The Playing Fields

Chapter 1

The Story

Nigel Stainway always wanted to write. That was the long and short of it. Throughout primary and secondary education in the rural, state administered school serving his small industrial English town, he maintained an unflagging desire to follow in the footsteps of his country's famous playwrights. Where Nigel acquired this passion was an annoying puzzle to his parents; his father having worked in the town's knitting mill his whole life, and his mother having spent her entire existence looking after her family's domestic needs. The only clue, dismissed out of hand by his exasperated parents by virtue of the fact that it represented events almost forgotten, was that his mother's sister had been a moderately successful stage performer during her youth in London. This fact was, however, the very seed that rooted Nigel's ambitious dreams.

His aunt had worked in the theatre right from completion of primary school, beginning as many did in her day, running messages, shifting props and sweeping out after performances. Spurning school, she applied all her energy to her newly adopted parent - the theatre. She worked hard, paying attention to every aspect of live stage acting, industriously applying the knowledge gained and gradually advancing to script assistant then assistant stage manager, and by dint of a freak accident, to the ultimate opportunity of subordinate performer with the acting cast. Nigel consumed every morsel of information available on his aunt's career, vaulting her, in his mind, to one of England's most renowned women of the stage. The most convincing tidbit was a reference he found among some family memorabilia citing her name among a dozen or so minor cast members on the same theatre bill as Sir John Gielgud, in his performance of Richard II.

Sparked by the belief that this dubiously tenuous connection was indeed an omen, he directed all his enthusiasm toward his goal, producing copious amounts of material his teachers dismissed as complete drivel. His biggest hurdle was that he really couldn't write, and after he finally graduated, a feat accomplished non too soon for his educators, Nigel spent the next few years battling that handicap. He lived and breathed the romantic notion of creating plays for live theatre, spending every available moment attacking an old Royal typewriter, purchased for three pounds at a local church sale with a zeal matched equally by yield. When drawers, shelves and eventually, cartons, began overflowing with discarded drafts, his father put an end to his monthly allowance, and forbade further business with the local stationer. Desperate, after seeing the writing on the wall, (a circumstance not too far fetched after the stationery ban) his mother took it upon herself to attempt an arrangement for her son. She posted a carefully constructed plea to her older sister in Canada, the relative who provided the big bang for Nigel's interest in things theatrical, deceitfully embellishing his ambitions, talent, and her own contrived reasons for wishing him exiled.

Nigel was naively overwhelmed. His parents kept his enthusiasm at a boil, encouraging him to send his aunt an appeal of his own, with the fervent hope that a petition from her young nephew, couched in glowing praise of her thespian talents, would help carry the day. To both their surprise and relief, and Nigel's own unconstrained exuberance, she accepted.

CANADA/The town of Ashton Hills

Welcome to the Heritage Community of Ashton Hills,

Population 30,712.

Nigel pressed his face against the bus window, reading the sign until it passed from his line of vision. The flight, from London's Heathrow Airport, had dragged monotonously, unbroken by a third rate film which he had trouble both hearing and seeing, and a packaged meal of lasagna the consistency of silly putty. When the pilot had first announced landfall, he perked up, stunned to find himself still in the air three hours later - he felt he had circled the globe rather than just traversing half of one astonishingly large country. From the moment the plane finally landed at Pearson International, he began soaking up everything he could about things Canadian. The manners, the interests and attitudes - and the curious, questioning 'eh' after every sentence. The customs and immigration people had been polite and helpful, his luggage arrived safely and intact, and the bus arranged for by the travel agent right where it was supposed to be; his adventure had truly begun. The route north and east from the airport soon outstripped the creeping industrial enclaves and burgeoning subdivisions, with houses so large he instinctively blurted aloud that they must all belong to millionaires, drawing odd and amused looks from the other passengers. Soon the scenery was of endless, rolling countryside, dotted with farms surrounded by ragged stands of evergreens, and equally spaced intersections of diners, service stations, and the inevitable church.

For what seemed like endless miles, tiny towns with oddly familiar English names flew past his window in a flickering blur until finally, the road dipped down barely above the level of a brown coloured river, winding through a corridor of undisturbed birch, maple and more evergreen trees. When the driver made a crackling announcement that the next stop was Ashton Hills, Nigel experienced a moment of panic; his impression, from the landscape outside his window was one of some godforsaken outpost as described in the pulp magazines back home. He pictured log buildings, stained and soot covered from open fires, where rough looking characters wrapped in furs and skins, sat trading more of the same. His mind raced with confusion. Could his aunt, a stage thespian, have retreated to this back woods– suddenly his thoughts shattered as the bus crested a rise above the river and he caught his first glimpse of the town, a stunning picture book panorama of tidy homes, parks and farms surrounding an equally tidy town center. Relief spread through him like melting snow.

As the bus rolled down out of the hills and made its way slowly through the daytime traffic he gawked greedily, discovering every inch of the delightfully bucolic main street. Gable-fronted roofs, a simpler, and more vernacular style of High Victorian Gothic architecture, peeked sedately from behind the dense, stately maple trees lining the boulevards. Families strolled the sun-dappled sidewalks pushing strollers and sidestepping the occasional gregarious dog that strained its leash to sniff their contents.

The bus stopped and then made a right turn down a slight grade, and Nigel's heart skipped a beat over a full view of the Ashton Hills Playhouse. Built of rugged red brick, he was surprised and delighted to find the two-storey edifice reflected the neoclassical style of Osterley House, in Middlesex, England, with its Ionic columns supporting a triangular marquee over the front entrance. Large, colourful posters in white wood-frames on either side of the entrance, announced the current production of The Wedding Room. His grin grew ear to ear with anticipation; this was his destiny - this place - this time.

*****