| The Difficulty with Nigel, Act 6, Scene 1 |
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| HMS Victor Victorian (victorvictorian@hushunomail.com) |
2010/10/15 08:48 |
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From: HMS Victor Victorian <victorvictorian@hushunomail.com>
Newsgroups: alt.fan.prettyboy
Subject: The Difficulty with Nigel, Act 6, Scene 1
Date: Fri, 15 Oct 2010 08:48:47 -0600
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Act 6, Scene 1
The Murder of Christopher Robin
Monday, April 26th, 3:15 pm
The Macmillan home. Angela sits in front of the television. There is
a soccer match on, but she is so distracted by recent events that she
hardly watches. There was an investigation underway, the social
worked had said, clearly to determine if she and her husband were fit
parents. Although Angela believed in her heart that the Children's
Board would find no basis for such a conclusion, she couldn't keep
that something bad could actually come to pass. There had been no
more garden frolics, no more sleep-overs, and no more nudity. Nigel
looked miserable. He was miserable. The entire family was miserable.
There was a knock at the front door. Angela jumped in spite of
herself, got up and swung the door open. A bobby in his towering
helmet filled the doorway. Then she saw her son Nigel, standing in
front of the policeman. The boy wore a scribbly-decorated paper
headband, crowned with cut-out paper feathers, and his cheeks were
streaked with what appeared to be Angela's lipstick. The bobby's two
massive hands rested on the boy's shoulders.
This episode, Angela immediately apprehended, would be yet another
mark against them with the NYSCB. She was relieved to see that Nigel
was dressed, although his clothes seemed queerly twisted about
somewhat.
"Mrs. Macmillan?"
"Yes, officer?"
"Your neighbour, Mrs. Whitby, "he began, and rolled his eyes in
irritation, "has lodged yet another complaint, this time against your
boy for pilfering flowers."
Then Angela noticed Nigel held four droopy daffodils.
"That's so sweet of you, dear," Angela smiled at her son, knelt down
and hugged him, but he hardly responded. He looked a bit like a tired
old man.
She turned back to the bobby, secretly wishing a lorry would flatten
Mrs. Whitby on the pavement.
"I'm so very sorry for this. It won't happen again."
"Yes." The bobby replied simply. "And I understand it is not the first
time. I hope you don't mind I took the liberty of getting him
dressed, once I got him out of her garden."
Well, that explained the clothes.
"Would you like to talk about it?" the bobby offered.
"Yes," Angela said rather reluctantly, "Please, come in."
They all sat on the divan, with Nigel squeezing as tightly as he could
under his mum's arm.
"I hope you'll understand, "the boy's mother explained, "Nigel's been
having difficulties lately keeping his clothes on, and this has caused
so much trouble in the neighbourhood and at school. We've tried
everything to the point of desperation, and now the Children's Office
is involved."
"Well," the middle-aged officer brightened a bit. "I've got four boys
I mean, if you don't mind. It's better than taking him down to the
station," he added with a chuckle.
Nigel's mother sighed in relief.
"Would you?" she asked, "We've tried everything short of medication."
"Certainly," the officer said, pulling up a wooden chair. He set it
right in front of Nigel and sat down.
"Now listen to the officer, sweetheart," Angela asked Nigel, who was
jammed beneath her arm and muttering rhythmically under his breath.
"And forget that silly song."
"Okay," he at last said in a peculiar, lacklustre way, then continued
mumbling and trying very hard to vanish into the upholstery.
"I've found that the best approach," the constable began, "Is telling
boys the truth right out. I don't much believe in sugar-coating the
facts. Boys aren't idiots and they don't appreciate being lied to.
They'll eventually resent it."
"I quite agree," Angela said, though she didn't actually.
The officer looked firmly at Nigel, who pressed further back into the
divan, mouthing his chant and tapping two fingers together in time.
"Your mum and dad," the officer began, "Don't want you going about
naked in public, and they've probably given you some good reasons."
"Yes, sir."
"From what I can see, I'd say that it hasn't stopped you from doing
it, though, has it?"
"No, sir."
Angela relaxed a bit. The little lecture seemed to be going well,
even if Nigel was clinging to her breast like a frightened monkey.
Perhaps the policeman would hit a responsive chord that everyone else
"But did you know that there are other reasons, reasons perhaps your
mummy and dad didn't tell you?"
"What reasons?" Nigel asked.
The policeman leaned back in his chair, removed his helmet and exhaled
slowly.
"There are normal dangers to being naked, such as getting severe
sunburn or a pneumonia. Clothes protect us. Also, being naked in
public is against the code. You could very well be arrested and fined
for indecent exposure. Think how your dear mother would feel? Would
she like that?"
"No, sir."
perhaps even here in our little town?"
"Yes, officer."
"Indeed," the officer elaborated, "There are bad men who look for
little boys, just like you. They might stop and ask you for
directions, or say that they're looking for their little lost dog, and
invite you to come up to their car. They are friendly and seem to be
fine people. Sometimes children do stop and talk to them, or get in
you want that to happen to you?"
Nigel's chanting, barely perceivable, had become a bit more
pronounced. The bobby looked at his mother.
"What the devil is he doing?"
"It's nothing," Angela said, covering her growing unease with a smile,
"Just a silly little boy's word game he learned at school."
The policeman cleared his throat. Speaking a bit more resolutely, he
went on.
"These bad people kidnap the children and do unpleasant things to
them, sexual things, like taking off their clothes, touching and
fondling and molesting them, or worse. I'm sorry to say that, time to
time, a child is murdered. And here you are, walking along
completely naked. You would be irresistible to a paedophile. Do you
understand, son?"
Nigel nodded, and the policeman gave Angela a knowing look. She
looked back at him in alarm.
"Do you want to end up like that?" the policeman asked Nigel, "Taken
away from your mum and dad?"
"But I won't, sir," Nigel replied timidly.
"Why do you think not?" the officer challenged.
"Because I'll go to Cotchford Farm with Pooh and Christopher Robin."
he whispered, "And we'll hide in Christopher's secret room, or under
Pooh Sticks Bridge, where the bad men can't find us."
"Cotchford Farm?" the officer echoed in recognition. The farm house?"
He put a hand over his mouth in thought.
"Nigel," he said a bit reluctantly, "Pooh and Christopher aren't there
anymore. Do you know when Mr. Milne wrote that story? It was in
1926, or there-abouts, a very long time ago. Little boys have been
reading those stories for years and years. As a boy, I read them
myself. How could Christopher still be a little boy?"
"He's like Peter Pan," Nigel replied simply.
"Alright," the officer nodded. "Do you know where Christopher Robin is
today?"
"At Cotchford Farm," Nigel replied impatiently.
"Officer," Angela interrupted in a concerned tone, "I think Nigel
understands your point ..."
"No, Christopher's not there," the bobby continued, "He grew up,
became a man and a soldier. He went to the war and served in
Italy..."
"Poopy monkey's underwear ..." Increasingly upset, Nigel raised his
voice and clapped, but he was getting the words all wrong. "Oh, Evan.
Bother!"
"He got married, had a daughter and started a little book shop ..."
"Everybody's going to stare!" Nigel chanted, now almost frantic.
"Nigel. Listen." The policeman said sternly, "Christopher Robin grew
old and, in 1992, I believe ..."
"Constable!" Angela put out a hand, but she was too late.
"... Christopher Robin died."
Nigel leaped out of his mother's arms, tore off his Indian headdress
and flung the daffodils across the room. He raced out into the
garden, and the door slammed behind him. A dreadful silence abruptly
smothered the parlour. Horrified, Angela jumped up and turned to the
bobby.
"How could you!" She cried. "How COULD you! He's just a little boy!
And you call yourself a father? You're contemptible. Get out of my
home!" and she ran into the kitchen.
going to the front door, "The Truth."
Angela rushed into the garden. Nigel had seemingly vanished. There
were very few places in their garden where a little boy could hide, so
she immediately feared he'd jumped the wall and had run off
hysterically. Fraught and foolish, she frantically checked places she
laurel bushes, in his sand box, perhaps hidden miraculously in the
flower beds. Then she perceived a rustling sound behind her, and she
swung about. Dashing up to Roger's tool shed, she threw open the
doors.
And there was Nigel beneath an overturned garden cart, curled up and
trembling like an orphaned puppy.
"Oh, Nigel!" Angela cried, and she crawled in, lay beside him and
enveloped him in her arms.
"I'm sorry. I'm so very, very sorry!"
And she cried.
HMSVV2010
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