Eton Mess

By Merlin Ward

A self-fulfilling prophesy

 It was a non-smoking carriage but the skinhead couldn’t read the sign or, maybe it was he didn’t care. Keen to get off the train, the young actor slid down the window, turned the handle and, making sure he didn’t hit anyone standing on the platform, he opened the door, jumping off whilst the train was still entering Charing Cross Station. He handed in his ticket to the inspector at the gate and checked the time on his Longines watch, a gift from his parents. “Peter,” said his father handing his son the velvet covered box. “Time is short. Use it wisely.”

Peter headed out of the grimy station, walking quickly past some kids with a transistor radio that was blaring out his favourite T. Rex song ‘Ride a White Swan’. Marc Bolan was the glam rock star of 1971. It was also a good year for Peter who was playing a major role in his third West End play at the tender age of nineteen.

Life was good; he had money, a burgeoning acting career, and an exciting evening in prospect. He’d been invited to help out at a showbiz party for the princely sum of £10; not just any showbiz party but one given by the UK’s leading playwright.  

“Here you are, dearie.” Lavender wrapped in tin foil was shoved under his nose, by a woman, with a lined, sun-hardened face. “For luck,” she said. 

“Thank you.” He took the tiny bunch and with a smile headed off.

“Well, give us something for it!” shouted the woman, running after him.

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