Taskmaster of the Bazaar - 'I will need a child.'
MR TASKS: Salutatings, good eventide, and welcome once more to Taskmaster of the Bazaar. We are the Taskmaster, and we have summonvited five of London’s celebrated personagalities and set them a series of illudifying tasks to determine their worthinence to raise aloft a golden repliduction of our head. But who are these contenditors, you ask? Let us introduce: Beatrice Ancona!
FURNACE: (opens the hatch of her helmet, waves to the audience, then closes it again)
MR TASKS: Ferret!
FERRET: (waves shyly)
MR TASKS: Lyme!
LYME: (raises one large hand, lowers and then raises each finger in turn, and then returns it to his lap)
MR TASKS: Miriam Plenty!
MRS PLENTY: (gestures for applause with the ease of an experienced showwoman)
MR TASKS: And the Right Reverend Reginald Birtwhistle, the Bishop of Southwark!
SOUTHWARK: (nods sternly at the audience)
MR TASKS: But we are not superseeing these games alone. Aiding us, as she has since London was retranslocated to the Neath, is our delightfully devoted Assistant, the Efficient Commissioner! What do you have for us, Underkhan Griz?
GRIZ: I have a riddle for you, Mr Tasks.
MR TASKS: A riddle! How provoculating.
GRIZ: I take from five and give to one, if beat the others they have done, and so save Mr Tasks a sum. What am I?
MR TASKS: Are you the prize task?
GRIZ: Yes, I am.
MR TASKS: Did you composeate that riddle because you knew you’d have to introduce the prize task and wanted your role to be more entergaging?
GRIZ: I might have.
MR TASKS: (stares, unreadable)
GRIZ: …would you like a boiled sweet?
MR TASKS: That’s right - the first task of our compionship is the prize task, in which the contestants bring in offerlations to be judged by us, and our winner will take home all five prizes. What theme have we set for them this time?
GRIZ: Tonight, they’ve brought in the things that most give them confidence in dark times.
MR TASKS: Beatrice, what have you brought to lift our spiritessences?
FURNACE: Actually, I want to get one thing straight first. My name is Furnace, all right? Furnace.
MR TASKS: We have not arbitrudicated a census for quite some years - not since that business-
GRIZ: That business that doesn’t need to be discussed.
MR TASKS: That business, yes - but we believe your name is formally rechronicled as ‘Beatrice’.
FURNACE: I changed it. People change their names. You’re not telling me you’ve always gone by the names you’re using now?
(Mr Tasks and the Commissioner share a glance.)
GRIZ: Furnace it is.
MRS PLENTY: Should we move seats?
FERRET: Oh, are we sat in alphabetical order? I don’t mind budging. F-E… F-U... you swap with me; that’ll sort it.
(Furnace and Ferret swap places.)
GRIZ: In that case, I suppose Ferret should go first.
FERRET: Oh, me, is it? Well, what gives me confidence when things are getting on top of me is this.
(On the stage: A very old, worn and rusty rat trap.)
FERRET: Years ago, when times were very hard, rat-catching was the only legitimate means I had of putting bread on the table and tea in the pot. Only, then, I realised that catching rats in traps like this was a rotten thing to do - London’s rats being of a talkative and generally friendly disposition - so I gave it up.
(The others listen, faces displaying a range of emotions.)
FERRET: Things turned out all right for me, so a trap like this reminds me that, if I could survive having to start over with nothing but my wits and my friends once, I could probably do it again, if that’s what it took to do the right thing.
(Furnace puts an encouraging hand on Ferret’s shoulder, while Mrs Plenty discreetly wipes a tear from her eye and the Bishop nods firmly.)
LYME: That is a nice story. I liked it.
MR TASKS: Most touching. Furnace, what buoylsters you in dark times?
FURNACE: My prize is - a lamp-cat.
(On the stage: a lamp-cat, asleep on a cushion. Its fronds sway and its lure bobs up and down with each breath.)
MR TASKS: Is this your pet?
FURNACE: Some of my… friends among the tracklayers have talked about what they’ll do when darkness comes, and they believe that lamp-cats will be useful for seeing without conventional sources of light.
SOUTHWARK: What, we’d all work by cat-light?
MRS PLENTY: Wouldn’t be bad if cats could start earnin’ their keep by helpin’ us go to the loo in the middle of the night!
MR TASKS: Rest assuruaged that this will be unnecessential; the lights still stay on for precisely as long as they are needed. Continue to purchcure candles and lamp-oil from approved merchants. All shall be well. Lyme, I hope you have provided something less seditincendary?
LYME: For my prize, I have brought a potted mushroom.
(On the stage: a small mushroom growing in a terracotta pot.)
MR TASKS: This is going to take some explainustrating if it wants points.
LYME: Once, I was part of the undifferentiated clay of Polythreme. Then, in the dreaming of the city, I became a person. I was brought to London to work, and here I met many interesting people and saw many wonderful things. This mushroom reminds me of the life that has emerged from the soil and the things it has achieved.
MR TASKS: An exempleccent tale. Well done. Miriam, can you outsurpass Lyme’s mushroom?
MRS PLENTY: I bloomin’ well ‘ope so. When I’m feelin’ down, I find what best perks me up is readin’ a bit of poetry.
(On the stage: a volume of the collected verse of Mrs Frontispiece.)
MR TASKS: Are you flirting with us? How very delecticious. (It leans closer.) Tell us - you employ many acrotumblers. How do you feel about suspendangling upside-down?
(Griz’s eyebrows shoot up and she blushes hotly.)
MRS PLENTY: At my age? Leave it out! The cheek of it!
MR TASKS: Disappointsfying. As you might say, don’t purchcure the ticket if you can’t ride the carousel.
(Griz covers her mouth with her clipboard.)
MR TASKS: Bishop, we hope your prize will not let us down so.
SOUTHWARK: In troubled times, I find it helps to have the Good Book to hand.
(On the stage: a large Bible, held up by a stagehand.)
FERRET: Aw, that’s nice.
MRS PLENTY: Bit predictable, though.
FERRET: A bit, yeah. What translation is it?
SOUTHWARK: Extremely Emphatic Edition. (He points to the stage, where the stagehand has opened the Bible, revealing a hollow interior containing a sturdy cudgel.)
MRS PLENTY: Lawks, that’s a big’n.
SOUTHWARK: Preach loudly and carry a big stick - that's the way to do it!
MR TASKS: I am ready to judgitrate our contestants’ submissordinations.
GRIZ: Who’s taking one point?
MR TASKS: There are no circumstantuations in which we would wish to open a book and find anything other than pages.
(The Bishop shoots to his feet in a grappling stance, but Mrs Plenty guides him back to his seat.)
MR TASKS: Two points for the treasonable feline.
(Furnace leans back in her chair, arms folded, looking disappointed but not surprised.)
MR TASKS: We found the submission of poetry teaseant, but not definambiguously sincere - we grant it three points.
MRS PLENTY: (shrugs) It was worth tryin’.
MR TASKS: The story of the mushroom was a sweeticious little morsel - four points.
LYME: Thank you.
MR TASKS: And the five points go to Ferret’s prize, and the importificant reminder that it serves - that you can always make do with less, so don’t anticipect more.
(Ferret looks at once gratified and confused as the audience applauds.)
MR TASKS: Of course, we did not invite our contestants here just to see them giving each other prizes.
GRIZ: Of course.
MR TASKS: That would be a enormendous waste of our invenditure. No, our five guests spent some weeks sequoistered at the Taskmaster Manor, recording a series of instructinating and exempucative tasks to be captured by our film crew. Underkhan Griz, you were in attendance to supersee their attempts; do you have a task to show us?
GRIZ: No, I don’t. Or perhaps I do? The question merits some discussion!
(Amid mixed groans of realisation, a flickering image appears on the screen: the Taskmaster Manor’s parlour, decorated with illustrations of scenes from major works of classic and modern literature. At its centre, a painting of the Taskmaster by a noted Bazaarine portraitist, depicted amidst its towering collection of ink-pots. Mrs Plenty enters and looks about.)
MRS PLENTY: Wot cher. Ain’t half cluttered in here, is it?
(Elsewhen, Lyme enters the parlour, stooping to fit through the door.)
LYME: They told me I should come in here for the next task. I’m here now.
GRIZ: Yes, that’s correct. Well done.
(In her own recording, Furnace drops her helmet dramatically on the table and leans on it, regarding the selection of printed cards laid face-down before her.)
FURNACE: Let me guess - these are all the businesses you hold shares in?
GRIZ: Not quite.
(Southwark picks up the task and pulls it open, the wax seal tearing free and landing somewhere across the room.)
SOUTHWARK: ‘Select one of these cards for use in the second part of this task. You must use the first card you touch. You have thirty seconds.’
LYME: They appear to be all the same. (he picks up one from the middle)
FURNACE: (picks up the card closest to her) No way of knowing; no point in waiting.
FERRET: (trails their hand above the cards for several seconds) Er… this one.
MRS PLENTY: Pass me that one closest to you, will yer? Cheers.
SOUTHWARK: (brings his hand down hard on the corner of the table, causing several cards to leap into the air; one bounces off his wrist)
GRIZ: Why did you punch the table?
SOUTHWARK: Thought some of them might flip over so I could read them first.
GRIZ: Well, you can read it if you want to, but you did touch that one.
SOUTHWARK: No, it touched me! …fine. (he picks it up and peers at it) ‘Rattus faber should be required to wear trousers.’ Damn fool thing to write. What do I do now?
LYME: ‘Cheese is made of spiders.’ Is that true?
FERRET: ‘Additional taxes should be levied on whistling and humming.’ Hmm. Alright - what’s the second part?
GRIZ: Will you follow me to the drawing room, please?
(Their shoes tip-tap down the tiled corridor to the drawing room door, where Griz produces a second task.)
SOUTHWARK: ‘Convince…’ oh, God.
FURNACE: Really? Really?
FERRET: ‘Convince this former mayor to support the position printed on your card. Fastest wins. Your time starts now.’
(Griz opens the door. In the drawing room sits the Jovial Contrarian, smiling pleasantly.)
SOUTHWARK: (emits a low growling noise as the card is mangled between his fingers)
(In the studio, Mr Tasks turns to the Commissioner.)
MR TASKS: It seems they weren’t entirely enthusodic about this task.
FURNACE: You knew exactly what you were doing.
SOUTHWARK: I had enough of debating that rascal when I ran against him!
MRS PLENTY: I only ran ‘cause I knew he wasn’t standin’ again! (she flushes) Oh, that sounds a bit rude, sorry - for mayor, I mean.
MR TASKS: Shall we see how they got on with this simple, unchallengesome task?
GRIZ: First, let’s see a lime kiln. No, my mistake - let’s see Lyme and Furnace!
(Mr Tasks groans as the film projection begins. On the screen, we see Furnace reading from her card.)
FURNACE: ‘Control of transportation should be assumed by the Admiralty.’
THE CONTRARIAN: I couldn’t disagree more. That gaggle of calcified reactionaries shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near London’s transport infrastructure.
FURNACE: The bulk of it is already in reactionary hands - the hands of ten thousand bourgeois cab owners, ship owners, directors, shareholders and rent seekers unspecified.
THE CONTRARIAN: Who are, at least, divided against each other, competing for their share of the market - of passengers, of cargo, of charters. It would be ruinous for all that power and wealth to be held by a single group, without competition.
FURNACE: Despite that division, though, they’re remarkably loyal to their class - competition doesn’t drive them to act against their class interests.
(Lyme stands statue-still, deep in thought. The Contrarian watches him, head to one side, like a terrier perched at a rat-hole. Finally, with a lurch like a floating island breaching the surface, Lyme begins to promulgate.)
LYME: Cheese is traditionally made of milk. However, if we observed that cheese had the properties of things that are known to be made of spiders (such as spider-councils, spider symposia and spider-chutney), or if close examination of cheese revealed the presence of components also found in spiders (such as chitin, chelicerae or spinnerets), or if cheese began adopting the characteristic appearance or behaviour of spiders (walking on eight legs, creating webs, feeding on smaller arthropods), we might surmise that one possible explanation is that cheese is made of spiders.
(The Jovial Contrarian steeples his fingers and sits for some time, considering this from all angles.)
THE CONTRARIAN: Ye-es… yes, that seems reasonable.
(Lyme turns silently to Griz, who clicks the lever of her watch.)
GRIZ: I’ve stopped the clock.
(Furnace has sat down on an ottoman beside the Contrarian’s chair and is animatedly tracing groupings and divisions on her open palm.)
FURNACE: Even if zee-traffic can’t be contained, the cabs and the railroads can be brought under public control, achieving greater economies while eliminating the profit motive.
THE CONTRARIAN: So you propose we have the Admiralty control everything except ships?
FURNACE: Any public organisation, really. You’ll acknowledge that there’s precedent for the transfer of control of public services between different offices - between the Ministries and the City, say?
THE CONTRARIAN: (leans back in his chair, suppressing a smile) Well played. And I suppose that public body might also choose to grant administrative powers to relevant workers’ organisations?
FURNACE: (with mock surprise) I never even considered that.
THE CONTRARIAN: The transfer might not be so successful as one hoped, alas, but you make some good points. (he shakes her by the hand)
(In the studio, Furnace is leaning back in her chair, arms crossed. Her helmet is closed, but gives the strong impression that it conceals a very smug smile.)
MR TASKS: I imagecture you’re feeling pretty pleased with yourself after that.
(Furnace shrugs, apparently happy to let her attempt speak for itself.)
GRIZ: Furnace earned that handshake after nine minutes and four seconds of debate.
MR TASKS: Lyme presenstrated a very strong case to the former mayor as well, and it looked like he completed the task quite quickly.
GRIZ: It looked like he did, but he didn’t - he thought about it for a long time before he began. In the end, he convinced the former mayor in twelve minutes and twenty-eight seconds.
MRS PLENTY: He spent twelve minutes just thinking?
LYME: I thought it more efficient to come up with a plan than to commit to an idea that might not succeed.
MRS PLENTY: I never planned anythin’ - I just went with the first thing that came into my ‘ead.
SOUTHWARK: Oh, yes? How’d that work out for you?
GRIZ: Let’s see how it worked out - up next is Mrs Plenty’s attempt.
(On the screen, Mrs Plenty squints at her card.)
MRS PLENTY: ‘Cats should never be allowed to vote.’
THE CONTRARIAN: On the contrary, I can see a dozen reasons for cats to be permitted - nay, required - to vote. Why, if anything, humans should be forbidden from voting and the franchise handed over entirely to cats!
(Mrs Plenty holds her card up to Griz, who nods and stops the timer. She turns it around so the camera can focus on it, revealing the text ‘CATS SHOULD VOTE’.)
MR TASKS: Ve-ry clevelligent. You turned his own contrarianism against him.
FERRET: Is that allowed?
SOUTHWARK: That’s cheating, surely!
MR TASKS: Ah-ah - we shall be the judge of that! Her attempt was uttirely within the rules of the task, and shall be rewarded accordantly. What was her time?
GRIZ: It was just under the time it takes for a rubbery lump to go from freshly-cooked to inedible - fifty-four seconds!
MRS PLENTY: Oi! Cheeky. (She looks nonetheless pleased.)
MR TASKS: I can’t imagualise that our remaining two will be able to beat that, but perhaps they’ll surprise me.
GRIZ: Perhaps they will, but not in the way you’re expecting - though if you were expecting a surprise, would it still be a-
MR TASKS: Get on with it.
GRIZ: Here’s Ferret and the Bishop of Southwark!
(On the screen, Ferret stands awkwardly beside the Contrarian.)
FERRET: Additional taxes should be levied on, er… (they check the card) …whistling and humming.
THE CONTRARIAN: Ghastly idea. An unwarrantable burden to place upon the poor.
FERRET: I suppose the funds raised could be used to help, er, widows? And orphans?
THE CONTRARIAN: One hopes they don’t plan to celebrate their windfall with a spot of whistling.
FERRET: Yeah, it’s probably a bad idea, isn’t it?
THE CONTRARIAN: Probably.
GRIZ: Do you want me to stop the clock?
FERRET: I think that’s for the best.
(The Bishop is patting his pockets)
SOUTHWARK: Where did I put that blasted thing… ah, here it is. ‘Rattus faber should be required to wear trousers.’
THE CONTRARIAN: Preposterous. Which legs would they even wear them on?
SOUTHWARK: (turning bright red) The back ones, obviously! It’s a perfectly sensible idea!
THE CONTRARIAN: And what about the lady rats? Are they to be forbidden from wearing dresses?
SOUTHWARK: (moustaches bristling like two aggravated hounds) Lady rats don’t have to wear dresses! It’s not the same!
THE CONTRARIAN: I think it is the same.
SOUTHWARK: No, it’s not the same!
THE CONTRARIAN: It is the same.
SOUTHWARK: (barely restraining himself from a bout of strangling) It’s not the same!
THE CONTRARIAN: It is the same.
SOUTHWARK: (storming over to the sideboard) It’s not the same!
THE CONTRARIAN: It is the same.
SOUTHWARK: (lifting the sideboard above his head and throwing it across the room in a shower of shattering crockery) It’s not the same!
THE CONTRARIAN: It is the same.
(The sideboard bounces and knocks down the camera operator. Crew can be seen fleeing the room.)
SOUTHWARK: Isn’t!
THE CONTRARIAN: Is.
SOUTHWARK: Isn’t!
THE CONTRARIAN: Is.
SOUTHWARK: Isn’t!
THE CONTRARIAN: Is.
SOUTHWARK: Isn’t!
THE CONTRARIAN: Is.
SOUTHWARK: Isn’t!
THE CONTRARIAN: Is.
(in the studio, there is some commotion)
FURNACE: You could have killed someone, man.
MRS PLENTY: ‘o’s going to pay for the damages?
MR TASKS: Indeed - Cups will be apoplenetic. Was that entirely necessandated?
SOUTHWARK: (grumbles) Blasted fellow wouldn’t listen.
MR TASKS: We must at least try to resalvage what remains of this task. What were their times?
GRIZ: That’s difficult to say precisely - Ferret gave up, so their time is ultimately irrelevant, while the Bishop and the former mayor were still arguing after four hours, at which point everyone had to go home for dinner.
MR TASKS: So his timer is still running?
GRIZ: Technically, he could still convince the former mayor, yes.
FERRET: Shame he’s not here!
GRIZ: Oh, he is.
(Southwark shoots to his feet and scans the audience until he spots the Jovial Contrarian.)
SOUTHWARK: It’s not the same! It’s not the same at all!
THE CONTRARIAN: It most certainly is.
SOUTHWARK: Come here, you —ed jackanapes- (he is tackled by two Neddies, who struggle to keep him pinned as the Contrarian is politely invited by an usher to view the rest of the show from a private box)
MR TASKS: Return to your seat at once; we are ready to apportionate the scores. Ferret is to take one point for having capitulated.
FERRET: Fair enough.
MR TASKS: The Bishop can take two points and show us gratitution for them.
SOUTHWARK: (mitre askew and rochet rumpled) Hmph.
MR TASKS: Lyme fits in third place, and Furnace in second with her self-serving but undeniably effecticacious arguments…
FURNACE: (raises one first to the audience, prompting some whoops from attending tracklayers)
MR TASKS: And Miriam Plenty is the winner and takes the full five points!
MRS PLENTY: (punches the air) ‘ow do you like them happles?
MR TASKS: With that, Miriam Plenty has frolicked into the lead, but there’s still allverything to play for. Perhaps, next, you have for us a task that won’t resultinate in the contestants coming to blows?
GRIZ: I’m afraid I can’t absolutely guarantee that; our next task is a team task! Shall we see what it has to deliver?
(On the screen, Mrs Plenty enters the study of Taskmaster Manor, which has been outfitted with a number of chutes, baskets, hatches and tubes. On the desk sits a task, incongruously addended with an address and a postage stamp in addition to its wax seal.)
MRS PLENTY: Orright? (she picks up the task and reads the address) ‘The Team of Three, Taskmaster Manor, Fallen London.’ Are there more people coming?
(Behind her, Ferret appears in the doorway.)
FERRET: Hello, Mrs P! Haven’t seen you in ages. Is that a new coat?
MRS PLENTY: (starts) Oh! ‘ello, Ferret. Yes, I ‘ad it made special.
FERRET: What’s it say on the back?
(Mrs Plenty turns to show the letters spelled out in pearls.)
MRS PLENTY: ‘TM'. For Task-master. Nice of you to notice. Are you still wearin’ that ratty old thing, then? (she tugs at the end of Ferret’s sleeve, where a ragged tear wants mending)
SQUEAK OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN: I consider that terminology personally offensive!
(A rat wearing a pince-nez and a shawl the colour of heather emerges from Ferret’s coat and glowers shortsightedly.)
FERRET: Mrs P, this is Dorothea. Dorothea, this is Mrs Plenty.
MRS PLENTY: ‘ow’d’you do. I meant nothing by it, I’m sure.
(Dorothea sniffs and returns to Ferret’s pocket to read her book.)
MRS PLENTY: Is she competing or just tagging along? ‘cause it says there should be three of us.
(A bulky shadow darkens the doorway)
SOUTHWARK: What are all these people doing in here?!
FERRET: The Bishop!
MRS PLENTY: ‘ello, Bish.
(Furnace enters the study, nods absently at Griz and begins examining the equipment, paying particular attention to an array of pneumatic tubes.)
FURNACE: Cotterell Three-Quarter Modulated-Pressure Delivery Systems. Nice bit of kit. (She picks up the task.) ‘The Team of Two.’ One more to come, then?
(Lyme enters the study, stops, looks her up and down, and then holds out a craggy hand.)
LYME: Good day. I am Lyme.
FURNACE: (shaking his hand) Furnace Ancona. Delighted. Looks like we’re a team.
LYME: I shall work my hardest to be a good teammate.
FURNACE: Don’t strain yourself - it’s only Taskmaster. Mind if I…? (she indicates the task; when Lyme nods, she pops the seal) ‘Run this mail-sorting office. Every piece of mail correctly sorted earns your team one stamp. For every piece of mail that is misdelivered, your team will lose five stamps. The team with the most stamps when time runs out will be the winner. Mail will start arriving in two minutes and the timer will run for ten minutes.’
MRS PLENTY: What do they mean, correctly sorted mail? Where’s it supposed to go?
SOUTHWARK: I don’t know, do I? That’s just what it says - sort the mail.
GRIZ: Please read the last line of the task.
SOUTHWARK: Not now - I’m busy!
GRIZ: I must insist you read the last line of the task.
SOUTHWARK: (growls) Fine - ‘Your time starts now.’
(Griz pulls a lever, causes several hatches to fall open, revealing labels printed with place names and instructions: ‘BAD MONKEY ROW’, ‘URGENT’, ‘GRABSKIRT LANE’, ‘DO NOT USE’. In the studio, Mr Tasks steeples its claws.)
MR TASKS: It appears the cracks are already beginning to show in the team of three’s harmesion. Did you find this task puzzlesome?
MRS PLENTY: I ‘ad no bleedin’ idea what was going on.
SOUTHWARK: Do I look like a b—-y postman?
FERRET: I didn’t mind it, actually.
MRS PLENTY: You’re not saying you understood it all along?
FERRET: No, but it’s just nice to be out of the house, you know?
GRIZ: Which team would you like to see first?
MR TASKS: We anticipate that the team of three’s attempt will be delisastrous, and we wish to heighten our enjoyment by deferification - let us see the team of two first.
(On the screen, we see Furnace making a rapid examination of the room’s various fittings.)
FURNACE: We’ve got two minutes to learn how this works. These chutes will all be for incoming mail… (she turns to the other side of the room) …and these will be for outgoing. The labels on the incoming chutes will be postboxes, and the outgoing ones will be distribution centres. Did it say there’s a set time to process each letter?
LYME: No. The only stipulation was that misdelivered mail would would receive a penalty equivalent to five correct deliveries.
FURNACE: Don’t rush, then - we lose more if something gets sent to the wrong place than if it just stays here.
LYME: If a letter does not reach its intended recipient, they would prefer that it be held in the secure trust of the postal service than that it be placed in the hands of an unknown stranger.
(As he speaks, the first letter slides down a chute and drops into a tray. Furnace picks it up.)
FURNACE: ‘Mr Tuvwxyz, 4a Varlet’s Walk’.
LYME: That adjoins Jekyll Gardens. A prestigious neighbourhood.
FURNACE: You know it?
LYME: My uncles required that I memorise the streets’ most usual locations so that I could complete their deliveries and collections.
FURNACE: This will go under ‘Ladybones’, then.
(She passes him the envelope and he drops it in the appropriate chute. Several more slide into trays with little thumps.)
FURNACE: ‘M. Eugenides, Room 17, Actaeon Hotel.’
LYME: Near St Fiacre’s Cathedral. A frequent destination for deliveries of a covert nature.
FURNACE: And ‘Miss Porter, care of Misery House’?
LYME: A premises connected to the university.
(A fast-paced montage shows piles of letters and parcels coming in, being efficiently sorted and disappearing through various hatches. After a few minutes, a bell rings.)
FURNACE: That’s not time up, is it?
GRIZ: It is not.
LYME: I think it came from over here. (He locates the bell attached to the tray marked ‘URGENT’, into which a parcel has fallen) ‘If this package remains undelivered at the end of the task, you will lose ten stamps.’
FURNACE: Alright, new priority - urgent items have to be processed as soon as they come in.
LYME: If the public do not have confidence that their post will be delivered promptly, they will not use the postal service, and the money invested in it will be wasted.
FURNACE: Very true.
(The montage resumes. Piles of letters and parcels construct and deconstruct. At the eight-minute mark, they start arriving through the pneumatic tube system, requiring unpacking from a large capsule. Finally, Griz’s watch emits a small chime.)
GRIZ: That’s your time up. How many items remained undelivered?
FURNACE: Er… (she looks at the letter in her hands, and then over at Lyme, who has one in each hand) Three.
GRIZ: Were any marked ‘urgent’?
FURNACE: No, just regular letters. This one is for… ‘Lord Pudding of Hood’s Bridge’.
GRIZ: I shall arrange to have it forwarded to his lordship, then. Well done, team.
(In the studio, Mr Tasks turns to its assistant with exaggerated care.)
MR TASKS: The team of two appeared dismaypointingly competate at this task.
GRIZ: They processed sixty-seven pieces of mail. Of those, two were misdelivered, so they earned fifty-five stamps in total.
FURNACE: We got two wrong?
GRIZ: Yes; you thought Charley Square was covered by the Watchmaker’s Hill postal distribution zone, but it falls within the Veilgarden catchment. Usually. In recent years, certainly.
LYME: (to Furnace) I apologise for the error.
FURNACE: Don’t worry about it - you did a good job.
SOUTHWARK: (having turned a deep shade of red) They only made two mistakes? Two?
MR TASKS: Did you make more than that?
SOUTHWARK: How is this remotely fair? He’s got the whole city b—y memorised!
GRIZ: Are you suggesting the tasks are biased in favour of the skilled?
SOUTHWARK: You should have his head seized as an illegal atlas!
MR TASKS: (giddily) We were worrihensive that the task would be mundanotous if everyone did well, but this is much more promiseful.
MRS PLENTY: Oh, hold the h—l on, mate, because you are in for a wild ride.
GRIZ: That seems like an appropriate quantity of introduction - here’s the team of three’s attempt.
(On the screen, the Bishop can be seen visually interrogating the room’s fittings.)
SOUTHWARK: Where are these letters we’re supposed to post, then? Eh?
FERRET: (lifting a small book out of a desk drawer) I found something-
SOUTHWARK: What is that? Is it mail or not?
FERRET: If I had a penny every time I’d heard that question…
(The first letter slides into its tray. Mrs Plenty picks it up.)
MRS PLENTY: ‘ere we go. ‘Mr Tuvwxyz, 4a Varlet’s Walk’. That’s near the Palace, in’t it?
SOUTHWARK: Sounds about right. Is there a box for letters to Varlet’s Walk? Or the Palace? (he starts lifting hatches and slamming drawers)
MRS PLENTY: Oo, ‘eck, there’s some more. Actaeon Hotel… oh, yes, I know it. That’ll be in Veilgarden. (she drops it down the chute)
FERRET: (leafing through the little book) Spite, I think.
MRS PLENTY: Is it? Well, I’ve sent it now. (she picks up another letter) Misery House?
SOUTHWARK: Sounds like some infernal nonsense. To Hell with it! (he grabs the letter, crumples it up and throws it in the waste-paper bin)
(Several letters and parcels slide into trays. Ferret picks up the largest one.)
FERRET: ‘Gavin Soil, 4 Smashtile Alley’. (they hold the parcel to their ear) I think I hear something - if people have started sending rats through the post again, I’ll be fuming. (they start cutting away the wrapping with a pocket knife)
(Mrs Plenty is picking up a wash of spilled letters from the rug while the Bishop encourages her to work faster. Behind them, a parcel slides into the ‘URGENT’ tray, unnoticed.)
SOUTHWARK: We’re falling behind! (he grabs a handful of letters and parcels and starts throwing them down whichever chutes he can reach)
FERRET: It’s all right - it was just a teapot. (they tilt their head to one side) Actually, no - the noise might have been coming from over here.
(Another urgent parcel arrives.)
SOUTHWARK: Someone shut that d—ed bell up.
MRS PLENTY: All right, all right… (she puts her hat over the bell, muting it)
(Griz watches, eyes pained and mouth hidden behind her hands, as post piles up and falls over. Urgent mail backs up until the chute is blocked. Ferret accumulates a collection of teapots as they search parcels for trapped rats. Eventually, a pneumatic tube starts whistling, its uncollected cargo having become jammed.)
SOUTHWARK: By Barnabus’s beard, what is that noise?
MRS PLENTY: Sounds like a pipe organ on the blink.
FERRET: It’s this one - it’s definitely this one.
SOUTHWARK: Something’s stuck in this tube over here. How long has this been here? (He opens the hatch and starts thumping the canister, trying to dislodge it.)
(Ferret tears away the last of the paper around a particularly large parcel, which bursts open as the cat inside bolts for freedom. Its leap carries it directly into the Bishop’s hindquarters, causing him to stagger forward and collide with the hatch of the pneumatic tube. A curious sucking sound fills the room, followed by a ‘foomp’ and a sanctified bellow.)
SOUTHWARK: My hair! Stop the machine! It’s got my b—y hair!
(The cat runs up Mrs Plenty and perches on her shoulder, sheltering from the noise and confusion. Ferret, fearing for their rodent passengers’ safety, leaps onto an end table. Griz rushes out into the corridor to find the pressure valve while Southwark hammers blindly at the tubes around him. A tube-shaped parcel addressed to a Dr Self of St Nathanael's slowly rolls along the desk and falls to the floor.)
TUBE-SHAPED PARCEL: Squeak!
(In the studio, Mr Tasks is clawing at the air and stamping its talons with glee.)
MR TASKS: Wondersome. Exactly what we were wishful for.
GRIZ: It is worth noting that the team of three had one advantage that the others missed out on, in that they were the only ones to find this.
(On the screen, a close-up is shown of the book Ferret found. The cover reads ‘POSTAL REGIONS OF FALLEN LONDON, 1899(b) EDITION’.)
MRS PLENTY: We had that all along?!
FERRET: I did try to say…
SOUTHWARK: Until you decided to drop the task entirely to search for rats?
FERRET: Well, if there was a rat in one of those parcels, I had to get them out of there, you know?
MR TASKS: Did they manage to correctfully process any letters at all?
GRIZ: Oh, they absolutely did. It would be a poor showing if they didn’t earn even a single stamp.
MR TASKS: That would be very humilarassing for them.
GRIZ: No, they sent four items on to their correct destinations.
MR TASKS: Four stamps, then.
GRIZ: They also misdelivered seventeen items and left ten urgent items undelivered, leaving them with a total of negative one hundred and eighty-one stamps.
(Southwark turns flake white; Mrs Plenty seethes; Ferret shrugs philosophically.)
GRIZ: Would you like to hand out the points?
MR TASKS: Obviousputably, the team of two takes five points.
(Furnace pats Lyme on the back congratulatory.)
MR TASKS: Do we want to give the team of three a singulous point for having made an attempt?
SOUTHWARK: That machine of yours d—n near pulled my head off!
GRIZ: As a concession to the Church, I think perhaps we should. His Right Reverence is having a dreadful day, after all.
MR TASKS: One point for the team of three!
GRIZ: With that, Lyme leaps into the lead with twelve points, while the Bishop continues bringing up the rear with four.
(Loud, stony applause can be heard while a cloud to rival those of the Flood settles over the Bishop’s features.)
MR TASKS: With that delectful diversion out of the way, do you have another task to show us?
(On the screen, Mr Tasks and Griz appear, seated in their respective thrones.)
PROJECTED GRIZ: I certainly do, and I’d love to show it to you directly.
MR TASKS: Gah! Now there are two of you to make feeble puns about the contents of the tasks!
PROJECTED MR TASKS: You think you’ve got it bad - some of us are stuck in here with her.
GRIZ: That very handsome, sensible-looking lady is right - this next task calls upon our contestants’ directorial skills.
FERRET: (pointing to the screen) That was jolly clever. Did you record that earlier and plan what you’d say?
PROJECTED GRIZ: Yes, Ferret, we did.
(Ferret nods, satisfied, until a tremble of apprehension appears at the corner of their eyes - but, by the time they’ve looked back, the screen is showing Taskmaster Manor’s great hall. Lyme enters, and stares up at the vaulted ceiling.)
LYME: I feel quite small in here.
GRIZ: It is an imposing room.
LYME: I do not often feel small. (he looks at the task, which is clipped incongruously to a camera tripod) Shall I open this?
GRIZ: Yes, please, Lyme.
(He delicately opens the task - tiny in his stony fingers - and lifts it to eye level.)
LYME: ‘Write and direct a short film on the subject of “love”.’
MRS PLENTY: (indicating the camera operators) Will this lot do what I tell ‘em, then?
GRIZ: The crew will follow your direction - within reason.
FERRET: ‘Your film must be no more than five minutes in length. Best film wins. You have one hour. Your time starts now.’ This is exciting, isn’t it? I’ve never made a film before!
LYME: I will need paint. Do you have wood?
GRIZ: We do have wood.
LYME: I will need wood. Do you have a child?
GRIZ: We may be able to procure a child.
LYME: I will need a child.
(In the studio, Mr Tasks reclines in its throne like Sardanapalus regarding his riches.)
MR TASKS: We are keening to see what our fledgling directors can make of such a worthy topic. Though we are also a little concerned that Lyme specifically requested a child. Did you have a purpospiration in mind for the youth, or did you simply desire to have them on hand in case they happened to be required?
LYME: I wished to tell the story of an incident that once occurred at a market.
FURNACE: An ‘incident’? Was the child harmed in any way?
GRIZ: Perhaps, to put minds to rest, we should show Lyme’s film first.
(On the screen, a scene constructed from simple wooden shapes appears. A lit path rises precipitously toward a ziggurat. A large figure wearing only a loincloth descends.)
LYME: Once, I lived in a place that was full of life.
(A couple appear, seated at a kitchen table.)
LYME: The air was filled with songs of love.
(The teapot before them screeches an aria. The couple cover their ears, smiling desperately for the camera.)
LYME: Then I came to London, where life takes a different form.
(Painted panels create an impression of the markets of Spite.)
LYME: The costermongers shouted, but their wares were silent. The cabbages were so quiet, it frightened me.
(Lyme, now wearing a greatcoat, walks through the set. A single spotlight projects his shadow, impossibly vast, along the ground.)
LYME: Love could still be found…
(A small girl looks up at Lyme, eyes full of curiosity. He takes a flower from a cart and gives it to her. She smiles and skips away.)
LYME: But life and love are so very fragile here.
(The shadow of a laden cart darkens the scene. A scream is heard, and then a terrible crash.)
LYME: And they can be gone in a moment.
(In the studio, faces are pale. Ferret discreetly wipes a tear from their eye.)
FERRET: That was well sad, that. Did that really happen?
LYME: I did befriend a child, and there was later an incident with an unsecured cart. I do not believe her injuries were serious.
FURNACE: No-one was hurt while filming, were they? That scream sounded… realistic.
GRIZ: Would you like to see how we did that?
(On the screen, Griz stands beside the girl and a Broad-Shouldered Stagehand holding an old tea-crate. All three wear thick protective goggles.)
GRIZ: Three… two… one… now.
(The girl screams as loud as she can. The Stagehand throws the crate down at her feet, where it shatters impressively.)
GRIZ: One road accident, achieved through the magic of cinema. Well done, everybody.
(In the studio, Furnace nods, apparently satisfied that due safety precautions have been taken.)
MR TASKS: That was a fascinating little titbit, Lyme - a very promisumptuous beginning. Whose film shall we see next?
GRIZ: Let’s see the Bishop of Southwark’s film-making process!
(On the screen, the Bishop appears with an expression of determination.)
SOUTHWARK: Do I need to film it in here?
GRIZ: All the information is on the task.
SOUTHWARK: (reads the task again) No. Good. You lot - follow me. And send a runner into town - tell the canon to get the vergers together. Especially Jack and Marcus. And the football team!
(The crew follows the Bishop in a great awkward gaggle out the door and through the house. The film ends abruptly as one operator begins to disassemble their camera for transport. It begins again, coming into focus to show a figure staring up at the 15th-century vaulted ceiling of Southwark Cathedral. The Bishop’s voice can be heard.)
SOUTHWARK: He who does not love does not know God, for God is love.
(The scene shifts to a moustachioed verger sitting on a stool. Another stands by his side and holds his hand tenderly. Their eyes meet.)
SOUTHWARK: As God so loves us, we ought to love one another. No man has ever seen God, but if we love one another, God and his love live in us.
(The screen shows a line of tall, muscular men, dressed for football. One breaks forth and gives the ball a mighty kick.)
SOUTHWARK: With God’s love in us, we may have confidence for the Day of Judgement, because, as God is, we are. We shall not fear, because love casts out fear.
(The Bishop appears, shirtless and laying on the paving-stones, with one arm wrapped around a vast and shaggy goat-demon’s trunk-like neck while the other pins down its arm. Its other arm is trapped between the Bishop’s knees. The beast snorts desperately, its breath filling the air with burning steam, and its great hooves spray blue sparks as they strike the cobbles, but the Bishop’s grip is unrelenting.)
SOUTHWARK: For fear is of Hell, and he who knows fear does not know God’s love!
(The goat-demon slaps the stones - once, twice, thrice - and the Bishop releases his grip. A curate offers him a towel, and an imp can be seen hurrying across the square with a cup of something boiling for the demon.)
SOUTHWARK: If a man says he loves God, but he hates his fellow man, then he is a LIAR! If he does not love his fellow man, who he has seen, then he cannot love God, who he has not seen!
(The scene returns to the cathedral, where the camera settles on the rows of saints carved above the altar.)
SOUTHWARK: This is the commandment: that he who loves God must love his fellow man.
(The screen turns dark.)
SOUTHWARK: Selected readings from the First Epistle of John, St Cyriac’s October Edition.
(In the studio, Ferret is dabbing their eyes with a handkerchief.)
FERRET: Fair play to you, Bish - that was very sweet.
MRS PLENTY: It’s only September - how’d you get hold of next month’s Bible?
SOUTHWARK: Edited that passage myself. Sent it to them to publish. (his brow furrows) They’d better put it in, or I’ll be made to look a fool.
LYME: I enjoyed it. Shall we watch another one?
MR TASKS: Ah-ah! We are in control of the showing of the films, not you! (it turns to Griz) Shall we watch another one?
GRIZ: We shall. Up next is Furnace Ancona’s short film.
(On the screen, Furnace appears in profile.)
FURNACE: Love is dutiful. If you love us, you’ll represent us and our cause.
(A second Furnace appears, facing toward the first.)
FURNACE: Love is passionate. If you love us, you’ll fight against our enemies.
(A third Furnace, in the centre, facing forwards.)
FURNACE: Love is faithful. If you love us, you’ll never surrender.
(A fourth Furnace appears in a spotlight, tiny compared to the three behind her. She sits down, exhausted, and holds her helmet before her, staring into its empty hatch. The three giant Furnaces continue to speak, overlapping each other in a rising cacophony.)
FURNACES: Love is brave - love is tireless - love is self-sacrificing - love is unwavering - love is eternal - love is unhesitating - love is loyal - love is resolute - love is ever-giving-
VOICE: Hush!
(Several figures in overalls appear. They stand by Furnace’s side, and one offers her a cup of tea.)
VOICE: Love is mutual. Love is reciprocal. Love is equal.
(The giant Furnaces fade into darkness. Furnace sips her tea and chats quietly with the group. In the studio, Mrs Plenty leans over.)
MRS PLENTY: Are you alright, love?
FURNACE: I’m fine.
SOUTHWARK: How’d you make there be three of you? And so enormous?
FURNACE: We covered part of the front of the camera-
GRIZ: A partial enclosure of the lens.
FURNACE: Yes, that. And then we filmed it three times with me close by and once with me further away.
SOUTHWARK: Very clever. I’ll have to make a note of that. We could do the story of King David…
MR TASKS: Don’t think your camera trickery will distract us from the content of your narrative.
FURNACE: How d’you mean?
MR TASKS: Love as a relationship of equality and mutual care - prepoculous! Anarclastic! Fracetious!
(Furnace raises an argumentative finger, then appears to think better of it and sits back with her arms crossed.)
MR TASKS: We hope you have a less objectionable offering for us to see next.
GRIZ: I will most certainly devote my very best attention to the matter, and will endeavour to give satisfaction - here’s Mrs Plenty’s contribution.
(The screen shows two members of the crew standing before a painted backdrop resembling a typical Fifth City streetscape. One wears Mrs Plenty’s hat and coat; the other, a false beard.)
LILLIAN: To think, Bearnaise - that a poor country gal like me could become a success in the big city! And runnin’ me own carnival, no less!
BEARNAISE: Just goes to show what we can achieve together, my Lillian - ain’t love grand?
LILLIAN: And don’t you look a dapper - dressed in style, with your father’s old green tie on! Now, how do we get to our new prem’ses?
BEARNAISE: Just follow the van, my girl - and don’t dilly-dally on the way!
(They begin to walk along, arm-in-arm - the crewman playing Bearnaise adopting a curious loping, bobbing walk with his thumbs tucked into his waistcoat, while Lillian’s actress does her best impersonation of Mrs Plenty’s cautious stride.)
BEARNAISE: Beautiful views in this part of town. You’d see clear to Bugsby’s Marshes if it wasn’t for the ‘ouses in between!
LILLIAN: Oo, I do hope we don’t get sep’rated, my love - I couldn’t stand to be lost in London without you!
BEARNAISE: Well, if you want to know the way, ask a p’liceman - every officer on the force has a city map, of course.
LILLIAN: But you can’t trust the Specials like the old-fashioned coppers when you don’t know your way home.
BEARNAISE: If we come asunder, we’ll meet at that there drinkin’ house - I know the barmaid keeps a well-made double bed for bona-fide travellers.
LILLIAN:(pointing at something out of shot) Lawks-a-mercy - I see the lights of our new home up ahead! (she makes a noise of dismay) That bit o’ fencin’ wants mendin’ - our perimeters have fallen down!
BEARNAISE: Never mind that, my love - you get inside and we’ll take tea in the garden and eat a few crumpets.
LILLIAN: And then I can fix us some boiled beef and carrots!
BEARNAISE: Loverly!
(The pair of them stroll off-screen. In the studio, Mr Tasks is curiously silent, its eyes narrowed to slits like a half-shut dark-lantern.)
FURNACE: Was that you and your husband?
MRS PLENTY: No, that was two original characters! They were a young couple in love, settin’ out on a new stage in their lives.
FURNACE: She looked like you. And said ‘lawks-a-mercy’ like you.
MRS PLENTY: I have never said ‘lawks-a-mercy’ in my life!
FERRET: You have said it. And you’re still saying it now!
LYME: You said it to me this afternoon as we arrived here, when you were telling me you’d been kept late at your chattering classes and nearly missed the ha’penny bus.
MRS PLENTY: Aright, yes, well. It’s the sort of thing one picks up here or there.
SOUTHWARK: Where?
MRS PLENTY: Any old where!
MR TASKS: (in a piping, hissing voice, like an aggrieved kettle) What do you mean, you can’t trust the Specials?
FERRET: Uh-oh.
MR TASKS: Our Special Constabulary are the guardians of the city’s moraludery! You can, should and must trust them implicitly!
MRS PLENTY: It’s just a turn of phrase - it’s quite common round our way.
MR TASKS: And where is this ‘way’, exactly?
MRS PLENTY: Er - round and about, you know. Round the boroughs.
MR TASKS: (to Griz) Make a note to inspect the boroughs for disloyalness and inturpitude. And please ensurtain that the next attempt contains no such offensulting statements.
GRIZ: I feel reasonably confident in stating that you may enjoy our final film: here is Ferret’s attempt.
(The screen shows Ferret, sitting at a table in the Taskmaster Manor’s parlour. Dorothea stands on a doily, looking up at them.)
DOROTHEA: You are old, dear friend Ferret - your face is much-lined
And the fur that you have is now grey.
You have been friend to ten generations of rats;
Now tell me the reason, I pray!
(A faded green rat-sized suit is seen, laid reverently in a glass-lidded case.)
FERRET: In the days of my youth, my dear little one,
An educat'd rat taught me much,
And I became so very fond of this friend
That the rest found me quite a soft touch.
DOROTHEA: You are old, good friend Ferret - much older than rats
Who in a few years pass away,
And yet you lament not the rats who are gone;
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
(Ferret is seen at a traditional rat funeral, listening to the prayers.)
FERRET: In the days of my youth, my dear little one,
I buried my small friends and wept.
I still shed a tear for ev'ry last one
But smile for the new ones I've kept.
DOROTHEA: You are old, dear friend Ferret, and dress like a scruff,
With your waistcoat all button'd askew
And more holes in your gloves that you have fingers to fill -
Now, just what are we meant to do?
(A fashionable dressmaker’s shop is shown; Ferret knocks on the door and is greeted by the proprietor with a kiss on the cheek.)
FERRET: In the days of my youth, presumptuous one,
I was close to a seamstress of note,
If she still cares for me now, though highly acclaimed,
There must be nothing wrong with my coat!
DOROTHEA: You are old, dear friend Ferret, and your friends are spread
From the docks to the fine avenues.
How have you earned such varying love
While still being so very - you?
FERRET: I detect, little one, a critical tone
Along all this line of your questions.
Mind your business and take people just as they are
And that is my final suggestion!
(Ferret tosses their cap onto the table; Dorothea squeaks and runs out of the way. In the studio, the contestants are making appreciative noises.)
MRS PLENTY: That was jolly clever.
SOUTHWARK: The metric rang a bell - it wasn’t original, I take it?
FERRET: No, I took it from a poem from an old lesson-book - a pal showed it to me once.
SOUTHWARK: Well, you adapted it decently well.
GRIZ: We’ve seen all five short films - are you ready to make your judgement?
MR TASKS: We are. (It glowers at Mrs Plenty.)
MRS PLENTY: Oh, come on!
MR TASKS: One point for the impugtation of our Ministry.
GRIZ: One point for Mrs Plenty.
MR TASKS: Two points for Furnace’s effort; it was techtistically interesting, but its message was detestsome. Three points for the Bishop - we were already familiar with the text, but his adoptation provided some toothsome nuance.
SOUTHWARK: Only three?! …fine. Closest to a decent score I’ve had all evening. Foolish games.
MR TASKS: We found Lyme’s film pleasingly thought-provocious and vanguardist; it must take four points.
LYME: Thank you.
MR TASKS: Ferret’s film had everything we were hopeful for - a message of love transcendering the bounds of the Chain, a charmful rhyming structure, a remindorium of the importance of business. The full five points go to Ferret!
(Ferret smiles faintly and gives the audience a little wave as the clapping of tiny paws can be heard.)
MR TASKS: Now, it’s time to watch some more short films - the kind that local businemporia pay us to show, advertising their wares. We’ll be back with the live task promptiously!
(On the screen, an Unconvincing Spokesman demonstrates the superiority of F.C. Hollow & Daughters’ suitcases compared to those suitcases available from competing retailers.)
MR TASKS: Ah, they’re back. We told you they would be.
GRIZ: I didn’t say they wouldn’t; I simply said we should have contingencies in place for the possibility-
MR TASKS: Unrequessecary! The show proceeds apace! As we head into the live task, how do the scores stand?
GRIZ: At this point, Lyme is in the lead, but there’s still everything to play for!
MR TASKS: Is there?
GRIZ: No. Mrs Plenty and the Bishop of Southwark literally can’t win. The Bishop will have to be very lucky indeed if he wants to come second-last.
SOUTHWARK: Hey!
GRIZ: I’m sorry, your Right Reverence, but with all due respect, you really are very bad at this.
SOUTHWARK: It’s the tom-fool tasks you’ve been setting! If you had us doing something sensible…
MR TASKS: Enough of this prittle-prattle - leave your seats at once and make your way to the stage for the final task of the show!
(The contestants are soon stood in a half-circle on the stage, all looking at what looks like the set of a very modern, very barebones theatrical performance - a large bath, an old wooden wardrobe, a plush armchair, a brass bed with a fluffy quilt, and a hatstand laden with hats and coats.)
MR TASKS: An array of furniture! What could it mean?
GRIZ: Normally, we only have these out when it’s time to give you your annual bath.
MR TASKS: …we told you not to tell anyone about that. Get on and have someone read the task.
GRIZ: Lyme, would you please do the honours?
(She passes the task to Lyme, who opens it and begins to read.)
GRIZ: …out loud, if you please.
LYME: My apologies. ‘Conceal yourself in one of these hiding-places.’ Meaning the furniture?
GRIZ: Meaning the furniture.
LYME: ‘The Taskmaster will guess which hiding-place holds which contestant. If your hiding-place is guessed, you are eliminated. If no-one’s hiding-place is guessed, a hiding-place will be removed from the stage and the round will be played again. The last player to be eliminated wins.’
MRS PLENTY: So it’s hide-and-seek? Will it be coverin’ its eyes?
GRIZ: The curtain will be closed while you hide, and open again once it’s time to seek. You have thirty seconds to hide, and your time begins… now! (she blows her whistle)
(The curtain closes, and the scuffle of frantic movement can be heard. When it opens again, the armchair is facing the back of the stage and two very large boots can be seen at the base of the hatstand.)
MR TASKS: Oh dear. We believe we may know where Lyme has concealed himself.
GRIZ: (attempting to suppress a grin) Would you like to guess where the other contestants are hiding?
MR TASKS: It’s difficult to say… we think Furnace may be in the bed, the Bishop in the wardrobe, Mrs Plenty in the bath, and Ferret in the chair.
GRIZ: And Lyme?
MR TASKS: (snapping its claws with irritation) Behind the hatstand, of course.
GRIZ: Mrs Plenty, would you reveal yourself, please?
(Mrs Plenty stands up, revealing she was sitting in the armchair.)
MRS PLENTY: Wot cher.
MR TASK: Curses!
GRIZ: Ferret, please reveal yourself.
(Ferret rolls out from under the bed with a sheepish smile.)
GRIZ: Could Furnace please reveal herself?
(The wardrobe doors swing open to reveal Furnace sitting inside.)
GRIZ: And the Bishop?
(The Bishop of Southwark jumps out from behind the wardrobe, eyes wide.)
GRIZ: And, finally, Lyme.
(Lyme emerges from behind the hatstand.)
MR TASKS: So Lyme and the Bishop are eliminated!
SOUTHWARK: What?! No, I’m not!
GRIZ: Your hiding-place was guessed.
SOUTHWARK: It said ‘in the wardrobe’. I wasn’t in the wardrobe; I was behind it.
GRIZ: (to Mr Tasks) He does have a point - you did say ‘in’.
MR TASKS: We did. Very well. The Bishop remains in play, but, from now on, when we refer to an item of furniture, we mean in it, on it, under it, behind it - any relationship to it at all!
GRIZ: Alright, prepositions are wild for the remainder of the game. You may hide again… now.
(She blows a horn and the curtains close once more. When they open. Furnace’s helmet can be seen poking out of the bath.)
MR TASKS: It appears our contestants might need to more carefully consider the reach of their garments.
GRIZ: Would you like to make a guess?
MR TASKS: Furnace is in the bath, obviously. Ferret… Ferret is under the bed again. Mrs Plenty is in the wardrobe, and the Bishop is in the armchair.
SOUTHWARK: Bother!
GRIZ: Please try not to give it away before you’re called. Ferret, could you please reveal your hiding-place?
(The hatch of Furnace’s helmet opens to reveal Ferret’s face. Mr Tasks leaps up and tears at its robes.)
MR TASKS: Gahhh! Deceived! Hoodwoozled!
GRIZ: And the Bishop?
(The Bishop stands and gives the armchair a dispirited kick.)
GRIZ: Furnace?
(One door of the wardrobe opens, revealing Furnace standing behind it, shoulders stooped.)
GRIZ: And, finally, Mrs Plenty?
(The other door opens and Mrs Plenty tumbles out, rather out of breath.)
MRS PLENTY: It ain’t half stuffy in there. Are those the same dungarees you wear to work?
FURNACE: No, I put on my formal dungarees for the special occasion.
GRIZ: The Bishop and Mrs Plenty are eliminated. There are two players left - it could all end now in a thrilling victory for one of them. Or it could stretch on for ages because there are so many hiding-places left. Or they could both be eliminated and the whole endeavour prove to be a bit of a disappointment. Anything could happen!
MR TASKS: I think she actually enjoys working out everything that could go wrong. This is enterjoyment for her.
GRIZ: Get ready to hide again. Your time starts… now.
(She produces a set of bagpipes and looses an impressive blast. The curtains close for a weighty half-minute. When they open again, there is not the slightest hint where anyone might be hiding.)
MR TASKS: Ver-y trickilish… Furnace has been in the wardrobe twice now. Would she continuate to do so? No - she’s too clever for that. She’s put Ferret in the wardrobe, and she’s hiding in the last place I’d think to look for her - the armchair!
GRIZ: Furnace Ancona, please stand.
(Furnace stands up from behind the armchair and snaps her fingers.)
MR TASKS: I knew it! And Ferret is in the wardrobe!
GRIZ: Ferret, please step forward and reveal whether you’ve won.
(One of the coats hanging on the hatstand suddenly grows a pair of legs. Once their respective feet are planted on the ground, the rest of Ferret gradually extricates itself and emerges.)
GRIZ: Ferret is the winner!
MR TASKS: Resume your seats and we shall see what that has done to the scores.
(Everyone files back to their chairs. The Bishop leans forward to whisper as conspiratorially to Ferret as can be done over two sets of knees.)
SOUTHWARK: How on Earth did you get up the hatrack like that? Did you drill into it like a woodworm?
FERRET: I put one of the hats and coats on to blend in, and then I just sort of wiggled up it and held on, like a…
FURNACE: A ferret?
FERRET: Like a ferret! (They curl their hands up like paws and make a ferrety face.) Eek eek!
MR TASKS: None of us are any sort of squeaking furry creature. We are not here for jokes; we are here to complete tasks! And it is time to calculate the scores! Now, where do they stand?
GRIZ: Ferret, naturally, takes the five points, and four for Furnace. Mrs Plenty and the Bishop were eliminated in the same round, but the Bishop was nearly eliminated in the round before - should she take more points than him?
MR TASKS: Do you think we should? (it looks over at the Bishop, who looks ready to go off like a barrel of gunpowder) He’s had a terrible time. He’s ordinormally a very competent man. Three points to both of them.
GRIZ: And then there’s a gap between them and Lyme?
MR TASKS: He’s in the lead; he stood behind a hatstand. One point for Lyme.
LYME: I am not easy to conceal.
MR TASKS: With that, we must have a winner! Underkhan Griz, tell us how the final scores are arrayed!
GRIZ: In last place with ten points, it’s the Bishop of Southwark.
(The Bishop throws his mitre to the ground, where it rings like a length of pipe falling from a warehouse shelf.)
GRIZ: Just ahead of him, with thirteen points, is Miriam Plenty.
(Mrs Plenty claps along, clearly not entirely pleased.)
GRIZ: And then… ah.
MR TASKS: Is there some problem?
GRIZ: I’m terribly sorry - I don’t know how this happened.
MR TASKS: Tell us at once!
GRIZ: The other three contestants all earned exactly the same score.
MR TASKS: What?!
GRIZ: Ferret, Furnace and Lyme all have seventeen points.
MR TASKS: You know there is only one way to make this right.
GRIZ: There is.
MR TASKS: Fetch the boiled sweets!
(From the drawer under her chair, Griz retrieves a glass jar, inside of which can be seen a truly stunning array of colourful sweets.)
MR TASKS: The three of you have been provided with paper and pencils. Write down on your paper how many sweets you think are in my assistant’s jar. The guesstimation that is closest to the correct answer will be tonight’s winner. You may not conferiate, peek at your rivals’ answers, or cheat in any way.
FERRET: Can we touch the jar?
MR TASKS: You may approach the jar but you may not touch it.
(Ferret leaves their seat, comes as close to the jar as they can without touching it, and peers at it very intently. Griz obligingly spins it about.)
LYME: Excuse me - I cannot see the jar.
FERRET: Sorry! (they sit back down) Quick bit of mental mathematicals… take off ten percent or so for imperfections in the product… (they jot down a number on their paper)
MR TASKS: Time is up! Let us see your guesses!
(Lyme holds up his piece of paper. Despite a few holes where his pencil has pushed through, his number is legible.)
LYME: I believe there are three hundred sweets in the jar.
GRIZ: Three hundred. And your guess, Ferret?
FERRET: (flipping open their paper) Two-hundred-seventy-five.
SOUTHWARK: They must be close, surely.
MRS PLENTY: They’re both businessme- er, business… folk? They know their numbers, is my point.
GRIZ: And your guess, Furnace?
(Furnace holds her paper up between two fingers.)
FURNACE: One hundred.
MRS PLENTY: Eh?
SOUTHWARK: Rubbish guess.
FURNACE: There’ll be a trick to it. There always is.
MR TASKS: There are no tricks! It is a straightforward guessing comtestition!
FURNACE: Oh, yes. I believe you.
MR TASKS: So you should. Now, how many of these confectionables does that jar in fact contain?
GRIZ: I can reveal that the jar contains exactly one hundred and thirty-one sweets-
FERRET: What? How?
GRIZ: Because, of course, as well as delicious sweets, this is the jar where I keep some of the Taskmaster’s favourite pens!
(She lifts the lid of the jar, revealing, attached to its underside, a smaller jar, nestled among the sweets, which contains a variety of pens for different inks, papers, vowel sounds, and one only to be used when writing to, for or about ostlers or farriers. The contestants groan.)
FURNACE: Told you.
MR TASKS: Of course, we keep our pen collection close at hand. Lovely pens! (it takes the jar from Griz and holds it greedily)
GRIZ: And that means that Furnace is our winner.
MR TASKS: What an instructucational evening this has been. We’ve learned that the secret to running a successful postal service is to be good at it. We’ve learned that the most persuasive form of rhetoric is lying. And, most cruciquentially, we’ve learned that Furnace Ancona is tonight’s winner. Now, it’s time for her to make her way to the stage and be inspired by her confidence-giving prizes!
(Furnace strides onto the stage, where the prizes are laid out on a large table. She mimes getting her finger caught in the rat-trap and pretends to smash it to bits with the Biblical cudgel. She gives the potted mushroom a respectful nod, then picks up the lamp-cat and cuddles it to her shoulder. It makes a noise like a blocked drain coming good and nuzzles its nose and esca into her face, blinking big slow blinks. She sits down with the volume of poetry and begins reading it to the cat while it climbs into her lap and, with every sign of having been curled up there for hours, falls asleep.)
(Deep beneath the Bazaar, a fleet of Neddies are sorting post under timed conditions. Despite abundant provision of guides to the city’s postal regions, it does not appear to be going well; two of the pneumatic tubes are clogged and a fist-fight has broken out. Mr Tasks is slumped against a railing, its head in its claws.)
GRIZ: Perhaps the Clay division will be doing better.
MR TASKS: The Clay division are doing worse. Jasper attempted to post Frank concatenous to a disagreement regarding the location of the Labyrinth of Tigers. Jasper alleged that it was to the north of Tyrant’s Gardens, while Frank maintained the contention that it was to the south.
GRIZ: The Labyrinth is to the west of Tyrant’s Gardens.
MR TASKS: It is.
GRIZ: Are either of them injured?
MR TASKS: Nothing that will hinder the perfillment of their duties, but the Iron & Misery Sortomatic for Letters & Postcards is beyond repair.
(They watch one Neddy put another in a headlock and attempt to feed him his own hat.)
GRIZ: Is it possible… that is, might we consider… could it be that the system would be improved if the staff were… unionised?
(A long, gloomy silence. A pile of letters spills from a desk and washes across the floor.)
MR TASKS: Please don’t say such unpleasant things.