D-Day

Dan trembled as he held the calendar in his hand. The day he had been dreading had arrived. Six months ago, when he had pencilled in the message, now seemed like another age. It was there, in his unmistakeable script, and there was nothing he could do to avoid the task in hand - D- Day had arrived. He didn’t relish speaking to his wife, Jean, at all. For six long months it had remained unspoken. She knew it was there, but she had retreated into silence, refusing to acknowledge the event they had both agreed to. “Silence”, she reasoned, “might make it disappear altogether.”

Dan humoured Jean, shrugging his shoulders and pulling his best forlorn look. For five months, it worked. They shimmied along, as couples do, in public, presenting to the world a united front – subconsciously matching clothes in the way that twenty years together has an affect on a couple – her in the crème top; him in the safe Farah trousers she would select for him when they went shopping. For all intents and purposes it was a happy façade – if it wasn’t for the Pinteresque silence that had lodged between them about this immutable event.

“Silence”, spat Dan, “Hasn’t changed a thing, has it?” to Jean, who sat tight mouthed, clinking her tea cup against the saucer in the way that set Dan’s nerves on edge. “Well, haven’t you got anything to say?” Jean set the cup and saucer down and carefully spooned two more lumps into the pale tea. She slowly stirred the sugar, taking care this time to avoid making an undue clinking sound. She set the spoon down and reached out for a scone, which she piled with fresh Devonshire clotted cream and two generous servings of strawberry jam.

“Drinking tea and stuffing your face won’t delay this for much longer, Jean”, sighed Dan, resigned to his wife’s tactics. “I said six months ago, when I wrote it in the calendar, that you would have to make a decision. Please, for Pete’s sake, put that bloody scone down and talk to me, won’t you?”

Jean duly complied, a little taken aback at her husband’s uncharacteristic forcefulness. She looked at Dan and tried a demure smile in the hope that it would diffuse the situation. She blinked rapidly and almost spoke. She swallowed instead, to Dan’s immediate consternation.

“I’m sorry, love, but this just isn’t good enough. I don’t like to have to do it this way – but I don’t see that I have a choice”, said Dan, clearly uncomfortable. “Some things have to be done – for the better, even when it seems like the tough decision, and you’re not going to like what I have to say.”

Jean put her hand to her mouth, the colour draining from her face. She knew the outcome before he said it. The decision she didn’t want to make was being made for her and she felt like she was watching a silent movie play out, in which she took a leading role where the heroine is tied to the train tracks, totally powerless to influence the final reel.

Dan said the words she had tried to deny, which six months of silence had failed to eradicate.

“It’s here – D-Day. Whether you like it or not, we can’t go on like this. I haven’t seen you smile for so long and I have to take some of the blame for that - for not acting sooner. I should have done this ages ago but I did feel sorry for you, Jean – I truly did. But enough is enough. Tonight, you’re going to the dentist!”

Tuesday Ritual

Characters:

John - He is husband to Daisy and father to Sharon, Paul and David. He was a rear gunner during WWII.

Daisy - She is mother to Sharon, Paul and David. She is married to their father.

Sharon - She is the only daughter in the family.

Paul - Paul is eldest son and brother.

David - David is the youngest son and brother.

Lee - Lee serves in the Royal Canadian Air Force.

Narrator.
______________________________________________

Tuesday Ritual takes place in a Yorkshire town, across 4 decades.


Across the stage there are large blocks. The blocks form a wall of varying height to give a depth of interest to the viewer.


The song Liverpool Lullaby sung by Cilla Black is played to the audience.


Scene 1

A spotlight illuminates the centre of the stage. The CHILDREN are lined up, across the stage. JOHN paces in front of them. DAISY sits on the wall, behind all this, not part of the action. She is staring blankly, looking subdued, and smoking a cigarette.

John

You've got one minute to tell me who ' ad your mams chocolate. I'll not 'ave any thieving under my roof. One minute to tell, or there'll be trouble. Now who 'ad them? (He removes his belt) First one then. David. Touch yer toes. I'm disappointed. To think there's a thief amongst you. The things your mother does for you and this is the way you repay her. (He hits DAVID with the belt) Next. Our Sharon. Are you going to tell? You boys are going to let your sister take this belt then? I'll tan her backside, as I'll tan yours. I've got cowards as well as thieves? Never in my living years did I think I'd be seeing the day. Under this roof, you'll do as I bloody say! Sharon? Now who took them? No? (He hits SHARON)

Paul

It was me.

(JOHN hits children again, lashing violently at PAUL. JOHN slumps, panting heavily)


Scene 2

Narrator

Tuesday night is ritual night. I go shopping for groceries on Tuesday night, only to beat the rush of the Saturday ritualists, which would be the next sensible day to go. Notwithstanding, I could do my hunting and gathering daily, but that would mean saddling up my iron horse daily, and living in the sticks isnt conducive to daily hunting. Tuesday night it is, all in one go, the weekly hunt. Two laundry bags are my nod to environmental conservation. Keep your plastic bags; I'll pack the goods in these.

(Road sounds are played: revving engines and car horns.)

That is not the only ritual of Tuesday night though. On a Tuesday night, I pass the old lady who sits on a low wall, smoking a cigarette. She is always there. She wont have noticed me, just another car, passing her in a blur, among the countless cars that pass by, prowling, in the same way that age has advanced on her, and dreams have passed her by. She sits and waits. I have never seen anybody come; I have never seen her leave. All I know is that on a Tuesday night, she is there.

(DAISY unwraps a small sweet. She pops it in her mouth. Her cheeks suck. Her eyes stare).

Her life looks like it has been hard. I can tell by the way her shoulders sit forward and by the way she seems to be shrinking into herself, the last shield between a life spent sitting on a wall and all our inevitable fates. Her eyes have the look of a veteran. They betray her any anonymity she may have possessed. It's the look that defies: "Do not begrudge me this cigarette. It's all I have left".


Scene 3

The stage is set with a table and chairs. The table is covered in a check cloth. DAISY has moved towards the table and has taken a seat. Lighting focuses on the central table. It is a tea dance. A swing band can be heard playing music. A uniformed man approaches DAISY. She sees him, and looks away.

Lee

I couldn't help noticing you're on your own. You're too pretty to be sitting on your own. (DAISY coughs nervously into her hand) Ma'am, would you dance with me? I'd be real honoured.

Daisy

I - no, I'm, waiting for my friends.

Lee

I'm sorry ma'am; I didn't mean to offend.

Daisy

No, you didn't. I'm sorry (She turns away)

Lee

Then, hey, can I sit down? Just for a moment (DAISY turns back to him, and gestures to a chair. She picks up the pot of tea, lifts the lid, and looks in)

Daisy

Oh dear, this'll be no good; it's well mashed. I'll get more water.

Lee

No. Allow me. (He looks behind himself, and raises his hand to attract the attention of someone. We do not see the other person. He makes a pouring motion into the teapot)

Lee

There. That's, hey! I'm sorry. My manners. I'm Lee. Lee Jacobsen.

Daisy

Daisy, Daisy Miller. I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Jacobsen.

Lee

No, call me Lee, please.

Daisy

Then you're to call me Daisy. (They both laugh. The music stops. They both clap politely. They rise. LEE walks off stage left and disappears into the dark. DAISY returns to the wall)


Scene 4

Narrator

I have tasted that cigarette, many times. It's that good one you have straight after a meal, the one that satiates the brain and all its pleasure centres, vying for second place after the victorious pleasure that a full belly brings. It's the cigarette that you reach for when the meeting is tough, the deadline is still to be met, and the telephone is ringing. That cigarette sends them all into a smoky spiralling nothingness that gets cast to the universe as a million atoms. She has every right to that cigarette and I would not deny her the pleasure. I wonder of her family? Her son, she would like to tell her neighbours, went to work in the city, where he holds an important job, which keeps him very busy. At least, that's how she reconciles the fact he doesn't come to visit her anymore. He is too busy.

Sharon

You got my note. I didn't know if you'd come.

Paul

Aye, but only for you, our Sharon. As far as I'm bothered he can rot in hell. I'll not step in that house while he's taking breath.

Sharon

Paul, it's what I'm saying. He's got a month, two, at most. Mam needs you now. She does Paul. She can't cope: come back for her? For me? For all of us? David misses you. It's awful, Paul. He's not the same now. Its like he's lost. But it's like mam has, too. It's hard.

Paul

What about you? You need money? (He reaches to his back pocket and pulls out some money) I can help with money. I'm doing alright in the yard. Rail Company's pleased with me. (He forces the money on SHARON) Tell mam she can have cornflakes. We 'ad a load turn over. Send David with barrow and I'll load him up. After dark, mind. And sis, I got some hairspray for you. Half dozen, good stuff and all. Mary Jones said it was top of range. Mind you, she'd say aught for knock off. But tell him, mind, tell him, I hope it hurts to hell.

Sharon

(She laughs) I didn't mean to

Paul

What?

Sharon

It's the hairspray. If he knew! You know how he hates the stuff! He banned me from spraying it in the house. He's hurting, Paul. Doctor says it's in his liver. He's gone a funny colour.

Paul

The fucker, not the hero now, then? Him, and his war stories, they're not good for a piss in the sea. I'd not piss on his plane if it were on fire. He's getting what he should have got a long time ago.

Sharon

Shush, Paul. (She presses her fingers to her lips, then to his) It's not worth it. He can't get you now. He can't get any of us. He's scared, Paul.

Paul

I love you.

Scene 5

JOHN is stood on the stage. He is wearing a flying jacket and heavy boots. He is carrying a wicker basket, the type for carrying racing pigeons in. There is a sound of aircraft droning in the background. Light flickers back and forth across the stage.

John

They call me "Arse-End Charlie." It's some view from here (he scrutinises the audience) it's like the world is backwards, which is nigh on about right, especially from where I'm standing. The recruiting poster didn't lie. "See Life From a New Angle," it said. Aye, I see life, alright. (Sound of radio static) It's better that I don't look. If I close my eyes. That's it. Close my eyes. (He closes his eyes) I can't see you. You can't see me. Count to one hundred. One, two, three four! Coming ready or not. Coming to get you. (With his eyes closed he pretends to spray the audience with machine gun fire, making the sounds himself. He stumbles around, blindly) They're all out to get me. The fuckers. It's dark in here. Cold. I feel the cold. (He opens his eyes) Close your eyes. Tell me, can you feel it? Tell me can you feel the cold? Is it me? Keep them closed.

Ted Baker and me. We were on burial duty. Week before last. He looked at the coffins and he turned to me and he said "It'll be me in one of those tomorrow" and he was. Gone. In the blink of an eye. (More static) I think of the time we had tea in Coventry, Ted, and me, in the little teashop with the front blasted out. The time we took leave in London, and no sooner than we'd arrived on the Peterborough train we were heading down into the shelter, to escape the bombs, and no sooner had we taken shelter than someone started singing: "Roll out the barrel". Thats the spirit, I thought, and we all joined in.

He sings;

Roll out the barrel
We'll have a barrel of fun
Roll out the barrel
We've got the blues on the run.
Zing! Boom! Ta-ra-rel
Ring out a song of good cheer!
Now's the time to roll the barrel
For the gang's all here.

Then there's the times when there is no time to think. That's the darkest time of all. When they're all out to get me. Stuck in my perspex bubble. I can't move. I see them coming for me. Their guns spitting their filthy muck. I couldn't piss then if I tried. Then the bomb doors open and I can see the incendiaries hitting their targets. I don't have time to think about it, what's below. I have seen it. In Bristol. In Coventry. In London. I saw the twisted metal and the rubble where the houses stood. A front door, with no house around it. I saw a child once; she can't have been more than seven or eight. Her face was dirty and her tears made white streaks down her face. She had the brightest ribbons in her hair. I don't know what she was doing there. I called to her, to get away. She just looked at me with her big eyes. I walked forward and I saw it, in the rubble, buried. A little rag doll. I stooped down and fetched it for her. "Is this what you came for?" I said. I called her to me but she wouldn't come. I called her again. She said she wanted her mama. It's all broken. It doesn't work anymore. None of it does. Busted and bloody.(He opens the wicker basket and pulls out a dead pigeon. He holds it in his two hands.) If God wanted us to fly he'd have given us wings, right? (He throws the pigeon up as if releasing it)Soar! Soar! You beautiful, beautiful bird. (The pigeon drops to the floor)


Scene 6

A large iron bedstead dominates the centre. A bedside table with a dim lamp on it is to the right of the bed. On the bedside table are cigarettes, a lighter, an ashtray and a small paper bag. On the bed lies SHARON. Her FATHER is next to her, facing her. His trousers are pulled down. The lighting remains dim throughout. He turns to lie on his back. He struggles to pull up his trousers. He fumbles with his belt buckle. He grunts and coughs. Eventually he wins the struggle with the trousers. He reaches to the bedside table and pulls a cigarette from the packet. He lies back and rests the ashtray on his chest and lights the cigarette. He puffs on the cigarette and coughs. SHARON turns away from him. She sniffs and tries not to cry. JOHN reaches for the paper bag and nudges SHARON on the shoulder.

John

Have a sweet. Here. Take the bag (He coughs, and draws on his cigarette. He sings very softly to himself.)

Through the night my heart was aching

Just before the dawn was breaking

In our town, no scarlet ribbons

Scarlet ribbons for her hair

(A light shines to show DAISY at the side. She has her hands over her ears. She is shaking her head from side to side)

(Blackout)


Scene 7

Narrator

The world passes her eyes, which reflect back onto the road, car fumes mixing with the carcinogens that she sucks deep into her lungs; she is otherwise immobile, the weight of a lifetime of subservience anchoring her to the wall. It is my ritual that when I pass her by in a motion blur I always turn my head to see that she has a cigarette. I have toyed with the idea of just buying her a packet of fags one day, but the road is too busy to just stop, which saves her the embarrassment of declining my charity, and me the guilt the gesture would bring. (The sound of cars fades and is replaced by a cacophony of sound swing music, aeroplane engines, an air raid siren, people crying. Sound fades. DAISY is waiting by the wall. She has changed into a smart dress. She is waiting for LEE)

Lee

(From the distance LEE can be heard singing, until he reaches DAISY at the wall)

Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do

I'm half crazy all for the love of you

It won't be a stylish marriage

I can't afford a carriage

But you'll look sweet upon the seat

Of a bicycle built for two

(DAISY rises to greet him. LEE hands her a posy of small flowers. She smells the flowers and holds them before her, admiring them)

Daisy

They're quite beautiful! They're quite the loveliest flowers I've ever been given.

Lee

You look beautiful, Daisy. Just real beautiful tonight! The guys would be sore if they could see me stepping out with you tonight! Let's go dancing, Daisy! Just you, and me. Under the stars. Let's dance until the morning!(He picks her up and swings her around in a dance. They both laugh. They dance faster, and faster)

Daisy

Stop! Stop! I need to stop! (She pauses and has difficulty catching her breath)

Lee

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't mean to.

Daisy

No, Lee. No. It's not you. It's not. It's this, tonight! I can't do this. It's not fair. If tonight could last forever. But it can't. Nothing lasts these days. Not forever, that's for sure. It's not right, all breaking and falling apart and damaged. It's wrong Lee. This - you and me! Dancing under the stars, like there's no more to care about, and me laughing like I was a girl again!

Lee

It's the only thing that makes any sense, Daisy. If it wasn't for this - then what's it all for? Daisy - you make sense! You give me hope! When I'm alone, I think of you. When I'm cold, I think of when we dance, and I hold you close. I can smell your hair, like when I hold you tight, even when I'm alone. I dance and sway, and it all seems to be right again. We can be together. After this is all over. Come back with me. Come back, be my wife. Oh, Daisy - marry me? Marry me. Marry me? Come home with me? My folks have an orchard in Ontario apples, Daisy! The crispiest, juiciest apples you ever tasted!

Daisy

You mean it, dont you? You really mean it?

Lee

I've never been more deadly serious in all my life. We can have a good life. My folks are good people; they'd make you real welcome. All we need is right there, Daisy.

Daisy

I love you! (She begins to weep. She pulls away from LEE. She holds his face in her hands. She kisses him and pulls away again. She studies his face. She slowly shakes her head, still weeping).I can't. I can't marry you. I'm so, so sorry

(DAISY addresses the audience)

I know. What you're thinking. Happen you're right. I never saw him again after that and I never knew if he made it through that wretched war in one piece. Oh, I cried for him, night after night, he fair broke my heart and it killed me to let him go, like I'd twisted the knife in my guts myself. But I couldn't go with him! What right did I have in a place like that? Ontario? I'd never even seen it on a map. Look at these hands of mine - they are good for cleaning hospital floors and running up darning for me mam. I could only dream of Canada. Don't pity me! An apple orchard, I ask you! I could hear me da's voice now, if he knew! Besides, they needed me more than ever. With me da's arthritis, me mam needed me to be earning. I needed to be putting food on the table - we've got six mouths to feed and this isn't any time to be thinking of myself. I couldnt dream of it! Canada? If I went there, who's to say I'd ever come back? I'd say goodbye to me mam and never see her again? For what life? I know these cobbles, these streets, this wall where I sit. It's where I belong. I've seen changes over the years, and it's not always been easy. But I can call this my home. It's where I live. I couldn't just leave it behind. It's what I know. I can't get fancy ideas above my station. So I let him go. I had to. I didn't say anything when I should have. I know. I know.


Scene 8

(The room is set with a dining table and chairs. The only available light is from candlelight. All the family are present. DAVID and SHARON are playing boisterously. PAUL sits quietly at the table. JOHN has a screwdriver and pliers in his hand. He is in a jovial mood).

John

Keep the noise down! Sharon, pull them curtains and make sure they're good and tight. Keep them tight. (He exits to the right. He is banging and tapping in the pantry. DAISY goes to the pantry and returns with two bottles. One is lemonade. The other is orange squash)

Daisy

You can have a treat tonight, seeing as it's Christmas Eve. Sharon, fetch some glasses. (She pours some orange squash into each of the glasses and tops them up with lemonade. Each of the children takes one)

David

(He laughs) It goes right up your nose! Bubbles up your nose! Mam, it's up my nose!

Sharon

It's right grand! Posh orange!

John

(Calling from off stage) Blow the candles out. I think I've got it sorted now. David, tell our Sharon to pull the curtains tight. Right now, every one count to five! One, two,

Everybody

Three, four, five! (The room is suddenly bathed in electric light. JOHN returns to the room with a beer)

John

Well, see? I said I'd get it back on! (He raises his beer and toasts the room) Happy Christmas! To hell with the Corporation! Sharon! For your mams sake get away from the window! Close those curtains now! You need to pull them tight!

Sharon

But look everybody! It's snowing! It's snowing on Christmas!

John

You might earn a bob down at the club. Singing some Carols. I'll take you.

Daisy

Take David, too.

John

No, I'll just take Sharon. She can sing for us. "Silent Night", something like that.

Daisy

(Determinedly) You're to take David. David fetch your coat. Go with your father and sister.

John

I said, no! Now woman, you'll be telling me to wash behind my bloody ears next! (He fixes her a stare) Sharon, fetch your coat.

Daisy

(She rises, and puts herself between SHARON and JOHN) It's snowing. Nobody is going anywhere. Now if youre going, go alone!

(JOHN is enraged. He steps towards DAISY, hand raised. PAUL rises, kicking his chair back. JOHN backs down)

Paul

Mam, I'll take them. I'll take them. How he can turn Carol singing into a bloody fight: it's a bloody gift! Now kids, get your coats. We're going out.


Scene 9

A large iron bedstead dominates the centre. A bedside table with a dim lamp on it is to the right of the bed. On the bedside table are cigarettes, a lighter, an ashtray, a bottle of whiskey and a glass. On the bed lies SHARON. Her FATHER is next to her, facing her. His trousers are pulled down. The lighting remains dim throughout. He turns to lie on his back. He struggles to pull up his trousers. He fumbles with his belt buckle. He grunts and coughs. Eventually he wins the struggle with the trousers. He reaches to the bedside table and pulls a cigarette from the packet. He lies back and rests the ashtray on his chest and lights the cigarette. He puffs on the cigarette and coughs. SHARON turns away from him. She sniffs and tries not to cry. JOHN reaches for the whiskey bottle and pours a large glass. He drinks from the glass. He sings very softly to himself.

John

I peeked in to say goodnight

And I heard my child in prayer

"And for me some scarlet ribbons

Scarlet ribbons for my hair"

(A light shines to show DAISY at the side. Her hands cover her eyes. She is shaking her head from side to side)(Blackout)


Scene 10

PAUL is on stage. He is dressed in work clothes and intoxicated. He drinks straight from a bottle. He addresses the audience.

Paul

It's soon Monday. Monday comes around and it's the same old, same old; all the same old faces looking at me. Friday night! That's what I wait for. Cash in my back pocket and time to forget it all. Blank. Completely blotto. A few pints, aye. A few smokes. It's not much to ask, is it? That, and a lass maybe. I fancy me chances with Mary Tyler, got me eye on her. I'll wait my time and ask her to the Roxy, maybe get lucky, eh? (He makes a grinding motion with his hips). I'd treat her right, I would. We'd go out to the pictures of a night; I'd see her right. Her on my arm, I'd be as pleased as punch. Have other fellas looking at us, that would. Only for a bit, like. Look too long and I'll have you. It's not right to gawp at another fellas lass for too long, so watch yourself. Aye. Fuck all else around here to do. This place, it does you in. I had choices: two fucking choices. I could have gone cutling with the old man, before he did his back in. I saw what happened to Ross Jones when she mangled her arm in the stamping die. Broke her arm it did, in two places. They didn't have the machine guards in place. It made production quicker, see? The old man and the foreman told her what to say, next day. The machine guards were in place, all the time. She'd taken it off. She shouldn't have taken it off and that's why the accident happened. All the guards were in place the next day. That's what they do, around here, to protect themselves. They lie and they sweep the truth under the carpet. It was all her own fault. Nobody saw anything and they said nothing. They turned a blind eye and just let it carry on. It does that to you, around here. It stamps itself into you and leaves you all mangled. All wrecked from the inside out. So I went to rail yard, where all we do is see stuff off and then send it back on again, all day and all night. Stuff from all over comes shunting in the sidings, and then gets sent away again; except for the odd bit here and there we keep for ourselves. Aye. Look at it. Look around. Who'd want to stay 'ere for long, eh? So, I go out and I have a few pints. Theres aught wrong with that now, is there? I see my mates and we throw a few arrows. I'm going for a pint now. Are you coming, or what?


Scene 11

SHARON and DAVID can be heard off stage. They speak, continuing the conversation as they appear from the wings. They are both struggling to carry two very full, dirty sacks of coal.

David

I can't get a grip on mine. It's too heavy.

Sharon

You have got to try, David. We'll soon be home.

David

I'm hungry. We won't have time for anything before school.

(As they struggle with the sacks they drop lumps of coal. They try to collect what they can, but fail).

Sharon

Leave it for now David! Just get what you can.

David

My feet hurt. I'm hungry. I've got games today. Rotten cross-country.

Sharon

You'll have to wash your hands before school. Keep them off your vest. You can run in your vest. I'll wash it through tonight.

(They exit the stage, leaving lumps of coal behind).


Scene 12

JOHN is on stage. He is pacing slowly back and forth, tossing two lumps of coal from one hand to another.


John

Sharon! David! Get yourselves down here now. I'll not tell you again! Get your backsides down here now! Dont make me come up there to you!

(SHARON and DAVID appear. They are timid in front of their father)

What, exactly, did I ask you to do this morning?

Sharon

Make beds. Wash pots. Fetch coal. Make tea.

David

Run to Mrs. Evans and tell her mam would pay club at end of week.

John

Enough! Aye! Fetch coal. For your mother!

(He holds up two lumps of coal.)

So what is this then?

Sharon

Ummm?

John

David? Do you recognise it? Come on. It's not so hard, lad. You fetched two sacks of it this morning.

David

(He looks down). Coal. It's coal.

John

Recognise it now, do you Sharon? (SHARON nods). Do you know the price of coal? Have you any idea what it takes to put that coal in the grate? The sacrifices we make? What it takes to put food on the table and a fire in the hearth? Do you now? I don't think you know the value of a ha'penny bit. Do you think I'm stupid? That you'd pull the wool over the old fools eyes? That I'd not notice you'd left a trail of coal up the street like you were Hansel and bloody Gretel? Eh? I'm telling you, I'll teach you the price of bloody coal. To think of the sweat and toil it's taken, for you two to go and drop it in the streets for any old sod to help themselves to. It's a flaming disgrace. Well here, have it.

(He hands them each a piece of coal)

Now you can go without your supper. They'll be none for you tonight! Eat the bloody coal! Go on! Get it down your wretched throats! I'll wipe those smiles off your faces. Eat! Eat the coal!

(SHARON and DAVID are frozen rigid with fear. They make no attempt to eat the coal. The father intervenes and begins to force the coal into their mouths. Their faces become black with coal dust. They become highly distressed and struggle with their father. They are powerless against him. As they continue to struggle, PAUL enters)

Paul

What do you think you're doing? You're mad! You're stark raving mad! Take your hands off them, old man!

John

(He turns his attention to PAUL)Finally, eh? You think you've got the backbone for it? You think you're going to come in here, under my roof, and tell me what to do?

Paul

I'm telling you look at them! You're sick! That's just wrong! Get your hands off them or I'll put you on your back myself.

John

(He strides over to PAUL and pushes him in the chest) Come on then, son. Let's see you do it. Put one on me. Come on. Do it! Land a good one, son, but by God you'd better make it a good one!

Paul

I'm bloody warning you, I'm telling you (He takes a swing at his FATHER, who easily avoids it. JOHN lashes back, and strikes PAUL across the face. PAUL falls to the floor).

John

Get up, son! Get back up! (He drags PAUL by the collar back to his feet. He strikes him again, and PAUL slumps again to the floor) I'm ashamed to call you one of my own. You get yourself off that bloody floor and be gone from here! Don't you darken my doorstep again!

(The light fades slowly. A spotlight picks out SHARON, as tears run down her cheeks)

(Blackout)
Scene 13

(SHARON is on the stage alone, still with a dirty face. She holds a rag doll. She holds it up proudly. She addresses the audience)

Sharon

I made her myself. In the sewing class. We got a big box of rags out and Mrs. Jones showed us how to make them. It took me three weeks on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I'm a good sewer. I call her Molly. The face was the hardest. I had to sew her in a smile. I like Mrs. Jones. She's kind to me. She took me home when the school was closed that day. I told me mam and da' it were closed but they wouldn't believe me so I stood at the gates. Mrs. Jones saw me and took me home to me mam and told her it was closed that day. I wouldn't lie about a thing like that. I couldn't - I'd get the belt if I ever lied, me da' told me. We haven't always lived here you know. I remember we had to live at me aunts once and then we went to a boarding house for a while too. Me mam said we were to put on a brave face and let the world see we were still smiling and to make the most of a bad job. Me da' didnt come with us that time. I don't know where he stayed. He'd come and call for us and he'd ask Mrs. Henderson, he'd say, "I've come for our Sharon - my little princess. I'm taking her out for a treat, just her." And she'd say, "Well, have her back by six, else she'll get no supper. It's Tuesday and we have liver on Tuesday". It was always liver on Tuesdays and it was always Tuesdays me da' came to fetch me.(She pauses and looks at the rag doll. She hums a tune.) I sometimes play out in the ginnel, when I'm bored. It's good out there and I can run around and just imagine stuff. You have to watch out for the muck though. Me mam says it's filthy to let those dogs out to run loose in the street and that them Browns should know better than to let the same litter rut like beasts in the ginnel and how it weren't no good for their blood. I've seen them doing it sometimes. I threw a stone once but it did no good - I couldn't stop it. It was like nature didnt know it was wrong and it didnt know it should stop.(She becomes absorbed in the rag doll again.) I ought to go now. Me mam might be wondering where I got to and she'll have me tea ready soon. At least it won't be liver I don't think. The smell of it makes me feel sick but me da' says there's plenty of people in the world would be glad of liver for their tea and I'm to just eat it and be grateful for what I've got and what me mam puts on the table. When I grow up I wont have liver though. Oh well, it's getting on a bit. It was nice meeting you. Don't tell me mam and da' please? I don't think they'd be very happy. Molly says hello. Come along Molly. We have to get back now. Bye now.(SHARON leaves the stage, cuddling the rag doll)


Scene 14

JOHN is in bed. His breathing is laboured. He is near to death. DAISY nurses him. Nothing is said between the two. She mops his brow then rings the cloth out. She stares at him. He holds a weak hand out for her. She stares at it, and then takes it. She holds him.

Daisy

Have you made your peace, love? Shall I call for the priest?

(JOHN looks back at her. He struggles, but manages a nod. The light fades.

The stage remains empty for a short while. The lighting is dim, and for the remaining action should only be enough to illuminate the stage area where events occur. Sounds begin to play, of aeroplanes, motorcars, children playing and children crying. Another light illuminates DAISY who has retuned to the low wall and is smoking. She stares blankly into space.)

Narrator

I want to tell her that just sitting on the wall has been the most comforting part of my Tuesday night ritual for longer than I care to remember. She has been the net underneath me while I dared to soar higher than she ever had the chance to go, she's been everybody's grandmother for so long - she's been the old lady, who sits on a wall, smoking a cigarette, forever.

(The light fades on DAISY and rises on a coffin)

My car reached her wall, the traffic in front as heavy as the traffic behind, but I steeled myself to have a look, to root myself in the reality of continuity.

(The light rises on the wall where DAISY was sitting, to show the spot is now vacant)

Maybe I'm early? I'll catch her on the way home. She'll be sitting on the wall, smoking her cigarette, I thought to myself. My sorrow was not abated when on the return trip she still wasn't there, and I thought I might never have the opportunity to not give her a packet of cigarettes, ever again.


Scene 15

SHARON enters and moves towards the coffin. She has a can of hairspray in her hand. The light is enough to illuminate both SHARON and the coffin. She has a determined look on her face. She sprays the contents of the hairspray on her hair. The sound of the aerosol should be heard beyond the blackout.

(Blackout).

The Birthday Gift

It wasn’t that she wanted to appear ungrateful, but no matter how much she tried, Simone could not find anything good to say about the present sat in front of her on the kitchen table. The loose wrapping paper that had concealed the gift was now draped around the base of the tin, like the bunched up skirt of an immodest Tiller girl, high kicking and gaily swirling, the illusion enhanced by tinsel and glitter. She cradled the telephone against her neck, while gently folding egg whites and sugar in a glass bowl.

“Thanks, Marce” she said, in reply to the “Happy Birthday” greeting she had just received. “Oh, I think Dave plans on taking me out later. You know, another of his best-kept secrets I happen to know about. Saw it in his diary, which he shouldn’t leave laying around if he doesn’t want me to read it. Anyway, yes, it said T x 2, 8.00PM, Walgraves. He hasn’t said anything yet – bloody typical too. Now I’ll have to get ready and act surprised and the idiot won’t even notice when I slip straight into a little black number looking bloody gorgeous – as if it happens by magic. Honestly – men!” She laughed into the mouthpiece. “Sorry, Marce! What? Oh no, I don’t think it’s too early! In fact, top idea. Hold on a moment…” Simone put the bowl and spoon down on the counter and rinsed a glass under the tap. She went to the fridge and grabbed a couple of cubes from the icemaker. She carefully cut a slice of lemon, dropped it in the glass and finished the process with a generous measure of gin and tonic.

She closed her eyes momentarily as she took the first sip. “Perfect!” she said into the ‘phone, smacking her lips. She shook the glass to make the ice cubes chink. “Can you hear that, Marce? Perfection on the rocks, even if I do say so myself. You not joining me? Oh, you are! Yes, I can hear it your end. Gin as well? Martini? Nice! So yeah – I don’t quite know what Helen was thinking, do you?” She turned the unwrapped tin on the table, scrutinising it carefully through slightly closed eyes. “Well...what can I say? It’s…well you’d never guess I don’t think in twenty years what it is. I think she’s going slightly barmy. I know she’s just buried her dad – I think it’s knocked a screw loose! So go on…have a guess. It’s crème coloured, with a red top and there’s writing on the side. You can have three guesses.” She giggled. “No – wrong, wrong and wrong again. Look, you’re never going to get it. I’ll tell you. It’s string. Helen has bought for me a…” Simone took time to deliberate over the words, “…Ball of string. In a tin.” She waited for the laughter to subside at the other end. “No, I don’t think I quite know what I’m going to do with it. I expect she thinks it’s the most useful thing a girl could ever hope for. Marce – if I ever send you a tin of string for your birthday – not only will you know where it came from, but shoot me, won’t ya?”

Simone relaxed into the bubbles, stretching her legs out as far as the bath would let her. She rested her head on the back of the bath, enjoying the sensation of the bubbles popping against her neck. She flinched as some hot water escaped from the tap, onto her left foot. “Ouch!” She waited to see if anymore would drip, and satisfied it wouldn’t she relaxed again. She idly drew the sponge across her tight belly in tiny, irregular circular motions. She took a deep breath, savouring the scent of the candles she was burning, everything heightened by the steam coming off the bath. She sat up a little and pulled her legs towards her. She brushed her hand down her shin, using the soapy water as a lubricant. She checked for hair growth, and sat back again; satisfied that she didn’t need to shave. After a couple more minutes like this she rose from the bath, stepping onto the duckboard. She wrapped a towel around herself and walked through to the bedroom. She saw that the telephone was blinking, imploring her to respond as if it was a distress beacon. She pressed the button for the answerphone; slightly surprised she hadn’t heard the telephone from the bath. The message cut in. She recognised Dave’s voice.

“Simone, Dave here. How you doing? Good. Um...yeah, sorry, everything’s going a bit ballistic here at work, we’ve got a big presentation for the launch tomorrow and the Sales Director is absolutely doing her nut that we’re all word perfect for it. We’re doing a dry run tonight. I’m not going to get over tonight, sorry. Maybe another night – as soon as this is out the way I’ll be back on track. Sorry, hope it doesn’t ruin your plans or anything” The message terminated. Simone picked up the ‘phone and was about to hit the dial back button, when she stopped herself. “The bastard’s forgotten. Bloody hell!” She threw the ‘phone onto the bed, turning in time to catch a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror. “Hmmph. Bloody gorgeous”. She felt a lump rising in her throat. She stopped and swallowed hard in a bid to thwart any tears. Composed once again, she thought about the message.

“Hello, is that directory enquiries? Yes, it’s a business number, please. Walgraves, of Hallaton. Thank you, I’ll wait. Hello – yes, can you put me straight through?” She waited to be connected. She tried to push the thoughts out of her mind, but she couldn’t. There had been one too many cancelled dates. That far away look in Dave’s eyes when she was talking to him. The excuses: It’s work. Things are a bit hectic at the moment. Once we get the month end out the way…after this conference…the presentation…I need to run the figures…there’s a PowerPoint I need to prepare…a spreadsheet needs doing…excuses and more excuses. The telephone clicked; a polite voice informing her that this was “Walgraves Supper Rooms, good evening”. Simone hesitated, almost deciding not to carry on. Then, from the pit of her stomach the words tumbled out. “Hello, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Wines. There seems to have been a mix up. I should have cancelled his reservation – can you confirm please?” She waited, holding her breath. She had already anticipated the response. Her reply came easily too. “I do apologise – I’m terribly sorry, Mr Wines’ diary is in disarray. It’s another evening which I have pencilled in that should be cancelled, but that seems to be in order now too. No, please do not disturb Mr. Wines. Providing he is enjoying his meal, he doesn’t need to know about this. His guest has arrived, I trust? Mrs. Wines, you say? Ah, yes, then everything is in order. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Good evening”.

Simone dragged the back of her hand across her face, pulling the tears down with it. She rubbed her eyes, her mouth closed tight to prevent the sound that was rising in her throat from betraying the last vestiges of dignity she possessed. She stood upright and shook her head slightly, shaking herself back to the moment. She walked across to the wardrobe and opened it. She removed two shirts, a Pringle sweater and one pair of Chino’s from it. Dave preferred to keep things simple, returning to his own place to grab a change of clothes or to freshen up, or catch up on his mail. It was a routine that suited them both. Simone went down to the kitchen, placing the small pile of clothes on the kitchen table. She opened the cupboard under the stairs and reached in, without turning on the light, feeling with her hand instead until it sought out the roll of brown paper. She unrolled the paper and played out a large piece onto the table. She picked up the pile of clothes and placed it squarely onto the paper. She rubbed her thumb along a shirt collar, in a briefly sentimental moment. She folded the brown paper over, and after checking it for length she cut it to size. Turning the package over, she reached to the tin still sitting on the table and pulled out a long piece of string. She carefully wrapped the string around the parcel, and with a twist she tied the ends off in a bow. She opened another drawer and found a black marker pen, and on one panel of brown paper she emblazoned the legend: DAVID WINES. NOT KNOWN AT THIS ADDRESS. She opened the front door and walked down the path to her gate, where she casually dropped the parcel onto the pavement. She turned and walked briskly back up the path.

Memory of a Free Festival

The Children of the summer's end
Gathered in the dampened grass
We played our songs and felt the London sky
Resting on our hands
It was God's land
It was ragged and naive
It was Heaven
D. Bowie, 1970.


There was once a time when all our tomorrows were to be ended by a ballistic threat, and not one strapped to the chest of the enemy. Then, like now, we never really knew our enemy. We looked eastwards, as we still do today, but none of us back then actually knew any Russians. They were going to annihilate us with nuclear weapons. We were going to destroy them - with nuclear weapons. That was the balance that prevented either side from pushing the button.

We all knew that we were on a map, somewhere, deep below ground in a cold concrete bunker, over which flew the Hammer & Sickle, and inside the Generals pushed pins and slid miniature model rockets over a scale model of Europe. We presented an attractive target. To our south was Portsmouth dockyard, the ancient home of the Royal Navy, itself encircled by many dry shore establishments. To our dismay, we heard that Marconi were moving the "Sting Ray Anti-Submarine" weapons research establishment north, to our very own town. We took to the street in protest. We didn’t want to be on the map. We took to the street, and then the fields. We encamped the fields where they said the weapons site was going to be. We held a free festival.

It’s August. The sun is blazing and beating down mercilessly. When asked, one day in the future, none of us will remember the year. We will each have our own private account. It might be '84, ’85, or ’86. Our long hair warms our heads – providing shade and thatch simultaneously, a damp shiny moss, with the undeniable smell of the great unwashed, worn like a badge of honour. We carefully remove the large skip placed across the entrance to this field. The combined force of the rainbow tribe effortlessly rocks the skip to clear the track. We have moved the mountain. It confirms one suspicion though. They know we are coming.

The camp takes shape quickly. Bivouacs are erected around small campfire plots. Small tins hang over the flames to provide hot water for strange brews. Other culinary delights are put together with varying degrees of skill, ranging from the palatable to the downright unorthodox. Before the site becomes anymore unrecognisable, someone shouts. "Kenny, over here a minute." Kenny looks up and sees Kevin, from Portsmouth, sizing up a ramshackle barn, which rises like a monolith from an anonymous scrape in the ground. "I’m thinking we should keep this area out of bounds. If we take photo’s we can document the condition of it. That way they can’t pin criminal damage on us." He pushes his wire-rimmed spectacles back onto his nose, a small bead of sweat dripping off the end. He rubs his neck, pulling each end of the camera strap backwards and forwards to scratch where his green army shirt is beginning to irritate under the sun. "Kenny, grab this and stand by the door." He throws a copy of that afternoons "Evening News" to Kenny, who opens it up to the front cover. "Hippies Invade Torpedo Town". Kenny smirks and turns towards the camera, holding the page to his front. Kevin aims, focuses, and shoots. He repeats the action. "Thanks, Kenny. At least we can show ‘em what it was like when we got here".
Kenny returns to the camp and finds Garry, Mike and Rick stoking a small fire with twigs. "Who else is coming?" asks Kenny, to no one in particular. Garry answers, telling him that Araan the Punk was making his way down later, and that Lucy, Kike and the Bournemouth posse were already well on their way. "What about Dampon Dampax? Has anyone seen him?" asks Kenny. Rick giggles and performs a strange ritual with his hands, weaving them like a snake in front of his eyes. "Don’t mind him", says Mike, pointing at Rick. "He’s been out of it since we got here. He’ll be back later". We grin. We know, if nothing else, we’d either be in the same state later, or, more cruelly, having fun playing "head games" with the afflicted brethren. Towards the back of the field a band tentatively strikes a couple of chords, adjusting the equipment to combat the feedback from the PA. We wince and chuckle. We wrap some potatoes in tin foil and chuck them onto the fire. We kick back, using our shirts for pillows and we chat idly, keeping half an ear out on the music. Life feels good.



The unmistakeable penetrating trill of Lucy’s Canadian accent sharply wakens those of us who have dozed off. The large weaved top she is wearing, shrinking her petite figure, smells of patchouli oil and the bright colours it once boasted are fading. "Aww, gee! I just love baked potato!" she squeals. She sweeps a dreadlock from her face and juggles the tinfoil parcel from one hand to the other. "And I just love butter!" exclaims Lucy, even louder. "Any cheese?" Araan, who arrived when we were dozing scoffs, swigging from the jug of cider he has brought along, "Ya know, Luce…being vegan kind of means you miss out the dairy part of that baked potato?" he says, questioningly. Lucy ignores him, creating a small butter mountain on the potato. A mongrel dog yaps around our feet, leaping around. Araan relieves Kike of the spliff he has been holding. "Don’t be a hog, Kike, mate." He snorts like a pig. We laugh. Mike comes over. Lucy screams, "NORB!" at him. Mike responds, "BRON!" lifting his upturned palm at the same time. "The Prophets are on in fifteen or so, if you want to get your shit together". Mike teases his goatee beard, shifting with a nervous energy from foot to foot. Our posse rises. We ease the stiffness out of our backs and ankles and slowly traipse towards the makeshift stage area. We survey the crowd, who are not looking our way. In fact, they appear to be indifferent to anyone and everything. Someone on stage nods to us. Without bothering with a sound check, a keyboard and two guitars are plugged into the communal PA. Araan and his Mohican hair looks demonic behind the drum kit, which every other band is using. Mike coughs into the microphone. "Hello. We’re the Prophets. The prophets of NORB!" We lower our palms and make a sweeping gesture to the floor, and shout "NORB!" We await the responding cry. We hear a solo, "Bron!" come back. The crowd titters. Araan counts time; "Two-three-four!" and the Prophets let go with their opening number, "Waterlooville!" They continue with the set, ignoring the hippy in the crowd who shouts, "Oh no! Not them again!" as Kenny steps up to recite one of his poems to the backdrop of the Funeral March, provided by the Prophets.

Before the pretentious man died he was sad,
Because his wife’s – aunt’s – daughters – niece
Didn’t have time to finish cooking the dog’s pizza
But did finish her hair.
What would the man who died do about it?
Blow a trumpet and catch an angel’s harp?
Call the GPO and report a faulty line
And deny him-self the pleasure of…

Before Kenny can continue he is distracted by a ripple, which begins somewhere in the back of the crowd. The ripple grows into a murmur, then a bubble of excitement. It passes throughout the crowd: "The convoy…the Peace convoy…the convoy is here…it’s the Peace Convoy". We see plumes of black diesel smoke coming towards us, then a cacophony of car horns and air horns begins to fill the field, announcing the arrival of the Peace Convoy. We all watch, slightly in awe of the sight. Double Decker buses, old trucks and decrepit camper-vans snake their way around, creating a large moving circle around each other. They are proudly painted with peace symbols and the rusting paintwork is daubed with colourful strokes. More than one vehicle displays the words, leaving us in no doubt that the PEACE CONVOY has arrived.

Alan is going around from fire to fire, talking to the revellers. He comes across to our space, and grins widely, his face as red as his wiry hair; his beard heavy, his eyes sparkling clearly. He laughs as he announces our set was, "Different. Funny. Good. No, funny and good. Might be able to get you another slot tomorrow. Er, you guys are hanging around, aren’t you? Later, I mean. The Ozrics and Poison Girls are playing. They’ll be wicked. And you’ve got to stay for…" He says a name. It means nothing to Kenny, who asks, "Who? Never heard of him." Alan grins even wider. "Oh, then you really do have to stay for him. I’m telling you. Just make sure you make the set." He bounded away, to the next fire, his arms flailing wildly. The light begins to dim as the sun sets above the crowd, and the midges that have been waiting patiently begin their descent. The lucky ones drown in mugs of tea. The unlucky ones take bites from unsuspecting necks. Kenny moves down to the stage, staying close to campfires to outwit the midges. He pushes through the crowd, without apology until he is almost at the front of the stage. He pulls a blanket around himself and pushes his hat back, to gain a clearer view. He scans the surrounding crowd, looking not at their faces, but at their feet. He smiles when he sees some hobnail boots. "You pigs always give yourselves away" he chuckles, to himself.

After some time the stage falls into relative silence and someone moves a microphone, guitar stand and a single chair on. Kenny watches with nonchalance. After another brief pause a man, who Kenny guesses to be in his forties, walks onto the stage, from the side. His hair falls onto the brown leather jacket he wears to thwart the cold air, which is coming down quickly, despite the hotness of the preceding hours. The man sits, and rubs his hands together. He blows into them, and then pulls the microphone to his face. He looks slight, on the stage. "I hope this will be Ok. Just, my hands are really cold and I can’t get the circulation going". Someone shouts back, "Play, Roy. That’ll warm them" Kenny looks on, noting the humourous interaction that starts taking place between this man, Roy, and the crowd. Roy begins speaking some more, in what Kenny understands to be the introduction to a song. After a faltering start, this man begins to strum his guitar. Kenny is taken aback for a moment. He checks at first to satisfy himself that this is one guitar, not two or three playing. The man kicks a foot pedal and the sound intensifies, pulsating out, hitting Kenny in the chest. Kenny stands, enjoying the sensation. He hears the words of the song, his ears adjusting to the new sound, which assails him, then lifts him. He doesn’t move for the next forty-five minutes. He has never heard music like this before – immediately though it makes sense. He doesn’t notice Alan at first, who has joined him at his side. "I told you he was good, didn’t I?" Kenny shakes his head. He can’t speak. Finally, he manages to find some words. "I can’t believe it. This is incredible. I can’t believe it." Alan puts a hand on Kenny’s shoulder. "Yeah man. He’s good. I just love Roy Harper."

Counting Them Out; Counting Them in

“Count what you have, not what you don’t have” said the wise man, somewhat enigmatically. He coughed, and winced visibly, pressing his hand just below his left breast. Despite his deep, wrinkled tan the fingers on his right hand betrayed an addiction that had been some sixty years acquired. It didn't matter to him, and went unnoticed by anyone who shook his hand, instead feeling his warm, firm grip, which would cocoon them in a safe shroud - and neither did his teeth, loose in their sockets and yellow, detract from his warm, twinkling smile.

“I have three sheep”, replied Mitsukuni, with a shrug that made the loose curls of his dark hair bounce on his shoulders. He spat onto the dirt, striking a dusty beetle with the accuracy of a laser guided missile. The beetle stopped short, its antenna waving furiously as it adjusted to the new damp environment, before continuing forth.
“Three sheep is good. Take one to market, keep one for wool and slaughter the third. Invite your brothers and their wives to feast with you at sunset. Fill your bellies until they are gorged.” The wise man shuffled his feet, leaving imprints of long forgotten valleys in the dirt below. Mitsukuni looked far into the distance, not really focusing on anything in particular. The town bell rang dully. Elsewhere, a dog joined it in duet.

Mitsukuni shook his head. “Koki has five sheep. He boasts how he will sell two at market this week.”
“Koki is indebted to Sumi. They say there is a price greater than two sheep on his head if he does not settle. Now which is worth more? Your three sheep or his five?” replied the wise man.


Marcia kneaded the dough roughly. She was running the argument through her mind, over and over. Her eyes moistened. "Stupid bitch!", she admonished herself. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, in an attempt to push her damp hair out of her eyes. She became distracted by the small cloud of flour which followed the movement, tracing a path from bread dough to face in an arc. She pounded her fist into the sticky mixture, casually dusting it with fresh flour from her left hand. She sighed to herself, turning it into a hum, in tune with the radio in an effort to disguise it. The telephone rang shrilly. "Sod it", she thought. "Bloody time to be ringing". She considered the options. She let it ring, knowing that the answerphone would cut in soon enough. She wasn't in the mood to be sociable, anyway. "Miserable cow, I know". She plunged both hands to the counter, took a deep breath and threw her head back, letting the nape of her neck take the full weight. She liked how her hair just caught her here, a gossamer whisper, gently soothing, as she eased her head from side to side. She listened to the ring of the telephone, and clucked as the machine clicked in. She winced at the sound of her voice, never happy with it. "Hello, you've come through to Marcia and David. I'm sorry but we are unable to come to the 'phone right now. If you'd like to..." she grinned when the message was interrupted by her giggling, remembering how David had crept up behind her and poked both his forefingers into her sides -"leave a message, we'll get right back to you...ssh, stop it!" There was more giggling, as the message faded. She heard another click, and waited. For a second, it seemed that there would be no reply. Then, after another short delay she heard David. She knew almost instantly it was him, by the way he drew a breath before speaking. "Honey bun! Hey, I've only got a moment and I really do need to be quick. I got them to patch me through, I owe them one now! Look..um..if you're there - pick up. If not..well, look, Marce, hey, I'm sorry. Really, I am, honey. I shouldn't have gone off on one like that. Look, we'll sort it when I get back. Leave it with me. Love you. Climb the highest." Marcia shrieked at the machine. "No!" She dropped the tea towel she was trying to dry her hands on and grabbed for the receiver, spinning the small rose vase on the way. She pressed it to her ear, desperately wanting to salvage the moment, to turn back the clock just a few seconds. "Dave! Dave?" She listened intently. She could hear her pulse, echoed by the receiver against her ear, as the blood pumped, in time now to her gulping breath. "Climb the highest" She mouthed the words a second time. "I'd climb the highest mountain, swim the furthest ocean, to be with you" She listened. There was no reply. All she could hear was a continuous tone of the telephone, slavishly waiting for her to dial a number. She cradled it to her chest, and her hand rose and fell with each breath. She turned slightly towards the window, and caught her own reflection staring back at her against the darkness of the street outside. In the distance, she heard a whining roar; a familiar incantation. She heard the engines gather revs, each time becoming quieter as they gained pace and altitude. "..two...three...four..." She counted them out.

"Now watch this!" The wise man chuckled. His right hand picked up a checker, and tapped sideways across the draughts board. Mitsukuni stared, open mouthed. "Ok - next time! Next time." He winked at the wise man. He rocked back slightly, rubbing the small of his back with his hands. He closed his eyes and turned his head first to the left, then to the right. He then proceeded to move his head in a circle, letting out a small sigh of relief. "Maybe..maybe we should hold a feast! If nothing else, it would be good for the village" He smiled, and opened an eye slowly. "What's more, it would be a good excuse to.." Suddenly, he blinked. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust against the pure white of the sun. His jaw dropped open, silently mouthing. "Two...three..." He continued to count, squinting as he tried to determine what the dark shapes silhouetted high in the sky were..."Four!". He saw them, long before he heard them. He frantically pointed, redirecting the attention of the wise man, who was folding the board. He rose, sharply, sending the unpacked pieces flying into the dirt. He grabbed the sleeve of the wise man, and turned, to run

The Plough and the Dream

“Where are you going?”
“There and back. See how far it is.”
“How will you know when you get there?”
“I’ll be on my way back”.
“How will you know you’re on your way back, if you don’t even know you got there?”
“I’ll recognise things I saw on the way”.

***

There’s a small, (emphasis here on small) part of me that has a grudging admiration for people who seem to have a life-plan, or at least, a set of predetermined goals and a sense of direction which hurls them towards old age with a smugness that I just do not seem to possess. I’ve tried to muster the same enthusiasm to conform with the “ideal”, but at some point this always wanes and I find myself rejecting this more and more.

I don’t have a mortgage, nice car, 2.4 children, designer grass on the floor at home, abstract prints on the walls; I don’t run my own business, covet expensive clothes or label (that word, again: LABEL) people according to income…but the very people that do, make up just about 88% of the friends I keep or meet up with socially, which, of late, hasn’t been that often, I admit.

Turn the clock back ten or fifteen years and they never revealed these aspirations. If they harboured any such plans I was never privy to them. Yet, I don't envy them either, chasing what it is they chase. Caught in the mangle of life, small cogs in the greasy machine. Like us all. Isn't that the greatest con ever perpetuated? The big sting, with us, the marks, being played, being hustled? What should we call it? What label best fits? There - that word again. Label. Capitalism? Western living? The nasty, insidious ideal, the grand design which keeps us confined to our boxes. The genius of it all - how did they convince us to till the fields, to drag the plough, to plant the crops, to swing the scythe, to earn the money, to buy back the very food we toiled over? It's so damned clever I only wish I had thought of it first. I endeavour to escape it. To break the chains that shackle me to this. To stop selling myself short. To finally get there. I shall only know when I have arrived when I stop recognising things on the return journey.

Shot By The Mob

In between the inane moments which seem to dominate my life I retreat to a grey, featureless car park near to the place I call work, where I can hide between the white lines and other drivers who are equally seeking solitude, and possibly they wonder too where Godot might be.

It's a car park in which nothing happens, more than twice. I become a steel island and protect my territory ruthlessly from the brigands of the concrete sea with an impartiality that would turn Medusa to stone, if she dared meet my gaze. I open the car door and swing my feet out, looking down at an imaginary camp fire, where only now cigarette butts are casually discarded.

In an unprecedented moment a silver car pulled up next to me. It wasn't random - of all the empty spaces this intruder could have chosen, he chose the one next to mine. The tinted window wound down, slowly. The tanned, well groomed driver looked at me for a moment, and asked, in broken English, "Do you speak Italian?" I looked at him. I expected the caveat to follow - "I haf reeturned from ex-ee--bission and haf mucha stock left to sell" - but it didn't. Do I speak Italian? No, I'm an ignorant Englishman, sitting in an island on an island - barely able to acknowledge my own heritage, resigned to be an apologist for my forefather's imperialistic leanings and the de facto knowledge that a declaration of Englishness these days is an affront to multi-culturalism. Being British is ok; being English is merely an anachronistic term, which died about the same time George slayed the dragon and earned his place in history.

"No, I don't" was all I could muster. We continued to maintain eye contact, both cowboys astride our steeds, hands inching towards our holsters, thumb and finger nervously twitching, waiting for the other to make a fatal error of mistiming and to take a bullet in the upper thorax, or, if up aganst a particularly skilled gunslinger, between the eyes. The man with no name looked back at me, and made a sound in his throat which was either him dry gulping with an understandable fear and dread that he had ridden into the wrong town, or it might have been disgust. "You only speeeek Ing-er-lish?" he croaked. I looked back at him, unblinking, almost believing that flies were gathering around my squinting eyes, where the tiniest droplet of moisture was converging to travel down my face and join the concrete ocean. I waited, unsure at all whether this was only high noon or my last stand.

No name saw sense. Regaining his composure his window closed, cranking on its electric motor. With a kick of his heels he rode off into the sunset, with no shots being fired.