Doctor Who_ Last of the Gaderene - Mark Gatiss [9]
It must only have taken an hour or two but, by the time Snow White and her handsome prince were married, Max Bishop’s life was transformed. He was going to go on the stage.
His brother Ted, by contrast, had never really wanted much except to take over the post office business from their parents. He hadn’t much time for socialising or courting, preferring to spend time with his books rather than attend the village dances where he might meet a likely girl. Max had always despaired of him. Even in their dressing-up games, when Max had been the ruler of some foreign land, complete with home-made turban and harem of wives, Ted had been content to play a palace guard or a eunuch.
As time went by, the brothers had grown apart. Max was going to go to drama school, everyone in Culverton knew it.
Ted, of course, would take on the business when their parents passed away.
But things hadn’t quite worked out as expected. Ted had been the one who had married. A lovely woman, but carried off in childbirth like someone from a Victorian novel. It had fallen to Max to take on the post office because Ted, he told everyone, simply wasn’t up to it, being so grief-stricken and all. As the years passed, Max insisted upon staying on. His brother was a good man, a decent man, but business was never his forte. Max owed it to their parents’ memory to keep the business afloat. So, he had martyred himself on the altar of duty, slipped into his niche on the opposite side of the counter and scaled down his dreams to an annual production of Annie Get Your Gun.
What a trial his life was! As if the daily grind of pension books and postal orders was not enough he had to deal with Ted’s reckless son, always shirking his duties and getting into scrapes. Well, the busiest period of the year, barring Christmas, was almost on them and young Noah would have to do his bit now.
It was early in the morning and Max Bishop glanced at his wristwatch. He had convened a meeting in the church hall to take everyone through the final details of the summer fête which – yet again – he had burdened himself with organising.
This year, however, he’d taken great pains to tell everyone that it really was someone else’s turn and, no, nothing could persuade him to change his mind. The villagers, of course, said it couldn’t be done without him and had sent the new vicar, Mr Darnell, to plead with him personally. After a great show of reluctance (which reminded him rather nicely of that wonderful scene where Richard Ill refuses the crown), Max had agreed.
Now, with a fluting sigh, he ran his hand through his thinning grey hair and pushed his spectacles up his nose.
Mound the table were five empty chairs. Only Miss Plowman, a tiny, bird-like woman with round grey eyes which seemed to sit on either side of her nose like pince-nez, had turned up on time.
‘Really,’ opined Max, rolling his eyes. ‘They begged me to look after this blessed fête. The least they could do is turn up.’
He turned to the little woman at his side. ‘Who’re we missing?’ he asked sharply.
Miss Plowman turned a few pages on her spiral-bound notebook. ‘Erm... Miss Arbus. Your nephew...’
Max grunted.
‘Mr Packer...’
‘Well, he’s never on time, anyway...’
‘Wing Commander Whistler...’
Max shrugged. ‘Probably cleaning that aeroplane of his.’
‘And Mrs Garrick.’ She closed her pad. ‘Funny. I saw Jean last night. She said she was coming in early to do the flowers on the altar.’
Max wearily rubbed his eyes behind the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘You haven’t seen her?’
Miss Plowman shook her delicate little head.
Max sighed and smoothed down the front of his seersucker shirt. A long morning of sack-race registrations, tombola prizes and hoopla stretched ahead. It would be a relief when those new people from the aerodrome turned up for their meeting. At least he wouldn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders.
He looked about the room and threw up his hands theatrically.