"Write what you know" they say.

Even of what you know is benefits advice work and writing stories about it only pays enough to keep your colleagues in biscuits!



Thursday 31 December 2015

Seasonal Shorts: Scene Five - One Last Job...

 
  Tom Appleby grimly pondered his part in his son's Star Wars remake.
  'I might not be a Sith Lord but I've came bloody close to chopping that lad's hand off a couple of times!' he grumbled.  'He's got a bad habit of snooping at personal information.  It's as well for him that I'm not quite as evil as his mother seems to have implied!' 
  'Even when you were a Civil Servant for the DWP, you didn't really need redeeming, darling' Hilary added, squeezing her husband's hand.  'You were very much on the side of the Rebel Alliance, right from the beginning.  Young Daniel must know that.'
  'Where has that lad gone now?'  Tom's baleful gaze swept the pub.  There were two empty glasses at their table and two empty chairs.
  'Sally's taken him and most of the Co-op chaps away up north, to see what assistance they can render in these dreadful floods,'  Vaughan explained.  'She said that your particular skills are unlikely to be required for many months.' 
  'Another Christmas mission,' sighed Tom.  'She is a good lass and I suppose my son deserves some credit for his part in supporting her.  And at least it's not as dangerous as last year's good deed.'
  'What was that?' Lyn Walker asked.
  'They helped to build a new hospital,' Hilary told her.
  'That doesn't sound too dangerous,' remarked Terry.
  'It was for Ebola patients in Sierra Leone,' explained Hilary. 
  'It's a pity she's not about,' said Toby. 'I had a part in my film for her - with normal ears, too.'
  'What's your film going to be then, luvvie?'
  'A good old-fashioned caper movie, Lyn.  Think Ocean's Eleven or The Italian Job - only with welfare rights advisers.  After all, what else would a slick geezer like me star in?'
  'Sound choice, Mr Novak.'  Wayne Reynolds raised a large glass of Bourbon in support.  'And, if you're looking for someone in the construction business, I wouldn't mind a part in something like that.  I know I'm supposed to have gone straight and my Marie would kill me if I got tangled up in anything dodgy, but I can't help wishing our author had given me chance to play a proper crim first.  I'd have jumped at the chance to give that bastard Gerry Matthews a concrete overcoat!'
  'Why would she let any of us get tangled up in criminal activity?' Hilary asked impatiently.  'The whole point of her stories is to undermine the insidious myth that benefit claimants are all on the fiddle.'
  'Yeah, but she's always on about how precarious our funding is too - and she knows all about that,' Toby replied.  'I'm sure she wouldn't mind us branching out to secure a little bit of contingency funding, I think it could be time to get the old gang back together - for one last job!'
  'Which old gang did you have in mind?' Hilary asked sharply.  'I hope you aren't including me in that description!'
  'As if...!'

  As the jangling guitar riff of The Stanglers' 'No More Heroes' begins, we find ourselves in a small-town street in southern England.  There is a bustling market with a variety of stalls, striped awnings fluttering in the breeze.  At one, an elderly woman feels the yarn quality of a ball of knitting wool.  A man in his early forties, shorter than average, his fair-hair thinning on top, but walking with a younger man's swagger, moves close and reaches his hand into her shopping bag.  At first glance, he appears to be robbing her until we catch a glimpse of an envelope dropping from his hand into the bag.  
  Further up the street, a well-dressed retired professional man wanders out of the local bank.  The same fair-haired man quickly slips him an envelope, which he tucks out of sight as he replaces his wallet in his inside breast pocket.  The apparently incongruous music continues as the camera tracks a venerable black man with white hair around the aisles of the local Sainsbury's.  The fair-haired man drops another envelope into the 'bag for life' hanging from the shopping trolley he pushes.  
  Meanwhile, in a shop full of trinkets and New Age tat, another older lady haggles over the price of a crystal suncatcher.  Scattered beams of sunlight illuminate the same man as he drops an envelope into the huge pocket of her patchwork coat.  Finally, we see the elderly priest shaking the hands of his small flock as they leave that morning's Mass, the last of whom is the man delivering the envelopes.  As he shakes the priest's hand, another is passed.  

The music stops.  The screen goes black.  A caption appears which reads 'One Week Later.'

A corner table in what appears to be a dark, substantially deserted and slightly seedy bar or café.  A single dim light hangs over the table, casting almost menacing shadows.  The man who was handing out the envelopes is standing, about to address the people sitting around the table who are just discernible as the two older women, the elderly black man and the retired professional.  The overhead lights flicker and bright fluorescent light floods the room, showing it to be the Community Cafe, a joint venture between the district Foodbank and the Solent Welfare Rights Project.  The priest joins the group, with a smile.

  'There's no need to sit in the dark now, is there?  It's not as if we're up to no good, after all!' 
  'Actually, Father...'
  'I've read your note, Tobias - and burned it, as advised - and I stand by my words.'
  'So you're in?'
  'Heavens above, yes!  Battling through the Big Lottery application process once was enough for me, my son.  If we're to keep the Community Café and your project in business after that grant runs out in less than a year's time, I'm all in favour of a new business model.'

The priest takes a seat beside the elderly hippy woman and the apparent leader of the gang begins to explain the plan.  He has a snappy, street-wise style of delivery.

  'You heard the Father.  It's almost 2018, which means our gang here are going to run out of dosh again soon.  We can't afford to let that happen.  The Churches have offered to cough up for a couple of posts but, with all due respect, Father, you can't seriously expect Martin, Deepak or Hilary to sign up to spreading the love of Christ between appeals!  Our advisers don't have time to do decent bids for money themselves; each one can take days, even if it's only for a couple of grand, and the guys are too busy with casework.  You know what it was like when you all worked here and I was the new nipper - ESA appeals coming out of our ears, DLA forms, everything kicking off with Tax Credit overpayments.  Well, it's way more mental than that now...'

  'That's hardly an appropriate use of the word "mental" Toby!'
  'Sorry, Mags.  You taught me better than that.'
  'I did.  However, I take your point.  I took afternoon tea with dear Hilary last week and she told me how many families they see struggling now that new benefits won't help with the cost of raising more than two children, leaving these poor people to choose between homelessness and separation.  It's quite heart-breaking.  After all the years we campaigned for a better, fairer system, we seem to be back in the days of Cathy Come Home.  What do you think, Vaughan?'
  'We've seen yet more cuts to benefits for disabled people.  Those to ESA have left many who can't work on no more than Jobseeker's Allowance, while this constant tinkering with the PIP descriptors is driving our former colleagues to despair.  Martin has an urgent appeal for a client who has lost hers and has been plunged into penury as the Benefit Cap now applies!  She and her three children have lost over two hundred pounds a week and have little prospect of recovering any of it, despite Martin's keenest efforts.  I'm sure you see the same, Paul.'
   'I still help out at the youth club, when my rheumatism lets me, so it's the young people I feel sorry for.  They're trapped at home, as they can't get Housing Benefit if they move out, but most of their parents ain't got the money to keep them either.  They don't get even this so-called "living wage" when they work and, if they don't find a job, they get sent on workfare schemes and treated like slaves.  My generation rioted over less than that!'
  'Violence isn't the way!'
  'I'm not saying it is, Caty love, only that it wouldn't be surprising.'
  'I know what you mean.  My nephew's a self-employed mechanic and just getting his business up and running.  His Universal Credit got sanctioned because his wife isn't looking for a better paid job.  She's a care worker and loves what she does!  Whoever thought you'd get sanctioned for caring about your clients enough to not mind the low pay!  It's wicked, isn't it Father?'
  'It is that, surely.'
  'But there's not going to be any violence in your plan, is there, Toby?'
  'No way, Caty.  Our job is just to get enough dosh to keep the Project in business until the next election, when we know there's going to be a real change - namely, an end to this austerity bollocks and all that, and the reinstatement of a proper Socialist Social Security system.  And that's where you all come in.'
  'We're going to write funding bids for the Project?'
  'No Mags.  We're going to do a heist!'
  'I say!  What splendid fun!  Should I knit us some balaclavas?'
  'We're good without, actually.'
  'Pity...'
  'I hate to say it, Toby, but much as I'd gain a load of credibility from being a real gangsta, aren't we too ancient to be bank robbers?'
  'Not a bit of it, Paul.  You're still a couple of years younger than several of the Hatton Garden gang.  I know Mags is a bit older but...'
  'And I'm blind, Toby!'
  'Which is why I've picked Caty to be your eyes for this job.  It's your ears we need.  Vaughan tells me our local bank still uses a very old-school safe.  He's the only one of us here to have enough money to have ever seen it!'
  'Jim and I occasionally enjoy a game a bridge with the manager and his delightful wife.  After a few sherries, I have to say he can be quite talkative.  It was during one such soiree that he mentioned the passage through to our cellar!' 
  'From here into the bank?' 
  'Indeed, although  you have to crawl and it's quite a tight squeeze.  I took the trouble to explore it last week.  Ruined my best gardening trousers too!'
  'So if Vaughan is our man on the inside, Mags is the safe-cracker and Caty is her guide, what are me and the Father doing here?'
  'I am the back-up plan for opening the safe, if dear Margaret doesn't prevail.  My brother-in-law Seamus had some interesting friends in the North during the Troubles and, although I persuaded him from the path of violence, he's always kept a few pieces of PE and a couple of detonators around the place, for old time's sake!'
  'What about me, Toby?'
  'You're the cool black dude, Paul.  You can't do a heist movie without at least one cool black dude.'
  'I think we need to talk seriously about tokenism after this heist, Toby.'
  'If you say so, Mags...'

The screen darkens.  'One month later' appears as a caption.  

Back in the same small town.  A little to the left of the bank, a construction company van with Crafty Concrete - Foundations and Formwork is parked, while a team of builders attend to what appears to be an under-pinning job to the shop next door.  As they are using power tools, there is a great deal of noise and dust.  A very large man with massive, muscular, tattooed arms folded across his broad chest stands watching his men at work, although his gaze often shifts to check up and down the street.

Meanwhile, in a subterranean bank vault, the noise of a pneumatic drill can be heard coming from above.  This room is also full of dust, through which filters a thin beam of sunlight.  A very polite, gentle cough is heard and, as the camera zooms further into the room, the dust clears to reveal the elderly woman in the patchwork coat, clearing her throat.  The well-dressed man hands her the handkerchief from the top pocket of his jacket, which he brushes despondently with the back of his hand.  Toby and the priest are close by with Paul, also coated in concrete dust.

  'Mags, you would be pleased as punch if you could see me now.  I certainly don't look like the token black guy any more!' 
  'Shh!'

The blind woman is crouched with her ear close to the safe, listening carefully as she tweaks the dial cautiously and precisely, first left and then right.  Caty is close by.  She has drawn a variety of arcane symbols and runes on the safe's top.

  'Finally I get to wear something presentable and this happens!  Trust Mr Reynolds' operatives to drill all the way through from the pavement.  I understood they were merely creating enough noise to muffle the sound of Plan B, should the safe prove resistant to Margaret's endeavours.'
  'You know Wayne, though, Vaughan.  He's inclined to be a bit over-enthusiastic.'
  'I believe that was his barrister's defence the last time he was up in Court for GBH.  I'm not sure it was entirely wise to involve him in this little escapade.'
  'Wayne's okay.  He's been decent enough as our landlord and he only wants a tenth of our loot from today.'
  'A tenth?'
  'That includes his fee for fencing any jewelry we need to turn into cash.'
  'Oh well, under the circumstances that may prove to be quite reasonable.  If Duncan's last injudicious remark is to be believed, in addition to the rental income from Gerry Matthews' property portfolio and the rather shady cash sale, of a building plot, this month he's deposited a rather charming diamond necklace and matching earrings, purchased as a sixtieth birthday gift for the long-suffering Mrs Matthews.'
  'I'd be sorry to take something from Gerry Matthews wife.  Surely she deserves some compensation for putting up with his shenanigans for all these years, Toby?'
  'Mrs Gerry has done well enough out of her husband's crooked deals, Father.  She won't miss another set of rocks for her jewelry box, whereas we can probably keep a full-time worker on for a year or more for them.'
  'Just as long as Mr Reynold's doesn't try to renegotiate his share later, if we get out of here with a sack of swag.  That is what tends to happen in capers of this sort, isn't it?' 
  'If you three could please be quiet, just for a few seconds...' 

Margaret persists for a few more moments but is finally defeated by the racket from the drilling above.  She attempts to rise but needs Caty's assistance to do so.  Another shower of dust descends.

  'I fear that we may have to revert to Plan B.' 
  'Over to you, Father!'
  'Okay, so...'

Father Cornelius attaches a small device to one side of the safe's door.  He motions to his colleagues to move back into the furthest corner of the vault, sets something and scurries for cover.  There is a small explosion, though in such a confined space it sounds massive.  Everything is again enveloped in dust.  Above, the drilling noises cease.  As silence descends and the dust settles, the five robbers can be seen rising from their corner and peering towards the safe.  The priest is the first to speak.

  'Will you look at that!'
  'You were only supposed to blow the bloody door off!'
  'I know.'
  'And that's exactly what you did!'
  'It is that!'
  'Are you absolutely certain you haven't done this before?'
  'Not in earnest...'

The group cluster around the safe.  As anticipated, there is a substantial amount of money within, mostly in thick bundles of used twenty-pound notes and, when Paul opens a royal blue box, the sunlight filtering through the gloom catches on the contents and jewelry sparkles.  Above, the drilling starts again.  

Suddenly, there is a cry of 'Oh bollocks!' and water starts to pour in through the hole in the pavement.  Alarmed, the pensioner robbers retreat to the sides of the vault.  Water swiftly pools on the floor and begins to rise around their ankles and is soon at their knees.  The group's leader shouts to get the attention of the workers above.  A rough voice answers from the street.

  'We've struck a fuckin' water main!'

  'Bloody hell, Wayne!  You'll have to get us out of here - fast!  Our way in from next door is already under water!'
  'Righto, mate.  The guys are just moving some stuff around to hide you as you come out, then I'll get you a ladder.'
  'I'm not sure Paul and Caty could climb a ladder.  Isn't there something you can use to pull them out?'
  'Give this a try.'

A large bucket on the end of a robe descends into the vault.  The rising water is already knee-deep.

  'That's too small!'
  'I'll see what else we've got.  You might as well stick the money in it, though, to save it getting wet.'
  'Don't do it, Toby!  I don't trust him!  I sense a bad aura all around him!'
  'Me to, Caty, though I think that's his dodgy aftershave!'

Toby quickly loads all of the money into the bucket and, after a moment of hesitation, also drops the blue velvet box in.  When he shouts up that the contents of the safe are aboard, the bucket quickly disappears though the hole.  Despite several further calls for aid, there is no sign of a larger bucket, ladder or other means of escape.  They cannot pick up signals on their mobile phones and the noise of the rushing water means they cannot be heard from outside.  The water continues to rise, reaching the pensioners' waists.  The situation looks hopeless.  The men lift the women onto the top of the safe to keep them above the rising waters for a little longer.

  'Forgive the sexism, Mags.'
  'Just this once, Toby.'
  'I fear the villain really has double-crossed us, Paul.'
  'I think so too, my friend.  After all the years the Project worked with him - and the rent they paid!'
  'And all the work Sally Archer put his way, thinking he was a reformed character!'
  'I can't believe our author would let us end like this.  I always thought she was quite fond of the Solent Elder Action group.'
  'She's a Saints supporter too.  She can't let Toby drown down here...' 
  'Shh!  I can hear something!'

Margaret looks up.  Snaking in through the ceiling gap is a long hose and above, an engine can be heard spluttering into life.  As the hose touches the water, there is a slurping, gurgling noise and it quickly becomes apparent that it is attached to a pump.  Gradually, although water is still leaking in, the level starts to fall.  At the same time, a rope with a harness similar to that of a bosun's chair drops through. Wayne Reynolds' voice is heard:

  'We've got you hidden behind the vans and I've sent the cop who turned up off to get the Southern Water guys.  They'll be out of the way for a while, but you'd better get out quick before they all get back here.'
  'We're sending Mags up first!' 

Caty helps Margaret into the hoist and she is quickly whisked up out of the vault.  A few moments later, the contraption reappears and Paul straps Caty in.  With a cry of 'whee!' she too soars up out of the room.  Vaughan follows, then Paul and finally Toby attaches himself to the harness and is lifted out, a huge muscular arm reaching down to pull him out onto the pavement.  He stares up, blinking in the sunlight, straight into the faces of Wayne Reynolds and Sally Archer.

  'What are you doing here, Sazza?'
  'Wayne asked me to bring the pump and the rescue kit we got for the floods two years ago.  You know our author works all this sort of stuff out well in advance, and always gets me in to save the day where she can't think of another way to make the plot work.  I got here as quickly as I could.  Anyway, why are you in a hole in the ground with Vaughan's retirement revolutionaries?'
  'We've been fundraising.'  
  'Talking of which...'

Wayne Reynolds hands Toby a bucket full of used notes.

  'Of course, you can't just march into a bank with it and open a new account for the Project, so you'll have to come up with another way of keeping it safe until it's needed.  I'd suggest you share it out among your gang and then, when the fuss dies down, get one of the old fogeys to set up a charitable trust that you can all put a few quid in or leave legacies to.  None of these notes looks traceable to me, so you won't be needing the services of my financial adviser.'
  'But you'll still take your cut, despite messing things up?'
  'I rescued you too, didn't I?  Anyway, I thought something sparkly for my Marie would settle it.  You'll have trouble shifting that pretty necklace.'
  'Won't Matthews recognise it?'
  'I hope he does.  I want to see the look on that smug bastard's face when my lovely wife turns up at some civic do wearing the jewels he bought for his missus.  I know enough about old Gerry's past that he won't dare say anything to the Law about it.  He'll be as sick as a dog!  And before you ask me if I'm taking more than my fair share hanging on to the diamonds, you might want to have a count up of what's in that bucket you're holding.  At a rough guess, I'd say there's about three hundred grand.'
  'Three hundred...!  That's more than enough to get the Project though to the summer of 2020 and the next election!'
  'And what then, mate?'

Before Toby can answer, Wayne spots the relevant authorities heading up the street to take charge of the water main problem.  He hustles Toby and the pensioners into the back of the Construction Co-op's van, with Sally Archer at the wheel.  Toby crawls forward to offer her a few words of advice.

  'Drive carefully, Sazza, especially round the hairpin bends,  You know this is usually where it all goes wrong.'

As Sally smiles, starts the engine and accelerates gently away, Margaret's voice is heard from the back of the van.

  'I don't know why, but I could suddenly murder a portion of fish and chips!'



  'And they all lived happily ever after,' Toby concluded, raising his glass to his friends and colleagues.
  'What a lovely idea,' said Hilary.  'Except that you couldn't possibly get away with it in reality.  The CCTV in the High Street would have all of this recorded.'
  'Not by the end of 2017.  The Council won't have the money for that any more.  And, although the police will question Wayne Reynolds, he won't tell them anything.'
  'Damned right I won't.  I ain't no grass!'
  'But the evidence...!'
  'There isn't any linking Wayne to the theft of Gerry Matthews' money or jewelry - he was legitimately doing a job next door.  Again, due to budget cuts, they won't be able to spend enough time investigating to get a case fit for court.  We'd be home and dry, I tell you, and when Jezza and the real Labour Party win the election...' 
  'I'd love to see that, lad, but I think we might both be in the realms of fantasy again there.' 
  'I think Tom's right, Toby.  We've got a long way to go before that happens.' 
  'I know, but the fightback is gaining pace.  Look at how the House of Lords stood up over the Tax Credit cuts.  Now people have seen that, maybe they'll start to question the rest of it?  Our author isn't the only one out there writing "welfare rights lit"; there have been plays, and Ken Loach is making a film about sanctions - which is where we came in, of course.'
  'And all those benefits problems you mentioned in your film, with PIP and ESA being cut, and less money for families with more than two kiddies, and that Universal Credit thing.  They were just made up, weren't they, luvvie?  It won't really be like that in 2017?'
  Toby looked at Lyn Walker.  She suddenly looked very old and tired, and more than a little afraid.
  'Yeah,' he said, catching Martin's eye as a warning to stay quiet  'I made all of that up.'  
  'Thank goodness for that!' said Lyn.  'In that case, I wish you all a very, very Happy New Year!'



  


  

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Saturday 12 December 2015

Seasonal Shorts: Star Wars, Episode Four - A New Hopelessness

'That's no moon!'  Actually, it is...
  
  Martin hastily put his drink down and retrieved his daughter from the pram at his side.  'She's still clean,' he said, bouncing her on his knee.  'Do you want to hold her, Sally?' 
  'No way!  Not until she's much bigger.  She's still at the breakable stage.  If we ever have children, Danny will have to look after them when they're that tiny.'
  Daniel Appleby, who had finished sketching another prospective extension to Wayne Reynolds' eco-friendly country pile, was back at their table.  He seemed in no hurry to practice his parenting skills.  Lyn was about to offer when Terry stretched out his arms.
  'I'll look after her, nipper.'  He held baby Malala expertly and tickled her under her chin.  'Where's her mum today?'
  'Climate Change talks in Paris.  She'll be home tomorrow - unless they over-run.'
  'The news says that's likely,' Tom warned.  'Still, if this little lass wants to grow up in a green and safe world, a few more hours without her mum now might not be too high a price to pay.  I do worry about the future my grandchildren will face.'
  'I worry about the future all the time,' admitted Sally.  'But I think that's because I read and watch way too much sci-fi.  Then I end up having scary dreams, where I'm fighting for survival in a dystopian society, my every move is being watched by sinister agents of an oppressive state and I'm at constant risk of capture and torture.'
  'Everyday life under the Tories,' Martin noted.
  Sally shrugged.  'On the plus side, that's how I got to be so excellent at archery!'
  'I don't think I'd like to be in your movie then, luvvie.  What about you, Hilary?  What do you like to watch?'
  'My tastes aren't far removed from yours really, Lyn.  I like costume dramas too, though I prefer those with a social conscience.  The recent Suffragette film was really rather good.'
  'What do you like, Tricia?'
  'Steve and I don't tend to get to the pictures on our own - we're usually taking the girls, so it's the latest Disney or Pixar for us.  I tend to chill with the medical soaps - Casualty, Holby City...'
  'We could do a remake of ER with your George as Dr Doug!' Lyn suggested to Hilary.
  Toby groaned.  'Just what we need - Tom and Hilary playing doctors and nurses!'
  'That sounds rather fun to me!' giggled Hilary.  'What do you think, Tom darling?'
  'I've already been the star of one film,' Tom said, modestly declining the offer.  'I think Sally made a good point earlier about passing the baton to the next generation.  What about you, Danny boy?'

As a sweeping, slightly melancholic, symphony begins, the red-gold light of twin suns setting falls on the face of a wistful youth.  He blinks quickly and the double sun resolves back into a single glowing ball.   A light breeze tousles his dark hair and his brown eyes gaze forlornly across a landscape all too familiar - the desolate moors and steep fells of the Yorkshire Dales.

With a sigh, the boy wanders back into his step-father's garage.  There, beside a transit van with Alan Braithewaite - Landscape Gardener on the side, two robots are waiting to be cleaned; a bronze-coloured humanoid, soaking in an oil bath, and a squat, dustbin-shaped machine.  As the lad starts dusting the smaller droid, the other speaks - in a distinctly Scottish accent.

  'My name is CU M8 and that wee bin is my counterpart, Wi 11.  If you don't mind me asking, sir, where the bloody hell are we?
 'If there's a bright centre to the universe, then you're in the place furthest from it.'

The small droid makes a series of twiddling noises.  The youth looks blankly at it, unable to understand.  The bronze robot translates:

  'He says that we're in Skipton and that the Craven Valley regularly tops the Guardian poll for the best place to live in England, though as he's from Bristol I'm not sure he's in any position to pass comment.  Furthermore, in my humble opinion, anywhere south of the border is shite.  He also says that, by a coincidence of twenty-four-point-seven billion to one against, this is where Obi-Vaughan Kenobi is currently exiled and that he has an important message for him.'
  'Obi-Vaughan Kenobi?  Does he run the Chinese that's set up along the street from Mr Karim's curry house?'

The small droid warbles again before letting out a long whistle.  CU M8 sinks down into his oil-bath with a sigh.

  'You said it, pal!  We've got a right one here!'

The following morning, the droids have been loaded into a battered landspeeder and, driven by their new master, are heading for the isolated home of their former one.  Their journey is delayed by traffic lights at a swing-bridge on the Leeds and Liverpool Canal and, after that, they are stuck behind a sight-seeing coach touring the Yorkshire Dales.  Stopping to ask a lone figure the way, they are suddenly surrounded by identically dressed beings in Gore-Tex jackets, waterproof trousers and hiking boots, each armed with a pair of walking poles.  The creatures flee as an old man in a brown cloak approaches and guides the youth and the droids into the safety of his rather picturesque stone cottage.

  'Rest easy, son.  You've had a busy day.  I, however, appear to be having another bad hair and beard day and, yet again, find myself in a distinctly rustic costume of appalling cut and dreadful fit!  It would have been too much to find me a cameo role in the previous piece, I suppose?  Fine fabrics, shiny buckles, beautifully tailored breeches and coats of a flattering length for the taller figure?  I should be so lucky!'

He looks to camera, raising one eyebrow quizzically, before returning his attention to the boy, who has a question.

  'What were those hideous creatures, Obi-Vaughan?'
  'Ramblers, I'm afraid.  The hills around here are infested with them.  You should be careful venturing up here alone.'
  'I'm not alone.  I've got these two droids with me.  The little one has a message for you.'

Suddenly, a beam of light shoots out from Wi 11 and a hologram image of a young woman appears.  She is dressed in a flowing white gown, the hem of which almost trips her as she steps forward, and she seems to struggle to untangle the long sleeves as she stoops to slip something into the droid.  She stands tall - very tall - and speaks.

  'Many years ago, you fought with my father in the Clone Wars.  Even though I was against those, because there was no way Count Dooku had weapons of mass destruction that would be ready in 45 minutes, I need your help now.  My Thunderbird has been intercepted by Imperial forces.  Inside this droid are the plans of the Empire's deadly new weapon, which will destroy entire planets even more thoroughly than failing to invest in sustainable sources of energy and thermally-efficient building technology.  They must reach the Rebel Alliance via my father, who's installing a ground source heat pump-based central heating system in Aldershot.  Help me, Obi-Vaughan Kenobi - you're my only hope!'

The youth is transfixed.

  'Who is she?  She's beautiful - apart from that weird hairdo.'
  'She's Princess Sally Arcturus, a leading member of the Rebel Alliance.  She wears her hair like that to cover her ears.'
  'She's not my twin sister, is she?'
  'That's hardly likely, my boy.  She's five years older than you, four inches taller and she's a redhead.'

The small droid whistles and bleeps.  CU M8 translates.

  'He's says he's not exactly the brightest ewok in the forest, is he?'
  'There's too much of his father in him.'

The lad, who has been tapping and prodding the dustbin-shaped droid in an attempt to make it play the hologram again, turns round in amazement.

  'Did you know my father, Obi-Vaughan?'
  'Indeed.  He was a fine warrior and a good friend.'
  'What happened to him?'
  'Your father was seduced by the Dark Side.'
  'My mum said he was seduced by an old trollop called Yvonne Morton.'   
  'I think you'll find that amounts to the same thing, from a certain point of view...'

Their mission clear, the boy, the old man and the two droids cram into the landspeeder and set off across the moors, stopping briefly at the top of one scarp slope to survey the town below.  The old man has a warning for his young companion.

  'You'll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy...'
  'Keighley's not that bad.  I went to college there!'

Entering the town, they find the local police are dealing with a security alert of some sort and there is a roadblock.  A young constable walks towards the landspeeder.  He seems to recognise the youth, who tries to hide his face by cowering down beside the old man.

  'Oh no!  It's Johnny Grimshaw.  He was a prefect at our school.  If he recognises me, I'll be in so much trouble.  My mum said I shouldn't pick up hitch-hikers.'

As the policeman comes to stand beside the landspeeder, the old man holds his hand horizontally before him, sweeping it gently from side to side as he speaks:

  'These are not the droids you're looking for...'
  'We aren't looking for droids, Mister.  We're looking for an illegal stash of bio-diesel that the Rebel Scum use to power their ships.  You haven't seen Ali Karim, have you?'
  'I don't believe so.'
  'You can go on your way, then.'

Leaving the landspeeder in a side-street, the youth, the old man and the robots enter a bar.  A quintet of alien beings are playing a snappy jazz number as diverse clientele, drawn from dozens of different planets and star systems mingle cautiously and jostle for drinks.  One particularly grotesque creature picks an unprovoked fight with the youth, only for the old man to unexpectedly produce a blade-like beam of bright blue light and cut off it's arm. 

The barmaid is unimpressed as she points to a sign above the bar.

  'Oi!  Can't you read, Obi-Vaughan?  No droids, no Jedi and no lightsabres.  I've been trying to clean this place up.  You're all barred!'
  'Sorry, Marie.  The boy and I are looking for passage to Aldershot.  I hoped to find the skipper of a suitable vessel in your excellent establishment.'
  'Try them.'

She points to a corner table where, behind a collection of empty pint glasses, two drinkers appear to be discussing the merits of yet another real ale.  The old man takes a seat opposite.  The youth hesitates before he too sits down, clearly disconcerted by the hairy creature who is the human's companion.

  'Don't mind Harry, pet.  He's only a Stookie.  He talks funny and he's got a proper temper on him if his team loses to lower-league opposition, but he's not a bad lad for all that.'
  'Your taste in men seems to be improving, Daphne.'
  'You can talk, Obi-Vaughan.  Who's this pretty young fellow?'
  'I'm Dan Skyscraper - and I'm not gay.  I'm in love with a princess, so we have to rescue her and then deliver the plans of a weapon of mass destruction to the Rebel Alliance.  We need a really fast ship to take us out of Yorkshire.  Have you got one?'
  'You haven't heard of the Lady Eowyn?  She's the vessel that made the Calder and Hebble run in forty-eight hours.'
  'Can she escape a tractor-beam?'
  'I cannot say, though we had enough power to get out of the current from the weir at Lemonroyd Lock.'
  'Can she travel at light speed?'
  'Unless we can fix the hyperdrive, it's strictly four miles per hour or six on the rivers.'
  'Why would you take a spaceship along a river?'
  'She isn't a spaceship, pet - she's a narrowboat.'
  'A narrowboat?  I can't save the galaxy in a canal boat!'
  'You'd be surprised.  Our author's got some pretty challenging missions drafted out for me.'
  'But I've got to destroy the Death Star, then be taught to use the Force by a Jedi master with no grasp of grammar or syntax, and fight an epic battle on an icy world.  Then I've got go to a planet inhabited by creatures who look like miniature schnauzers and help to destroy the Death Star - again - and finally, give my father Darth Vader the chance to redeem himself by sparing my life and killing the Emperor, even though he's been the most evil person in the Universe, and cut my right hand off, and the Dark Side of the Force is incredibly strong with him.'
  'What makes you think Darth Vader is your father?'
  'He fought in the Clone Wars with Obi-Vaughan - and my mum says he's a right bastard!  He is my father, isn't he, Obi-Vaughan?'

The old man hesitates.  The responsibility of what he is about to tell the boy hangs heavy on him.

  'Darth Vader is not your father, Danny.  Your father is a Civil Servant with the Department for Work and Pensions.'
  'Nooooooo!'

Thursday 10 December 2015

Seasonal Shorts: Scene Three - Pride and Potemkin




  'Fancy you being into fantasy flicks, Tom!' laughed Tricia. 
  'I think we found out more about Dr Appleby's fantasies there than we strictly needed to know!' Toby said, with a wink at Hilary.
  'That's not what I meant,' Tricia retorted.  She turned back to Tom.  'I always thought you'd hate that sort of made-up mythology, what with you studying real medieval history and literature.'
  'I'm sure there are purists who'd disapprove,' he replied.  'Though they'd do well to remember that Tolkien himself was a professor of Medieval English.  The truth is, I doubt if I would ever have developed my love of the real thing if I hadn't been swept up in these imaginary histories first.'
  'I like history too,' Lyn Walker said.  'Though I don't get what people like about all this sword and sorcery stuff.  It's too dark and bloody for me!  I like my historical dramas with lots of pretty frocks and posh houses.  That's the type of thing I'd like to be in.  I'm past playing the dainty little heroine, of course, but I quite fancy myself as a Countess, looking for a good match for my daughters.'
  'You don't have any daughters,' her husband reminded her.
  'I know, luvvie.  My granddaughters, then.  It's just a movie, after all...'

A tinkling harpsichord sets the scene as the camera follows Lady Lynette, Countess of Eastleigh, though her preparations ahead of the first ball of the season at her gracious country home, Walker Grange.  Lady's maids - who look very much like her modern-day daughters-in-law, Paula and Lorraine, dress her hair, lace her into her corsets and fit her fine silk gown.  Dashing footmen of decidedly athletic build, attired in rather tightly-fitting breeches, escort her down a sweeping stairway to welcome her guests as a procession of carriages draws up outside on a balmy summer's evening.

The Countess's elder granddaughters, Miss Amy and Miss Shelley, wait at her side to be introduced to the guests - some of whom are potential suitors.  Both young ladies have clearly lavished much time on their hair and make-up, and are dressed in the latest fashions.  The music continues as the invitees are announced, before a string quartet within the ballroom strikes up a lively polka and the dancing begins.  Miss Amy is the first to speak...

  'Why Grandmama!  What a handsome gentleman Mr Goodchild is!  See how nimbly he dances.'
  'La, cousin!  You cannot possibly think him so.  He is merely the younger son of a baronet, which is, like, completely sad.  Mr Meekly is a marquis in his own right!'
  'A marquis!  O.  M.  G!'  She peeps at the young man in question from behind her fan.  'I swear I shall not dance with him for all that, dear cousin.  He makes for such an ungainly spectacle, even beside poor, plain Mary Dashworth in her ghastly muslin frock - that is like, so last century!  But I care not that Mr Meekly has a title when his legs are so spindly!  He's yours, if you want him, Shelley - I can do so much better!  Mr Pleasance, perhaps: he is a well fit personage, though he is sadly dressed in last season's jacket and his ruff is quite tragic.  I wonder if he is likely to come into a fortune in due course?'

The handsome young man in question catches Miss Amy's eye for a moment.  She looks down modestly before coyly returning his gaze.  Her grandmother raps her gently on the forearm with her fan.
   
  'My dear girls, you really must refine your tastes and learn to seek the truly important qualities of young gentlemen.  Mr Goodchild may have no title, Amy, yet he has modest prospects and will likely enough end his days as a contented country curate, doing good works for his parish.  What could be more delightful than being the support to such a decent man, living in a pretty village vicarage!'
  'Bor-ring!  When would I wear my fine frocks?  How frightfully dull, to be a vicar's wife! Surely Mr Pleasance has better prospects, Grandmama?  I want a husband who'll buy me jewels and silks, and take me to Bath in a fine carriage.'
  'Pretty young Pleasance hasn't a penny to his name, luvvie, and likely never will have, despite his country estate.  He is a charming boy nonetheless and I would be proud for either of you to make a match with him.'
  'Oh Grandmama!  How can he possibly be charming with no dosh?  There must be some deficiency in his character if he is, like, skint.'
  'On the contrary, Shelley.  The sweet young fellow used much of his inheritance to found a school for children orphaned in the recent wars and, to keep them from harm, he employs their poor widowed mothers in his dairy, at very good wages.  I purchase all of our butter and cream from them.  It is of excellent quality too, even if a trifle dearer than from Lord Grasper's Farm.'
  'How very dreadful!  If all landowners behaved in such a way, educating pauper children, wherever would we find sweeps for our chimneys!  And what would our brave sailors do for loose women when their ships put in to port, if there were no impoverished girls and young widowed mothers, desperate to feed their children, frequenting the taverns!  Fie!  I am quite out of love with foolish Mr Pleasance.  Perhaps Mr Meekly's legs are not so ill-formed as I first thought...' 
   'Mr Meekly is indeed quite a decent fellow, girls, bandy legs notwithstanding.  He has made a generous bequest to the town library in the hope that, when they have done with their toils, the railway apprentices might have access to works of improving literature.'
  'Why ever should he wish railway apprentices to read?  Why, he could keep a pack of hounds and a fine hunter for that money.  It will encourage those common boys to daydream about lives above their station and may even encourage sedition!'
  'Above their station!  How very droll you are, dear cousin Shelley!'

The girls giggle stupidly.  The Countess sighs with exasperation and snaps her figures for a drink.  The family's elderly retainer, Grant (clearly an ancestor of Stuart, the Walker's modern neighbour), potters across with a large brandy for Her Ladyship before slipping seamlessly back into obscurity.  Miss Shelley continues to survey the room for a prospective match.

  'Sir James Throwback, that tall, dashing fellow currently in pursuit of Harriet Maidenly, is a proper gentleman.  He treats every member of his household atrociously, has fathered countless bastards by his chambermaids and called in the militia when his labourers refused to cut the corn unless he paid them enough to buy bread.  He evicted them all, demolished their cottages and had them transported.'
  'No wonder the Daily Mailcoach named him "Britain's Best Aristocrat"!  Alas that he is married already, Shelley, though I hear tell he has a younger brother.'

  'You mean the gorgeous Squire Roland.  What a dish!  Oh Ye magazine says he is not yet attached, has a fortune in his own right and a veritable harem of discarded mistresses - and that he frequents the gaming tables at Blingly Hall on a nightly basis, carelessly wagering his mother's jewels on the throw of the dice or fall of the cards. Why Amy, I should consider myself the luckiest of women to catch his eye!'
  'He is a shocking rake and a frightful exhibitionist girls, who has never said a kind word or done a good deed except to curry favour with his creditors.  I am most vexed that you swoon so at the mention of his name, or think well of any member of the Blingly Hall set.'
  'Is that not Mr Kingston's most elegant abode, Grandmama?'
  'It is, Shelley dear.'
  'Is not Mr Kingston himself a very wealthy gentleman, with two handsome sons of much the same age as Amy and myself?  When there are so many dullards in the room, why have you not invited them?'
  'I'm afraid Mr Kingston made his fortune from trade, dear girls.'
  'You are always telling us not to be judgmental about people's social background, Grandmama, especially since my mama is from the Colonies.  How then can you look down upon Mr Kingston?'
  'Because he and his sons trade in opium, Amy dear.  They sell it to the Chinese in return for tea and, it is said, not a little finds it's way onto the streets of London.'
  'Oh my!  A smuggler!  That's absolutely wicked!'
  'I'm glad you agree with me, luvvie.'
  'Yeah!  How badass is that!  He must be incredibly rich!'

Lady Lynette is about to remonstrate with her granddaughter, when she notices another young man in the ballroom. He is wearing a military-style greatcoat and a red neckerchief, has rather spiky short, brown hair and wire-framed spectacles.  He is looking out of the French window.  As Lady Lynette follows the line of his gaze, she notices flickering firelight outside.  Leaving her granddaughters to their gossip, she moves through the dancing throng towards the young man, following him out into the entrance hall.  Outside the Grange, there is the sound of shouting, neighing horses and the clash of weapons.  Thinking he is unobserved, the young man smiles and reaches to open the grand front door.  Lady Lynette calls out to him, catching him by surprise.

  'Is that you, Martin?'
  'Oh, hi Lyn!'
  'What are you doing in my costume drama?'
  'I'm leading the Revolution.  I was going to start one in Middle Earth, only they hadn't invented glasses, so I couldn't see to write incendiary literature that would encourage the people to rise up against their oppressors.  The nineteenth century is much better for this sort of shit!'
  'Is that what's going on outside?'
  'I think so.  The poor have no bread, their children have no shoes and dress in rags.'
  'Well, that won't do at all, luvvie, especially as we've got plenty of cake left.  These silly fashion-conscious girls won't eat it, you know!  Tell them all to come in at once, as long as they wipe the mud off of their feet on the doormat, and myself and the young philanthropists at the ball will make sure they are all well cared for.'
  'That's very kind, Lyn, but I'm afraid there's going to be a fight - Sir James has sent for the militia.'
  'Oh dear!  Still, I suppose we can sing some rousing revolutionary songs while we wait for them to arrive.'
  'Songs?'
  'Yes, Luvvie.  It's still my movie and if you want a revolution, you'll have to do it Les Mis style.'
  'Oh fu...'

Martin Connolly is stopped mid-swear by the boom of a cannon from outside.  He rushes to the door and throws it open.  Sure enough, a troop of red-coated soldiers are lined up along the top of the steps, their muskets turned on the angry mob, who are armed only with pitchforks and blazing torches.  The dastardly Sir James points a pistol at him.

  'I always suspected you were a filthy Fenian or similar radical riff-raff, Connolly!  I know it was you who incited my labourers to demand a living wage.  You'll pay for this, you dog!'

He levels the pistol at Connolly's chest but, as he pulls the trigger, an uncannily well-aimed arrow takes the gun from his grasp and the ball misses its mark, ricocheting harmlessly off of the brass doorbell.

  'You rang, Milady?'
  'No Grant, I think you'll find that was Sir James.'
  'Very good, Milady...' 

A very tall young woman wearing a red sash across her simple peasant dress steps to the front of the mob.  A tall, wide-brimmed hat is pulled down over her ears.  She is carrying a bow and already has two arrows notched.  The militiamen look nervously from one to another.  Sir James shouts an order.

  'Shoot them down!' 
  'We can't, your Grace.  We haven't loaded our muskets yet and, in the time it would take to do it, the wench with the longbow will kill us all.  It'll be more than seventy years before automatic weapons allow us to fire faster than a good archer.'
  'Bloody hell!'
  'We can charge them with our bayonets, if you like?'
  'Oh, go on, then!'

Scuffles break out on the steps between the militia and the peasants.  Lady Lyn is delighted to see Mr Goodchild, Mr Meekly and Mr Pleasance come to the aid of the common people, fighting gallantly alongside Martin Connolly, singing all the while, while Sally's archery incapacitates several of the soldiers while miraculously doing no harm to her own side.  However, when she joins in with a stirring chorus of 'Do you hear the people sing...' the militia throw down their weapons in surrender and clap their hands to their ears.  Oblivious to the effect of her singing, she reaches the front door of Walker Grange.

  'Did you say there was cake, Lyn?' 
  'Yes luvvie.  Go in and help yourself, though do take your hat off.  It's frightfully bad manners for a young lady to wear one indoors.'
   'No chance.  Wardrobe still can't get those stupid elf ears off me!'

She pulls the hat more firmly onto her head and, before she vanishes inside, turns to Connolly. 

  'I almost forgot, Martin - Parveen says you mustn't forget to change Malala's nappy, as her mum will be totally furious if that posh pram she bought you gets all pooey.'  
  'Malala!  Oh fuck!  I forgot I was looking after her tonight.  I left the pram over there!'

He points towards where one of the still stupefied militiamen is standing at the top of the steps, beside a bay tree and a very traditional baby carriage.  The militiaman turns to see what the young revolutionary is pointing at, accidentally catching the pram with butt of his musket.  Connolly stares in horror as, almost in slow motion, the pram rolls forward from the topmost steps and begins to bounce down the steps.  Martin sprints through the crowd and reaches it, catching the handle just in time to save it from tipping over.  The Countess and the people cheer before breaking into another show-stopping chorus which continues with great gusto, until a slight young woman wearing a stunning shalwar kameez steps from the shadows.  She strides purposefully up the steps towards Martin Connolly and the pram, looks into it and wrinkles her nose in disapproval.

  'You had one job, Martin...!'      


 

Monday 7 December 2015

Seasonal Shorts: Scene Two - Muddle Earth




The camera sweeps across a dramatic wilderness of towering mountains and desolate fens, thunderous rivers plunging through sheer-sided gorges and vast, dark forests. A soaring pseudo-classical score enhances our sense of wonder, the music rising and falling like the landscape itself. Suddenly, tiny figures become visible, trekking across the fells. 

 As the camera closes in, we see that at the head of the file is an exceptionally tall female figure, a supple longbow slung across her back and her copper-coloured hair flowing loose in the breeze. Behind her walks a sturdy man, slightly shorter in stature than the woman. He is of rather disheveled appearance, his dark hair liberally flecked with grey and his brow furrowed. At the crest of a long green slope running down to a forest of towering broadleaved trees, the woman stops, allowing the man to catch her up and stand beside her. They turn to watch as their companions stagger towards them. 

 The tall woman speaks.

  ‘This bow is totally amazing! I’ve shot nineteen orcs already today, despite only having a dozen arrows in my quiver when we started.  And I fired one so low over Fishy Gollum’s head - to scare him off when he was following us - that it parted his hair, which was hilarious!  But seriously, Tom - are these pointy ears really necessary?’
  ‘They’re an essential part of being an elvish warrior, I’m afraid, Sally.’
  ‘Then at least let me change my shoes. My feet were frozen in these flimsy deerskin pumps when we were up on the snowfields and they’ve got no grip on wet, slippery rocks.  Safety boots would be so much better.’
  ‘You can’t wear your safety boots, lass - you’re in Middle Earth!  We don’t have safety boots here in the Third Age.’
  ‘That’s a serious breach of the Factories Acts, especially with all the fortress building that’s going on around here. Those orcs ought to have been using proper scaffolding at Helm’s Deep, not ladders and as for Isenguard - Isn't Guarded would be a better name, as there are no guards on any of that machinery.  It needs closing down before there's a serious accident!   Edoras isn’t great either. A timber-frame structure is good, sustainable technology, but with an open fire…?’

As she talks, a lean-framed, elderly man in a tall, pointed, wide-brimmed hat, who is carrying a long, gnarled staff, comes to a halt beside the first two walkers.

  ‘Thomas, old chap, I know it’s a well-established trope in this genre that wisdom and venerability are instantly established by means of a voluminous beard but I should prefer to shave, if you wouldn't mind. This ghastly thing has a mind of its own, almost tripping me into a quagmire as we were making our way across those wretched marshes, and I’m not entirely sure I’ve picked all of the midges out of it yet.’
  ‘You’ll not really look the part as a wizard without the whiskers, Vaughan. It’s traditional.’
  ‘Oh well, I suppose beards are rather de rigeur.  However, if I might be permitted to trim my eyebrows a fraction and perhaps get this disreputable cloak dry-cleaned at the earliest opportunity…?’

Before the beleaguered leader of the troop can give an answer to this request, another of the party approaches. A black woman of a little less than average height, she is finely dressed in a long crimson tunic, trimmed with rich gold embroidery. Her black hair is intricately braided with gems.  A short but splendid sword hangs at her side and she has a richly embellished round shield on her back, marking her as a warrior of high status. She stands in front of the band’s ragged leader with her hands on her hips.

  ‘What’s going on?’
  ‘We’re on a quest, Tricia.’
  ‘What for?’
  ‘I’m not entirely sure of that. I’m waiting for someone wise and powerful to tell me my destiny.’
  ‘It looks kind of Lord of the Rings to me. I’m guessing it’s not Game of Thrones as none of the female characters in this scene are naked.’
  ‘Nice use of logic, sister!’
  ‘Hi Sally! Oh my God! What’s happened to your ears?’
  ‘Ask Tom. This is his movie.’

A young man strides up to join them. His sandy-brown hair is cut short and is slightly spiky. He wears chain-mail and carries a medium-length pike, decorated with a red banner, in his right hand and carries a Saxon-style helmet in his left. He too adopts a confrontational posture in front of their erstwhile leader.

  ‘So when we’ve brought down the Evil Empire of Cam'ron, we are not replacing it with a fucking monarchy, okay? I don’t care who you are or who says it’s your destiny to be king, the days of patriarchy, nepotism and elitism are over. We need to smash the system, not replace one tyrant with another. If this isn’t a proper revolution for the people, you can fuck right off!’
  ‘I had a feeling you’d say something like that, Martin. You have to be realistic, though. This is only the Third Age, after all. I don’t think Socialism is due to reach Middle Earth until the Sixth or Seventh, at the earliest, though I hear the Ents are experimenting with quite a radical form of militant environmentalism.’
  ‘Jeez! I so don’t belong here!  I should never have followed Sally into that fucking wardrobe!’
  ‘Don’t say that, lad. I know the politics isn’t to your taste but you've still got your friends here with you - and look at this glorious scenery!’
  ‘I can’t see it properly. Because it’s the fucking Third Age, I don’t have my glasses or contact lenses!’

The disgruntled young warrior slouches to the side of the elf-woman and strains his eyes to focus on the last member of the group, still making his way across the heather-covered moorland towards them.

‘How come Toby’s still so far away?’
‘He isn’t. He’s just smaller than usual.’

The last of the group stomps up to them.  He is a short, stocky figure bearing a battle-axe and bronze armour, the weight of which has clearly hindered his progress on the march, making him irritable.  He too appears to have a quarrel with their leader.

  ‘I suppose this is your idea of revenge for all my Lady Chatterley jokes about you and Hilary?’
  ‘Not at all, Toby. With your quirky sense of humour and irrepressible good cheer, you seemed the obvious choice for the comedic dwarf or hobbit character. You might yet end up as the real hero of the whole tale, my friend!’
  ‘What is the "tale” then? What’s the quest, mate?’
  ‘It’s either to find an extraordinarily powerful talisman, or to destroy an extraordinarily powerful talisman, or possibly to find it and then destroy it. The Fair Lady of the Forest will know.’
  ‘When do we get to meet her?’
  ‘When we get down there.’

Looking more disheveled and perplexed than ever, the first man leads his semi-mutinous troop down the hill. As they grow closer to the margins of the forest, the grass beneath their feet grows greener and richer, wild flowers of many colours rise from the sward around them, birdsong fills the air and the musical score becomes soft and lyrical. Beguiled by the beauty around them, the travellers lower their guard, only to find themselves unexpectedly surrounded by elvish soldiers arrayed in deep blue and silver, bright swords drawn in warning.

Escorted into a clearing under the soaring trees, the wanderers stand in awe as the Fair Lady of the Forest approaches. There is an other-worldly quality about her beyond mere mortal beauty. Her hair is dark, crowned with a silver tiara formed of flower shapes and she wears a long, close-fitted gown of sapphire velvet. If she is indeed an elvish woman, her figure is unusually curvaceous for one of that kind. She smiles at the wanderers before turning her hypnotic blue eyes on their leader.  Her voice is deep and sultry as she addresses him:

  ‘Hello Ranger! Is that a broken sword in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?’

He steps forward, sweeps her into his arms, kisses her passionately and carries her away to a mossy glade under a gnarled pear tree. Laughter, then the sighs and moans of enthusiastic love-making, drift back to where the other companions remain under guard. 
 
The black warrior princess speaks.

  ‘My mistake, people. It is Game of Thrones.’

 

Sunday 6 December 2015

Seasonal Shorts. Scene One - Back in the Pub

With the 'welfare rights lit' cast stood down for a while, I thought I could safely leave them to their own devices while I made the final tweaks to Limited Capability and took the first steps to producing the Claimant Commitment paperback, prior to some New Year cruising with the redoubtable Daphne Randall.  However, there are some characters who won't just sit quietly and the usual suspects were determined to set up a scenario which could only end with a series of short stories...


  ‘What’s she up to now?’
  Like his colleagues from the Solent Welfare Rights Project, the Walker family, assorted tradespersons of the Construction Co-operative and a miscellaneous collection of civil servants, local councillors and narrowboaters, Toby Novak was in the Lord Nelson public house - specifically, the parallel universe version to which he and his fellow characters retired between novels.
  ‘She’s just completed the last extensive set of corrections to Limited Capability,’ Hilary Carrington informed him. ’One of her proof reading team was really rather thorough when it came to matters of good grammar.’
  ‘Not too thorough, I hope,’ replied Toby. ’Otherwise the readers won’t know Williams comes from Portsmouth until they get to the football gags.’
  ‘Pot and kettle, Novak!’ teased Tricia. ‘If the author wrote either of us phonetically, no-one north of the M4 would understand a word!’
  ‘As I understand it,’ Vaughan James interjected. ‘The author left the dialogue largely untouched but adopted many of the suggested improvements to sentence structure.’
  ‘Rightly so,’ said Tom Appleby. ‘I can’t complain about how our author’s treated me over the years, casting me as the romantic hero and pairing me up with this gorgeous lady…’ He paused to kiss the merlot-flavoured lips of his beloved Hilary. ‘However, there are occasional chunks of her prose that read like they’ve been translated rather too literally from the original Latin!’
  ‘Supporting my theory that she’s really Professor Mary Beard!’ said Toby.
  ‘That’s crap! If that was right, she would have made the romantic lead a classicist not a medievalist,’ Sally Archer suggested logically. ‘If Tom still is the romantic lead, of course. I think that role has passed to the next generation!’ She waved at a slim young man sitting a couple of tables away, who was talking to the pub manager’s burly husband and sketching something on a white paper tablecloth. He shyly blew her a kiss in return.
  ‘So Limited Capability is really finished this time?’ Tom asked.
  ‘Absolutely, my darling,’ Hilary assured him. ‘The “Director’s Cut” is a handful of pages shorter than the original, I believe, thanks to some judicious editing - although, I’m relieved to say, you‘ve lost nothing as a result! She’s looking for proof-readers for a paperback of Claimant Commitment now.’
  ‘She’ll have no friends left, at this rate,’ sighed Tom. ‘Mind you, you have to admire her persistence.  She might not have beaten Channel 5 with her counter-propaganda yet but she must be ahead of them on word-count!’
  ‘She’s not the only one writing a sort of “welfare rights lit”,’ Sally said cheerfully. ’There was something in the Guardian a few weeks ago about a young playwright who won a prize for her anti-austerity piece looking at benefit cuts and, before that, there was the Jobcentre lady who wrote a play about sanctions. There was even a comic on The Now Show last weekend talking about the Work Capability Assessment…’
  ‘Always a barrel of laughs.’ Toby’s tone was heavy with irony.
  ‘Ken Loach is making a film about sanctions too,’ Sally continued. ’That’s really cool. Except it’s supposed to be his last, so we won’t have the chance to be in one now.’
  Sally seemed bitterly disappointed.
  ‘I know I sound like I ought to be in a Ken Loach movie,’ said Tom. ’But I’m not sure that’s what I’d choose, given the option. The last thing I need is to be typecast as a grim northerner - again!’
  He shot a sharp glance at Toby.
  ‘What sort of movie role would you fancy then, mate?’ asked his colleague, with a broad grin.
  Tom could tell that Toby was seeking to cause mischief. ‘A nice light romantic comedy,’ he lied. ‘What about you?’
  ‘I’ve never really thought about it,’ said Toby. 
  While he was thinking, Terry Walker offered his opinion. ‘I’d like to be in a western,’ he said. ‘Something like the Magnificent Seven, with a bunch of good guys turning up to save the townsfolk from a bunch of bandits. I’d be one of the good guys, of course, though I’d probably get killed before the end and someone else would get the girl.’
  ‘You’re such an old misery!’ his wife laughed. ‘You ought to stick to romcoms, like George.’
  ‘Tom,’ said Tom. ‘And, I have to confess, I wasn’t being entirely honest about the romantic comedy. I’d prefer a different genre altogether - and I think we have just the cast for it!’


To be continued…