All to Play For

by Heather Peace

  “Here.” The obvious student handed him the lens.

  “Thanks,” replied Chris, unsmiling. It was scratched. He carried on fiddling.

  The student looked particularly depressed, and particularly ridiculous. His face was painted green with purple spots and he wore a chain-mail helmet made of cotton dishcloths sprayed silver, with a crusader-style tabard over his jeans and t-shirt which bore a royal coat of arms and the motto: Fuck the French. He still clutched a handful of leaflets for his play, and the kid next to him asked if he could see one. He handed one over willingly.

  “Oh, Henry V,” said the boy. “Where are you from?”

  “Cambridge,” said Jonathan, biting his lip.

  Nicky grimaced. “I’m with Newham Youth Theatre,” he said, trying to sound professional, and displayed his t-shirt which was printed, rather ambiguously: NYT: No Future. “I’ve lost my leaflets but we’re doing a devised play at Heriot Watt, nine o’clock. It’s called No Future.”

  “That’s a good slot,” said Jonathan, impressed. “We’re on at five.”

  “Actually it’s nine in the morning,” said Nicky ruefully. “It was the only slot we could afford.”

  Jonathan nodded, losing interest. He checked his watch: nearly four fifteen. The show would have to go up without him, short by one costume and the director. Of course, today was the day three critics were coming. He was counting on good reviews and hoping desperately to win a Fringe First award to kick off his career as a theatre director. He had been on his way to the theatre to welcome the critics with a glass of wine, only dressing up to try and round up a few more punters in the hope of a full house, and now this had happened. Maybe he could get there before the end of the show and amuse the critics with an entertaining account of his misadventures, enabling them to revise the poor opinion of him, which they would probably have developed in his absence… He just hoped the sound cues would be in the right place this time.

  Half an hour later they all sat in a row in a cool waiting room at the Central Police Station. The door was locked, but their handcuffs had been removed and water was provided. They tried to get comfortable on the slatted wooden benches, and waited their turn to be interviewed. First to go was little Nicky, summoned by a huge bull-necked sergeant who strode in, glared dispassionately at them all, and announced: “Right. Let’s have the Nit wi’ No Future,” leaving the others to wait and think back over the incident they had been unlucky enough to get involved in.

  *

  It had been an ordinary, sunny afternoon in Princes Street Gardens where festival folk and holiday visitors littered the grass eating ice cream, and entertainers wandered around performing or advertising their shows. Edinburgh residents were few and far between.

  Jill sat under a tree trying to cool off and rest her swollen legs. She looked up at the castle and tried not to hear the hum of the traffic; she felt her baby kicking and hoped against hope that the play she had written would attract a better audience tomorrow. Today’s performance had taken place in front of three people, all of whom were related to a member of the cast. It was enough to make you question whether the public actually cared about new plays. She sucked an ice lolly which dripped onto her cotton skirt, and noticed a young, skinny, punky-looking woman with an orange Mohican stripe in her short blue hair, arrive carrying a soapbox. She put it down on the grass and poked around in a plastic carrier bag, taking out a booklet. She swigged from a can of Coke and climbed on the box, stood facing Jill with her back to the castle, opened the booklet, and began to address anyone who would listen in a strident South London accent:

  “Life in this society being, at best, an utter bore and no aspect of society being at all relevant to women, there remains to civic-minded, responsible, thrill-seeking females only to overthrow the government, eliminate the money system, institute complete automation, and destroy the male sex.”

  It sounded vaguely familiar, and Jill peered at the booklet in the punk’s hand. She thought it was Valerie Solanas’ SCUM Manifesto.

  “A woman,” declaimed the punk. “Not only takes her identity and individuality for granted, but knows instinctively that the only wrong is to hurt others, and that the meaning of life is love.”

  A slim woman with spiky hair, feminist symbol earrings and an old Greenham Common t-shirt, who was later to introduce herself as Maggie, paused as she walked past and clapped supportively. She looked round at Jill, who smiled. Sisters recognised one another. Maggie stopped, casually parked her hands on her lean hips, and listened to the punk.

  “The male needs scapegoats onto whom he can project his failings and inadequacies and upon whom he can vent his frustrations at not being female.”

  “What a load of shite!” exclaimed a man sitting on a bench. Jill and Maggie looked at him: he was in his twenties, evidently a local office-worker, wearing a white shirt and grey suit, with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up. He folded up his Daily Mail, spread his knees and leaned his elbows on them, turning a disgusted expression on the punk. His eyes were concealed behind reflective sunglasses, but his mouth curled in pure contempt. Jill and Maggie recoiled from him. The punk continued as if he wasn’t there.

  “The male is eaten up with tension, with frustration at not being female, at not being capable of ever achieving satisfaction or pleasure of any kind. Eaten up with hate – irrational, indiscriminate hate… hatred, at bottom, of his own worthless self.”

  Jill saw the man’s tension increase. The punk stopped and looked directly at him.

  “Don’t you agree?” she asked disingenuously.

  He laughed, shaking his head. “Here,” he called to a teenage boy handing out leaflets, who hurried over thinking he had a potential customer. “Sit down here,” he said. “Listen to this bag o’ shite.” Nicky sat on the other end of the bench wondering what was going on, and the man nodded in the punk’s direction.

  Jill and Maggie exchanged a glance. This dickhead felt so threatened he was calling on the boy for support. Pathetic.

  “The male ‘artist’ attempts to solve his dilemma of not being able to live, of not being female, by constructing a highly artificial world in which the male is heroised, that is, displays female traits; and the female is reduced to highly limited, insipid, subordinate roles, that is, to being male.”

  Nicky hadn’t the faintest idea what this meant, but he went along with the man and whistled like a builder, laughing at his excellent humour. Jill and Maggie felt uncomfortable. The punk was undeterred.

  “Just as humans have a prior right to existence over dogs by virtue of being more highly evolved and having a superior consciousness, so women have a prior right to existence over men. The elimination of any male is, therefore, a righteous and good act, an act highly beneficial to women as well as an act of mercy.”

  The punk stopped and took a hardboard sign out of her bag, which she held up. It read, Society for Cutting Up Men.

  “Women, join me!” she shouted. She pointed at Jill and Maggie, challenging them. They hesitated. They didn’t want to join.

  “A small handful of SCUM can take over the country within a year by systematically fucking up the system, selectively destroying property, and murder!”

  It was too much for the man in the suit. He stood up.

  “You’re out o’ your mind, you are,” he snarled. Nicky cautiously stood up too. He was shocked by this punk’s proposals. Either she was mad or she was very dangerous. He had never heard anything like it before.

  “If all men were castrated there would be universal peace,” retorted the punk, but Jill’s attention was distracted by a tall student dressed as a crusader with a green and purple spotted face, who strolled up to her at that moment and asked her politely if she would like a free ticket to Henry V.

  “Not today, thanks,” she replied, looking round him to see if the man in the suit was advancing on the punk. Things could get nasty.

  “How about you?” he asked Maggie, who ignored him. Perhaps it was the silver
headgear, but for some reason the student, whose name was Jonathan, failed to pick up on the situation he had wandered into, and he innocently walked up to the man in the suit, put on his best public school smile and offered him and his young friend two tickets for the best show on the fringe.

  “Take a hike, pal,” sneered the man in the suit. “This kid’s nothing to do with me. I’m no poofter.”

  “I never meant to suggest you were! Not that I’d care anyway!” Jonathan nervously raised his hands and backed away as if at gunpoint.

  The punk was vastly amused by this exchange, which was unfortunate because the man in the suit took her laughter as a direct insult.

  “You!” he yelled, his face an angry mask, “You had better watch yourself.” He began to walk slowly round the punk, who stood firm on her soapbox, glaring at her all the way. Maggie was put in mind of Steven Berkoff. “You are asking to be put in your place.” He then pointed at Nicky, who was enjoying the row, “Is that not right, boy?” Nicky’s smile faded as he saw the three women and the student stare anxiously at him. Suddenly he wasn’t sure what was going on, or whose side he was on.

  Maggie wasn’t one to stand by and watch a kid being bullied.

  “No, mate,” she responded. “It’s you that needs putting in your place. Who rattled your cage, anyway? What’s your problem?”

  “That woman there’s my problem. If you can call her a woman.”

  The punk remained on her soapbox and held her peace.

  “That woman has every right to say what she believes,” said Maggie calmly. “It’s a free country.”

  “Free speech, eh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So I’m free to say, for instance, that all women are second rate creatures and should be kept only as domestic slaves.”

  Maggie paused. “Yes, you’re free to say that.”

  The man in the suit turned his full attention onto Maggie and targeted her with his venom. “That they’re too stupid and emotional to deserve the vote; that they don’t even deserve to be educated.”

  “I’ve had enough of this conversation,” said Maggie. “Entertaining though it’s been.” She turned to leave, but the man wasn’t letting her go so easily.

  “That’s it, run away darling. I knew you wouldn’t be able to maintain a logical debate. You’ve just proved my point.” He cackled gleefully as Maggie turned again and shot him a filthy look.

  “Logical debate is fine. Physical aggression is not,” she hurled back.

  “Who’s being aggressive? Have I lifted a finger?”

  A stranger suddenly intervened: he was stocky and strong looking, wore a shirt and trousers, and looked like a middle-class professional with his steel-rimmed glasses. He walked into the argument and addressed the man in the suit reasonably and forcefully:

  “I think you’re overstepping the mark, if I were you I’d leave it there.”

  “Oh you do, do you?” retorted the man gleefully.

  “Yes, I do,” insisted Chris. “Otherwise there’ll be trouble. There’s a policeman up there watching you.”

  They all looked round and saw that there was indeed a constable standing up on Princes Street, watching the proceedings. This seemed to have the desired calming effect on the man in the suit, who recovered his composure.

  “All I’m saying, is I’m as entitled to free speech as anyone. Okay?” he nodded at each one in turn, and they stared back, unable to find the words to contradict him.

  Jill stood up. “I have a right to free speech too. And I say you should shut up and let the girl say what she’s got to say.”

  “So let me get this straight,” said the man in the suit carefully. “You can speak, and she can speak, but I can’t? That’s fascism, in my book.”

  “Maybe we should take a vote on it?” suggested Jonathan with a nervous smile.

  Chris snorted. “I have to be somewhere,” he muttered, but before he could leave, the punk jumped down from her soapbox and announced: “That’s a good idea. Who wants to hear me speak?”

  No-one raised a hand.

  “Oh, thanks a bunch. There’s solidarity for you.”

  The man in the suit was getting excited.

  “No, come on, this is interesting,” he said. “Who really believes in free speech? Come on, put your hands up. Put your hands up!”

  Seven hands were reluctantly raised, including the man’s own.

  “Thank you. Democracy in action. Doesn’t work unless we all play our part, does it? Does it?”

  “Nooo,” they chorused.

  Chris tried to leave again.

  “Hang on pal,” said the man in the suit. “Just try this. You all believe in free speech, right? So I can say what I like – provided I’m not aggressive,” he added for Maggie’s benefit.

  Chris and the others agreed.

  “Okay. Here’s a hypothetical situation. You!” He beckoned Nicky closer, and moved so that the two of them were roughly encircled by the rest. Nicky was very confused by now, but interested. He stood facing the man.

  “He’s a nice boy, isn’t he? Pretty.” The man invited their agreement, which they conceded. “I should think he’s about fifteen. Jail bait, eh? Look at those neat little pecs, that tight little bum.”

  “What’s your point?” asked Jill impatiently, aware of Nicky’s discomfort.

  “I’m just saying nice things about him! By the way, is anyone here against homosexuals?”

  “No, of course not,” said Maggie. No-one disagreed.

  “That’s good, because I’d bet my next pay packet that this kid is as gay as Larry Grayson. Of course I mean that as a compl – ” instead of finishing his sentence, the man fell flat on his back, having been neatly head-butted by Nicky, who followed through by throwing himself on the man’s chest and grabbing his collar in both hands.

  Chris promptly tried to pull the boy off, but his grip was too strong. After a few seconds hesitation Jonathan joined in, and between them they hauled Nicky up, holding an arm each, as he kicked out wildly and yelled abuse.

  Jill retreated backwards, mindful of her unborn baby, and tripped over the edge of the grass. She shrieked and sat down suddenly, and Maggie went to pick her up.

  The punk unexpectedly went to the assistance of the man in the suit, who brushed her off and rose, his forehead bleeding, to shout at Nicky: “You’re oppressing me!”

  Nicky surprised his captors with a sudden lunge, which dragged them all into a heap, but the man managed to crawl away on hands and feet. He passed near enough to Jill for her to grab him by the foot, but he wriggled out of his slip-on shoe and escaped.

  At that moment, three policemen appeared and swiftly handcuffed Chris, Jonathan and Nicky.

  “You’ve got the wrong ones!” shouted Jill, scrambling to her feet. “All the trouble was caused by that man – ” she looked round wildly, but the man in the suit had vanished, as had the punk.

  “Shit,” said Jill. “He’s gone!” She shrugged in disbelief, and impulsively threw the shoe backwards over her shoulder, where it struck the fourth policeman in the face. To Jill’s astonishment he promptly handcuffed her too, and Maggie for good measure, and before they could say, Excuse me officer there’s been a terrible mistake, they were being marched up to Princes Street where a police van awaited them.

  A middle-aged American couple had watched the whole thing from a bench a little further off. They looked at each other.

  “Do you think we should have done something, Fred?” asked the woman.

  “I guess. I don’t know what, though. Hey, look, honey.”

  The punk was creeping cautiously out of a clump of rhododendrons. Seeing that the coast was clear, she called, “Come out, Craig. They’ve gone.”

  The man in the suit emerged, pressing a handkerchief to his temple and cursing.

  “Oh shut up. What’s a bit of a scratch in the cause of art?” said the girl. “Serves you right for picking on the wrong one. You were bloody lucky not to get arrested.�
� She took a small hardboard signpost out of her carrier bag, and stuck it into the ground. The man moaned about his lost shoe, and then found it a few yards away. He put it on, and the two of them walked off as if nothing had happened.

  The American couple waited a few moments and strolled down to take a look. The sign read:

  You have just experienced

  ANARKY Street Theatre:

  What is Free Speech?

  “Oh Fred, it was a happening, just like in the sixties.”

  “Hell, makes you feel old, don’t it?”

  “The cops were so convincing, I had no idea!”

  Fred put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of change. “They forgot to leave a pail out.”

  “Maybe it was subsidised,” suggested his wife, and Fred kept his money.

  *

  Whilst the police were interviewing Nicky, Jonathan took off his headdress and tried to remove his face paint with it. He soon looked less like a plague victim and more like ET.

  “D’you think we’ll be charged?” he asked the others anxiously. They shrugged.

  “I can’t see why,” said Jill. “What have we done wrong? I don’t know why we’ve been arrested at all!”

  “Assaulting a police officer?” suggested Chris.

  “But I didn’t! You saw me, I had no idea he was standing behind me!”

  Maggie patted her arm. “Of course. But you can forgive them for the misunderstanding.” Jill’s eyes brimmed with tears.

  “I’m not usually like this at all,” she said. “It’s being pregnant. I should have stayed at home. I just thought, one more month and I’ll be a mother, chained to the cooker till I’m fifty-odd. I’ve just got to go to Edinburgh with my play.”

  “You’ve got a play on too?” said Maggie. “That’s amazing. All of us! What about you?” she asked Chris.

  “No, actually I’m here for the Television Festival, it starts tonight. I just thought I’d take a walk, soak up the atmosphere. More fool me. I should have stayed in the bar at the George like everyone else.”

  “Well, to be honest, I’m glad you didn’t. Much as I hate to admit it, you were pretty useful.”