'Crumbs!' Thought Monkey. 'There are crumbs in my bed!'

But how did the crumbs get there?

Monkey was not a midnight snacker. He nibbled no nibbles nocturnal.

Thinking the what might give him some clue to the who, Monkey found his magnifying glass, and picked up a crumb to study it more closely.

He would have twirled his waxed moustache - if he had one.

He rubbed the crumb between his finger and thumb.

The crumb crumbled into even smaller crumblings.

It might have been cake.

Or it might have been a cookie.

Or maybe a cracker.

His pet tortoise, Forthright, had trundled out for his usual morning plod. Three laps around the large rock in his tortorium, then back to the hollow log for a breakfast of moss and yesterday's lettuce leaf.

'Did you make this mess?' Monkey asked him.

If Forthright had, he wasn't saying. But then, Forthright had never really been forthcoming. He was an introvert, preferring the quiet solitude of his shell where, Monkey imagined, he sipped chamomile tea and nutted over that day's cryptic crossword.

But Monkey wasn't crackers! He was certain the crumbs hadn't been there when he'd snuggled under the covers. And crumbs were something he would have noticed.

Somebody had been in his room. And not just in his room, but in his bed! And not just in his bed, but in his bed while he was in it!

But how? There wasn't enough room in the bottom drawer of the dresser for a Monkey plus one.

'Unless...' Monkey thought to himself. '...it was a small plus one.'

Monkey picked up another crumb and held it under his nose.

It didn't smell like much of anything.

He was just about to taste it when he had an idea.

'Wait a minute! What if they weren't crumbs? What if they were mouse poops?'

He looked at the crumb through his magnifying glass again.

No.

Not poop.

A mouse might have left it behind - but it hadn't come from a mouse behind.

It was definitely a crumb.

Monkey held the crumb out for Forthright to see. The tortoise paused in his constitutional to inspect it through the green-tinted glass with a quizzical expression. Like all tortoises, Forthright regarded the world around him with a look of both surprise and mild consternation.

Pondering the possibles, much the same way Forthright often meditated on the complexities of the universe, Monkey decided he could cross Henry off the list of suspects. Cats were fastidious creatures. Obsessive-compulsives. A cat would never have left crumbs.

He could forget about Gus the dog. Gus was a mixed breed; part rottweiler, part golden retriever, part garbage disposal. No crumb could ever hope to escape his keen nose and searching tongue.

'And anyway.' Monkey told his little amphibian amigo. 'Gus is too big to fit in my bed.'

'There must be an explanation.' Said Monkey.

But Forthright had wandered away. Perhaps to play the violin. Or to smoke a pipe.

Gus did not like bananas. He craved no Cavendish and relished no Red Jamaican. He peeled no plantains - period.

'So, why...' He wondered. '...was there a banana skin in his bed?'

'Did you leave this here?' He asked Monkey.

'Crumbs.' Was all Monkey would say.

'Who's Crumbs?' Asked Gus.

'Whose indeed!' Said Monkey.

Monkey thought the crumbs in his bed might have come from a crust of toasted sourdough, but couldn't say so with any real certainty.

'The question we should be asking is how.'

'How?'

'Prexactly.' Said Monkey. 'And why.'

'Why?'

'Why ask why? Because the why and the how will lead us to the who!'

'Go away.' Gus told him. 'You're making my brain hurt.'

'But I haven't examined the evidence!' Monkey protested, holding up his magnifying glass.

'Just go.' Said Gus. 'And take your banana skin with you.'

Henry the cat was shocked and disgusted to find what little was left of half an avocado in his basket.

'Avo-bloody-cado?'

Henry desired no dietary discipline. He much favoured flavour over fibre - always.

Fruit, in Henry's opinion, was one of the many things that was wrong with the world. Vegetables were another. Add legumes into the mix and you had an unholy trinity.

'Avo-bloody-cado!' He repeated himself. 'It doesn't even taste like anything!'

Monkey agreed. 'Soap without the rope.'

Even Gus wouldn't touch avocado.

'Where's all this rubbish coming from?' He asked.

Monkey had his suspicions, but bit his tongue.

He had to be sure.

In the kitchen, standing on a chair to reach the counter top, Monkey trowelled smashed avocado onto an inch thick slice of golden toasted sourdough. Over the forked green smudge he laid slabs of banana like roof tiles. And on top of that, Monkey poured maple syrup. Then he dusted it with an avalanche of icing-sugar, and tucked in a sprig of freshly picked mint.

Carefully setting the plate down next to Forthright's tank of green tinted glass, Monkey stood back - and waited.

It didn't take long for the tortoise to come out of his shell.

'Pour moi?' Asked Forthright. 'For me?'

'Bien sur.' Monkey replied. 'Of course.'

'Sortez-moi d'ici, s'il vous plait? Je ne peux pas atteindre.'

{'Lift me out, please. I can't reach it.'}

Monkey shook his head. 'If you want it, you'll have to come out and get it.'

Forthright looked vexed. 'Alors!'

{'And up yours, too, you hairy little $%&@!'}

But he disappeared inside the hollow log in his tortorium...

And when he came back out, he was swinging a grappling hook attached to a length of coiled rope.

'A-ha!' Thought Monkey. 'So that was how!'

He watched as Forthright scaled the vertical glass wall of his tortorium with all the skill of a mountaineer. Then, with a confident 'C'etait parti!'*, the triumphant tortoise abseiled down the other side.

*{'Here we go!'}

Monkey's marvelous creation was demolished in less than a minute.

Forthright belched.

Excused himself. 'Pardon.'

And wiped his mouth with a folded handkerchief he pulled from somewhere inside his shell.

He thanked Monkey with a nod. 'Merci beaucoup.'

'Don't you like lettuce?' Asked Monkey.

'Il est toujours mou. It's always limp.' Said Forthright. 'Et un gout de carton mouille.'

'Did you say it tastes like wet cardboard?'

For somebody who ate avocado, Monkey thought Forthright was being more than just a little fussy.

'But why in my bed?' Monkey asked him. 'Or with Gus in his bed? Or in Henry's basket?'

'Sortir est facile.' Forthright explained. 'Mais rentrer?'

So that was it. Monkey's little mate could climb out of the glass tank, but wasn't able to hoist his purloined booty back in.

'Et j'etais toujours seul. I am always alone.' Said Forthright. 'Je n'ai pas d'amis. I have no friends.'

Monkey knuckled a tear from his eye.

'You're not alone.' He told Forthright. 'I'm your friend.'

He picked Forthright up, and the two of them hugged.

'Pourquoi dois-je vivre dans une prison?'

{'Why must I live in that prison?'}

'You don't.' Said Monkey. 'Never again.'

He set Forthright down on the floor.

'Allez, mon ami. Go, my friend... You're free. Tu es libre!'

Finis

{The End}

My first experience of tabletop role-playing games - commonly referred to as D&D (even though that was, strictly speaking, merely the abbreviated form of the proprietary name belonging to the most popular RPG) - came about, essentially, because of a quarrel with a friend over a girl. My best friend in my first couple of years at university was ‘Bristol Boy’ Jeff. It was his romance with Carolyn, the girl who would later become his wife - a girl whom I also fancied - that led, for a time, to a pronounced cooling in our friendship. It resulted in my seeking out other friends, living on the opposite side of campus.

Initially, the common denominator I shared with these new friends was one that I had also shared with Jeff, Carolyn and my original circle of university friends: we were all members of the Christian Union.

But even by the time I was getting to know them, they (like me) were becoming somewhat discontented with the evangelical certitudes of the CU. And, one night, I discovered that most of them had an abiding interest in a hobby that was decidedly frowned upon in conservative evangelical Christian circles.

They were role-players.

***

Role-playing had first burst onto the indoor gaming scene as an offshoot of miniature war-gaming, with the launch of the fantasy game Dungeons and Dragons in 1974. When I was at grammar school, between 1977 and 1982, there was an after-school war-gaming club which also hosted some role-playing. A couple of the boys in my class attended: but at the time I had no particular interest in it myself, and so the increasing popularity of role-playing as we entered the Eighties initially passed me by.

Probably the first time I ever had a glimpse of a game in action was when Steven Spielberg’s E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial was released in 1982. An early scene in the film shows the central character of Elliott, his older brother, and his brother’s friends, all playing a game of D&D. (Interestingly, Spielberg had run a D&D session himself for the young cast members prior to the production of the film). It’s not a long scene in the film, and at the time I certainly didn’t attach any particular significance to it. My own first encounter with role-playing was still four years away…

It’s strange, in a way, given my love of both fantasy and science-fiction - the two most popular milieus for early role-playing games - that it took me so long to become a role-player myself. The most likely reason for this, looking back, is the rather more conservative Christian viewpoint, on all manner of issues, to which I adhered in my mid to late teens. This was the early to mid-Eighties, the time of the most pronounced ‘moral panic’ about role-playing games, and their supposed ‘dark side’. As well as E.T., with its positive - or, at least, neutral - portrayal of RPGs, 1982 was also the year in which the preachy and antagonistic Mazes and Monsters was released. The film starred a young Tom Hanks (in his first leading movie role), as a young college student who suffers from psychotic episodes that are supposedly brought on by his obsessional interest in role-playing. Subtle? It was not.

***

And so it was, one evening in 1986, that I had my own ‘initiation’ into the strange world of role-playing. It was a Friday night, and I was at a loose end. I went and knocked on the door of my friend Gary, who happened to have the largest student flat in his particular hall of residence. It had become a natural place to hang out for me and a number of other friends. And that evening, I discovered a bunch of them huddled around a coffee table in his flat, covered with graph paper on which a makeshift plan had been drawn. Small miniature figures were positioned on the paper. Next to the figures were some peculiar dice - not the usual 6-sided cubes which I normally associated with board games, but a pair of polyhedrons with 20 sides each. In their hands, Gary and the others were holding sheets of paper which seemed to be filled with a bewildering plethora of statistics. It all seemed most mysterious.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, curious.

‘We’re playing a role-playing game,’ replied Gary. He looked slightly shamefaced, as if I had caught him and the others in the act of indulging some esoteric vice. Then he added the words that were to really perk my interest. ‘It’s set in Middle-earth, the world of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Have you read it?’

Had I read J R R Tolkien’s magnus opus? What kind of daft question was that? It was only my favourite novel of all time, after all; the very pinnacle of the mountain of works of fantasy and science-fiction that I had ploughed through during my teenage years.

‘Of course I’ve read it. So,’ I continued, ‘you’re playing D&D?’ Now I’ve got it, I thought to myself. This is a session of the fabled Dungeons and Dragons in progress.

But Gary shook his head, and explained that no, this wasn’t D&D. Not as such. There were many different role-playing games, operating with different game mechanics, and set in different milieus. This particular game was called Middle-earth Role Playing - MERP for short. It was a game tailor-made for Tolkien’s fantasy world. Players could play dwarves or elves, humans or hobbits, undertaking together chivalrous and daring quests, battling orcs and trolls, wargs and giant spiders, even perhaps a dragon or a Balrog; all lovingly crafted and carefully adjudicated by the referee, or game-master.

The next words from my mouth almost took me by surprise - let alone Gary.

‘Can I play?’

‘Well– ’ Gary hesitated for a moment, and looked across the room. ‘That’s not really for me to decide - what do you think, Tom?’

Tom was the one there that night whom I knew best. He - like my now estranged best friend Jeff - was on my course, so I saw him in lectures several days a week. He was a short, softly spoken and somewhat shy young man. I was surprised that Gary - a confident, charismatic and even slightly domineering individual - should be deferring to him, especially as they were all sat in Gary’s flat. I noted that Tom was sitting at another table, slightly set apart from the others, pencil in hand, with what appeared to be a couple of rule-books, and reams of handwritten notes. On his table was another pair of the strange, 20-sided dice, a box containing a jumble of miniature figures, more pencils and an eraser.

‘Tom’s the GM - our game-master,’ explained Gary. ‘It’s his campaign we’re playing. It’s his call whether or not you can join.’

I looked expectantly at Tom.

‘Well,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘This is merely the second session of the campaign, and we only started half an hour ago. I suppose we could shoehorn you in - it would be better with four characters, actually. But I don’t have time to explain the rules - you’ll just have to muddle along for tonight. And we don’t have time for you to roll up a new character either. I’ve got some pregenerated PCs - those are player characters that come with their game stats already prepared. What kind of character would you like?’

‘What’s everyone else playing?’ I asked.

And so, briefly, I was introduced to the other characters. Matt had created for himself a laid-back mattock-wielding warrior dwarf of very few words. Phil’s character was a hobbit - but a rather serious ninja-scout who was a lethal dab-hand with a sling, far removed from the rather more jolly Shire-dwellers of Tolkien’s novel. Finally, there was Gary’s character. He was a noble but slightly down-on-his-luck Dúnadan ranger - a high man of the same stock as Tolkien’s heroic king-in-waiting Aragorn. His character was clearly the de facto leader of the group, a role with which Gary himself seemed very comfortable.

‘Can I play a hobbit?’ I pleaded.

Tom smiled. ‘Perfect. The party are about to arrive at a small hobbit community. They are taking refuge there, having just survived a combat with some wargs in the wilderness. The dwarf– ’ he gestured towards Matt, ‘was badly wounded. They’ll need to rest for a few days. It’s the ideal way to introduce your new character, if we make him a member of this community. I say “him” - but of course it needn’t be him. Do you want to play a male or female character?’

I was surprised at the question. The idea of playing a female character hadn’t occurred to me - and seemed downright odd.

‘Um - definitely male.’ I looked at the others in the room. ‘You’re all playing male characters, after all, yes?’

Indeed they were. As I was to discover, female role-players are almost as rare in gaming circles as female dwarves are in Tolkien’s works. The only time our group included the occasional female character was when one or two of the more confident players were willing to play against gender. Matt was the first to try his hand at this, playing a supplementary character for a time alongside his dwarf, a female healer of noble birth. She was a Maid Marian of sorts to Phil’s eventual second character, a complex wandering minstrel (possessing elements drawn from both Robin Hood and Alan-a-Dale) with a shady past. I always stuck to playing male characters. When I eventually had a go at GMing, I found myself perfectly at ease devising and controlling female as well as male non-player-character roles: but that was nothing like as intense as seeking to inhabit the skin of your own player-character.

And so I acquired my first character - a hobbit who I deliberately made a more exaggerated version of the fun-loving halflings of the Shire - a kind of cross between Merry and Pippin, with a penchant for pink pantaloons - in contrast to the darker, brooding and slightly sinister personality that Phil had developed for his hobbit. We might have come from the same race, but from the outset we weren’t particularly friendly towards one another, as characters. We later found out Phil’s original adventurer was actually in thrall to an evil magician; duly liberated, he developed a much more likeable personality, as far as the rest of the adventuring party were concerned. Gary’s noble Dúnadan was far more straightforwardly heroic, and counterbalanced Matt’s somewhat cynical, anti-heroic dwarf rather well. Their characters clearly had a strong affection for one another (even though they would have denied it), and in so doing they mirrored Gary and Matt’s long friendship - both had attended the same grammar school before coming to university.

I bumbled along, as best I could, having the most important rules explained to me along the way. Despite the initial strangeness of it all, I was soon immersed. Tom was a consummate storyteller, and very skilled at describing each scene. The combat sequences were thrilling, and it was made very clear to me that it was perfectly possible - either because of a poor choice on my part, or simply through an unlucky roll of the dice - for my hobbit character to come to a sticky end. There was no script immunity at work. And if we were to have our best chance of survival, then we had to work together.

Thus I began to have an insight into the moral value of role-playing games - in contrast to the hysterical nonsense spouted about them by religious fundamentalists. At their very best, role-playing games teach the importance of cooperation and problem-solving, and encourage their participants to take on the mantles of heroes. And that first night, I remembered that our adventure was taking place in Middle-earth: even if only in a small way, we were playing our part in the great struggle against the Shadow that was Sauron, the Lord of the Rings himself. We were following in the footsteps of J.R.R. Tolkien, inspired to let our imaginations run riot within the world he had brought into being. What could be a finer way to apply our creativity than this?

We’d been playing for an hour or so when another knock came at the door. Another friend, Ken, had cycled round to Gary’s flat. He - like myself - was curious to see what was going on. Fortunately for our poor game-master Tom (who thanks to me had already been forced that evening to accommodate one new character into his campaign), Ken wasn’t interested in taking on a role for himself. He was content to watch, quietly amused by the unfolding drama of Tom’s storytelling, and our engagement with it.

At about three o’clock in the morning, my first ever game session concluded (on a suitably thrilling cliffhanger). Ken had given up and ridden home by now; but the rest of us, ravenous, headed off to where we knew a burger van would still be open, supplying hungry (and often drunk) students with sustenance well into the early hours. We weren’t drunk - we’d been imbibing from a deeper, richer draft, I reflected in a heady moment, as I munched upon my double-dog with cheese, mustard and fried onions.

***

I borrowed a rule-book from Tom - I was determined that by our next session I would be fully familiar with the rules. A few days later, I felt ready to roll up a secondary character to my hobbit hero - one whose characteristics I could tweak and shape for myself. A Beorning shape-changer, this first character I’d devised from scratch was also the first of our adventurers to come to a bloody and untimely end, after only a few sessions. Thus I learnt, early on, what Tom had warned me, right from the beginning: in good role-playing, there is no script immunity. Just like life itself.

Over the next few weeks, two other friends who were also gamers joined our group: Jack, who was interested in all things Oriental, and usually played warrior-heroes with a strong moral code, somewhat akin to the bushido ethics of Japanese samurai; and Tristan, who unlike the rest of us was a postgraduate student, and a devout Roman Catholic. He chose to play a Gondorian ranger-prince, the most high-born of the ten player characters that featured at one time or another in our MERP campaign.

As our band of adventurers grew, so our exploits became more epic, taking on a grander, more mythic turn. We travelled far and wide across Middle-earth. Our enemies became more dangerous: we moved on from fighting orcs, petty rogues and cutthroats to battling malign spirits, Nazgûl and even a water-demon (a terrifying adversary who succeeded in immolating one of Jack’s two MERP characters, a largely self-taught mage from a commoner background, by reflecting one of his own fireball spells back against him).

One of our most colourful foes was a malevolent sorcerer from the royal line of the Northern Kingdom of the Dúnedain, who was originally designed as a one-shot opponent, but who ended up becoming a formidable returning villain. And then there was the adventure in which my happy-go-lucky hobbit had a momentous encounter with a lost Silmaril - one of the wondrous jewels that gave their name to Tolkien’s posthumously published final great work, The Silmarillion. It was an incident that utterly changed him, every bit as much as Frodo was transformed by the burden of bearing the One Ring.

Over time, most of us took our turn at game-mastering. Sometimes we used published scenarios from gaming magazines; more often, our adventures were of the GM’s own devising. We were the Magnificent Seven - one game-master, six players.

We started playing other RPGs besides MERP: science-fiction games like Traveller, Star Trek and the darkly comic and dystopian Paranoia; superhero games like Champions and Golden Heroes (where my character was a reincarnated Welsh druid with magical powers); the wonderful steampunk Space 1889; fantasy games like Rolemaster, Runequest and - even - D&D itself. But you never forget your first love, they say: and my affection for MERP remained, long after we stopped playing it on a regular basis.

The following academic year, we moved into student digs together (all except for Phil, who unfortunately was kicked off his course at the end of his second year). We had obtained a house for seven: and in place of Phil, it was Ken who joined us - our token non-gamer. Ken aside, we continued role-playing. Meanwhile, I mended bridges with Jeff; and though I was never quite as close to him as previously, we became good enough friends again for him to ask me to be his best man, when he married Carolyn a year after their graduation.

In my third year at university, my father fell ill. During that year, I needed all my university friendships - old and new - more than ever. Three months after his cancer diagnosis, he passed away. In life - just like role-playing games - I was reminded: there is no script immunity. And there are some Shadows that cannot be overcome in real life, however much one might wish to change the outcome of the throw of the dice.

***

Towards the end of the year, I was game-mastering once again. Graduation was approaching for most of us. Our Fellowship, inevitably, would be breaking. Determined that we should go out in style, I devised one last grand scenario for our Middle-earth characters - those that were left, anyway, having not as yet perished on the battlefield, been retired (like Phil’s hobbit), or experienced elevation to quasi-immortality (the fate of my own once-humble halfling character).

The final tale was imbued with the essence of Arthurian romance. The death of my father undoubtedly played its part too, subconsciously, as I wrote the outline for By the Sword Divided, the concluding chapter of our characters’ adventures. This was to be our Le Morte d’Arthur, in which we dared to rewrite the work of the Master, Tolkien himself. Tom had taken over playing Phil’s minstrel with the mysterious past. He’d been revealed in previous chapters to be the bastard scion of a noble Dúnadan house, and had become an inadvertent kin-slayer, twice-over. His impetuosity and arrogance now became the trigger for a cataclysmic civil war, and the downfall - three hundred years earlier in the timeline than Tolkien had envisaged - of the Northern Kingdom.

Talk about destroying canon...

I played Holst, Orff, Mahler and Wagner in the background as the battle-scenes on The Field of Lost Dreams played out. I’d deliberately stacked the odds against the characters, and one after another, their inevitable deaths came. Matt’s laconic dwarf, his mattock buried deep in the chest of the dread Black Reaver that he and Jack’s bushido-warrior had vanquished together, at the cost of their own lives. Gary’s Dúnadan stalwart, going down against a dozen foes still yielding Ologcrist, ‘Trollbane’, the wondrous sword that had once been gifted to him by Glorfindel of Rivendell.

Finally, there remained the kin-slaying bard, facing his hateful and treacherous father as he had once faced his two brothers. ‘Come, father, let us embrace,’ intoned Tom grimly, with impeccable timing, quoting Mordred’s last line from John Boorman’s wondrous 1981 film Excalibur. It was the concluding combat. The dice practically rolled themselves.

One character alone survived, to tell the tale - Tristan’s Gondorian prince, remaining just like Bedivere, the last of Arthur’s knights left standing on the field of Camlann, as the blood-red sun disappeared beneath the horizon. The curtain had descended on the most complex, and involved, role-playing campaign I had ever been part of. It was our Götterdämmerung. And it was glorious.

***

Forty years have passed since E.T. came out, giving me my first glimpse of role-playing. And now, the fourth series of Stranger Things is about to be released on Netflix - a nostalgic television drama series set in the 1980s, the very first episode of which, just like E.T., practically opens with a group of teenage boys playing D&D. I was a few years late coming to that particular party myself - and it’s been five years now since I last played in an ongoing campaign (the sad reality of friends moving away, and drifting apart, is something that gamers and non-gamers alike would recognise).

But I still have enormous affection for the friendships forged and strengthened across a graph paper map of caves and dungeons, strewn with miniatures representing heroes and monsters, and dice of a variety of shapes - some with 20 sides, others with 12, or 10, or 8, or 4 or even common-or-garden 6 sides.

Maybe, one day, I’ll pick up those dice again. I’ll generate a character or two. I’ll find some friends, and go adventuring again. I’ll open the doorway, and I’ll see what paths our imaginations can take us down, once more.

Though somehow - without the three o’clock in the morning, post-session trek to the burger van - it will never quite be the same.

A play

Cast of Characters

The Receptionist / A young woman

The Accountant / An older man

Setting

An otherwise empty train carriage

Act 1 / Scene 1

{The young woman is already seated. The man enters the carriage and approaches her, smiling.}

Acc: Hello, again.

Rec: Hello.

Acc: We really should stop meeting like this.

{The young woman laughs. The man takes the seat beside her with his briefcase lying flat on his suit-trousered knees.}

Rec: How was your day?

Acc: The usual. Yours?

Rec: Isn't it funny, how we work for the same firm, in the same building, but only ever see each other travelling to and from?

{The train begins to move away from the station. The young woman gazes out of the window. The man twists the platinum wedding ring on his finger. The young woman checks her watch.}

Rec: We're running late again.

Acc: Sorry?

Rec: I said we're running late again.

Acc: Better late than never, I suppose.

Rec: How hard can it be to follow a schedule?

Acc: So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Rec: Who's that?

Acc: Fitzgerald. The Great Gatsby.

Rec: I've never read it.

Acc: Few have. They only say they have to impress their friends at dinner parties.

{The rattle and hum of the train becomes louder as it steadily increases its speed.}

Acc: I was wondering if... If you might like...

Rec: Yes?

Acc: If we might have lunch together, some time. There's an Italian place not far from -

Rec: I eat at my desk.

Acc: Oh, right. Of course. The interminable drudge.

Rec: It's not so bad.

Acc: Don't you ever wonder if there's something better?

Rec: Better than public transport?

Acc: Better than this.

Rec: There are worse. I know what it's like to be poor.

Acc: Someone once said 'Life is how we fill our days between the cradle and the grave'.

Rec: There's a depressing thought.

Acc: Come away with me.

Rec: Where would we go?

Acc: Away. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just away. From here. Away from this.

Rec: Who would feed my cat?

Acc: I love you.

Rec: Don't be silly.

Acc: I'm serious. I've never been more serious.

Rec: But, you're married.

Acc: My wife cares more for her Begonias than she does for me.

{The young woman turns back to the window.}

Acc: And I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.

Rec: You're an odd duck.

{Having reached its destination, the train begins to slow. It's as if the carriage trembles with anticipation. The young woman gathers her coat and handbag, and stands up.}

Rec: This is me.

{The man vacates his seat, standing to let her past. Then he reaches for her hand. Clutches at it.}

Acc: Will I see you again tomorrow?

{The young woman pulls her hand free. Makes her way toward the carriage door on unsteady feet. The train grinds to a stop. The door opens. The young woman steps out onto the platform. She doesn't look back. She doesn't wave. The man slumps into the seat.}

End

Since when was the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre funny? Even fictionalised - as it is in this movie - it’s hardly a barrel of laughs, is it? Especially when you’re looking down the barrel of a Tommy gun. It’s enough to make you choke on your tooth-pick. Maybe being filmed in black and white disguises the brutality of the scene (this certainly is no Scarface or The Untouchables). The blood on his spats that he’s troubled by later - not as bad, surely, as the coffee (that isn’t really coffee) which had been spilled on them in an earlier scene - these are the least of the worries that the humourless, cardboard cutout villain of the piece should be concerned with, surely?

Transgender rights are hotly-contested these days. But if you’re hoping for a nuanced approach to such matters, you won’t find them here. And it has to be said that the two cross-dressing leads - playing a pair of wisecracking down-on-their-luck musicians who have inadvertently witnessed a slice of gang warfare - really don’t look all that convincing at all as members of the fair sex. Even in black and white. Where’s Robin Williams when you need him? It’s not just the much-put-upon manager of the all-female band that they infiltrate (in their attempt to escape the Chicago Mob) who appears to have lost his glasses - everybody else is just as myopic, and there can be no other explanation, surely, for how they get away with their implausible scheme for so long.

The film’s view of millionaires (they would be billionaires now, of course - such are the effects of inflation) is quaint, to say the least. The assumption that most of them would be octogenarians is clearly outdated. Silicon Valley geeks were clearly a thing of the future. A modern-day remake of this film would doubtless feature a villainous billionaire looking like just like ‘Dr Evil’, with an obsession with space - and the package that is delivered in a key scene containing an expensive bracelet for one of the cross-dressing leads that he has unaccountably fallen for (more shortsightedness at work, clearly), would now be delivered by the billionaire’s ubiquitous freight service (which would be named Orinoco, or something suitable exotic). But instead of which, we must contend with stereotypical investors in stocks, shares, and futures; and watch as their beady eyes lift up in concert from the columns of the Wall Street Journal to peruse a rather more shapely set of statistics heading their way - not our gender-bending protagonists, but the seductively-proportioned ukulele player who functions as the female lead of the movie.

By all accounts, she didn’t get on at all with her male opposite number, and so the joke about the frigidity of their characters’ on-screen relationship may have mirrored what was actually happening behind-the-scenes. Not that any of this seems to bother the other male lead, the double bass player - one shake of his maracas, and he’s being proposed to by a lecherous millionaire who bears absolutely no resemblance to Elon Musk. Give it another thirty years, mind…

The reliance upon coincidence to further the ridiculous plot is telling. The most obvious example of this is when the hoodlums end up staying at the same hotel (out of all the many, many possible candidates) as the fugitives, where their improbable disguise as lovers of Italian opera is as unlikely as the fate they come to as a result of a suspiciously overlarge birthday cake. Viewers might be forgiven for assuming that at this point the female lead would pop out of said cake singing, ‘Happy Birthday, Mr President.’ No such luck. Never mind the sheer implausibility of a guy with a submachine gun hiding in a cake. Instead, let’s all chuckle as the spat-wearing villain spats out his final line: ‘Big Joke.’ It’s no Madame Butterfly.

Lots of screwball comedy ensues, with endless running around frantically (so much so, I was expecting Benny Hill to turn up at one point, and for Yakety Sax to start playing). But no, the only sax on view belongs to the square-jawed Spartacus star (no, not Kurt, the other one) who the ukulele player has fallen for, hook, line and stinker - despite the fact that, by his own admission, all he call really offer her is coleslaw in the face, old socks, and a squeezed-out tube of toothpaste. What an implausible end for these characters - though not quite as much so as the fate that awaits not-Spartacus’ best buddy. Despite asserting his true masculinity at the very conclusion of the movie, he still faces the prospect of marriage to a dirty-minded Bill Gates-substitute. Wowser.

In the final analysis, it’s all a bit of a lemon. I’m sorry to have poured cold water on those who think this movie is some kind of classic. But what more can I say about the film director who gave us this unlikely piece of whimsy - other than this?

‘Well, nobody’s perfect.’

John, Chris, and I had talked about it, we knew what we were doing. First, though, we wanted to make sure that our sister agreed too. And we knew we had to act quickly, if we were to dissuade our father. Much as we loved him, and admired him, we knew that once he had decided upon a particular course of action, persuading him to change his mind would be difficult.

Chris’ support was invaluable. Already, we knew that our father had appointed him as the principal overseer and custodian of his literary legacy. John’s moral stature, as the priest of the family, was something Father would respect too. I knew that my influence would be much more limited: whereas my sister possessed an empathetic connection, to both my father and my later mother, that would be invaluable.

It was a bad decision, my father’s sentimentality at its very worst. He could be excessive in this regard at times. He was never embarrassed to shed a tear, or to embrace his sons, even in public. This familial affection was in strong contrast to the prevalent portrait of him as a curmudgeonly writer, an outmoded academic content to dwell in his ivory tower, standing aloof from a world in which every sign of ‘progress’ or ‘innovation’ was greeted with suspicion, even derision.

I could imagine the defence he would mount, when we voiced our sincere objections to him; reservations that we would express only out of an earnest desire to protect him from ridicule. He had so many detractors, after all, in the world, jealous of his genius; and in some respect his devotees - the ones increasingly-known these days as ‘fans’, a word I suspect my father detested - were even worse. They would certainly spot the meaning of that curious name engraved on Mother’s gravestone, straight away.

I could picture him shaking his head, and waving his pipe in our direction. ‘No, Michael, I will not listen. Your mother knew the stories of my legendarium, long before anyone else had heard them. She may have been less familiar with their later iterations. She certainly never understood the attention I was later afforded by so many of those who seem to regard me as an author of something tantamount to holy writ, at least in their own eyes; I don’t pretend to understand it myself. But she knew the love which I bore for her, and the sacrifices we made for one another, not least in the days of our youth; and she knew the person with whom she was identified, in terms of the greater story. She also knew which character within the tale represented me. But the story has gone crooked, and I am left, and I cannot plead before the inexorable Mandos.’

Thus, I imagined, he would respond to our entreaties. Our sister might hold the key to persuading him to our position. But to my surprise, when we spoke to Priscilla, she firmly took the side of my father.

‘John, Michael, Christopher,’ she said, addressing us from eldest to youngest brother, as always she did when speaking to us as a group. ‘Father is right. I know you show these concerns out of love for him. You do not want the memory of our mother tarnished, either. But his mind is quite made up. And when his time comes, he has told me what name he wants carved on the headstone, beneath hers. This isn’t for the fans, for anyone who might come afterwards. It isn’t for us. It’s for her - the girl he remembers who danced for him amongst the hemlocks, long ago. So let him have his way.’

And so we did. Nothing more was said. And when not so many months later we gathered at his graveside, we read together the inscription, suitably updated, in an Oxfordshire cemetery where one of the greatest writers of the 20th century now lay at rest with his beloved wife, our mother. Upon the headstone, besides the roses, were these simple words:

Edith Mary Tolkien, Lúthien, 1889-1971

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, Beren, 1892-1973

Commentary:

I didn’t choose the names for this challenge: but as soon as I saw the opening sentence with which we had been charged to begin, I knew exactly what my story would be. My imagined ‘discussions’ between the children of J.R.R. Tolkien are entirely fictitious; but their names and relationships within the Tolkien family are not. The line beginning ‘But the story has gone crooked...’ is a direct quote from a letter of Tolkien to his son Christopher, written in July 1972. And at Tolkien’s behest, the names of the protagonists of his great love story, the Elf-maiden Lúthien, and the man Beren, were indeed added to the headstone that still stands on their grave in Wolvercote Cemetery, Oxford. Requiescant in Pace.

A play in 3 acts

Cast of Characters

Ms Flora Winters

Mr Pericles Henry

Washington Winters

Setting

The small country town of Hope Springs - Nebraska - August - 1947

Act 1

A room in Ms Flora's boarding-house.

{Henry enters with a well-travelled suitcase he places next to the single bed. The furniture is a mix of old and new, under-loved and over-polished. There is a wardrobe; bedside table; chest of drawers; curtains at the window; a rug on the floor. The empty left sleeve of Henry's suit jacket is pinned to his lapel.}

{Flora Winters is young for a widow, on the right side of forty, and still an attractive woman, even if, perhaps, she has forgotten so. Her hair is pinned and twisted into a tight bun, as if, were it ever free, it might unleash some wild and uncontrollable passion.}

Flora: It's not much, and you'll have to share a bathroom, but it's clean. Breakfast is at eight. Supper at seven. No guests in your room after ten. I don't abide with smoking inside, or coarse language, or taking the name of Jesus Christ, Our Saviour, in vain.

Henry: I've never taken the Lord seriously enough to feel the need to profane him.

Flora: That's as may be. My son will bring up the desk you asked for.

{A boy of twelve struggles to fit what is obviously a hall-side table through the doorway.}

Flora: Mind the architraves!

Wash: Yes'm. It's heavy!

{Henry takes the table from the boy, lifting it easily with one arm, and places it against the wall, under the window with its drab and wash-faded curtains.}

Wash: We never had a real-life war hero before.

Henry: They're a dying breed.

Flora: We change the linen Tuesdays and Fridays. I'll clean your room then.

Henry: That's fine. You won't disturb me.

Flora: You're right, I won't. I expect you'll be somewhere else. Doing whatever it is you do.

Henry: I'm sure I'll find something to occupy my time.

{Ms Flora leaves. Wash lingers; hands in pockets.}

Henry: What do you do for fun?

Wash: This is Nebraska. Fun hasn't been invented yet.

Henry: Do you read?

Wash: Some.

{Lifting his suitcase onto the bed, Henry opens it and takes out a much read paper-back he tosses underhand to the boy.}

Wash: The O-dee-see?

Henry: You can learn a lot from the Greeks. A man may fail to impress us with his looks, but a god can crown his words with beauty.

Act 2

{Henry sits at the desk, gazing out through the window, tapping the stub of a pencil on a blank page of an open note-pad. Washington enters the room, cradling a globe of the world.}

Wash: I can't find Troy. Can you show me?

Henry: Would that I could, dear boy, but it doesn't exist. If it ever did, it's buried under the sands of time.

{Washington sets the globe down on the desk, obstructing Henry's view of the note-pad, and the recriminating absence of anything of note.}

Wash: Everybody's talking about your speech at the Town Hall tonight.

Henry: Dust on the wind. Old people. Mothers with small children. All that was left of them was charred bone and ash. Of all the creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than man. It is what happens, when they die, to all mortals. The sinews no longer hold the flesh and bone together, and once the spirit has left, all the rest is made subject to the fire's strong fury.

Wash: You talking about the bomb?

Henry: Bombs. There were two of them.

Wash: My father was on the Indianapolis. He died before they could rescue him.

{Henry rests a comforting hand on the boy's cocked hip.}

Henry: And if some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep, even so I will endure. For already have I suffered full much, and much have I toiled in perils of waves and war.

{Mistaking the touch for something other, Washington sits on Henry's knee.}

Wash: We're not supposed to. The Bible says so.

Henry: Each man delights in the work that suits him best.

Act 3

{Morning. Henry is packing his suitcase.}

Henry: What a lamentable thing it is that we should blame the gods. To say they cause our suffering, when we, ourselves, increase it by our folly. It is a man's own wickedness that brings him suffering; worse than any which destiny allots him. Sing to me of the man, the man of twists and turns, driven time and again off course once he had plundered the hallowed heights of Troy. A man who has suffered much, and wandered much, has pleasure out of his sorrows. And if something crude, of any kind is said, let the winds take it. For all is as dust on the wind.

arise silver queen

most fragrant of moons

come hence and vanquish the sun

that we might wax the thread

and together stitch the stars

through night eternal

Simple answer - it’s a vowel. Or - at least - it started out that way. But do you want to know why? Blame the Greeks.

And so - the slightly longer answer…

The Greek alphabet has 24 letters, seven of which are vowels. These seven are:

α (alpha) - the equivalent of a in the Roman alphabet

ε (epsilon) - the equivalent of ‘short’ e

η (eta) - the equivalent of ‘long’ e

ι (iota) - the equivalent of i

ο (omicron) - the equivalent of ‘short’ o

υ (upsilon) - the equivalent of u

ω (omega) - the equivalent of ‘long’ o

Like the Roman alphabet, the Greek alphabet has a set of capital letters that complements the small letters. In the case of the vowels, the capital and small letter pairings in Greek look like this:

Αα Eε Hη Iι Oο Yυ Ωω

In some cases (A, E, I and O), the Greek capital letter look the same as their Roman counterpart. Capital eta, confusingly, looks like a capital H. Capital omega looks quite unlike any Roman letter. Which leaves us with capital upsilon. And that looks just like a Roman capital Y (I say ‘Roman capital Y’, despite the fact that Classical Latin didn’t actually have a letter Y at all. It was ‘imported’ into English - which otherwise generally used the Roman alphabet - from Greek. Precisely the point I’m making here, of course. Blame the Greeks.)

And that is also why certain words that are spelt with an upsilon in Greek are spelt with a ‘y’ in English, where the English words are derived directly from the Greek. Let me give you a few examples. The English word ‘psyche’ (which also gives us other similar words, like ‘psychologist’, psychiatry’ and ‘psycho’), is derived from the Greek word ψυχη (psuche) - notice that the second letter is upsilon. Another example is ‘hypnosis’, an English world derived from the Greek word υπνωση (upnose). Here, the first Greek letter, an upsilon, has ‘turned’ into a ‘y’ in English. One final example: the English word ‘synagogue’ is derived from a not-unexpectedly common word that is found within the Greek New Testament, συναγωγη (sunagoge) - once again, note how a Greek upsilon has been rendered with a ‘y’ in English (and in all these examples, is actually pronounced ‘i’, whether long or short, and not ‘u’).

So, the Greek vowel upsilon is, effectively, the ancestor of two letters in English - U and Y. And ‘y’, therefore - at least in terms of origin - is to be considered a vowel, not a consonant.

Of course, over time it acquired a usage as a consonant too. But that - as they say - is another story.

Then, of course, there’s the way in which ‘i’ in Latin could be both vowel and consonant - and when pronounced as a consonant was pronounced as a ‘y’ (and, eventually, rendered as a ‘j’). So, for example, Iove (pronounced ‘Yove’) eventually gives us Jove, Iupiter (pronounced ‘Yupiter’) eventually yields Jupiter, and Iulius… well, you get the picture. But that’s yet another story.

There are also the occasions when ‘y’ in English actually derives from an archaic Anglo-Saxon letter for ‘th’ - which is why in the phrase ye olde tea shoppe, the ‘ye’ should actually be pronounced ‘the’ (contrary to what most people assume). But that is yet another, entirely different, story!

And then there’s ‘y’ in Welsh...

I’m going to stop now. You did want the simple answer - right?

It’s very simple, really. I’m here on Prose because of @FJGraham (Flyn Graham). And it’s because of Flyn that I’ve rediscovered my own delight in being a writer over the past five and a half years.

Flyn is a remarkable wordsmith. His writing has an honesty, a rawness and a passion that is astonishing in a (relatively) young person, and I have no doubt that his talents will continue to grow. Flyn’s use of language, in his prose, is more taut and sparing than my own. The economy of words that he deploys, to great effect, is different from my own somewhat more verbose approach. One of the things he told me, and taught me, in a conversation a while ago is the importance of reading aloud one’s words. For Flyn, if something doesn’t quite flow, if it doesn’t quite feel right, then it needs to be cut. It’s a principle that he applies with forensic ruthlessness to his own work.

I’m reminded of the Koh-i-Noor diamond - one of the largest cut diamonds in the world, and part of the British Crown Jewels since 1849. It was placed on display at the Great Exhibition in 1851; but despite its size, its lustre failed to impress. Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s consort, ordered it to be re-cut; and it was ultimately reduced in size - over the course of thirty-eight days - from 191 carets to 106. Such an enormous reduction in size was shocking to many at the time; yet the great loss in weight was necessary because of several serious flaws found in the diamond as it was being cut. Though much reduced in size, the Koh-i-Noor now shone brighter than ever, with a brilliance that continues to take the breath away of those who behold it.

Flyn’s writing is much like that. With each new work - and with each new edit - his stories shine with ever greater brilliance.

Flyn is part of a remarkable band of brothers here on Prose - with whom I am tremendously honoured to be associated. Younger brother Jax (@brothersgraham) is especially skilled in the crafting of sonnets. Hunter (@hunter10G), meanwhile, is incredibly industrious; and his lighthearted tales of Monkey, and magical stories of the Robot Prince, can be enjoyed by young and old alike. Together, we’ve encouraged our dear friend Ethan (@ethangraham), who has written a number of delightful tales of his own. And in recent months, we’ve all enjoyed setting, or taking part in, a variety of Prose challenges.

Reading - and re-reading - the works of my Graham family affords me pleasure like none other. There are some very talented writers here on Prose, and I’m enjoying coming to know the works of many. But, for me, it is @FJGraham who continues to inspire me, forever, and always. And his friendship shines brighter for me than any diamond. He remains a jewel crowned in my heart.

Samuel Griffin, the new sexton at St Adelaide’s, was a relative newcomer to the village, and he certainly wasn’t a person who was steeped in the more arcane rituals of the Church. So how was he to know, unless someone told him, that the traditional burial rites for a priest were different, in one crucial respect, from those of other people?

***

Father Algernon Beaumont-Ward (‘Father Algie’ as he had been affectionately known by his parishioners throughout his forty-two years of faithful ministry at St Adelaide’s) had died at the impressive age of one hundred and three. He had retired from ‘St Adie’s’ at the age of seventy (and was said to deeply regret the fact that had he been born just eighteen months earlier, the newly-enforced canonical retirement age would not have applied to him, and he would have been free to continue as the parish priest for as long as he had wished). His last service at St Adelaide’s had fallen on February 2nd 1977, his seventieth birthday, and the Feast of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple. Appropriate, given the traditional prayer of St Simeon, the Nunc Dimittis, associated with that day: Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace according to thy word. Save for his short curacy in an inner-city London parish, his entire ministry had been spent at St Adelaide’s. None of his successors had lasted for more than half a decade; the shadow he had cast during his illustrious tenure had been a long one.

But sadly, over time almost all of the most stalwart members of the parish had died or moved away; fewer and fewer now remained to recall his incumbency, the heyday of the parish. As the congregation had dwindled, so successive reorganisations had seen St Adelaide’s grouped with first one neighbouring parish, then another: the grand if slowly decaying nine-bedroom Rectory that had served as home to Father Algie and his predecessors since the mid-nineteenth century had been sold off; the local church school had been closed as the school roll had dwindled; the post office had shut too, and even the Black Bull was struggling, like many a country pub, as the drink-drive laws had become more stringently enforced. One in three of the houses in Adelaide-on-the-Howe were now holiday homes, standing empty for three-quarters or more of the year. Bit by bit, the village was becoming a ghost settlement, like so many in that remote corner of East Anglia these days.

Only the local nursing home, optimistically and euphemistically named Sunshine Towers, seemed to be thriving; as the local population aged, so the queue to secure places in the home lengthened. Father Algie had lived there himself for the final nine years of his life, but had received progressively fewer visits from the diminishing pool of ‘old-timers’ who remembered his tenure as their parish priest with affection. The Bishop had visited him on his one hundredth birthday; a young whipper-snapper, just fifty-seven years old, with decidedly modern views. Father Algie, his mental faculties surprisingly alert still, even if his eyesight was failing, had not been impressed.

***

There was no doubt that Algernon Beaumont-Ward was ‘old school’. He had left meticulous instructions for his funeral service. The ceremony was conducted by the Rural Dean, Canon Smallbrooke, not by any of Father Algie’s former colleagues (who had all predeceased him), nor by any of his successors at St Adie’s (now part of a sprawling group of seven churches, currently in an interregnum that had already lasted for eighteen months). The Rural Dean had several other appointments that day - including a funeral in his own parish, forty minutes drive away, at the opposite end of the Deanery. Despite the pressure he felt himself to be under, he’d adhered as closely as possible to the strict requirements Father Algie had laid down for his funeral. The coffin had been draped with the old priest’s ordination chasuble and stole, the same vestments he had worn for his first mass in London, and later for his first communion service at St Adelaide’s, way back on Advent Sunday 1934. The hymns and readings were exactly as requested, and a CD player had been set up to play the Pie Jesu from Faure’s Requiem immediately before the Commendation. However, neither the Rural Dean nor the church wardens had been able to secure the services of someone to toll the church bell in the traditional manner. ‘For whom does the bell toll? Alas, it tolls not for thee, Father,’ Canon Smallbrooke had mused to himself.

The attendance at the funeral was sparse; Father Algie’s sole living relative, his great-niece Miss Evangeline Beaumont-Ward, lived in Cornwall, and was not well enough to travel. The churchwardens were there, out of duty, and the organist, likewise. Apart from the manager and two care staff from Sunshine Towers, the only person in attendance who had known Father Algie was Mrs Molly MacMillan, who had once been the old priest’s housekeeper. Eight-eight years old herself - stubbornly refusing the hip-replacement that she had been in need of for the previous fifteen years - she had struggled up the church path with some considerable difficulty. But she had been determined to pay her final respects to the person she regarded as ‘the last proper priest this parish ever had.’ Seven people, in all - not including the undertaker and his staff, and himself as celebrant, thought the Rural Dean, glancing at his watch to make sure he wasn’t running late. A sad epitaph to a life of faithful service.

Samuel Griffin hadn’t attended the service. He was on holiday on the day in question; and, in any case, he had been assured when he was appointed that it wasn’t a strict requirement for the sexton to attend each and every funeral. Just so long as the burial plot in the churchyard had been marked out, the grave-diggers engaged, and the paperwork was in order; that was what mattered. Then, later, after a few weeks had passed to allow the earth to settle upon the new grave, there would be the task of liaising with the stone-mason appointed by the family, ensuring that the design of and wording upon the headstone was strictly in accordance with the churchyard regulations, and making sure that it had been correctly installed. And then, of course, the biggest part of his job: to ensure that the churchyard was well-maintained, that the trees were managed and the grass was cut, that dead floral tributes were removed, and that no gravestone was leaning over dangerously. But be there at each funeral? No, that wasn’t a necessary part of his duties.

He received the paperwork from Miss Beaumont-Ward, in Cornwall, in due course. The epitaph was an odd one, he thought: ‘How can the gods meet us face to face till we have faces?’ The reference to ‘the gods’ didn’t sound particularly Christian - surprisingly, that, given that he was a reverend, thought Griffin - but there was the counter-signature of the Rural Dean, next to that of Miss Beaumont-Ward, approving the wording. Indeed, Canon Smallbrooke had scrawled a name, next to the sentence. C.S. Lewis. Was that the name of the original author of these strange words?

All was clearly in order. Once again - how was he to have known that the burial of a priest was different?

***

The first he knew that someone had made a grave error was the Sunday after the headstone had been installed. Shortly after midday, he received a phone call at home from an agitated Molly MacMillan.

‘Mr Griffin? It’s Mrs MacMillan.’

He struggled to remember the name. ‘I’m sorry–Mrs MacMillan?’

‘Mrs Molly MacMillan, from Violet Cottage. I used to be the housekeeper for the late Father Algernon Beaumont-Ward. Before your time. Before you were even born, I shouldn’t wonder.’ She sniffed. Her disapproval of his youth was self-evident in her voice.

‘How can I help you, Mrs MacMillan?’

‘Join me in the churchyard of St Adelaide’s, right away if you please. There’s something I need to show you. It’s urgent. I went to lay flowers on poor Father Algernon’s grave, and I was shocked by what I discovered.’

Griffin looked across at the dining table, where his Sunday lunch was lying, half-eaten. ‘Could I meet you there in half-an-hour?’

‘Well– ’ The voice at the other end of the telephone paused. ‘Very well. But no later. I shall meet you at the graveside.’

***

‘Now then, Mr Griffin, can you see the dreadful mistake that has been made?’ Mrs Molly MacMillan, dressed in deepest black, gesticulated with her umbrella towards the plot where the late parish priest of Adelaide-on-the-Howe was lying - hopefully - at rest.

Did he get much rest from this pugnacious harridan in life, when she was his housekeeper, I wonder? thought Samuel Griffin. He looked across at the grave. Nothing seemed to be amiss. The headstone was standing in place, positioned perfectly in line with the others in that part of the churchyard. Was there a problem with the wording on the gravestone? Or the dates? No, he had checked them most carefully. It could only be the strange epitaph, then. Mrs MacMillan must have some problem with that.

‘I can assure you, Mrs MacMillan, that the Rural Dean believed the wording to be perfectly in order.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Molly MacMillan scowled. ‘This isn’t about words.’

‘Then what– ?’

‘Do you know,’ she interrupted him, testily, ‘why gravestones are placed in the way they are?’

‘Of course. They’re placed at the head of the grave. The nearest point to the head of the coffin.’

‘And why are the lines of gravestones orientated in the way they are in a graveyard?’

He shook his head. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Churchyards, just like churches, are orientated towards the east. They are laid out so that, on the Day of Resurrection, when the bodies of the departed rise up, they find themselves facing east - towards the dawning sun. Towards their risen and ascended Saviour, who has come down again from on high to welcome them, and to judge them.’

Do people really believe that nonsense any more? thought Griffin. He looked at Father Algernon’s grave once again. ‘Then I don’t see the problem - this grave is exactly like all the others.’

‘No, Mr Griffin,’ said Molly MacMillan. ‘It is not.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘If you’d actually attended Father Algernon’s funeral yourself, you would. He had left precise instructions. The old tradition is that priests are buried facing the other way from the people: so that on the Day of Resurrection, when they rise from the grave, they are facing westwards - with their backs to the sun. They face their people, out there— ’ She waved her hand in an expansive gesture, across the graveyard. ‘Just as in church, as they face the people, at the altar, representing Christ himself - as it was in the life that was, so it will be in the life to come.’ She tapped the gravestone with her umbrella. ‘And so, this gravestone is in the wrong place. It’s been placed at dear Father Algy’s feet, you numbskull! It should have been positioned there– ’ she gestured, again, pointing to the place where, Griffin had naturally presumed, the foot of the priest’s coffin lay. ‘Now do you understand?’

Griffin nodded. Yes - he did. A grave error had, indeed, been made.

But was he really the one to blame?

‘He’ll rise to face them, the ones he christened, and married, and buried himself, on the Day of Resurrection,’ insisted the old woman. ‘And all the other ones he might have performed those offices for, if the Church hadn’t forced him to retire. All the people who weren’t there for his funeral. The ones– ’ she paused, for her voice trembling now. She dabbed at her cheek with her handkerchief, then continued: ‘The ones who should have been there. Who abandoned him.’

Ah, thought the sexton. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? He’d heard that hardly anyone had attended the funeral. The old parish priest, who had baptised their babes at the old Norman font; who had dispensed the sanctified bread and wine from the altar to the faithful, and had exhorted and encouraged them from the pulpit; who had joined countless young couples in holy matrimony at the chancel step, and had presided at the funerals of hundreds of people, perhaps, over the course of his long tenure at St Adelaide’s; that pious, faithful old man had been forgotten, by and large, in death himself.

It started to rain.

Griffin looked at the basket of summer flowers that Mrs MacMillan had left by the gravestone - the headstone placed in error at the feet of the former parish priest. ‘Come, let me help you arrange these flowers,’ he said. ‘Then you can take my arm and I’ll walk you home. And I promise I will ring Miss Beaumont-Ward tonight, and ask her what I should do.’

***

He had dreaded the phone call, but was pleasantly surprised at the outcome.

‘I’m so sorry, Mr Griffin,’ said Father Algernon’s great-niece. ‘It’s really not your fault. I’d completely forgotten, myself, about that rather quaint custom. Uncle Algy was a stickler to such things. I can understand why Mrs MacMillan was so upset.’

‘Thank you. Do you want to arrange for the memorial stone to be moved to the - err - other end of the grave? Of course, I’ll need to check with the Rural Dean if that’s in order, and the monumental mason may well make an additional charge, I’m afraid.’

There was a pause. Then Evangeline Beaumont-Ward spoke again, gently but firmly. ‘No, Mr Griffin, that won’t be necessary. I don’t believe all that stuff myself, about priests facing the other way on the Last Day, do you?’

‘I don’t happen to believe in God, Miss Beaumont-Ward. I plan to be cremated, myself, then for my ashes to be scattered. But, no, if there were a God - why would he treat priests any differently?’

‘Precisely, Mr Griffin. Something uncle and I disagreed on, alas. He was a deeply affectionate great-uncle to me, and I loved visiting him as a child, half a century ago, back when he was in his prime at St Adie’s. But we always had rather different theological views. You are a priest forever, after the order of Melchizedek - he was rather fond of that quotation from scripture. Once a priest, always a priest, in his view. But to my mind - surely we all face God on the same terms, at the end of all things? That’s why I suggested that quotation on his headstone.’

‘That was down to you?’ asked Griffin, surprised.

‘Yes. I helped my great-uncle draw up his last will, and his final instructions for his funeral, some ten years ago, not long before he went into Sunshine Towers. He was stuck for an epitaph. I suggested the Lewis quote to him. We were both rather fond of his writings. He liked it - but I’m not sure he interpreted it in quite the same way as I did. I think that what Lewis was saying is that we can only look upon the face of God when we are really ready to look Him in the eye, to stand before Him face to face, without any of the masks, and personas, and false faces we so often wear in life. And how can we possibly do that if we’ve got our backs to Him? At the end of the day, my great-uncle has to face God not as a priest, but as a human being. Just like any one of us. We can’t change how Uncle Algy’s body was buried. Don’t you need a certificate from the Home Office, or some such thing, to move a body already interred? But neither should we change how his gravestone is positioned. So let it stand, in line with all the others. He may have baptised, and married, and buried, half of them there in the churchyard. But he’ll face his God, as one of them, I’m sure. He’ll face his Maker - as a man.’