three weddings and a funeral.
The History Boys.
Timms. Crowther. Akthar. Rudge. Nameless wives and named children.
I wanted to dedicate a short piece to the 'unsung heroes' of The History Boys, and take a small glimpse into what goes on in their lives beyond just their occupations. Not ambitious enough to be a set of drabbles; not a penta-drabble, even. What? Yeah, this is why I've never written a dictionary.
To be read backwards:
Mrs Lockwood has never existed.
Mrs Timms has a sweet smile, hazel eyes, and a shout that can be heard in five different area codes. Although her waistline is no match for her husband's, her lung power undeniably is, and it's pure hilarity for his old friends to see him cowering when she scolds him for coming back late for dinner. Neither is fond of kids, but they end up having a few, anyway. She doesn't argue when he insists on their first son being called James.
Mrs Crowther has sandy hair and a prowess for the piano, and if her husband were a bit more like his cruder ex-classmates, he would have mentally called her 'Scripps with tits' before he learned her real name. The biggest hurdle in their relationship was introducing him to her parents in their second year of university. He'd wondered aloud if it was because he was black. "No," she'd said matter-of-factly, fishing in her pocket for keys. "More the fact that you want to be an actor."
Mrs Akthar collects mathematical equations in the same way her husband does poetry, and it's no surprise that they initially met teaching at the same grammar school. Her dry way of speaking reminds him of his old History teacher, and he often tells her so. "I suppose there are worse things in life to be compared to," she says, tone heavy with premature world-weariness, and he doesn't tell her just who else she reminds him of.
Incidentally, Rudge never married. And he fails to see what exactly the problem with that is, thanks. Every pitying look is met with an incredulous, "You fucking mad?" None of them have ever seen the kind of birds that take more than an investigatory glance at the master bedroom with him on tours. Sometimes he even recites Housman to really get them in the mood. But never Sartre. He still hasn't the slightest who the fuck he is.
Timms. Crowther. Akthar. Rudge. Nameless wives and named children.
I wanted to dedicate a short piece to the 'unsung heroes' of The History Boys, and take a small glimpse into what goes on in their lives beyond just their occupations. Not ambitious enough to be a set of drabbles; not a penta-drabble, even. What? Yeah, this is why I've never written a dictionary.
To be read backwards:
Mrs Lockwood has never existed.
Mrs Timms has a sweet smile, hazel eyes, and a shout that can be heard in five different area codes. Although her waistline is no match for her husband's, her lung power undeniably is, and it's pure hilarity for his old friends to see him cowering when she scolds him for coming back late for dinner. Neither is fond of kids, but they end up having a few, anyway. She doesn't argue when he insists on their first son being called James.
Mrs Crowther has sandy hair and a prowess for the piano, and if her husband were a bit more like his cruder ex-classmates, he would have mentally called her 'Scripps with tits' before he learned her real name. The biggest hurdle in their relationship was introducing him to her parents in their second year of university. He'd wondered aloud if it was because he was black. "No," she'd said matter-of-factly, fishing in her pocket for keys. "More the fact that you want to be an actor."
Mrs Akthar collects mathematical equations in the same way her husband does poetry, and it's no surprise that they initially met teaching at the same grammar school. Her dry way of speaking reminds him of his old History teacher, and he often tells her so. "I suppose there are worse things in life to be compared to," she says, tone heavy with premature world-weariness, and he doesn't tell her just who else she reminds him of.
Incidentally, Rudge never married. And he fails to see what exactly the problem with that is, thanks. Every pitying look is met with an incredulous, "You fucking mad?" None of them have ever seen the kind of birds that take more than an investigatory glance at the master bedroom with him on tours. Sometimes he even recites Housman to really get them in the mood. But never Sartre. He still hasn't the slightest who the fuck he is.