The Difficulty With Nigel
Then Yahweh God gave the man this admonition,
`You may eat indeed of all trees in the garden. Nevertheless of the
tree of the knowledge of good and evil you are not to eat, for on the
day you eat of it you shall most surely die' The woman saw that the
tree was good to eat and pleasing to the eye... she took some of its
fruit and ate it. She gave some also to her husband who was with her,
and he ate it.
Then the eyes of both of them were opened and they realized that they
were naked. So they sewed fig leaves together to make themselves loin
cloths.
The Characters
Nigel Macmillan, our seven-year-old protagonist
Claris Macmillan, Nigel's big sister
Angela Macmillan, Nigel's mother
Roger Macmillan, Nigel's father
Mrs. Farthley, Nigel's teacher
Evan Ethridge, Nigel's best friend
Jonathan Chandler, Headmaster of Wickham Primary School
Dirk, a very foul-mouthed and antagonistic boy
Ian Moore, Therapist in child psychology
Agnes Whitby, the next door neighbour
Father Schroeder, Priest of St. Peter's Church
Harry Campbell, the Grounds Man
Ann Compton, Social Worker
The Time
Sometime between the first half of this century and the last half of
the last century.
The Setting
The United Kingdom. A small coastal town, set along the sea in North
Yorkshire; a community known for its broad bay, markets and fairs and
parsley and sage, and resorts and such, which shall remain nameless to
protect the author and the fine reputation of the people there.
Please note a special acknowledgement to Ronin, a correspondent and
likeable spirit, for the use of his curious but effective term,
"Grownuppily"
Sincerely,
The Author
All rights reserved under the accepted international conventions of
Copy write of art by the artist upon its creation
And blah, blah, blah, blah etcetera
And so-forth inclusively.
Thank you.
Act 1 Scene 1
Starkers
Monday, March 29, 3:30 pm
Setting: A cool, misty March day, typical of the place, had descended
upon Tennyson Avenue, a narrow street of town homes, where the
Macmillan residence is found. Angela Macmillan is sunk down in an old
divan absorbed in her daily television programme, oblivious to the
doings of her two children, twelve-year-old Claris and little Nigel,
seven.
"Mum! Mummy! MUM!"
Claris' voice was like an air raid siren.
"What is it, dear?" Mum asked in a slightly disinterested tone.
"He's at it again!"
Mum glanced up from the tellie, her hot tea and a tin of biscuits
perched rather precariously on her lap. Her voice was quite high for
her stature, which could be considered hefty.
"What's that?" She yelled. "What's that?"
"He's gone at it again! Nigel!" the twelve-year-old girl cried from
the doorstep. "He's gone starkers out on the pavement!"
had first been when Nigel began to have his peculiar difficulty.
"Oh, Lord. Not again." She muttered. "I've not a clue what the hell
I'm going to do with him!"
The middle-aged woman set her tray aside, tea cup clattering on the
saucer, stood up and dusted a few crumbs from her lap, then trundled
to the door, where her agitated daughter was pointing into the street.
"Where is he then?" Mum asked, squinting into the sunlight.
"There! Can't you see?" Claris blurted, "He's standing on the bonnet
of the CAR!"
For the first time Mum's expression exuded both horror and anger.
"What the bloody hell is wrong with you, Nigel? Get off the Cooper
and get in here!"
Nigel momentarily blinked at her, then obligingly climbed down onto
the pavement and came up to the stoop. Mum glared down at him, her
hands set on her hips, again demanding an explanation.
Nigel stood there, sheepishly staring down at the boards. He was a
slight boy with wavy, reddish hair and a dapple of freckles across his
small nose. Nigel was slight as young boys that age are prone to
be-some might even say downright scrawny-you could count every rib on
him without him puffing up his lungs, and count them from a
considerable distance.
It was, at that moment, particularly easy to count little Nigel's
ribs. He stood on the landing, utterly naked. Bare. Starkers. In
the all-together. Hadn't a stitch on. Nothing. Shirt, socks,
knickers, smalls-all off. Not so much as his cherished wrist watch.
His almost reed-like body was as white as fish belly, with the
exception of the cheeks of both his face and bottom, which at the
moment blushed.
"What have you done with your clothes?" Mum demanded.
"Oh," Nigel replied in his small voice, a bit too absent-mindedly for
his mother, "I suppose down at the Ethridge's. Evan's mum was giving
"I don't care to hear the details of your social engagements, Nigel."
She gave her son an exasperated look and heaved a sigh. "Just run
back, get your clothes, PUT THEM ON, apologise to Mrs. Ethridge and
run your little bum back here!"
Without a word, Nigel bolted off down the street.
"And do it in THAT ORDER!" Mum yelled after him.
"You're not going to drive him?" Claris asked unhappily. "He's bloody
naked! Can't you drive him?"
"What? Crank up the car just to go 200 metres? I'm missing my
programme and he'll be back quick enough."
"Oh, please," Mum dismissed her and turned back to the parlour.
"Everyone up and down the neighbourhood is used to seeing him starkers
by now. If you're humiliated, dear, come inside."
Claris merely crossed her arms in a huff and sat down on the stoop.
Presently Nigel came sprinting back-he was astoundingly fast for a
little sprite-and bounded up to the door.
"Mum!" Claris bellowed back into the house, "He's got his smalls on
his head!"
And he did. He was caricature of creative couture, underpants
drooping down over the eyes, his corduroys tied by the legs around his
neck, his shirt converted to a kilt, his shoes and stockings clutched
in one hand and in the other, a half-eaten scone dripping clotted
cream. There were traces of strawberry jam on the boy's chin.
"You've got them all on daft, you spack!" Claris chastised.
"I was in a rush!" Nigel protested, and slipped past her and into the
house.
"Well," his sister snidely commented, "I see you took time to strap on
your wrist watch!
"Yes, of course." Nigel replied.
The watch was his very favourite thing in the entire world and he
never parted with it. Even in the bath-hence one elbow was always
dirty. He would never have told time with it, even if he could tell
time, which he couldn't. He simply liked watching Pooh's arms move
'round as the day passed, and wished he'd been named Christopher.
"Wait'll winter, Nigel!" his sister yelled after him. "You'll freeze
carry it off. Unless the bobbies take you off for bonkers first ... I
can only hope!"
HMSVV
God Save the Queen.
God Bless the Prince of Wales.
God Preserve the Windsors.
Rule Britannia!
|
|