Engl2013 issu

ENGL

2013

Poetry, Prose and Drama from Students in the School of English, University of Leeds

CONTENTS PAGE

Eleanor Ford

from First Crossing of the Solent

3

from The Mermaid House

7

from Singular

13

from Hush Hush

17

from On the March

25

from A Modest Family

32

from Spectator

41

from 20mg Pansies

51

from That‘s Kind of You Brother

53

from The Amendment

59

from The Delft Thunder Clap

70

2nd-year Eng Lang. & Lit.

Mark Lightfoot 2nd-year Eng Lang. & Lit.

Simon Baker 2 -year Eng Lang. & Lit. (Euro) nd

Rachel Hetherington 2 -year Eng Lang. & Lit. nd

Niamh Deehan 2 -year Eng Lang. & Lit. nd

Helen Fanthorpe 2 -year Eng Lang. & Lit. nd

Francesca Specter 2 -year Eng Lang. & Lit. nd

Patrick Reynolds 2nd-year Eng Lang. & Lit. (Int)

Joe Kerridge 2nd-year Eng Lang. & Theatre Studies

Gregory O‘Hara 2 -year Eng Lang. & Theatre Studies nd

Daniel Boon 2 -year Eng Lang. & Lit. nd

Copyright remains with the authors. For permissions, please contact the School of English at the University of Leeds.

1

After you have seen the visiting art exhibition, there is nothing to hold on to except the memory and a few inadequate catalogue reproductions. Like the circus, it has moved elsewhere, leaving an impression on the mind like the ring of mud in a field where clowns tumbled and horses pranced.

—Dennis O’Driscoll (1954–2012)

With thanks to all of the 2013 Creative Writing students, the tumblers and prancers.

—Paul Maddern—

2

—ELEANOR FORD— from

FIRST CROSSING OF THE SOLENT

DADCU

He makes a new settlement at Llyswen, one final parish before retirement – a house on a curve of the golden Wye. The rolling lawn runs to the riverbank gathering crocuses in early spring and beyond the river a hill fort lies ruined where both hikers and Marcher kings have watched sundown over the Beacons.

But one year a tributary in his brain narrows and then bursts. Soon he is lost on a hospital ward, his words strange in his mouth. He chants soft undercurrents of psalms while I try to tell him my news; red kites are sweeping the valley again.

3

LYTTON AVENUE

She left her diamonds on the mantelpiece not thinking. They gleamed neatly in the lamp light, each facet bouncing prisms over her magnolia walls where Constable prints hung, heirlooms repeated across the vast sea of semis.

Two great armchairs all green leather and brass pins anchored the carpet.

She went to bed before midnight, drew the nets as silently as he broke the lock of this house in mourning, the panther thief who padded round then snuck back to the dark and left an ache in the empty groove of her finger.

4

READING ABOUT COLORADO ON GOOD FRIDAY

We come raising banners to mark the disturbance of spring and gather among the shrines rippling over waste ground.

Each mourner has come in this heat to bring a song heavy from their own chest.

Light catches in yesterday‘s flowers and last week‘s flowers, red cellophane under the sun a thin line of fire.

The hillside is crowned, sun dropping in the grieving city, in every hollow home.

Factories go on smoking great tremors of air and ash, false monuments in this newly wretched sky.

When all the white lilies are long pressed in the dirt who will come when we are gone?

And all our banners are torn away by birds returning to nest.

5

CECIL FIRTH WRITES AGAIN FROM JALO

Jalo, he says, is blossoming with pink oleander.

It looks extraordinary lingering as it does among the yellow stone.

The stuff is everywhere.

I went out yesterday cramming my pockets full and took the best to Jane but her hotel room already brimmed with it. ―I am tired of oleander,‖ she cried, and gave the flowers back.

In England the cherry trees on Coniston‘s shore drip with blossom too, dropping it out over green water to bathe with the algae.

One spring at Nibthwaite my father threw me in the lake hoping I would swim.

When I at last came up the petals gathered all around me in a strange cortege.

6

—MARK LIGHTFOOT— from THE MERMAID HOUSE

A BOY IN THE SHADOWS [EXTRACT] We walked along the hallway and into the lobby. The walls were crumbling and the floor was made up of black and white tiles displaying years of footprints and cigarette butts. The air carried an aroma of incense infused with cannabis smoke and body odour. On the wall was a yellowing poster of the old pier in all its former glory, with the caption ―White Town Something for Everyone‖. A doorway opened before us but appeared to lead into nothing but darkness. Before I could suggest that we leave, Scott called out. A sound emanated from the shadows in response. ―Hold on a minute.‖ An old man with thin white hair and thick black eyebrows appeared.

He was wearing a floral patterned shirt and holding a kitten in his arms.

Although he looked like he was in his seventies, he was broad and had clearly once been of a powerful build. ―Good evening, gentlemen. Do you mind if I ask how old you two are?‖ ―We're both nineteen,‖ Scott lied. ―I've been here before. My friend is here to see Heather.‖ The old man was put at ease by the fact that Scott knew the girl by name. ―I'm afraid Heather is busy at the moment. I can show you to some other girls if you want? Are you not after a girl yourself?‖ ―No, just my friend, ―Scott said. ―We'll wait for Heather if you don't mind. It has to be Heather you see.‖ The old man smirked and I could tell he had already warmed to Scott, as most people did. ―Well, that I can understand. She might be a while, mind. Take a seat, boys. If you'll excuse me, I'm just taking care of some business.‖ We sat down next to each other on a sofa. I tried to sink as deeply into it as I could. Scott cracked his knuckles. ―Scott, what are we going to do after we're done here?‖ I asked.

Scott shrugged, looking around the room. ―I dunno, man. Whatever you want. Go for a walk, have a drink. We can just go home if you like.‖ I contemplated this. ―No. I don't think I want to go home,‖ I replied. ―Alright, we'll go to a pub or a bar or something,‖ he said. ―Drinks on 7

me.‖ He patted my thigh and I nodded. Reaching into his shopping bag, he took out two bottles of beers. He opened the first with his teeth and passed it to me, then bit down on the second bottle and began to put pressure on it, before swearing. He put a finger in his mouth and pulled out a small chip of a tooth. He showed it to me, then used the other side of his jaw to successfully get the cap off. ―This place is grim,‖ I observed. ―What were you expecting, the red carpet rolled out for you?‖ Scott replied.

I smiled. ―Not quite. And how old were you when you first came to this place? You know, for your first time?‖ Scott looked confused. ―What? Oh no, man, my first time wasn't here.

I came here like a year ago with Dan Gilroy for his birthday, but my first time was before that, in year nine with Sally White. I told you I used to see her didn't I? Strange to think, now.‖ This was an unpleasant revelation. ―Oh right. I thought you had lost your virginity here. I thought that was what this was all about.‖ Scott turned to look at me. ―What? I didn't mean to give that impression. I'd already lost it.‖ I thought this over for a minute. I felt like I had been cheated and I was bitter. ―So, why…. Why are we here now?‖ The same look of confusion returned to Scott's face. ―Well, I thought you knew, Luke. We talked about it.‖ ―Yeah, we talked about it, but I mean....Well, this is a bit different now isn't it?‖ ―What's different?‖ he asked.

I sat in silence for a few seconds then made to leave. Scott pulled me back. ―What's wrong? Where are you going?‖ ―Is this what you think of me? That I'm so pathetic that this is how it has to happen?‖ ―No, man, not at all. I'm just trying to help you out.‖ ―This isn't helping me out. This is going to traumatise me for the rest of my life.‖ ―I told you,‖ he said, ―this is just something that's better to get over 8

and done with. You'll feel better about everything.‖ ―I can't believe I almost went through with this.‖ ―Luke, come on.‖ ―No, Scott. Am I just some kind of sick project for you?‖ ―Hey man, I helped you out. I stood up for you.‖ ―Yeah, you did and I'm grateful, but that doesn't give you license to drag me into this sordid little world of yours. ―This sordid little world of mine? Fuck you, Luke. Three months ago nobody knew who you were.‖ ―Yeah, well at least three months ago I could still look everyone around me in the eye.'

Scott could see the sincerity in my exasperation and relaxed somewhat. ―Luke, you've had a few drinks. Don't get aggressive. You'll only have to apologise tomorrow. Listen, just wait for the girl. After you've seen her, if you still don't want to go through with this, that's fine. I'll explain everything to her and we'll leave. We can go home or we can go somewhere else. But this girl – look at me, Luke – trust me, you've got to wait for this girl.‖

PRISONERS OF WAR ―Okay, that's enough. Get off.‖ I clambered off Mark and lay down beside him on the bed. He grabbed one of my bottles from the bedside table with his one good arm and took a deep gulp. ―Was that good?‖ I asked. ―Yeah,‖ he replied.

I leaned over, reached out for a cigarette and put it in my mouth.

Mark shot me a fierce look. ―Can you not wait for me to leave before you do that?‖ ―Oh, yeah, sure. Sorry.‖ I placed the cigarette back on the bedside table next to the green lamp that was lighting up the room. ―I didn't know it bothered you. You've never said anything before.‖ ―Yeah, well it does bother me.‖ ―Sorry, Mark. You should have told me before.‖ ―Well I'm telling you now.‖ I didn't say anything. Mark had become increasing irritable over the 9

past few months. I didn't know why and I didn't dare ask. When he had first started coming to the house I had found him so sweet. He had been so shy. He had been too nervous to do anything at first, so we had spoken for hours. He told me about his wife and the war and how everything had been taken away from him and he was never going to get it back. He told me about his childhood, how he had run away when he was sixteen and changed his name. I listened and he said I made him feel better. I didn't think I'd ever made anybody feel better.

Mark gathered up his clothes and began struggling to get his shirt back on. It was hard to watch. ―Do you need help?‖ I asked. ―I don't think you're in any position to be offering anybody help,‖ he snapped. He struggled some more then turned back at me. ―Don't you ever fucking ask me if I need help again, do you understand?‖ ―Okay. I'm sorry.‖ I knew Mark couldn't physically hurt me, but for some reason that made memore afraid. After several minutes he finally finished buttoning up his shirt. ―It's been a while since I last saw you Mark. You been busy?‖ I asked. ―Yeah, I've been busy,‖ he replied, his voice full of resentment. ―Busy doing what?‖ ―Busy trying to stay away from this place.‖ He fitted his arm through the jacket, which was far too big for him. ―When was the last time you came here? Must have been at least a fortnight ago.‖ ―I came two days ago.‖ ―Two days ago?‖ I let out a hollow laugh. ―No you didn't.‖ ―Yes, I did.‖ ―I think I'd remember, Mark. I don't drink that much.‖ Mark sighed impatiently. ―I came two days ago,‖ he repeated. ―You were busy so I went with some other girl.‖ Since he'd started coming to the house, he'd always asked to see me, never anybody else as far as I was aware. ―Which other girl?‖ I asked. ―I don't fucking know. Just some other girl.‖ I pulled myself across the bed, closer to him. ―Well, what did she look like?‖ Mark finished tightening the Victoria knot in his tie and looked down 10

at me on the bed. ―She looked like a whore.‖ He reached into the jacket packet, took some notes out of a battered leather wallet and began counting them. Then he grabbed my hand and shoved three twenties into it. ―Nice doing business with you,‖ he muttered. ―Mark, this is ten pounds too much,‖ I protested. ―Keep it. Just don't drink it all away.‖ ―When will I next see you?‖ I didn't get a response. He left and slammed the door behind him, trying to make sure nobody would open it again.

THE OLD MAN WHO GUARDS THE HOUSE The kinder I tried to be towards Claire, the more it unsettled her. She sat there for ten minutes, teary eyed and breathing heavily, mumbling in agreement. Most girls that came to me were distant, but I've rarely been made to feel as cruel as Claire made me feel. She sat in silence and let my words fill her with despair. All words came out threatening. I wanted to tell her I was as troubled as she was, that I would look after her, but it was no use. Kindness had no place in the Mermaid House. It only confused and angered people. I could see that to her I was just a seedy old man who'd found a new body to use up. And she was right. All I could do now was give her the keys and send her on her way. ―Your room will be number seven,‖ I told her, dropping the keys on the desk. ―Third on the left.‖ Claire remained motionless. I hated myself for thinking it, but she wore misery well. There was something breathtaking about her fragility.

With a fuller face and steadier hands she would lose her rarity. The burning had returned to my knuckles. Fucking old man. Only what I deserved for my sinister thoughts. Keep a hold of yourself. What would Mary think? ―Is there something more you want to talk about?‖ I asked.

Claire's stillness was difficult to watch. I started to wonder if she even knew where she was and what she was doing. All she seemed certain of was her own fear. I couldn't send her away like this. I would just let her sit. I would wait until she was ready. Cleo rubbed her back up against the leg of the table. She looked tired.

After a few minutes of silence, Claire stirred and became curious. She 11

inspected the lines on my face. I made sure not to return her look. The burning was still there, taking hold of me. The doctor had said it was arthritis and said he could prescribe something for the pain. But I didn't trust doctors. They did Mary no good: filled her with drugs until she didn't know who I was. I didn't need his sympathy and I didn't need his pills.

What's a man if he can't take a little pain? The pain was the only thing keeping me on my feet. ―I don't have any reason to hurt you, Claire,‖ I said. I wasn't looking at her but I sensed that she was not put at ease. ―I've never hurt anybody.‖ I paused for a second. ―Okay, that's not true. You can't get to my age without having hurt anybody. But I'm not going to hurt you.‖ Claire thought this over. I needed to be delicate with her. Delicate words, delicate actions. It would be so easy for somebody to be cruel to her and I sensed that people had been. I wanted her to feel safe. I wanted her to feel anything other than disgust. ―I'm sorry.‖ I said. ―I'm sorry you have to do this.‖ Silence again.

Stillness again. I thought of my boys upstairs. They weren't sinister. They were incapable of being sinister. And there I sat, incapable of a single kind word. ―I know the things you must think. A lot of it is probably true. But I want you to stop looking at me like you're terrified of what I'm going to do, because I'm not going to hurt you. I don't do this for some kind of kick. I do it for the same reasons you're here right now. Desperation.‖ Burning in my left knee now. I didn't understand why I was being punished when I was trying to be kind. ―Just take the keys and go,‖ I said.

Everybody always assumed the worst of me. My brother in law called me snake. I hadn't spoken to him in twenty years, but I'd been told he was alive and well. He had been a police officer. A noble profession my mother always used to say. He wasn't a bad person, but he thought I was scum. He said I had corrupted Mary. But I had provided for us both the only way I could. The burning wouldn't stop. ―Get out. Now!‖ Claire got up and left. She was so fragile. Somebody was going to hurt her, I was sure of it.

I turned the television back on. After ten minutes, the pain in my knee and knuckles gradually started to subside. Another ten and it had almost completely disappeared, but a different pain had replaced it.

12

—SIMON BAKER— from SINGULAR

ANNA'S HOUSE Robert stepped into the neat, bare porch and closed the door behind him.

The smell stung him: pine from the floor and the doors. It was an antiseptic smell that reminded him of the hospital. No more scented candles, no more dancing purple smoke. But there were still sooty shadows where they'd sat on the hallway shelf. He hadn't cleaned them. The rest of the wall was too cold and white, and the ceiling was too high.

He struggled out of his shoes and slung his jacket over the stairway banister. The clock on the mantelpiece clicked six as he stepped into the gloomy living room. The last light of the day squirmed through the slits between the curtains. He sank into one of the twin armchairs and closed his eyes, grateful for the silence of the empty house.

He woke up some time later, confused and in darkness. He sighed, shook his head, turned on the lamp by the chair, and glanced at the clock. Quarter past nine. He listened to the ticking for a long time.

At half past, he rose and crossed to the bookcase. He knelt down in front of it. It was a simple, cheap Ikea affair with birch veneer. Too narrow for the large room, and not particularly striking. But it was his altar.

He had not bought a single book, but he had read each one and they were worn-out. Spines were fractured and dust-jackets were grubby with fingerprints.

At one end of the bottom shelf, an exhausted copy of Les Misérables lay on its side. Robert eased it out and turned to the now-familiar message on the frontispiece:

For a miserable man. You're handsome when you're happy – smile!

A. Clumsy cursive: red as a network of blood vessels.

He closed and carefully replaced the book, then looked for his relic.

There it was, in the heart of the bookcase; a thin red wound between Lady 13

Chatterley's Lover and a heavy book of Kahlo paintings. He separated it from its neighbours and opened it. The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, by William Blake.

Sitting with it on the floor, he turned to Plate Three. Blake's letters curled like flames, while a naked, fiery androgyne hovered at the top of the page, its arms outstretched. Its golds and reds had faded to ash-greys and browns.

A larger, cruder version of Blake‘s image burned in a painting above the empty fireplace. In a fit of childish frustration, the artist had scribbled a throbbing dick on the creature before it was finished. Robert had rescued it, waited, and a few days later he had hung it there in the most elaborate frame he could find.

You always were a sarcastic git.

He remembered how she had jumped – had literally jumped – and how her pointed features had melted into mock-exasperation. He remembered that strange, wry smile and the sour way her lips tasted. And her unusual laugh; shrill, bird-like and not at all delicate.

Robert turned to the frontispiece. The same red ink. Neater.

If I wait for you to ask, it'll never be done. So here it is.

How about it?

Are you willing to put up with me?

A.

DOLDRUMS But what else could I do? How can you think properly when the life's being choked out of you, when blue spots flash in front of your eyes and your brain starts to shut down? Too far, I went too far. But would any other girl my age have acted any differently? It's not my fault! It was justified. I was only protecting myself. I can't hear what he's saying, and I can't see anything except for the road, and it goes on ahead as far as I can see, and there's nothing at the end of it. Nothing.

That painting sticks in my head, the one we saw in the museum in Montpellier. A weird abstract. Black slabs of paint caked on red, all sliced up by thin paint scratches.

14

I didn't think much of it then, but now it's all that I can see when I close my eyes. Black and red and pink. * * * * They drove through the evening in silence. Charlie couldn't talk anymore.

His hands were bone-white on the steering wheel. Hunger chipped away at him and he needed a wash, but there was nothing he could do about that now. No stopping until they were closer to the border, not until most of France had burned away behind them.

They had passed Fitou a while ago and were now creeping steadily through the confused farmland that was neither wholly French nor Spanish.

A sad concrete building flashed on their right; squat, white and of that exhausted Spanish character. The ceramic roofing had faded to fingernailpink, CHAMBRES D'HOTES painted on its front. Then the building sulked away again.

On either side of the road were palm trees and arid earth veined with crops. The land was divided neatly by ugly wire fences and pierced at intervals by skeletal pylons. They gleamed orange in the sun, which stared over the eastern bay; a mad, boiling eye.

Another hour or so and they'd reach the hills near Le Perthus, if he remembered correctly. They'd get rid of it there. No, then he'd get rid of it.

Even if it took longer to do, he couldn't ask Louise to help him with that.

It was in pieces anyway. It shouldn't be too difficult.

He glanced uneasily at his daughter. He had expected her to have fallen asleep, but she was awake and pale, her back soldier-straight. An ugly purple welt ballooned on her cheek, the same colour as her necklace of fingerprint bruises. A little blood crusted around her mouth, which hung open as if she were sleeping. Her arms were scabbed with soil and her nails were stained black.

He should have let her clean herself up properly before they left. It was too late now. People would think he had beaten her, or worse.

Their first holiday for years. The first time he'd actually seen her in years, and he let her down again. His wife had been right. He couldn't even look after himself, let alone another human being.

What would happen to Louise, in the end? She was only fifteen. Was she strong enough to cope with all of this? It was justified; that's what he 15

kept saying to her. She was only protecting herself. He had repeated it for his own benefit as much as hers. She stared ahead, like she saw something he couldn't. Then she coiled forward as if she was about to throw up. ―What's wrong? Do you want me to stop?‖ Louise glared at him and shrank away as if he was going to hit her.

She ossified, growing harder and whiter, and remained very still. Silent. * * * * It was eight o' clock in the evening. Here, close to the eastern coast, the Pyrenees were decaying; crouching old men compared with the proud young mountains of the west. Here, France and Spain bled into each other.

There was no other car in the landscape and the Ford Sierra shone oily black in the rotten air of this no-man's land. They snaked off the road and rattled to a stop. They were at the top of a slope that led into a thickly wooded valley.

Charlie got out without a word. Louise remained in her seat and watched him in the rear view mirror. The tendons on his neck stuck out, thick as rope and she saw him pause, steeling himself. He opened the boot and inhaled sharply. She could smell the contents from here.

The sound of his footsteps as he dragged heap after heap down into the valley. A dripping. Then digging. A heavy, wet slap, then more footsteps. It took several trips to get rid of all of it.

Something black. Something red. Something pink. That was all she could see.

16

—RACHEL HETHERINGTON— from HUSH HUSH

GOAT-GLANDED SCENE ONE – STUDIO NARRATION BEATRIX (VO): If only my voice hadn‟t disappeared. That extraordinary voice. Spectacular, if I do say so myself.

This was in December, 1927.

SCENE TWO – DOCTOR’S OFFICE BEATRIX’S VOICE IS RASPY. DOCTOR:

Good morning, Ms. Bell. More throat trouble?

BEATRIX:

Recently it hurts to talk and my voice sounds even more gravelly.

DOCTOR:

Well, at least it won‟t affect your films, huh?

(LAUGHS) Okay, let‟s have a look. Open wide. (BEAT) Okay…Yep…Yes, there‟s definitely some more damage here. Quite a bit of swelling too.

BEATRIX:

Is it anything permanent?

DOCTOR:

Hard to say for definite. It could just be from overuse.

So hold off on those talkies for now! (LAUGHS)

BEATRIX:

Okay. Thank-you, doctor.

SCENE THREE – STUDIO NARRATION BEATRIX (VO): In the space of two months, my voice had gradually deteriorated. Being the darling of the silent film world, it was a voice that so many dreamed of hearing. Now I was starting to think it would remain that way.

17

SCENE FOUR – BEATRIX’S HOUSE F/X

Sound of candlestick phone dialing

OPERATOR:

(D)Number, please.

BEATRIX:

Crestwood 428, please.

OPERATOR:

(D)Thank-you. One moment.(PAUSE) You‟re through.

BEATRIX:

Mother?

MOTHER:

(D)Hello? Bea-Bea? You still sound terrible, I thought you said you were better.

BEATRIX:

I will be soon, mother. The doctor said so.

MOTHER:

(D)Have you been going to church? You know that‟ll help you more than any doctors will.

BEATRIX:

I don‟t really have time. I‟m very busy.

MOTHER:

(D)She doesn‟t have time! You don‟t have time for Jesus? He‟ll have no time for your throat then. And you‟ll need it if you want in on those speakies.

BEATRIX:

Talkies, mother. And I‟ll just pray here if it means so much to you.

MOTHER:

(D)Good. Did you want anything? Because I have to go. Your sister‟s coming for dinner and bringing the kids. You‟re welcome to come, but I imagined you were too busy.

BEATRIX:

I was just checking in. Goodbye, mother.

F/X

Beatrix putting receiver down.

SCENE FIVE – STUDIO NARRATION BEATRIX (VO): I put off telling my agent, fearing the worst and determined to fight it. But in Hollywood, nothing stays 18

a secret for too long. I had to see him.

SCENE SIX – OFFICE RECEPTION SOUNDS OF THE OFFICE: TYPEWRITERS, PEOPLE CHATTING, A PHONE RINGING. SECRETARY:

(OFF)Beatrix Bell to see you. (BEAT) Alright. Mr Schulberg will be with you in a minute.

BEATRIX:

Thank-you.

SECRETARY:

Oh, good afternoon, Miss Harrison. Take a seat, I‟ll call you when he‟s ready.

GINNY:

Thanks!

BEATRIX:

Hello Ginny.

GINNY:

Oh, hi Bea! Sorry, I didn‟t see ya there. I heard about your throat, how is it?

BEATRIX:

Practically back to normal, I‟ll be fine by next week.

GINNY:

But it sounds terrible, Beatrix. Really, I‟m very sorry.

BEATRIX:

Honestly, I‟ll be fine. So, how are you?

GINNY:

I‟m so tired! I bet I look just awful. I barely get a rest, I‟m working so much. But you know what that‟s like, Bea. I bet you were the same when you first started out.

BEATRIX:

Yes.

SECRETARY:

He‟s ready for you now, Ms Bell.

BEATRIX:

Thank-you. Well, I‟ll see you Ginny.

GINNY:

Get well soon!

F/X

Heels walking across floorboards. A door closing.

19

SCENE SEVEN – RICH SCHULBERG’S OFFICE RICH:

Bea! Great to see ya! How are ya?

BEATRIX:

Fine thanks, Rich.

RICH:

You sound awful. Just awful. (PAUSE.) So, you see a doctor yet? What‟d he say?

BEATRIX:

He said it‟s not permanent. It‟ll be back to normal soon.

RICH:

I don‟t wanna hear soon, I wanna hear now. I‟ve got the perfect part for you. Blonde bombshell party girl Daisy LaFleur. Innocent secretary by day, leading men to their demise by night. You were born to play it.

BEATRIX:

I‟m brunette.

RICH:

Bea, it‟s a talkie.

BEATRIX:

(BEAT) Really? A full talkie? Not just half and half?

RICH:

No, none of this „goat-glanded‟ business. It‟s a full sound movie. (BEAT) Listen, when will you be better?

I need you to audition for the people at the studio, or the director‟s gonna give it to some up and coming kid with no clue.

BEATRIX:

No! Rich, honestly, I‟ll be fine. I‟m almost better now.

When‟s the audition?

RICH:

I‟ll call ya.

BEATRIX:

Thanks, Rich. Sincerely. You always look out for me.

F/X

Heels walking across floorboards. A door closing.

SCENE EIGHT – OFFICE RECEPTION SECRETARY:

(OFF) The new girl‟s here to see you, Mr Schulberg.

(BEAT) Alright.

He‟ll see you now.

20

GINNY:

Thanks!

F/X

A door closing.

RICH:

(OFF) Ginny! Great to see ya! Listen, I got the perfect part for you. Blonde bombshell party girl Daisy LaFleur. Innocent secretary by day, leading men to their demise by night. You were born to play it.

BEATRIX SIGHS AND WALKS AWAY.

SCENE NINE – AUDITION SPACE THE ROOM IS CROWDED AND NOISY. SEVERAL ACTORS ARE WARMING UP WITH VOCAL EXERCISES .

DIRECTOR:

Okay, let‟s quiet down in here please, people. Please, let‟s keep it down. Who‟s next? Aah, Beatrix Bell. Role of Daisy, I assume? Okay, I‟ll be reading the male parts, starting at the top of page 20. Here we go.

“What do you mean you have to go, Daisy?”

BEATRIX:

I have (COUGHS, SPLUTTERS) Sorry.

DIRECTOR:

It‟s okay, that‟s fine. We‟ll try again. “What do you mean you have to go, Daisy?”

BEATRIX:

(STRUGGLING FOR VOLUME) “I have an early start tomorrow, doll.”

DIRECTOR:

(BEAT)Okay. Do you wanna take a minute?

BEATRIX:

Yes please. I‟m so sorry.

DIRECTOR:

It‟s fine. Somebody get Ms. Bell a glass of water, please!

BEATRIX:

Thank you. I‟ll just be a minute. I‟m sorry.

DIRECTOR:

That‟s fine. Take all the time you need.

ACTOR :

Come on! We‟re bored stiff here!

DIRECTOR:

Who said that? Get out, whoever you are!

21

BEATRIX:

I‟m ready now.

DIRECTOR:

Okay, here we go. “What do you mean you have to go, Daisy?”

BEATRIX:

I just…

BEATRIX’S VOICE GETS CAUGHT IN HER THROAT, SHE HAS A COUGHING FIT

DIRECTOR:

Okay, let‟s stop there. (PAUSE.) Sorry, Ms. Bell, but this isn‟t going to work. I‟m a big fan and ordinarily I think you‟d be amazing for this part. You‟d be my first pick, I swear. But this character is flirtatious, vivacious.

She needs to draw men in with a coy whisper, not a death rattle.

BEATRIX:

I‟ll be better soon, I promise.

DIRECTOR:

I‟m genuinely sorry, Ms. Bell, I really am. But I just don‟t have the time.

SCENE TEN– STUDIO NARRATION BEATRIX (VO): I spent the next couple days in my house. I couldn‟t bear to leave. I didn‟t pick up the phone or answer the door. Just as I was beginning to convince myself I was being ridiculous, I got a letter from Rich.

RICH (VO):

(READING THE LETTER) Dear Bea, I‟m sorry to do this by letter, but I‟m swamped right now. I‟ve had the studios on my tail all week. I‟m afraid I‟ll have to drop you from the agency. The studios know you haven‟t worked in the last few months, which would be fine, but it‟s starting to look like this voice thing isn‟t going improve. And if you‟re not making them money, you have to go. I‟m sorry, Bea, it‟s out of my hands. Best of luck, and don‟t be a stranger. Rich Schulberg.

BEATRIX (VO): I was so angry. And I decided to call him right away.

22

SCENE ELEVEN – BEATRIX’S HOUSE F/X

Sound of candlestick phone dialing

OPERATOR:

(D) Number, please.

BEATRIX:

Hollywood, 598.

OPERATOR:

(D) Thank-you. One moment. (PAUSE) You‟re through.

SECRETARY:

Rich Schulberg‟s office.

BEATRIX:

It‟s Beatrix Bell, I‟d like to speak to Rich immediately.

SECRETARY:

Oh. (BEAT) Certainly, Ms. Bell. One moment, please.

F/X

Phone clicking, Rich picking up

RICH:

Bea, I told you, I‟m swamped, I can‟t talk right now.

BEATRIX:

I can‟t believe (SHE COUGHS; TRIES AGAIN) I can‟t believe you…

BEATRIX COUGHS VIOLENTLY , UNABLE TO SPEAK.

RICH:

There‟s nothing I can do for you any more, Beatrix. It‟s clearly not gonna work out. Move on!

F/X

Rich hangs up the phone. Beatrix cries.

SCENE TWELVE – STUDIO NARRATION BEATRIX (VO): I refused to let him beat me. So I formed a plan. I didn‟t speak for days, saving my voice. I sent letters and telegrams. I hired a girl to make my phone calls for me. Then, when I was sure my voice would last through a conversation, I went to see Rich.

SCENE THIRTEEN – RICH SCHULBERG’S OFFICE F/X

Door slamming.

23

RICH:

Beatrix, you can‟t just storm in here! You need an appointment!

SECRETARY:

I‟m sorry, Mr Schulberg! I couldn‟t stop her!

BEATRIX:

(HOARSE BUT AUDIBLE) I need to speak to you, Rich. I want you to know I‟m starting my own agency.

RICH:

(LAUGHS) What?! Don‟t be ridiculous, Bea. Just go back to beauty contests. Maybe you‟ll find one for the more mature lady.

BEATRIX:

I‟ve done it, Rich. And I‟ve already got two clients, and I bet they do better than any of your little girls in rouge and lipstick. I just wanted to let you know that you‟ll be hearing my name around soon. I‟ll be more successful as an agent in the talkies than I ever was as an actress in silent movies. Good day, Rich.

F/X

DOOR SLAMMING, BEATRIX STOPs. SHE GIGGLES AND WALKS AWAY. HER FOOTSTEPS FADE.

24

—NIAMH DEEHAN— from ON THE MARCH

ACT 1 [extract] INTERVIEW. Present day. ELIZABETH is stage left speaking on a mobile phone. A table and two chairs are next to her.

ELIZABETH: Yeah, I got it Jeremy. (Pause.) I know, I realise the last interview was bland. (Pause.) Well I‘m trying. (Pause.) These women committed criminal acts they‘re not just going to come out with the goods because I asked them to. (Pause.) I know, I realise. Don‘t worry.

I‘m going to push this one where it hurts. (Pause.) Just give me one last chance. I will find this story.

JANE enters stage left. ELIZABETH sees her and hangs up.

Hi, you must be Jane Tate!

JANE: I‘m so sorry I‘m late.

ELIZABETH: It‘s quite alright. Thank you for agreeing to join me.

JANE: (Nervous.) It‘s no problem. But I‘m really not sure how helpful I‘ll be.

ELIZABETH: Plenty helpful, I‘ sure! We want to get to the heart of the feminist movement. We want to hear your memories, what you got up to. (Pause.)All the little secrets! That all sound okay?

JANE: Well I‘m not sure how much I remember.

ELIZABETH: I‘m sure you remember plenty! So Miss Tate / JANE: Please, call me Jane.

ELIZABETH: Okay, Jane. Is it okay with you if I record the interview? Just relax, be yourself and try to speak clearly. Shall we begin?

JANE: Sure. Ready when you are.

ELIZABETH takes out a notepad and a recording device. She

presses the record button.

ELIZABETH: This Elizabeth Ross interviewing Jane Tate. Date 14th April 2013. Interview number 2 for ‗Women in the Women‘s Liberation 25

Movement in Leeds 1969-1979 Article‘. (Pause.) So Jane, tell us a little about yourself. You were at a student at the University of Leeds 19751977, is that correct?

JANE: Yes. It was there where I really became aware of women‘s liberation.

ELIZABETH: (Writing.) And what course were you studying?

JANE: English Literature.

ELIZABETH: So what drew you to English?

JANE: Well I‘ve always been fond of reading. (Pause.) And my parents approved. I could get a job teaching.

ELIZABETH: And is that what you wanted to be, a teacher?

JANE: Well, it‘s what I ended up doing.

ELIZABETH: But it‘s not what you wanted to do?

JANE: Oh don‘t get me wrong, I‘ve loved being a teacher. But if I had my time over, I think I‘d have tried to do something else. We just didn‘t have the opportunities women have now.

ELIZABETH: Trust me, we don‘t get that many now either. Was it limited opportunities that made you become active within this women‘s lib group?

JANE: (Amused.) To be honest, I think the group started because it was the thing to do. There was so much to complain about- it was brilliant!

ELIZABETH: So your group was situated outside of Leeds?

JANE: Yes. I lived near a village called Horseforth. A few of the local women got together to form our own group.

ELIZABETH: Right. And what were you called?

JANE: ‗Females First‘. Not the most inventive name, I know.

ELIZABETH: And what was being part of ‗Females First‘ like?

JANE: It was (Pause.) very invigorating.

ELIZABETH: Invigorating?

JANE: We were a small group, but that meant we ended up as thick as thieves.

ELIZABETH: I can imagine. What went on in these meetings?

JANE: Normally we‘d just have a cup of tea and discuss the issue of the week.

ELIZABETH: Cups of tea? (Disbelieving.) Very civilized. Not the revolutionary feminists I‘d imagined.

JANE: (Laughing.) Oh yes. We were always very civilized. Janet made sure of that.

26

ELIZABETH: Janet?

JANE: She was the boss.

Lights down on interview. JANE exits. Lights up centre stage.

FLASHBACK: 1977. SUSAN‘s living room. SUSAN, JANET, SHELIA, and DELIA are sitting around a coffee table. SUSAN is pouring tea and passing out sandwiches. 70s music plays.

JANET: Right, ladies. First, I would like to thank Susan (Gestures to SUSAN.) for letting us host our meetings at her house.

SUSAN: Thank you, Janet. You‘re all very welcome of course.

JANET: It‘s getting very difficult trying to organize our weekly meetings since the community centre kicked us out. Honestly, one disagreement and you‘re barred for life!

SHEILA: And they say women are the sensitive ones!

SUSAN: It‘s not a problem really, Sheila. My husband works nights on Fridays so I have the house to myself.

DELIA: It‘s still ridiculous though. It‘s our community centre!

SHEILA: I don‘t mind, Delia. I‘d rather have it at Susan‘s. It‘s warmer here and really the community centre‘s a bit of a shit hole.

SUSAN: Thanks. I think.

DELIA: But it‘s the principle. The men in our village are allowed to use it for their boxing or chess tournaments. But we can‘t hold our meetings there. And why? Because we‘re women!

SHEILA: I thought it was because we stink-bombed the caretaker after he called us dykes.

DELIA: Yes. But we wouldn‘t have had to do that if we weren‘t women.

JANET: Anyway ladies, let‘s not waste time. I‘ve put the kettle on, someone make the tea and we can get straight to business. (Pause.) Delia, where‘s Jane?

DELIA: She said she was staying late at university. She shouldn‘t be long though.

JANET: That girl will be late for her own funeral.

DELIA gets newspaper out of her bag. Behind them is a projection of

the front page.

DELIA: Did everyone see the paper? The ripper‘s murdered again. A sixteen 27

year old girl this time.

SUSAN: It‘s disgusting that the police haven‘t caught him yet.

SHEILA: They‘ll have to up the ante now.

SUSAN: True. The police will have to pay more attention now he‘s killed someone that‘s not a prostitute.

SHEILA: We could all be victims!

DELIA: Exactly! But there‘s a killer of women out there and we‘re sat drinking tea.

JANET: Ladies, a little hush please. It‘s not like we‘re going to march out onto the streets and singlehandedly find the man.

DELIA: Well why the hell not? Maybe if we were more proactive.

DELIA is interrupted by JANE entering.

JANET: Jane! About time!

SUSAN greets JANE. JANE: I‘m so sorry I‘m late.

JANET: You ought to be more punctual.

SUSAN: Don‘t worry, we know you‘ve got a lot on with your studies.

JANET: Now we‘re all here, shall we begin?

JANE: I was given this at University.

JANE produces a poster from her bag.

SHEILA: What is it?

JANET takes the poster from JANE. JANE: The women‘s group are trying to organize a nationwide march at night-time.

SHEILA: Why not during the day?

JANE: Well the whole point is to protest against violence against women, which typically happens at night. I think we should join in.

An image of the poster is projected behind the women.

JANET: (Reads the poster) ―The Leeds Revolutionary Feminist Group wants to hold a women-only midnight demonstration on the theme of 'every 28

woman has the right to walk alone at night without fear' and 'fight rape.' We want to hold ours in the Chapeltown area of Leeds where a Jack-the- Ripper type character has murdered several women... and to get as many women as possible on the march. We thought it would attract a lot more publicity and have more effect if women in as many different towns as possible all over Britain could demonstrate on the same night, which we have fixed for November 12th."

DELIA: That‘s a brilliant idea!

JANET: I‘m not so sure. As many towns as possible? It will be overcrowded.

What if things get out of hand? And realistically, what good are we actually going to do?

DELIA: A lot more than we will sitting here, Janet.

SHEILA: If we‘re out on the streets then nobody is going to kill or rape anyone are they?

SUSAN: I‘m not so sure either. Groups have proposed night marches countless times before and nothing has come of it. What if nobody comes and the whole thing is a flop?

SHEILA: The men would love that.

SUSAN: And where would we march? If we went anywhere near the Otley Road we‘d get heckled by the men in the pubs.

JANE: And that‘s why we have to do it!

DELIA: Jane‘s right. We shouldn‘t be intimidated. You‘re already scared by the thought of marching past drunk men – and you‘re standing in your living room!

JANE: I think we should do it. It‘s a chance for us to really get involved!

JANET: Alright. Ladies, let‘s take it to a vote.

DELIA: (Mutters.) How democratic.

JANET: All those in favor?

JANE & DELIA raise their hands. DELIA nudges SHEILA. SHEILA raises her hand. JANE, DELIA AND SHEILA stare at SUSAN. SUSAN

reluctantly raises her hand.

DELIA: Well I guess that‘s settled then. Looks like we‘re joining the March.

(Pause.) And I think we should try and get as many of the local women involved.

JANET: We might even attract more members to ‗Females First‘.

29

SHEILA: In this neck of the woods, we‘d be lucky.

SUSAN: If we got more members, they‘d have to give us the community centre back!

SHEILA: That would piss off that old fart of a caretaker.

JANET: Okay ladies. We need ideas on how we should recruit people to the march, and then we can persuade them to join ‗Females First‘?

DELIA: Make banners.

JANE: What about walking with candles?

DELIA: White candles.

JANE: And we will need a catchy chant.

DELIA: ‗Take back the night!‘ JANE: ‗Free women from the threat of violence!‘ DELIA: ‗Lock up the killers! Not us victims!‘ JANE: ‗March for your morals!‘ DELIA: ‗No more anxiety!‘ JANE: ‗Yes means yes. No means no!‘ DELIA: ‗No more rape!‘ JANE: ‗No curfews for women. Curfews for men!‘ SHEILA: ‗Women shouldn‘t have to stay indoors because of male intimidation and because the police can‘t catch a killer!‘

Everyone looks at SHEILA. SHEILA: No? DELIA: Not very catchy, is it, Shelia?

JANET: Alright Ladies. As thrilled as I am with almost all our ideas (Looks at SHEILA), we‘re getting a little ahead of ourselves. All that is brilliant for the march, but first, we need to decide how we‘re going to spread the word.

SHEILA: Maybe we should make invitations?

JANE: That‘s a little fancy.

DELIA: How about a pamphlet?

JANET: Good idea, Delia.

SUSAN: What would we put in it?

JANET: We will fill it with information about rape, domestic violence and night attacks. That should create a hype.

JANE: (Muttering.) Sounds delightful.

30

JANET: (Ignoring JANE.) It will get the message across, and women will start to ask about the march. (Pause.) Okay ladies, time to start! Delia and Jane, you two are on headlines. You have a flare for them. Susan, your job is to find out the stats. We need to educate women on how big a problem this is.

SHEILA: What about me, Janet? Give me anything.

JANET: Sheila. (Pause.) You can decide on the illustrations.

SHEILA: You mean the pictures?

JANET: (Sighs.) Yes, you can choose which pictures we put in the pamphlet, if any. Now let‘s get to work!

31

—HELEN FANTHORPE— from

A MODEST FAMILY

As the book opens and the Nazis approach the outskirts of Paris, the June skies are gorgeously bright; later, the narrative is rich with evocations of blossoms and trees heavy with fruit.

JOENSUU, FINLAND, 1918 Irène watched Lidiya through the gap in the bedroom door. Her mother was sitting at her dressing-table, her thin back arching as she leaned into her mirror. On one end of the table was a pair of Shabbat candlesticks; on the other were a few silver brooches, nail enamel, beet juice, and Vaseline.

Lidiya's face was white with powder. Her pursed lips were stained a dark red. She pencilled in thick, angular brows and applied Kohl around her eyes. She did not try to appear soft in any way. Irène imagined that she might have done, if she had been a kind mother.

Irène was sure that Lidiya had never wanted to be a mother at all.

Lidiya was always complaining that parenthood had ruined her figure and her looks. This was why she applied her cosmetic mask every day, and why she preyed on ever younger lovers. And now, however desperately Lidiya clung to her youth and beauty, Irène was a constant reminder of the passing of time. This was the reason that Irène was still expected to wear a schoolgirl's uniform, and why her hair hung in limp bunches, tied with blue gingham ribbons.

Lidiya looked towards the door. ―Irène is that you?‖ Irène tensed. The silence became increasingly disconcerting. She ran to her room.

Lidiya yelled after her, ―I know you told Leonid about Aleksander, and you will regret it.‖ Irène had not really meant to tell her father. She had started saying Aleksander's name before she quite remembered who she was talking to.

32

Besides, she did not feel guilty. Surely this was a risk Lidiya knowingly adopted when she began to entertain a line of lovers. Nor did she think that her father would be particularly upset. Lidiya was cruel and Leon was kind.

Irène imagined that her parents were held together, not by love or respect, but by hardship and grief. Together, they had cowered in that basement while blood spattered the streets of Moscow. Together they fled the Bolsheviks and made for Finland, leaving their jobs and friends and families.

The next morning Lidiya came up to Irène's room to reveal her punishment. Irène looked up from her book, Oscar Wilde's The Picture of

Dorian Gray. ―Marie's gone,‖ Lidiya said. ―I dismissed her last night. I've just had her belongings removed to the hotel where she'll be staying until she finds alternative employment.‖ And then she walked out.

Irene‘s governess, Marie, had raised her from the age of four, and Irène loved her more than anything. Marie had read all of Irène's stories.

She had not belittled them. Instead, she sat back in her chair and expressed her earnest opinion of the plot and characterisation. It was Marie who had taught her French with unwavering patience, and calmed her down after her first asthma attack. Irène tasted tears, but could not tell if they were tears of anger or sorrow.

Here was the exodus from Paris: villages invaded by exhausted, hungry women and children battling to find a place to sleep, if only a chair in a small country inn.

ISSY L-ÉVEQUE, 1942 The last letter Michel received from Irène was dated 'Thursday, 13 July, 1942'. In her letter composed the day before, she had written of eating blackcurrants and redcurrants at the police station in Toulon, and had requested her second pair of reading glasses be sent. Thursday's letter was short. She was leaving ‗for God knows where‘ and expressed her love for Michel and the girls, 'My dearest beloved, my cherished children'. Michel re-read the words 'courage and hope', written in Irène's tiny script near the 33

end of the letter. He had never doubted his wife's stoicism, but once again he felt proud of her. It couldn't be known quite how much courage and hope was to be required.

Three days later, Michel entered the dining room of their rented home. Julie had set the large oak dining table with three plates, three sets of cutlery, and three glasses. His two young daughters, Denise and Elizabeth, looked up at him. He could not help betraying his agitation.

'Julie,' he called, 'There are only three places set. Why? Where will Irène sit when she comes home?'

'But, Monsieur, I only thought...' Julie trailed off, averting her gaze.

'Please. Set her place, Julie.'

Every day that followed, Michel insisted that Irène's place was set.

Michel did not understand the full implications of Irène's deportation.

Nevertheless, the letter had alarmed him. Being a practical man, and with many influential friends, Michel began enquiring after her. He first contacted her publisher, Robert Esmenary. He knew nothing. Then he intensified his campaign. His immediate friends assisted willingly, and the appeal branched outwards. Letters and telegrams reached a French diplomat called Paul Morand, a Red Cross intermediary by the name of Lebrun, and even the German Ambassador, Otto Abetz.

Eventually, Michel received intelligence that his wife had been transported to a concentration camp, perhaps in Germany, Austria or Poland. He became unable to eat or sleep properly. His face was a map of distress; new worry-lines formed and he could not focus.

Forbidden by law to leave Issy-l'Évêque, Michel had time to torment himself with the injustice of Irène's arrest. He thought of his wife being forced to flee from the Bolsheviks in Russia; of the family's recent conversion to Catholicism; and of their children, Denise and Elizabeth, born in Paris and therefore French citizens. The tragic irony of the situation was not lost on Michel. Having lost to the Bolsheviks more than twenty years before, his family was now facing persecution by the very forces that had opposed the revolutionists. But Irène had three Jewish grandparents.

On 19 September 1942, Michael wrote a letter to André Sabatier, a friend of Irène's, and the Literary Director at her publishing house. Michael urged André to find out if he could take his wife's place at the labour camp, 34

adding that if this was not possible, to at least be taken to her so they might be together.

Cars piled high with furniture, mattresses and pots and pans, pets and precious jewels.

MOULINS, 1943 Colette made sure that the door was shut behind her. She paused before descending the uneven stone staircase to the basement. She felt the scar on her forehead; she needed to be careful. Reaching for the wall, she guided herself towards the second door. As she entered, Denise and Elizabeth looked up. They were huddled together under a coarse, woollen blanket, The Little Prince in Denise's hands. How their parents would have loved the sight of the sisters reading together so delightfully!

Her smile faded. She thought of the of man who sat each morning in the village square, drinking brandy, his eyes widening as he spoke of his sons. Just like the girls' parents, they had been arrested and taken to the camp at Pithiviers. Colette wondered whether what he said was true. Were Irène and Michel, along with the old man's children, never coming back? It was impossible to know what had become of her employers, but it was her responsibility to make sure that Denise and Elizabeth did not suffer a similar fate. ―Did you pack the suitcase like I asked?‖ Colette said. ―Yes,‖ replied Elizabeth. She grinned.

Denise put an arm around her younger sister and chuckled. But her laugh soon became a hollow cough. Her chest tightened and she rasped.

Colette went to her side and bent down, kneading her back. ―Sounds like a chest infection.‖ ―Is that bad?‖ asked Denise. ―You'll be alright. Now, put The Little Prince in the suitcase, too,‖ Colette said. ―Where are we going?‖ 35

―To stay with Mr. Sabatier in Lyon, remember? He's a friend of your mother's. Now: book; suitcase.‖ Denise placed The Little Prince at the bottom of the case so it would be safe. She kept her mother's leather-bound book there too. It was in this notebook that Denise had so often seen her mother writing, her lips pursed and brow furrowed. Denise covered the two books with clothes and shut the case.

The railway station at Moulins had only one platform. A hill rose behind the station-house, with a line of pine trees along its ridge. The peak was bathed in sunlight. Two young boys sat on the dusty ground by the entrance to the station-house, playing L' Attaque. The platform was almost empty. At the far end, a man and a woman stood arm in arm. He wore a grey cotton suit, she a black coat with a fur-lined collar. Her face was powdered, but she had a dirty smudge on her right cheek. Denise and Elizabeth thought she had been crying and moved closer to Colette.

The 16.10 to Lyon was packed, and people were hanging out the windows, some smoking, some waving, some expressionless. A kind gentleman opened the carriage door for Colette. She thanked him, and helped the children onto the train.

They were pulled into the crowded carriage. Colette put her arms around the girls protectively, and looked to a window, wishing they were closer to it. She already missed the fresh air.

The decent and humble help others, while a working woman weeps for the fall of Paris.

PARIS, 1972 ―This is it,‖ Elizabeth said, ―16 Avenue du President Wilson.

Apartment 4. Third Floor.‖ The street was wide and lined with broad sycamore trees. Large, 19th-Century Haussmann-style buildings lined both sides. There was a market at one end of the road. The stalls had green counters and white overhangs and sold bananas, oranges, nectarines, fresh herbs, snails, and 36

assorted pastries and cheeses. A group of tourists, trying to make a purchase, spoke in pidgin French before resorting to pointing at what they wanted.

Elizabeth pressed the doorbell and she and Denise waited. A tall man in a well-tailored suit appeared. ―You‘re here, you‘re here. How was your journey? Did you find the place okay? I‘m Pierre Matin. It‘s good to meet you both.‖ ―It's good to meet you too. I‘m Elizabeth.‖ ―And I‘m Denise. We spoke on the phone.‖ ―Ah yes. Well, come on up,‖ Pierre said.

The sisters shared a look as they entered their grandmother‘s living room. The ceiling was high and glass doors opened out onto the balcony, which overlooked the Jardins de Trocadero. Beyond, the Seine and the Eiffel Tower. A full-length gilded mirror hung on one wall. Next to it, a bookcase held a series of large leather-bound volumes, mainly in Russian. In the corner of the room was a chaise-lounge with delicate, turned legs. But its red upholstery had faded to a dull pink.

Pierre's expression changed. ―I‘m very sorry for your loss.‖ But when the women didn't respond, he continued tentatively, ―Although I gather you hadn‘t seen Lidiya Némirovsky for some time.‖ ―Not for ten years,‖ Elizabeth offered. She thought back to the moment a decade earlier when she had last seen her maternal grandmother.

She had arranged to meet Lidiya at the Café de Flore, under the pretence of being interested in an Ivanov painting that she was selling. They sat outside under a white parasol. And then Elizabeth had explained who she really was.

'I‘ve never heard of Irène Némirovsky!' the ferocious old lady had barked, before leaving the café without finishing her coffee.

It had been even longer since Denise had seen Lidiya. After the war, the girls had arrived at Lidiya‘s door. Back then, she had been living in a town-house, on a narrow, cobbled street in the old part of the Paris. Colette had bought them each a new dress for the occasion. Both garments were white, long-sleeved and knee-length. Elizabeth's had frills around the neckline; Denise's had a bow. It must have been cold, because Denise remembered shivering as they waited on the doorstep.

But Lidiya had not even come downstairs. Instead she had flung her head out of an upstairs window. Her dark hair swinging wildly about her face, she looked down at the girls and took a long draw on her cigarette.

37

'If your parents are dead, go to the orphanage!'

Their mother, Irène, had spoken of Lidiya in an unforgiving manner and there had never been any attempt at calling her ‗grandmamma‘ or ‗nana‘.

She had always been ‗Lidiya‘. So, it was with barely any sentimentality that Denise and Elizabeth approached the formalities of this woman‘s death. ―Well yes, that‘s quite a time,‖ Pierre said. ―In any case, she didn‘t make a will. We spoke about this over the phone, but you‘re her only surviving relatives, so it falls to you to decide what you want to do with her personal effects. I'll leave you, and return towards the end of the day.‖ ―Yes, I imagine it‘ll take a while.‖ Denise bowed her head slightly to acknowledge his departure. ―I wonder how she afforded this place,‖ Elizabeth said. ―Grandpa left her a lot of money,‖ Denise replied.

Elizabeth picked up a small, intricately patterned, Fabergé box from the top of the bookshelf. She opened it. ―I thought snuff went out of fashion centuries ago.‖ ―I think it did,‖ said Denise.

Elizabeth laughed. ―And where is the safe we've heard so much about? Maybe it contains the family riches.‖ ―I think it‘s over here,‖ Denise said.

She used the small key that Pierre had given her and removed the entire contents: two books. One had a salmon-coloured cover with a picture of a fat man's face painted in broad brush strokes. The image on the other depicted a slender woman, applying cosmetics at her dressing-table. The first was entitled David Golder, and the second, Jezebel. Both had the author‘s name in bold black lettering at the bottom: Irène Némirovsky.

Fragrant air and the sounds of birds, as well as a scene where a cat claws a bird to death, and stabs its tiny heart.

Lush beauty is the backdrop to dark events, and so is natural cruelty.

38

PARIS, 2001 Denise turned the large leather-bound notebook over in her hands. Tan coloured cracks had spread across the cover, so that the original brown was now mottled. This notebook had once belonged to her mother, Irène. For years now, Denise had wanted to look inside but she always ended up returning the book to its drawer in the dresser. Her sister had never managed to open it either. Simply having it in their possession was enough.

But two weeks ago, they had decided to donate the notebook to the Institut Mémoires de l'Édition Contemporaine, an organisation dedicated to documenting war-time memoirs. They both agreed that this was the best way to preserve their mother's diary. Now the decision had been made and the institute informed, Denise had to look inside it. It was unbearable to think of a museum employee reading her mother's story before she had. Her hands shook as she opened the artefact.

The pages were made of frail, onion-skin paper and were covered in minuscule, azure script, some underlined, some crossed out altogether.

Denise leafed through, scanning the mostly unintelligible scrawl. Names, dates and places jumped out at her: 'Monsieur Pericand', 'Jeanne Michaud', '30 June 1941', 'Nimes', 'the Angellier household', '22 June 1942', 'Benoit'.

Denise did not recognise any of them.

Then she turned the book sideways and began to read the notes in the margin: 'Stress the Michauds', 'When Hubert escapes from the prison, instead of describing the death of the hostages, it's the party at the Opera House I must show', 'Characters in order of appearance (as far as I can remember)...' Denise flicked towards the end of the notebook and found fully formed prose passages.

Finally, Denise looked at the inside cover. It contained her mother's name and address at the top: 'Irène Némirovsky', 'Eau de Vie, Rue de Toulon, Issy-l'Évêque, Bourgogne.' At the bottom of the page it read: 'possible title: Suite Français?'

Denise set the notebook on the table. Her throat was dry. Her hands still trembled slightly as she picked up her mobile and contacted Elizabeth. ―Hello?‖ ―Elizabeth it's Denise. It's not notes, and it's not a private diary. I think it's a novel.‖ 39

Deep within everyone's heart there always remains a sense of longing for that hour, that summer, that one brief moment of blossoming.

For several weeks or months, rarely longer, a beautiful young woman lives outside ordinary life.

She is intoxicated. She feels as if she exists beyond time, beyond its laws; she experiences not the monotonous succession of days passing by, but moments of intense, almost desperate happiness.

—Irène Némirovsky

40

—FRANCESCA SPECTER— from SPECTATOR

CAMARGO Paris, 1726. The stage curtain is closed. Rebel's 'Caractères de la Danse' plays. When the music ends, there is the sound of applause.

GILLOT enters in front of the curtain. He is 70 and walks with a cane. He starts to exit but a spotlight falls on him and he is startled.

He looks out over the audience and moves downstage to address them.

GILLOT: It was marvellous, wasn‘t it? Magnifique !

Gillot gestures with his free arm.

Parties every night into the early morning when you would stumble into the street. (Gillot adopts the manner of a drunken fop, turning playfully on his cane.) You would find your coachmen and say. ―My good monsieur! Ma bonne! Take me back home. Home? Heavens no!

Take me back to a few hours ago, if you would be so kind. And I‘ll do it all over again!‖ But I have a little weakness… (Gestures towards audience, as if inviting them to come closer) A penchant for …la fée

verte.

He laughs, wheezes, then continues with the same vigour.

The dancers: slender ladies from Belgium, Switzerland, England, dressed in their finery. All corsets and rouged cheeks. There were times when I would bribe Betty―half in love with me herself― to let me into the dressing room. Once, I was so close to a young mademoiselle that I … I choked on her hair starch. When I leapt out I almost startled her to death. She was not disposed to see the humour in the situation. Most unfortunate. I have heard young fops play such tricks all the time, and the dancers will just smile and chastise them a little. But it was a fabulous time. And now, in my twilight, I am admired by so many. Watteau, Lancret…you must have heard of them.

41

The most talented young artists in the whole of France. Of course, they learn form the best.

He bows, exaggeratedly.

And even now, a commission. From the Paris Opera House, home to the exquisite Mademoiselle Camargo. I will never forget the day she turned to me and whispered. (Imitating Camargo's speech)‖Monsieur,‖ she said, ―might you not shorten the hem of my tulle, just a little?‖ (Pause.) Camargo is a brilliant jeune femme, quite...distinct from the rest. She is very interested, she tells me, in my protégée, Nicolas Lancret. An unsightly fellow. But I don't doubt they will be courting by the end of the month.

He raises his cane, as if raising a toast.

These young people, rushing about Paris gulping life as if there isn‘t enough for everyone. I feel like I've lived 100 years already. And I should like to live 100 more.

He stares out over the audience.

To life! And long live Paris, still in its shining youth.

He exits, coughing and spluttering. ***** ―So, did you see the girl?‖ My tutor had an odd way of starting a conversation as if he was not really introducing a topic at all, but instead vocalising the second half of a discourse that had already been taking place in his head. On this particular occasion, I knew only too well who he was referring to. There had been whispers amongst Gillot's students that the old bluffer, renowned for his talents in costume-making, had been spending almost every night backstage at the Opera House. This post-performance encounter with an elated Gillot, who smelt of cosmetic vinegar, confirmed that the rumours were true. ―Nicolas,‖ he urged, a curl of cigar smoke escaping from his mouth. ―The pretty Belgian dancer? She was divine.‖

42

―Divine, you say? She caused uproar among the men with those legs.

Some might call it indecent.‖ ―I do not find fault with the costume,‖ I said. ―What use is it to watch a dancer if you cannot see the dancer‘s feet?‖ ―Exactly. Yes.‖ Satisfied with my answer, Gillot retreated back into his thoughts. He was a funny old man. Despite his attempts at discretion, I was aware – and I was not the only one – that he was partly culpable for the dress that had so daringly revealed Marie Camargo‘s white calves.

A door opened and the hall's buzz of conversation fell away. Marie Camargo had entered. Her light, artless gait was much softer than that which characterised her dancing on stage and she had changed into a more demure costume, which skimmed the floor. I forgot for a moment that this was the woman who had performed furious pique turns across the stage before leaping into the air and crossing those legs back and forth, back and forth, like a bee collecting pollen: l'entrechat quatres , my companion had whispered to me, a move traditionally reserved for male dancers. Now, pursued by every pair of eyes in the room, Camargo approached me. ―Monsieur Lancret, I have heard that you are a talented student of Monsieur Gillot. I wonder if you might wish to paint me‖.

Gillot loved to meddle. Now that he was approaching old age, I suppose he had become less determined in his hapless pursuit of his attractive young subjects. It was the reputation that he was after, anyway, and he gained that by association. He might have made a playful advance at Marie, at some point. In fact, I was almost sure of it. But over the past week, so he told me, he had, ―Put a little thought of you into her head, and she has spoken to me about nothing else since.‖ I doubted that this was entirely true. I imagined Marie Camargo could not admire anyone but herself, let alone a rather inconsequential artist. But she did seem amiable, in a way that flattered me. I couldn't deny it. Had I met her in different circumstances, I would have instinctively avoided her.

There was something about that level of vitality that scared me, like an open flame blazing rather too close to my face. But I had been persuaded, and now my imagination suggested a thrilling prospect.

As Gillot waved my carriage away, his smile creating spider web of lines across his face, I wondered if he was not living a little vicariously. ***** 43

―Drink?‖ She smiled in response, and at once I was fearful. Her teeth boasted hours of polishing with expensive tooth powder, but in the corners of her mouth she had jagged little incisors, which reminded me of a shark. ―What are you offering?‖ ―Tea? Or I could ask the maid to warm some chocolate? But as it is past midday, could I offer you some brandy.‖ Her face lit up, displaying the same predatory smile as before. I took the hint, and provided her with a generous measure. It was a rule of mine not to drink whilst I painted but Marie insisted that I pour myself a glass, to ‗keep her company‘.

We entered the studio, and I took my usual care to be hospitable. But, unlike all my other clients, she rejected my offer of a cushion, assuring me, despite my insistence, that she preferred a hard seat. ―I am the prima ballerina, not some fat duchess.‖ I hadn't talked to a ballerina before. But I was learning that they drank from midday and enjoyed being uncomfortable. The truth was, I wasn't sure what design I wanted for this painting. My subjects tended to be the fat duchesses that Marie disdained so much; rich, high-society women who paid well, so long as I did justice to their bosoms and omitted their jowls. ―You must find me devastatingly attractive.‖ I was caught off-guard. ―I'm sorry?‖ She laughed. ―Monsieur, I am used to admiring glances but no man has ever looked at me for so long when I am not on stage. I wonder what you think of me.‖ Avoiding the question, I said, ―I look at all my subjects this long. I like to be thorough.‖ ―But you haven't touched your canvas yet.‖ This was true. ―I'm still considering how to paint you. A portrait doesn't seem appropriate.‖ ―I thought you only ever did portraits.‖ ―Yes.‖ Her expression darkened. It seemed that I had offended her in some way. ―Do you regret agreeing to the project?‖ 44

―No, that's not it at all. The truth is you inspire me. It seems wrong to isolate you inside a portrait.‖ ―Where would you put me? On a stage?‖ That wasn't a bad idea. ***** I had sent Marie away, asking her to give me some time to think. Today had been entirely unsuccessful. Sitting in my cold, dim studio, on a peeling Windsor chair, she might as well have been a beggar from the street. The loveliness that captivated male audiences was gone.

Marie was a peacock, revealing her feathers for other people's benefit.

Without the feeling of eyes upon her, she withdrew to become a plain grey bird. Her raison d'être was spectacle.

Marie had been gone half an hour ago when I was roused from my thoughts by a knock on the door: five loud raps, and two quieter ones. It was Gillot, uninvited. ―Nicolas, my good boy! How are you?‖ The persistent rake.

He looked around my modest studio. ―Hard at work, I see! I don't doubt it! Yes ―‖ ―She's not here, Gillot.‖ ―She's not?‖ ―She left.‖ ―Well, how did it all go? Let's see it!‖ ―I haven't painted her yet.‖ ―Oh?‖ I told him what had happened. She had sat opposite me for an hour, sipping her brandy and later appropriating mine. But, throughout all this time, I didn't use so much as a tracing pencil. It was as if I was being asked to negotiate between the vision I had seen on the stage, and the mere mortal that my studio reduced her to. I didn't want to dissemble, to flatter her as I did all my older subjects. I wanted to stay faithful to what I saw when she danced, how it transformed her into this goddess. ―A goddess?‖ ―Well I'm speaking in dramatic terms, I know. But I have heard other men describe her in the same way.‖ 45

―Yes, yes, so have I. I suppose you've heard of Botticelli?‖ The connection didn't seem clear at first, but then it dawned on me: The Birth of Venus, with its pastoral setting; the goddess, admired from both sides; the Grace rushing in to cover her naked white form.

That night, I went to watch Marie dance. It was a small performance of 'Caractères'. Barely fifty of us attended, but she danced perfectly; apparently unaffected by the brandy she had gulped down earlier.

Everyone‘s' eyes were on her. She came alive when she was surrounded by admirers, confident in her performance but also somehow fuelled entirely by their gaze. ***** When the maid opened the door, there were peals of hysterical laughter coming from the drawing room. As I waited to be announced I heard Marie talking. ''She is so tall! Men say that it looks unsightly because her shoulders are larger than theirs! Off-stage, she is nothing, of course. Have you seen her teeth? They are all yellowing, and protrude at such an odd angle. And such strange features, eyes like a little rat. No, I cannot say why some find her handsome. I do not see it at all.‖ Here she paused for the maid‘s announcement of my arrival. ―Lancret? How delightful! Yes, let him call!‖ Marie was entertaining a companion I recognised from one of Gillot's

soirees. ―Nicolas, mon cher, do sit with us. You have heard of my friend, Mademoiselle Dove? Of course you have! I was just talking with Mademoiselle about the ballet last night.‖ ―Ah Monsieur, Marie has told me the most amusing things!‖ ―I have heard them already.‖ They looked at me blankly. ―While I waited, I couldn't help but overhear the description of your friend.‖ The laughter resumed. ―Our caricature of Mademoiselle Salle?‖ ―Indeed.‖ ―And what did you think?‖ 46

I was saved by Mademoiselle Dove's announcement that she had to leave. I had never met this woman before but in this moment I was grateful for the fuss she made in collecting her furs, agonising over the tying of her head-dress, and imploring 'mon ange Marie' to see her again soon.

However, despite the commotion, Marie has not forgotten the question. It had been waiting for me, coiled like a snake in the grass. ―So, what do you think of Mademoiselle Salle?‖ ―Well…. ‖ Her eyes narrowed. ―She is a talented dancer.‖ 'Where did you hear that?' Marie demanded.

'The Mercure de France was very complimentary. And I read she was a student under Prévost. Surely you must have trained together?'

The mention of Marie's former teacher served to irritate her further. ―I do not care to be associated with that hag, nor Monsieur Rich's favourite artiste ambulant.

She was angry. Spiteful. A vein on her forehead had become pronounced. I had never seen her like this before. I had known a lot of women to be jealous, but had never expected this weakness from Marie, the most talked about, revered and emulated ballerina in the country. ***** That night, I found myself attending Gillot's alone. For several months, I had rarely been seen in public without Marie, who, tonight, had wished for us to be apart. She still hadn't recovered from our argument earlier. Or, more precisely, her sensitivity matched my inability to say the right thing at the right time.

Gillot was happy to see me. ‗A bachelor tonight.‘ 'Marie felt—' 'Yes. Let me take your coat!'

He escorted me into the lounge and I felt relieved to be alone; inconspicuous as I entered a room. Marie always drew eyes towards her, and then the disparaging glance would fall on me. Tonight might even provide a welcome opportunity to speak to Gillot, if he stopped flitting about for a moment.

47

When I walked into Gillot's lounge without Marie I felt elated and free. I don't know whether I just wanted to spite her, but when I was introduced to Mademoiselle Salle I was struck with the unfairness of the assessment I had received earlier.

True, she wasn't beautiful. In that sense, Marie's jealousy was unfounded. But she was slender, with delicate, bird-like features. Her eyebrows, though they arched a little steeply, gave an appearance of someone much wiser than her years. More than this, she intrigued me with her modest demeanour; softly-spoken and reserved, although the whole party was discussing her reputed talent. She looked me in the eye with an earnest, unblinking gaze, and said, in a silvery voice, that she was glad to meet me.

No one had aroused my curiosity this much since Marie. ***** Her maid answered the door to me promptly enough, but her demeanour from that point suggested, unequivocally, that she had been instructed to conduct a sort of prelude to the anger that Marie was to direct at me.

I was then made to wait in the Marie's reception room. If she was Spartan with her own comfort, she certainly did not apply the same principles to her guests. But, instead of putting me at ease, the lavish chaise lounge and Savonnerie carpet overwhelmed me, just as Marie once had.

Twenty minutes later, I remained alone, as if awaiting a sentence at the Parlement. I had to admire her for this tenacity. The Marie I knew couldn't wait to emerge, to burst into a room as if from behind a red curtain. Not without amusement, I imagined her there, pacing about impatiently, counting out the minutes on her watch, fumbling with the fob.

The difficulty I faced was in determining exactly how truthful I should be. What she knew, certainly, was that I had escorted Mademoiselle Salle to Delalande's concert last week. She also knew that we had exchanged letters, because, the day she came to confront me, she had found me reading one. This did not help my cause.

But what was it that I wanted? It was only as I sat there, having returned like a loyal terrier to her lodgings, that I felt the impossibility of my situation. To apologise to her, to grovel, to beg, would entail compromising my dignity more than I could ever bear. And to what end?

48

I didn't love Marie. Yes, I enjoyed her beauty, and on stage she was enchanting. But what I had most relished about her company was the spectacle of having her on my arm. This was also true with Mademoiselle Salle. What is she doing, I could hear them say, with that penniless artist.

Quel dommage!

I don't think I could have answered them to their satisfaction. But I could at least satisfy my own curiosity. Marie loved me, I knew that much.

She loved me for the hours she spent under my gaze when I painted her.

But this was secondary to what I offered her; the pedestal she gained from standing next to me. Next to my dreary figure, she would shine even more in her furs and fame. She was back on stage once more, a goddess publicly condescending to her mortal lover.

At last, she came out. Deep in thought, I happened to be staring at the door as she entered, forcing me to quickly glance away in a way which seemed deferential. When I looked back up, she had already fixed her eyes on me. ―Alors,‖ she began, ―What is it that you have to say to me?‖ I had to escape. ―Mademoiselle,‖ I began, ―Thank you for sparing me your time, but the truth is, I merely wanted to see you one last time‖. I rose. ―And to wish you well. Au revoir.‖ She was aghast. I bowed and left the room, running as soon as I was out of sight. There was no sound of her as I descended the flight of stairs.

Still nothing as I walked out to the street. It was only when I reached the end of the street that a dull crunching noise caused me to turn around.

Lying in the gutter was the fractured remnants of that first portrait of her: the one that I could never perfect. ***** GILLOT enters and stands in front of the closed stage curtains. He is

76, and struggles to walk, even with his cane.

Gillot: Nicolas was a rascal. I never suspected what I was letting loose among the lovely young girls of Parisian society. A man who could lay claim to both of the great goddesses of the Paris Opera House. And who would have thought it, an ugly, unassuming fellow like him? I congratulate him for it. He even managed to wriggle his way back into 49

Mademoiselle Camargo's favour. They never courted again, of course, Camargo had become the mistress of Count Clermont, as these women often do. The purpose of their reunion – at least, on the surface – was for Nicolas to return to his one-time ambition of painting Marie. It was not a portrait this time. Instead, he painted her as the goddess Venus, surrounded by her admirers as she danced. And this time, we both agreed that his efforts were successful.

Gillot exits. After a short pause the curtain opens, revealing a tableaux vivant, enacting Lancret's painting: 'Mademoiselle de Camargo Dancing'.

50

—PATRICK REYNOLDS— from 20MG PANSIES JANI SCHOFIELD, AGED 7, VALENCIA, CA Jani curled up on the couch, rolled her eyes back and then shut them tight.

She was having a beach-party in Calalini; the mystical island that lay between the world of her parents‘ childproofed apartment and the world only Jani could see with its purple skies, magic animals and whispering trees. All of her best friends had come to join her: 24-Hours was showing off her new bathing-suit, Sunday was playing Tag with the other rats, 100Degrees was splashing about in the sea and, as always, Sycamore the catsinger was entertaining everybody with her best songs.

Overlooking the festivities on the hillside were the dark woods. 400 the cat and Wednesday the rat watched jealously from the trees as the others played. They hadn‘t been invited because they were bad friends that did bad things. 'The Worst Ones', Jani would call them. ―They‘re having far too much fun without us.‖ Wednesday said to 400. ―We should join them!‖ 400 replied enthusiastically. They remained out of sight to plot and scheme until the moment presented itself. Then, Wednesday ran out of the trees screeching and gnashing his teeth wildly to scare all of Jani‘s friends away. 400, meanwhile, pounced on Jani herself with his long, sharp claws. He dragged her straight back to the world of her parent‘s apartment where she'd first closed her eyes. She didn't dare run.

400 always found her again.

Unseen by anyone else, he marched her into the kitchen where Jani's Mom was making pasta and her baby brother sat playing happily on the floor with a new red-plastic choo-choo-train. The cat glanced across at a wax-crayon portrait of himself that was stuck to the fridge with magnetic orange letters that spelled out 'JANI.' He chuckled. 400 turned back to the two children, swiped at Jani‘s temples and hissed; ―Do it…hit. Hit! HIT!‖

51

CARE IN THE COMMUNITY I hadn't introduced myself before the woman at the door gave a not-sosubtle gesture and whispered, "She's in her room."

I despaired. Was I that obvious?

She ushered me inside and returned to the toddler in pink dungarees, who was running a stick across a xylophone‘s rainbow keys.

I called up the threadbare staircase. "Susie?"

A panda-eyed woman shuffled onto the landing. She held a bawling bundle of powder-blue blanket under her arm like a rugby-ball. As she descended, the bundle thudded against the banister‘s spindles , accompanying the crescendo of the toddler‘s xylophone.

"It won't stop crying," Susie said.

AURORA I scanned my iPod: Artist—Gabeen—Psychoanalysis—Play—Repeat. I stroked the wheel to full volume.

I unscrewed the jerry cans then hauled my duffel bag onto my shoulder and headed out the apartment, closing the front door slowly as a web of wires pulled tight behind me.

I drove my Hyundai up Potomac, along East 6th then on to Del Mar through the quiet midnight traffic. I parked in front of the towering neon sign: CENTURY 16. The line to get in was spilling out of the main-entrance, so I had time to drop my bag off by the fire escape at the side of the theatre before joining the other moviegoers, head down, hood up, hiding my comic-book haircut. I shuffled up to the boy in the booth, avoided his eyes, handed him the ticket I‘d bought the week before, and took back the stub. I sat on aisle seat H.21.

Pepsi Commercials—PG-13 Trailers—Warner Bros. Pictures—DC Comics. The surround-sound couldn‘t drown out the squeak of straws in dispense-drinks cups or the crunch of popcorn and candy. They were hypnotised by Hollywood and failed to notice the guy who had paid for the advanced screening but who, after just five minutes, decided to use the restroom.

I dragged my bag in from the fire escape and got changed: Black 52

Vest—Gloves—Gas-Mask—Glock.40—AR-15—Clips. I pushed back through the soft-close doors and marched towards the screen.

These were the ones who smiled weakly then looked away, the ones who ignored, the ones who said no. Silhouetted against Tom Hardy on a plane, I, Joker Jimmy-James, surveyed them, tossed the smoke grenade and began to spray lead into the shadowy faces. Easy. Like jet-washing dirt from a car. sisters dive beneath seats—one sleeps, the other puts pressure on a wound

53

—JOE

KERRIDGE—

from THAT‘S KIND OF YOU BROTHER

Scene 2 [extract]

Evening. MICHAEL and NATHAN are sitting either side of the kitchen table. LILY, is standing by the cheque at the downstage worktops. She wears a loose-knit jumper and tight jeans .Initially, she has her back to the men. Beside her is a travel bag.

LILY: Is this cheque for me?

PAUSE

You‘ve written a cheque out. It‘s here, on the counter. Is it for me?

PAUSE

Boys?

PAUSE

I love this paperweight. I‘m a passionate noticer of paperweights.

Where‘s it from? Do you know? In my house I‘m surrounded by paperweights. Did you buy it? Either of you? Maybe it was here before you. Maybe it was owned by one of your parents. Maybe it was their paperweight. In that case I shouldn‘t touch it. Should I? That‘s very – illicit. Is this cheque for me?

PAUSE

(Giggling) Am I making sound? Am I speaking aloud? Sometimes I think I must be mute – but unaware – somehow. Wouldn‘t that be awful? It would. I‘m accustomed to this. I‘ve been in this situation before with a couple of nice boys.

PAUSE

This paperweight is very beautiful. Tell your parents will you? Tell them I thought it was beautifully made. They have great taste. Their taste is very refined. In fact the whole room looks to have undergone a process of refinement. That‘s my opinion. (Laughing) Boys? Is this cheque for me?

54

PAUSE

I want to be sure that it‘s my money – before I put it in my purse and close the clasp. The clasp on this purse gives me a lot of trouble you see.

That‘s the reason. Often, when something goes in, I have a lot of trouble getting it out. Sometimes it‘s impossible. The item becomes irretrievable.

There‘ve been occasions when a friend of mine has given me something very precious and I‘ve had to tell them that the item is lost.

PAUSE

‗Darling, I‘m sorry, the ring you gave me is lost. I put it in my purse for safe keeping. I couldn‘t wear it. What would people think if they saw me wearing it? The ring is in the purse and I‘m sorry – darling, but I can‘t retrieve it. You‘ll have to leave it with me for the time being.‘ LILY laughs.

Michael? Is this cheque for me?

NATHAN: No. LILY: Who‘s it for?

MICHAEL: You. It‘s your payment.

LILY: Oh ok. I understand.

LILY takes the cheque from under the paperweight and puts it in

her purse. She picks up the paperweight and holds it.

Where are we? Can you tell me? I fell asleep on the train you see. Like a donut I fell asleep on the train and now I have no idea.

PAUSE

On the platform there was a sign that said Blackheath. Blackheath Station it said. But I‘ll tell you I went to school in Blackheath and this place is nothing like it. I don‘t recognize a single landmark if you can believe that. Not one. Perhaps I‘ve returned home.

PAUSE

Interesting that that should have happened. I thought I was on a northbound train. Not southbound. Northbound. Though it is lovely to 55

be here I do regret missing my interview this morning. Yes, I had an interview with a potential employer. A very wealthy man. Being here has prevented my being there you see. You understand? Michael?

Regrettably. Being here has inhibited my ability to give a good account of myself at this interview – which is in another location. It‘s very sad because I was on the precipice of a great advancement in my career.

PAUSE

I‘m feeling very tired. Do you mind if I take one of your seats?

MICHAEL: Take my seat.

LILY: Do you mind? I‘m feeling faint.

MICHAEL: Don‘t think about it.

MICHAEL stands and moves away from his seat. Still he moves with difficulty.

LILY: Thank you.

MICHAEL: It‘s fine.

NATHAN stands and moves away from his seat.

LILY:

I‘m sorry about the fuss.

MICHAEL sits in NATHAN‘s vacated seat.

MICHAEL: My pleasure.

NATHAN leans against the stage right worktop.

LILY:

(Laughing) Is it?

PAUSE

I need a drink.

LILY walks to the empty seat but does not sit down.

Do you entertain often?

MICHAEL: Sometimes.

LILY: (To NATHAN) Do you entertain?

PAUSE 56

NATHAN: No. LILY: How can that be?

LILY giggles.

NATHAN: I prefer to step out – rather than stay in.

LILY: Why's that?

PAUSE

(To MICHAEL.) Are you used to guests?

MICHAEL: Yes. LILY: (To NATHAN.) And you? Are you used to having guests in the house?

NATHAN: Not like my brother.

LILY: Why‘s that?

NATHAN: I‘m never here. If we have guests I never see them.

LILY: Really?

NATHAN: My work requires a great deal of my time.

LILY: Does it?

PAUSE

MICHAEL: NATHAN: MICHAEL: NATHAN: MICHAEL:

(To NATHAN) Tell her what you do.

She wouldn‘t know my work.

Don‘t be a git.

I‘m not.

She‘s a premier woman.

PAUSE

NATHAN: She doesn‘t move in the same circles as those who enjoy my work.

MICHAEL: Don‘t be rude.

NATHAN: I‘m not!

MICHAEL: Watch it!

NATHAN: Be quiet.

PAUSE

MICHAEL: (To LILY) My brother is a dress maker!

LILY: Is he?

57

MICHAEL: LILY: MICHAEL: LILY: MICHAEL: LILY: MICHAEL: LILY: MICHAEL:

Yes we‘re very proud.

Why didn‘t he say?

(To NATHAN) She wants to hear about your profession!

I wear dresses often.

You do? What do you think about that Nathan?

Yes I own a number of dresses.

Aint that a turn up.

I have a dress in my bag. I‘ll change into it if you‘d like.

(To NATHAN) Did you hear that? She has a dress in her bag!

She‘ll wear it she says!

LILY: It‘s no trouble. I‘ll wear it for you if you‘d like.

MICHAEL: You didn‘t imagine she‘d behave like this did you?

PAUSE

She behaves like a foreign dignitary.

PAUSE

Upon hearing the news of my brother‘s profession she announces that she‘ll change into one of his dresses! She must be of a certain standard to own an item of yours Nathan! You said that yourself! A number she says. She‘s put a fair wedge in your pocket over the years Nathan! (To LILY)You should thank her for the continued support of your brand! On the subject – we‘re very glad you could come tonight. Very glad! We‘re grateful aren‘t we Nathan?

LILY: It was no trouble.

MICHAEL: How was the journey?

LILY No trouble.

MICHAEL: Bearable?

LILY: Yes. MICHAEL: I am glad!

NATHAN: What was the weather like?

PAUSE

LILY sits in MICHAEL‘s vacated seat.

LILY:

Really wet and cold.

58

—GREGORY O‘HARA— from THE AMENDMENT

BASED ON A TRUE STORY [extracts]

FADE IN: INT. A UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS LECTURE THEATRE - DAY MADALYN MURRAY O’HAIR, a portly woman in her sixties, stands at a lectern addressing a room of students.

A card appears at the bottom of the screen: 1990 The card fades out.

MADALYN Let's take a quick show of hands. How many of you believe in God? A few STUDENTS raise their hands.

MADALYN (CONT’D) Okay so now we know who the crazies are.

The STUDENTS lower their hands. The others LAUGH. MADALYN (CONT’D) See, what you have to realise is that there is no Almighty Creator and certainly no Christ the Redeemer.

Everything about this socalled ‘spirit world’—the ghosts, ghouls and goblins— it's all the same kind of baloney. Quite frankly, anybody who believes in ANY of that is thick as pig shit.

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A few weak laughs from the STUDENTS. MADALYN (CONT’D) There's no Heaven and there’s no Hell. When people die, they die. Straight into the ground and BAM...

She hits the lectern with her fist. Some STUDENTS jump.

MADALYN (CONT’D) ...They’re worm food.

CUT TO: EXT. THE OUTBACK OF CAMP WOOD, TEXAS – DAY – FIVE YEARS LATER The beautiful landscape of Camp Wood, a grassy Eden framed by a mountain range. All is still and calm.

A card appears at the bottom of the screen: CAMP WOOD, TEXAS 1995 The card fades out: The peace is broken by first the sound then the sight of a battered Jeep Wagoneer tearing across the landscape, leaving a cloud of dust and smoke in its wake.

INT. THE WAGONEER - DAY DAVID WATERS: anxious and sweating. He is a shell of a man. His clothes are dirty and his hair is unkempt.

He looks to be murmuring to himself.

EXT. CAMP WOOD - DAY The pickup sails over the terrain before finally coming to a halt at a mound of bushes.

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DAVID kills the engine and it stops with a noise indicative of imminent mechanical failure.

INT. THE WAGONEER - DAY DAVID’S stares blankly into open space, both hands firmly gripping the wheel of the car. He seems unsure. Scared. He breaks out of his trance, opens the car door and steps out.

EXT. CAMP WOOD – DAY With a slight limp, DAVID walks around to the back of the pickup. We see just how skinny he is.

He unlocks and opens the car boot.

INT. WAGONEER (BOOT) - DAY The boot opens and DAVID reaches in, taking out a soil-encrusted spade. He closes the boot.

EXT. CAMP WOOD – DAY DAVID, carrying the spade, walks over to a patch of grass. He digs for a spell and then stops, the heat clearly unbearable. He looks up to the sun and winces, shielding his eyes. He takes a breath and continues to dig.

DISSOLVE TO: INT. POV IN THE GROUND – DAY - LATER In darkness, the view obscured by dirt, we hear the sound of DIGGING, gradually getting louder. A crack of sunlight appears and eventually all of the dirt is cleared. We see DAVID looking down into the pit, shovel in hand. Exhausted, he drops the shovel at his side.

EXT. CAMP WOOD – DAY 61

There is a mound of dirt beside the hole. DAVID opens the boot, drags out a large mass wrapped in bin liners, and carries it with great effort to the pit.

He drops it in unceremoniously.

He walks back over to the car and retrieves another bag, again dumping it into the pit. He walks back over to the car to retrieve the final bag.

INT. WAGONEER (THE BOOT) – DAY DAVID reaches in and struggles to lift the final bag.

He pulls the bag towards him, trying to roll instead of lift. The bag rolls out of the boot. We hear it hit the ground with a SLAP. He shuts the boot.

EXT. CAMP WOOD – DAY DAVID gets on his knees and begins to roll the bag towards the pit. He stops and reaches into his pocket to wipe the sweat, from first his brow, then his face.

He manoeuvres the bag to the edge of the pit. With an almighty burst of effort he shoves the bag and it tips into the hole.

INT. POV – INSIDE DAVID’S PIT – DAY We see DAVID and his shovel. The view is obscured as he piles dirt into the pit. Finally, with one last load, we are plunged into darkness. The sound of dirt being shovelled on continues.

CUT TO: INT. SAN ANTONIO EXPRESS BULLPEN – DAY – ONE WEEK LATER The hectic newspaper office. JOURNALISTS shouting and typing, and the steady ring of various phones.

A card fades in: 62

THE SAN ANTONIO EXPRESS, ONE WEEK LATER. The card fades out.

JOHN MACCORMACK: a veteran reporter nearing middle age. His tie is loose and his sleeves are rolled up.

He is surrounded by piles of paper and is looking intently at his computer screen.

His phone RINGS and without averting his gaze from the screen he presses the speaker button. It is his editor, JASON COOK. JASON (On speakerphone) JOHN, how’s it going?

JOHN continues to type while he is talking.

JOHN Not bad sir, just finishing that collision story.

JASON (On speakerphone) Good, good, glad to hear it.

Look, I’ve told you, you don’t have to call me sir.

JOHN ignores the comment.

JASON (CONT’D) (On speakerphone) Listen, have you seen the latest accounts just released from American Atheists?

JOHN I've not had a chance. Why, anything interesting?

JASON (On speakerphone) Check your e-mail.

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JOHN Okay, hang on a second.

John navigates to his e-mail account.

JASON (On speakerphone) Got it?

JOHN Erm, yep. Here we go.

John looks bewildered.

JASON knows what JOHN has spotted.

JASON (On speakerphone) See it?

JOHN nods incredulously as he talks.

JOHN Absolutely. Clear as day.

JASON Looks like this story’s back on. Can I get you to head this again?

JOHN I'll get on it. Right away.

JOHN hangs up and sits back in his chair. He takes a moment, clearly deep in thought. He then picks up the phone, dials, and waits for someone to answer. We hear no one on the other end as JOHN talks.

JOHN (Into phone) Hello? It’s JOHN. Yeh. Listen, I need you to dig out an old file. Remember that piece I wrote a while back about the O’Hair’s? (Pause.)

Well their tax records just 64

got released $600,000 missing. Missing. Vanished without a trace. Three people gone and over half a million dollars missing. (Pause.)

Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty fucking weird too! Can you be at mine tonight, around seven?(Pause.) Great. I’ll put on a chicken. Bye. He hangs up. After a beat, he begins to type.

FADE OUT: [* * * * *] INT. MADALYN'S KITCHEN - AFTERNOON MADALYN is preparing vegetables with ROBIN. There are TWO BLACK LABRADORS at their feet.

JON walks in and BOTH DOGS move over to greet him as he sits down at the kitchen table.

MADALYN Did you speak to Doctor Deakin?

JON Just off the phone. I'll pick up your description tomorrow morning. He also recommended you slow down on taking the ones you’ve already got.

MADALYN (Unconcerned) Well that's his job, to be cautious.

ROBIN Yeah I hate those health conscious doctors.

ROBIN and JON laugh.

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MADALYN We'll see if you're laughing when you're in the state I am.

JON What's for tea?

MADALYN Chicken and veg.

JON (Sarcastically) Exciting.

MADALYN throws a carrot at him.

MADALYN Next time it'll be the bird.

The DOOR BELL RINGS. MADALYN Who's that?

JON gets up to answer the door.

INT. MADALYN'S HALLWAY - AFTERNOON JON walks towards the door and we see someone on the other side.

JON opens the door to reveal DAVID. JON (Puzzled) DAVID right?

DAVID Yes. JON What can I do for you?

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DAVID Nothing.

DAVID punches JON in the nose and JON collapses.

The bang prompts the DOGS to run into the hall, followed by ROBIN. ROBIN JON? Are youShe spots DAVID. ROBIN (CONT’D) Good Go-!

MADALYN walks in.

MADALYN What's up? Oh! She sees DAVID standing over JON who is writhing in pain.

MADALYN (CONT’D) (To DAVID) What the HELL are you doing?!

DAVID Can I have a word?

FADE OUT: [* * * * *] INT. THE MACCORMACK'S DINING ROOM – NIGHT JOHN and his wife SARAH sit on opposite ends of a dining table, eating by candlelight. Both have a glass of wine. There is a record player in the corner PLAYING SOFT JAZZ. Three empty table places indicate that their children have gone to bed.

SARAH stops eating and lowers her cutlery. She looks straight down the table at JOHN who is still eating.

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SARAH I just don’t know what you expect me to say.

JOHN stops eating and, with a sigh, also puts his cutlery down.

JOHN Well, anything. Something.

Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know what to think myself.

SARAH You know you don’t have to do it.

JOHN But that’s just the problem.

I really believe I have to do it.

SARAH Well that can’t just be your reasoning. We can’t flip our lives upside down on a hunch.

JOHN It’s not a hunch! I’ve been working on this story for months and now we’re at a stage where we can start to mention names. Excuse me for being excited as to where this leads.

SARAH At the expense of our family?

Well excuse me for being sceptical! What’s it going to look like, me and the kids turning up at my mother’s?

‘Sorry, John’s scared a serial murderer is going to gut us like fish.’

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JOHN Well it wouldn’t take much for the old bat to hate me even more.

SARAH John, I just…

JOHN sees red.

JOHN I can’t believe you’re joking about this. Whether you like it or not, this is real. This is serious.

JOHN takes a breath and then a sip of wine. SARAH is stunned by the sudden outburst.

JOHN (CONT’D) I don’t have to print this indictment, but I want to.

The man should be locked up.

The two sit in silence. SARAH is about to talk.

JOHN (CONT’D) (Interrupting) You knew all this when we got married.

The track comes to an end. The needle moves onto the next track.

SARAH is still clearly shocked. JOHN picks up his cutlery and resumes eating.

SARAH (Subdued) How long for?

JOHN A week? Two? Just until it blows over.

SARAH stands up with her plate and moves from the table.

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—DANIEL BOON— from THE DELFT THUNDER CLAP

MORGEN Cornelis Soetens was making his weekly journey to the gunpowder magazine. He moved through Delft‘s October morning fog, ghosted by his red-cloaked partner and a servant. The servant held a letter in his left hand and a lantern in his right.

High above the city, the cast-metal bells of the Nieuwe Kerk tolled the hour. Carriages rattled down the streets; wheels scraped against stone.

The three men filed past the town hall and into the marketplace. Mothers ambled through the stalls with their daughters and maidservants, and traders‘ cries rang out: ―Fine brandy!‖ ―Choice cinnamon-water!‖ ―Fresh herrings! Sweet as sugar!‖ ―Keep your spirits high with raisins and prunes!‖ ―Fresh radishes!‖ ―Green herbs!‖ A baker waved his arms.―Hey, Cornelis! Don‘t look away, I know you heard me. How about some wheat-bread today? Your wife prefers it to that cheap rye you make her buy.‖ ―Not today, Pieter.‖ ―Come on, just two stuivers!‖ Cornelis dodged the baker and, at an ever quickening pace, led his companions towards the fringe of the market. They trailed behind him like a robe. He was in no particular hurry, but he hated the city on a Monday, when the market was so frantic.

His servant darted into the Flying Fox tavern to deliver the letter. The smell of tobacco smoke and stale beer oozed out of the door and Cornelis broke into a fit of coughing. He was about to rant to his partner when a drunkard stumbled into him, almost knocking him off his feet. Cornelis grimaced. The man‘s hair was soiled, his face peppered with boils, and his eyes were grey-glazed and bulbous. ―Get off me. Get away you damned insect.‖ The drunk staggered off down the alley, humming to himself.

The servant re-emerged. ―What took you so long? It was only one letter.‖ Cornelis dusted off his tunic and set off even quicker than before, hurrying along the 70

Voldersgracht. The men turned left on to the Verwersdijk, advancing in silence under the linden trees. Tradesmen‘s boats sailed past in the canal to their left, drawing towards the market, their decks loud with the merchants‘ shouts.

A group of children blocked the towpath. They were tearing up wet clods of earth and flinging them at the hulls of the boats. When they noticed the man in the red cloak they jeered, chanting ―Red, red, red!‖ and throwing pebbles at him.

The servant stepped in front. ―Get away or I‘ll fetch your parents.‖ The children shrieked and scuttled down an alley. ―It is simply appalling.‖ ―I know, Cornelis,‖ replied the man in the red cloak. ―How can the parents be so irresponsible?‖ ―They must work. And they don‘t have servants, like us.‖ The men continued to follow the street and the fog began to lift, allowing some sunlight through. As if he, too, was brightening, Cornelis stopped to examine a white vase on a window sill. It was painted with scrolling blue tulips caught in a yellow ray of light. To the rear of the house, he could hear a woman singing in the courtyard.

Ik zeg adieu, wij twee wij moeten scheiden, Tot op een nieuw zo wil ik troost verbeiden.

'T zij vreugd of pijn, 't zij vreugd of pijn Altoos wil ik Uw eigen zijn.

They reached the Doelenstraat, where the munitions were kept in a disused Clarisse convent; a walled enclosure hidden from the street. Forty-five tonnes of barrel-locked charcoal, sulphur, and saltpetre were crammed into its catacombs and cellars. The servant lit their lanterns. Cornelis unlocked the door while his colleague removed his cloak and folded it neatly. ―Hold this, do not allow a speck of dirt to spoil it,‖ the man ordered, passing it to the servant.

They lifted their lanterns high and descended the stairs.

Blue threads of sky unravelled. A seagull screeched from the top of the convent. Minutes passed. Clouds furled and unfurled, and then there was a wild blast.

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CRESCENDO Texel hears the distant crack of an iron-brittle cumulonimbus incus.

Amersfoort catches the lash of a wave as it strikes against a dijk; a whale‘s fluke thumping the black-blue of the sea.

A white-knuckled fist of air is gust-punched through Haarlem‘s straaten, knocking shop doors shut, jangling windowpanes like a zak of guilders.

Thunder claps crash through the fair in Den Haag and shards of glas rend open the lucht and pan-tiles smash into vuur-dust and a child‘s pinwheel sails into a gracht as visitors from Delft turn towards de klank of the Devil climbing out of the Earth.

NACHT A night-gust swept the city, raising phantoms of dust and splinters. ―Meneer, help…. Meneer, please.‖ Johannes stopped and turned. His torch weakened in the wind. Who was this woman, he wondered, waving her light at him? Could it be Nicolaes‘s teacher? No. Of course it wasn‘t. But whose voices were those, whispering in the alley? ―Quickly, please. My sister is trapped,‖ the woman cried.

He was not heartless; he wanted to assist this woman, but what about his son? It could not be helped. He would delay his search to help her. Nicolaes could be anywhere.

The woman took his hand, her grasp like silk. She drew him down the alley until they met with a group of people bright with torches.

Johannes stared at the scattered shards and slivers of timber, and rags of clothing caught on the barbs of the wreckage, haunting in the breeze. They are all poor, he thought, the people who live in these old wooden houses. ―Here, help us lift this,‖ grunted a man, one of three who were 72

crouching, their hands braced under the thickest rafter. Johannes passed his torch to the woman, Judith, who had asked for his help.

She fell under a spell when she caught his sea-blue eyes, forgetting the scene briefly. She acknowledged in them a certain tempest, common to them both. He was kind to help her without even a thought. But her poor sister was trapped. Thank the Lord that her children had not been with her, but were they to lose their mother at such a young age, crushed under this debris like a wildflower?

The men counted—Een, twee … drie—and raised the beam from the heap. Rubble slipped. Wood scraped. Their muscles burned as they heaved it out on to the street. This was repeated, beam by beam; each time the men dropping their burden with a collective gasp. The onlookers drew forwards, eager to see, and torch-light flickered over the scraps. ―I can see her,‖ Judith cried.

The sister was unearthed from the rubble, half-alive, coated in blood and dust. Johannes took his torch back from Judith and watched with joy and envy, seeing another attain what he himself so desperately hoped for.

Judith wept into her sister‘s breast, as she lay there on the cold ground. He had helped someone, but he did not feel any pleasure. Nicolaes was still out there, somewhere, and he could not find him. He left the group and followed the alley to its end.

He could hear a weak trickle of water in the canal to his right. All of the water in the canals had been blown high into the heavens by the blast, the gatekeeper had said. That had made it difficult to extinguish the fires.

On the other side of the street, two torches appeared and began to follow Johannes, floating through the darkness like a pair of will o‘ the wisps. They seemed to be whispering something to him: I can‘t hear you. * * * * The school had been destroyed and its remains were scattered on the Geerweg. The whole street had been reduced to a pile of dark geometry.

Waves of brick and stone prevented him from searching any further. The gatekeeper had said that the explosion took place in the morning. Nicolaes, along with twenty other children, had been killed instantly.

Or had they all been released from school? Lunch was at eleven o‘ clock each day. Could he have been dismissed before the collapse?

Oosteinde had not been affected; it was on the other side of the city— 73

Nicolaes could be at home right now, Johannes smiled, in front of the fire with their servant, safe and warm.

Light bloomed at the end of the street, where the Oude Kerk stood.

Perhaps they will know where my son is, Johannes thought. Clerks busied about the base of the church, dressed in white and black cloaks. There was light everywhere: from candles flickering over the rough coral brick of the church; from oil-lamps scattered about the square like constellations; from torches being rushed and waved through the air; and from lanterns swinging in the hands of churchmen. Johannes took a deep breath. What if his boy was here, amidst all of this wonderful light? How ecstatic he would be. He ran over to a clerk handing out prayer books beside the entrance of the church. ―Pardon meneer. Are there any schoolchildren here?‖ The man‘s blue eyes were bloodshot. Almost sixty years old, he had not seen such despair among the people since the great fire, twenty years ago. He saw the same despair in this man, whom he must disappoint.

Shaking his head, he managed a few, feeble words. ―No, my son, there are no schoolchildren here.‖ He turned and walked into the church.

A train of the wounded were being carried into the church to be treated by doctors. What was that white light around them, Johannes wondered; their souls? The light was so delicate, like glass. Johannes‘s heart leapt. ―I have to go,‖ he said wildly, aloud. A few heads turned towards the man—who was he?—as he sprinted into the darkness of the Voorstraat.

Johannes staggered. All around him, spirits danced along the street, on the walls, on the rooftops, in the canals, and on the bridges—each a blue flame.

What were these creatures? Nicolaes? Nicolaes. Nicolaes running and

smiling. ―My son,‖ he cried. But it was not him. He looked up to the sky and the ghosts followed, swooping over the street like spectral leaves in the wind. Johannes shut his eyes. He would not look at them. But the ghosts grew incandescent, lightning-white, crawling beneath his eyelids. ―Nicolaes.‖ Loose bricks had fallen on the street and Johannes tripped and fell.

His torch flew into the canal and the afterimages began to fade. ―My son,‖ he muttered. He rested his head on the cold stone. Wind 74

rocked the boughs of the trees. ****

―Papa, papa, watch me.‖ Their courtyard was bigger than most. White laundry dried in one corner, flapping in the breeze. Flowers stretched out of their beds towards the sun: tulips, hyacinths, lilies, irises, and wild roses. Each was arranged with their own kind, in separate families. Their various scents blended into a single, warm perfume. ―Papa!‖ ―I‘m watching.‖ The boy scattered his marbles over the grass and turned and grinned at his father.

The father stood under an elder tree, smiling back.

A VIEW OF DELFT AFTER THE EXPLOSION OF 1654 –Egbert van der Poel, 1654 he ran out of pigment (it is precious, after all).

Ultramarine glints from under latticed clouds; exposed outcrops of stone that will always remain. like a hand at eleven o‘ clock. They hulk on the horizon, with rust-light, and the Oude Kerk, crooked, Blue-grey silhouettes: the Nieuwe Kerk tinged and stare out at the frozen tide of wreckage. flayed into bone-wood. Couples sit on the bridge on the banks of the Styx. The trees were sheared, They whisper to one another—souls waiting They gaze at the dark water—a black mirror. watches the crowd linger around the crater ring. grieve for the dying blacksmith. The man in black A peasant yells at his father. Mother and child lug their loot like a fat king over the bridge. limp as a marionette, whilst two brothers bodies and rubble. Merchants lift up a woman EMPTIED of water, the canal bulges with bricks, 75

Since words are spoken by everyone, the custody of language is a sufficient responsibility in itself for a poet. To inscribe in language some hitherto unexpressed area of experience – to fill in some blank corner of the human canvas – is worthwhile; to speak the small truths that feed into the bigger Truth. Also, the aspiration of poetry is always towards the creation of something permanent in language: in our era of the disposable, the ephemeral, this is counter-cultural – as, indeed, is the fact that genuine poetry transcends the blinkered vision of the journalistic present; it inhabits the present, but it is also very much in dialogue with the inherited forms and the great voices of the past.

—Dennis O’Driscoll (1954–2012), in Troubled Thoughts, Majestic Dreams (Oldcastle, Gallery Press, 2001).

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THE SCHOOL OF ENGLISH THE UNIVERSITY OF LEEDS WOODHOUSE LANE LEEDS, LS2 9JT YORKSHIRE ENGLAND

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