 
62

AN ILLEGAL ACT AND OTHER STORIES

NICK EVANS

CONTENTS

AN ILLEGAL ACT

BLEEDING HEARTS

CHIINESE FIRECRACKERS

EVENING CLASS

FINDING A VOICE

THE PHILATELIST'S LAST CHRISTMAS PARTY

LAST WALTZ

An Illegal Act

Roger Slater felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. A sensation he thought one only read about. The adrenaline pumped relentlessly into the pit of his stomach. His perspiring palms clasped the steering wheel of the stolen, high-powered vehicle, as he waited for the right time to strike.

He gazed intently at the building society across the road. The solitary customer seemed to take an age. Slater removed his sticky hands from the steering wheel, and drummed his fingers involuntarily upon the dashboard. He silently cursed the stupid woman who unknowingly held up his plan. The plan he had agonised and dreamed about for weeks. To have it delayed and frustrated like this was more than courage could bear. He glanced at his watch - four fifty. The building society would close in ten minutes.

A slight drizzle drifted almost imperceptibly through the air. Another two minutes ticked by. Slater began to fear he may have to abort the attempt, just when he had psyched himself up for it. He didn't dare guess how many days it would take for him to achieve this frame of mind again. After all, he had never done this kind of thing before. On the surface it seemed so easy - just like stealing the car, or procuring the weapon - but below the surface lay many depths of doubt. His dream was to do it just the once to set himself up for life. He knew this was an unlikely possibility. He had no idea how much cash was waiting for him across the road. It wasn't likely to be a fortune. However, if he could get away with four or five thousand it would satisfy, it would see him through to the next job. And then, would there have to be yet another? He didn't like to think about it. It was like doing the football pools or the lottery - however remote the chance, there was always the possibility of the final big pay out. And then all your troubles would be over.

Slater thought about his wife, Diane. She had encouraged him. It would be easy she had told him. Despite increased security precautions, building societies were still constantly being robbed. It was always on television. And few of the robbers seemed to be caught.

Slater had been married almost seven years, and he still loved Diane as passionately as when they had first met. She had expensive tastes, which his irregular income struggled to satisfy, but he loved her desperately, and he didn't want to lose her. Still, she didn't have to do the robbery.

At last the wretched woman was coming out. Elderly, laden with shopping bags, she struggled through the door. Slater experienced a pang of conscience for cursing her. 'We are all trying to live our own way,' he reflected. 'And this is mine.' Nervously, he fingered his hand gun. The contours of possible death traced incongruously through a supermarket plastic bag. He hoped he wouldn't have to take it out. He prayed that the threat would be enough, that the shape would suffice, and that the cashier would not aspire to play the hero. But Slater knew that fools abound in this world. And he wondered if he was one.

He zipped up his coat and pulled the black hood over his face. He knew from the mirror how anonymously fearful the mask was. Two pitiless eyes and a mouth poised to threaten were all that remained of his humanity. A thrill of power charged his adrenaline like an electric shock.

As he got out of the car he had the perverse idea of locking it. After all, there were a lot of thieves about. He decided that the door was better left open. Speed was of the essence, as they say.

He waited while a car went by, oblivious to the suspicious figure nervously lurking at the roadside. Then it was all clear. He was about to cross when disaster struck. A man was going into the building society. Slater hesitated, cursing fearfully. He glanced at his watch - five minutes to five. He couldn't turn back now. He couldn't wait any longer. He couldn't come back tomorrow like any other customer. It had to be today. It had to be now.

Slater couldn't believe he was crossing the road. A chill of terror and a thrill of excitement seeped inextricably down his spine. What would happen? How would they react? He couldn't deny that the suspense was exquisite. It was like walking towards a possible execution and not knowing if it may be your own.

He decided that the customer would have to be dealt with in the same way as the staff. Another witness, but it couldn't be helped. Just one of those things. He knew that the shop probably would not have been free from customers at any time of the day, and the man was unlikely to give trouble.

He was outside the building society. Once more he thought about Diane. How he worshipped that woman! He looked up and down the street. Relatively quiet in both directions, as befitting a late Tuesday afternoon. The timing couldn't have been more opportune. Most days and times the streets were swarming with shoppers, each one selfishly jostling for his or her own space.

Now Slater could see the single customer and two female cashiers. Diane was right. It was going to be easy. Point the gun, give the orders, take the cash and dash back to the car. Foot down, accelerate away, abandoning the vehicle before he could be followed. All so simple. But still his armpits perspired, his knees trembled and his stomach churned. Repressing his awareness of all this, Slater cleared his throat, took a deep breath and boldly pushed the door open.

*

'Freeze! This is an armed robbery!'

Suddenly Slater felt silly. Did one really say such things? Well apparently he had just done so, as the two female cashiers and the single male customer stared at him in surprise. But where was the shock? Perhaps he had seen too many films?

A frenzy of ridiculous thoughts chased madly through Slater's mind. What if the customer had been about to commit a robbery himself? After all, five minutes before closing time is a peculiar time to enter a building society. What if Slater had prevented him? Perhaps he would be up for a reward? Then what if they didn't believe his attempt at robbery? That must be the worst scenario of all for a robber - not to be taken seriously. For a split second Slater thought that this was the case, as one of the cashiers began to giggle at him. His annoyance was quickly dispelled by a feeling of triumph, when he realised this was the manifestation of the fear and shock he had been expecting.

He felt the need to reassure them. 'If you co-operate nobody will get hurt.'

He pointed the still covered gun menacingly at the cashiers.

'Give me all the cash you've got.'

He produced a second plastic bag, thrusting it rather clumsily under the counter.

'Put it in there and be quick about it!'

The younger cashier continued to giggle nervously at him.

'Shuttup!' he snarled.

The bag lay untouched on their side of the counter. Perhaps they thought it too contained a gun?

'Well fill it then!' he demanded, his frustration beginning to increase.

The older woman spoke. 'We haven't got much. Most of it is timelocked.'

'Give me what you've got!'

Slater was becoming agitated. Beneath the mask his face felt warm and uncomfortable, and the business was taking longer than he had anticipated. He wondered if other criminals experienced the tensions he was suffering. Television and newspapers made it appear so easy. Thousands of crimes were reported, but whether successful or not, the agonies endured by their perpetrators were never explored. Slater almost smiled to himself, as he had the perverse thought that there was too much concern for the victims. As the women began to fill his bag he thought about Diane. She would be willing him on at this moment, willing him to succeed. It was as much for her as for himself that he had to do this deed.

The bag was shoved back at him. He wondered how much there was in it. It didn't seem to have taken long enough to amount to anything substantial.

'That all?'

'That's all we've got a present.' The woman hesitated. 'Unless you've got time to wait.'

She was actually sarcastic! He was pointing a gun at her and she was actually being sarcastic towards him! Despite his annoyance, he admired her spirit. Snatching up the bag, he noticed his reflection on the video screen. He longed to shoot out the camera, but decided it wouldn't be wise.

Slater had almost forgotten the customer. An elderly man wearing a trilby hat, who until now had cowered against the wall.

'Come on, son, put the gun down.'

The man began to approach him. Slater noticed that he had a large pimple on his nose.

'Shut it, grandpa!' he yelled, like a real gangster.

But still the man approached. 'Come on, give me the gun. You know you can't get away with it.'

Slater couldn't believe this was happening. His nightmare scenario - the heroic fool. He saw, as if in a dream, the man's arm feebly outstretched imploring him to hand over this chance of quick wealth. This was something he was not prepared to do. He had come this far. To simply surrender now would be unthinkable. And there was always Diane.

'Get back!'

But the pimple loomed larger. Slater experienced a surge of revulsion. He wanted to repulse the ugly blemish. He couldn't bear it to come too near him. It was repugnant. An obscenity infiltrating his space. He had to be rid of it.

The pimple spoke again. 'Don't be silly now, son. Hand it over.'

'Get back, you bloody fool! Get back!'

Suddenly, there was an explosion, and for a second reality seemed to have died. The women screamed, the man slumped forward, and Slater, realising the pimple was no longer before him, dropped both gun and money and turned to flee.

'Get the gun! Get the gun!' an insistent voice drummed in his ears. As he turned to retrieve the weapon, he saw a dark pool of blood, rapidly becoming ominously larger surrounding the figure lying inert on the floor. His frantically beating heart pumping his own blood furiously through his veins, Slater snatched up the weapon and, with the cries of the cashiers and the ringing of alarms thundering in his ears, fled outside towards the car.

Oblivious to traffic, he hurtled across the road, jumping almost with joy of relief into the sanctuary of the waiting vehicle. Slamming the door, turning the key and accelerating in an instant, he sped away from that scene of horrendous failure.

As Slater turned the corner a man stepped out, his hand held aloft. Slater eased off the accelerator, applied the brake and slowed to a stop more smoothly and efficiently than he would have believed was possible.

'And cut!'

The director bent his head towards the car window. 'That was fine, Roger. Thanks.'

And, taking off his mask, Roger Slater felt a warm glow of pride at this tribute to his acting abilities.

*

It was pleasant to eat out occasionally. They could not afford it often. However, the fee from Slater's latest performance had enabled him to wine and dine the wife he worshipped. They lingered long after completing their meal, still eager to soak in the atmosphere of the elegant restaurant. After all, it was a rare treat.

Slater continued to bask in the triumph of his latest performance. 'It was really weird, you know, Diane. I felt the tension as though I was really committing a robbery.'

Diane looked at him sceptically. He thought this made her appear more beautiful than ever.

'I did,' he insisted. 'Makes you wonder how people can actually do it.'

'They're probably desperate, Roger.'

'Even so, I think it's easier to stay honest.'

'And poor,' she replied laconically.

They fell silent. Slater adored the sensual way she sipped her glass of wine. But then he adored everything about her. He began to reflect. It was true he was never going to be rich. The tiny acting parts he had existed on throughout the seven years of their marriage did not pay much. Indeed, Diane had often urged him to get a 'proper' job. But acting was in his blood. He knew he would never be really be successful. It wasn't that he wasn't talented enough - he believed that he had played the robber for the crime reconstruction programme with great conviction, and the director had complimented him upon his performance - it was something within him. He did not have that indefinable personal quality that fires real success. Diane told him he lacked drive and ambition. He silently acknowledged that he may be wanting the former, but he believed he was as ambitious as the next person. Unfortunately, it appeared that drive is a pre-requisite if one hopes to satisfy ambition. If he could only get a lucky break! Perhaps his latest role would bring him the recognition he believed he deserved? And then the offers would come flooding in. On the other hand, he did not know when they would be able to eat out like this again.

Dismissing these thoughts, he continued to talk about his role. 'You know, Diane, despite the nerves, when I was pointing the gun at them, I guess I experienced a sense of power. It can't be denied, it gives you a kind of thrill having people at your mercy, ordering them to do your will.'

Diane smiled in acknowledgement. where her husband was concerned she was used to having this feeling. 'So you enjoyed it then, Roger?'

'Yes. I believe I gave a convincing performance. Ronald was pleased with me.'

'Still, it was only a performance.'

'What do you mean?'

'Just think how much more satisfying it would have been to have actually done it.'

Slater stared at his wife. Surely she was joking? Sometimes he could not fathom her sense of humour. She often said she must have a peculiar one to have married him.

'How much did you get paid for it?' she continued.

'You know how much.'

'Two hundred and fifty pounds.'

'They have to work to a limited budget. It's not Hollywood, you know.'

'You might have got ten thousand if you had actually committed the robbery.'

Once more he stared at her. Her face was beautifully impassive. Her cold, blue eyes icily unblinking. His heart began to beat a shade faster, as he realised she was being serious. Suddenly, he became anxious to leave the restaurant. He called the waiter and paid the bill.

They drove home predominately in silence. The presence of the taxi driver preventing Slater from uttering his uppermost thoughts. It was at times like this that he realised how much he wished he could afford a car.

Upon their arrival home he could wait no longer. 'You actually mean it, don't you?'

'Why not, Roger? You would only have to do that which you've already done. The same work for perhaps twenty or thirty times the money.'

'Diane, I shot someone!'

'That was the mistake. It wouldn't have to happen.'

'You're suggesting I commit an armed robbery?'

'It wouldn't necessarily have to be a real gun.'

Slater was incredulous. It was as if he had never really known her. 'You're asking me to commit a crime?'

'We can't go on living like this. It's time you realised, Roger, you will never be a star.'

'I don't want to be a star,' he replied, irritated that it appeared she didn't know him either.

'Alright then - you'll never be a successful actor.'

'How do you know? Ronald said I was good.'

'Ronald!' she replied scornfully. 'What does he know? He's had as little success with directing as you've had with acting.'

Slater was mortified. So this was what she thought about him. Perhaps she had never really loved him? It was devastating, like a child's discovery of the inevitability of death. But still he worshipped her. And, deep in his heart, he knew that she was right. Indeed, much of what she had spoken made sense. It was true that he would never be a successful actor, it was true that a woman like Diane should not have to live as he had compelled her to these last few years, and it was also true that he could have made a great deal more money by translating performance into reality; converting convincing acting into an illegal act. However, there were also many drawbacks.

He raised the most obvious. 'What if I was caught?'

'That's a risk you'll have to take, as they say.'

Her face remained impassive as she spoke the cliché. If she was joking she was a better actor than he was. Once more he put her to the test. 'I don't believe I'm hearing this, Diane.'

'You'd better believe I can't go on living like this, Roger ' she replied in a tone of frightening finality.

Slater's stomach churned as he recalled the thrilling tension his performance had generated deep within him. It was as though they had been playing a delicious game. He realised that it was a game no longer. But whatever it was, it remained perversely thrilling. He could not bear to lose Diane. Anything was better than that. However, he couldn't help mounting a final defiant challenge. 'Why don't you do it then?'

'Oh, Roger, you're really pathetic aren't you? Her contemptuous smile toyed with the wound her words had inflicted. Suddenly, his male pride was roused to heal the wound.

'You think I daren't, don't you?'

'I wouldn't think you'd be capable of surprising me any longer, Roger,' she replied dismissively.

He realised she was doubting his love for her. Something that she should never have questioned. As he gazed in mortified silence at his lovely tormentor, he thought, 'We'll see about that.'

Six weeks later the adrenaline pumped relentlessly into the pit of Slater's stomach, and his perspiring palms clasped the steering wheel of the stolen high-powered vehicle, as he waited for the right time to strike.

After all, Roger Slater was a man who truly loved his wife.

Bleeding Hearts

The September sun was sinking low in the evening sky. A legacy of another beautiful day. Truly, it had been an Indian summer. They would have sat outside, but the tables were all taken. Sitting inside did have its compensations, however; the pub was free from the noise of children, who predominated in the beer garden, and they could talk quietly, intimately.

'Where would you like to go tomorrow?' he asked.

'I don't know,' she replied. 'You choose.'

'It's your holiday as well, Sarah.'

'You choose,' she repeated.

Why did she sound so dismissive? They had waited months for this - their first holiday together.

'I really do love you, Sarah.'

She smiled archly, and he felt silly. Why did he always strive so hard to please her? He realised that it wasn't necessary. He knew he need not tell her he loved her so very often. He was aware by her knowing smile that she did not need reminding. And, painfully, he realised it revealed his lack of experience with women.

He toyed with a beer mat. She lit another cigarette. He glanced at her again. Their eyes met, and in that instant he would have torn out his heart had she demanded it. She returned his glance with a hint of a smile, but where was the love in her eyes?

This was to be it, he thought. This was to be the evening when she would bid him farewell. Within hours, possibly minutes, she would announce her love for another. He wondered why it was always like this. Why she had the ability to make him feel this way every time they were together. Possibly it was because she was often so quiet? He didn't like silence, but he felt disinclined to make conversation. He had often noticed that she rarely initiated small talk, and when he did, she only reciprocated out of politeness. At least this was how he felt it to be. Perhaps this was one of the reasons he loved her? She was different. Mysterious. He smiled to himself at the thought of describing her to anyone as 'mysterious.'

The silence bore down, like the ceiling of a cell descending, interrupted only by the carefree cries of children cheerfully playing outside. How he longed for the kind of love where each knows the other's unspoken thoughts. Did such love really exist? He knew that in reality it could not. All the same, he wondered if she knew what he was thinking. He glanced at her furtively again. He cursed himself - she was his woman, had been for almost a year now - why shouldn't he look at her openly, lovingly? He wondered how she would react should he dare to call her 'his woman,' or to describe her thus to anyone. When he thought about it, he realised he never really called her anything. 'Girlfriend?' Although she was only twenty four he felt she couldn't remotely be described as such. It wasn't only that she was too mature, it was because of that indefinable quality she possessed which so attracted her to him. 'Fiancee' perhaps? He dared to hope, but knew fulfilment could only be attained by the asking.

'Sarah.'

She looked at him with the inherent confidence of a beautiful woman who knows herself. He felt a tremor in his voice. Oh, if only she would make it easier for him!

'Would you like another drink?'

'I haven't finished this one yet,' she replied softly.

How he loved her voice!

'What's the matter, Derek?' She looked him straight in the eyes, her own steady, unblinking - to him beautiful, but unyielding.

'You know.'

'Do I?'

They fell silent. She smoked. He abhorred the habit, but not in this woman. He even adored the way she held her cigarette.

He drained his glass. Why didn't she do the same? He needed to escape to the bar. It was perverse. He loved this woman more than he could express, yet he longed to leave her company at this moment. He realised he had to break the tension. Did she not feel the same? He glanced at her again, and he realised she wallowed in the atmosphere, like an indolent cat on a forbidden bed.

'You go for another drink if you want one.'

Why did he feel she indulged him by that simple sentence?

'Don't you want one?'

'I haven't finished this one yet,' she repeated.

He observed that the wine glass was not a quarter full. 'Drink it up, and I'll fetch us both another.'

She looked at him. He felt ridiculous. This was their lives passing. Their dream holiday. What did it matter? He picked his glass up and strode purposefully to the bar. He ordered two dry white wines, and glanced furtively around. Sarah smiled at him, as indeed he knew she would do. To an independent observer it would have appeared the reassuring smile of a lover to her beloved; to him it was nearer to that of an indulgent parent to her playful child. Yet still, he worshipped her.

He turned back to the bar. Sarah observed him with mixed emotions. She remembered what a contrast he had initially presented to the type of man she usually attracted. Instead of arrogantly using her for his pleasure, as the others invariably did, he had always been primarily solicitous for her own welfare. She recalled how on their early dates he had made her laugh out loud. He could see the humorous side of anything then, including himself. This was where he differed significantly from other men, she reflected; and she had genuinely loved him for it. How he had changed! Twelve months had passed, but he seemed to have aged years. His wonderful humour had gone, to be replaced by an increasing paranoia, and his concern had become overbearing. What had once been pleasurable to her was now irritating. His constant declaration of love she felt to be merely a means of clinging on to her. She could understand now why he hadn't had many previous relationships.

He had suggested this holiday three months ago. Then it had seemed a good idea, but as the weeks passed, he had become increasingly enraptured by her, whilst her feelings for him had correspondingly subsided. She knew that she was now merely going through the motions. And yet, she recalled wistfully, and yet how it had been, and how it was. She wondered, could it still be?'

He returned with the drinks.

'Derek, I really didn't want another.' Her voice was calm.

'It's early yet.' His heart beat a shade faster.

'You know how it gives me a headache.'

He wanted to say, 'You mean you don't like sitting with two glasses in front of you,' but instead he replied, 'It's only your third.'

'I'm watching my weight.'

'Your figure is absolutely perfect, Sarah.'

It was indeed, and he would have sacrificed his soul for it.

'No one is perfect, Derek.'

'Especially me?' It was too late. He hadn't meant to say it, but it had slipped out.

'Especially you.'

Oh, God! He didn't even know from her tone whether it was a confirmation or a question, such was her enigmatic hold over him. He desperately wondered what to do, what to say next. All the time he realised he was losing her.

'I didn't mean - '

'Then why did you say it?' Her tone was cold.

'You make me feel ...' He struggled to express himself. 'I don't know what you want.'

'I don't know what you want, Derek.'

The adrenaline pumped into the pit of his stomach. He longed to tell her that he wanted to be sure of her, to banish all doubt permanently and unequivocally. Instead, he could only demand, 'I want you!'

She looked at him intently. 'And I want a man.'

There was an infinite pause as he agonised to save the situation. It had grown dark outside and the sound of children's laughter could no longer be heard. Sarah looked away. She felt a surge of pity for him, but she had been hurt by relationships before and didn't intend to be again. She needed to remain in control. Camouflaging her compassion, she slaughtered his heart.

'We'd better go home tomorrow, Derek.'

His guts churned as though he were on a roller coaster. 'Three days left, three whole days!' he longed to scream, but he felt paralysed. He had known that one day it would come to this. He had tried to prepare, but when it came down to it emotions were impossible to rationalise. Sarah had been his entire reason for being these past twelve months.

In the agonising silence that followed she took his hand. 'I did love you too at first, you know.' She gave his hand a slight squeeze before letting it go.

And, he reflected despondently: the flick of a switch, the brush of a finger, it is as painless and easy to deny love as it is to destroy the world.

Chinese Firecrackers

'I might go surfing tomorrow,' he announced, nibbling a spare rib.

She smiled sceptically.

'I might.'

'The nearest you'll get to surfing is listening to those wretched Beach Boys tapes.'

'I can't understand why you don't like the Beach Boys, Sally.'

'Same reason you don't like Indian food I expect.'

She drank her wine. He wished he could surf.

'In fact, I'm more logical in my taste,' she continued. 'I've heard the Beach Boys, you've never tasted Indian food.'

He had an uneasy feeling that the evening wasn't going as he hoped.

'The smell puts me off,' he replied.

She concentrated on her chop suey.

'Anyway,' he went on, 'the Beach Boys make me feel good.' Nervously, he took a drink of his beer. 'Not as good as you make me feel though, Sally.' He reached for her hand. She allowed him to take it. 'We'll go for an Indian next time. I promise.'

'It's not important Trevor.'

He felt a sense of relief as she tenderly squeezed his hand. Perhaps everything would be alright this evening after all? Even though they didn't share the same taste in music, and she would have preferred to eat in an Indian restaurant rather than the Chinese one which they were currently dining in. It was the penultimate evening of their holiday. The holiday during which he had vowed he would propose to her. They had been going out together now for nearly two years, and Trevor had decided that he wanted this young lady for his wife. He had decided this many weeks ago, but it was only at this present time, under the carefree influence of the Cornish sun, that he had conquered his fear of rejection. The fear which had resurfaced briefly on the beach yesterday, when he had caught her surreptitiously admiring the bronzed, athletic looking young men who rode the surf with such apparent ease. He felt it would all be so much simpler if he could surf. Despite this, he realised that the time would never be better.

'They ought to have candles on the tables,' he said, by way of preliminary tactics.

'Why?'

'Makes it more romantic.'

'They never seem to have candles in Chinese restaurants, Trevor.'

He wondered how many candlelight suppers she had enjoyed in the past.

'They only smell and dribble all over anyway,' she continued. 'I expect they're more trouble than they're worth really.'

'Don't you like things to be just right though, Sally? To be special?'

He tried to read her thoughts, but her face was beautifully impassive.

'I mean,' he continued, 'there are some times which are important. Times when you want things to be just perfect. Times which should be memorable.'

A waiter hovered uncertainly nearby.

'Two coffees!'

The waiter scurried away, evidently startled by the brusque manner of Trevor's order.

'You shouted at that waiter, Trevor.'

'Did I?'

'It didn't sound very nice.'

'I expect they're used to it.'

'You wouldn't like to be spoken to like that.'

'No, I expect I wouldn't. I'm sorry, Sally.'

They fell silent. He hastily finished his meal. He waited impatiently while she completed hers.

'That was delicious.' She pushed her plate away. 'We really must go for an Indian next time, Trevor. I'm sure you'd like it if you tried one.'

'Yes, perhaps I would.' He swallowed hard. 'As I was saying earlier, Sally, there are times - '

'Perhaps a mild curry,' she interrupted.

'Yes, a mild curry.'

Once more silence descended, smothering his ambition. A smiling waiter cleared their plates. Sally finished her wine.

Trevor attempted to dispel the silence. 'Would you like another glass?'

'No, thank you. Just the coffee.'

He drank off his beer. She lit a cigarette. Trevor disliked the habit, but he was always intrigued at the elegant way she contrived to smoke. He always looked in vain for nicotine stained finger. The other waiter returned with the coffee. He gave Trevor a look which seemed to convey Oriental inscrutability. Trevor furtively ensured he had enough cash to pay for the meal. People began to leave the restaurant. Sally toyed with her coffee cup. The piped muzak continued to play insidiously. Trevor felt the weight of time irrevocably bearing down upon him.

'Sally,' he began. She looked radiant. He felt light-headed.

'I must remember to get some cigarettes before we leave.'

'Confound the cigarettes! Why the hell do you have to smoke anyway?' he wanted to scream. Instead, he replied, 'Of course, darling.'

He gazed around the restaurant. A party of high spirited young men were becoming increasingly noisy. He returned to the object of his affections.

'Sally, you know what I was talking about earlier?'

He didn't know whether her silence indicated that she did or she didn't, so he continued. 'We've been going together getting on for two years now,'

'Twenty months actually.'

'That's nearly two years, anyway. We've had some good times, haven't we?'

She didn't reply. Instead, she observed him closely. It suddenly occurred to him that this could be interpreted as the prelude to a break rather than to a proposal.

'And we seem to get on well,' he added hastily.

'Most of the time we do.'

He took a deep breath. 'And you know how much I think of you.'

She gazed into his eyes. This was it. This was the moment. The defining moment of his existence.

'You give it back!'

'But we haven't taken the bloody thing!'

Trevor looked across the restaurant. An altercation seemed to have developed between the high spirited young men and the waiters.

'You take it.'

'We haven't taken it.'

'You give it back now.'

'We haven't got it.'

'I call police.'

'Call the bloody police then!'

The voices were becoming louder. The dispute was becoming more heated. The whole restaurant was now engrossed in the mystery over the disappearing salt pot. Sally was especially engaged and amused by the entertainment, Trevor less so. Eventually, the police were called. Four officers bursting dramatically through the door as though expecting a riot.

They quickly appraised the situation.

'This is ridiculous,' proclaimed the sergeant in charge. 'All this fuss over a salt pot.'

The waiters were not to be easily assuaged, however. The young men were equally intransigent. 'Search us!' they cried eagerly, as though they were proud martyrs to a passionate cause.

A thorough search revealed no concealed condiments. One of the waiters, evidently frustrated at what he perceived to be the apparent evasion of justice, attempted to take his own retribution, and lashed out wildly. He succeeded in felling one of his tormentors, before being restrained by the officers of the law. He was warned that he would be liable to charges of assault if he did not moderate his behaviour. The stricken youth did not want to press charges, however, and the avenging waiter was led away by his colleagues. Trevor perceived he was the same waiter who had earlier served their coffees. As he walked past their table the look he directed at Trevor seemed to suggest that the aspiring husband might be implicated in the mysterious condiment conspiracy.

Meanwhile, the police sergeant gently explained, much to the chagrin of the restaurant manager, that, as the precious pot was not to be discovered, then no further action could be taken against the accused. Eventually, after much acrimonious commotion, the young men were hustled out, and the restaurant subsided into something approaching normality.

'Wonder if they left a tip?' called out some wag.

The waiters were not amused.

'Well, that was better than a gypsy violinist,' Sally observed.

Trevor acknowledged that it was.

'And you know what,' she concluded, 'I'm glad we didn't go for an Indian now.'

And, try as he might, Trevor felt he could not echo her sentiments.

Evening Class

'Bastard!'

You give the woman a meaningful glance and hope that she can read your mind. You've been driving round and round for ages, and at last you've spotted a suitable parking space, then this middle aged woman in a bloody Fiat Panda nips in out of nowhere and snatches it right from under your nose. It looks like you'll have to park half a mile away from the college now, otherwise you'll still be cruising round after the class has started. What the hell are all these cars doing here anyway? How can allegedly impoverished students afford them?

Well, you've got a car haven't you? Yes, but you work for it. In the daytime. That's why you're coming to college in the evening. Perhaps all these vehicles belong to students who are doing the same? Maybe you'll walk into the classroom and you'll find all your colleagues from the office there? No, it doesn't bear thinking about. Besides most of them will be stultified by their favourite soap operas at this time on a weekday evening. That is the ones that don't play badminton. Ah, well, you'll just have to park here and walk. It would have been more convenient to come on the bus.

As you hurry towards the college you experience a sense of trepidation. What will the other students be like? Will there be anyone you know? Will they all be younger than you and look at you like you're some kind of a freak? Perhaps when you walk in they'll think you're the lecturer? Why didn't you shave that bloody beard off? It doesn't impress anybody. Even your mother doesn't like it.

You should be the lecturer at your age. Twenty nine and starting 'A' levels again. If you hadn't have wasted your time all those years ago when you were here before. What if it's the same lecturers? What if they remember you? What if you're expelled before you start?

No, they won't be the same ones. Surely not after all this time. Old Stephens, whose idea of stimulating his students was to mumble his way through Antony Cleopatra and The Fall of Hyperion, must have shuffled off the old mortal coil by now. And even if some of his younger colleagues are still here, they won't remember you after all these years. Not after all the other students they've taught since. Besides you've got a beard now, and you look like they used to look way back then.

You saunter into the building for the first time in over ten years and it seems like yesterday. They even still have the same stupid notices on the Student Union notice board. Remember when you were on the Rag Committee? You never did sell many of those rag mags. Not surprising really. All the jokes were lifted out of the previous years university magazine, such was the creativeness of your committee. Still, you had some good times in those days. Until the cider went up to thirty three pence a pint.

Remember that girl you were sweet on? Vicky something or other. The one your best mate, Martin, said looked like Dracula's daughter. She didn't really, it was only because he fancied her as well. There's something sexual about Dracula's daughter anyway.

You mount the stairs and wonder for a heart stopping moment if Vicky could be in your class again. Don't be ridiculous. She's probably married with three sprogs, divorced and married again with a couple more by now. Besides, nothing really happened. A brief kiss and cuddle at the end of term party did not constitute undying love. And you never did send her that poem. She's probably forgotten you ever existed by now. And she was the main reason you failed your 'A' levels. If you'd have thought more about The Return of the Native rather than a return with Vicky you wouldn't be climbing these stairs again now.

Well, here you go. Eyes down for another bash at 'Eng Lit.' Walk in and look confident.

'Oh, God! The first face you see is the woman from the Fiat Panda. Perhaps if you sit as far away as possible she won't notice you? The room is irritatingly set out so that the tables face each other. Not like a classroom. No hiding at the back here. About a dozen students already seated. No one you remotely recognise. Everyone looking everywhere except at each other, all aware that being here now labels them as school failures. At least you're not the oldest. There's the woman from the Fiat Panda for a start. And the guy with the trilby hat who you have to sit beside must be in his fifties at least.

He's said 'good evening' to you. That means he must be old. You acknowledge him, and surreptitiously glance at the girl on the other side of you. She doesn't look bad. Perhaps a 'good evening' of your own is called for?

She replies to your 'good evening' with a simple 'Hi.' You can't tell from the tone of the single syllable what she's thinking, but was that a hint of a smile? Before you can make any further progress the trilby guy is talking to you. What's he on about? Something about Shakespeare. You'd better humour him.

Eventually, after an awkward silence, the lecturer arrives. It's Ian Lee. You remember him from your previous existence here. He doesn't appear much different, apart from having less hair on his head and none on his face. Fortunately, he doesn't appear to remember you. He distributes your set texts for the year. Brand new copies of Doctor Faustus even. What about the alleged education cuts? The tatty editions of Macbeth that follow indicate that they are a reality. And when your copy of the Complete Works of S. T. Coleridge falls apart, you wonder if you should have bought your own. More books follow: The General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, which looks heavy going. You've always managed to avoid Chaucer in your previous educational experiences. Another brand new book: Dubliners by James Joyce. You recall your feeble attempts to read Ulysees several years ago and you understand why J.J. has apparently not been included on the syllabus before. The Return of the Native again. You really must try to read it all this time. And finally a copy of The Tempest with rough notes scrawled all over it. When you see the inscription 'Craig Evans sucks' on the front inside cover, and 'I'd like to snoggle Janet Kirk' on the back inside cover, you get the impression that the notes may not be entirely scholarly. You are also mildly intrigued to know whether 'sucks' is used as a colloquial adjective describing the aforesaid Mr Evans, or in its correct context as a verb. If it is the latter you wonder what might the missing object of the sentence be.

As that first class progresses several things become subtly apparent to you which are confirmed as the early weeks of the term drift by. One is that most of the class appear to be either stupid, shy, unsociable or all three. Out of a group of usually approximately fifteen only about a third of them say anything in class. After about six weeks you begin to wonder if some of them have taken a vow of silence. Perhaps they don't want to share their wisdom with anyone else? Ian Lee doesn't seem especially concerned as he rambles through Macbeth and The Tempest, so why should you be?

The second thing is that the woman with the Fiat Panda keeps giving you peculiar looks. Perhaps she fancies you? Either that or she knows that you called her a 'bastard.' She is one who frequently speaks in class, and you wish she wouldn't, as she has an irritatingly affected accent.

The third (and worst) thing, is that Mr Trilby is a pain in the neck. He doesn't take after the majority of the class, in that he is neither shy nor unsociable; however, he may very well be stupid. Perhaps the lecturer is grateful that the others are so taciturn, as Mr Trilby constantly interrupts him with irrelevant inanities. For example, you learnt on the very first evening that Mr Trilby had only discovered the wonders of Shakespeare last year, when he and his wife chanced to call in at the theatre whilst on a visit to Stratford.

'We didn't plan it. We thought while we were there we'd go and see what all the fuss were about. And do you know, we thought it were marvellous,' he informed anyone who would listen. 'And then the wife bought me the complete works last Christmas and that were marvellous. Education is a wonderful thing,' he concluded. And you idly wonder why it is your fate to sit next to Mr Trilby. During the first term a considerable number of students continue to join and, more frequently, to leave the class, but you just know that Mr Trilby will be there until the very end.

The problem with his love of Shakespeare was that it meant he had rather a dogmatic literary view. He considered every other writer grossly inferior to the Bard. For example, after completing your study of Marlowe's Doctor Faustus, Mr Trilby profoundly concluded that, 'It were all right, but not as good as Shakespeare.' Ian Lee patiently informed him that it was an early play and 'early' Shakespeare had considerable faults too. Mr T looked sceptical.

One particular week Mr Trilby took his wife to see a Harold Pinter play. 'Couldn't make head nor tale of it, ' he informed the class. Some weeks later Trilby announced that he had seen an interview with the enigmatic dramatist on BBC2. 'And do you know, he didn't know what the play were about himself, and he wrote the thing!'

'Perhaps it means something different to him now than it did when he wrote it?' Ian Lee suggested tentatively. Mr T's expression seemed to indicate that such a possibility was inconceivable. Ian smiled knowingly. Perhaps he was confronted with a Mr Trilby every year?

In that first class you discover that the rather attractive young lady sitting on the other side of you is called Tracy, and more significantly, that she lives on your route home, having only recently moved to the area with her parents. You toy with the idea of offering her a lift. Then you remember that you're parked so far away she probably wouldn't thank you for it. You're still toying with the idea a couple of weeks later when it becomes apparent that you're asking her all the questions, and that she isn't offering any information voluntarily. Nor is she asking you anything about yourself. Maybe she's merely being polite when she answers you? Perhaps she wants you to shut up? What if she thinks the same about you as you think about Mr Trilby? What if she thinks you are nearer his age than hers? Perhaps she would prefer to sit next to Mr Trilby? You find such thoughts distractingly uncomfortable and decide to concentrate on the poetry of S.T. Coleridge instead.

But the idea stubbornly refuses to go away, and after a number of weeks have passed during which Tracy has attended the class irregularly, you finally pluck up courage. After a tedious session during which Mr Trilby has been especially irritating, and the Fiat Panda woman has stared at you continuously, you see Tracy walking out of the college in front of you. It's now or never. You catch up with her. You make casual conversation while wondering what to do if she refuses your offer. You're outside the college grounds now. Perhaps she's wishing you would go away? You're approaching your car.

You wonder if she would like the radio on. Or would she prefer to talk about Coleridge? You can't believe she's accepted the lift. You wonder whether she's got a boyfriend. You wonder whether you ought to ask her. You have a perverse wish that you could be more like Mr Trilby at this point. You feel foolish when you miss the turn off, and decide to concentrate upon your driving. Eventually, after having travelled a circuitous route during which Tracy has looked distinctly uncomfortable, you drop her off at home without having managed to ask her about boyfriends or S.T. Coleridge. 'See you next week,' you say lamely. She looks doubtful.

All week thoughts of the Romantic poet have been banished from your mind by thoughts of Tracy, just as thoughts of Tommy Hardy were supplanted by those of Vicky all those years ago. You naively believed you were beyond such things. Still you shave your beard off.

The following Wednesday you enter the classroom with trepidation, and not just because you haven't done your homework on Kubla Khan. It is the last week of the autumn term. Will she be there? If she isn't you won't see her for almost a whole month. Your heart leaps with a joyous beat when your prayers are answered, and you even feel a sense of benevolence towards Mr Trilby and the wretched woman with the Fiat Panda. Tracy looks lovelier than ever, but she doesn't appear especially sociable this evening. You wonder fearfully, will she want another lift?

You've got yourself into a dilemma now. She will think it strange if you don't ask her, yet she might think you're being pushy if you do.

The two and a half hours crawl by as you long for the end of the session. Typically, as nine o' clock approaches, Mr Trilby is being irritatingly loquacious, and, thanks to him, the class overruns. When Ian Lee eventually calls time Tracy simply flies through the door and you conclude that she doesn't want a lift. As you walk despondently down the corridor, with the words of Coleridge's Dejection Ode ringing in your ears and Mr Trilby for company, you contemplate pushing him down the stairs. Fortunately, for his welfare and your liberty, he departs at the end of the corridor, as he leaves the college by a different exit. Just as you reach the spot at the foot of the stairs where Mr T's body would have come to rest had you done the dastardly deed, you're surprised by Tracy coming out of the ladies.

So that was why she left in such a hurry. With a succulent sense of relief you ask her if she would like a lift this week.

As you get into your car and fasten your seat belt you can't help thinking that women are very strange.

You never see Tracy again. Like so many evening students she drops out, but you go on to pass your examination in the summer with flying colours. You console yourself with the thought that if Tracy had proved to be a charming distraction, as did Vicky so many years before, your result may have been less satisfactory.

You do stumble upon Mr Trilby several months later while out shopping. He introduces you to his wife, who wears the expression of one who has lived with Trilby for many years. He proudly informs you that he passed the exam with a Grade B, and he is now planning to take an Open University course. And you feel an immense sense of satisfaction as you watch his face when you tell him that you achieved a grade A.

Finding A Voice

Howard Imperial enters the room impressively. Bodmin considers the sentence as an opening for a story. How can a character enter a room impressively? He rejects the sentence as being too vague, too clichéd. Despite this, Howard Imperial has entered the room impressively. And he is now seated equally impressively in a commanding position at the top of the table, lord of all he surveys. Howard Imperial has that elegantly wasted look which exudes creativity and haunted intellectualism. A painfully thin frame, mane of unkempt hair and mandatory designer stubble. He is dressed in an interesting sports jacket and faded blue jeans. His shirt unbuttoned just enough to give a hint of chest hair. A red neckerchief, truly the mark of the creative artist, is tied around his throat. Naturally, he wears an earring in his left ear. Bodmin wonders why it is always the left ear. He vaguely recalls reading somewhere that it is to do with sexuality. Does this mean if a man wears earrings in both ears he is bisexual? What does it signify if he wears none? Perhaps he is simply boring? Bodmin wears none. He wonders if at twenty eight he is too old to acquire an earring. His friends might laugh at him, even the ones who wear earrings themselves. He concludes that some people seem to be born wearing one. Howard Imperial is one of these people. Furthermore, he appears to be that mysterious, and much envied age where youth and experience flirt briefly before youth inevitably bids its fond farewell. Bodmin reflects that the playwright can't be more than four or five years older than he is, but it is enough. He wonders do such people actively cultivate this elegantly wasted appearance? Jefferson Boyd, last year's workshop leader, cut a similar figure, he recalls.

Even if Bodmin acquires an earring, grows his hair and ceases shaving, he will still have the small, but significant, pot belly which infuriatingly refuses to leave him, betraying his fondness for the food and the drink; often thought by those who know to compensate for lack of love. Small pot bellies and intimations of sexual starvation are not conducive to cultivating elegantly wasted appearances. Anyway, Bodmin knows he will never be as tall as Howard Imperial, even if he purchased the 'undetectable, instantly stand taller' footwear he saw advertised in his dentist's four year old copy of Reader's Digest the other day.

Quickly and surreptitiously, Bodmin eyes the other people seated around the table. Predominantly female, mostly middle aged, virtually the same as last time; he wonders what it is they aspire to write. Social and political drama seems unlikely, non-naturalistic theatre even less likely. He curses himself for categorising them as readers and would be writers of trivial romances. He knows that writers shouldn't mindlessly stereotype the human race which is as infinitely varied as Shakespeare's Egyptian Queen. He had to reprimand himself similarly last year. Nevertheless, Bodmin feels an inward glow of satisfaction as he acknowledges his superiority over these creatures. After all, he has written something. Several things actually. A couple of full length plays, several short stories and nearly half a novel. As yet all unpublished and unproduced; however, Bodmin remains undaunted. There are a number of poems too, but Bodmin doesn't believe these to be very good. He now regards his poetry as his juvenilia. Besides his completed work he also has plenty in progress as befitting an aspiring professional. Bodmin has never suffered from writer's block. On the contrary, his mind teems with ideas. They cascade forth like an exuberant waterfall. All he needs is a method of harnessing his ideas. This is why he is here once again.

'Maybe some of you have heard of me. Anyway, I'll just give you a little of my background so you all know who I am, and my credentials for being here.'

Even Howard Imperial's voice is impressive. He speaks in a casually confident way, and his transatlantic accent indicates that he is well travelled. English heritage and Hollywood glamour combine to provide a subtly cultivated linguistic cocktail. Bodmin has read some of the distinguished writer's work, and he tries to recognise it in the voice of the man seated a few feet away.

A couple of plays for the BBC, four production at the Royal Court, theatre in education work, writers residency at an American university, currently working on a commission for the RSC. Howard Imperial tosses the information out as though it all really doesn't matter. BBC, RSC, UCLA - even the initials serve to seduce his audience into his confidence. They too can aspire to join the conspiracy of the creative artist.

Maybe some of you have heard of me! Bodmin finds it incredible to believe that anyone in the country, let alone this room, has never heard of Howard Imperial; he is even more famous than Jefferson Boyd. However, it soon transpires that this is not so. A woman, boldly admitting to her ignorance of the famous name, asks the man himself what kind of plays he writes.

'I'm glad you asked me that. I think it may be useful to talk about my work for a couple of minutes. Give you a flavour of what I'm about.' He pauses portentously, before announcing, 'I guess you'd call it heightened naturalism.'

So, Bodmin reflects, this is why he can't understand it.

Howard Imperial talks about the transposition of ideas from the mind to the page; he talks about dramatic form, plot construction, naturalistic dialogue and heightened language; he talks about character creation, character development, credibility and motivation; he talks about naturalistic drama and realistic drama, (someone asks him to explain the difference again and he patiently obliges). He talks about dark humour and broad humour; he talks about social themes and universal themes; he talks about anti-naturalistic devices, Shakespeare, Ibsen and Brecht; he talks about experimental theatre and stylised theatre; he talks about American theatre, fringe theatre and popular theatre; he talks about the Arts Council, subsidised theatre, television and the government. When Howard Imperial has finished talking he asks for more questions. Eventually, he succeeds in quenching his audience's remaining thirst for knowledge, and it is time for lunch.

During the lunch break the sun shines brightly down upon the fair city, and upon the glory of its multifarious humanity. Office workers striding purposefully hither and thither doing their lunchtime shopping; unemployed lounging aimlessly thither and hither, doubtless wishing they could afford shopping. Hundreds, thousands of people, all intensely imprisoned within their own little existence, apparently oblivious to the cultural feast taking place within their very midst.

Bodmin sits in the newly renovated square watching the people and pondering upon the morning's session. The day is called Finding a Voice: A Workshop for New Playwrights. It has cost Bodmin four pounds fifty - fifty pence more than the previous year - and a day out of his annual holidays. He quickly dismisses the wicked thought that he ought to have pretended he was unemployed and paid half price. However, the only voice which seemed to have been found consistently so far was Howard Imperial's. As Bodmin reflectively munches his cheese and tomato sandwich he suppresses an encroaching sense of deja vu. He concludes optimistically that the afternoon may hold the key to realising his dreams of finding his voice, and perhaps of sharing it with the hitherto indifferent public.

He gazes at that unresponsive world around him. Don't these uncultivated clowns performing their trivial tricks they call living realise that he is a writer? A creative artist destined for posterity, where today's shopping or office gossip will be long forgotten. The woman sitting across the square casually flicking through a magazine appears vaguely familiar. Bodmin realises that she is also attending the workshop. He wonders if he should approach her. He has never spoken to another prospective writer before, as, during the morning session, everyone was unsurprisingly taciturn in the face of Howard Imperial's verbal assault. Bodmin believes it is time to remedy the situation. Quickly finishing his sandwich, he approaches the woman with a view to establishing creative contact with a fellow artiste.

'Excuse me. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I saw you this morning at the writers' workshop.'

The woman looks up at him. Nearer, she is older than he had thought her to be, and she doesn't look like an artist, nor does she speak. Bodmin feels obliged to continue.

'Finding a Voice?'

The woman gives him a puzzled look. Just as Bodmin is beginning to regret initiating the conversation, she finally responds. 'Is that what it's called?'

'Yes. What did you think of Howard Imperial?'

'He's nice isn't it? Nice and tall and slim. I don't like young men to wear earrings though. My grandson does and I wish he wouldn't.'

'Have you read any of his work?'

'Whose work?'

Howard Imperial's.'

'He writes plays doesn't he?'

'Yes.'

'You don't read plays. You go and see them but you don't read them. They're not like stories are they?'

'Don't you write plays?'

'Me?' The woman is surprised.

'I can't write plays.'

'Isn't that why you're here?'

The woman doesn't reply. Instead, she smiles at him indulgently. Bodmin begins to get the unpleasant feeling that she believes there is something wrong with him. He continues, 'To learn how to write better plays, isn't that why you're at the workshop?'

'No, not really.'

Bodmin is incredulous, but before he can express this, she speaks again. 'It's just somewhere to go, isn't it? Like a lecture.'

'A lecture?'

'A bit of company. It's nice to have a bit of company when you're getting older. I lost my husband, you see. A couple of years ago it was. I've got a sister, but she lives in Huddersfield.'

Bodmin experiences a weird sensation. If he could describe it, it would make a good basis for a short story, but he can't. Instead, he says, 'Well, I expect we ought to be getting back, it's nearly two.'

'Oh, I don't think I'll bother, it's such a lovely day out here now.' The woman returns to her magazine, and Bodmin repairs to the workshop more deeply immersed in thought than when he left it.

He arrives back in the room to find that everyone else is already well installed, including Howard Imperial, who is swigging a bottle of Budweiser beer. He greets Bodmin warmly, 'Glad you could make it.'

Bodmin looks at his watch to discover that it has stopped, and he is ten minutes late. He mutters an apology and sheepishly takes his seat.

'Okay, says the workshop leader, 'as I was saying, I've done all the work this morning, now it's your turn.' As if to emphasise this, he leans right back in his chair and takes another long drink from the bottle.

The afternoon drifts by, as all mornings, afternoons and evenings are wont to do; even ones that are expected to change lives. As it happens, this particular afternoon does not change Bodmin's life. Not even after Howard Imperial calls upon his students to individually create a character, to ask each other questions about this character, to place this character in a small scenario, to enlarge this scenario into a more substantial dramatic unit, to consider where the dramatic unit and the character might be taken from this point in his/her new found existence. Bodmin thinks about suggesting the RSC or maybe the National.

Bodmin is not especially adept at creating a character on the spur of the moment, (particularly when he has arrived ten minutes late). Consequently, he produces one of his pre-established characters for the edification of his fellow students and Howard Imperial. However, the latter remains imperviously unedified. He informs Bodmin that his character lacks credibility. Bodmin asks him why this is.

'The character isn't fully drawn. One has to believe in the truth of a character and I didn't truthfully believe in him.'

'But why not?'

'Howard Imperial glances at his watch. 'I'd like to discuss it with you in more detail, but it's not really relevant to this workshop. Have you enrolled on the one called Creating A Character?'

'I'm afraid I haven't, but we've just created a character here. What's the difference between the two workshops?'

Howard Imperial smiles as though an answer cannot be necessary. It is the condescending smile of the successful creative artist and the experienced workshop leader. At the end of the session he draws Bodmin to one side. 'I'm sorry about the little misunderstanding earlier. Although I didn't truthfully believe in your character as such, I think that your writing does show some potential. The problem is I can't really enter into detailed individual criticism in these sessions. I'm sure you understand that.'

Bodmin acknowledges his understanding. Howard continues, 'I think maybe your writing is at a more advanced stage than that of some of the others here today. Maybe next year you should enrol on a more advanced workshop?'

Ambivalent thoughts flutter through Bodmin's consciousness. He is flattered that the famous writer has acknowledged him individually, but...

As he makes his way home Bodmin experiences the feeling that other workshoppers appear to have got more out of the day than he. They have all brought a character into being who presumably did not exist prior to this day. They will doubtless all go away and mould their characters into creatures who, to paraphrase Chesterton speaking of Dickens' creations, are more actual than the man, or in this case predominantly women, who made them. Most of the class leave flushed with the warm glow of fulfilment that is only brought about by artistic creation, a satisfaction that most sexual encounters can never hope to equal. But for Bodmin there is an empty feeling where artistic achievement should reside, and the sense of deja vu stubbornly refuses to be suppressed.

One year later Howard Imperial's play has been produced to rave reviews at the Royal Shakespeare Company's Swan Theatre. Bodmin is one of the thousands who have flocked to see it. He isn't as impressed as the critics however, concluding that Howard Imperial's heightened naturalism isn't for him. Bodmin himself still aspires to have a play produced. He is fully confident that he still has a date with posterity. He now has five completed full-length scripts, much work in progress and innumerable rejections. Along with his latest rejection from his local theatre he has received notification of this year's writer's workshops. He isn't aggrieved to see that Howard Imperial is not on the list of workshop leaders this year - apparently he is in Hollywood. Instead, there is an equally impressive list of creative artists who are thirsting to impart their knowledge and skill unto others. Like a literary groupie, Bodmin eagerly scans the names: Robin Middlemas, Vanessa Flitcroft, Raman Zahid, Harvey Glendenning. Harvey Glendenning - he is the one. Maybe he isn't as famous as Howard Imperial, but Bodmin has read some of his work and found it interesting. Bodmin knows that Glendenning will be the one to deliver the key. This will be the year. Observing the detail that the costs of a workshop have regretfully been increased to five pounds this year, Bodmin opens his chequebook, and once again signs away his name to pay for the privilege of finding his voice.

The Philatelist's Last Christmas Party

The room was dark, dark and noisy.

'Have you tried the mushroom vol-au-vents? They're rather good.'

The woman smiled politely and disappeared into the darkness.

Occasionally, the dazzling strobe lights lit up the dancers, who gyrated incessantly to the primitive disco beat. Norman Webb stood quietly in the corner by the table which housed the vol-au-vents. He didn't know whether the woman's reaction to his question meant she had or she hadn't. Perhaps she didn't like mushroom vol-au- vents?

Christmas. Season of Goodwill. Everyone having a good time, forgetting their troubles at the annual office party. Norman Webb standing quietly in a corner clutching a pint of flat shandy to his pigeon chest.

Everyone wearing silly party hats and gay streamers. Everyone apart from Norman Webb. Norman did not wear a party hat. Instead, his receding hairline was exposed for all to see. But no one noticed. Norman Webb usually remained inconspicuous. His thick-lensed spectacles slid down his nose, he pushed them up, sipped his insipid shandy, and the spectacles slipped down again.

Unlike everyone else, Norman Webb was not enjoying himself at the annual office party. Norman Webb was different. His glasses did not fit him properly. They were always sliding down his considerable nose. But then nothing about Norman did fit properly: His jacket tight, his trousers short, his shirt collar standing up. Norman Webb did not fit properly. He did not fit his office, he did not fit this party, he did not fit anywhere.

'Do you think we'll get a white Christmas this year?'

'I doubt it. We never do.'

'I'm not so sure myself, you know. Have you seen the - '

The man was gone.

Norman morosely munched another mushroom vol-au-vent. Harry Barret was an ignorant swine most of the year. With the alluring scent of accommodating female flesh infiltrating his nostrils he was doubly so. Norman peered short sightedly at his gyrating colleagues, who were as oblivious of his presence now as they were the rest of the year. Well, at least they were consistent. Norman considered this to be better than any false displays of good will, even if it was the season for it.

The strobe lights, now green, now red, now all the colours of the rainbow, intermittently lit the dance floor. Harry Barret already draped, octopus like, around an attractive female colleague. Norman blinked rapidly, the flashing bulbs blinding him to all but his envy. Norman did not dance - he lacked that mysterious quality know as 'natural rhythm' - and the irritating, repetitive percussive sounds deafened him. He gazed on, puzzled. Surely this was an odd way of enjoying oneself? To be blinded, deafened, and then to become sickeningly drunk. However, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Everyone apart from Norman Webb; but if Norman believed the world to be odd, the world believed the same about him.

It had always been so. Endlessly teased at school, the torment had continued into his maturity; childish chants becoming more sinisterly suggestive when delivered from subtler, more damaging, adult tongues. After all, the world, in its wisdom, believes that a forty one year old man who still lives with his mother cannot be altogether normal.

As he watched his cavorting colleagues, Norman mused that if they were alright, then he was happy to be considered odd. At least the chaps in the office no longer taunted him with accusations of homosexuality. Norman knew himself that he wasn't homosexual. He wasn't anything.

It was not that Norman did not like women - they didn't appear to like him. Small, bespectacled, big nosed, balding, pigeon chested, flat footed - altogether unprepossessing - Norman had never had a girlfriend; his limited, distant and unsatisfactory sexual experiences confined to a couple of clumsy fumbles followed by payment; but at least his mother loved him. Norman's mother was a widow of long standing, and he was all she had in the world. Indeed, she was all he had.

Norman did not go out much. He did not drink much - hence the shandy. He had no friends. He knew no jokes. He was an office clerk; rather a mundane occupation, but it suited his character. His hobby, his only hobby, was collecting stamps. In his more self-critical moments Norman Webb believed he must be the world's last philatelist.

Norman was not fond of parties. He found socialising strenuous. His mouth became dry, his palms clammy, his brow perspired. He never knew what to say, and people never seemed to want to listen to him. Norman thought that because he could not initiate conversation then at least he must be a good listener, but people never seemed to want to talk to him either.

He swallowed another savoury vol-au-vent and wished he was elsewhere. In the comfort of his bedroom perhaps, protected by the cosy security of his stamps. They were easier to handle than people; safer, more predictable, less threatening.

It was the same every year. Each year he resolved not to come to the party, and each time he broke his resolve. He did not quite know himself why he did this. Perhaps it was some vague fear that he would be missed?

He wondered what the reaction would be if he suddenly dropped dead. A sudden heart attack. Right there and then beside the mushroom vol-au-vents. Would he be sorely missed? Would his demise cause copious tears to flow? Or would the disc jockey coolly call for a doctor before putting another infernal disc on the turntable, urging everyone to keep calm and to continue dancing? Norman considered that the latter action was the more probable.

He drained his glass of shandy, and glanced gloomily at his watch. Twenty past ten. Almost two hours yet! He couldn't last out until the end. He couldn't face another glass of awful shandy, and he'd had more than enough mushroom vol-au-vents. He felt slightly sick. Did this mean he was enjoying himself? Norman concluded it didn't. If only someone would come to talk to him! If only - a forlorn hope. Norman knew full well the reaction of anyone he dared to approach. Without exception, their glass, full when approached, became miraculously empty, and they had to go the bar; either that or they needed urgently to visit the lavatory. If only there were someone who didn't know Norman. Someone new to the office, who didn't hold any pre-conceived ideas about him. Norman Webb longed to scream out at them all, 'I'm not boring! Just give me a chance!' But no one ever did.

Then he saw her. Sitting beside the bar, idly toying with her handbag. She appeared to be quite alone. Small, dark haired, pretty, but shy. Norman had seen her in the typing pool. He knew she had recently started there. Perhaps she would find him interesting? Perhaps she collected stamps? Norman took a deep breath, adjusted his spectacles, gathered his courage and shuffled over to her.

The pretty girl sitting alone at the bar did not collect stamps, but that did not prevent Norman Webb from talking about them. She had worked in the typing section merely six weeks. Just turned seventeen, and extremely shy, she didn't know many people at the party. She hoped someone would come to talk to her. Norman Webb was not that someone. This rather ugly, middle aged, nervous little man unnerved her. Why was he blathering on about stamps? He was perspiring rather unpleasantly too. She became rather frightened, and silently wished that he would go away.

Norman Webb did not go away. Instead, he continued to bore the unfortunate girl incessantly with his tedious philatelic tales. She tried to be polite, and Norman misinterpreted her politeness. For once in his life he believed he had met someone who was genuinely interested in him as a person, and incredibly, it was a rather attractive member of the opposite sex. Norman misunderstood the signs, thinking that she was truly attracted to him, and he became bold enough to ask if he could accompany her home. The timorous creature hesitated. She was not used to dealing with such delicate situations. Perhaps she ought to have told him that her boyfriend was picking her up? She didn't have a boyfriend, however, and it was against her nature to tell lies. Sometimes lies are necessary she reflected, but it was too late now. As they say, you live and learn. Still she hesitated. What could she do? How had she got into this situation?

She longed to get away but Norman Webb looked sad. Almost imperceptibly, compassion overcame her fear. Perhaps she had misjudged him? He was evidently just a lonely, harmless, little man. She too was lonely, but that was merely because she was still young and shy. In a few months time, with more worldly experience, she would probably have many ardent admirers, both inside and outside the office. Norman Webb would not have any anywhere.

The girl feverishly considered the situation.

'I may as well let him take me home. Just once wouldn't do any harm. If he gets any funny ideas about taking me out in future I'll tell him I've got a new boyfriend. Anyway, he may be a nice little man, but he's far too old for me; apart from being ugly and boring, but I'm sure he won't try to kiss me. I expect I ought to get it over with.'

She sighed internally and gathered her handbag.

They began to make their way to the cloakroom. The repetitive disco music mutated into a slower, more romantic tempo. Norman knew this always signified that the party was drawing to its conclusion. He also knew that it was the signal for the figures on the dance floor to cease their gyrations, and to merge into passionate clinches with each other. All expect Harry Barret and his partner who had been clinching passionately for the past hour. Suddenly, Norman realised that, for the first time in the considerable number of years he had been attending the celebration, he had a potential partner for this climactic stage of the evening.

As they skirted carefully around the dance floor he stopped and said, 'I don't even know your name.'

'Linda.'

'Mine's Norman.'

Linda thought it might be.

'Would you care to dance?' Norman couldn't believe his boldness.

It appeared Linda couldn't either. This was something she hadn't bargained for. She glanced at the dance floor. Bare arms winding sinuously around bare necks, exploring hands fondling firm bottoms, chests crushed against yielding breasts, teeth hungrily nibbling ears and throats, tongues worming eagerly into receptive mouths. Seasonal goodwill displaying itself shamelessly everywhere. No, she could not face this; not with Norman Webb as her partner.

'I think I ought to be getting home. I promised my mum I wouldn't be out too late.'

Norman swallowed his disappointment. As they continued towards the cloakroom he acknowledged to himself that he wouldn't have known what to do with Linda on the dance floor anyway. Everyone made the ritual Christmas clinch seem so natural, but Norman knew he was no Harry Barret. Solicitously, he helped Linda on with her coat. 'Would you like me to phone for a taxi?' Norman believed he was being gallant. He knew how to treat a woman.

Again Linda hesitated. She didn't want to be beholding to him for the taxi fare and she didn't live far away. On the other hand, she didn't relish walking home alone with Norman, consequently, she agreed to the taxi.

While Norman went to telephone, the girl wondered if she should quickly make her escape. She would have the time to get clean away before his return. But what would she tell him when she saw him again? How would she explain? She wished she could be more decisive. As she was reflecting upon her lack of decisiveness, Norman re-appeared unexpectedly early.

'I'm afraid they're all booked up. It must be the time of year. We could start walking and see if we can flag one down if you like.'

She assented uneasily, and they stepped outside into the wintry night. A deep frost was beginning to bite hard, making the ground somewhat treacherous underfoot.

'I expect you don't know many people in the office?' Norman asked, as they began the walk towards Linda's home.

'Not really.'

'I don't suppose I know many really, and I've worked there thirteen years.'

'They seem a nice crowd. I suppose you have to get to know them.'

Norman couldn't agree with her sentiments. He had been trying to get to know them for a dozen Christmas parties. But then probably Linda would have more luck. Doubtless she would be on Harry Barret's list of prey next year.

'The tall man wearing the flowered shirt talked to me for a while.'

'Harry Barret?' It was uncanny.

'I think someone called him Harry.'

'You want to be careful with him.'

'I like him,' Linda replied. 'He made me laugh.'

Norman felt the surge of disappointment once again. He longed to share some of that intangible magic which makes women laugh openly with one, rather than secretly at one. Instead of being distributed evenly, it seemed to be unfairly reserved for the chosen few, of whom Harry Barret was undoubtedly one.

Norman silently cursed the unfairness of it all. Then he reflected, more optimistically, that Linda was with him at this moment and not with Harry Barret. he was wondering what he could do to preserve this unusual and gratifying state of affairs, when he slipped on the frost and almost fell.

'Be careful!' Linda couldn't help herself from reaching out to steady him.

It was many years since Norman had felt the warm, inviting touch of a female, and before he knew it Linda was encircled in his arms, his mouth feverishly seeking hers.

'No, please. Get off!'

'Just one kiss. I haven't had a kiss for such a long time. Please, Linda, just one kiss for Christmas.'

The girl tasted remnants of mushroom vol-au-vent and inhaled the smell of stale shandy as Norman's mouth descended upon hers.

Norman's second of pleasure was quickly superseded by a sharp pain on his ankle as Linda kicked him hard and accurately. Immediately, he released the girl and bent down to clutch his ankle, his spectacles slipping to the floor.

'What did you do that for?' he winced.

'I told you to leave me alone.'

'But, Linda, I thought you liked me?'

'Like you?' she gasped. 'You're horrible!'

Pain in his heart displaced the pain in his ankle as she fled across the road.

'Linda, please come back! I'm sorry. I only want someone to talk to.'

In his agitation Norman didn't appear to hear the sound of his spectacles shattering under his feet. Blindly, he pursued her into the road.

'Don't you understand?' he shouted. 'I'm lonely!'

Suddenly, headlights hurtled towards him, and his plea was lost as his body was tossed into the air. Linda turned to freeze in shock as Norman Webb came to rest in a pool of blood which seeped insidiously beneath her feet.

At the annual office party the following year the strobe lights dazzled again, the disco rhythms drummed once more and the dancers gyrated joyously. As ever the mushroom vol-au-vents remained largely uneaten. To the impartial observer it seemed to be a moment frozen in time, a place where eternity did indeed exist.

The popular, pretty girl from the typing pool had many admirers queuing up to dance with her. But, as she enjoyed the last waltz with the tall confident man in the flowered shirt, she could not help thinking back to her first, and the lonely philatelist's last, Christmas party.

Last Waltz

Their problems started the night the shit came through the letterbox. A great turd of dog shit posted through the letterbox like the evening newspaper. They expressed disgust, surprise and not a little fear, but they cleaned it up and tried to forget about it; dismissing it as just another example of a world rapidly becoming intimidating and incomprehensible to them. Rave party, rationalisation, text messaging, ecstasy, fertility treatment, net-surfing, satellite broadcasting, DNA testing, downsizing, deregulation, - just some of the innumerable terms that appeared to be English, but were not of that language they had known, had believed to be theirs.

They didn't go out so often now. Once or twice a week to the shops to collect their pensions and what passed for provisions. Edith's arthritis ensured that even these journeys were becoming an ordeal, and sometimes Percy had to go alone. Old Percy wasn't really senile but recently his mind had started to wander, often enviously back to the times when he was fully alive. He was beginning to find concentration difficult and sometimes forgot more than he remembered. He knew exactly what Edith needed when she sent him out. But, even when she gave him a list, it didn't always correspond with the items he brought back. It was as though an evil genie had spirited away her requirements and put frustration in their place.

Edith liked to go with her husband when she could, but her good days were becoming less frequent, and sometimes she feared the pain in her legs would never go away. When it was most intense and she could barely walk, she consoled herself with memories of ancient triumphs in local dance competitions; and also with thoughts that the world outside was alien and intimidating and that she desired no part of it. The present through the letterbox had served to confirm her belief and to demonstrate that the unwanted world was capable of intruding anyway.

Six days later they received another one. This time Edith wasn't so phlegmatic about it. Rather than being the indiscriminate victims of a one off piece of mischief, they appeared to have been deliberately targeted. Two evening's later another arrived and she became physically ill. There it lay on the same spot. Another huge dog turd; each one more repulsive than the last. Indeed, this latest was freshly unpleasant, as though it had been specially selected to cause the maximum mess and the utmost distress.

As Percy cleaned it up he resolved that something would have to be done this time. Even if they received no more, the stain on the hall carpet would be an indelible reminder. They couldn't afford a new carpet, and their optimism that the perpetrators would become bored and desist seemed a remote hope at present. Time was when they could waltz their troubles away, but now the world was playing a very different tune and they could not keep time with the rhythm.

He had just finished wiping away the violation when Edith asked, 'Why us, Percy?'

'We're here, aren't we?' he answered shortly.

Her husband's astringent answer did nothing to assuage the genuine incomprehension the old woman was experiencing. When she was young people did not do this kind of thing to one another. 'But why us?' she persisted. 'What have we ever done to them?'

Percy could not clarify such a modern conundrum. Instead he expressed his impotence. 'Wish I could get my hands on 'em, I do.'

'The filthy pigs. It'll never come out of the carpet. I don't understand them, I really don't.'

'Don't bother trying,' he advised. Having completed his disagreeable task, he went into the lounge and turned on the T.V., his sole medium of release.

Edith joined him, but the programme held no spell for her. 'Wonder if they've done it to anybody else?' she brooded. 'Go next door, Percy.'

'What for?'

'See if they've had any.'

'They won't have. Kids only do things like that to old folk. They won't do it to them next door.'

'They might have seen somebody though. Somebody running off.'

'Wouldn't tell us if they had. Might have been their kids that did it.'

She became insistent. 'Go and ask them, Percy. Ask them if they've seen anything.'

'Waste of time.'

As she looked at him, his attention consciously focused upon the screen and away from immediate problems, she saw his strength and energy, those virtues which had initially attracted her to him, fading perceptibly before her, to be replaced by a fatalistic indolence. His warm good humour had lately given way to a darkly sardonic inertia which the enigmatic modern world served to nurture like a pernicious gardener.

Still, she continued to insist he call next door; her peace of mind was at stake, she had to know whether they were suffering alone. Reluctantly, with much grumbling, he acquiesced to her wishes; otherwise his own peace would be permanently undermined.

*

Mrs Blackshaw was an intimidating, impatient woman in her late thirties, already sporting the unmistakable makings of a moustache. Surrounded by a brood of unpleasant brats and an indifferent husband, her life had not fulfilled the hopes of matrimonial bliss forecast in her teenage dreams, and almost twenty years later her mother's early warnings rang uncomfortably, but vividly, true.

'It's the kids,' Percy hesitantly replied in response to her demand to know what he wanted. 'Been putting dog muck through our letterbox they have.'

Percy was tall, but Mrs Blackshaw stood on her doorstep towering over him; an hirsute, angry Amazon. 'Well I can assure you, Mr Johnson, it's not mine. My kids wouldn't do anything like that.'

'We don't know who it is.'

'I know mine aren't angels, but they wouldn't do anything like that. Not to our neighbours.'

'Have you seen anything?'

'Like what?'

'Anybody running off? Suspicious like?'

'No, can't say I have. But then I've more to do than to sit looking through my window all day. Remember, we aren't retired like you and Mrs Johnson. I've got my family to see to. Charlie's tea to cook. He expects it on the table as soon as he gets home from work, you know. Six o' clock sharp.'

'Have you had any?'

'The kids have, but I always wait till Charlie gets home so we can eat together.'

'No, not tea.'

Mrs Blackshaw looked at the hesitant old man as though he were a bluebottle buzzing irritatingly around her kitchen. The coffin dodgers seemed to have plenty of time for babbling, but she was a busy woman. 'What you on about then?' she asked impatiently.

'Dog muck. Through your letterbox.'

'We get plenty of muck. Bills, junk, that sort of thing, but I can't say we've had any shit.' She was about to close the door, but then a new idea occurred to her. 'You sure you've had some, Mr Johnson? Not imagining it, are you?'

'Course I'm sure.' Percy knew he couldn't always remember things these days, but he was annoyed that she had doubted his integrity. 'Come and look at the mess it's made.'

'I'd rather not if, you don't mind, Mr Johnson, I've got Charlie's tea to see to.' She attempted to soften her non co-operation with a neighbourly inquiry. 'Missus keeping alright, is she?'

'Well, she's not been - '

'That's good, Mr Johnson,' she interrupted impatiently. Having done her duty she closed the door upon him and his nonsense.

*

When Percy returned home Edith questioned him about his visit.

'She says it's not their kids,' he sighed, settling himself once more into his favourite viewing pew.

'She would say that, wouldn't she?'

'And she hasn't seen nothing neither. Says she's got more to do than look through the window all day.'

Edith sniffed, 'She won't have one day.'

They fell silent; each wondering, worrying whether they would hear the sound of the letterbox foreshadowing another sickening delivery once again this night. The early evening news reported a violent attack on an eighty year old widow; the old woman's battered face looming large on the screen, hopefully serving to shame the perpetrators as well as to scare the vulnerable.

As the news eventually gave way to the weather, and its reports of squally showers, Edith felt the need to speak. 'Percy, remember when you used to take me dancing? Do you remember those times? You were a lovely dancer. We had some wonderful times. At the old Palais. Remember, Percy?'

His mouth seemed to tremor and he moved his head slightly as though he would deflect the recollection. 'Palais's not there anymore.'

'But don't you remember?'

He was silent; not wanting to admit to her that he did remember, unwilling to confess that he wished he didn't.

'Perhaps you should telephone Carol?' she suggested tentatively.

'What good will that do?'

'She might come over.'

He didn't answer, having little faith in their daughter.

'She might,' Edith insisted. 'If she thinks we need her.'

He picked up a newspaper and began scanning its pages. Assault, abduction, bribery, blackmail, mugging, murder, robbery, rape, - the sinister litany ran through the alphabet, dancing before his old eyes like a chilling chronicle of contemporary society.

Edith defended their daughter who hadn't been near them for years. 'You know how busy she is with her job.'

'Been busy for five years has she?'

Edith was startled; if it was true the ledger of her memory had indeed gone awry. 'Nay, Percy, it's never that long.'

'It don't matter how long it is, it's how long it seems.' He gripped the newspaper tightly, white knuckles reflecting his intensity.

'I could write to Gordon.'

He looked at her over the page. 'What for? He's not gonna come all the way from Australia just to see a dog turd.'

'They are our children, Percy.'

He knew that. He didn't need telling. He said, 'Write to them both. Tell 'em I've died. Only chance you'll get of seeing them again is when they come to hear my will. And they'll be disappointed with that 'an all.' He buried his head back in the newspaper, dismissing his children.

Edith expressed her horror at his sentiments, but what was worse, infinitely worse, was that deep within her heart she knew them to be true.

*

As they ate their evening meal next door, Mrs Blackshaw told her husband of their neighbour's visit. 'Had old Johnson round here earlier.'

'What's he want?' Charlie Blackshaw asked, shoving a large sausage into his mouth.

'Reckons kids have been putting dog shit through their letterbox. Told him it wasn't our lot.'

Charlie enthusiastically chewed his sausage, speaking with his mouth full. 'Daft old sod. Same when he was going on about that broken window. Reckon he's going senile.'

'Wanted me to go round and look at it. Just when I was cooking the tea 'an all.'

Digesting his sausage, Charlie drank his tea philosophically. 'I don't know. They get dafter at that age. No wonder they attract the kids. What with her sitting staring through the window all the bloody time.'

'Told him that. Told him I haven't got time to sit looking through my window all day long.'

'I reckon something ought to be done about them.'

'She reckons she's got bad legs. Can't get out. That's why she sits staring through the window all day.'

'Well,' Charlie suggested, scraping his plate clean, 'you'd have thought she's have seen who did it then, wouldn't you?'

Mrs Blackshaw looked at her husband, a sudden concern expressing itself on her face. 'Bit sad though isn't it, Charlie. D'ye reckon we'll get like that?'

He placed his knife and fork neatly on his plate. Still chewing the last of his food, he smiled at her reassuringly, his nicotine stained teeth soiled with fragments of sausage meat. 'Don't be daft, love!'

*

'I don't really know what you expect me to do, mother.' Carol Johnson a thirty six year old, successful advertising executive looked searchingly at her parents. She had driven seventy miles in answer to her mother's letter and she wasn't looking forward to the journey home on what was certain to be a busy motorway. 'Have you contacted the police?'

'We don't like to,' Edith replied.

'Why not?'

'They have so much to do these days.'

'That's what they're there for.'

'It ought to be the family's business to sort problems out.'

'For heaven's sake, mother! What do you expect me to do? Stay here for days sitting behind the letterbox?'

Carol continued to scrutinise her parents. Her mother appeared disappointed, her father indifferent. She decided sarcasm was uncalled for, however frustrating they may be. 'I've told you what to do,' she went on. 'Contact the police, the social services. That's what they are there for. Get on to the council. You pay your rent don't you?'

Edith tried to speak, but her daughter continued. 'Tell them you want a bungalow. A warden controlled one. You are entitled to it at your age.'

'Can't you go to them?'

'Really, mother, you know I haven't the time. I've just had a new commission. It's extremely important to me.'

'You can speak better than us. You know what to say.'

'I've told you what to say to them.'

'I can't get out much these days. And your dad doesn't know what to say.'

'I'm not daft,' Percy protested.

'I'm not saying you are, Percy. But Carol's been educated. She knows what to say to them.'

Percy felt he had stayed silent long enough. 'She's been educated alright. Educated not to bother about us.'

Carol was affronted. 'That's hardly fair, father. I have taken the trouble to come here. It is a long drive, you know.'

Percy looked at his daughter, wishing she would go and leave them alone. She would only raise Edith's false hopes of more frequent visits. He began to wish he hadn't posted Edith's letter. But a non response would also have hurt his wife. He felt he simply couldn't win. 'And when was the last time?' he asked. 'When was the last time you took the trouble, eh?'

'I have my work,' Carol replied defensively. 'I am under a lot of pressure at present.'

'And I had mine. I had mine, but I still took the trouble to bring you and Gordon up.'

Carol hesitated, vaguely aware that there was some truth in his statement. She attempted to suppress the impression. 'I don't think this is getting us very far, father. I've told you what to say.'

'Can't you write it down for him?' Edith asked.

'I don't need it writing down. I'm not an idiot.'

'You forget the groceries if I don't write them down,' she reminded him.

'I forget 'em when you do.'

Carol was becoming impatient. 'Why can't you go with him, mother?'

'You know I can't get about very well.'

'Perhaps you need to make the effort?'

'I've tried.'

'Get them to come here then.'

'We don't want to be a burden.'

Carol felt that she was being deliberately ensnared into a geriatric maze. 'But you don't mind being a burden to me?' It had slipped out before she knew it. 'I'm sorry, mother, I didn't mean to...'

Her apology was lost in the maze.

Her mother looked at her, her aged eyes blinking back their distress. 'Didn't you say you'd got an important commission?'

*

As Carol Johnson drove home she considered her career - advertising executive. An interesting, lucrative career, financed by fooling people. The problem with elderly parents is that they can't be fooled. They expect to be appreciated, reciprocated for what they've donated in the past. The trouble with such appreciation is that it takes time and effort. It isn't the same as valuing a painting. You can hang that on your wall and still go on holiday.

*

'Wife's got arthritis,' Percy explained to the bearded young man sporting the large, red framed spectacles. 'She can hardly walk sometimes.' He had taken his daughter's advice and approached the council about a designated senior citizens' dwelling.

The housing official assiduously noted all the relevant details. 'There is a considerable waiting list, Mr Johnson, but your application will be treated urgently.'

'She used to like me to take her dancing, did Edith.'

'That's a great pity, sir,' the man sympathised.

'Good dancer she was. We both were.'

'Indeed, sir.'

'Got a son and a daughter, but they don't come no near. Got a good job Carol has. Advertising executive. Don't know what she does, mind... Advertising executive.' Percy chewed the words over like he was experiencing uncertain reactions to an exotic dish tasted for the first time. 'Is it a good job?'

'I expect it is, Mr Johnson. I expect it's quite lucrative.'

'Ain't seen her for years till she come the other day. She soon went again. Pressure of work she said. Can't remember when we last saw him. He lives in Australia. I expect he's doing well 'an all.'

'It can be a problem when they live so far away and lead such busy lives, sir. Now about the excreta, I suggest - '

Percy interrupted him. 'I worked in the steelworks, me. Thirty eight year. That was a good job once.'

'Yes, I expect it was.'

The young man took off his spectacles, pulled out a handkerchief, exhaled on each of the lenses and began to polish them carefully. This task completed, and having given the old man what he believed to be enough breathing space, he replaced his spectacles and put the handkerchief back in his pocket. As he was about to speak, Percy observed, 'Them's fancy glasses. Pricey were they?'

The man smiled. 'They weren't cheap.' He looked expectantly at Percy, but the old man appeared to have finally dried up.

'Getting back to your complaint, sir. As I say, your application will be considered urgently. In the meantime, I suggest that you obtain evidence and contact the police with it.'

'Scrape the shit up?'

The official hesitated. 'Perhaps if you could catch one of them in the act?'

'I'm seventy nine. Still fit, but not like I used to be.'

'Perhaps you could get witnesses?'

'Neighbours don't bother, long as it don't affect them. They haven't got time to sit looking through the window all day.'

'That's unfortunate, sir.' The housing officer stoked his beard thoughtfully. 'Perhaps you could initiate a neighbourhood watch scheme?'

'Wish I was forty years younger, I'd show them.'

'Talk to others. Instil some community spirit.'

'Is it same as they have in prison then?'

Once more the official was taken aback by the old man's thought processes. 'What's that, Mr Johnson?'

'Them wardens.'

'Not exactly, sir. I think you'll find they are called warders.'

'Only sometimes it feels like we're in prison.'

The young man scratched his beard again. 'Have you contacted social services?'

'What will they do?'

'I expect they will send someone round to visit you, Mr Johnson.'

'Woman comes round sometimes.'

'Mrs Smith?'

'I expect that's her.'

'She isn't from social services. She's one of ours. Housing.'

'Don't reckon much to her. She's been and gone before you've time to spit.'

'Mrs Smith does have rather a lot of calls to make. Perhaps if you contacted social services or a voluntary organisation - Help the Aged, for example - they might send someone who could spend a little more time with you than Mrs Smith is able to spare.'

'We don't want no charity.'

'You mustn't look at it like that, Mr Johnson. In the meantime, if you go to the police they will doubtless increase patrols. They are really very good these days.'

'Third time it's happened in last fortnight,' Percy continued obliviously. 'Smell and stain on the carpet. And we had a broken window other week.'

'Community policing is the answer,' the man suggested. 'Ask to see your community police officer, Mr Johnson.'

'And the wife's got arthritis. Upsetting her summat chronic it is.'

'Has she seen her doctor? Perhaps he will prescribe something?'

'No good. We're still on N.H.S.'

The young man went on, 'Something for her nerves?'

'Ain't too clever myself these days. Can't remember things. I can remember things from years ago, but I can't remember the bloody shopping.'

'I understand that's a common symptom of the ageing process, sir.'

'It's bloody annoying.'

They fell silent. The council official began to wonder if the interview would ever end; he had done all he could for the time being and it was almost lunch time; it was now up to the social services department. Just as he was about to encourage Percy to leave by pointing him in their direction, the old man spoke again.

'Took them three days to repair the broken window.'

The official was on familiar territory here. 'Financial restraints I'm afraid, sir.'

'Ought to be a restraint on our rent I reckon.'

'We have to work under difficult circumstances these days, Mr Johnson.'

Percy hadn't grasped much of what the young man had been saying. He did not understand much about neighbourhood watch, community policing or voluntary organisations. He hadn't really noticed the official's genuine attempts to sympathise either. He had, however, picked up critically on his last remark. He leaned forward and spoke emphatically. 'We have to live under difficult circumstances, son.'

*

The old man arrived home somewhat out of temper. The bus had been crowded and he'd had to stand nearly all the way. He wouldn't have minded, but he had stood above three teenage girls who hadn't even thought to offer him a seat. Zealously chewing their gum, they had carelessly glanced up at him, grinned wilfully at each other and continued talking crudely and loudly about their boyfriends. Percy wondered why they weren't in school.

Edith greeted him eagerly as he settled himself in his armchair. 'What they say?'

'Nothing.'

'They must have said something. Did you ask them about a warden controlled bungalow? I bet you forgot to ask them.'

'Course I didn't.'

'What did they say then?'

'Put us on waiting list,' he answered wearily. The vision of the young man had imprinted itself indelibly upon Percy's memory. 'He was only a bit of a kid. Got a beard. Expect he thinks it makes him look older. He just looked scruffy. A big black beard and daft red glasses... And he spent all the time scratching it.'

'What did he say though? Did you tell him about our trouble?'

'Told him about the shit.'

A troubled expression clouded Edith's brow. 'You shouldn't have said that. You could have said it was vandals.'

'Doesn't he understand shit then?'

'You could have said it was vandals, Percy. No need to be crude. Showing yourself up like that, it's embarrassing.'

'You weren't there. Anyway, I can't help it if I don't talk proper. I can't help it if our Carol wouldn't go.' A sense of insufficiency began to seep inexorably into his soul, eroding his will to live as surely as the most unrelenting cancer. 'He was only a bit of a kid 'an all,' he repeated like a condoling curative.

Edith gazed at her husband, empathising with his feeling of inadequacy as though she were in part its author. 'I'm sorry, Percy. I know you do your best. What else did he say?'

'Oh, I don't know, Edith. It was all summat and nowt. Summat about neighbourhood watch. Community policing. Waiting lists. Wardens. Warders. It was like he was talking foreign.' Suddenly, he recalled the last irritating phrase. 'Financial restraints. Told him there ought to be a restraint on our rent. Told him that. He just smiled and scratched his beard.'

'I expect he can't help the rent, Percy.'

'Told him about your arthritis. Told him you used to like to go dancing 'an all.' Fan them as he might, the melancholy mists of his memory began to mesmerise his attention like a serpent seducing its prey. 'They don't know what dancing is today,' he sighed. 'Not real dancing.'

*

The following morning they awoke to be greeted by more than merely the mail lying at the foot of the front door. Once again Edith was sick and once again Percy scrubbed the filth away, finally deciding to go to the police station to report the violation. While he was gone and once she had recovered, Edith took the opportunity to write to Gordon. She knew that her husband wouldn't approve. Her earlier letter to Carol had brought their daughter to see them, but the visit had clearly been made unwillingly and hadn't been a success. Consequently, Edith didn't want Percy to know about her writing to their son. The message might be fruitless, (she didn't even know how she was going to post it without Percy's help); she didn't expect Gordon to travel all the way from Australia, (it would be a bonus if he simply replied), but it comforted the old woman to put pen to paper, it was a point of contact.

Suddenly she heard the door go. Her husband hadn't been as long as she had expected. She scrambled to hide the letter under some old photographs that she had also been examining.

As Percy entered the room he was peculiarly perceptive. 'What you hiding there?'

'Nothing. I'm just looking at some photographs. Remember this one, Percy?' Attempting to divert his attention, she showed him one of them dressed in their finery, triumphant in a ballroom competition. 'This was when we won the cup at the Palais. Remember?'

He didn't reply. Memories overwhelmed him into silence.

'Didn't we look smart?'

'Palais isn't there anymore, Edith,' he said, attempting to induce her into putting the photograph away.

'I know that, Percy. I can still look at my photographs though.'

He noticed the letter obstinately protruding beneath the pile of pictures. 'What's that you hiding?'

She attempted to prevent him looking at it, but he snatched it up, scanning it scornfully. 'You may as well write to the Queen!' He flung the letter down dismissively.

'I don't expect him to come over, Percy. But you never know. Carol came.'

'Did she?'

'You know she did.' Surely his memory wasn't that bad?

'I must have missed her when I blinked,' he replied, his contempt confirming that it wasn't.

'You know how busy she is. She told us.'

'Time she spent telling us she could have done summat to help. You've got to face it, Edith, she's not gonna put herself out for us. Nobody's gonna put themselves out for us. Police, neighbours, council, social workers. Nobody. Not even family. So you better get used to it.'

He seemed to delight in tugging away at the rug of her faith. 'I wish you wouldn't talk like that, Percy.'

'There's no other way to talk. I know I keep forgetting things, but I'm not that daft that I keep hoping for miracles. Don't you understand, woman?' he said intensely. 'Palais's not there anymore!'

She looked at him mournfully, the melancholy veracity of his statement dawning upon her like the unwanted early arrival of autumn. 'I'll put these photographs away then.'

As she stacked the cherished memories neatly into an old shoe box, she tried to act upbeat. 'What did the police say?'

'Not much. Same as that bloke down the council. Evidence. Neighbours. Increased patrols.'

'Aren't they sending somebody round?'

Percy's bewildered old brain tried to recall the message he'd been given at the police station. Eventually he said, 'Somebody called community prevention bobby's coming.'

'Oh, that's good,' Edith replied optimistically.

'Is it? I expect he'll only be a bit of kid.' Noticing her deflation, he added, 'Never mind, old girl, we'll soon be gone same way as the old Palais.'

*

Two days later the crime prevention officer, so mis-christened by Percy, had still not called, but the old man had been out shopping.

As he placed his purchases on the dining table, Edith struggled to her feet to examine them. 'You've brought plain digestive biscuits. You know I like chocolate.'

'Chocolate's bad for you.'

'Does it matter at my age?' She unwrapped a packet. 'And what's this? You've brought plain sausages. I wanted tomato. You know I wanted tomato.'

Percy stood helplessly aware of his failure. 'It's all sausage ain't it?'

'I wrote it down for you.'

'I can't help it, can I?'

'Why can't you concentrate?'

'Same reason as you can't walk I expect.'

She looked at him bitterly, cursing the fact that God couldn't have left one of them whole.

He tried to redress the reckless remark. 'I do try, Edith.'

She continued to stand in judgement of him, as he stood uncomfortably over the shopping, the testimonial to his insufficiency, like an apologetic schoolboy justifying a poor report to his parents. Suddenly, the iceberg of Edith's anger was perceptibly dissolved. She had married this man for better or worse, and her marriage vows were still sacred. 'We're a pair, aren't we?' she beamed sympathetically.

As they helped each other to put the shopping away there was a knock at the door. Wondering if it was the expected crime prevention officer, Percy went to answer the call.

He was confronted by a small young man carrying a suitcase. 'Good afternoon, sir. I wonder if you could spare a few minutes?'

Percy looked at him suspiciously. 'What d'ye want?'

'I'm on a community project.'

The word community struck a chord that echoed dimly in the dull caverns of Percy's consciousness. Hadn't both the council official and the police officer mentioned that word? 'You summat to do with the community bobby, then?'

'It's the community programme to help the long term unemployed. Here's my identification.' He flashed a card. 'May I come in for a few minutes?'

Influenced by the identification card coming on top of the comforting, familiar word community, Percy invited the youth in. 'Mind you,' he warned, 'we can't afford no fancy burglar alarms.'

They went through to the living room where Percy introduced the young man to his wife. 'Community prevention bobby, Edith.'

'Where's your uniform?'

The youth didn't follow the old woman.

'Won't scare the kids off in plain clothes,' she explained. 'They've got to see a uniform.'

Percy asked their visitor if he would like a cup of tea.

'Better not. I haven't much time. If you'd just like to see what I've got.'

As he began to open the suitcase Percy re-iterated the fact that they couldn't afford any expensive burglar alarms.

'I haven't got any burglar alarms.'

'What you got then?'

The youth turned the open suitcase towards them, proudly taking out his goods for inspection. 'Dusters. Window leathers. Furniture polish.'

'Dusters!' Percy spluttered.

'Yes,' the salesman replied, somewhat surprised at the old man's reaction. 'They're actually very good quality for the price.'

'No locks and chains?'

'I haven't had any call for them, but I suppose I could try - '

Edith interrupted, 'He don't look like a policeman, Percy.'

The young man looked at her in astonishment. 'I'm not a policeman.'

'Not a policeman?' Percy echoed.

'No, I've told you, I - '

'You said you was the community bobby.'

The visitor denied it, but Percy became insistent in his confusion. He didn't want to let Edith down again so soon after his failure with the shopping. 'You lied to get in here.'

'I didn't, I only - ' the youth began.

Edith was becoming agitated. Here was an uninvited agent from the outside world come to scatter his confusion. 'Make him go, Percy.'

'I think there's been some mistake.'

'He's come to rob us! Do something Percy!'

Alerted by his wife's anxiety and eager to amend his recent errors, Percy rushed into the kitchen, as the young man hastily began to push his wares back in their case. 'I've just got to get my things together else they'll stop my benefit. See, it's the community project scheme to help the long term unemployed.'

Terrified at being left alone with the stranger, Edith began to scream hysterically. The intruder, equally agitated, clumsily closed his case. 'Alright, alright! I'm going as fast as I can, Missus. I'm sorry about the misunder -'

Her husband, thinking she was being attacked, returned armed with a rolling pin, and the youth's apology was cut short with a single sharp crack to the skull. He slumped to the floor, his suitcase tumbling open, scattering cleaning clothes, dusters and furniture polish across the room.

The old couple stared down in disbelief as a bright yellow duster was rapidly stained red.

*

We believe we speak the same language, down the ever expanding generations, across the vast oceans of intellect. However, navigation is not natural; it requires imagination and confidence. But when imagination has been eroded by time and confidence cowed by fear, the fragile chains of communication are finally severed; then an innocent young man lies slumped in a pool of his own blood and an apprehensive old lady subsequently sits in a police station.

'The lad was bleeding quite a lot, mind. But how was we to know?'

The two policemen stared impassively at Edith across the desk.

'They shouldn't allow it,' she went on. 'Strangers coming to your door. You don't know who they are. What with the filth and the broken window. How was we to know?'

'Didn't he produce any identificatio?' the Sergeant asked.

Edith looked at him uncomprehending.

'To indicate who he was? You should always ask to see identification, Mrs Johnson.'

'Percy answered the door. I think he showed something. But what good's that? We didn't know him from Adam. Community programme, community policing. I'm sure I don't know what they're on about these days. I mean, we don't want to be a burden to anybody, but there always seems to be strangers coming to your door. And the folk you really want come no near.'

The Detective Inspector spoke, 'You say it was a rolling pin?'

'You don't want it when you're old,' she replied distracted. 'You'd sooner be left alone. The things you hear about. It's safer not to trust people when you get to our age.'

'Nevertheless, Mrs Johnson, your husband can't go around assaulting people with heavy objects.'

'It was in our home. We've lived there since we were first wed, you know.'

'That doesn't make any difference.'

'Percy's seventy nine.'

'It still doesn't give him the right.'

'He was protecting me.'

'Were you in danger?' the Sergeant enquired. 'You've already admitted that the lad wasn't threatening you.'

Edith gazed at the two grave faced fellows sitting opposite her. 'I remember when you could leave your doors open. Now even the policemen don't look like they used to.' She looked around the room as though trying to make sense of her situation.

There was an urgent knock at the door. The Sergeant went to answer it. Edith continued addressing the Inspector, seeking comfort in speech. 'We used to go dancing, you know. Proper dancing, not jumping about. We were good dancers, Percy and me. We won a cup once. A silver cup. Down the old Palais it was. Course the Palais isn't there anymore.' She looked into his eyes, soliciting for some connection. 'I expect you don't remember it?'

Hating his job, the detective gently shook his head.

'The Palais's gone and I can hardly walk these days. But I've still got the photograph.' Its monochrome memory floated into her mind's eye; a consoling angel descending from some antique Elysium, where the world was as ordered as the couples on the dance floor. 'Percy did look smart.' She allowed herself a brief, introspective smile.

Suddenly, the immediate awfulness before her banished the precious angel like an envious avenger, and the lines of anxiety were again incisively etched upon the ancient face.

'What will happen now?'

'Depends what charges are brought. How badly injured the lad is.' The Inspector looked at her gravely. 'I'm afraid he is critical, Mrs Johnson.'

'I hope they don't keep Percy long. I'm so frightened on my own.'

'I think we will have to keep him overnight. He isn't responding very well to questioning.'

'He's seventy nine.'

'So you've said. He does seem rather confused.'

'He has trouble remembering the shopping. But he wasn't always like this, you know. He used to be smart at one time. We both did.'

The policeman felt his hatred for his job burning fiercely within him. Woe betide the next criminal to cross his path. Suddenly, the old woman was speaking again.

'Can I see him?'

He banished his bitterness. Some cases were just impossibly messy. The next might be beautifully lucid; a villain and a victim, no more, no less. 'Best not just yet. Might be upsetting for you both. Have you got any relatives you could stay with for a few nights?'

'I've a son and a daughter,' Edith replied proudly.

'You can contact them later.'

'I don't want to be a burden to them.'

'I'm sure you won't be.' He offered her a reassuring smile. 'That's what family are for.'

His subordinate re-appeared at the door, a sombre expression upon his face. 'A word, Gov.'

Sensing what might well have happened, the Inspector rose promptly. 'Excuse me, Mrs Johnson.' He followed his colleague outside, closing the door beside him.

Left alone, Edith gazed anxiously round the impersonal interview room, searching for the answers to her situation and wondering where her beloved husband was. The beautiful waltz music sounded somewhere far off.

Suddenly the tune ended sharply, as though someone had spitefully scratched the stylus over the disc, and a uniformed police woman entered. She too appeared anxious. 'Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs Johnson?'

'That would be very nice. Thank you.'

'Milk and sugar?'

'Yes, thank you. And please, miss,' the old woman requested tentatively, 'I'd like to see my husband if I may. He'll be wondering where I've got to.'

'I'll speak to the Inspector.' The young constable gave Edith an unconvincing smile as she left the room.

The old woman's optimism began to rise; a nice cup of tea and a chat with Percy. The police would understand. The young lad would recover and they would be home in no time. The incident would draw attention to their problem and they would soon get that bungalow. It was funny, Edith thought, even the bad things often worked out for the best. Once more the waltz tune resumed its reassuring melody in the ballroom of her memory.

And on the other side of the door the young police woman stopped to clear away a tear, before quickly composing herself and impersonally resuming her duties.

