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Cherry Trees in Scotland.

     The mirror only served to confirm the terrible truth.
Brian gripped the tweezers gingerly and tentatively tried to
push the offending hairs back into place. Samantha, his
girlfriend of four glorious years, had been highlighting for a
few months now that his eyebrows were growing in an
increasingly wayward manner. He had ignored it as best he
could, but felt that now they had actually met above his nose
that the time for action had finally arrived. He pinched one of
the hairs between the metal tips and pulled gently. The skin
seemed to stretch and pull the hair back, as he continued to
tug he felt a peculiar burning sensation that prickled his face,
his eyes welled with tears and with a final tug the tweezers lost
their grip. Taking a firm grasp once more he yanked his hand
smartly down in a sharp change of approach. A flash of pain
sparked through his brain and he looked at the tweezers to
find that he had managed to harvest not just the one, but two.
     "Get a move on! Christ, and they say that women take
their time getting ready for a date." screamed Samantha
through the bathroom door.
     Brian walked over to the toilet, lifted the seat and
relieved himself. How had he let them talk him in to this damn
thing? The local theatre was putting on a production of the
Cherry Orchard by Anton Chekhov, Mark had suggested that
they should go along as a group, picking up their seats cheaply
on the night of the performance. Ever since seeing a
production of  The Seagull' Mark had been a huge fan of
Chekhov. The general themes of the plays had touched him
very deeply at the particular moment in life he had reached,
and now he would talk at great length (generally to himself in
the end) about the way he found them really funny. Brian
wasn't convinced.
     "We're going to be late!" Sam cried again.
     "Okay, okay, keep your knickers on!" he snapped
back.
     "Finally." she sighed as he walked out on to the
landing, the reaching up she fiddled with his tie. Brian knew
that he was in for a friendly chat whenever this happened. "We
don't go out to the theatre much, but I do think it's nice to
make an effort. The other thing I think that I should warn you
about is Clare's new boyfriend."
     "Another loony?"
     "No." she frowned at him and could see that it was
going to be a long evening, "He's a little on the mature side.
I've never actually met the man, but she simply adores him, so
NO taking the piss, okay?"
     "How old is OLD?"
     "Just you watch it, you could be facing a long stretch
of sex-depravation if you keep this up and neither of us wants
to go down that sorry road again, do we?"
     "No, no, NO!" he concurred, holding his hands up in
a gesture of defeat. It would be quite a while before he forgot
the consequences of talking politics with Sam's father.
     "While we're on the subject of behaviour, could you
at least try to be civil to Mark, I know that the two of you
don't get on but that's no reason to sour the evening."
     "I'll do my best, but if he starts dribbling on about the
funny side of Chekhov, or the hilarious way in which his short
stories are mirrored by Fitzgerald I swear I'll wring his neck."
     She kissed him lightly on the cheek and then skipped
down the stairs.

     The Rose theatre was underfunded and the base for
myriad amateur dramatics groups, putting on their endless
productions of Shakespeare and Noel Coward pastiche.
Tonight there was a touring company in town. They were
doing a national tour of Chekhov's most renowned play as
part of an ongoing experiment, the same group of actors
would put on five plays in the coming two years. The idea was
that as the actors became used to each other's styles they
would be able to bring out hidden depths from each of the
plays.
     The foyer of the theatre was sparse and quiet,
obviously the good citizens of Kidderminster were nonplussed
at the thought of an evening out watching Chekhov. Leaflets
littered the floor where the breeze had whisked them from the
rack and now they twitched on the carpet like amputated
leaves in autumn. In a room off to one side was the small and
functional bar which had been given the ludicrous name of the
local councillor who'd opened it. Sitting at a table, near the
window which looked out onto the car park, Judith sat talking
to Clare. The man holding Clare's hand looked as though he
was experiencing an uncomfortable bout of wind.
     "Hello!" called Sam as she and Brian entered the bar.
"Get me a gin and tonic and I'll meet you over there, and try
not to insult anyone."
     Sam strolled across the small room purposefully and
grinned her friends.
     "Looking forward to seeing the play?" she asked, with
just the faintest twinge of sarcasm,  then holding her hand out
to the man she introduced herself, "and you must be Frank,
I've heard so much about you."
     "All good." assured Clare quickly.
     "That's very reassuring." Frank cringed and a nervous
laugh escaped from his lips.
     "How on earth did you persuade Brian to come along
tonight, I mean he hates any films which don't have at least a
couple of sex scenes and some really big explosions." asked
Judith.
     "I just told him that because it is a very arty play, late
night channel four stuff, that they'd probably be a fair bit of
full frontal nudity. He perked up quite a bit after I told him
that."
     "He's going to HATE you at the end of the evening!"
tittered Clare.
     "I know!" she beamed, "Serves the pervy sod right if
you ask me. Anyway, where is Mark I'd have thought he'd be
here enthusing to himself ages ago?"
     "He's in the loo, I think that the excitement got too
much for him."

     Right on cue Mark strode over to the table, checking
his flies surreptitiously and enquiring what everyone was
laughing about.
     "The intrinsic hilarity of the play, of course." said
Frank, before they all dissolved into affable hysterics.
     "Well, I'm glad that there will be people in the
audience tonight who appreciate the humour!" Mark
concurred, much to his friends continued amusement.
     Brian handed Sam her G & T and took a deep swig of
bitter. The laughter was drying up and a nervous silence was
taking its place.
     "So, this play is a comedy then?" he asked
involuntarily.
     "A black-comedy really," confided Mark cheerfully,
"the basis of all of his plays is that you've got one group of
people who want success and another group who have success
and NONE of them are happy."
     "Sounds a bit dire to me, still at least they get their kit
off, eh?"
     He could tell from the puzzled faces that this evening
would not go as he'd been led to believe.
     "The curtain will rise in five minutes. Please make your
way to your seats."
     Mark and Frank went to buy programs while Judith
and Clare went to the toilet.
     "So there's no nudity." sighed Brian.
     "You'll love it, I promise."
     "I wish you hadn't lied to me." he snapped, "You're
always doing this, making me look like a prat. I suppose it was
me that you were all laughing at as I walked over from the
bar; dozey Brian, who thinks that Chekhov writes bedroom
comedies."
     "No! We were just laughing at Mark for being so far
up his own arse."
     "So, it's not just me who thinks that then?"
     She pecked him tenderly on the cheek,
     "Let's go and find our seats."

     Millions of people sit in their front rooms, night after
night, watching television. The flick of image upon image,
steady, reliable, repetitive serves to provide a background
against which the cares of the day preceding fall away. There
is something engaging and enticing about live performance.
Spittle flies from the actors mouths, reaching the front rows in
angry scenes. The presence of the protagonists involves the
audience in ways which even the most elaborate setting
through glass cannot achieve. The masterpiece, like the play,
cannot be perfect and it is in expectation of the slip and the
spontaneous energy, that plays and concerts draw their
audience. Of course, once in a while, as with anything a play
can just be crap.

     "I'm sorry," Mark begged at the interval, "I tried to
warn you, but if Chekhov is done badly it is awful. You just
have to believe me that if it's done well it is fantastic."
     "The play is TERRIBLE!" groaned Samantha.
     "I reckon the nudity would've added a bit of
excitement." muttered Brian, reaching around  Sam and
whispering into her ear, "Yep, I'm sorry Mark, but I don't
reckon I can take much more of this, me & Sam are making a
break for it while we can."
     "I'm sorry, I just hope it hasn't put you off of Chekhov
forever, he is a wonderful writer! Even though I freely admit
the actors are crucifying it I do think that some of the genius
of the dialogue shows through." Mark tried to explain, but
Sam and Brian had already slipped away.
     "The main problem with the play," ventured Frank,
who was now beginning to feel a little more comfortable
around his younger companions, "is that because nothing
happens in it you need the actors to draw out the subtleties of
the individual characters. In this production they seem to have
spent all their time trying to perfect a Russian accent and none
of it getting a feel for the protagonists."
     "The accents are dreadful," laughed Judith, "they all
sound as though they're Scottish."
     "I'm sorry." sighed Mark, "I don't think I can
apologise enough."
     "I think that if Frank doesn't mind, we might nip to the
pub for a couple of drinks, do you two fancy coming too?"
suggested Clare.
     "I think that's an excellent suggestion, darling."
     "I know it's awful," Mark smiled, "but I'd actually like
to see if they can rescue it or whether they crucify it even
more. I did think that the leading man was doing a good job."
     "The programme says he trained at RADA."
     "That explains it, but he had the most Scottish accent
of all."
     "Judith, do you fancy coming along?" Frank offered
enticingly.
     "We might see you in there after final curtain." she
nudged Mark to try and shake the scowl from his face. "Have
a nice drink though."
     Frank and Clare left with unseemly haste.
     "You didn't have to stay. I just thought that it HAD to
get better."
     Judith just raised her eyebrows and they went back in
to find their seats.

     Brian lay very still in bed as he listened to Sam
cleaning her teeth and washing her face in the bathroom. Her
bedside lamp was on and it cast an achingly bright light onto
the duvet. So much for Chekhov and culture, he thought, I'd
rather sit in a pub and watch some footy with my mates any
day. He started to frown, but the skin between his eyebrows
felt raw and stung.

©1998 Mark Sexton