The Prisoner (1979)

S
ome mornings it was:

‘Guten Morgen, Nummer Sechs.’
Number 105 straightened from her rose bushes and fluttered roughened, pudgy fingers at him.

‘Wie geht es Ihnen?’

This interest seemed to please her, and she smiled, tucking a straying grey hair back beneath her scarf.
‘Gut, danke, und Ihnen?’

‘Gut, danke.’

Beyond her yard, the street widened, winding down along the green, past the grocer’s, to the sea.

Ting-a-ling-ling.

The bell above the door rang sharply in the dim, musky interior.

Number 87 looked up from the morning paper. ‘Ah, it’s you, Number Six.’ His fat cheeks bowed in a smile. ‘I’ve been expecting you. That order of pickled herring just came in.’

‘I’d also like a half-dozen eggs, a five pound bag of flour, and some especially sharp cheddar.’

‘Cheddar?’ Number 87 scratched dubiously behind his ear. ‘Oh, yes. Just the thing for you.’ He lifted the flap of the counter and came out around it, going to a group of wooden barrels in the shadow of one wall. He pushed back a cloth cover and produced a bit of rich golden cheese. ‘Try this.’

‘Satisfactory. Quite satisfactory.’

‘I thought you’d like it.’ Number 87 nodded and smiled. ‘How much?’

‘A half-pound, I should think.’

‘Want to make it a whole pound, just to be sure?’

‘No. Definitely a half.’

‘Right-o, Number Six.’ He busied himself weighing cheese, counting eggs, and getting the flour from its shelf. ‘Anything else for you today?’ he said, doing the sum on a length of butcher’s paper.

‘Not today.’

‘That will be one point one five credit units.’

‘Charge it to my account.’

‘Good enough.’

‘And could you deliver this afternoon, about five?’

‘Right-o.’ He rolled it all together in the paper and tied the bundle with a string. ‘I’ll have Number Twenty-four bring it round. That is, if he ever gets here.’ Number 87 frowned, though his eyes remained merry and active. ‘Not dependable, you know. That’s the way with youngsters these days. Not dependable.’ He shook his head in emphasis.

‘Be seeing you.’

Number 87 sketched a salute. ‘Be seeing you, Number Six.’

Ting-a-ling-ling.

There was music playing on the speakers outside, and as the sun brightened, warming, people began to appear on the green and in the windy, gravelled lanes between the houses.

‘Good day, Number Six.’ Number 237 appeared from a side street, sweeping off his battered fisher’s hat and waving. Then he hurried and caught up. ‘Where are you off to today?’

‘A chess game with the Admiral.’

‘Is that right? Never learned myself, you know.’ His scrubbed, honest face furrowed. ‘Not my sort of thing. More a hunting and fishing man, myself. Like to watch wrestling on TV. That sort of thing.’

He was silent for a moment.

‘You know something, Number Six?’

‘What?’

‘They’re having a chess tournament in Village Hall next month, you really ought to enter.’

‘Why?’

‘It’d be fun. I enter the fishing contest, myself. Won two years running. Not last year though. That was Number Eighty-seven. His first time, too. Going down to sign up now. Want to come with me and enter the chess tournament?’

‘No thank you, Two Thirty-seven.’

‘Well, this is where I turn off. Some other time, maybe.’

His hand swung in a hearty backslap, ‘Be seeing you,’ and he was off along the lane towards the Civic Centre.

Ting-a-ling-ling. The bell above the door rang. Inside it was cool, dark, sweet with the scent of tobacco.

‘Bonjour,
Number Six. How are you today?’ The leathery old man continued rolling a cigar.

‘Well enough, thank you, One Fifty-seven. And you?’

‘Pretty well myself.’ He set the cigar aside to dry.

‘You’ll be wanting your specials, right?’

‘Two dozen.’

‘Just a moment.’ He got up and went through a curtain to the back.

Ting-a-ling-ling.

‘Number One Fifty—’ The woman stopped. ‘Oh! Hello, Number Six.’ Her flowered dress swung against too full a figure. ‘I didn’t see you here.’ She looked around. ‘Where’s One Fifty-seven?’

‘In the—’

‘Here I am.’

‘There you are.’

Number 157 placed a box on the counter. ‘Shall I wrap it?’

‘No. I’ll take it.’

‘There’s the strangest thing going on outside.’

‘Here you are.’

‘Thank you.’

‘They’re making some kind of film.’

‘I’ll have to put in a new order soon.’

‘Please do—’

‘Do you know anything about it, Number Six?’

‘—and put this on my account. No, I don’t, Number Thirty-two.’

Her look was speculative and inviting.

‘That’s too bad, Number Six. How about you, One Fifty-seven?’

‘What’s this about a film?’

‘There.’ She pointed through the window. Four young men stood around a camera, and a fifth stood behind it, eye to the lens, face hidden, looking through it towards the shop.

‘Qu’est-ce que c’est que ceci?
What are they doing to my store?’

Ting-a-ling-ling.

One of the youths came through the door, stuffing a handkerchief into the hip pocket of his denim slacks. ‘Hiya, pops. My mates and me’—he indicated the others around the camera—’are doing our term project in Film-making. You remember, the course was announced last spring. And we were wondering if you wouldn’t mind if we took some shots of you at work?’

‘Me? Working?
Je ne compre
—I mean: Why?’

The youth shoved his hands into the pockets of his black leather jacket. ‘Well, it’s a kind of documentary. There’s so much to do and see here, so many interesting people and events, that we…my mates and me…we thought we’d try to show the old and the new. What it has been like and what it will be like.’

‘Oh.
Oui.
Whatever you like.’

‘And you, sir,’ the youth smiled: blond and engaging. ‘I didn’t catch your number.’

‘Don’t you know?’ Number 32 said. ‘This is Number Six.’

‘Gosh, is that right, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘Have you?’

‘Oh, yes. A great deal. They think highly of you in this Village.’

‘Do they?’

‘Yes. Me mother talks about you sometimes. And me mate, Number Twenty-four. He says you’re a regular sort. Would you like to be in our film? I’m sure everyone would like to see you. You’re not out much, I hear.’

‘No, thank you. I’m already late for an appointment.’

‘Say, that’s too bad. Some other time?’

‘Perhaps. Good day—’

‘Number Five Sixty-nine.’

‘And to you, too, Number Thirty-two.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To chess with the Admiral.’

‘The Admiral. Say, I’ll bet he’d be a good subject for our film. He’s been here longer than anybody.’

‘
A bientöt
, Number Six.’

‘Be seeing you, One fifty-seven.’

‘Say, Miss—’

‘Thirty-two. But it’s Mrs really. My husband died.’

‘That’s too bad.’

‘Oh, it was some time ago.’

‘Well, would you care to—’

Ting-a-ling-ling.

A sharp, cool breeze had sprung up from the sea, smelling of salt water in the sleepy afternoon sunshine. The group around the camera glanced up curiously, then turned back to their conversation.

Down the beach (past the deck chairs with their red and white striped umbrellas) the Village Restaurant was just opening. Number One Twenty-seven was busying herself about the patio tables, whisking off the night’s residue of grit and moisture, and preparing for the day’s clientele. She stopped for a moment and waved: the fragile face beneath her tarnished blonde hair showing no trace of the bitterness that had led her to attempt suicide in the water so near at hand.

‘Ah, Number Six. Been wondering when you’d get here.’ The Admiral displayed the open board, figures ranked upon it.

‘Good day, Admiral. Sorry to be late.’

‘Think nothing of it. Happened to be late myself. A touch of stiffness in my bones this morning.’

‘Nothing serious, I trust.’

‘Damme, lad, only an old man’s aches and pains. Don’t give it a second thought.’ His huge gentle fingers opened to reveal two pawns: one black, one white. He hid them behind his back, then held out both hands, palms closed. ‘Choose.’

‘That one.’

The right contained: black.

They made the traditional opening: Queen’s pawns to Queen’s four.

The new girl came out, wearing a terrycloth robe over her swim suit, and moved one of the chairs into the sun, using a towel for a pillow. Sunlight gleamed off the silver lenses of her glasses.

‘She’s a looker, eh, lad? What do you think?’

‘Haven’t met her.’

‘Always a cautious one, you are.’ He brought his cane around and leaned his chin on the ferule. ‘Know her number?’

‘No.’

‘Number Seven.’

‘Your move.’

‘Eh, lad. Oh, yes.’

The Admiral’s face composed itself line by fold by jowl into an exaggerated concentration, and he placed a finger beside his nose, peering blearily down at the board. Then he reached out, lifted an ivory figure, and set it down on a white square, vulnerable and tempting.

Reply:

Pawn took pawn.

The old man smiled, moved a Knight in reply.

‘Knight to Queen’s Bishop three. You prefer, then, Admiral, the Scotch opening?’

The play went swiftly.

‘What? Castling so soon?’

Somewhere, out of sight, a brash young band swung into a Beatles tune,
Michelle.

Four moustached young men in gaudy silk uniform led the band. Behind them a group of men marched in Salvation Army grey. Their leader had the hangdog look of the existentialist intellectual, steel-rimmed glasses, a French horn, and a chartreuse suit with red piping. He was followed by a shifty-eyed, big nosed trombone player in pink with blue braid; a sweet-faced choirboy fingering an oboe; and last: a stern-faced lad in a scarlet tri-corn.

Down the beach the girl in the bathing suit had turned in her chair and lifted her glasses for a look.

She was beautiful.