Pettigrew
11-10-13, 06:03 AM
Prologue
It was a sunny day. It was market day. It was a performance day. Despite all of that, Pettigrew Jones was anything but happy.
“You did what?” he bellowed. He rested his hands on hips.
The playhouse fell deathly silent. Four pairs of guilty eyes turned to the troupe leader. Pettigrew, in turn, stared at his player. He had not felt disappointment in a long time.
“Make a day of it, y’said, Pete,” the accused protested. With pleading, eight year old wiles, he tried to squirm and worm his way out of his impending punishment.
“By that I meant buy an apple turnover. By that, I meant go for a stroll. I meant do anything accept pick a military man’s pockets!”
In Gust’s defence, he had not known the man was a soldier. How could he? In the bustling crowd, as Pettigrew once did, he lashed out at opportunity as it walked obliviously by. Sometimes, however, a street runner had to pay the price for his unruly way of life. If he did not, then the entire troupe would fall into disrepute. Pettigrew had worked too hard to climb out of the Tantalum limelight for that.
“I don’t pikin’ like turnover,” he grumbled. He flopped his hands to his sides, deflated. He resigned himself to his fate, even though it likely involved ‘apologisin’’.
“Take it back,” Pettigrew said. He cut to the chase to save the boy any more embarrassment than was necessary. The day was already half gone, and he did not wish to spend any more of it being a tyrant.
Gust blinked. He rubbed the half-dried tears from his eyes. He tried to reconcile bad Pete with good Pete, and ended up more confused than ever.
“How am I s’pose to find ‘im?” he retorted, finally free of his self-doubt.
Pettigrew smirked. He gestured to the wider audience, and to the poky antechamber, they stood nervously in. The Arboretum, as named, had taken on the namesake of late. Everywhere you turned, houseplants lined shelves and mantles, giving the mustard colour and ageing wood an olive backdrop.
“He’s ‘ere?” Gust muttered. He looked around the room nervous, which drew taunting chuckles from the others.
“No, you oath. We found him for you, a few hours ago.” Pettigrew produced a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket. He held it at arm’s length, and Gust took it gingerly.
“Wossis’?” he clucked, unfolding it with trepidation.
“Lisa did some enquiring into the man’s whereabouts. Salvar-born stick out in Scara Brae’s summer cheer like a sore thumb. You can find him bedded there, and there you will do the right thing.” Pettigrew’s tone turned fatherly. Beneath its weight, Gust had no choice but to nod. “Good, now get out of here before I make you wash the dishes.”
That was all the incentive Gust needed. With a patter patter, and a high five on the down low to his closest friend at the door, he departed.
“The rest of you have the afternoon to yourselves. I expect you all to spend some of that time in the sun, and some of that time on the stage rehearsing for this evening’s performance.” The remaining occupants of the room knew Pettigrew enough to draw additional meaning from his order. He also said leave, get out of my sight, and let that be a lesson to you without needing to.
The room emptied quickly, leaving the troupe master to his thoughts. He turned full circle, flicked his black fringe from his eyes, and sighed. Though the Arboretum was now finished, the interior just right, there was much to do before The Fugitive Players became a name to be excited about in Scara Brae.
It was a sunny day. It was market day. It was a performance day. Despite all of that, Pettigrew Jones was anything but happy.
“You did what?” he bellowed. He rested his hands on hips.
The playhouse fell deathly silent. Four pairs of guilty eyes turned to the troupe leader. Pettigrew, in turn, stared at his player. He had not felt disappointment in a long time.
“Make a day of it, y’said, Pete,” the accused protested. With pleading, eight year old wiles, he tried to squirm and worm his way out of his impending punishment.
“By that I meant buy an apple turnover. By that, I meant go for a stroll. I meant do anything accept pick a military man’s pockets!”
In Gust’s defence, he had not known the man was a soldier. How could he? In the bustling crowd, as Pettigrew once did, he lashed out at opportunity as it walked obliviously by. Sometimes, however, a street runner had to pay the price for his unruly way of life. If he did not, then the entire troupe would fall into disrepute. Pettigrew had worked too hard to climb out of the Tantalum limelight for that.
“I don’t pikin’ like turnover,” he grumbled. He flopped his hands to his sides, deflated. He resigned himself to his fate, even though it likely involved ‘apologisin’’.
“Take it back,” Pettigrew said. He cut to the chase to save the boy any more embarrassment than was necessary. The day was already half gone, and he did not wish to spend any more of it being a tyrant.
Gust blinked. He rubbed the half-dried tears from his eyes. He tried to reconcile bad Pete with good Pete, and ended up more confused than ever.
“How am I s’pose to find ‘im?” he retorted, finally free of his self-doubt.
Pettigrew smirked. He gestured to the wider audience, and to the poky antechamber, they stood nervously in. The Arboretum, as named, had taken on the namesake of late. Everywhere you turned, houseplants lined shelves and mantles, giving the mustard colour and ageing wood an olive backdrop.
“He’s ‘ere?” Gust muttered. He looked around the room nervous, which drew taunting chuckles from the others.
“No, you oath. We found him for you, a few hours ago.” Pettigrew produced a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket. He held it at arm’s length, and Gust took it gingerly.
“Wossis’?” he clucked, unfolding it with trepidation.
“Lisa did some enquiring into the man’s whereabouts. Salvar-born stick out in Scara Brae’s summer cheer like a sore thumb. You can find him bedded there, and there you will do the right thing.” Pettigrew’s tone turned fatherly. Beneath its weight, Gust had no choice but to nod. “Good, now get out of here before I make you wash the dishes.”
That was all the incentive Gust needed. With a patter patter, and a high five on the down low to his closest friend at the door, he departed.
“The rest of you have the afternoon to yourselves. I expect you all to spend some of that time in the sun, and some of that time on the stage rehearsing for this evening’s performance.” The remaining occupants of the room knew Pettigrew enough to draw additional meaning from his order. He also said leave, get out of my sight, and let that be a lesson to you without needing to.
The room emptied quickly, leaving the troupe master to his thoughts. He turned full circle, flicked his black fringe from his eyes, and sighed. Though the Arboretum was now finished, the interior just right, there was much to do before The Fugitive Players became a name to be excited about in Scara Brae.