Lucy in the Library

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Lucy and her brother Thomas were in the Library with their mother. This was a regular visit for them, especially during the school holidays, when they combined it with doing a bit of shopping in town.

Today was a bit different, though, because just inside the library entrance a group of people were sitting on chairs in a semi-circle. One of them, a man, was reading a story and the rest were listening to him. Just as Lucy and her family arrived he finished reading and a lady spotted them and asked if they would like to sit down and listen to the next story. Lucy’s mother thought that would be a good idea, so they found three empty chairs and joined the group of listeners.

The story was told by a grey-haired lady, but it was not the sort of story that Lucy usually read for herself or had read to her at bedtime. To be blunt she found it a bit boring, although most of the other people there seemed to be interested in it.

Lucy found it hard to catch the drift of where the story was going, but then the grey-haired lady mentioned that the main character had a dog. Lucy immediately thought about her own dog, Bonzer, who had had to stay at home when the three of them left to go shopping, much to his annoyance.

Lucy wondered what it must be like to be a dog who is trapped inside a house on his own when he would much rather be outside with the family, walking along the pavement and sniffing at everything he passed. She wondered if there was such a thing as a doggy fairy godmother who could grant three wishes to an abandoned dog, and what Bonzer’s three wishes would be. Maybe there was a canine version of Cinderella, in which a dog like Bonzer could ride in a golden carriage made out of dog biscuits and …

Lucy’s train of thought was interrupted by a polite round of applause as the grey-haired lady finished her story. Lucy caught sight of her brother, who had apparently just woken up from having nodded off, or maybe his mind had been wandering off just as hers had been.

“Come on”, said Lucy’s mother, “We need to find some books for you to borrow, then we must do our shopping before it gets too late”.

The three rose from their chairs and Lucy’s mother thanked the group leader and apologised for leaving after only one story.

“That’s fine”, said the group leader”. “Perhaps you’ll stop by for another one on your way out?”

“You never know”, said Lucy’s mother.

As the three of them made their way into the children’s section of the Library, Lucy tugged her mother’s arm and said, “Mummy, when we’re doing our shopping, do you think you could buy me a notebook and a pencil or two.”

“Of course we can”, said her mother. “Any particular reason?”

“It’s just that when that lady was reading her story I had another one going through my head and I want to jot down a few notes so that I don’t forget it. When we get home I’ll get on the computer and write it properly. Then I’ll tell you my bedtime story tonight instead of you telling me!”

“That’s brilliant”, said Lucy’s mother. “I’ll look forward to that.”

There was another tug on her arm. This time it was from Thomas. “Can you buy me a notebook too, please?” he said. “I’ve got a story in my head as well, and I’ll bet it’s not the same as Lucy’s!”

“OK”, said Lucy’s mother. “Two notebooks it is”.

She paused for a moment, then said, “As a matter of fact, I’ll think we’ll make that three!”

© John Welford

Ghost swap

Prologue

The ghosts should never have been allowed anywhere near the Internet, and certainly not the partner-swapping sites that seemed to fascinate them so much. It led to considerable confusion.

Scene 1. Elsinore Castle

Hamlet was enjoying a quiet evening cocoa when his mate Horatio turned up to tell him that there was a guy outside from Scotland who needed a quick word. “Show him in”, said Hamlet, “this could be interesting”.

When the swarthy bearded warrior was let in, he began straight away with: “Would you be Prince Hamlet by any chance?”

“I certainly am”, said Hamlet.

“Then perhaps you’d settle something that always puzzled me”, said the man. “You’re the Prince of Denmark, right? Son of the late King?”

“That’s right”.

“Then how come you’ve got a stupid name like Hamlet? Where I come from we noblemen are called things like ‘Thane of Glamis’ or ‘Thane of Lochaber’, like me. We take our names from important places. You’re not even a village, you’re a hamlet.”

“OK”, said Hamlet, “I’ve always wondered that myself. But maybe you could answer a question for me. What are you doing here in Elsinore? Do you want me to kill my uncle?”

“If not sure if that’s for me to say or not to say”, said Banquo. “I just wanted a change of scene that didn’t involve haggis in any shape of form. Can’t stand the stuff.”

“So what’s happening back at your place? Who’s putting the wind up Macbeth if you’re here? My dad?”

“Could be”, said Banquo. “But you’ll have to wait for Scene 2 to find that out”.

Scene 2. The Palace, Forres

The feast was in full swing when Macbeth spotted someone sitting in the wrong place at the table. Not only that, but they appeared to be in the wrong costume and the wrong century.

“According to the script”, he hissed, “you should be the ghost of Banquo. But, because I’ve cheated and already read Scene 1, I know that he’s at Elsinore. But you don’t look much like Hamlet’s father to me.”

“That”, said the apparition, “is because I’m the ghost of Julius Caesar. I’m here because I always wanted to say the immortal line ‘and you, you brute’ in the wrong play. And now I have.”

Scene 3. Near Philippi

Brutus was expecting a ghostly visitation on the eve of battle, but only one. What he got was a committee, some of whom were wearing crowns and one of whom was a woman.

“Who the hell are you lot?” he asked.

“I’m King Henry VI” said the ghost of King Henry VI. “We represent the victims of King Richard III. I’m sorry about the Duke of Clarence – he’s still pi-eyed from all that malmsey he was drowned in.”

“I’m none the wiser”, said Brutus. “I’ve never heard of any of you”.

“That’s because we’re from nearly fifteen centuries into your future and from a country that your mate Julius tried to invade but didn’t quite manage. The original idea was that we would tell Richard that he was about to die in battle, but seeing as the same applies to you anyway, we’ll do just as well”.

“Well, I suppose that’s fair enough”, said Brutus.

“By the way”, said Henry, “I don’t suppose you’ve bumped into the ghost of Hamlet’s father anywhere, have you? We’ve sort of lost him.”

“No, sorry”, said Brutus.

The ghost of Lord Hastings, who used to have a castle at Ashby and therefore knew the area quite well, suggested that Hamlet’s dad might have gone to the wrong battlefield near Market Bosworth, as so many had done over the centuries.

“The thing that worries me”, said Brutus, “is I don’t see the writer can possibly end this story with a decent punch line. Do you think he can?”

“Not a ghost of a chance”, said Henry.

© John Welford

Immediate response

(With apologies to William Shakespeare)

It is not generally appreciated that Horatio, Hamlet’s friend, had quite a profitable sideline as a driving instructor and examiner, so it was no great surprise when he found Hamlet sitting next to him ready to take his test.

“So why do you want to be a driver?” asked Horatio. “As a prince, surely you can be driven anywhere you want? You don’t need to get behind the wheel yourself”.

“All sorts of reasons”, said Hamlet. “I want to take Ophelia to a nunnery for one thing, and I have this idea about driving to northern France and especially going straight through Arras without stopping. It’s a sort of private joke I’ve got with Polonius”.

“I see,” said Horatio. “We’d better get on with the test, then.”

Things went reasonably well as the test proceeded, although Hamlet did have a bit of a problem with the three point turn. Only making three points seemed to be quite beyond him as he entered into every possible aspect of the problem to hand, and the eventual 78 point turn did not earn him a very high mark.

“I want to you make the emergency stop next”, said Horatio. “When I slap my hand on the dashboard I want your immediate response and a safe, controlled stop.”

“You want me to stop?” asked Hamlet.

“That’s the idea”, said Horatio. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“To stop or not to stop, that is the question”, said Hamlet.

“There’s no question about it”, said Horatio. “If you want to pass this test, you’d better stop when I tell you to.”

Needless to say, Hamlet did not stop when Horatio slapped the dashboard. He did not do so the second time Horatio gave the signal either, or the third. However, when Horatio was least expecting it, as they were sliding round a sharp left-hand bend going far too fast, Hamlet duly applied the brakes with full force. The car slid across the road, hit two parked cars on the other side then bounced back and collected an unfortunate cyclist who flew through the air and landed on the road, head first.

Horatio and Hamlet jumped out of the car and ran to his aid, but it was clearly too late. There could be little doubt that the man had breathed his last. Hamlet suddenly realised that he knew who he was.

“Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.”

“Well, he’s not jesting much now, is he?” said Horatio. “And I don’t much fancy your chances when the Police turn up, which will be in about three minutes flat.”

A sudden thought crossed Hamlet’s mind. “About the test …” he said.

“What about it?” said Horatio.

“Have I passed or have I not passed? That is the question”.

Horatio was able to put Hamlet’s mind at rest quite quickly on that one. “I have never heard of a case yet in which a learner driver killed a cyclist during the driving test and was subsequently given a pass. It just doesn’t happen.”

“You couldn’t see your way to making an exception in my case, could you?” asked Hamlet. “For a friend?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Oh dear”, said Hamlet. “That means I’m going to have to ask to Ophelia to get herself to the nunnery. And I won’t be able to take Polonius to Arras.”

“Tough luck”, said Horatio.

But then Hamlet had a sudden bright idea. “My mother has got a hanging tapestry in her room that she always calls her arras. I shall go to it and do what I was going to do at the place in France, but I shall drive straight through it with my sword instead of the car. Do you think Polonius will get the point?”

“I think there’s every possibility”, said Horatio.

© John Welford

A lengthy lunch in Moscow

For five weeks during the summer of 1977 I was in Moscow, working at the British Embassy (see photo) to set up a library within the Cultural Section. This proved to be a fascinating time, not least for the string of distinguished visitors who came and went. I once made a cup of tea for the architect Sir Hugh Casson and on another occasion shook hands with the Foreign Secretary at that time, who was David Owen.

As a guest of the Embassy’s diplomatic staff I worked hours that fitted their routine, which meant early starts but long lunch breaks, with two hours being allowed. On most days I made my own lunch arrangements and used the time to explore Moscow on my own, but sometimes I was taken out to lunch, usually when a guest was being wined and dined and I was asked along to make up the numbers.

One particular lunch sticks in the memory. I don’t remember the name of the restaurant to which we went, but it was somewhere in central Moscow. As might have been expected, we were shown to a table (I think there were six of us present on this occasion), bread rolls were buttered, water was poured into glasses and menus were brought for our perusal.

It took some time for a waiter to turn up and take our orders, but when he did some sort of disagreement appeared to take place. I couldn’t follow the conversation, as I spoke no Russian, but I learned afterwards that the waiter was telling someone that a certain dish was off the menu today despite the fact that diners on other tables were happily tucking into the dish in question.

It was explained to me afterwards that restaurants such as this operated almost as three or more restaurants under the same roof. Although the dining room was undivided, each mini-restaurant controlled its own set of tables and the waiter looking after one set would have nothing at all to do with any other set; there was therefore no point in catching the eye of a passing waiter who was not “your” waiter. Likewise, the kitchen was divided between the domains of three or more chefs who not only had their own under-chefs and waiters but they also set their own menus and bought the food themselves from the local market. Two or more menus might share the same items, but that was always down to chance.

With the orders taken we sat back and waited. Then we waited some more. And some more. Nothing arrived at our table and the waiter was nowhere to be seen. Other waiters came and went to other tables, where orders were placed, food was provided and eaten, bills were paid and diners departed, all during the time that we were sitting waiting.

It was more than an hour before any of the orders on our table were satisfied. Fortunately the conversation was interesting enough for the time to pass reasonably swiftly, and, given that everyone present had a professional reason for being there, the time was not wasted in idle chit-chat.

Eventually, the food arrived and things proceeded as normal.

It was explained to me afterwards that this sort of thing was not unknown, and that this was one reason for the two-hour lunch breaks. This was Moscow in 1977, the Communist Soviet regime was in full swing with Leonid Brezhnev in charge of an empire that extended from the River Elbe to the Pacific Ocean. At the heart of Communist ideology was the concept that everyone was equal, although George Orwell had a point when he stated that some were more equal than others.

If everyone is equal, then everyone has a right to at least an hour for lunch, starting at the time stated in their contract. If a waiter has taken an order a minute before one, and his lunch break is from one until two, then he is under no obligation to do anything with that order until he has had his own lunch and come back to work.

In other words, our waiter went to lunch with our order in his pocket. When he came back, the order went to the kitchen and the food was prepared. It all made perfect sense, in a bizarre kind of way.

This happened at around the time that Douglas Adams was writing the first drafts of “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”. He was not present on the occasion just related, but – if he had been – it might have been just the inspiration for his famous line: “Time is an illusion; lunchtime doubly so”.

© John Welford

Enter Mrs Macbeth

(with sincere apologies to William Shakespeare)

Enter Mrs Macbeth, reading a letter sent from a small hotel near Hastings where her husband’s company has been holding its annual management conference.

“So what has his Lordship got to tell me? Hm! The catering sounds a bit odd. Three old ladies in the canteen serving newts’ eyes, frogs’ toes and lizards’ legs? Who ran their catering college, Heston Blumenthal?

What’s this he says? “They reckon I should be running the company rather than Duncan King”. What do they know? Macbeth couldn’t run a bath, let alone a company. Useless load of …

On the other hand, I’ll bet Dunc the Hunk is turning over a few bob more than my feller. I wouldn’t mind being the boss’s wife – think of that big house we could buy, posh car, ocean cruise every year. Maybe those old crones in the canteen are on to something.

What’s this? He also says that as soon as dinner was over Duncan offered him a promotion! That’s fantastic. You’re on the way up, Bethy my lad!

Yes – but it’s not the top job is it? That’s what we really want. I wonder how we can get it?

Oh my God! I’ve just read the end bit of this letter – he’s only gone and invited Duncan King to spend the weekend with us! One little promotion and he reckons he’s got to push the boat out and be the ever-generous host! You might at least have given me a bit more warning, you dipstick! We’ve got no food in the house - even a pint of milk would be a kindness – certainly none of that nouvelle cuisine they serve by the cauldron at that hotel of theirs.

Just a second – when did he write this? Tuesday - and today’s Friday! He sent it by second class post – what a wally! They’ll be turning up any minute now and I’ll have to be the dutiful wife putting on a show and pretending that everything’s just hunky-dory. Why the hell couldn’t he have sent me a text instead of a letter? He’s got no more sense than one of those frog’s toes he seems to be so fond of.

Okay, Bethy my mate. I’ll put on a show for you all right. Dunc the Hunk is certainly that, and he might find his welcome to be a lot warmer than he was expecting. Suppose I give him the benefit of my night-time attention and persuade my lovely husband that his time is up and he’d better pack his bags? I end up as the boss’s wife after all, so who cares who the boss is?

Maybe writing that letter was the best thing Bethy ever did – from my point of view, that is.

Yet who would have thought my old man to have had so much crap in him?”

© John Welford