Wallpaper Theatre

                                                                    Charles

      The first scene opened with Charles heaving himself across the window sill. He was attempting to balance on his torso. His battered, buckled shoes hovered above a threadbare rug, while his head was obscured by the window frame. There was much grunting and groaning alongside his strained commentary. As his legs jerked up and down, he shouted back over his shoulder.

       “I used to do this every day…sometimes from a much higher window. My aim was to find a perfect point of equilibrium.” Here he tipped, lost his balance, and tumbled out into darkness. There was a sharp cry and the set walls wobbled. After much cursing, Charles limped back, stage right. He bowed. “I still have it…as fit as a boy of twelve. Yes, a boy of twelve with a nasty limp.” I clapped, but not too hard. I didn’t want him to try again. I wasn’t confident the Wallpaper theatre could stand the strain. He bowed, then offered me a chair. As wallpaper chairs won’t support human weight, I declined. Charles gestured towards a woman sewing in the corner, her matted ringlets thick with cobwebs. “My sister, Mary.” Mary, taking her cue, looked up, smiled without opening her eyes and continued sewing. A large spider fell out of her hair and dropped onto her shoulder, I shuddered.

Charles hurried to a large desk, grabbed a cloudy glass and gulped. “Port,” he held the glass up in salute.

      “Steady on, Charles, too much port and I’ll have to finish your essay again,” said Mary. Charles drained his glass, grabbed a chunky bottle and re-filled.

     “Mary,” he said by way of distraction “I wish you would. Then I could run away to sea…” He gazed towards an invisible horizon. “Leave London behind and all this ugly furniture.” He glanced round at the odd collection of rickety chairs, shelves rammed with mouldy books and an ottoman made from two stuffed cats. “Oh, leave off that endless sewing, the noise hurts my ears…we’d have money enough…and a damn-sight less misery.”

                                                                   Mary

      “Misery,” Mary jumped up, stood on tip toe to place her sewing on a teetering, pile of rags. She strode to centre of the stage, eyes still shut. Charles sat down and moved a candle towards the edge of the desk, to illuminate the scene.

Mary opened her pale eyes. She looked like a cave-dwelling creature that had never seen the sun. The grey drawing room walls appeared to lean towards her, at deranged angles reaching towards a twisted metal chandelier. All the crystal drops had long gone. Mary looked down at her grubby dress patterned with a map of brown blotches.

“Misery…I’ll tell you about misery…why, I could write the book.” Charles nodded and whispered towards me.

“She has,” he winked.

“I slave morning, noon and night, sewing, sewing, sewing, waiting on pater and mater.” Charles and Mary shared a sharp look. “I even wait on the maid, the Lazy Strumpet.”

Mary paused raising her right hand from the folds of her skirt. She held up a large kitchen knife. The blade caught the candle light. It sent a flash of light across the Wallpaper Theatre. Charles sat up straight and gulped more port. I held my breath not wanting to break the spell. Mary sighed.

“Mater followed me day in, day out, nagging, shrieking…Mary do this. Mary do that. Mary pay the bills. Mary, my chamber pot. The fire has gone out. Mary you fool.” Mary made her mouth a large cavern as her voice deepened.

She stepped towards me.  She leaned down and beckoned me with the knife. “One day the strangest thing happened. As I ran hither and thither,” her voice became sing-song, “I slipped on bird shit and tumbled down the stairs,” her voiced changed, loud and aggrieved. “I screamed for that Lazy Strumpet…for that is her name, Lazy Strumpet what do you mean by letting pigeons shit in my house? But it weren’t pigeons,” she said more to herself. “It was mater,” she hissed. “There” Mary pointed the blade up behind her. “There she was a harpy on the banisters, squawking, spitting and shitting. And I swear laughing at me.” Mary pointed the knife to her breast. “She flew at me. So I ran.” Mary starts to run around the room. “I grabbed the bible.” Charles held it up, Mary snatched it. “Then with all my strength I knocked the harpy into the pantry…”she paused, struggling for breath. “But I couldn’t slam the door quick enough. It shot out, its oily feathers stinking of sewer, its talons open to attack, I saw the knife.” She waved the knifed for emphasis.

“I didn’t stop till Mater’s guts coated the kitchen.” Mary slashed and jabbed the air. “The battle ruined my only dress.”  Mary looked down at the thin linen encrusted with gore. Charles whistled. He beamed at Mary with fraternal pride. I edge closer to the door. Mary licked her finger and rubbed the blade, though it was already shiny clean. She laughed and kissed it, whispering “My Excalibur.”

Charles put his hand up to shield his face from Mary and added “She don’t explain why she tried to kill the rest of us.” He winked again. I took another step backwards. Mary shut her eyes. “Charles our guest is leaving” Charles stood up, swaying. “Mary, it’s like I’m at sea,” He goes green, “Tis a rough crossing.” He ran to the window and was loudly sick. The smell of sweet cheese filled the Wallpaper Theatre. Mary turned towards her sewing. The pile towered above her like a sentry. “We are poor hosts, sir.”

Charles lurched back to his desk, collided with the chair, fell and banged his head. Mary sighed. Charles rubbed his sore face, struggled up, dusting down his tatty coat. He attempted to rearrange his greasy cravat with shaking hands.

                                                                   Me

       “Why don’t you go?” I asked.

       “Go where?” they said in unison.

       “Well, Charles could go to the docks, find a boat…”

       “A ship man, a ship.” Charles hissed.

       “Go to the docks, find your ship. Mary could write as you it’s been done before…”

They both smiled, sad and worn. Charles picked up the chair and sat down, as if re setting the stage. He rearranged the candle and dipped a jagged Harpy quill into a red ink bottle. Mary took up her sewing.

“At least leave this room.” They tried to laugh at this preposterous suggestion.

Mary looked up; her eyes shut “Nearest Charles will get to the sea is the puddle he drowns in. I die an old maid…but you go, if you dare.”

I hesitated, then opened the door. The draught blew the Wallpaper Theatre away. I was alone hovering on the threshold…