Writing for Fun
February 2017
Ice Cold Maiden - Reg Pound
I think it is called a light bulb moment when an idea springs itself upon you. For years I had thought of how my life could be without the hindrance of having a husband. My one was called Ron.
In my day dreams I would fantasize of doing my own thing. Nothing exotic you understand, just not having to seek his approval for anything I wanted to do, and for every penny I wanted to spend. If he had not disapproved of my enrolling with the Open University, or even for courses at our local Adult-Education College, I might by now be a concert pianist, fluent in languages, an exhibited artist, or published author. Anything to relieve the boredom and routine of cooking, washing and ironing, cleaning and unnecessary budgeting. We were not badly off.
He only encouraged me to learn to drive our car so that he would not have to take me shopping and so that I could drive him to and from his dart matches when he had been drinking. He did say that I could go with him to stay and watch. He could not understand that it was no treat sitting all evening with a packet of crisps and a glass of orangeade . . . I prefer lemonade. Even playing Bingo uses more imagination than darts. I reckon darts would be more skilful if they had a moving target.
My light bulb moment came when he took an interest in amateur dramatics. A group was formed by the Social Club of the firm he worked for as a delivery driver. The same Club whose darts team he played for and to whom he was a bit of an hero, having once scored ‘one-hundred-and-eighty!’ He said we ought to join as it would give me an interest other than sitting around at home. As if he had ever cared before. Ron didn’t see me as an actress of course. No, they needed someone to look after the wardrobe (stitching and ironing), to make tea during rehearsals, and sweep and tidy up afterwards . . . Just like being at home!
It was only after we joined I discovered the reason for his sudden interest in dramatics. The group was being run by one of the firm’s secretaries. Jill, a 25 year old attractive blonde, took the leading glamorous roles and was ‘a driving force in the group’. Indeed she was the main reason for so many of the employees joining. The men hoping to live out their fantasies, the women to keep an eye on husbands or boyfriends.
I think Ron believed Jill had asked him to join because she needed a leading man. In fact I reckoned it was because he was the firm’s delivery driver. He could borrow the company’s van, and they needed somebody to cart scenery etc to and from the church hall where the shows would be staged. Also someone to do any odd jobs and be a general dogsbody.
He proudly said she had chosen him to be Chief Stagehand. A glance from her sent him into seventh heaven.
I joined the group for something to do. As a wardrobe mistress I found part of the task was to tramp around charity shops to find appropriate costumes, I quite enjoyed doing that. The group were all nice people, although there were some hard feelings amongst the men and envy amongst the ladies towards Jill.
My light bulb moment:
Rehearsals were underway for the next production, a play called ‘Ice Cold Maiden’, a murder mystery. The actor who was to be the victim was indisposed. Because the murder took place in the first scene of the first act the performer did not have to be seen alive at all. Ron was asked to stand in especially when Jill told him the victim was her sugar-daddy who she was killing for his money.
He was under the impression she was going to carry out mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on him After than scene, my husband, Ron, had to keep out of the way until the final curtain. The only place available was in the boiler room amongst the brooms and miscellaneous bits and pieces, and the wardrobe props.
The boiler itself was an old gas one, no longer used. An aged almost unreadable warning label had been stuck on it saying it should not be used. Heating was now supplied through a series of electric fires. I noticed the warning when storing some of the wardrobe odds and ends.
What if, after his murder on stage Ron was to die in that room? He would not be missed until the-end-of-the-play. I daydreamed that the poison that was supposed to kill him in the play was actually real. I could put the poison in his tea flask that he used during his long wait. A good idea but I didn’t know how to get any poison. Life, or rather death, was rather easier in the days of Dr. Crippen. Then I thought of the old gas boiler. If I could get Ron to activate the boiler perhaps he would suffer carbon monoxide poisoning as the label warned.
That was easier than I’d hoped. The room was cold. I gave Ron his flask, which he moaned about not being enough to keep him warm, so unseen by him and unaware of the warning he said he’d keep warm by using the boiler. That he would light the pilot light, turn up the thermostat to ignite the boiler and, after his murder in the play, settle down to his refreshment of tea and sandwiches.
And thus he was forgotten until the discovery of his body at the end of the play. A tragic accident?
The cast were most sympathetic that I should have been acting as ‘prompt’ which meant I was prevented from missing Ron during the play. I could not be blamed for him not being able to see the warning notice which had accidently been hidden behind the wardrobe paraphernalia. That was a year ago.
The Coroner found ‘accidental death’.
Everyone was most kind.
Ron’s firm were very understanding. They gave me a job as tea lady.
And I’m Captain of the Ladies Darts Team.