Boracic Lint

by Martin Bryce

I knew, I just knew that she would reappear through the emergency exit that had been opened to allow the lighting technician to bring his ladder into the auditorium. She did. She started edging closer again as I told Mr McGregor about the plan that Brian had drawn up. I tried to ignore her with inconsequential chit chat, but it was no use. I spun round. She nearly jumped out of her skin.

  ‘Yes, Miss Pickering,’ I said robustly.

  ‘Could I have a word, please?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Pickering. How long would you like? Five minutes? Ten? An hour?’

  She said five minutes would be fine. ‘You see, it’s this bit here.’ She held the script up and pointed to a scene between her and Randy Broome that she had marked with a highlighter. ‘I don’t think I can do it.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you can, Miss Pickering.’

  ‘But he’s only wearing swimming trunks,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes and you’re wearing a very short black dress and frilly French knickers, so what?’

  ‘But I’ve never done that to a man before.’ A confession I had no trouble whatsoever in believing.

  ‘There’s a first time for everything, then, isn’t there, Miss Pickering?’

  ‘But in front of all those people!’

  ‘Well, you chose the play, not me.’

  I was reminded that she had not and that the Company were obviously trying to get rid of her by giving her such parts to play. Not before time, I thought.

  ‘Look, I said, ‘all you have to do is to press yourself seductively against him while doing something imaginative with your feather duster. It’s not difficult.’ I wanted to add something along the lines of, you never know you might find you like it and go on to study advanced nymphomania, but thought better of it. ‘If it really worries you have a couple of drinks beforehand, ‘ I advised.

  ‘Oh, but I never drink.’

  ‘That’s probably ninety-nine percent of the problem,’ I said, bored. I started to walk away.

  ‘But it’s lewd!’ She called after me.

  ‘Yes!’ I shouted back. ‘That’s the whole point. You’re a tart, Miss Pickering!’

  ‘Well really!’ she huffed as all eyes turned to her.

  With the Company more or less assembled I called for beginners and the rehearsal commenced. So did my anguish.

  O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious

  periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags,

  to split the ears of the groundlings.

  At least some of them were learning their lines, but the timing and delivery was hopeless. The Stonemason was particularly bad. Even with the script in his hands he stumbled and slurred, stuttered and gagged. I wondered whether it was just the unbelievably grotesque Birmingham accent he was afflicted with, or whether he was actually unable to read.

  But it was Miss Blumberg who, half way through the second act finally tipped me over the edge. I knew she was there, I could hear, almost feel the breathing behind me as I sat in the aisle seat in the front row of the stalls. Then I sensed her moving toward me and finally she was in the seat next to mine, breathing.

  ‘I must speak to you urgently,’ she whispered.

  ‘Not now, Miss Blumberg,’ I said barely concealing my irritation. ‘I’m in the middle of directing this play. You can see that, can’t you?’

  ‘But it is about the groping on the sofa.’ I tried to ignore her, but she persisted. ‘Mr McGregor will…’

  ‘No, Miss Blumberg!’ I snapped. ‘You are supposed to be groping him and he is trying desperately, like the good Vicar he’s playing, to get away from you.’

  ‘But I have seen the look in his eye.’

  ‘So have I, Miss Blumberg and it doesn’t look like him savouring the prospect of lying on the sofa with you on top of him. No one would.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.

  ‘Don’t worry, I do. And believe me he really is trying to get away from you!’ I stood as the Stonemason dumped Rowena onto the sofa. ‘Alright! Enough!’ I bellowed. ‘I want everyone on stage. NOW!’ I turned on Miss Blumberg, gave her a withering stare and pointed viciously at the stage. Slowly she rose from her seat and did as she was bidden.

  The Company was gathered stage left and I was pacing, hands in pockets, stage right gathering my thoughts and calming myself.

  ‘Comedy,’ I began,’ which this play purports to be, depends on surprise. The surprise of things said, or done out of context, or the surprise of discovering new meanings in everyday speech, or action. It amounts to the same thing. As comic players we are required to be victims of our own jests. The audience has paid to watch us slip on our own verbal banana skins. They want to laugh, that’s why they come to the theatre and that makes it a little easier for us to make them laugh. What’s more, we have a duty to deliver the goods we’ve advertised. Players, you know, are merely shopkeepers who trade in passions. You lot stand a good chance, right now, of being prosecuted under the Trades Description Act. Our job is to take caterpillar words and turn them into butterflies which tickle the ribs of the audience. And what are you doing? You’re filling socks with the caterpillars and clubbing the audience senseless with them.’ I paused to allow my words to sink in and noticed that half of the Company were on the brink of falling asleep, the other half were regarding me with varying levels of hostility. The Stonemason and one of the props girls were giggling together in a corner and taking not a blind bit of notice.

  ‘Mr Taylor! I know Randy Broome is a pop star, but even pop stars know something about their instruments. Do you think that when you’re tuning your guitar you could make it look a little less like somebody using a torque wrench on the cylinder head of an old Ford? And when Debbie faints into your arms and you lay her on the sofa, would you try and forget the sacks of cement you heave around all day at work? That’s quite a nasty bruise you’ve given her.’

  He started to apologise to Rowena, but she cut him nicely.

  ‘The Archbishop, Mr Roberts. I know he’s a doddery old git, but we still have to hear him. And another thing, I think he would have a look of playful expectation on his face as the policewoman advances with her truncheon and handcuffs at the ready. Remember, he’s spent his entire adult life searching for substitutes for the pleasures of the marriage bed he’s been denied. The author is suggesting the search is not yet over.’ Tanya nodded her agreement.

  ‘That word, Miss Neave. ‘Flipping, is no substitute. It destroys the gag set up in the previous line.’

  I was well into my stride now and beyond caring whether they wished me to continue as their director, or not.

  ‘Miss Blumberg.’ She started nervously at the sound of her name. ‘Your line after you lie on top of the Vicar, Oh, I seem to have pricked myself. Do you think you could say it a little more, shall we say, salaciously and with a look of ecstasy, or something approaching it at least? It will work better that way when the Vicar produces the altar candle from between the cushions, than with you limping round the stage moaning as if you’ve had half your leg blown off in a land-mine explosion.’

  ‘Miss Pickering. When you respond to Randy’s suggestion with the words, Oh, yes, I’d love to come; the emphasis is on the word, ‘come’. You are not off for a trip to the library. Do you understand?’ I was met with a completely blank expression. ‘Oh, God!’ I vented despairingly. ‘Would somebody please explain to Miss Pickering?’

  I left telling them that I wanted the scripts put down by the end of the week and announced the extra rehearsal for the following night for Brian’s benefit. Then, to considerable ‘tutting’ I left with Rowena who took me home.

  H was sitting in the newly plastered kitchen looking meaningfully at the clock as I slammed the front door shut. I took a moment and decided to try to be pleasant.

  ‘Repairs are progressing nicely,’ I said smiling.

  ‘What time d’you call this?’ was his response. ‘I’ve
been considerin’ reportin’ you to t’RSPCA.’

  I blinked and shook my head in complete disbelief and lack of understanding. H stood and pointed through the kitchen ceiling in the general direction of upstairs.

  ‘That bloody cat of your’n has been sittin’ outside your door for the past five hours wailin’ for its bloody food. Cnut is very upset by it all.’

  I bid him goodnight.

  SCENE 9

  I slept but fitfully due a raging fever, stomach cramps and aching limbs. I woke later than usual and only just managed to make it to Harridges on time. I helped Harry load several home theatre systems onto the back of a battered old Ford Transit as all the official Harridges vans were already out on deliveries.

  ‘I didn’t know there was a branch of Harridges in Goole,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Harry replied, ‘it’s not actually called ‘arridges, not as such, but it’s definitely the same firm.’

  Mrs J was off sick with the flu, so Miss Grubb from accounts had been sent down as a temporary replacement. She was much more interested in listening to her iPod than sitting in the toadstool collecting entry fees.

  ‘Don’t know how she gets away with it,’ Hussein from the mail room said as he dropped a large, heavy mailsack at my feet. ‘All she does all day, that is. Never seen her do a stroke. Most of the lads reckon it’s ‘cos Mr Hankin is givin’ her one. Hankin pankin, geddit?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Ah, do me a favour. I know Harry said you was a right Wally…’

  ‘No, I meant the mailsack.’

  ‘It’s your letters, init? Been arriving for months, they have.’

  ‘My letters? But who would write to me here?’

  ‘Kids, of course.’

  ‘Kids? There seems to be an awful lot of them.’

  ‘Well there’s kids all over the world, ain’t there?’

  ‘Yes, but what are they doing writing to me?’

  ‘Stroll on! You’re only Father bleedin’ Christmas!

  I could only put my slowness down to illness. ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘how stupid of me.’

  ‘You said it, mate.’ He turned to go and then turned back briefly. ‘I’ll bring up your stuff later.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘The paper and envelopes.’ I looked at him. ‘So’s you can reply to the little bleeders.’

  ‘Reply? To them all?’

  ‘Yeah, course. Didn’t they tell you?’

  ‘But there are hundreds of them. It’ll take weeks.’

  ‘Yeah and that’s just the first sack. Can’t go disappointing them though.’ He breezed off with a slight swagger as I reached into the sack and pulled out the first letter.

  19, Leadway,

  Toller Porcorum

  Dorset

  Hi father xmas,

  I would like a book on bom making so I can strap one to that bastad ewens mountain bike and blo him up wen he trys to ride it. Also wud like anew gerbil to replace the one dad trod on last week. I DON’T WANT ANY SOP this year.

  With much love

  Matt Hinde

  The second letter wasn’t that much more encouraging.

  2, Grassmarket,

  Gatehouse of Fleet

  Scotland

  Dear F Christmas,

  I will need these things soon. 1 A bottle of formalin 2 a hiperdermick sirinje. Why I need thses thigns is because my axolotl is very old and going to die soon. I read somewhere you can keep dead things if you fill them with the formalin stuff. Could I also have a glass case to keep it in. thank you.

  Merry Christmas to you and Mrs Christmas.

  Master Campbell Macdonald.

  ps do they need to be dead before you do it

  Jesus! Talk about the innocence of childhood amid the season of peace and goodwill.

  I was feeling depressed when a party of Japanese tourists arrived complete with a rather attractive tour guide whom I recognised as Jackie Mayhew, one of my former fellow drama students.

  ‘Jackie!’ I beamed. She looked at me. ‘Remember me? I was the one who built the set for our graduation