Richard Redman

Mr Davies applauds the violinist too loudly as she is led away. ‘Marvellous, marvellous!’ he bellows, confident he can rescue his school from its funding crisis through a constant flow of exhortations and superlatives. ‘What a tremendous conclusion to the musical section of our Eisteddfod. Yes? Wonderful stuff! And now, without much further ado — in theatrical monologue — our sole entrant…’

Anticipating the call, Matthew springs to his feet. He strides to the stage sensing opportunity. Today they will listen. Who they are exactly he cannot determine, but he hopes they will be listening nonetheless. He lays a tentative foot against the edge of the stage, comprised of wooden block sections, and pushes down on it to be sure it will safely support him. With reluctant alacrity he takes the centre of a performance space, which then opens out around him, a wide and lonely expanse.

‘What are you going to do for us Matthew?’

‘Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.’

There is an audible sigh from the children.

‘Hamlet? Mrs Price has placed some faith in your precocity.’

‘Sir, I chose and prepared it myself.’

‘Marvellous, marvellous!’ Davies exclaims, leaving the stage.

Ay so, God bye to you! Now I am alone.

And so he is.