On the Prom

On a rainy afternoon, a woman asks a man: Can the story change after 400 years? Fiction by Pauline Gostling.

I saw that she was here again. The plump, red-haired woman standing behind the children on the beach, watching the timeless anarchy of Mr. Punch and his less than merry band of characters, waiting patiently for their turn in the spotlight. She has been here a dozen times at least, this summer.

A stiff breeze is blowing, whipping up waves that race to the shingle, rolling and tossing the pebbles, before receding on a long, drawn-out hiss. There aren’t many children around the booth. Numbers have been dwindling, especially since Covid.

With the collection box under my arm, I return to the red and white booth, lifting the flap and perching on the stool inside. I know by the weight of the box I’ve just passed around that there isn’t much money inside, but I tip the coins out regardless. A miserable pittance. My snort seems amplified in the small space, bouncing off the walls which billow in and out with the strength of the wind.

Inside, there’s just enough room for the props, the suitcase and me. I was going to replace the torn red leatherette cover on the stool, but I won’t bother now as the season is drawing to a close.

Methodically I pack everything into the battered case. Holding it close, bending low I exit the flap then padlock the booth. Stretching upright, breathing deeply, taking a lungful of the sea air, I watch the gulls swoop and dive into the choppy water as I head toward the Promenade.

Crunching slowly over the shingle I head for Margie’s Tea Rooms, as is my practice after the last afternoon performance. Smells of bacon and coffee entice me as I push open the door. Margie spots me, her anxious features curving into a smile. Coming from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron, she waves.

"The usual is it, Malcolm?"

The lunchtime crowd has been and gone. There are just a few couples at the tables, lingering over their afternoon tea and scones; Margie does a great cream tea.

Approaching what I consider my own table, I’m annoyed to see it’s already occupied. By a large lady with red hair. It’s the woman who was watching my show earlier.

Smiling, she indicates the two empty chairs across from her. "I hoped you’d come. I’ve saved these for you. Just in case."

I don’t know whether to be pleased or not. How does she know I like to sit at this table?

"That’s kind of you." I take the window seat, laying the case on the other.

She half stands to offer me her hand. "I’m Clarissa, by the way."

"Malcolm."

"Yes, I know. It says on your booth." Her satisfied look indicates how clever she has been to spot it.

---

As she leans in close, I can’t help but notice the heavy application of foundation and the exaggerated outline of her lipstick.

With a wave of her hand, she beckons Margie. "I’ll have the scrambled egg on white toast please, love."

When she turns back to me, I’m purposely studying the seascape on the wall, rather than look at this presumptuous woman.

"I guessed the weather would stop the children coming today." Clarissa is waiting for me to say something. I don’t know what to make of her, but I’m curious.

"I’ve seen you watching my show," I say.

"Yes. Reminds me of my showbiz days ..." She is obviously waiting for me to ask her about it.

"You were in showbiz?" I hope I sound impressed even if I don’t feel it.

Pushing her empty cup to one side, Clarissa puts her hands squarely on the table as though she is about to tell me something of great importance.

"Yes. Here. On the pier. You may have heard of us. Hermes and Clarissa? That was my stage name. I use it all the time now, more sophisticated than Elsie." She looks at me expectantly.

I’d never heard of them, but thought it would be rude to say so. "The name does ring a bell."   Satisfied, she leans back, nodding sagely.

"We had regular slots here for many years. Too many to mention. That’s why I like to come back occasionally and stay at the Bay View Guest House, but different people run it now. Our 'Saw the Woman in Half' routine was our most popular. Of course, I was a lot slimmer then." Putting her hand to her mouth she gives an embarrassed titter.

She may well have been a beauty in the day, but the years have taken their toll, and I find it hard to imagine her as some svelte young thing, sashaying across the stage while Hermes – what a ridiculous name – performed his magic.

"Mixing with all the artistes. D’you remember Pablo and his Dancing Dogs?" she asks, but it isn’t a question.

"He wanted me to go and work with him. Wish I had, instead of staying with Marvin. That was his real name by the way. He treated me badly," her eyes sweep to a jagged scar on her right hand. Seeing me looking, she quickly puts her hand under the table. "… and he was having an affair." As she leans close, I can smell her breath. I ease away. As if I want to hear all her personal stuff?

"So, I left him." Her eyes level with mine, daring me to question her motives. "Shortly after that I heard he’d had a heart attack and died." Shaking her head slowly, she sinks back in her chair.

Embarrassed and not sure what to say, I glance around at the other customers. The seconds tick by and I know I’ve left it too long to make an appropriate response, so I say nothing.

"We had some good times though, and I do miss him." She looks wistful. "Those were the days …," her poignant smile tells its own story.

My throat is dry after being the voice of my characters for the day’s performances, and I just want to sit here quietly. Not have to talk, or listen to this woman who wants to regale me with tales of her past – distant past, by the look of her, but I do agree with her.

"They were. It’s not the same now. I blame the parents. They say Mr. Punch is too violent. Namby-pamby lot," I snigger. "Didn’t do us any harm. Mr. Punch is a very real part of our history. What about Tom and Jerry? That’s violent enough."

---

Margie appears with our meals. We sit silently, watching her put the plates down and fuss around ensuring we have all we need.

"I’ve done some research about Punch and Judy." She sits back, with an enigmatic smile on her face, waiting for my interest to pique.

"Pardon?"

"The origins of the show?" Seeing my blank look, she explains further. "I’m hoping to write a book. Memories of life on the Pier, that sort of thing. So, after watching your performances, I thought you wouldn’t mind if I spoke to you about it."

Stifling a yawn, my eyes wander to the view from the window. I could go on and on about the bloody history of Mr. Punch and his show, but I just can’t be bothered. Let her prattle on till we finish eating, then I can make my exit.

Leaning forward, she asks, "Did you know Samuel Pepys made mention of him in his famous diaries?"

Should I confess that of course I knew?

"No. I didn’t." I lie.

"Yes, in 1662." Her hand half reaches across for mine, as if we are complicit in all things Punch and Judy. Discreetly, I shift to avoid contact.

"Did you ever have a Toby? You know, the live dog, that would bark and bite Mr. Punch?"

"Yes, but he preferred chasing seagulls to biting Mr. Punch."

Her peel of laughter has the few people in the café turning round to see where the noise is coming from.

"How funny," she says. "But you have to admit it’s not very PC?"

My back goes up immediately.

---

Punch and Judy has always been part of my life. Dad had his own show and the puppets were as real to him as they are to me. I can remember squeezing next to him in the wooden booth when he gave his performances – it always seemed either very hot or very windy back then. It was magical. The crowds would go wild, booing and laughing as they watched the characters’ time-honoured antics.

Every night it was my job to inspect the puppets to make sure they were looking their best and occasionally, if I promised to be very careful, I was allowed to revarnish them. It made me a bit light-headed back then, but I don’t notice it now.

Leaning back, I stare at her. "So, you want to airbrush Mr. Punch out of our history too?"

She rises to the bait. "What parent today wants their child witnessing such unnecessary violence?"

Furious that she should be challenging me, I almost choke. "What about Henry VIII, the Bloody Tyrant? They still teach that in schools, don’t they? How many wives did he dispatch?"

"Three I think."

"There you go, then." I lean in, my hand slamming the table. "Mr. Punch shouldn’t be adulterated to suit some political ideology. It’s just slapstick humour. And, the word 'slapstick' originated from the Punch and Judy show. Did you know that?"

"No." She raises an eyebrow. I’m pleased she doesn’t know everything.

"It’s two pieces of wood glued together with a slight gap so that when it’s hit, even lightly, it makes a loud slapping noise."

"I didn’t know that."

"Well, you do now," I say with finality, leaning back to enjoy my moment of superiority.

I feel her eyes on me as I put the food in my mouth. It’s making me uncomfortable.

While she watches me, her fat finger is idly tracing along the blue and white stripes on the tablecloth, making scratching noises with her nail. I put down my knife and fork with a clatter.

"Your meal will be getting cold."

Picking up her cutlery, she can’t be quiet. "I feel privileged to be talking to you, a real artiste. Aren’t you called -– Professors?"

The question mollifies me somewhat. "Yes. You have to be a member of the College of Professors to be one. It’s solely by invitation. But some people just style themselves Professors. Goes back to Victorian times, possibly earlier, when it was common for magicians to adopt fanciful titles to impress the public, but not many people know that, or seem to care these days. I’m struggling to make a living. Can’t get the bookings …" I don’t tell her that it was partly to blame for the breakup of my marriage.

"Such a shame." Her mouth draws down into a theatrical moue.

"It’s been such a big part of my life, but as you saw the children aren’t coming to the shows, and quite a few of my private bookings have cancelled." Hearing the bitterness in my voice, I know I shouldn’t have confided in her. Still, once we’ve finished our meal, I’m out of here.

"It’s my birthday, today," she says, out of nowhere, her mouth drooping like some deranged pantomime character.

Now I feel bad for being rude.

"Happy Birthday." Embarrassed and not knowing what else to say, I’m willing her to eat quicker, so I can leave.

"It’s fine. It’s just another day after all." She doesn’t sound as if she believes that.

Too right, I’m thinking as I glare at the couple nearest our table who, seeing my expression, quickly avert their gaze.

Margie comes to collect the plates, unable to hide her interest in the two of us together. "Any desserts?"

Thinking quickly, I see a way to make amends. "How about we have a bottle of wine to celebrate your birthday?" Then I can leave without feeling guilty.

Clarissa is beaming. "That’s so kind."

I glance to the clouds gathering over the bay. Rain is threatening.

"Malcolm," Clarissa says. "Can I ask you something?"

I cough. My throat feels even drier now. "Yes?"

"Would you take me to have a look in your booth?"

That’s a relief. I’d been holding my breath wondering what she might ask.

"Okay," I say slowly. "When would you like to see it?"

"Tonight?"

"Oh, well," I hesitate, thinking that I’d already locked up. The characters are packed in the suitcase next to me. Then there’s the ripped seat.

Margie brings the bottle of wine, pouring out two large glassfuls, her suggestive look speaking volumes.

"Let’s have our wine, and then I’ll take you." It isn’t the best wine, but it eases my throat, and makes our conversation flow more easily. When we leave the café, we’re both more comfortable with each other, laughing, but I can’t remember what we are laughing at.

---

I grab her arm a few times to steady her as we struggle over the shingle. Heavy clouds hang low, giving the bay a timeless feel. She seems in high spirits as we approach the booth. Seeing the red and white colors glowing softly in the eerie half-light, all I feel is sadness, knowing I’ll be betraying both myself and my father if I give up on Mr. Punch.

The wind has eased, the sea has calmed, and now large drops of rain are beginning to fall. Undoing the booth, I hold the flap aside so she can enter. Gingerly she steps in, parking her large bottom on the torn seat.

"It smells funny in here," she says, wrinkling her nose.

"Does it. What of?"

Sniffing like a dog, she pauses, trying to determine the smell. ‘Like paint – varnish, and damp,’ her hands are feeling the walls, her eyes travelling to the dark corners of the booth.

Then I remember what the smell is. "I had to touch up Judy’s nose with varnish, yesterday. I don’t notice it now."

Turning to me, her eyes glint in the half light. Her expression full of wonder. "Could I hold Judy," she asks. "Or Mr. Punch? I don’t mind which. I just want to feel them in my hands."

I don’t want her to hold any of my puppets. Least of all Mr. Punch. They’re very old, valuable, and too personal, but it is her birthday. How can I say no?

Sighing, I bend down to unfasten the case. Squeezing out of the narrow doorway, she crouches low beside me, focusing on the case, her eyes like airport scanners watching as I lift the characters out, one by one. She’s unnerving me. I look away. The sooner I let her see the puppets the sooner I can be rid of her.

"Oh wow. That’s the crocodile." Reaching across, she takes the puppet from me, holding it at arm’s length to better appreciate its profile and character in the feeble light, before discarding it.

"... And there’s Judy!" Stretching beyond me she picks up the doll. Her eyes darting back and forth assessing the appeal of the rest of the characters, making sure she isn’t missing anything.

Biting my lip, I’m having trouble stopping myself from snatching them away from her and putting them back in the case.

Her voice is full of wonder as she asks, "Who’s this? I haven’t seen him before." Grasping the puppet, she holds it high. By the throat, and she was lecturing me about cruelty and violence.

"Hector the Horse," I acknowledge through gritted teeth. "It’s raining. They mustn’t get wet." I try to scoop them together so I can put them back and shut the case, but the bloody woman still has hold of Judy.

Horrified, I watch her put her fat fist inside the glove puppet, then calmly walk back into the booth holding Judy aloft.

"I can just about reach the stage," she trills. "This seat is a bit wobbly. Will you bring the baby, or perhaps the crocodile? We can do it together."

As if I’d want to do anything with this unstable woman. She’s gone too far.

The red mist descends and I see her as she was at the café earlier, when I watched her lips mouthing the words, "It’s my birthday" – remembering her questioning me over all that PC nonsense.

There isn’t enough room inside for the two of us. I’m stuck behind her, watching her red head nod and jiggle as she mimics the voice of Judy. Badly.

Half-turning, her hair brushes against my thigh. I can’t move. There’s nowhere for me to go.

"Which one have you bought?" She asks from over her shoulder.

I have the swazzle in place. The small reed that’s placed at the top of the mouth and blown through to create Mr. Punch’s unique voice. I carry the ugly little dwarf to his rightful place on the stage. He looks around for Judy. She is nodding and waving graciously to an imaginary audience.

"Where’s the baby?" Mr. Punch asks, his high-pitched squeak delivered in a threatening, measured voice.

Judy turns to him, watching, waiting.

"Where is it? What have you done with the baby?" Sweeping across the stage with practiced ease, Mr. Punch spits out the words, inches from Judy’s face.

"I haven’t got it," she taunts in a singsong voice.

Facing front stage, Mr. Punch considers this, inviting the audience to join him in correcting his wife’s shameful behavior.

"Well then, I’m going to have to punish you with my little stick, aren’t I, boys and girls?"

Judy grabs the stick and hurls it to the floor. Taking a moment, she bows to her supposed audience like some victorious gladiator faced with the choice to kill or reprieve.

What’s she doing? I can’t believe this. Has she gone mad?

As she twists around to face me the chair gives way and Clarissa falls to the floor with a thud.

Struggling to stand, rearranging her clothes, she can’t let the matter go, "See, you can change the narrative, Malcolm."

I look at Mr. Punch, still attached to my hand, the poor light reflecting off the many coats of paint applied to his features over the years, seeing the cruel curl of his lips and the wicked glint in his eyes. I feel his contempt for this woman. His unbridled rage.

Clarissa jostles against me as she exits the flap. Reluctantly I follow her wobbling bottom.

"Malcolm?" she turns to face me, her voice soft. "You can do it, you know. Make the show more relevant. You’d get more business, and more private bookings too...." 

How dare she give me advice? Me, who has been doing it for years.

Still fuming, I start putting the puppets in the case. The rain is getting heavier. Going to close it, I realise there is an empty space. Judy is missing. Obviously. Clarissa had her.

Turning, I look around expecting to see her ungainly profile. I know she isn’t in the booth, but check it anyway. I can’t believe this. The woman is deranged.

Back at the case, frantically rummaging amongst the puppets, I’m hoping I’ve overlooked her, but of course I haven’t. Judy isn’t there. That bloody woman has stolen her. The rain persists, everything appearing in black and white. Slamming the case closed I push it back in the booth to keep it dry.

I don’t know what I’m doing or where I’m going as I slip and slide over the shingle.

Something in the distance catches my attention. I hold my breath. A shape, no more. Stumbling forward I realise it is her. The crazy woman.

Drawing level, I spin her round to face me. She’s taking quick, sharp breaths, but all I’m interested in is my property which I see clutched tightly in her arms.

"What the hell d’ you think you’re doing?’ I demand, wrestling Judy from her grip.

"I’m sorry. I’m sorry," she says in a pitiful voice whilst backing away from me.

Looking at her I try to determine if her behavior is normal or if I’m overreacting. Tucking Judy firmly under my jacket, I ask, "Why did you do that?"

Wet strands of hair cling to her face. She doesn’t answer.

Exasperated, I lead Clarissa the few steps up to the Promenade, to an empty shelter, which smells faintly of urine. We sit. The wind lifts a torn wrapper which circles several times before coming to rest on the concrete floor. I don’t know what to do or say to this strange woman. I take Judy from my jacket, placing her on the bench. Clarissa looks at the puppet, then at me.

"I did it on the spur of the moment," she admits.

"Does that make it better?"

She considers this for a moment. "I have my reasons."

"And what are they?"

"I saw you looking at the scar. On my hand." I wait patiently for her to continue.

"I’ve had to live with the scars of what he did to me. Physical and mental."

Seeing my look of incomprehension, she goes on to explain. "Marvin, my husband, I told you about him. Sometimes his temper got the better of him and he was violent to me," dropping her gaze, she adds, "… but I did love him." Sniffing, she nods her head as if to acknowledge her own stupidity.

Examining the puckered scar on her hand she looks directly at me. "Didn’t like my cooking, so one day he threw the dinner back at me. As I moved away, the plate shattered on the fireplace and a shard embedded in my hand. I should have left him after that," slowly she shakes her head from side to side, "… but, I forgave him." I watch her ample chest rise as she takes a deep sigh, acknowledging the futility of it all.

"He was always so very sorry afterwards," she says, "telling me he didn’t know why he did it, and how much he loved me. Promised it wouldn’t happen again, and I so wanted to believe him, but of course it did. Many times." Her laugh has a bitter edge to it.

The seconds tick by before I speak. "I’m sorry of course, but I don’t understand why you’re telling me."

Brushing the raindrops from her hair, sitting forward, her eyes shine with a new resolve.

"Because by performing your show, no matter how historically important you think it may be, you’re giving out the wrong message. That women are inferior. That it’s okay for men to humiliate and brutalize them. Children are very impressionable you know. They see your show and leave with that image. That’s not what we should be teaching them. I should know."

A gust of wind brings the smell of frying, most probably from the chippy down the road.

Walking to the edge of the shelter, staying within the dry space, I feel Clarissa’s eyes boring into my back. The drumming of the rain is a catalyst to my thoughts and feelings. Faced with her truth, I’m at a loss for words.

It's probably only a few minutes, but it seems a lot longer as I mull over what she has told me.

I glance towards Judy, propped against the bench, head to one side, white mobbed cap askew. Crude wooden hands hang limply over her blue and white spotted dress. I note each detail as though I’m seeing it all for the first time, while reflecting on Clarissa’s words. Surely, it is just harmless fun? The children enjoy the slapstick humour. It’s timeless …

Clarissa is watching me with anxious eyes, waiting for me to say something. Her gaze unnerves me.

Then I wonder. Am I’m deluding myself? Am I giving out the wrong message and that’s why numbers are dwindling? Because it’s not relevant to today’s children? What about Henry VIII? Am I avoiding the truth because Mr. Punch is such a part of me?

I don’t intend to, but I hear myself speak my thoughts out loud.

"My only dealings with children have been as a puppeteer. Birthday parties, and here on the beach." I indicate the beach beyond, which neither of us can see in the darkness.

Feeling thoroughly confused, I go and pick up Judy, noting with distaste the tiny blob of varnish on her nose which I missed yesterday, and now looks like a wart. Unconsciously I scratch at it as I stare at the doll, her cold eyes staring back at me, defying me to abandon her, her rich history, and my whole way of life.

What Clarissa has told me this evening, no matter how uncomfortable, has made me think. It’s been coming to a head for some time now, and I’ve seriously thought about jacking it all in.

It’s as if Clarissa is reading my thoughts, "You don’t have to abandon your show, Malcolm. You could invent new characters. Perhaps a hero, or a heroine."

With her palms held uppermost she walks towards me, her eyes glowing with enthusiasm. Pausing for a moment, she continues, "characters that are more relatable to children today, not 400 years old." I can see she is still thinking as she walks to the edge of the shelter.

"If you update the sets, you could still use some of the characters. The horse, the crocodile …? There are all sorts of things you could do. Use your imagination and you could bring the show bang up to date."

"I wonder if I could?" I hear myself think out loud.

"You could, I know it."

Do I know it?

Stepping out of the shelter, I sniff the air. "I think it’s easing a bit. Come on, I’ll walk you back to where you’re staying."

"No need." Pausing for a moment she adds, "I’m sure you’ll do the right thing." She offers her hand to me. The one with the scar. "Goodnight, Malcom."

Looking at the scar, I gently take her hand in mine, "Goodnight."

"Sorry about stealing Judy,’ Her smile is sad.

---

Having had a lifelong passion for books and stories, it was not until she retired from working at a busy doctor's practice that Pauline Gostling thought seriously about writing. Studying with the Writers’ College gave her the confidence and skill to follow her dream. Since then, she has had both fiction and non-fiction work published and has become a successful playwright, having a Murder Mystery play performed at Hylands House in Essex. When not enjoying the company of her husband, her family, and Daisy, “the mad Jack Russell,” she now spends her time gardening, wandering the countryside, and writing short stories.

Images:

Figurines/Shadow by Angshu Purkait

Regal Marionettes by Miguel Alcantara

Horse and Man by Koo Jaeyong