A One Act Play

He took a step back and slipped into darkness, like an otter in a midnight pool; then one step forward until the streetlight caught him, his face half-illuminated, trapped in a subtle spotlight, an actor re-creating an iconic role.

For now, he chose to remain off-stage, so he stepped back again and pulled the collar of his coat higher, and the peak of his hat lower. He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and rehearsed in his mind how they would emerge later, in a choreographed gesture of sadness, when he said goodbye.

He mouthed his words carefully, rehearsing them against the black screen of the night. He anticipated her response, her tears, her grief, and he tested his response to hers. He pictured her eyes, the moisture rising in them and shining, a mirror to the gathering pools of rainwater on the damp road shimmering in the streetlight. 

Impromptu.

Improvised.

He checked his watch, a sleek model loose on his wrist, the sort of watch people would notice, owned by a man worthy of their attention - confident, with a hint of mystery about him, someone you spoke of in awed whispers. He thought of the car he would one day own, a low-slung sports’ model, two shallow, bucket seats. He could feel his palm grip the gear shift, and his foot exert perfect pressure on the gas. It would surge smoothly and he would glance reassuringly at the girl beside him.

Who would she be?

He only saw her image.

Why her?

He wiped her face from the screen of his mind and searched in vain for another, then gave up and checked his watch again.

She was late. Five minutes late. Not like her at all. She was annoyingly precise, always on time, never hurried, not a hair out of place. When she emerged onto his stage, she owned it. Her audience was captivated, enthralled, hanging on her every word, gesture, look.

Amazing.

But not to him, not anymore; he had ambitions beyond her reach, beyond the grim streets, beyond, beyond. It was time to break free.

He leaned against the rough stone of the terrace and kicked a foot listlessly, then glanced back at the door of the blinkered house. Number 237. The streets were all terraced like this round here. You couldn’t escape them, no matter how far you walked. You were tied to them as if by an invisible chain. He dragged himself upright, a gesture of independence.

The girl was a link in the chain that held him. Break the link and the chain fell apart. It was that simple. It had to be tonight. If not tonight, when?

Never. That’s when.

He checked his watch again; ten past. Ten minutes late now, and tonight of all nights. He pressed his lips tight and breathed hard. He should have written, texted, emailed; there was no need for this face-to-face last night performance. He felt annoyed now, and impatient, she had anticipated his moment and planned to steal the scene. He stepped forward, momentarily forgetting the dramatic impact of his carefully framed lighting, and glanced along the street. Only the rain falling, the tarmac shining under dull lights, the lights from windows peering round tightly-drawn curtain for a glimpse of the night outside.

Unwillingly, he felt a surge of longing to be inside a room like those, behind the same curtains, beside a fire, looking up to see in its rich glow… What?

Her again?

He blinked away the scene and his brow creased in annoyed frown. He was so weak. He knew the truth which lurked behind the facade – the arguments, no money, the daily grind of futile work, food, fatigue, more arguments, bed, repeat, repeat, repeat…

Ad infinitum.

Ad nauseam.

He sank back into the shadows, his back against the rough wall. Music leaked from behind him, sneaking through ill-fitting pane. Someone was singing. An advert maybe.

Fifteen minutes late.

Unwillingly, his mind rehearsed different scenes, not his own, scenes in which she featured, the heroine or the victim.

Now the heroine, the choice was hers. Maybe she had aspirations, ideas of her own beyond the dull streets, the counter at Boots, the mill where her mother worked. This was 1964, there was no limit to what she might dream. Hadn’t she talked about moving away, going to college, learning how to be whatever her imagination told her she could be? She saw a horizon and longed to sail across it, to slip away until she was lost in the sunlight, lost to sight, lost to him, alone in the lamplight in the falling rain.

Perhaps he didn’t feature in the film she created for herself. Perhaps his was just a bit-part, and the love interest was yet to appear. He felt angry now, and hurt. A new part for him to play.

He drove it away. 

 Perhaps she was the victim? Perhaps she had been waylaid by one of the gangs that emerged after light faded, even on these tired streets. Perhaps she lay, blood-soaked, alone, helpless. Her eyes glazed as she tried to formulate dying words.

What words?

His name?

Another’s name?

He shook his head angrily. This was all too much. He was annoyed with her, and worried for her, and betrayed by her. Yes, betrayed.

Perhaps she was at home, staring at the television screen, listening to the music he could hear leaking from behind him. She no longer felt anything for him. He was part of her past, a scene on the cutting room floor, discarded. Her mind was focused on another, maybe the star of her life drama.

But who was he?

Unable to listen any further to his own thoughts, he paced a few steps along the flagstone pavement, his head bowed. His eyes followed the water trickling towards a drain. He turned and followed the water back upstream to where tributaries from the tarmac road joined the current.

He checked his watch again.

She’s not coming.

Maybe not ever.

Just a familiar face hurrying along a street, weaving between the town centre shoppers, that dark-eyed smile poised on her lips, that familiar wave, that radiance as she broke into a run towards…

Towards whom?

Not him; not any more.

He was an onlooker, haunting a different kind of shadow, in a doorway across the street.

The felt the prick of tears, prompted like scene from a sentimental film. A final parting. His heart wept.

And still the rain fell.

Half an hour. It was time to leave, to drag himself home, to make some embarrassed excuse for his unexpected presence at the family fireside. The truth would have to wait. He couldn’t face the truth tonight, the humiliation of rejection.

He stepped into the road to take a final look; a farewell.

Then, from the wings of the street corner she emerged, head down against the rain, breaking into a run and then a hurried walk. She looked up and saw him and waved and she slowed her pace, assured now that she was not too late. He broke from the shadows, discarded the lamplight like an old coat and walked towards her.

‘I thought you might have gone,’ she cried.

He folded her in his arms and felt her fragility like a wounded bird.

‘I thought you might not come,’ he murmured and allowed her to hold him close.

Two wounded birds. Two pairs of arms. One shape, caught like a fading shot in the dim light, in the falling rain, in the magic of the night.

‘I love you,’ he whispered.

‘I love you too.’

Fade to darkness.

Credits roll.