The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

Even at a time of national mourning, Mutt was on the spot to provide the memorable moments--the unforgettable images required by death. I almost jumped to my feet and applauded. I knew that the people who witnessed these simple devotions, either in person or on the television screen, would go on talking about them until they sat toothless on a wooden bench, in a cottage dooryard, waiting for their hearts to stop beating.

"Mutt Wilmott," the Dimbleby voice went on, "producer of Rupert Porson's The Magic Kingdom. We are told that he was devastated when news came of the puppeteer's death; that he was rushed to hospital for treatment of cardiac palpitations, but in spite of it--and against his doctor's orders--he insisted on being here today to pay tribute to his late colleague ... although we are told on good authority that an ambulance is standing by at the ready, should it be needed...."

The view from a camera we had not seen before was now cut in. Shooting from a high angle, as if from a rotunda, the view came down and down into the studio, as it might be seen through the eyes of a descending angel, getting closer and closer to the coffin until, at its very foot, it came to rest upon a remarkable figure that could have been none other than Snoddy the Squirrel.

Mounted on a wooden post perhaps, the hand puppet, with its little leather ears, protruding teeth, and question mark of a bushy tail, had been carefully arranged to gaze sadly down upon the coffin of its master, its squirrel paws crossed reverently, its squirrel head bent in an attitude of humble prayer.

There were often times--and this was one of them--when, as if in the sudden, blinding flash of a news photographer's camera--I saw it all. Death was no more than a simple masquerade--and so, moreover, was Life!--and both of them were artfully arranged by something or other: some backstage celestial Mutt Wilmott.

We were puppets, all of us, set in action upon the stage by God--or Fate--or Chemistry, call it what you will, where we would be pulled on like gloves upon the hands, and manipulated by the Rupert Porsons and Mutt Wilmotts of the world. Or the Ophelia and Daphne de Luces.

I wanted to let out a whoop!

How I wished that Nialla were here, so that I could share my discovery with her. After all, no one deserved it more. But by now, for all I knew, she was already steering the decrepit Austin van up the slopes of some Welsh mountain to some Welsh village, where, with the assistance of some hastily rustled-up, real-life Mother Goose, she would unpack her wooden crates and, later tonight, raise the curtain for the gawking villagers in some far-flung St. David's Hall, on her own personal vision of Jack and the Beanstalk.

With Rupert gone, which of us now was the Galligantus? I wondered. Which of us was now the monster that would come tumbling unexpectedly out of the skies and into the lives of others?

"Heartfelt tributes continue to pour in from Land's End to John O'Groats," the announcer was saying, "and from abroad." He paused and gave out a little sigh, as if he had been overwhelmed by the moment.

"Here in London, and in spite of the downpour, the queue continues to grow, stretching as far as All Souls Church, andbeyond into Langham Place. From above the door of Broadcasting House, the statues of Prospero and Ariel look down upon the hordes of mourners, watching, as if they too share in the common grief.

"Immediately following today's ceremonies at Broadcasting House," he went on bravely, "Rupert Porson's coffin will be taken to Waterloo Station, and from there to its place of interment at Brookwood Cemetery, in Surrey."

By now, even Feely could see that we had had enough.

"Enough of this maudlin trash!" she announced, striding across the room and flipping off the switch. The picture on the television tube retracted to a tiny point of light--and vanished.