Urban Stories: Covent Garden

He tightened the knot of his scarf snug around his throat as he emerged from the lift, falling into the short-stepped shuffle of commuters that were filtering through the ticket barriers. Some joined the throng of people wandering towards the piazza, others traversed the street to lean against the “20% Discount Today Only” stickers emblazoned across the windows of Oasis, the generic meeting point from Covent Garden tube. Bleeping himself through the barrier, Brian paused momentarily to pick up an Evening Standard before joining the stream of tourists, the obsolete hollers of the newspaper vendor following him as he walked.

James Street was congested with the usual muddle: red-vested restaurant touts brandishing 2-4-1 Maxwell fliers; eagle-eyed chuggers armed with superficial smiles, ingratiating small talk and a clipboard; Big Issue sellers resident in the indent between Boots and Sketchers, this time the lady with a dry frizz of purple hair and a sad-eyed dog. To the right of the tube was a charred steel drum sheltered by a tatty red and white tarpaulin and loaded with burning white coals. A dozen pebble-like chestnuts roasted slowly on the grill, later to be sold for £2 per plastic cup. Opposite, a metallic man with a comically large nose sat on thin air, legs crossed, arms folded and comfortably cupping his chin in assumed thought. Other street performers were stationed further down the street: a magician loudly rallying spectators together for his next show, a Jack Sparrow, tapping his foot impatiently while waiting for the life-size gnome to vacate his slot on the street, and a 19^th century sailor dressed in full ceremonial garb.

On reaching the crossroad, marked at each corner by traditional Victorian pubs (The White Lion and The Nag’s Head) Brian turned left. Away from the bustle of the tube station, the street was quieter. The glass-fronted restaurants however were brimming with diners enjoying pre-theatre dinner. Hugging his jacket close to his chest as he passed, Brian glanced up briefly at the helical bridge linking the top floor of the buildings either side of him, then abruptly turning right. He fished his ID from his breast pocket, swiped it across a transparent square on the wall and a glass door swung open; he stepped inside.

He arrived in a room no larger than an over-sized cloakroom – a small reception desk, a cluster of chairs and a water machine. Loosening his scarf, he went straight to the desk where a woman with short blonde hair and rosy cheeks was examining a TV monitor. He caught her eye with a smile.

“Any mail for me today Ruby,” he asked. Ruby nodded, disappearing behind the desk and busying herself in a unit of pidgeon holes heavily stacked with paperwork

“Gimme a min,” she called, her voice muffled.

While waiting, he turned a circle listlessly before wandering over to the row of seats. As he sat down, another figure entered the reception via a side door. She was barefoot and wearing an over-sized hospital gown. Loosely fastened by a tie in the small of her back, it rustled like paper as she moved. She was completely bald and deathly white, with pale chapped lips and wide hollow eyes sunken into pallid, puffy cheeks. As she turned to show her side profile, Brian’s stomach squirmed uncomfortably. The back of her skull appeared to have been hacked away: the crown of her head a squashy, squiggly mess of raw red and pink tissues.

As she leant over the reception desk to see where Ruby was, she caught sight of Brian. She grinned sheepishly. Incongruent with her appearance, it gave her a slightly crazed look.

“That goddam makeup department,” Brian smiled, getting to his feet. “Your head makes me squeamish every time!”

“Gotta look the part haven’t I,” she replied, running a hand delicately across the top of her skull as if modelling a designer hat.

“Just finished rehearsals?” he continued, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.

“You bet. Wrapped up and ready for curtain up. Got those vocal chords prepped?”

Brian tugged his scarf lightly and cocked his head. “Always.”

******

Two hours later, the cavernous auditorium of the Royal Opera House was filled with the murmuring chatter of an expectant audience; front of house staff ushered latecomers into their seats, coughs were cleared and programmes rustled. As the lights dimmed, a whispering hush fell until the audience were waiting the in silent darkness. As the royal red velvet curtain parted, the orchestra began to play and the silence of the theatre was filled with the melodic lines of the opening overture.

Standing in the shadows in the wings of the stage, Brian felt a ripple of adrenalin. Though unable to see them, he knew that hundreds of people were waiting for him. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes, hands behind his back and brow furrowed in contemplation.

A few minutes later, the music suddenly crescendoed. Looking up, he stepped from the shadows and into the dazzling spotlight on-stage.

---

 First published on Urban Stories.

The Wind in the Willows

A day’s filming followed by lengthy train journey has resulted in my first attempt at a children’s story. Those with a short attention span might want to just scroll straight to the bottom…

Mole snuffled towards the surface of his burrow, scruffling through the soil until his claws became wet with the fresh dew of the long grasses above. Wriggling out from his tunnel, he stepped unsteadily onto a thick tree root that protruded from the willow tree behind. His eyes, more accustomed to the earthy murkiness of his burrow than daylight, blurred with watery tears as he blinked into the pale white sunshine. He squinted. The meadow into which he had emerged was little more than a leafy collage of autumnal colours. Even so, the tingle of warmth on his back and the soft whisper of trees rustling in the breeze told him it was a beautiful morning to be outside.

Reaching up until his fingertips grazed the vines of the willow he stretched luxuriously, a shower of crumbly soil slipping off his back. Then, straightening his flatcap, he fished his glasses from his trouser pocket and slipped them over his snout to look for a suitable place to sit. His eyes fell on a grassy hillock just behind him. Settling himself on the tufty, straw-like grasses, he leant back against a gnarly tree root that curved out from the trunk of the willow. And there he sat, serenaded by the lyrical chirps of a songbird and sucking on a straw of grass, for much of the morning.

As the air became hazy with mid-morning warmth, Mole closed his eyes, his thoughts wandering through his burrow and the surrounding pastures. He was just drifting into a dreamy doze when a sudden rustling of undergrowth and snapping of twigs nearby startled him from his reverie. He jumped, slipping off his hillock and knocking his glasses from his nose. Pushing himself upright, he strained his watery eyes in the direction of the commotion: a blurred gorse bush that seemed to blend into the adjacent tree trunk. The rustling came again, this time accompanied by a rushed whispering. Mole scrambled to his feet, his heart thudding uncomfortably fast.

“Who´s there,” he called, squinting at the blur of bush and trying to distinguish something. The whispering ceased abruptly. Mole glanced nervously around him. Slowly, what looked like four long poles came into focus. He blinked. The poles wobbled across his vision, knocking to and fro into each other at diagonal angles, before vanishing from view again. Mole rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and stepped tentatively forwards, straining to see where they had gone.

However, before he could move far, he was knocked sideways by a whoosh of fur. He glimpsed a whirl of grey before he twirled unsteadily in a circle and toppled to the grass, landing with a soft flump on his back. A quick pattering of feet surrounded him, and soon four fluffy paws had fastened around him, hoisted him swiftly upwards and set him on his feet. Two anxious faces swum into focus in front of him: twitching noses, whiskery cheeks and wide hazel eyes peering at him with concern. Looking at their long velvety ears quivering attentively, he recognised the four poles he had been watching earlier.

“Rabbits!” he exclaimed.

Their reply however was drowned out by the mechanical grumble of an approaching engine. The rabbits froze, glancing around nervously with sharp, panicked movements, the tips of their velvety ears twitching anxiously. Mole looked around hopelessly in search of the source of the noise, but the crescendo-ing hum seemed to come from everywhere all at once. After a moment’s pause, four little paws began knocking at him in every direction: pushing, pulling and prodding him in an attempt to hurry him off.

Mole, flustered, succeeded in moving no further than a few stuttered steps away from the willow roots when the growl of the engine suddenly grew louder, the roar of the motor interspersed with mechanical coughs and splutters as if the vehicle had suddenly rounded a corner and was now on a direct road towards them. The rabbits, seized by panic, began dancing nervously on the spot, unsure where to run. Then, before any had time to move, a car careered into the meadow less than 10 yards away from them. Mole, dazzled further by the glare of two round headlights, could only make out a chaotic blur of blue and green hurtling towards him at record pace. Frozen in fright, he stood rooted to the spot, the rabbits patting and padding him frantically at his side.

The roar of the engine reached deafening levels, the car so close that the enthusiastic “tally-ho-s” of its driver were just audible above the mechanics. Mole and the rabbits braced themselves for impact when, all of a sudden, there was a sharp crunch and the growl of the engine cut to a whir. There was a moment’s silence, before a whoosh of clatter knocked Mole from his feet. He was catapulted forwards and tumbling over the tree roots near him, landing on his back, dazed and disorientated, a good five yards from where he started. A chorus of disgruntled squeaks and thumps told him that the rabbits had also been swept up in the collision.

Mole felt around his front to find his glasses, which hung from a cord around his neck. Pushing them onto his nose, slightly skewed from the impact, he waited for his eyes to focus. Through the dull haze of smoke he could just define the shadow of a vehicle and the silhouette of the two rabbits, who were rolling to their feet tenderly, looking slightly dishevelled. As the smoke cleared, he could make out the chassis of the vehicle: a small, open-top car, the bumper dented from where it had just hit the gnarled root of the willow. The figure in the driver´s seat was still gripping the wheel; a broad grin split his face from ear to ear, and his eyes gleamed with bright-eyed enthusiasm.

Mole flumped backwards onto his back.

“Toad!” he fumed.