Literature is full of stories that contain other stories – think of ‘The Thousand and One nights’ for example, where the individual stories are told by Shahryar’s new wife to her husband over the first three years of their marriage – or Chaucer’s ‘Canterbury Tales’ in which a group of pilgrims have a storytelling contest on their way to visit the shrine of Thomas a Becket. Mary Shelley’s ‘Frankenstein’ has an ‘onion’ structure where the traveller/narrator finds a dying Victor Frankenstein and then hears his story, which is interrupted in turn by the monster’s narrative before flipping back to Frankenstein and then finally the original narrator. Emily Bronte does something similar in ‘Wuthering Heights’ with the storyteller, Lockwood, hearing most of the story of Heathcliff and Cathy from the lips of Nellie Dean, a servant who lived for years with Cathy and her family; and within that second, main narrative, we have other strands as Heathcliff, Cathy, Isabella and Zillah narrate a chapter or two each, thus providing other points of view and helping us gain insights into those characters.

I’ve chosen to tell a story with a medieval/middle English feel in which the ballad told by a minstrel contains stories told by the characters within the ballad. I hope you enjoy it as much as Little Tom did.

The Minstrel’s Tale

Wind howled at the widows and rain lashed down, but inside the manor, Sir Richard and his family were snug and dry. A log fire burned in the grate, and that – added to the rich tapestries on the walls – lent a sense of warmth to the oak-ceilinged great hall.

At Sir Richard’s feet, his children fidgeted, impatient for the evening’s entertainment to begin. Little Tom was desperate to see the juggler: last time, the man had juggled with oranges, then eggs, then finally daggers, catching each one deftly whilst Tom and his sisters watched wide-eyed.

However, it was not a juggler who stepped forward this evening, but a man with a lute. Tom’s heart sank: he was fed up with ballads about ladies fair who sat around in their towers, waiting for their true love to come and rescue them. And then the minstrel began his tale and Tom suddenly sat up straight. Now this, he thought, was more like it.

*

“I’ll tell you a tale of a brave young knight,” sang the minstrel,

And the fearsome dragon he went to fight.

Sir Thomas was strong and his heart was true –

On the dragon’s back our hero flew

Off to an isle that lay in the sea

For a crone and a curse and a golden tree.”

Then putting down his lute, he faced his audience. “Listen if you will to my story, for I will wager that you have not heard a tale like this before!

Now Sir Thomas was a knight, the youngest son of Sir Andrew of Lincoln, and he was tall and comely and the best swordsman in the county. His two older brothers were jealous of him for they knew he was his father’s favourite, and their father was an old man by now and in feeble health. And so they conspired to send their brother to certain death and they told him of a fearsome dragon that guarded a golden tree at the edge of the world, and they did tell him that the tree bore golden pomegranates for they knew, as did he, that the golden pomegranate was reputed to have healing powers.

Then was Sir Thomas glad when he did hear this, and he put on his armour and set out to seek the dragon and the golden tree, and his brothers laughed into their sleeves for they knew that he would never return.”

Little Tom sat entranced.

“Off he set on his milk-white charger, and he rode for many days and nights until he came at last to a tumbledown hovel where a crone sat by the fire, and this woman was the most hideous creature Sir Thomas had seen, yet he greeted her courteously for he was a knight and honourable, and chivalry ran in his blood.

‘Good e’en, fair mistress,’ quoth he, and at that the woman started in surprise for she had received no such courtesy for many a year. ‘I seek a golden tree at the end of the world,’ he told her. ‘Know ye of such a tree and if it may be reached swiftly, for my horse is tired and we have ridden hard and long already?’

And he bowed low for, as I have already said, he was a courteous young man.

Then wept the old crone, saying to him, ‘Would that you had never come to this place, for I am under a curse and the one who lifts it will surely die. Listen, and I will tell you my story.

“I was born but seventeen years ago, though my face is hideous and my back bent and deformed. Such was my beauty that suitors came from near and far to seek my hand in marriage, but I refused them all for my heart was proud.

At length, an ugly imp appeared at my castle gates (for know ye well that I have not always lived in a hovel and that I was once a king’s daughter) and asked an audience with me. So foul was his appearance that I bethought me to send him away immediately, but my father, the king, chided me, saying, ‘Beauty is only skin deep, but mercy lives in the heart.’ At his insistence, I agreed to see the disgusting creature, but I did so with reluctance for I had vowed never to marry until I could find a husband as beautiful as myself.

As the dwarf entered the throne room, I tried to hide my revulsion, but I could not prevent a gasp of horror at his twisted limbs and misshapen features. Striding up to me, he declared, ‘My lady, I have heard tell of your beauty and I see now that you are indeed fair to look upon, yet you are also vain and selfish, and so I know that you are the one whom I seek. Give ear to my words and you shall learn why I am here.

I stand before you now an ugly dwarf, and yet I was not born in the shape you see. Know that I am – or was – Prince Llewellyn of Glamorgan, third of his name, and that I was known as Llewellyn the Handsome, due to my great beauty. Like you, I was proud and arrogant, and so one day, a wizard cursed me and made me what I am today, saying that the spell would only be broken if I could find another even more beautiful and more arrogant than myself. Today, my lady, I gaze upon the one who breaks that curse.’

All gasped at his tale, but none more than myself, for as he spoke, a grey mist descended over the two of us, and when it lifted, a beauteous man stood before me and I knew that I had finally found someone worthy of me.

‘Good sir,’ I said, ‘now that I see your true form, I will marry you today,’ but he laughed and shook his head, saying, ‘Why should I marry a crone like you when I can choose between the fairest damsels of this land?’

I did not understand his words, but then one of my servants fetched a hand mirror and trembling brought it to me, and I did look and lo! I found that I was twice as ugly as the imp I had disdained before he regained his true shape.

Three years have passed since then and I have spent every one of them here, in this hovel, hidden away from my family who could no longer bear the sight of me.”

Her tale finished, she wept bitterly and Sir Thomas’s heart was moved to help her, for – as I have already said – he was chivalrous to the bone.

‘You did not tell me,’ he said presently, ‘how the curse on you might be lifted.’

At that, she sighed deeply, saying, ‘Only the seeds from a golden pomegranate on the tree that grows at the end of the world will restore my beauty – but the tree is guarded by a fearsome dragon, and anyone who tries to defeat him will ride to his death.’

Then was Sir Thomas’s resolve doubled to find the tree and slay the dragon and pluck the golden pomegranates. Long did the crone parley with him, begging him not to try, but he assured her that his heart was set and so, the next morning, he set off once more to find the golden tree.

He rode for a year and a day, and eventually he found that which he sought: a tree of solid gold bearing golden pomegranates and the dragon wound around its trunk. Fearlessly, he approached the great beast, intending, while it slept, to strike off its head with his sword, but the dragon opened one eye and regarded him balefully, saying, ‘Who is it that disturbs my sleep? Answer now that I may know who it is that I am about to devour.’

‘If you please,’ Sir Thomas said – for being a chivalrous knight, he was polite to everyone – I mean you no harm. I ask only that you let me take two of those golden pomegranates from your tree – one to restore my father’s health and another to restore a young girl’s beauty.’

‘And why,’ replied the dragon, ‘should I do any of this for you?’

  And then was Sir Thomas troubled, for he could think of no answer for the dragon, yet he knew that he must have those pomegranates.

‘If you grant me this simple request,’ he said at last, ‘then I will swear an oath of fealty to you, to serve you as you will.’

But the dragon replied, ‘What use have I for a servant? Better that I should eat you now and then at least you will have served some purpose.’

And it opened wide its mouth and terrible were its teeth and the stench of rotting flesh that emanated from its throat as it belched was noisome indeed.

The lizard looked at Thomas and its eye was hungry and its belly rumbled, and the knight felt certain that his last hour had come. But then the creature paused as if in thought and said, ‘Yet mayhap there is indeed some service I require, and if you will do what I tell you, then you may pluck as many pomegranates as you desire.’

With gladdened heart, Sir Thomas agreed to the dragon’s request although he knew not what this boon would be. And that,” said the minstrel suddenly breaking off, “is where our story must end for tonight.”

“Nooo!” Tom protested, his heart pumping furiously with the desire to see whether or not Sir Thomas would complete his quest. “You said he would fly on the dragon’s back and visit an island and–“

“And so he will,” the minstrel replied, “but that is a tale for another evening.”

“Besides,” his mother added, “it is high time you were in bed!” And at that, she scooped up Tom in her arms and carried him to the bedchamber.

*

The next evening, little Tom was all agog to find out what had happened to his namesake and he wriggled as close as he could to the minstrel, that he might hear better. The minstrel looked round the room, struck a jaunty chord on his lute, and continued the tale.

“Sir Thomas looked at the dragon and the dragon looked at Thomas. ‘And what, O great one,’ said Sir Thomas, is your boon?’

A faraway look came into the creature’s eye. ‘My tale is a simple one,’ it said slowly, ‘and yet it must be told, for it tells of a hoard of gold and a dragon’s egg and an enchanter who tricked me long ago. Listen well, and you must then decide whether or not you will do my bidding.

When the world was new and dragons roamed the earth, we lived in harmony with all mankind for you treated us with deference and knew that we were your true masters.

But the time came when your wizards grew cruel and greedy and lusted after not only our gold but our majicks as well. One by one, they destroyed my people, slaughtering every dragon they could find, until only I and my mate remained, her belly swollen with the egg she carried. That egg was a sign of hope for us both, for it was the promise that our race would continue.

At last, the time came for her to release her egg, for know ye well that a female dragon lays her egg when it is almost ready to hatch and then she places it in a nest of fire that the warmth might tempt the  little one to break its shell and enter the world. Without the flames, the egg will remain as it is, and there are dragons’ eggs that are still unhatched centuries after their mothers brought them forth.

And so, with much puffing and panting and moaning and groaning, my queen pushed our little one into the world, encased in a scarlet shell. Weak she was from all this exertion, and so I spread my wings and flew high into the sky, searching the terrain for a sheep or an ox that I could carry back to her that she might feed and sustain her strength.

Imagine my horror when I returned some minutes later with a fine, fat pigling only to discover that, in my absence, a wizard had chanced upon the scene and slit my queen’s throat so that her blood soaked the ground around her.’

Sir Thomas drew in his breath sympathetically, and the dragon continued.

‘Full of rage was I then, ready to breathe fire upon this miserable human and roast him to death, but snatching up the egg, he held it aloft and cried, “Hold your flames, Worm! Listen to me now or I will destroy the egg and butcher your offspring!

Know that I am Kalil, the most powerful enchanter this land has ever seen. I have tasted your queen’s blood and I feel dragon majick coursing through my veins. Tell me now where you have hidden your hoard of gold and I will spare your egg.”

But I answered him, “Why should I trust you, O deceitful one, for everyone knows that wizards lie!”

“Your gold,” he replied, ignoring my words and raising the egg as if to dash it to pieces; and so I told him the secret location in a cave buried deep within a mountain and he nodded in satisfaction.

“And now,” I reminded him, “my egg.”

But he laughed in my face, saying, “What? And let another dragon come into this world? No – I will not kill your little one for I promised to spare it, but I will take it far away from here and lock it within a fireproof chest on an island in the middle of the sea.”

And with that he vanished, leaving me with my dead queen and no egg and no gold.’

Sir Thomas’s eyes were moist by the end of this tale for he hated injustice. Then said he to the dragon, ‘Your story has moved me beyond words. How may I now be of assistance?’

‘Some years ago,’ the dragon replied, ‘a traveller came this way – like you, seeking the golden tree with the golden pomegranates. He was a former wizard and he carried a map of the seven seas, showing the location of my lost egg, and a key that would unlock the fireproof chest. He did not say why he desired a pomegranate – but I think maybe it was for his protection, that he might restore himself to health should any misfortune befall him on his way. He had not known the tree would be guarded by a dragon, and he did not know that the egg he sought was mine.’

‘What happened to him?’ Thomas asked.

‘I spared his life,’ the dragon replied, ‘in exchange for the map and the key.’

He turned, then, and Thomas saw for the first time that a cage hung from the golden boughs of the tree, and in that cage was a man with wild, staring eyes.

‘Was it really necessary to make him your prisoner?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ replied the dragon. ‘I could not risk him stealing back the map and the key or running to tell another wizard about me. That cage is formed from dragon-majick and only a dragon may open it.’

‘And what is it that you want me to do?’ Thomas asked next.

‘Help me find my egg,’ the dragon replied. ‘I have the map and I have the key, but I have only claws, not fingers, and I need a human hand to unlock the fireproof chest.’

And so it was that Sir Thomas found himself seated upon a dragon’s back, flying over land and sea until they reached the isle where the dragon’s egg was imprisoned and he and the dragon found the chest and Thomas did unlock it and great was the dragon’s joy when he saw that the egg was unharmed.

Then Thomas took the egg in his arms and nestled it as the dragon flew back the way they had come, to the golden tree at the end of the world. And the dragon breathed flames and lit a fire, and they placed the egg in the flames and waited.

And after a while, a cracking sound was heard and scarlet shards flew into the air as the baby dragon cautiously crept out of the egg and greeted the world.

Then said the dragon, “You have done me a great service and so I will grant your wish and you may take as many golden pomegranates as you can carry.”

And so Thomas plucked nine of them, for everyone knows that nine is a mystical number for it is three times three, and he carried them back to his horse and they rode for a year and a day until they came to the crone’s hovel.

Thomas entered the hovel and presented the old hag with a golden pomegranate, and she ate the seeds and the years fell from her until she was as lovely as she had been before Prince Llewellyn’s curse. Then did Sir Thomas kneel before her, for he was dazzled by her beauty; but she bade him rise, saying, ‘Good sir, you showed me courtesy before you saw me in my fair shape and so I will marry you and you will be my lord.’ And then she kissed him to seal their betrothal and his heart was glad.

The next day, they began their journey back to see Sir Thomas’s father and brothers, and they rode for many days before his castle came in sight; but a black pennant flew from the tower, and then Sir Thomas knew that he was too late and his father was dead, and he wept bitterly for his loss.

Then did he take his bride to meet his brothers and they were jealous of Thomas and his good fortune for the girl was as lovely as spring and as graceful as a hind and each brother lusted secretly after her in his heart.

And they conspired again to be rid of Thomas, giving him poisoned eels for his supper so that by morning, his skin was grey and the mark of death was upon him. But his lady remembered the golden pomegranates, and she took one secretly and placed the seeds in her love’s mouth and he was instantly restored to health, and his brothers became more jealous still for he was now even more handsome.

And they went privately to their new sister and asked her how it was that Thomas had recovered from his sickness and now looked stronger than before.

‘Oh,’ said she, dimpling very prettily at them both, ‘know ye not that eels are a great restorative? If ye would look like my husband, then ye must eat the eel stew I have prepared.’

And they gobbled it greedily and fell down dead, for these were the same poisoned eels that they had given Thomas the night before and this time, their dose was fatal.

And so Thomas and his lady lived in his father’s castle, and Sir Thomas ruled wisely and well, and his sons after him – but that is another story.”

Anyone who knows me will know I’m a bit of a Shakespeare geek and that my favourite play is ‘Othello’. Despite being written over 400 years ago, the play has a timeless relevance with its themes of jealousy, cultural differences and a villainous character (Iago) who manipulates everyone else in the play. (Back in 1996, Kenneth Branagh directed a film version of the play in which he starred as Iago and incorporated a scene in which Iago symbolically moves chess pieces around a board whilst explaining in soliloquy how he is controlling the other characters.)

I’ve written a modern day version of the play as a short story, told by Iago. As readers, we’re left wondering how much of what Iago says is true: is he really a reliable narrator?

If you’re not familiar with the play but enjoy the story, don’t try to read the play afterwards. Shakespeare wrote plays to be performed, not scripts for people to read and study. There are plenty of excellent film versions on the internet, so watch one of those and decide for yourselves: is my narrator really “honest Iago”?

Honest Iago

“No! I don’t believe it!” Roderigo stares at me aghast. “She’s really eloped with him? But he’s old enough to be her father!”

I notice he doesn’t voice the other reason for his disgust, but that’s because race is a tricky issue these days. Besides, Othello has a good reputation in the army: he’s led more successful campaigns than I can remember.

Poor Rodrigo! He’s had a thing for Desdemona for as long as I can remember. He’s worshipped her from afar for years – and you have to admit that technically he’d make a much better husband for her than Othello. He’s rich, for one thing; and he’s only a year or two older than she is; and – dare I say it – he’s not from a different culture … Not that I’m suggesting Othello would mistreat Desdemona in any way, you understand – it’s just… Well, you know what they say about Arabs and the way they keep their women covered from head to foot and confined to barracks. (Not literal barracks, obviously – the last thing he wants is all his soldiers gawping at her.)

“Of course,” I keep my voice casual, “it’s not too late for you to do something about it.”

“What do you mean?” Roderigo is intrigued.

“Well,” I say, lowering my voice enough to make him really listen, “if we were to wake her father and tell him that the Moor’s kidnapped his daughter…”

Roderigo’s eyes widen. “You mean …”

“Yes,” I say, telling him exactly what he wants to hear, “we could get the General arrested before he’s had the chance to sample the goods. And I’ve no doubt that Brabantio will be so grateful to you that he’ll look on you a little more kindly as a possible husband for Desdemona yourself.”

The old goat’s so racist he’d think a streetcleaner was a better prospect than Othello – as long as the streetcleaner’s the right colour, of course.

“What time is it now?” Roderigo checks his watch. “Will Brabantio appreciate being woken up at gone midnight?”

Poor fool! Manners and etiquette are everything to Roderigo; but sometimes you have to be a bit ruthless to get what you want.

“If we leave it till later,” I say, my voice crisp with confidence, “they’ll both be gone – and your rival will have put his filthy hands all over her.”

He’s galvanised into action as I knew he would be.

“Right,” he says, suddenly awake. “What are we waiting for?”

*

Brabantio’s got a pretty good security system – well, he’d have to, wouldn’t he, considering that he’s one of the richest guys in Venice; but that works to our advantage as no one could sleep through all the security lights and barking dogs and the incessant ringing on the doorbell as Roderigo presses it incessantly until it nearly melts into the woodwork.

At first, he thinks we’re burglars, and it’s not helped when Roderigo starts babbling about how Brabantio’s “most precious jewel” has been stolen from him this very night and how he’s lost the treasure of his heart, etcetera. Like I said, Roderigo’s far too polite, so I decide to step in and explain things in terms the old man can understand.

“The General’s kidnapped your daughter,” I say bluntly.

He gapes at me, uncomprehending, so I spell it out more plainly.

“The Moor’s run off with Desdemona. If you don’t go after him now, they’ll be making the beast with two backs within a matter of minutes.”

Crude, I know; but no man wants to think of his daughter being raped.

Just in case he needs any further motivation, I add, “Unless you want your grandchildren to be half-cast ba– “

“Stop!” he begs, hands over his ears, and I notice that even Roderigo looks uncomfortable.

It does the trick, though: moments later, he’s pulled on some clothes and rung the Carabinieri and they’re heading off to arrest Othello. I decide I’ll stay out of this bit – after all, Othello’s my boss, and I don’t dislike the guy – it’s just… Well, that’s a story for another time. I’m normally a pretty good judge of character.

Speaking of which, Roderigo looks at me now and asks why we didn’t involve Othello’s lieutenant in this operation. Are you kidding? I want to ask him. You know how loyal he is: he’d have warned Othello straight away! Instead, I just say, “I don’t like him.”

Roderigo’s face is curious. “Tell me again,” he says, “why you don’t like Michael Cassio.”

I consider my response, sifting the possible answers, and finally settle on, “He can’t be trusted. That promotion he’s just got – well, it should have been mine. Everyone knew that I was the right man for the job, and I’ve been loyal to the General ever since he arrived.”

Loyal up until now – although I’ve not really done anything wrong – I was just trying to protect that young girl from rushing into a hasty marriage she’ll regret later.

Roderigo nods sympathetically. “No one doubts your loyalty, Iago. You’re the most honest man I know.”

*

It’s only later, as I’m returning to the barracks and the married quarters I have there, that I allow myself to think about the real reason for my hatred. Cassio’s got something going on with my wife, I’m sure of it. I’ve seen the way Emilia acts when he’s around, laughing at his jokes, giggling like a schoolgirl when he pays her a compliment. I’m pretty sure they’ve done the deed, but I’m reluctant to mention it to anyone else, even Roderigo – what sort of man wants to admit his wife’s made him a cuckold?

And then I start remembering how she batted her eyes at Othello too when we were at that drinks evening in the Mess. Porca miseria! My wife’s insatiable! As for him… Well, we all know his kind don’t respect women, but is that any way to repay me for my loyalty?

The more I think about it, the more my jealousy grows. Emilia’s not the most beautiful of women – compared to Desdemona, she looks like a heifer! – but she’s mine – or at least she was. I still can’t believe she’d do this to me, though – cheat on me with not one but two of my friends. Well, I say friends, although they’re both more work acquaintances than anything else – but still…

Unless, of course, Emilia saw me looking at Desdemona the other day… All men do that, though, don’t they? It’s okay to look as long as you don’t do anything about it. Put it this way, I can certainly see what the attraction is for Roderigo.

Hang on – what’s this email that’s just come through? Something about being redeployed to Malta. Othello’s in charge – looks like Brabantio wasn’t successful in getting him arrested, then. I’d better let Roderigo know he’s missed his chance with Desdemona. Unless…

What if I tell Roderigo that Desdemona’s not really in love with Othello? That might persuade him to come with us, and I could certainly do with his money. Does that sound a bit calculating? I like Roderigo – he’s a good mate and his money’s just an added bonus. I’m doing this for him, you understand – the poor lad’s not had much luck where his love life’s concerned. And if he manages to seduce her behind her husband’s back, it might go some way to redressing the balance: I know two wrongs don’t make a right, but I’ll get a sense of satisfaction knowing that Othello’s had a taste of his own medicine.

Right, then – let’s find the passports and tell Emilia to pack. Malta, here we come!

*

Roderigo can’t believe his luck. It turns out that Othello and his missus haven’t had their wedding night yet – well, there wasn’t much time for them to consummate the marriage when he was arrested straight after the ceremony on a charge of kidnapping and almost court-marshalled. Apparently, Desdemona spoke up for him and wove a pretty tale about how he’d wooed her with his stories of his heroic deeds. As if! I bet I know the real reason why she was so keen to run off with him – everyone knows that Venetian women can’t control their appetites! Look at my Emilia – she’s just as bad.

Anyway, the big night is supposed to be tonight, but Roderigo and I have come up with a plan – or rather, I’ve come up with a plan that Roderigo thinks is his own. We’re going to have a bit of a party to celebrate the General’s marriage, and then I’ll get Cassio drunk (everyone knows he can’t hold his liquor) and Roderigo will start a fight with him. The noise should bring Othello running from his bed, and when he’s forced to stop and take Cassio in hand, Roderigo can sneak off to see Desdemona. (Roderigo added that last bit.)

So, time to get Cassio drunk then – which he’d probably do on his own anyway, even without me helping – another reason why he shouldn’t have been made lieutenant. When you think about it, I’m doing Othello a favour – better for him to find out now what Cassio’s really like.

*

Cassio looks at me and shakes his head. “No, really, Iago. I can’t drink on duty. Besides,” he gives a rueful shrug, “you know I’m a lightweight: I’ll be under the table before we get to the third pint.”

“Just a shandy, then,” I say lightly. “C’mon, Mike – You’ve got to help celebrate the General’s wedding.”

“Okay,” he laughs. “If it’ll make you happy – but after that, I’m sticking to Coke.”

I return a few minutes later with the drinks and Cassio starts telling me about his woman. Turns out he’s hooked up with a wannabe Army WAG, only he’s keeping the relationship quiet in case Othello doesn’t approve. Bianca’s got a bit of a reputation, you see – although from what Cassio lets slip, it sounds like they’re really into each other. It doesn’t make me trust him any more than I did before, though – that man’s far too good looking to be left alone with Emilia, if you get my drift.

We finish our drinks and Cassio’s already looking a little worse the wear. No one who saw him now would believe he’d only had one shandy: he’s acting as if he’s mixed it with a double vodka or two – almost as if someone had spiked his drink – and this is where the fun really starts. Cassio climbs up on the table and starts launching into one of the drinking songs the others only sing when they’re in danger of falling over. It’s loud and it’s raucous and incredibly rude, and I’m suddenly seeing him in a whole new light: it turns out he’s not the perfect soldier he pretends to be.

He’s on the third verse when someone bumps into the table, jolting it sufficiently to make Cassio tumble to the ground. Of course, we all laugh – all apart from Cassio who struggles to his feet, swearing blue murder and threatening to put a bullet into the so-and-so who did that. (I really can’t repeat the actual phrase he used.)

Before you know it, he and Roderigo – yes, Roderigo – are involved in the sort of fight I thought only happened in Hollywood films, and the rest of the men are shouting and cheering, urging them both on, and it’s total mayhem – and then Othello arrives with a face like thunder, obviously not impressed with being dragged out of his marital bed to come and calm down his rowdy recruits.

For a moment, everything goes silent. The man’s got presence – you have to give him that. And then, when he speaks, he doesn’t shout or roar or even raise his voice – he just asks very quietly who’s responsible for this uproar, and his calm demeanour is the most menacing thing I’ve ever seen.

No one says anything: Cassio’s beyond speech and everyone else is too scared of unleashing the General’s wrath, so it’s up to Muggins, here, to tell him what’s been going on. I swear I wasn’t trying to make Cassio look bad – I was just trying to be truthful when I said that Cassio had drunk a bit too much and fallen off a table and that it had all escalated from there.

“Iago,” he says, studying me intently, “I know you’re holding something back. What is it?”

I open my mouth to protest my own innocence, but he motions for me to be quiet.

“You’re making light of this for Cassio’s sake, aren’t you?” he asks, so I nod dumbly and let him form his own conclusions.

“Cassio.” He turns now to his lieutenant, and the steel is back in his voice. “I love you like a brother, but I can’t let you do something like this and not face the consequences. I’m stripping you of your rank here and now,” and he holds out his hand for the stripes.

Cassio gazes at him as if he doesn’t understand what’s going on. One of the guys beside him whispers in his ear and Cassio looks horrified. “I know I’ve let you down,” he says brokenly, “but please…”

“You’ve let yourself down more than anyone else,” is Othello’s reply as he turns and makes his way back to his quarters.

Cassio sinks to the ground, his head in his hands. “What have I done?” he groans. “What have I done?”

*

That night, I can’t sleep, my mind too busy dwelling on the evening’s events. Who would have guessed that my plan to help Roderigo would have such an unexpected side effect? Beside me, Emilia tosses and turns, no doubt thinking of Cassio. My mind wonders to Desdemona and I wonder what it would be like if she were next to me and not that overweight sow I call my wife. Othello will have his hands full with that one – half the camp’s lusting after her already.

*

The following morning, Cassio comes to see me in a terrible state. “You’ve got to help me get my position back,” he says. “Tell me how I can make Othello trust me again.”

For some reason, people always ask me for advice – I think I must give off trustworthy vibes. Anyway, I look at Cassio, torn between satisfaction that he’s lost the promotion that should have been mine and pity that he’s screwed it up so spectacularly.

“I don’t know if he’d listen to me,” I say slowly, “but I bet Desdemona could make him do anything she asked him to. You should have a word with her.”

His eyes brighten at the thought. “You think so?”

I lower my voice. “Othello may be the General, but I think you’ll find Desdemona’s really the one in charge.” Catching sight of her nearby, I add, “Isn’t that her, over there? Why don’t you go and ask her now?”

He speeds off to plead his suit and I watch them both from a distance, thinking that she’s laughing and smiling just a little too much for a newly married woman. I wonder what her husband would say if he could see her.

Speak of the devil… Othello’s right behind me. “Is that Cassio?” he asks as the other man slips away.

“Cassio?” I echo. “No, I don’t think so. Why would he talk to your wife and then sneak off, looking guilty?”

I let the unspoken suggestion sink in.

“No,” I say, with just a touch of doubt in my voice, “it was probably just someone asking her where you were.”

He laughs, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

*

We’re patrolling the island later on when Othello asks me, “You’re married, aren’t you, Iago?”

I reply in the affirmative.

“And is your wife … trustworthy?” he continues.

I think for a while.

“Venetian women are very different to the sort of women you’re used to,” I say at last. “You have very strict rules, don’t you? Well, that’s the complete opposite of our society.”

He’s shocked, but he tries not to show it.

“Our women are very liberal,” I continue. “You’ve seen the way they dress – not bothering to cover their legs or arms; well, they way they act is rather liberal too.” I lower my voice. “You wouldn’t believe the things Venetian housewives get up to behind closed doors!”

“But they’re not all like that.” He sounds as if he wants me to reassure him.

“How did you end up marrying Desdemona?” I ask, changing the subject.

He smiles at this. “I knew her father. In fact, we were friends. He used to invite me over and we’d sit and talk in the evenings and I’d tell him about all my travels. Desdemona used to eavesdrop on the conversation – she’d pretend she was looking for something in the room where we were, or she’d bring us in a snack, and then she’d just hang around for ages, listening to everything I said. I was flattered by her attention – who wouldn’t be?”

“She’s an attractive woman,” I agree.

“After a while, I started going round to see her when I knew Brabantio was out – not that we ever took advantage of his absence,” he adds hastily. “Everything was above board.”

“So why did you elope?” I ask curiously. “If you already knew her father…”

Othello pulls a face. “He’d already warned me off,” he admits. “Apparently, I’m good enough to be his friend but not good enough for a son-in-law. He’s not exactly racist, but… Well, he told me more than once that he wanted his grandchildren to be 100% Italian.”

There’s little chance of that happening now – unless Roderigo wins her heart after all.

“So,” I say slowly, “she went behind her father’s back when she married you…” I don’t say anything more: I just plant the seed and wait for it to grow.

*

Othello has started confiding in me more and more now that Cassio’s out of favour. He asks me to help him sort through some paperwork, but that’s just a flimsy excuse to talk about his marriage. He confides that Desdemona seems to mention Cassio a lot.

“You’re not jealous, are you?” I ask quickly.

He laughs and tells me of course not, but his denial is a little forced.

“Jealousy’s a mug’s game,” I tell him, flicking through some official documents and finding something that looks like a love letter. I pocket the letter secretly: it might come in useful. “If you give in to jealousy, it’ll destroy you from the inside out. No, I’m sure it’s all very innocent with her and Cassio. I know he’s got a reputation as a ladies’ man, but I bet at least half of what they say isn’t true. Anyway, he’s far too young for her – Desdemona obviously likes older men, or she wouldn’t have married you in the first place.”

One by one, I drop more seeds. I’m doing him a favour, really. He’d be better off with one of his own kind – one of those women you see wearing black from head to foot with just a slit for the eyes. Desdemona’s out of his league: she fell for him in a hero worship kind of way; but the glamour’s got to wear off at some stage and then all she’ll have is a husband who’s twenty years older than she is who’ll expect her to stay at home popping out babies until she’s old herself.

“Did I do the right thing in marrying her?” he asks now. “Do you think she still loves me, Iago?”

I make a non-committal shrug. “I’m sure she loves you as much now as she always did,” I say neutrally.

“If I thought she was in love with someone else, I’d give her a divorce,” he mutters. “Set her free to marry again. But I love her, Iago. I hate the idea of her with anyone else. What can I do? How can I find out whether or not she’s faithful?”

All I can say is that the doubt had to be there before I started talking to him because this guy’s insecurity is crippling him.

*

Later on, I take out the love letter I borrowed and read it carefully. Desdemona must have written it just before they eloped because it talks about how much she’s longing to be alone with him ‘properly’ and how she dreams about spending the night with him and waking up in his arms. I reread it, realising that if I remove the first page, the one with Othello’s name on it, then it could be a love letter addressed to anyone. I think I feel a plan forming.

“What’s that?” Emilia asks curiously, looking over my shoulder. A slap rings out. “Who’s been writing you love letters?”

“No one, my little piranha,” I reply, tenderly rubbing my stinging cheek. “It’s one of Desdemona’s love letters to the General.”

“So what are you doing with it, then?” she wants to know.

“I’m putting together a wedding album for them,” I explain, half-convincing myself.

What follows is more tickle than slap.

*

Cassio’s still asleep when I arrive at his quarters the following morning, Bianca wrapped around him like a sinuous cat. I make a great show of taking him with me to see if we can get his job back, leaving Bianca to sulk on her own under the covers. I thoughtfully leave the love letter under the bed so that she will have something to read if she gets bored.

We reach the officers’ mess and I check to see where Othello is: he and Desdemona are eating breakfast together, and she is as beautiful as ever but there’s a strained look in his eye. We grab our trays and load up with pastries and coffee, then make our way over to the General’s table. Instantly, Desdemona smiles up at her husband: “Look, Darling. Michael Cassio. We were just talking about you giving him his old job back.”

Cassio’s too busy smiling at Desdemona to notice the thunderous expression on his superior’s face. I give Othello an almost imperceptible nod, as if to say, Do you see the way they’re flirting with each other? Well, that’s what it looked like at the time – can I be blamed for misreading the signs?

The more Desdemona and Cassio talk to each other, the closer Othello gets to choking on his food. Finally, he bursts out, “For God’s sake, woman! Can’t you think about anything else except Michael bloody Cassio?”

In the shocked silence that follows as every pair of eyes in the hall turns to look at our table, a single tear rolls down Desdemona’s cheek. Without saying a word, she rises from her seat and runs out of the room.

*

We’re still sitting there in shocked silence when an angry sound catches my attention. Looking up, I see soldiers trying to prevent a woman from entering. It’s Cassio’s Bianca, and she’s clutching a familiar-looking letter. Pushing past the men who would hold her back, she marches up to our table and deposits the letter in front of a surprised Cassio.

“And what,” she declares, “was this doing in your room, Cassio? I can’t believe you’ve been seeing someone else behind my back!”

“Bianca…” Cassio’s tone is placatory, but she’s too indignant to listen. Talk about hell having no fury like a woman scorned!

Cassio pushes the letter away without even looking at it. “No one,” he says firmly, “has been sending me love letters, Bianca.”

But she’s already storming out in a huff.

“You’d better go after her,” I murmur supportively. The poor guy doesn’t know what’s going on.

As Cassio leaves, the hum of conversation resumes and I glance at the letter on the table, making sure Othello sees me doing so. “No!” The word is out of my mouth before I can help myself. “There must be some mistake…”

I quickly try to hide the letter from the General, but he’s been alerted by my reaction and he grabs the papers before I can stuff them in my pocket. He skims through the handwritten lines and his face darkens with anger.

“I’ll kill her,” he says softly, but just loud enough for me to hear. “I’ll kill both of them.”

I place a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry you should find out this way.”

“I trusted her,” he says brokenly. “I trusted them both.”

“You can trust me, sir. I’ll do anything I can to help.”

And the two of us sit in silence as the mess hall empties around us.

*

Roderigo can’t believe it when I confide in him about Desdemona’s cheating.

“No!” he says, his voice shocked. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“Isn’t that what her father said when we told him she’d run off with Othello?” I ask now. “She’s an expert at pretending to be innocent and getting up to all sorts of things behind people’s backs.”

I pause. Time to see how far Roderigo will go for the woman he loves.

“Of course,” I make my voice casual, “he could have forced her.” I let him mull that one over before I continue, “And if he’s hurting her in any way, just think how grateful she’ll be to the man who gets rid of Cassio.”

He blinks at me, uncomprehending.

“The man who gets rid of Cassio,” I repeat.

“What? You mean murder?” Roderigo may be rich, but he’s not very bright.

“Not murder,” I reassure him, “just self-defence. Everyone saw Cassio attacking you a few nights ago – what’s to say he didn’t assault you again and you shot him by mistake in the struggle?”

I leave him to think it over, but I think I know what he’ll do.

*

I’m making sure to stay out of the way – if Cassio is accidentally shot, or if Othello goes through with his plan to murder Desdemona, it will be nothing to do with me. Sitting in the mess with the others, I act like the life and soul of the party, telling jokes, buying other people drinks. I’m so caught up in the bonhomie I’ve created that I’m genuinely surprised when a message arrives that I’m wanted in Othello’s quarters.

It’s easy to form my face into an expression of shocked concern when I’m led into the General’s bedroom to be confronted by a handcuffed Othello and a strangled Desdemona. I’m not sure how my wife fits into this, but Emilia’s there too, her tear stained face white with anger.

“Iago!” she cries as soon as she sees me. “This monster claims you told him that Desdemona and Cassio were sleeping together.”

I look pained by the accusation.

“She was unfaithful,” Othello growls, “and Iago knows it.”

“I don’t like to listen to gossip, sir,” I say primly.

“Honest Iago,” he mutters. “Loyal to the last. I know you’re trying to spare my feelings, but we both saw the letter.”

“Letter?” Emilia says sharply. “What letter?”

“A love letter my wife sent Cassio.” Othello motions to her with his head. “It’s in my pocket – take a look.”

Emilia snatches the letter and scans it quickly.

“You stupid, stupid man!” she bursts out. “That was your wife’s love letter to you! Iago knows all about it – he was putting it in a wedding album for you both.”

“Then why was it found in Cassio’s room?” Othello shouts back at her.

Emilia looks at me, horror crossing her face as she suddenly realises what must have happened.

“You!” she spits at me. “This is all your doing! You couldn’t have her yourself, so you made sure no one else could.”

“No,” Othello insists. “it was Cassio. Cassio and Desdemona… behind my back. Iago’s the only one who’s been honest enough to tell me the truth.”

It will be her word against mine, but Othello’s so sure that “honest, honest Iago” is on his side. I can’t see this ending badly for me, no matter what happens to the General.

And then Cassio enters the room…

Black Lives Matter.

A lot of the things I write are quite light-hearted, but this one’s on a serious subject. It’s still a work of fiction, but it aims to look at where prejudice comes from and how we can combat it.

I hope this story makes you think and that we all take Miss Abebe’s words to heart.

Purple Privilege

Miss Abebe looked around her classroom, noting how the six-year-old children were working happily in small groups. Children this age were so uncomplicated – just look at Candice with her corn rows and beautiful black skin taking charge of her group and telling blond haired Tommy and redhead Archie how to do things properly! These little ones had no concept of racism: to them, ‘color’ was something to use in their artwork. They had never heard of George Floyd; had no idea that many adults in the world they lived in were too narrow minded to see the person, not just the outer skin.

Clapping her hands for attention, she made the children gather round. “We’re going to play a game,” she told them. “Do you remember what happened this morning, when I asked you all to write down your favourite color? Well, you’re going to be in two teams – the Purple team and the Green team.”

There was a buzz of excited chatter.

“Purple’s the best!” Candice told her friend Shanelle. “My lunchbox is purple and I have a purple shirt too – look!”

“I’m going to read out some names,” Miss Abebe continued, “and then I want those children to come and collect their purple sashes.”

As she handed them out, she narrated why it was so great to be in the Purple team. “Purple is a special color. It’s the color of royalty. People who do well in school are the people I choose for my special Purple team. When you wear a purple sash, you get to make important decisions and you can boss the Green team around. Purple team members are smart – they know more than the Green team kids. You can trust Purples, but you can’t trust Greens – watch out for them in the schoolyard in case they try to steal your lunch money!”

Candice sat on the mat, her lip quivering, wondering why she wasn’t allowed to be on the Purple team. Everyone always said she was the smartest girl in the class, so why wasn’t she Purple?

“And now the Green team,” Miss Abebe went on. As Candice and the remaining children collected their sashes, Miss Abebe told them about what it meant to be Green.

“Green is a negative color,” she began. “We talk about people being green with envy and say that jealousy is a ‘green eyed monster’. If someone is stupid, we say they’re ‘green’. Green team members are lazy. They didn’t work hard enough to be on the special Purple team.” Candice’s eyes widened in horror. “And they’re mean.” Some of the children let out shocked gasps. They knew that it wasn’t good to be mean. “If a Green kid tries to ask you something,” their teacher made her voice low and scary, “don’t trust him or her. And if you think a Green kid might want to hurt you, yell for help. Green kids are bullies.”

The Purple kids began to look worried, regarding their Green peers suspiciously and wondering why they hadn’t known until now that Tyrone was a bully or that Candice was lazy.

Miss Abebe smiled at everyone. “It’s time for recess. We’re going to keep our team sashes for the rest of the day. Off you go and have fun.”

Walking around the schoolyard, she watched as the Purple kids automatically grouped themselves together, confident in the knowledge that they were the special ones. The Green kids, meanwhile, stood on the edges of the yard, watching enviously as their Purple peers threw softballs or jumped rope. At one point, Candice wandered over to where Tommy and some of her other friends were having a boisterous game of tag. “Can I play?” Candice asked shyly.

Tommy and the other Purple kids looked at Candice’s green sash and shook their heads. “We don’t play with Green kids,” Whitney told her loftily.

Miss Abebe’s heart broke as Candice shuffled away, crying.

As the class streamed back in after recess, Miss Abebe made them all sit down and listen to her. “I have some sad news,” she said, her voice serious. “During recess, someone came into the classroom and took my special paperweight off my desk.” The children automatically looked at the spot where their teacher kept the pretty glass shape. “Did any of you take it?”

The room was silent.

Miss Abebe tried again. “Do any of you know who might have taken it?”

Arche’s hand shot up.

“Yes, Archie?” She made her tone gentle.

“Uh, I think someone Green took it, Miss.”

“And why do you think that, Archie?”

“Everyone knows Greens are sneaky!” Arche declared. He glanced around the room, secure in his Purple status. “I’ll bet it was Candice or Tyrone or …”

“Come here, Candice,” Miss Abebe said, her voice stern. Inside, her heart was thumping. Would the little girl ever recover from today’s lesson?

Numbed by shock, Candice stayed where she was.

“Candice!”

Slowly, Candice got to her feet. The few steps to the front of the room seemed like the longest journey in the world.

Once Candice was standing, head bowed in shame, in front of the class, Miss Abebe asked a question. “Who thinks Candice is guilty?”

Several Purple hands shot up without hesitation, but Tommy looked troubled.

“Why isn’t your hand up, Tommy?” The teacher hoped and prayed that he would do the right thing.

“I …” Tommy looked confused.

“What color is she, Tommy?”

“She’s Green, Miss Abebe.”

“And what do we know about Greens, Tommy?”

A tear trickled down Candice’s face.

Slowly, Tommy removed his purple sash and handed it to the teacher. “I don’t want to be Purple anymore,” he said in a shaky voice, “if it makes me do mean stuff to Green kids who are my friends.”

“Yeah!” Ben removed his purple sash too. “It’s dumb to treat people like that just because they’re a different color.”

“You’re right.” Miss Abebe drew a deep breath. “Who agrees with Tommy and Ben?”

Several children put their hands up; others weren’t sure.

“Archie,” Miss Abebe continued, “you said ‘Everyone knows Greens are sneaky.’ What made you say that?”

“I … uh … well, you told us, Miss.”

“And until today, would you – would any of you – have called Candice sneaky?”

The children shook their heads.

“And if I’d asked you to give me one word to describe her, what would you have said?”

“She’s kind,” someone called out. “She always lets me use her glitter markers.”

“And she’s smart,” another child added. “She knows more than anyone else in this grade.”

“She’s pretty.”

“She makes me laugh.”

“Did she stop being all those things,” Miss Abebe asked, “just because she put on a Green sash?”

The children thought for a moment.

“No,” they chorused eventually.

“But did any of you Purples talk to her at recess?” their teacher wanted to know. “Did you play with her? Did you treat her the same as yesterday?”

Most of the children looked at their shoes.

“Think what Ben said just now,” she reminded them. “He said, ‘It’s dumb to treat people like that just because they’re a different color.’ You know that now, but as you grow up, you’ll see that lots of people in the world around you do treat people differently because of color.” She turned to the board. “I’m going to write two words. The first word is ‘prejudice’. I want you to say that after me: pre-ju-dice.”

“Pre-ju-dice,” chanted the class.

“Prejudice is when we pre-judge people. That means we decide what they’re like before we know them – like me telling you that you can’t trust Greens. Your ideas of who was special and who was sneaky were based on the things I told you about those two colors – I told you purple is the color of royalty and green is the color of jealousy; but what if I’d swapped it around? What if I’d told you that purple is the color of a bruise? Would you want to be Purple then? And what if I’d said that green is the colour of grass and trees; that it symbolises life and hope – would that make you think being Green was special?”

She turned back to the board. “Our second word is ‘racism’. Say it with me: ray-si-sum.”

“Ray-si-sum,” the class repeated.

“Racism is when we pre-judge people because of the color of their skin. I look at you and you are all so special. Tyrone is the fastest runner; Candice is the smartest child in this class; Ben is really hard-working; Alyssa has a lovely smile …” One by one, she named every child in the class, narrating something positive for each one. “Right now, we all get along and it doesn’t matter that some of us, like me and Tyrone and Candice and Isaiah have black skin; and that others like Archie and Ben and Matilda and Poppy have white skin; or that Su-Lin’s skin is different again. We know that color isn’t important.

But as you grow up, you will realise that some people in the world, and especially in our country, America, don’t see things that way. They act like you did earlier when you thought Purples were special and that Greens didn’t matter. In some places, a black person can’t walk down the street without being seen as dangerous or a thief or a liar – just because he’s black. And in the same way that Archie thought Candice had taken my paperweight just because she had a green sash and ‘Everyone knows Greens are sneaky’, some people will say similar things about people like me: ‘She must have done it ‘cause she’s black and we all know you can’t trust black people.”

She let those words sink in.

“None of you here were born racist. None of you are racist right now. Racism is something that is learned – just like you ‘learned’ from me that purple was ‘special’ and that you shouldn’t trust anyone with a green sash. But you have the chance to make a difference: you can choose not to believe it when other people tell you racist things; you can choose to stand up for others and treat them with respect, no matter what color their skin is, whether or not they look like you. Our lesson today showed us how much we can hurt other people just because they’re part of a different team – well, class, we’re all on the same team: we’re all part of the human race, and that’s a team made up of different shapes and sizes and colors and backgrounds and religions and cultures – and it’s wonderful.

I want each one of you today to think about what I’ve said, and as you grow older and go out into the big, wide world, remember this day and remember that we should never treat people differently because of color.”

Once more, she looked around the room.

Twenty-four pairs of eyes looked back at her solemnly.

“Remember,” she repeated, “you can make a difference.”

Today’s offering has a dance-related theme. Those who know me will know that I am just as unco-ordinated as my storyteller – on a holiday to Thailand some years ago, I signed up for dance-based exercise classes and was so bad at them that after a few sessions, the instructor stopped turning up! (That incident inspired a chapter in one of my YA novels, ‘You Were There For Me Too’, in which the protagonist has a disastrous ‘Popmobility’ session whilst at university.)

Hopefully, none of you are quite as unco-ordinated as I am and you will enjoy ‘The Rhythm of Life’.

The Rhythm of Life

I seem to have made clumsiness an art form.

Dance was never really a part of my life. Despite growing up in the 1970s, disco passed me by. My parents were God-fearing Methodists who attended a tiny church with a congregation that barely made it into double figures and consisted mainly of old ladies in hats. Due to the advanced age of the latter, strenuous social activities were out – with the result that my weekends were spent not at dances but at Beetle drives. Even someone with my total lack of co-ordination could manage to shake a die out of a tumbler and then draw the part of the beetle’s body that corresponded to the number of spots.

But as I grew older, dance began to insinuate itself into other areas of my existence. Every year of Junior school, I dreaded the Christmas party and the obligatory four weeks of ‘dancing lessons’ beforehand. Instead of PE in the hall, we would all line up in our aertex tops and navy-blue gym knickers (I think the boys probably wore shorts) and form two parallel rows of girls and boys. The record known as ‘March of the Mods’ would be placed on the turntable, and then the teacher would direct us through the steps: “Heel, toe, heel, toe, heel, toe, heel, toe, forwards, backwards, one and two and three!” Even then, it was a struggle for me to co-ordinate the actions with the music – and this was the easiest dance!

By the time I started secondary school in 1978, the films ‘Saturday Night Fever’ and ‘Grease’ had made John Travolta a household name and the school disco became a termly ‘treat’. While everyone else swung their hips seductively or gyrated with the grace of a gazelle, I shuffled miserably from one foot to the other, completely clueless about what I was supposed to do. Was I meant to move my arms, for example? And if I did that, should it be in slow motion, as if I was swimming, or something more frenetic that suggested I had a wasp inside my clothing? I suffered through five years of this torture before sixth form started and the rest of my peers decided they’d outgrown such childish pursuits.

You might have thought I’d be able to avoid the terror that was dancing once I was an adult, but no – it turned out that weddings and birthday parties always included an obligatory turn on the dance floor. I wouldn’t have minded so much, but I’d see geriatric relatives strutting their stuff with insouciance, putting me to shame as I swayed miserably in a corner. Even my own children, traitors as they were, moved in time to the music with effortless cool, making me wonder how my own physical ineptitude had skipped a generation.

With all this in mind, you might wonder why, in my forties, I signed up for a weekly ‘Dancercise’ class. In my defence, I didn’t read the details properly: I saw there was an evening exercise class at the local community centre and thought it would be a good way of keeping fit. It was only as the class started and all the other women began to flow their way through complicated dance steps that I realised how out of my depth I was. We started off with three side steps to the right and then three to the left – something even I could manage; but then the instructor started spewing our random words I’d never heard of: “And grapevine, and double turn, and shimmy!” I watched as everyone else’s body undulated in a rhythmic ripple and tried to do the same; unfortunately, my own torso just twitched uncontrollably like a dying fly. “And gallop!” At least I could get that bit right. I galloped enthusiastically to the left, then realised that everyone else was galloping to the right. Scuttling sideways like a crab to avoid being mown down by a herd of co-ordinated, lycra-clad women, I began to wonder if I could slip out early while everyone else was concentrating on their quickstep and their jive.

Somehow, I managed to fumble my way through the rest of the session, sighing with relief when the thirty minutes of jigging about was over and we were able to concentrate on the ‘stretching’ element instead. Chatting to some of the other women as we left, I learned that they all attended ‘Modern Dance’ lessons at the centre in addition to ‘Dancercise’ – and some of them did ‘Tap and Ballet’ as well. It wasn’t surprising, then, that they knew all the steps; but I still think they had a natural rhythm that I just didn’t possess. I also knew that I was unlikely to return.

A few weeks later, I noticed an ad for ‘Zumba for Seniors’ and briefly wondered if that would be a better option – surely octogenarians with hip replacements wouldn’t gallop as quickly as the women in ‘Dancercise’. And then I remembered the grannies at the parties I’d been to and how even the ones with multiple hip and knee replacements had been able to move in time with the music, and I realised that I couldn’t even compete with people twice my age.

I’m dance illiterate – but I’ve learned to live with it.

Last year, I signed up for ‘Like The Prose’, a challenge which involved writing a story based on a given prompt every day in June. It stretched me in so many ways – not just by making me sit down and write something substantial (usually between 1-2,000 words) every day whilst teaching full time, but by making me step outside my comfort zone and attempt genres I wouldn’t normally try. I learnt about writing haibun, and I also had one challenge which involved using 1st, 2nd and 3rd person in the same piece of writing.

The first prompt for this year was delivered last night at 10pm – I’m normally asleep by then as I get up at 4.30am (!) and fall into bed around 9-9.30pm. I’m not allowed to share the exact challenge, but what I will say is that the route I decided to take involves ending lockdown (so a fresh start) as well as a literal interpretation of the phrase “the elephant in the room”. (As a side note, I googled the origin of the phrase and discovered it was first used by a Russian writer, Ivan Krylov (1769-1844), in a fable entitled ‘The Inquisitive Man’ – Krylov was a fascinating character who wrote many fables – look him up on Wikipedia.)

My offering is below:

Polite Conversation

Sidney was the only one who could see the elephant in the room.

All around him, people sipped wine or nibbled hors d’oeuvres, grateful for their first opportunity to mingle in a social gathering (whilst retaining a 2 metres distance from anyone else of course). Conversation ranged from the usual banalities concerning the weather (“So hot … Marvellous for the strawberries … Could do with a bit of rain now, though”), family life (“Of course, the kids are completely feral by now after missing so much school – every day, I feel us getting closer and closer to a ‘Lord of the Flies’ scenario in which they start hunting me or their mother and then sacrifice us to the God of the PS4”) and those snippets of personal information that really shouldn’t be shared anywhere (“Took me ages to find my bra this morning – it’s the first time I’ve worn one in months!”). In fact, everything was being discussed apart from the very obvious elephant that was standing by the food table and surreptitiously hoovering up all the crab cakes.

“Have you seen that elephant over there?” he asked a Yummy Mummy who was obviously relishing the opportunity to escape the house now that Portia and Tarquin were back in school.

“Don’t be silly,” she replied, tossing her head so that her immaculately straightened, highlighted locks bounced engagingly. “What would an elephant be doing at an event like this? It’s not the London Zoo!”

For a couple of minutes, Sidney observed the other guests. No one was taking the slightest bit of notice of the apparently uninvited guest. He felt a sudden affinity with the creature: after all, wasn’t this how he, Sidney, felt at most of the parties he went to? He seemed to have spent a lifetime of standing on his own in a corner, desperately wishing that someone would talk to him.

“Why’s everyone ignoring you?” Sidney asked as he wandered across to the food table to investigate a dip in a suspicious shade of yellow.

The elephant regarded him pityingly.

“I’m not a real elephant, you know,” it said gently.

“Oh?” said Sidney.

“For one thing,” explained the elephant, “I’m pink; but the real reason is because I’m a metaphor.”

“I see,” said Sidney – although he didn’t. He searched his mind frantically, trying to remember what a metaphor was.

“Although,” the elephant sounded thoughtful, “I suppose you could say I’m really more of an idiomatic phrase.”

Sidney was none the wiser.

“When people talk about ‘the elephant in the room’,” the pachyderm continued, “they normally mean something that’s obvious but remains untalked about – usually because social etiquette demands that we don’t mention anything embarrassing, controversial, inflammatory or dangerous.”

“So what are you a symbol of, then?” Sidney wanted to know.

The elephant lowered his voice confidentially. “Have you noticed,” he murmured, “how much wine people are drinking?”

“It’s a party,” Sidney said, puzzled. “An official End of Lockdown Party, to be precise.”

“Yes,” agreed the elephant, “but don’t you think everyone’s knocking back a lot more booze than they used to? Let’s face it: pubs and restaurants have been closed for months; people have been confined to barracks, as it were, for just as long; all social activities have had to cease – what else has there been for people to do?”

“Lots of people have taken up new hobbies,” Sidney suggested.

The elephant snorted derisively. “For most of them,” it said darkly, “that involves studying the effects of alcohol at 9 am.”

“I think you’re being a bit unfair,” Sidney protested.

“Look at it this way,” the elephant continued. “If you were stuck at home with your children all day, every day, day in, day out – without being able to take them to Soft Play or let them go paintballing or go-karting, don’t you think you’d find yourself reaching for a bottle a lot more frequently – just to take the edge off?”

Sidney had to admit that the elephant was right.

“And that’s why I’m here now,” the creature said with a sigh. “Every single one of them has probably consumed more alcohol in the past three months than they did in the previous three years – but is anyone going to admit that? Of course not! It’s like the way people lie on their CVs and claim to have a First in Classics from Oxford when really all they got was a Third in Parks and Recreation from Huddersfield University. Or the way that parents try to outdo each other when they boast about little Jonquil walking at seven months or painting the Sistine Chapel when she was still in her pram – and then you look at the child when she’s in the park one day and realise she’s the one eating bogies and running into trees like a complete lunatic.”

“Okay,” Sidney shrugged, “so we’re all a bit economical with the truth from time to time – but I don’t see why that should cause an imaginary elephant to appear at a party.”

“Haven’t you wondered,” mused the elephant, “why you can see me but no one else can?”

Sidney took a few minutes to contemplate this question and had to admit he was stumped.

“The answer,” said the elephant impressively, “is that you’re the only one who’s being honest. They could all see me if they wanted to – but then they’d have to admit they’re a bunch of shallow dipsomaniacs who have a rather volatile relationship with the truth. You, on the other hand, are just as shallow and just as much of an alcoholic – but at least you’re up front about it.”

“Thanks,” said Sidney, trying to work out whether or not this was a compliment.

“Anyway,” the elephant said, demolishing the last of the sausages on sticks and turning its nose up at the coleslaw, “I suppose I’d better go.”

And with that, he disappeared in a puff of green smoke.

“Did nobody see that elephant?” Sidney appealed to the room in general. Despite what the creature had told him, he felt sure that there must be another person in the room who would confess to having seen it.

His question was met with averted eyes and silence.

Sidney sighed and helped himself to another glass of wine, wondering if anyone would talk to him at all now he’d said that. He looked at his watch. Perhaps it was time for him to leave too.

“Mad as a box of frogs, that one,” he heard someone say as he headed for the door, “-only we don’t like to talk about it.”

This is my final poem for NaPoWriMo 2020 and was written on the correct day (April 30th) although is a little late in being posted, due to working from home, having the ideas for a couple of short stories (one fairy tale and one sci-fi) and spending time with my family. The prompt for the 30th was “to write a poem about something that returns” – looking at the prompt again this morning, I find myself wondering why I didn’t write about a birthday or Christmas, but hopefully some people will identify with what I’ve written.

And so, for the last time this NaPoWriMo, I give you my humble offering:

Lost and Found

Years ago, I saw a well-known poster –

“If you love something, set it free –

if it is yours, it will come back to you;

if it doesn’t return, it was never yours in the first place.”

Odd how the things that always come back to us

are the things we could quite happily live without:

zits and cellulite and discarded boyfriends

pop up on a regular basis

without invitation.

I keep setting my spare tyre free –

and then it finds me tirelessly,

over and over again.

perhaps we never really ‘lose weight’ –

we just misplace it for a week or two,

until ice-cream and cookies helpfully

bring it back.

This is my penultimate NaPoWriMo post. It’s the first year I’ve done this challenge – and challenge is the right word: I’ve had to step outside my comfort zone on more than one occasion to produce a poem on the chosen topic or in the chosen style. However, I’ve also learned a lot – I now know what a triolet is, for example. Today’s challenge asked me to write about the family pet – we don’t have any pets, but we do have pet substitutes in the form of stuffed toys that have been around for so long (my youngest child is now 16) that they’ve developed their own personalities and tend to join in conversations or get up to all sorts of things when nobody’s looking. So, in the absence of an animate furball, this is my

Ode to a Stuffed Lion

Large, furry hips but a

squishable, squashable shape,

he rules the roost: the Alpha-male in a

house full of humans.

By day, he dreams of

scampering across the

Serengeti,

in search of elusive wildebeest –

but then everything’s a wildebeest

in Jeffrey’s eyes.

Early morning sees him

sitting at the breakfast table,

not wanting to miss out

on anything;

whereas after the evening’s

repast, you’ll find him

sitting on the sofa, wedged between his

parents in the ultimate

viewing position.

He has a tartan tie for special

occasions and a

nightcap to wear to bed.

He’s less trouble than a cat and

he doesn’t trigger my allergies.

All in all, he’s a bit of

a superstar.

Today’s prompt started with a piece of writing from the Emily Dickinson museum and then an exhortation to “Describe a bedroom from your past in a series of descriptive paragraphs or a poem. It could be your childhood room, your grandmother’s room, a college dormitory or another significant space from your life.“

A few years ago, I researched Emily Dickinson when I was teaching one of her poems in the WJEC Poetry Anthology for English Literature and then wrote a short story which was an imaginative response to her life. It was a project I really enjoyed and I learned a lot of fascinating facts about the woman who is now one of America’s most well loved poets. Since I’d already written a creative piece from Emily’s perspective, including descriptive passages about the place where she lived and her bedroom, I decided to write a poem for today’s prompt (after all, we’re in NaPoWriMo months, not NaPa(ragraph)WriMo), and I based it on the first bedroom I can remember sleeping in as a child.

My earliest memories

are of the room I shared with my brother:

‘Irish twins’, born at

each end of the same year,

he was my partner-in-crime

just as I was his.

*

In the front bedroom of

the tiny terraced house,

we would lie awake for hours

at night – he in his

bed and I in mine –

telling each other stories,

thinking up new

mischief.

*

If you asked me now to describe

the room, all I can tell you

is that his bed was in one

corner and mine in the

other.

Whether or not we had any furniture,

I couldn’t say:

all I know is that for the seven

years we shared a room, he was

the first person I spoke to every

morning

and the last person at night.

*

I remember Christmas morning as a four year old and

tearing up my new ‘Twinkle’ annual to make

pretend bus tickets – he had

a bus conductor’s outfit at the end of

his bed.

I remember playing with matches,

lighting one and letting it burn right down

to my finger tip as I lay under the

blankets.

I remember his ridiculous nightmare about a

wolf putting milk in his ear –

but the room itself escapes me. It wasn’t the room

that was important back then,

but the brother who shared it with me

and the childhood memories that we

built.

Today’s task was to write a review of something that wouldn’t normally be reviewed. Although I was tempted to write about my husband, I settled for my bath.

The Best Bath in Birmingham

A review of my bath – let’s start with the setting:

An intimate venue, not forgetting

The candles in holders of coloured glass –

Red, blue and green – a touch of class.

And the heady aroma of jasmine and pine!

(An interesting mix- the choice wasn’t mine.)

The bubbles are foamy in all the right places;

And next to the windowsill, where the space is,

A glass of champagne stands fizzing for me.

(All right – so I lied: it’s a mug of hot tea.)

I lie back and soak in this heavenly tub –

I’d rather be here than out at the pub.

But sadly, alas! all things come to an end,

So I pull out the plug, bid farewell to my friend.

My overall rating must be ten out of ten –

I liked it so much that I’ll have one again!

Today’s prompt was to answer a string of questions and then build a poem out of them. Several years ago, I lived in Portchester, a village about eight miles away from Portsmouth (on the south coast of England), which used to have an annual gala in the grounds of Portchester Castle. Since the third or fourth question asked me to write down the name of a local festival, I based the poem around the Portchester Gala and incorporated the rest of the questions too.

The sultry summer weather

has caused flowers to blossom and fruit to ripen

around the soft grey stone of the ruined castle.

The people attending the annual village festival

throng the grassy grounds – dogs running

and barking, enjoying the festivities

as much as their owners.

When I was younger,

I longed to take a turn on the big roundabout,

spinning around in a blur of colour and noise –

but it cost too much money.

I dreamed of finding coins on the street,

or something precious I could sell –

like diamonds or saffron.

In the present, the crowd thickens. Someone

has scrawled in chalk on a nearby wall,

‘The fair’s a rip off!’

Nevertheless, I stroll with my

husband, fingers intertwined,

ignoring the conspiracy to

fleece us of our money.

In the heat of the sun, my teeshirt

sticks to my skin

and I’m reminded of school sports day

in the town where I grew up.

(I think a famous local cricketer, Sir Gary Sobers

may have turned up to present the prizes.)

This place is different: this morning, outside my

window, I found a small spiral shell –

we are only a short distance from the sea.

The coronavirus death toll is still

an unknown event in a future far off.

Perhaps one day in years to come, my older self

will read the letter I’m writing now and be

reminded that “the 2006 Gala was the best one yet.”

For now, though, the thought of a pandemic virus is as

unlikely as a unicorn, or as meeting the

Gruffalo in my local supermarket.

The sun still beats down as I walk down an

alley between tents and find a small child sobbing

because he has lost his mother.

I stroll with him to the border of the castle grounds

and hear the sound of carefree revellers.

For a moment, I am afraid that his mother

has abandoned him; and then I see

her pinched white face, her lips mouthing his

name. Her face when I present her with him

belongs on a picture postcard.