B is for Bingo
Michael Hawthorn sat uncomfortably on a plastic chair, waiting for some numbers to be shouted out by a woman in a bow-tie. The woman was on a stage at the front of the room, neatly enveloped on either side by faded green velvet curtains which poorly concealed further stacks of those uncomfortable plastic chairs. The wooden clad walls were littered with portraits of local community icons and the air was littered with coughs – some borne of necessity, some merely of boredom. Chair legs screeched on the floor, creating a miasma of scuffles and small movements punctuated by the sound of plastic balls being spun around in a plastic container and the background hiss of a cheap microphone. Michael had been coming here every Wednesday night for nearly seven months now, in an attempt to stave off the encroaching solitude of old age. He had made a few acquaintances here and collectively they put considerable effort into the pretense that this was a fun activity. Paddy had said to him one evening “Just fake it til you make it!” so they had taken this as gospel and by George, it worked. The announcer was the same one as usual, a spritely woman in her 50s dressed in a glittered jacket and top hat, and saturated with the determination of an eternal optimist. Her outfit today nearly matched the green curtains. Michael glanced down at his scorecard and absentmindedly flicked his eyes over those of his table friends; Paddy, Elsie, Grace, Peter and Kik. So far, only Peter had ever won the coveted giant Toblerone prize.
“Okay guys, here we go!” called the announcer.
“Today’s lucky first number is…number 2, one little duck!”
A good start, thought Michael as he marked off the number 2 on his scorecard. He allowed himself a small smile and shifted around in his seat to partially conceal the reaction from his fellow Bingo-ites. As he did so, his foot struck something soft and fluffy under the table and the object let out a tiny squawk. He peered down under the flimsy wallpaper table and to his surprise there was a little duck peering back at him.
“Ho ho, what a strange coincidence!” he laughed. “Gracie, look at this.”
Gracie bent down to follow the direction of Michaels gesture.
“Oh, what a darling thing.”
“Where do you think it came from?”
“I haven’t the foggiest. Oh…another number!”
“Number 73, queen bee!” said the announcer.
Michael was having extraordinary luck today, and he hastily marked off number 73 on his scorecard. No sooner had he done that than a very loud, persistent drone began outside the hall, seemingly getting closer and closer by the second. He thought nothing of it and returned his attention to the announcer.
“Number 55, snakes alive!”
A hatrick, well I never! Michael marked out number 55 on his card and was just about to proclaim his good fortune to Gracie when a blood curdling scream erupted from the next table over.
“I thought I saw….a snake!”
“There goes old Marjory again,” scoffed Peter. “Mad as a hatter. Loves the attention.”
Michael thought uneasily on the tiny duck under the table and quickly checked to make sure that he, too, wasn’t mad as a Marjory. It was still there, looking him straight in the eye, stock still. He wasn’t sure if this was better or worse, but the room had returned to normal levels of excitement and no one seemed to be paying any heed to poor Marjory.
A new ball had been drawn.
“Number 4, knock on the door!”
A loud knock on the door startled them all into stillness. The knock came again.
“Come on in, it’s open!” said the announcer, as a sea of grey hair turned warily towards the door. A tall man in a military uniform stood now in the frame, covered in soot and terror. Someone fainted.
“It’s Lizzy’s husband! This is impossible….he died, died in the war all those years ago, it can’t be, it really can’t…he hasn’t aged..”
There were murmerings of “…unknown son…”, “poisoned water in the community hall…”whirling around the room. The person who had fainted turned out to be Lizzy. As she came round, the man held out his arms, tears running down his stained uniform and went towards her.
“Lizzy…I”
“Number 59, Brighton Line!”
Suddenly, amidst the existing affray, a locomotive train slammed through the community hall wall, upending gym benches and a refreshment table. Steam was billowing from the train, bricks were tumbling around it and hissing was simply unbearable. Meanwhile, Lizzy and her reunited husband were unperturbed in the far corner.
“Number 33, dirty knee!”
“Why is she still going?!” shrieked Kik to Michael “What on earth is going on here?”
A large rafter fell to the floor in front of them, narrowly missing their table, and Michael fell to the floor to dive under the table. Plaster had started to rain down from the ceiling and light was streaming into the room through cracks in the ceiling. The train had destabilised the building. He scooped up the poor duck, tucked it into his jacket and began to make his way as fast as he could towards the exit.
“Number 31, get up and run!”
He was halfway there when he realised his friends were in peril. Careful not to squash his little feathered friend, he ran back and grabbed Paddy and Elsie by their arms.
“Come on! We need to go!”
He pushed them in the direction of the door, and went back for Peter and Kik, only to see them safely escaping from the fire exit. Where was Gracie?!
“Gracie?!”
“Number 68, saving Grace!”
He heard a panicked cry from under another table, and again that persistent noise – what was that?
“Gracie?”
“Over here Michael! Help!”
He ran to her voice, and as he knelt down to retrieve her the persistent noise reached fever pitch. He turned to see a bee as large as an albatross heading his way, fast. He could have sworn it was looking directly at him.
“I’ve got you Gracie, let’s go!”
They ran to the back of the hall and into the kitchen, locking the door firmly behind them. They could hear sirens outside, and the bee desperately trying to reach them through the partition. They hid further and further in the kitchen, and finally the sounds started to subside. Michael checked the duck, he was safe and sound and as he pulled his jacket over Gracie, he noticed his scorecard sticking out of the pocket. He pulled it out, crumpled and torn. He couldn’t believe it.
Bingo.