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From: HMS Victor Victorian <victorvictorian@hushunomail.com>
Newsgroups: alt.fan.prettyboy
Subject: The Difficulty with Nigel, Act 5 Scene 4
Date: Thu, 14 Oct 2010 07:46:30 -0600
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Act 5, Scene 4
Contagious
Tuesday, April 20th, 3:20 pm
Due to a power outage at work, Roger finds himself taking the early
train home. He decides not to call Angela, but to surprise her with
an offer to eat out. That is his excuse, but it isn't a completely
honest one. He truly wants to see how Nigel is getting along, without
Angela expecting him. His small game of espionage makes him feel
petty and dishonest, so he buys a bouquet of carnations to ease his
guilt.
"Angela!" Roger called from outside the house, "I'm home early!"
As he strode towards the door, he cocked his head curiously,
listening. He hadn't heard his wife, though clearly she was home.
What he was hearing were children's voices ... shrill laughs and
screams ... coming from the garden. The noise abruptly ceased, and
Roger moved toward the door. He turned the knob, only to find the
door locked, which promptly raised a suspicion, because Angela only
locked the door when she left the house. Fumbling for the keys, he
turned the lock and unlatched the door.
"Angela, I'm home!" he announced again, rather more impatiently,
"Power was down at work, so they sent us off early. Would you like to
go out, tonight?"
Leaving the front door wide open, Roger moved to the stair case and
glanced up.
"Angela?"
Instead of his wife's voice, the distinctive thumping of children's
feet overhead in the bath answered. The sound grew to a rumble as the
feet stampeded from the bath to the hallway and then to the top of the
staircase. There Nigel appeared, as naked as a jay, holding a bath
towel like a cape around his neck. Without acknowledging his father,
he bounded down the stairs.
"Nigel." Dad said firmly, "Where's your mother. And where's your
clothes?"
"Hello, Daddy," the boy smiled, oblivious to his father's question,
and rushed past him into the kitchen.
Roger started to pursue, but stopped short at hearing yet another set
of feet coming down the stairs. He glanced back. He recognised Evan,
Nigel's best friend and recent sleeping partner who, although holding
a towel around his waist, was clearly as bare as Nigel.
"Hello, Mr. Macmillan," Evan greeted him with a grin and ran into the
kitchen.
Then came another boy, a small fellow, and yet another, even smaller.
With the exception of a towel draped over their heads, they were
completely nude and, to Roger, resembled a set of chubby Egyptian
slave boys.
"Just a minute," Roger held out a hand to delay the first boy. "Who
are YOU?" he demanded.
"I'm Edward, Evan's little brother," he answered as he avoided Roger's
hand, boasting, "I'm five," and spun away into the kitchen. The
smaller fellow, who for the entire world looked like Buddha, including
the idyllic smile, followed close on Edward's heels, tittering as he
streaked by.
"And who the blazes is HE?" Roger demanded after Edward.
"He's Ernest. He's only three." Edward replied from somewhere beyond
the kitchen, and both boys were gone.
Roger took a few steps to the divan, laid his case and the bouquet of
flowers on the lamp table, and fell into the chair.
"Dear God," he grumbled, "It's contagious!"
Exhaling his frustration, he got himself up and strode through the
kitchen, out the back door and into the garden.
The Macmillan house and, indeed, probably every town house in all of
England, had a small adjoining garden in the back, neatly and equally
divided by a stone fence no more than a metre and a half high,
purportedly to encourage a neighbourly atmosphere, something that
Roger at that moment decidedly did not want.
To enhance privacy, many homeowners erected lattices, or screens of
willows or hedges of laurel, ivy or holly, and only occasionally
raised the walls themselves. Inside these secluded spaces, they
created a lush refuge from the modern world. Roger hadn't actually
gotten about to that, yet, and the Macmillan garden remained open and
austere. There was a bush or two, an elm tree towards the rear, and a
tool shed beside the back porch. Other than that, there were a few
flower beds, Angela's herb garden, Nigel's sand box, and a lawn. That
meant, of course, that the Macmillan garden, and all that might
transpire there, was in full view from the second story bedrooms of
five separate neighbours, including Mrs. Whitby.
Roger looked out on the lawn. There was his wife, Angela, barefoot,
her hair tied back with a bandana, in a wet white blouse and purple
pedal-pushers. She was armed with the garden hose, hallooing like a
rugby star, and spraying water in every direction as the children,
having discarded their towels, ran naked through the stream screaming
for joy.
"Angela!" Roger yelled, waving. "Angela!"
Seeing her husband, her expression immediately changed from hilarity
to surprise. She absent-mindedly handed the garden hose to Nigel and
came towards her husband, trying to look composed.
"Hello, dear! Home early!" she smiled and gave him a peck on the
cheek, "Why didn't you phone?"
"I thought I'd surprise you with carnations and dinner out," he
sputtered, "But I have to admit, my surprise certainly pales compared
to THIS."
"Oh, well. It's nothing." Angela said, "It was Nigel's suggestion,
and it was so lovely out this afternoon ..."
Roger looked at her with extreme skepticism.
"Well, get them all in and dressed and then send them off," Roger
said, disgruntled.
"Roger," Angela said, rubbing his shoulders, "Don't be so staid.
You're so tense! Your muscles are like iron rods."
"Yes, yes, yes ..." Her husband waved, then announced to the boys on
the lawn. "Alright, you all. Nigel, turn off the water. Gypsy
frolics are over. All of you ... grab your towels, get upstairs and
get dressed ... now!"
His commanding voice sent them all immediately snatching up their
towels and dashing for the back door. Roger and Angela nimbly stepped
aside as they streaked through, chattering and hollering, through the
kitchen, into the parlour, past the front door, and up the staircase
once again.
"Come along, sweetheart," Angela said, squeezing her husband's bottom
playfully, then went inside.
Silence descended in the garden. Roger took an awkward moment to
search over the neighbours' second story windows to see if anyone had
witnessed the spectacle. To his relief, he saw no one. He then
wearily rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head in
bewilderment.
Then he heard his wife's voice.
"Roger," she said in a concerned manner, "Could you come here,
please?"
He seldom heard her speak in such a tone, and he quickly went into the
parlour, where Angela stood with her arms crossed.
"What is it, dear?" Roger inquired. "Is there a problem?"
Angela simply nodded towards the front door, which had remained as
wide open as Roger had left it. There was a professionally-dressed
young woman standing silently in the doorway. She held a clip board
and a pen. Every fibre of her appeared business-like, with the
exception of her face, which was a blend of confusion, disapproval and
astonishment.
"Mr. Macmillan?" she asked.
"Yes?"
"My name is Ann Compton." She held her hand out, professionally. Roger
shook it.
"No," Roger said, letting out a nervous laugh. "Only one of the naked
boys is mine. The others are from down the lane."
"I see." Mrs. Compton replied in a business-like manner.
"How can I help you?" Roger said politely.
"I'm a case worker, "she replied, "For the NYSCB."
Roger suddenly went a little white in the face.
"The Children's Board?"
"Yes, sir," she answered, her words precise, "We've received worrisome
information regarding the emotional and physical welfare of your son.
Could we speak?"
Roger groaned.
HMSVV2010
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