-weeny remarks that turn out to be horribly incisive.
"Well, the staging will be ambitious." Gabriel says, picking up a pepper grinder from the table and fiddling with it for a while. "But I like the idea of going back to the spectacular." He puts the pepper down. He's caught up with Roz's comment and he needs both hands free. "I want to stage it like an old fashioned Music Hall, or Cabaret. Dancers, acrobats. I'd love to actually use limelights. Pump the smell of greaspaint into the crowd." His hands intuitively cup with the sheer plenitudinous viscerality of it all.
"You know, the more I think about it, the more I think it is a tragedy." Gabriel Lamb decides. "Here's this character, trapped inside a performance, the performance of other people's emotions. And the more he martyrs himself the more they clap and cheer."
"Oh yes, that's very good!" Says Roz.
"Very clever!" Agrees Sal.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
TT 21 - Lemon Oil
“You’re always late.”
“You wanna know what it is?”
“What?”
“Tough shit.” Dezzy catches his own eye in the rear-view mirror, releases the handbrake and pulls out of the station forecourt. The windscreen wipers squeegee rythmically, barely able to keep up with the downpour. Sian rifles through the glove compartment and fishes out a packet of cigarettes.
“Help yourself.”
“Oh, thanks. That’s really kind of you.” She replies from around a Marlborough. She pulls his gold lighter from the dashboard. “Where’re we going?”
“Beach.” Dezzy turns on the air conditioning with an irritated huff. “You bloody gonna make my cab stink.”
“The beach?!” The pitch of Sian’s voice, normally so under control, shoots up.
“The beach?!” Dezzy mimics, falsetto. “Yeah, I fancy a swim.” He laughs.
“Seriously, though.” Sian looks at him, eyebrows raised, head on one side.
“Seriously, though - I got us the key to Big Bob’s beach hut.” Since they normally do it in the back of his Rover he reveals this surprise romantic destination with some relish.
“It’s too cold.” Sian drags melodramatically on her cigarette.
“No it ain’t. There’s a little stove in it and everything. And blankets and cushions . It’s well cosy, Babe.”
“When did you go there before, then?” Sian asks, suddenly full of suspicion, and she checks his eye movements in the rear view mirror. They flick slightly to the left but since he’s about to pull out into the High Street it’s not conclusive.
“With Bob, in the summer.” The indicator ticks noisily.
“You went to the beach with Big Bob?”
“Yeah, why not?” He swings out into the main road and sends a plane of water up over the pavement. “So where your parents think you are today?”
“In the library.”
“What - looking like that?!”
“Like what?”
“Dressed up all sexy for me.”
“I’m not ‘dressed up all sexy.’”
“Yeah, you are. I like it.”
“I dress for myself.” Sian says and pulls a CD from the box between her feet. She looks at it as though she’s holding a dead mouse by the tail. “Why do you listen to such shit music?”
“Shit music?! What you talking about, shit music?!” Dezzy hams up the disbelief.
“No, not sheet music’. Sian says, calmly. “Shit music.”
“You the one who shit.” He says offhandedly, but Sian notices with satisfaction that his jaw muscles have started to twitch.
“Well I do shit occasionally, yes, that’s true.” Sian swivels her eyes towards him then bursts out laughing. There is a pause, then Dezzy laughs too. He can’t help himself, his shiftless soul instinctively tends towards the light-hearted. Sian looks at him, his white teeth gleaming against his dark skin, his black hair that smells of lemon oil, his Adams apple bobbing up and down. And for a moment she thinks maybe she could fall in love with him, if she just applied herself.
“What you looking at?” He says.
“You’re ugly face!”
“Put a bloody CD on then!”
“But they’re All - So - Crap!” She says as though to herself, and she puts on the one album of his that she really likes. The one she plays incessantly.
When they get to the beach the rain has eased off, but it is still damp and grey, and the car-park is empty. The sea is brown and flat and hardly distinguishable from the planes of wet sand that shimmer between the rotting, wooden windbreaks. They walk along the lower tier of the concrete sea wall towards the beach huts, avoiding the slippery swathes of bubble-pop sea-weed. Sian is skeptical about the whole project and she walks in silence, pulling her leather jacket tightly around her, as much to hold in the latent strop as to keep out the sea breeze.
Big Bob’s beech hut is called ‘Mary-Ann.’ Once inside, Dezzy bustles about, lighting the calor gas stove for some tea, and turning on the radio. He takes the sofa cushions that are piled against the wall, lays them down on the wooden floor, then makes a little bed with the blankets and scatter cushions. He sits down and pats the space next to him. Sian sits down and leans against his shoulder, still huddled inside her coat although she’s starting to feel more cosy, and its almost romantic with the slow hushing of the sea outside. Dezzy takes off her jacket and pushes her down onto the cushions. He lies on top of her, only his elbows keeping the full weight of his taut, springy body from hers. She can smell the lemon oil over the natural musk of his skin, slightly sweet like cinammon and plasticine - the smell of illicit sex. He is already hard. He opens his mouth wide when he kisses, filling her whole mouth with his tongue and biting her lips. They take off their jeans and continue under the blankets. Dezzy breaks off to pull a condom from his jeans’ pocket. When the kettle starts to whistle, Sian Carduggan is already doing it. It is, she calculates, her 17th time.
“You wanna know what it is?”
“What?”
“Tough shit.” Dezzy catches his own eye in the rear-view mirror, releases the handbrake and pulls out of the station forecourt. The windscreen wipers squeegee rythmically, barely able to keep up with the downpour. Sian rifles through the glove compartment and fishes out a packet of cigarettes.
“Help yourself.”
“Oh, thanks. That’s really kind of you.” She replies from around a Marlborough. She pulls his gold lighter from the dashboard. “Where’re we going?”
“Beach.” Dezzy turns on the air conditioning with an irritated huff. “You bloody gonna make my cab stink.”
“The beach?!” The pitch of Sian’s voice, normally so under control, shoots up.
“The beach?!” Dezzy mimics, falsetto. “Yeah, I fancy a swim.” He laughs.
“Seriously, though.” Sian looks at him, eyebrows raised, head on one side.
“Seriously, though - I got us the key to Big Bob’s beach hut.” Since they normally do it in the back of his Rover he reveals this surprise romantic destination with some relish.
“It’s too cold.” Sian drags melodramatically on her cigarette.
“No it ain’t. There’s a little stove in it and everything. And blankets and cushions . It’s well cosy, Babe.”
“When did you go there before, then?” Sian asks, suddenly full of suspicion, and she checks his eye movements in the rear view mirror. They flick slightly to the left but since he’s about to pull out into the High Street it’s not conclusive.
“With Bob, in the summer.” The indicator ticks noisily.
“You went to the beach with Big Bob?”
“Yeah, why not?” He swings out into the main road and sends a plane of water up over the pavement. “So where your parents think you are today?”
“In the library.”
“What - looking like that?!”
“Like what?”
“Dressed up all sexy for me.”
“I’m not ‘dressed up all sexy.’”
“Yeah, you are. I like it.”
“I dress for myself.” Sian says and pulls a CD from the box between her feet. She looks at it as though she’s holding a dead mouse by the tail. “Why do you listen to such shit music?”
“Shit music?! What you talking about, shit music?!” Dezzy hams up the disbelief.
“No, not sheet music’. Sian says, calmly. “Shit music.”
“You the one who shit.” He says offhandedly, but Sian notices with satisfaction that his jaw muscles have started to twitch.
“Well I do shit occasionally, yes, that’s true.” Sian swivels her eyes towards him then bursts out laughing. There is a pause, then Dezzy laughs too. He can’t help himself, his shiftless soul instinctively tends towards the light-hearted. Sian looks at him, his white teeth gleaming against his dark skin, his black hair that smells of lemon oil, his Adams apple bobbing up and down. And for a moment she thinks maybe she could fall in love with him, if she just applied herself.
“What you looking at?” He says.
“You’re ugly face!”
“Put a bloody CD on then!”
“But they’re All - So - Crap!” She says as though to herself, and she puts on the one album of his that she really likes. The one she plays incessantly.
When they get to the beach the rain has eased off, but it is still damp and grey, and the car-park is empty. The sea is brown and flat and hardly distinguishable from the planes of wet sand that shimmer between the rotting, wooden windbreaks. They walk along the lower tier of the concrete sea wall towards the beach huts, avoiding the slippery swathes of bubble-pop sea-weed. Sian is skeptical about the whole project and she walks in silence, pulling her leather jacket tightly around her, as much to hold in the latent strop as to keep out the sea breeze.
Big Bob’s beech hut is called ‘Mary-Ann.’ Once inside, Dezzy bustles about, lighting the calor gas stove for some tea, and turning on the radio. He takes the sofa cushions that are piled against the wall, lays them down on the wooden floor, then makes a little bed with the blankets and scatter cushions. He sits down and pats the space next to him. Sian sits down and leans against his shoulder, still huddled inside her coat although she’s starting to feel more cosy, and its almost romantic with the slow hushing of the sea outside. Dezzy takes off her jacket and pushes her down onto the cushions. He lies on top of her, only his elbows keeping the full weight of his taut, springy body from hers. She can smell the lemon oil over the natural musk of his skin, slightly sweet like cinammon and plasticine - the smell of illicit sex. He is already hard. He opens his mouth wide when he kisses, filling her whole mouth with his tongue and biting her lips. They take off their jeans and continue under the blankets. Dezzy breaks off to pull a condom from his jeans’ pocket. When the kettle starts to whistle, Sian Carduggan is already doing it. It is, she calculates, her 17th time.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
TT 20 - The Furthest Limit of the Village
Tendringhoe station is at the furthest limit of the village. There are other limits, of course. To the south there is the quayside; then east of the quay there is a more gradual petering out from road, to lane to footpath and out along the estuary towards the sea. To the north the houses thin out gently along the main road into Saxeburgh until the final farm is passed. The Station, however, is at the furthest limit. Unlike the estuary path in the opposite direction, it does not give way to an attractive and expansive vista. A thicket of shrubs and stunted trees conceal the empty marshland beyond. Only the experienced eye can pick out the start of a narrow footpath that winds through trouser-whipping saxifrage between the green smelling river and the railway tracks. Nor does station exit greet the incomer with polite facades. It lies behind a row of small, dark, Victorian railway cottages, the sort that have washing perenially strung out in their rectangular back gardens. So it is left to the frosted front door of the Railway Tavern, set at an angle into the corner building, to glint at passers-by like a prominent tooth in a rather louche and crooked smile.
Beyond the front door of The Railway, the two sides of the L-shaped interior recede obliquely. Len Magma is seated slightly to the left of the projecting corner of the bar beneath a glittering canopy of trinkets and tankards, the racing section of the Daily Sport opened before him. He is one of half a dozen regulars drinking in the The Railway this Saturday lunchtime. Although they periodically engage in conversation with each other they do not sit together, but are dotted around the otherwise empty pub, either at the bar or at one of the small wooden tables that flank the walls. At present, they gaze silently at the racing on the small TV screen in the corner, or hunch over their papers, or simply stare absently at the British Railways and Elvis memorabilia that surrounds them.
"What's the name of that actor?" Ginger Roger, Len's best friend and principal driver for Bob's Luxury Tours, says from his side of the bar. Since this is such a pointless question, there is no reply. "Played the Butler...what's that film?"
"The Admirable Crichton." Says Tony Styles, editor, reporter and photographer for the Tendringhoe and Chasmundham News, without taking his eyes from the television screen.
"No." Roger plucks at his bottom lip. "American film. He was the Butler for this posh English bloke, played by, oh, what was his name? You know. British Comic. Pint-sized sex-symbol."
"Ronnie Corbett." Offers Len.
"Was in a double act, with that tall, good-looking fella."
"Ronnie Corbett." Says Len again, thinking that maybe Roger didn't hear the first time.
"No - not bloody Ronnie Corbett!" Dismisses Roger. "Went to Hollywood. Was in that film with that actress. What's her name?"
"Another one in there, Len?" Uri has returned from the back room where he has been phoning in bets for his customers. Len releases his tankard for a refill.
"You know." Roger presses on. "Bloody Gorgeous. Had all them little plaits."
"Bo Diddley." This comes from old Reg sitting at his usual bench beneath the Elvis mirror. .
"Bo Diddly! That's the One!" Somehow, the two men's submerged brains are able to comminicate through the alcoholic murk like a pair of whales. Roger swivels on his stool. "What was that film, Reg?"
"9 1/2!" Says Reg knowledgeably.
"Bo Diddly - 9 1/2!" Roger turns back to the bar . "He was in 9 1/2. With Bo Diddly. Little fella. Died. COME ON, COME ON. YE-ESSS. C'MAHN RISING STAAR!" His attention is momentarily distracted by the sudden acceleration of his horse in the 3.30 at Goodwood. There is an agonising moment as three horses all seem to be neck and neck, with Rising Star perhaps just a nose ahead. Roger levitates a few inches above the bar stool in anticipation, then it's round the final bend, the camera angle changes, and within seconds the front runners have splayed out and Rising Star has comes in an entirely useless third. Roger, no-longer supended in the air by the thought of a 12-1 win on a fiver, drops back onto his stool with a disappointed sigh. Outside it has started to rain heavily.
"Dudley More." Says Reg, after a short pause.
"Dudley More! That's the fella! Dudley More."
"What about him." Asks Tony the journalist.
"What was that film?"
"Arthur?"
"ARTHUR!" Suddenly he is making such good progress the disappointment of the race is almost forgotten. "Now..." He draws a breath - he is on the home-straight. He turns to Tony. "Who was the actor that played the Butler."
Before Tony can answer the door opens and an attractive, fair-haired girl comes into the bar. There is a moment of suspension, as subtle yet significant as a change in atmospheric pressure. She is seen but not directly acknowledged. Having no status in the pub hierarchy whatsoever, any frisson that her entrance into the Railway Tavern has caused needs only be re-routed amongst the men themselves in a series of small, knowing, 'aye-aye' looks.
"What would you like?" Uri says, politely but with no social interest.
"Diet Coke, please." She is already fiddling with the change in her purse. She casts a look around the bar. "Oh, hello Len." She says, and because she feels intimidated by the alien, male atmosphere, adds, quite possibly for the first time, "How are you?"
"Sian." Len Magma says with a nod of acknowledgement but it is not the usual obsequious response she recieves from him in the vicarage. She returns her attention to her pound coins. Uri sets a can of coke on the bar alongside a glass. She pays and goes and sits at an empty table in the corner by the dart board. She looks anxiously now and again through the window at the station forecourt and fusses obsessively over her mobile phone.
The air pressure in the bar returns to normal.
"Sir John Gielgud." Tony folds up his newspaper.
"SIR JOHN GIELGUD." Roger slaps the bar.
"What about him?"
"Best actor this country's ever produced."
"Is he bollocks!" Tony feels the door swing open behind him. He turns and sees the girl run out into the rain, her jacket over her head, and climb into a waiting taxi.
Beyond the front door of The Railway, the two sides of the L-shaped interior recede obliquely. Len Magma is seated slightly to the left of the projecting corner of the bar beneath a glittering canopy of trinkets and tankards, the racing section of the Daily Sport opened before him. He is one of half a dozen regulars drinking in the The Railway this Saturday lunchtime. Although they periodically engage in conversation with each other they do not sit together, but are dotted around the otherwise empty pub, either at the bar or at one of the small wooden tables that flank the walls. At present, they gaze silently at the racing on the small TV screen in the corner, or hunch over their papers, or simply stare absently at the British Railways and Elvis memorabilia that surrounds them.
"What's the name of that actor?" Ginger Roger, Len's best friend and principal driver for Bob's Luxury Tours, says from his side of the bar. Since this is such a pointless question, there is no reply. "Played the Butler...what's that film?"
"The Admirable Crichton." Says Tony Styles, editor, reporter and photographer for the Tendringhoe and Chasmundham News, without taking his eyes from the television screen.
"No." Roger plucks at his bottom lip. "American film. He was the Butler for this posh English bloke, played by, oh, what was his name? You know. British Comic. Pint-sized sex-symbol."
"Ronnie Corbett." Offers Len.
"Was in a double act, with that tall, good-looking fella."
"Ronnie Corbett." Says Len again, thinking that maybe Roger didn't hear the first time.
"No - not bloody Ronnie Corbett!" Dismisses Roger. "Went to Hollywood. Was in that film with that actress. What's her name?"
"Another one in there, Len?" Uri has returned from the back room where he has been phoning in bets for his customers. Len releases his tankard for a refill.
"You know." Roger presses on. "Bloody Gorgeous. Had all them little plaits."
"Bo Diddley." This comes from old Reg sitting at his usual bench beneath the Elvis mirror. .
"Bo Diddly! That's the One!" Somehow, the two men's submerged brains are able to comminicate through the alcoholic murk like a pair of whales. Roger swivels on his stool. "What was that film, Reg?"
"9 1/2!" Says Reg knowledgeably.
"Bo Diddly - 9 1/2!" Roger turns back to the bar . "He was in 9 1/2. With Bo Diddly. Little fella. Died. COME ON, COME ON. YE-ESSS. C'MAHN RISING STAAR!" His attention is momentarily distracted by the sudden acceleration of his horse in the 3.30 at Goodwood. There is an agonising moment as three horses all seem to be neck and neck, with Rising Star perhaps just a nose ahead. Roger levitates a few inches above the bar stool in anticipation, then it's round the final bend, the camera angle changes, and within seconds the front runners have splayed out and Rising Star has comes in an entirely useless third. Roger, no-longer supended in the air by the thought of a 12-1 win on a fiver, drops back onto his stool with a disappointed sigh. Outside it has started to rain heavily.
"Dudley More." Says Reg, after a short pause.
"Dudley More! That's the fella! Dudley More."
"What about him." Asks Tony the journalist.
"What was that film?"
"Arthur?"
"ARTHUR!" Suddenly he is making such good progress the disappointment of the race is almost forgotten. "Now..." He draws a breath - he is on the home-straight. He turns to Tony. "Who was the actor that played the Butler."
Before Tony can answer the door opens and an attractive, fair-haired girl comes into the bar. There is a moment of suspension, as subtle yet significant as a change in atmospheric pressure. She is seen but not directly acknowledged. Having no status in the pub hierarchy whatsoever, any frisson that her entrance into the Railway Tavern has caused needs only be re-routed amongst the men themselves in a series of small, knowing, 'aye-aye' looks.
"What would you like?" Uri says, politely but with no social interest.
"Diet Coke, please." She is already fiddling with the change in her purse. She casts a look around the bar. "Oh, hello Len." She says, and because she feels intimidated by the alien, male atmosphere, adds, quite possibly for the first time, "How are you?"
"Sian." Len Magma says with a nod of acknowledgement but it is not the usual obsequious response she recieves from him in the vicarage. She returns her attention to her pound coins. Uri sets a can of coke on the bar alongside a glass. She pays and goes and sits at an empty table in the corner by the dart board. She looks anxiously now and again through the window at the station forecourt and fusses obsessively over her mobile phone.
The air pressure in the bar returns to normal.
"Sir John Gielgud." Tony folds up his newspaper.
"SIR JOHN GIELGUD." Roger slaps the bar.
"What about him?"
"Best actor this country's ever produced."
"Is he bollocks!" Tony feels the door swing open behind him. He turns and sees the girl run out into the rain, her jacket over her head, and climb into a waiting taxi.
Friday, June 30, 2006
TT 19 - Hubert Rowan is stimulated.
"It's filled with lacunae." says Professor James, tersely tapping the end of her fountain pen on the doctoral thesis opened before her on the desk.
"Lacunae?" says Michael Glebe, avoiding Professor James' eye and looking instead to Hubert Rowan for support.
Professor Rowan is slumped silently in his leather chair, an imploded package of tweed and stale pipe-slag. "Ye-es" he says thoughtfully, "I felt it was..." he clears his throat and cants untidily sideways to engage more intimately with his colleague, "...quite thoroughly riddled with lacunae."
"Huge lacunae." qualifies Professor James helpfully, and as she says this a fleck of spit falls from her mouth and onto the sleeve of her plum wool suit. "I found it.." she pauses to find the right phrase, "...oddly unconvicining."
Michael is horrified yet strangely compelled by the fizzy droplet that quivers but refuses to be dislodged from Professor James' sleeve.
"Yes! Curiously unconvincing" continues Hubert Rowan, picking up. "I was almost quite intrigued by the ultimate lack of coherence." He swivels his chair round to face his colleague more comfortably. "Indeed..." a sardonic smile ripens his voice, "I found it quite...stimulating...in a funny sort of way."
"Yes. Yes." Says Professor James, nodding her serious grey head in vigorous assent. "I must admit , I rather had fun indentifying, in more precise terms, how it managed to fail to convice at any point."
There is a pause as they reflect pleasurably on their own intellectual rigour. Professor James replaces her glasses, miraculously leaving the dob of spittle unmoved. She flips through her notes. You cite my Divine Judgement in the Middle Ages in your introduction.
"Yes." Michael opens his copy of 'Justice and the (Un)just in Dante's Divine Comedy.' and suppresses a sigh.
"I strongly recommend that you go back and re-read the section on Aquinas more attentively. I think it will help you untangle some of the conceptual difficulties you had in Chapter 5.
"Right.."
"And you should read the exchange of opinions that took place between myself and Mandylion Trahobe in The Medieval Journal." She looks at Michael over her glasses. "This should help bring you up to speed with more recent debate."
"Yes of course." Says Michael, earnestly, but inside he is folding his last ditch hopes into little boat shapes and letting them slip away on the ebb tide of his self-esteem.
"I'm afraid we don't feel able to recommend a pass as your thesis stands. "Professor James announces. "We're going to suggest a six month referral."
"Right" says Michael, staring folornly at the last little dot of fronthy irridescence on his examiner's sleeve. "Right."
"Lacunae?" says Michael Glebe, avoiding Professor James' eye and looking instead to Hubert Rowan for support.
Professor Rowan is slumped silently in his leather chair, an imploded package of tweed and stale pipe-slag. "Ye-es" he says thoughtfully, "I felt it was..." he clears his throat and cants untidily sideways to engage more intimately with his colleague, "...quite thoroughly riddled with lacunae."
"Huge lacunae." qualifies Professor James helpfully, and as she says this a fleck of spit falls from her mouth and onto the sleeve of her plum wool suit. "I found it.." she pauses to find the right phrase, "...oddly unconvicining."
Michael is horrified yet strangely compelled by the fizzy droplet that quivers but refuses to be dislodged from Professor James' sleeve.
"Yes! Curiously unconvincing" continues Hubert Rowan, picking up. "I was almost quite intrigued by the ultimate lack of coherence." He swivels his chair round to face his colleague more comfortably. "Indeed..." a sardonic smile ripens his voice, "I found it quite...stimulating...in a funny sort of way."
"Yes. Yes." Says Professor James, nodding her serious grey head in vigorous assent. "I must admit , I rather had fun indentifying, in more precise terms, how it managed to fail to convice at any point."
There is a pause as they reflect pleasurably on their own intellectual rigour. Professor James replaces her glasses, miraculously leaving the dob of spittle unmoved. She flips through her notes. You cite my Divine Judgement in the Middle Ages in your introduction.
"Yes." Michael opens his copy of 'Justice and the (Un)just in Dante's Divine Comedy.' and suppresses a sigh.
"I strongly recommend that you go back and re-read the section on Aquinas more attentively. I think it will help you untangle some of the conceptual difficulties you had in Chapter 5.
"Right.."
"And you should read the exchange of opinions that took place between myself and Mandylion Trahobe in The Medieval Journal." She looks at Michael over her glasses. "This should help bring you up to speed with more recent debate."
"Yes of course." Says Michael, earnestly, but inside he is folding his last ditch hopes into little boat shapes and letting them slip away on the ebb tide of his self-esteem.
"I'm afraid we don't feel able to recommend a pass as your thesis stands. "Professor James announces. "We're going to suggest a six month referral."
"Right" says Michael, staring folornly at the last little dot of fronthy irridescence on his examiner's sleeve. "Right."
TT 18 - Alison Carduggan Writes...
St Margaret's Newsletter
ALISON CARDUGGAN WRITES - WHAT IS THE TRIUNE GODHEAD WHEN IT'S AT HOME ANYWAY?
I'm sitting at the kitchen table trying to stuff a pheasant with a pigeon that's been stuffed with a quail. Or is it the other way around? Oh dear - perhaps that's why there's a dreadful mess on the plate in front of me and not the sophisticated dish promised by the photograph in the recipe book. If you detect a note of panic in my writing you'd be right. Our dinner guests will be arriving in less than an hour and here I am still trying to thread a pheasant through the eye of a pigeon!
This is how we sometimes feel about God. A small boy I happened across in the church recently asked me "How can God be the father, the son and the holy spirit when that makes him his own Dad who sent himself to earth?!" How indeed?! We might equally well ask "How can God be a kind of ghost even though he is not only very much alive and kicking but quite literally the fons et origo of all creation?" It's enough to make your head spin, isn't it?
Or is it? Well I suppose for those people who constantly seek a rational explanation for everything - you know the type, forever popping the back off the computer to prod around with a screwdriver - it all sounds highly improbable. Well, I'm afraid I have a confession to make - I don't even try to understand. You see, I'm one of those strange people who are prepared to have FAITH in things they can't understand, yes, even something as barmy sounding as the Holy Trinity.
God isn't like a computer. God is so awesome and mega-powerful he's like all the computers in the world put together and a bit more. How can the likes of you and me be expected to understand that?
WE'RE NOT EXPECTED TO - THAT'S THE POINT!
And this is where faith comes in: faith that when there is only one set of footprints behind me in the sand it is because my father is carrying me. Faith that when I call out into the darkness and hear no reply it is because He is considering my prayer carefully. Faith that when things, or people suddenly crop up in your life that you weren't expecting, and who aren't always welcome, they have been sent by the Lord to test and thus strengthen this Faith.
And so I return to my pheasant. Somehow, with a soothing glass of wine, the calming strains of Allegri's Miserere, and a few words of encouragement from The Man in Black, I've meanaged to squeeze the quail into the pigeon and most of the pigeon into the pheasant and what's still peeping out I've secured with string. It might not look very elegant but it will be nice and sustaining and that's what being a good Christian is all about.
ALISON CARDUGGAN WRITES - WHAT IS THE TRIUNE GODHEAD WHEN IT'S AT HOME ANYWAY?
I'm sitting at the kitchen table trying to stuff a pheasant with a pigeon that's been stuffed with a quail. Or is it the other way around? Oh dear - perhaps that's why there's a dreadful mess on the plate in front of me and not the sophisticated dish promised by the photograph in the recipe book. If you detect a note of panic in my writing you'd be right. Our dinner guests will be arriving in less than an hour and here I am still trying to thread a pheasant through the eye of a pigeon!
This is how we sometimes feel about God. A small boy I happened across in the church recently asked me "How can God be the father, the son and the holy spirit when that makes him his own Dad who sent himself to earth?!" How indeed?! We might equally well ask "How can God be a kind of ghost even though he is not only very much alive and kicking but quite literally the fons et origo of all creation?" It's enough to make your head spin, isn't it?
Or is it? Well I suppose for those people who constantly seek a rational explanation for everything - you know the type, forever popping the back off the computer to prod around with a screwdriver - it all sounds highly improbable. Well, I'm afraid I have a confession to make - I don't even try to understand. You see, I'm one of those strange people who are prepared to have FAITH in things they can't understand, yes, even something as barmy sounding as the Holy Trinity.
God isn't like a computer. God is so awesome and mega-powerful he's like all the computers in the world put together and a bit more. How can the likes of you and me be expected to understand that?
WE'RE NOT EXPECTED TO - THAT'S THE POINT!
And this is where faith comes in: faith that when there is only one set of footprints behind me in the sand it is because my father is carrying me. Faith that when I call out into the darkness and hear no reply it is because He is considering my prayer carefully. Faith that when things, or people suddenly crop up in your life that you weren't expecting, and who aren't always welcome, they have been sent by the Lord to test and thus strengthen this Faith.
And so I return to my pheasant. Somehow, with a soothing glass of wine, the calming strains of Allegri's Miserere, and a few words of encouragement from The Man in Black, I've meanaged to squeeze the quail into the pigeon and most of the pigeon into the pheasant and what's still peeping out I've secured with string. It might not look very elegant but it will be nice and sustaining and that's what being a good Christian is all about.
Monday, June 19, 2006
TT 17 - A Thump on the Ceiling
It is almost midnight, and apart from the sound of the odd car all is quiet in Tendringhoe High Street. A faint light can be seen at a first floor window of the vicarage. Alison Carduggan is sitting at the ancient computer in her husband's study, listening to her 'Classic FM's Top 100 Really Nice Things' CD and drafting her weekly page for St Maggie's Newsletter. Only the chutter of the 'a' drive and the shufflings of Len Magma above her in the loft cut across the mellifluous strains of The Sixteen singing Barber's Agnus Dei. Alison is about to type in her closing sentence when there is a heavy thump on the ceiling. She jumps slightly then tuts crossly. She guesses, correctly, that Len, recently returned from The Railway Tavern, has fallen over trying to remove his trousers.
Alison has tried to reflect objectively and charitably on her lodger's increasingly disturbing behaviour but she can't help feeling rather angry. Len might play the hapless victim but really the whole incident in the barn had been carefully staged. She's been taken for a fool. Well no more. In any case, it wouldn't help him. That wasn't what was meant by Christian charity: to encourage weakness. Alison saves her draft of 'What is The Triune Godhead When it's at Home, Anyway?' and sits back in her chair, her lips pressed tightly together. And then there is the way that he watches her, silent and lingering, furtively in her space without properly inhabiting his own. No, she is sorry, but there is something deeply devious about the man. Alison leans forward and shuts down the computer with an irritated series of taps on the mouse button. At the end of the day, this is her family home, the home of her nine year old daughter, and my goodness the work that she has put into making it a clean and happy environment she is blowed if that mucky little man is going to spoil it all.
This might seem uncharacteristically harsh, but in Alison's imagination Len's character has begun to coalesce disastrously with his physical appearance. His seeping libido is his moist, pursey mouth. His neediness is the splash of bird's mess on the back of his brown anorak. His manipulative nature is the knot of elastoplast holding together his glasses on one side. No matter how deeply she considers his loneliness, his awkwardness, his general incompetence at life, any empathetic movement towards him is instantly confounded by an equal and opposite repulsion. So it is that although she can see that he is a case to be pitied, tolerated, helped even, she cannot love him.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
TT 16 - Someone Makes Eleanor Jump
The day is green and mossy and soft. Apples and pears dangle plumply over Tendringhoe's time-worn garden walls, and omeone is burning leaves in their garden. Eleanor Briding is in her Victorian greenhouse. The green algae-like film on the glass panels of the roof casts a slightly aqeous light over her as she layers up in wooden crates the pears that were blown from the tree in last night's storm. She stops to stare in sarcastic disbelief at the radio.
"What? 1995? I wouldn't call that recent research!" She is so busy bollocking Melvyn Bragg that she doesn't see the tall, dark-haired man who stands in the doorway. She turns with a jump when he lets out a loud laugh.
"Oh my God, you made me jump!"
He laughs again.
"Gabriel Lamb!" Now she laughs. "Long time no see."
He comes into the greenhouse and gives her a hug. "Still taking on the world then Elly?"
"Oh, I always shout at the radio." She tucks her hair behind her ears and wipes her hands on her jeans. "But how are you?"
"Oh I don't know. How does one know, really?" He shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets. He still has that slightly nocturnal pallour, Eleanor notices, as though he's been up all night smoking roll-ups and reading Camus.
Eleanor wrinkles her brow. "Well, are you OK, healthwise?"
"Yup."
"Plenty of work?"
"Yup."
"Still enjoying acting, on the whole?"
"Yup."
"Well I think that counts as 'fine' in most people's books."
"You're right - I'm fine. You see, you always sort me out." He smiles and brushes his thick floppy fringe back from his forehead.
"So, how long are you here for?" Eleanor looks away and fusses with the crate of fruit.
"Three months."
"Three months!" She looks back in surprise. "How come!"
"I'm taking Oyster Cottage for the winter. I've decided to take a break. Do some writing."
"Oh. Well. It'll be nice to have you around." Eleanor says, although she's slightly taken aback. Three months is a long time to have Gabriel Lamb just around the corner.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
TT 15 - Gordon!
There is something rather terrifying about Glandice Morgan. She is not overweight, exactly, and yet she is somehow in excess. Perhaps it is the mass of flame red curls that fly in a frenzy around her fleshy face. Or perhaps it is just the way her breasts look as though they might break free at any moment. Either way, Cleanth Morgan is not the only man in the village who is quite noticeably reduced in her presence.
"Oh Gordon. Just the man." Glandice calls to her neighbour over the low brick wall that seperates their front gardens.
"Ah, Glandice, G'Morning."
"Jeez, this damn wind. Its blown my trellis right down. Look at that!"
Gordon tuts sympathetically.
"Do you have a hammer? I can't find ours anywhere."
"Oh yuh, sure, absolutely." Gordon pops back inside and soon reappears with a hammer. He doesn't hand it over the wall but goes round into Glandice's garden and starts throwing himself at the errant trellis, trying to push it back into its place beside the Morgan's front door. This proves far harder than he expected. The trellis is being pushed away from the wall by the thick vines of the old rose which are now far stronger than the fragile support beneath.
"Perhaps if you could just hold it in place," he says to Glandice, "I could pop a couple of nails in at the top."
Glandice leans forward and pushes the mesh of pale pink roses back against the wall with one hand. Gordon can smell her under-arm deoderant.
"Gordon!" Val Green has appeared on their doorstep in her dressing gown and slippers. "How long are you going to be?"
Gordon pretends not to hear her.
"Gordon! You need to make that phone call!"
Gordon keeps his eyes on the nail he is about to bang into Glandice's brickwork and says nothing.
"Morning Val." Glandice says.
"Tell Gordon he has to make a phone call." Val replies.
"Val says you need to make a phone call." Glandice repeats, although they all know that Gordon has heard the first time.
"No, I don't." Gordon starts hammering.
"Sorry honey." Glandice calls across to Val. "It's my fault. I'm keeping your husband."
Val folds her arms and says nothing.
"It's not a problem." Gordon says.
"Gordon!" Val comes out into the front garden. "If you don't call now you'll miss him."
Gordon finally turns to look at his wife. "It doesn't matter, Valerie. I'll see him later. It doesn't matter."
"How long are you going to be?"
"I don't know!"
Valerie disappears back inside.
Glandice puts her hand on Gordon's shoulder. "Hey, Gordy, don't worry about this right now. It'll probably blow down again, anyhow."
"No, no!" Gordon insists. "I won't be beaten." And he leans all his weight against the trellis and hammers in the nail as far as it will go.
"Oh Gordon. Just the man." Glandice calls to her neighbour over the low brick wall that seperates their front gardens.
"Ah, Glandice, G'Morning."
"Jeez, this damn wind. Its blown my trellis right down. Look at that!"
Gordon tuts sympathetically.
"Do you have a hammer? I can't find ours anywhere."
"Oh yuh, sure, absolutely." Gordon pops back inside and soon reappears with a hammer. He doesn't hand it over the wall but goes round into Glandice's garden and starts throwing himself at the errant trellis, trying to push it back into its place beside the Morgan's front door. This proves far harder than he expected. The trellis is being pushed away from the wall by the thick vines of the old rose which are now far stronger than the fragile support beneath.
"Perhaps if you could just hold it in place," he says to Glandice, "I could pop a couple of nails in at the top."
Glandice leans forward and pushes the mesh of pale pink roses back against the wall with one hand. Gordon can smell her under-arm deoderant.
"Gordon!" Val Green has appeared on their doorstep in her dressing gown and slippers. "How long are you going to be?"
Gordon pretends not to hear her.
"Gordon! You need to make that phone call!"
Gordon keeps his eyes on the nail he is about to bang into Glandice's brickwork and says nothing.
"Morning Val." Glandice says.
"Tell Gordon he has to make a phone call." Val replies.
"Val says you need to make a phone call." Glandice repeats, although they all know that Gordon has heard the first time.
"No, I don't." Gordon starts hammering.
"Sorry honey." Glandice calls across to Val. "It's my fault. I'm keeping your husband."
Val folds her arms and says nothing.
"It's not a problem." Gordon says.
"Gordon!" Val comes out into the front garden. "If you don't call now you'll miss him."
Gordon finally turns to look at his wife. "It doesn't matter, Valerie. I'll see him later. It doesn't matter."
"How long are you going to be?"
"I don't know!"
Valerie disappears back inside.
Glandice puts her hand on Gordon's shoulder. "Hey, Gordy, don't worry about this right now. It'll probably blow down again, anyhow."
"No, no!" Gordon insists. "I won't be beaten." And he leans all his weight against the trellis and hammers in the nail as far as it will go.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
TT 14 - Mrs Green is Funny
Ever since Basil came into Mrs Green's class at the beginning of September she has resented his presence. She resents that whatever topic she plans to teach in class that day, it is quite possible that Basil has already read around the subject quite extensively. She resents that she has to use a dictionary to check her own spelling before she returns his work book. But most of all, she resents Basil's 'Bohemian' appearance which does not comply with school regulations.
It is not unusual for pupils at Tendringhoe JMI to transgress the school dress code, whether it's Kiel with his earing or Kayleigh with her Fimbles socks, but the opportunity to gently remonstrate with these offender's parents tends, if anything, to improve Mrs Green's mood. She particularly looks forward to impersonating their response to her husband, Gordon, when she gets home: "But Kiel likes 'is earins, dontcha Kiel?" Basil Timothy Pryse Briding does not provide her with such happy opportunities. She is particularly disgusted by the theatrical purple velvet cape and matching cap that Basil has taken to wearing to school lately and she makes sure that they go straight onto the peg in the cloakroom in the morning and are not put on again until home time.
Mrs Green has developed all sorts of democratic pedagogical strategies for keeping Basil in his place in order to give the other children a chance. Usually, this takes the form of suffixing general questions to the class with the words "not you Basil." Often she'll simply pretend she hasn't heard his answer, or 'mishear' it as incorrect. Today, though, she has a special plan. During art class she comes over to Basil and stands behind his chair. Basil thinks that she will makes some comment on his painting of the two horses that live in the field behind Geoffrey Lamb's house. Instead, she takes hold of a handful of his shoulder length chestnut curls, the curls that Eleanor can't quite bring herself to cut off. Taking from her pocket a pink hair-band with a sparkly bow on the top, she puts his hair in a high little bunch on one side then does the same with the other side.
"Look what a pretty little girl Basil makes." she says to the class, and thinks to herself that perhaps now he will go home and tell 'Mummy darling' to cut his hair into a more appropriate style.
The class giggle but not entirely comfortably. Even they sense a deeper political purpose to Mrs Green's actions. Basil just sits rock still. He doesn't look up or down or to either side. He waits for Mrs Green to go back her desk, then he gently pulls the pink bows out of his hair and lays them on the corner of his desk. He is pleased to have the sunny meadow and his horses to go back to.
It is not unusual for pupils at Tendringhoe JMI to transgress the school dress code, whether it's Kiel with his earing or Kayleigh with her Fimbles socks, but the opportunity to gently remonstrate with these offender's parents tends, if anything, to improve Mrs Green's mood. She particularly looks forward to impersonating their response to her husband, Gordon, when she gets home: "But Kiel likes 'is earins, dontcha Kiel?" Basil Timothy Pryse Briding does not provide her with such happy opportunities. She is particularly disgusted by the theatrical purple velvet cape and matching cap that Basil has taken to wearing to school lately and she makes sure that they go straight onto the peg in the cloakroom in the morning and are not put on again until home time.
Mrs Green has developed all sorts of democratic pedagogical strategies for keeping Basil in his place in order to give the other children a chance. Usually, this takes the form of suffixing general questions to the class with the words "not you Basil." Often she'll simply pretend she hasn't heard his answer, or 'mishear' it as incorrect. Today, though, she has a special plan. During art class she comes over to Basil and stands behind his chair. Basil thinks that she will makes some comment on his painting of the two horses that live in the field behind Geoffrey Lamb's house. Instead, she takes hold of a handful of his shoulder length chestnut curls, the curls that Eleanor can't quite bring herself to cut off. Taking from her pocket a pink hair-band with a sparkly bow on the top, she puts his hair in a high little bunch on one side then does the same with the other side.
"Look what a pretty little girl Basil makes." she says to the class, and thinks to herself that perhaps now he will go home and tell 'Mummy darling' to cut his hair into a more appropriate style.
The class giggle but not entirely comfortably. Even they sense a deeper political purpose to Mrs Green's actions. Basil just sits rock still. He doesn't look up or down or to either side. He waits for Mrs Green to go back her desk, then he gently pulls the pink bows out of his hair and lays them on the corner of his desk. He is pleased to have the sunny meadow and his horses to go back to.
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