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Theatre Alibi

Fish Eye

by Daniel Jamieson

Commissioned by REACH

4th Draft October 2016

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(An older woman in a scruffy Guernsey and deck shoes topped off with pearls

crosses the stage. She carries two jugs of squash and a plate of biscuits on a tray.

Her progress is arrested by a portrait on the wall of a handsome older man with a

pugnacious twinkle in his eye. Pam looks at it wistfully until the portrait’s chin

judders and it utters,)

Roger Nice jugs.

Pam My late husband.

(She puts down the tray and turns to us.)

Roger was something of a wag.

Roger I’m reading a book about gravity. I can’t put it down.

Pam Not a buffoon, mind. He was a surgeon in the navy. Not one to mince his

words.

Roger If in doubt, chop it off.

Pam He didn’t suffer fools gladly.

Roger Wets.

Pam That’s what we called them. There are plenty here in the village. Nigel

Delaware.

Roger Wet.

Pam Arthur Hogg.

Roger Anorak.

Pam Roger had them all off to a T.

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Roger “Stop stealing my light!”

Pam That’s Mini Fleming next door! She took exception to our Pinus Radiata.

Roger Old Flemmy.

Pam Roger soon put her straight.

Roger My tree. My business.

Pam I felt safe by his side.

Roger Come on love, give us a smile. That’s better! Now, chin up, chest out.

Pam Then he went and popped his clogs.

(A moment’s silence.)

A week later I was burgled.

(She indicates an ancient sideboard.)

We’d had our sideboard as a wedding present from my parents.

Elizabethan, they said when we had it valued for the insurance…

Many’s the time it was admired before dinner. I used to put the nibbles on

it you see, and people used to stand round it, chuntering over the olives

and nuts. And word spreads, doesn’t it? Idle chat is made in the post

office. “Who lives in that house with the imposing tree?”

“The Hardys. They have an Elizabethan sideboard, you know.”

(Suddenly it disappears, leaving a ghost of itself on the wallpaper behind.)

It was the only thing they took.

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They came in while I was at the funeral director’s making Roger’s

arrangements…

Who was it Rodge…?

But he couldn’t help me now.

It had to be someone local.

Who else would have known?

*

So I joined the Neighbourhood Watch.

They meet once a month at the Parish Hall. I turned up fashionably late to

show I didn’t take the whole thing too seriously. I could hear them all

hooting from the vestibule but they soon stopped when I opened the door.

It was all the usual suspects. Nigel Delaware was there, and Arthur Hogg,

and the chair was none other than old Flemmy.

“Oh. Pam”, she said. “What are you doing here?”

I declared my intention to join and I was frostily invited to take a seat.

The issue of signage kept them blathering on most of the afternoon: would

Neighbourhood Watch signs show that people round here had something

worth stealing, might they lessen the chance of a Britain in Bloom

nomination…?

How do you actually watch the neighbourhood, I blurted out in the end?

Flemmy A full induction is given on membership…

Pam But roughly.

Flemmy We watch in shifts and log our findings.

Pam Might I see the log?

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Flemmy It’s confidential.

Pam Confidential my arse you pompous old trout… I didn’t say that out loud of

course.

I still had a key to the Parish Hall from my WI days, so I went back later

and looked anyway.

I turned straight to the day I was burgled. It was on Flemmy’s watch…

Flemmy 3.30 - Male. Brown coat. Long legs. Up lane towards play-park …

Pam Sounded promising…

Flemmy 3.46 - Brown-coat back down the lane and defecates outside number 5.

Owner produces a bag but fails to use. Appears squeamish at the

consistency…

Pam Dog business! And not a dicky bird about my house.

It was just as I had suspected - With this lot on guard, no-one was safe.

Roger wouldn’t have stood for this and neither would I.

*

I decided to do some neighbourhood watching of my own.

I waited ’til dusk then I set off on foot. I wore an old pair of slippers for

stealth and carried a bin bag full of newspaper so if anyone asked, I was

putting out the rubbish.

What was I hoping for? A glimpse of my sideboard, I suppose, and maybe

a glimpse of whom I really lived amongst too.

I crept out of the back gate and down the path behind the houses.

Flemmy’s was first next door, of course. All I could hear to start with was

the whining of her horrible little dog indoors somewhere. Then, “Buster!

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Shut it!” Suddenly the kitchen light came on and there on the window sill

was a dead rat floating in a Pyrex mixing bowl.

“Will you just wait a second you damn dog!?”

Flemmy took the bowl off the sill, sniffed it appreciatively and shut the

blind. What was she going to do, for God’s sake? Make soup with it?!

I carried on down the alley, feeling rather sick. The next house was Nigel

Delaware’s, but it was dark and silent. A blow-up dolphin lay wilted by his

swimming pool. There was something so incongruous about Nigel

Delaware having a swimming pool. He’s a flabby, bookish bachelor - a

retired lecturer of something flakey, like sociology or drama… What on

earth did he want with a swimming pool?

Several more houses were dark, then came Arthur Hogg’s. His garden

was all concrete and smelled of Jeye’s Fluid. The lights were on but the

blinds were shut. It all seemed so buttoned up that I couldn’t believe my

ears when music began to flood out of the house. It was Lilli Marlene by

Marlena Dietrich, in German. And there was Arthur’s voice, singing along!

I never really imagined him being so… romantic.

His shadow passed an upstairs window and his profile looked odd

somehow, sort of square and sharp about the shoulders. I waited for a

better look and finally he went into the downstairs toilet and began to pee

like thunder. The glass was frosted but the window was open a crack, and

I just got a glimpse of him before the light went out. Two flashes of silver

stood out on his black lapel - he was dressed to the ears in an SS Nazi

uniform…!

Jesus and Joseph! Whatever next…!?

I turned for home, but half way back I heard someone in their garden - a

young girl was calling from her back step, “Here boy… chuckchuckchuck.”

She wore polka dot pajamas and she held out a bowl. “Here boy,

teatime…” There was something so innocent about her, in light of what I’d

just seen.

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The reluctant animal was out of sight, but suddenly, close by, came the

unmistakable sound of a shutter clicking.

“Hello?” said the girl, but the photographer made no reply. Un-nerved, the

girl went in, then a figure quickly detached itself from the shadow of a bush

and strode right past me with no idea I was there. It was Nigel “swimming

pool” Delaware.

*

My sideboard was obviously the tip of an iceberg.

I invited my nephew Ciaran round for tea.

We’ve always had a special bond, Ciaran and me. He was never like other

children. Even as a toddler, when he came round for the day he was

always quiet as a mouse. He loved to hide among the furniture and watch

me from the table legs while I did the hoovering.

He works in security nowadays - burglar alarms, that sort of thing. He fitted

mine, in fact.

I told him everything I’d seen and he thought it was all terribly funny. Why

do young people nowadays find everything such a huge joke?

Then, half in jest, Ciaran said maybe I should bug my neighbours’ houses,

then I’d find out what they were really up to.

Don’t be daft I said. How would I do that?

You can get these “units”, he said, little transmitters with remote cameras

that send a signal back to your computer.

Very James Bond, I said. Do they come with a bullet-proof Aston Martin?

No Auntie…

He doesn’t like it when I take the Mickey.

You buy them online and they come through the post.

That’s all very well I said, but how would I get them into their houses…?

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I was knitting a White Rabbit at the time for the Mare and Foal Charity

shop. I mostly do baby clothes, but once a year we knit novelty figures and

sell them round the town. Alice in Wonderland was the theme this year. It’s

a bit of a labour but they sell like hot cakes… and that’s when it came to

me.

I could bug the dolls!

But Ciaran was rather doubtful, he said that the lenses needed to poke out

and that they were fish eyes as big as ten P pieces.

Fish eyes, I said? Talk English Ciaran.

Apparently it was the type of lens. They’re all bulgy, so they can see wide-

angle, he explained…

But I was already leafing through our old copy of Alice, the one with the

proper pictures by Tenniel…

There! The Fish Footman! A fish eye wouldn’t look out of place on him,

would it?! I could knit him, no trouble!!

For once, I think even Ciaran was impressed!

*

So I knitted a prototype…

(She shows us the knitted figure of a fish in footman’s livery.)

Not bad eh?! And Ciaran bought me a “unit” which fits nicely in Mr Fish’s

head.

(She switches on the unit and we see the fish-eye view of her face on the screen,

unpleasantly distorted.)

Who’s a pretty boy then?! Give mummy a kissy!

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(We see her lips bulge towards us.)

Look, here are mummy’s friends!

(She holds the doll up to the audience and they see themselves.)

The picture looks a bit strange at first, but you soon get used to that.

I knitted two more Footmen and fitted them with fish eyes too, then I went

knocking on my neighbours’ doors. SS officer Arthur Hogg moaned a bit

about it being for a charity that put horses before humans but he bought

one in the end. And Flemmy and Nigel “swimming pool” Delaware shelled

out at once.

And that was that. Ciaran had arranged it so I could watch on my

television. All I had to do was switch to the right channel, and there I was

inside their houses.

*

The first fish eye that I opened was in Flemmy’s house.

The doll had been perched up high, to keep it out of Buster’s reach

probably, and I had a grandstand view of Flemmy’s kitchen. And there she

was at the table having a cup of tea with a farmer-type. But I couldn’t hear

a word they were saying because the dog was yapping like billyo in the

corner. He was sniffing frantically round a long, low with a tight canvas

cover. Was there some kind of animal in there…? And every now and then

Buster would look back at the humans as if to say, “What are you waiting

for? But they just gassed on and on…

So I switched channel to “swimming pool” Nigel Delaware’s house, and

suddenly the screen was full of young girls squealing like piglets, all half-

undressed. Was there some mistake? No, there was Nigel’s jacket on the

back of a chair in what looked like his study. What on Earth was going on?

Then there was a knock at the door and they all screeched at once.

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“Are you ready yet?” It was Nigel, through the door.

“Nearly!” They tittered.

“Well hurry up or there won’t be enough time.”

But the girls just went back to their endless fannying about…

So I thought I’d take a quick peek at Arthur Hogg. He’d put his Fish Eye on

the mantlepiece of his bachelor sitting room, which was as sterile as a

cheap sofa salesroom.

And there he was on the sofa, in the middle of a mysterious craft session,

cutting blobby shapes out of black card. You couldn’t really tell what they

were because he was cutting them out so clumsily, but they all had four

short legs and a snout. Then he started flicking through a stack of Hello

magazines and cutting out the odd face of an orange-tanned celebrity…

Flemmy! They must’ve taken the cover off that cage by now. Both visitor

and cage were gone.

And when I turned back to Nigel’s the girls had gone too, leaving just their

undies draped over every inch of his study.

Then I just caught Arthur leaving the room with might have been an armful

of… what? Celebrity-faced Wind in the Willows?

And this was how it went on - there’d be long hours of nothing with sudden

bursts of everything at once. It was like trying to watch three television

programmes at the same time. I kept feeling I’d just missed the moment

that made sense of everything.

*

When Ciaran next came round for tea, he asked what I would do if they

were all TV programmes?

Probably turn the telly off, I said, I’ve always preferred a good book.

But you just haven’t got hooked yet, said Ciaran, that’s all.

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I thought about it a bit: I supposed if they were all worth watching, I’d just

record them and catch up one by one.

Exactly, he said.

And he had such a twinkle in his eyes, I agreed to his suggestion straight

away. He supplied me with three hard drives and arranged it so my Fish

Eyes recorded round the clock, so I could catch up at my leisure, though

you couldn’t really call it leisure. I had to watch all day and half the night to

keep up.

*

I discovered over the coming days that Flemmy and Buster were a very

happy couple: they ate Pringles together, they watched Bake Off together

and sometimes they sang together after Flemmy’d had her evening can of

Guinness.

“Happy talk, keep talking happy talk…”

(Buster howls.)

“Talk about things you’d like to do…”

(Howls.)

And actually, the more I watched them the more envious I felt, because at

least they had each other…

But there was nothing cuddly about Buster. When Flemmy grabbed his

fluffy bunny while he was chewing it, he’d shake it from side to side as if

he was killing it with rage.

Then one afternoon, they were both napping by the Rayburn. Suddenly

Buster charged out of the dog flap, yapping like a chainsaw. Flemmy ran

to the window.

Flemmy OH…. Buster!

Pam Then Buster burst back through the flap with a ball of grey fur in his

mouth… it was a squirrel! All Hell broke loose. The squirrel screeched

then Buster was shaking it and Flemmy was yelling her head off. The

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squirrel soon stopped screaming but Buster shook it ’til it was a bloody

rag. When he finally stopped shaking it, Flemmy said,

Flemmy You see! Now you’re ready!!

Pam What did she mean? Ready for what…?

*

Arthur Hogg was retired but I found that he lived to a rigid regime. Every

morning he would listen to his audio German course on the sitting room

stereo while doing Canadian Airforce exercises in his underpants. The

combination made for some hypnotic viewing.

(She demonstrates,) “Ich habe eine Schwester, sie heiBst Lara. Sie hat

funfzehn Jahre…”

Then he would do his three hours curtain twitching for the Neighbourhood

Watch. He wore a naval cap and paced behind the net curtains with a

huge pair of binoculars round his neck, muttering his sightings in German

before noting them down.

“Mein Gott… Ich sehe eine Glatze Reifen…”

But after lunch an ominous hush would fall on the house as he fetched out

his gun. He kept it in a holster that looked like a golf bag. I don’t know

much about rifles but this was no pop gun. It had a telescopic sight and a

long barrel and the way he handled it, he clearly knew what he was doing.

When he’d checked it over, he’d go out for a couple of hours.

But when he got back he’d be his old jolly self again. Then he’d prop his

animal silhouettes all over the sofa. I was right. He’d stuck celebrity faces

on them all. Gloria Hunniford, Dale Winton… But now they’d be pock-

marked with holes – Phillip Schofield’s teeth might be knocked out or Sue

Perkins’ glasses punched in. And Arthur would nod approvingly, “Guter

Schuss, mein Freund.”

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It was the evenings when he dressed up. The Marlene Dietrich would go

on and Arthur would sweep downstairs in one of his uniforms. They were

all German officers from the Second World War and they all fitted him like

a glove. And though they were odious, Arthur became almost graceful in

them, as he strolled around the living room striking poses…

And each night he would choose new celebrities from his endless supply

of Hello magazines and paste their faces over the shattered ones on his

animals. I noticed that the pock-marks were getting closer together, until

one night they were all gathered in big dark holes between their eyebrows.

*

Nigel Delaware’s life was more chaotic, but he was regular in some of his

habits. He’d go out every night at dusk with his camera, and when he

came back a couple of hours later he would take off his trousers and pants

as soon as he came in the door. Then he would sit at his computer and

upload his photos while he ate toast without a plate. The thought of where

the crumbs were falling made me shudder…

The screen of his computer was always turned so I couldn’t quite see, but

the effect it had on him was plain enough. He would squirt some baby oil

on his lap and start rubbing himself. Fortunately the arm of the chair hid

the grisly details, but it looked like he was kneading dough… And he’d

make these horrible little noises like he was in pain. “Ugh… Ugh…”

Afterwards, he’d lie back with his hands behind his head, lost in thought.

But one night, he sat up and started to cry. Guilt, I supposed. Then he

fetched a woman’s scarf from the back of the door and soothed himself

with it like a baby. It was disgusting but somehow… I couldn’t help feeling

a little bit sorry for him. Then he drank a glass of milk and went to bed like

he’d had a perfectly normal evening.

And every Saturday afternoon his study became the girls’ changing room

again. I suppose they were going swimming in his pool, but why? One

week, when they’d giggled out towards the garden, Nigel appeared in the

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hallway for a second, naked except for the smallest pair of briefs

imaginable and his camera round his neck. Then he uncapped his lens

and strode off towards the girls.

*

The more I watch, the more I can feel the direction they’re all going…

To Hell probably, said Ciaran the next time he came round to tea. See

Auntie, I said you’d get hooked.

I suppose I was feeling a bit out of my depth with it all, because something

made me say that I couldn’t help feeling a little uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable? said Ciaran, putting down his muffin. Why?

I’m seeing things I don’t want to see.

Forgive me Auntie, he said, coming over all frosty like he sometimes does,

but isn’t that a little bit wet?!

For God’s sake, they stole your sideboard! You’ve got to fight fire with fire!

What would Uncle Rodge have said?

I tried to imagine, but somehow I couldn’t.

*

Then everything came to a head the following Saturday.

Every day, first thing, I’d check the live feed from each Fish Eye to make

sure it was working, and when I looked in Flemmy’s kitchen that morning

there seemed to be a party in full swing. There were nine men drinking

mugs of tea, all farmer-types with red faces and muddy boots. Eight were

huge but one was very much punier and that’s when I recognised Flemmy!

She had on a Barbour and a flat cap just like them but with her long white

pony tail hanging down the back.

And round their feet a sea of terriers surged, all yapping so loudly I had to

turn down the volume. Suddenly all the men and Flemmy were putting

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electrical tape round the bottom of their trousers and the dogs got even

more excited, then they all poured out of the room and were gone. I sat in

a daze. What the Hell were they up to?

Nigel and Arthur were quiet that morning, so I started reading the local rag

while flicking between their channels. But when I checked back on

Flemmy around lunchtime, she was sat in her armchair knocking back a

can of Guinness and looking white as a sheet. Buster was asleep in his

bed but he was caked in mud and dotted with pink bald patches.

I rolled back the film to when they’d come home and I could hear Buster

whimpering before they’d even come into the room. Flemmy lifted him

straight on to the kitchen table and he looked in a terrible state - blood and

mud everywhere. Flemmy injected him with something, which knocked

him out cold, then she set to work. She shaved round each wound,

cleaned it and stitched it. Why was she doing it herself? She didn’t want

the vet to know - that was why! Because how did Buster get these

wounds? Some horrific blood sport, no doubt - badger baiting, or even dog

fighting. I would ring the Police. This had to be stopped.

I gave Nigel’s house a quick peep to steady my nerves …

His study was full of new furniture. I say ‘new’, but actually it all looked

rather old and beautiful. There was a Georgian tallboy and a French

fruitwood cupboard and two rosewood armchairs, all just piled up willy-

nilly. And there was Nigel stood stock still in the middle of it all… Drooling

apparently! And right under my Fish Eye, was my sideboard!!

Unmistakable! I’d recognise its knobbly pillars and cheery little lions’ faces

anywhere!

I’d report him at the same time as Flemmy - two for the price of one!

I’d better check Arthur too - why not three for a pound, I thought, but when

I flicked to his channel he was sitting innocently on his sofa… Hold on?

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He was wearing a uniform I’d not seen before - black cap, overalls, boots

and fingerless gloves. A marksman, or a sniper - that’s what he looked

like. His gun bag was propped next to him like a thin, mean friend, and he

seemed to be waiting tensely. On his lap was a Hello magazine open at a

double spread of Alan Titchmarsh, which he glanced at distractedly. I still

had the local paper open in front of me and by a quirk of fate there was a

picture of Alan Titchmarsh too. He was going to open a new garden centre

nearby apparently. This afternoon, in fact, in about an hour… My God. It

all suddenly fitted into place. Keep calm Pam. I had an hour to convince

the Police, an hour to stop Arthur from shooting Alan Titchmarsh…

*

Then Arthur’s doorbell rang and he went out to the hall where I couldn’t

see him.

“Hello…?!” he said, then all went hush… Suddenly Flemmy came striding

into the room. Had I changed channel by accident? She had a little white

box in her hand. Quickly she scanned the room, then she looked straight

at me. She came to the mantlepiece and picked me up and I was whisked

across Arthur’s living room, past him looking baffled in the hall and into his

kitchen, where Flemmy put me in the fridge. For a second I lay looking

sideways at the little white box Flemmy had put beside me, then

darkness… Wait a minute, that white box was one of my “units”.

I snapped to Flemmy’s channel and that was dark too, so I wound her film

back five minutes and there she was, snoring peacefully in her chair and

Buster snoring in his bed. But after a couple of minutes, the perspective

very gradually tilted to the left, and suddenly I was lying on the floor.

Buster crept forward, growling, and then I was rattling in his jaws ’til I was

thrown to one side. There was the Fish Footman in his mouth, its head

torn open.

Flemmy Buster?

Pam …said Flemmy,

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Flemmy What have you done to Mr Fish… Hello… What’s this?!

Pam All of a sudden I was looking up at Flemmy’s puzzled face from the palm

of her hand. Now we were marching along the close and ringing Arthur’s

doorbell.

Arthur Hello…?!

Pam …he said.

Flemmy Shhhh!

Pam …said Flemmy, then she whispered,

Flemmy What, in your expert opinion, is that?

Pam I was handed to Arthur who peered at me with a puzzled frown.

Arthur I don’t know, some sort of little camera?

Flemmy Did Pam give you one of those knitted fish?

Arthur Yes…

Flemmy Where is it?

Arthur In the living room. On the mantlepiece.

Pam Next thing I knew, Arthur’s Fish Footman and I had been thrown in the

fridge.

Never mind, I still knew what I knew and I still had proof. I picked up the

phone and dialed nine… nine… but the distant wail of a siren was already

on its way.

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*

However, when they arrived, the Police didn’t take them… they took me.

Half the village stared from the pavement as I was bundled into the car.

Flemmy, Arthur and Nigel were watching too. I was baffled because there

was no guilt on their faces, only contempt, and pity.

I told the Police everything straightaway. The sergeant soon stopped

asking questions and sat there with his mouth open. Yes, alright, it

sounded incredible, but I had the proof because they’d brought in my hard

drives, thank God. Of course they wanted to know where I’d got all the

equipment from, but I wasn’t going to give them Ciaran, oh no. I told them

I’d bought it all myself online.

They kept me overnight in a cell but I didn’t mind. I paced for hours with a

blanket round my shoulders like Nelson Mandela, because I knew the truth

would come out to save me in the end.

*

The next day around twelve, detective inspector Channing took me to an

interview room. He didn’t say anything for a while, then he said,

Channing I’ve had a little chat with your neighbours, and the first thing to say is that

none of them want to press any charges…

Pam What about my charges?! I said maybe a little louder than I intended.

Channing …They won’t press charges if the equipment is confiscated and the

material is erased.

Pam The evidence, you mean!

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Channing The illegally gathered evidence, ma’am.

Pam I couldn’t deny that.

Channing Now, I put some of your concerns to them and this is what they told me.

Pam He got out a little leather notebook.

Channing Miss Fleming and Buster are members of a perfectly legal ratting club.

They take their dogs to local farms that are infested with rats. Buster went

on his first trip yesterday to a nearby poultry farm…

Pam Those were never rat bites! I said.

Channing Apparently new dogs can take quite a pasting before they learn to defend

themselves properly.

Pam Well why did she patch him up on the kitchen table and not take him to the

vet?

Channing I don’t know if you’re aware ma’am, that Miss Fleming is a qualified

veterinary nurse.

Pam But… one of her cronies brought round some big animal in a cage! If that

was a rat then we should all be scared!

Channing This animal, did you get a look at it?

Pam No. The cage was covered… Fine. Don’t believe me but you have to do

something about Hogg. He’s a killer!

Channing Yes, he is a killer ma’am… a badger killer to be precise, employed by

DEFRA. There’s a cull on at the minute. You might’ve seen something

about it in the paper. Of course he doesn’t like to sing it from the rooftops

because of animal rights protesters and all that.

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Pam What about the celebrity faces? He was shooting them!

Channing Just a bit of fun ma’am. He says it makes target practice less dull.

Pam You might think it’s hilarious officer, but this man shouldn’t be in charge of

a weapon, he wears Nazi uniforms for fun!

Channing Ah yes. Mr Hogg told me about that - he’s a member of a battle re-

enactment society…

Pam The liar!

Channing No, “The Axis History Group” it’s called. You can google it if you like. Mr

Hogg specialises in Nazi officers. He gave me a burst of his spiel in

German - very impressive it was…

Pam Alright. If you won’t stop him, at least stop a pedophile like Nigel Delaware.

Channing Careful ma’am…

Pam He takes pictures of children from the bushes!

Channing Mr Delaware is quite a modest man, but I think you’ll find he’s rather a

famous wildlife photographer. Urban wildlife’s his thing. He gave me this

magazine - there are some great shots of badgers in people’s gardens

taken round your neck of the woods. I marked the pages for you.

Pam But the girly swimming lessons?!

Channing His niece and her friends do come round for lessons, yes – Mr. Delaware’s

sister asked him to teach them. She goes with them every week and Mr

Delaware is never alone with them. He’s quite a swimmer apparently. He

swam for the county as a boy.

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Pam But the nudity… the rubbing…

Channing Yes. It was tricky to broach that one but I think I got to the bottom of it. Mr

Delaware recently had a hip replacement and suffers from pins and

needles in his thigh. Clothes aggravate it so he takes them off whenever

he can. The physio has advised him to massage his leg every day to ease

the pain.

Pam Alright. They’ve obviously taken you in with their clever little lies, but what

about my sideboard? You can’t explain that away.

Channing The Elizabethan Oak sideboard…

Pam YES!

Channing Sadly Mr Delaware’s mother passed away several months ago…

Pam So what?!

Channing The sideboard isn’t yours ma’am. It’s his mother’s. Her effects have just

been shared between the family. Mr Delaware took delivery yesterday. It

seems you and she had a very similar piece of furniture.

Pam But… who did steal my sideboard then?

Channing That, I’m sorry to say, I can’t tell you ma’am.

*

Pam When I finally got home about four, I was exhausted and utterly confused.

How could I possibly have got it so wrong? Then, when I went into the

dining room, I discovered that I had been burgled again. This time they

had taken my beloved rosewood chiffonier, which was a wedding present

from Roger’s parents.

22

(Pam lifts the tray off the chiffonier and it disappears too.)

Apparently the burglar alarm hadn’t gone off, but I knew it was working

because Ciaran had serviced it not two weeks earlier. Somehow, it

seemed, not one of my neighbours had noticed the thief making off with a

large piece of furniture on his back in broad daylight. And now I’m treated

as the villain of the village! A hush falls in the Post Office whenever I go in.

But Ciaran was my rock. The next day we had a council of war over lemon

drizzle cake.

Whoever took it knew that it was here, I said, and they knew that I wasn’t

here, and they wanted to rub salt in the wound. If it wasn’t one of them,

who on earth was it?!

But Ciaran was quite clear - It must be them Auntie, we just have to catch

them with their pants down.

I was beginning to feel very tired and old. Couldn’t he just put cameras

round my house, I said? At least then I’d feel safe…

He went quiet for a long time then, just frowning at the carpet. And for a

moment I had a funny feeling that I knew less about what was going on in

Ciaran’s head than in my neighbours’ houses…

But suddenly he said, I know… and immediately the twinkle was back in

his eyes. And before he even told me his idea, I was convinced.

*

The answer of course…

(She operates a remote control. A machine like a large insect whirrs from behind her

chair and hovers in the air.)

…was a drone!

You know, one of those little helicopter thingies with a camera on them!

I could follow Flemmy and Arthur and Nigel from the sky! It was much

better because I could track their movements away from their houses.

23

So that’s what I’ve been doing these last few months or so. No sign of my

chiffonier yet, but they’re definitely up to something…

Every month Flemmy and her farmer friends arrange a mysterious

gathering in a remote barn. Dodgy men come in dodgy Land Rovers with

their dodgy dogs. And who should join them but Arthur Hogg, who brings

something with him each time in a long, covered cage… It’s badger-baiting

I’m sure! And here’s the clincher - Nigel-nature-loving-Delaware is

watching them. He creeps over the fields - it’s easy to see him from the air

- and he spies on this barn. In horror I’m sure. And he’s planning

something outrageous - I can tell because he’s stockpiling petrol. I think

he’s going to firebomb the barn when they’re all in there… Just a hunch so

far, but I’m recording everything in case.

Of course, one drone isn’t enough to follow them all at once, so Ciaran’s

got me three. And obviously I can’t fly them all at the same time. So I put

on my thinking cap again and I had my best brainwave yet - Ciaran was

tickled pink! I went up to the park one night after school. There were no

adults around, only children, so I flew one of my drones up and down, up

and down, and soon I had them queuing up for a try. And now Caitlin and

Ethan and Noah come to fly for me three times a week after school. They

do it remotely from my guest bedroom - they’ve got a screen each. Caitlin

follows Flemmy, Ethan follows Arthur and Noah follows Nigel. But I’ve

made it quite clear, if they breathe a word to another soul they’ll never be

able to fly again.

(She looks at her watch.)

You’ll have to excuse me. They fly back to the garden at six, then we have

a little debrief over squash and bourbons. I so enjoy their young minds -

it’s the highlight of my day! They have such bright ideas about what my

neighbours might be up to. I tell you, they may be young but they’re not

wet behind the ears! And they need their wits about them, don’t they?

24

Because you can’t trust anyone nowadays. Present company excepted of

course!

Anyway. Let’s not stand on ceremony. I’m sure I shall be seeing you all

again very soon, one way or another.

Cheerio.

(Pam gives us a smile and goes off with the tray.)