Maisie Watkins and the Professor

Almost two years had elapsed since Maisie’s husband, acting on his mid-life crisis, had abruptly exited their thirty-year marriage. Maisie, now reverting to her maiden name, Maisie Watkins, had incrementally begun asserting herself as an individual, rather than being someone’s wife. Seeking a week to herself, away from the cloistering weather, her tiny inner London flat, and her personally unsatisfying yet undemanding job packing shelves in a small Tesco supermarket, Maisie had travelled by rail to the Dorset coast. She booked a modest beachfront room in the Fairhaven Hotel on the Esplanade in Weymouth. This was a summer treat for Maisie and a cost that she was still struggling to justify. Towards the end of her escape, a week filled with reflection and personal regrowth, 55-year-old Maisie Watkins met the Professor.

 Seated alone at her table in the hotel’s breakfast room, Maisie gleefully juggled a forkful of warm poached egg and benedict sauce towards her gaping mouth. A voice interrupted. Alone at an adjacent table, a man, perhaps in his late fifties, asked if he could join her at her table. Maisie froze. A trail of egg yolk and sauce slid down her chin. Retrieving a napkin, she quickly dabbed away the offending egg as her face reddened.

“Oh…er, I’m sorry if I er, startled you. Just trying to be friendly, that’s all,” he stammered.

Recovering composure, Maisie reluctantly nodded her approval, and the gentleman relocated his breakfast plate and cutlery to her table. Damn, now she’d need to display more proficiency with runny egg. Perhaps she should use a spoon in his company.

 Maisie was normally averse to small talk but the stranger, who introduced himself as Roger, engaged her in easy, gentle conversation. She quickly felt relaxed in his presence, and bit by bit they verbally chipped away, unearthing vignettes of each other’s life story. For some perplexing reason, Maisie felt more at ease knowing that he was a professor; she was breakfasting with a safe, sedate type of person. Not an axe murderer… or a sleazy politician. Asking him to elaborate on the nature of his professorship, she learned that a puppeteer in a Punch and Judy booth is known as a professor. The term began 300 years ago and is still used today.

 She’d rarely journeyed far from London and Maisie had never witnessed a Punch and Judy show. He explained that they were quite common on English beaches during summertime and he owned a small red and white striped puppet theatre on Weymouth Beach just across the Esplanade from their hotel. The professor insisted she come along and enjoy today’s lunchtime show, sit on the beach in the sunshine with the other tourists. Maisie felt attracted to this gentleman; a feeling she hadn’t experienced for many years.

 At midday, she settled into a striped beach chair with her hat and backpack amongst excited kids and their parents. She slipped off her sensible shoes… experienced the exquisite tingle of warm sand between her closeted London toes. When the curtains opened, to a burst of generous applause from sunburnt, sugared-up kids and their sunburnt, caffeinated parents, the Professor introduced his main characters including Mr Punch, his wife Judy, the Baby, Policeman Jack, and the Hangman. Maisie didn’t recognise the professor’s voice as Mr Punch and only learned later that professors insert a swazzle into their mouth to give Mr Punch’s voice a trademark high-pitched, kazoo-like sound. She had difficulty equating that rasping, chaotic voice with the gentle voice of the man she’d breakfasted with just a few hours earlier. As the puppeteer, Roger’s handsome features were concealed beneath the stage of the small theatre.

 The show was a hit with the kids. There was an abundance of raucous audience interaction. They roared at the slapstick, self-satisfied antics of Mr Punch; they booed when he berated Judy or beat her with his stick or threw the baby down the stairs. When Policeman Jack asked the audience where Mr Punch was hiding, kids collectively bellowed, “He’s behind you!”

They cracked up when Mr Punch informed the audience he’d put the dog in the sausage machine. Whenever Punch dispatched other puppets, he’d turn to the audience and utter his constant kazoo-like refrain of “That’s the way to do it!”

When Policeman Jack copped a beating with Mr Punch’s stick, Punch was ultimately bundled off to the hangman much to the enthusiastic glee of the audience.

 When the curtains finally closed, ending the chaos, Maisie didn’t share that joy. While revved-up kids and parents quickly dispersed towards ice-cream stalls and fun-parlours, she remained at the beach to help Roger pack up. She carefully placed the puppets back into his large suitcase. He sought her opinions of the show. There was a pursing of lips, a pregnant pause, a tsunami of doubt. Maisie didn’t hold back.

 “It’s not really suitable for kids Roger. Or adults for that matter.”

The professor’s face sagged visibly. “Why not? It’s slapstick.”

“No, Roger, it’s violent and promotes spouse beating.”

“But it’s just entertainment Maisie.”

“So was gladiatorial combat.”

“But surely this isn’t believable violence.”

“Well, it turns a blind eye to violence and promotes it as a means of disagreement.”

“But the kids at my shows know it’s not real violence! They know they’re just puppets!”

“Kids don’t always have the reasoning skills to differentiate. And throwing the baby down the stairs trivialises child assault just to score a cheap laugh.”

“Maisie, It’s affordable entertainment and it’s got a cultural heritage of over 300 years!”

“Sorry, but it normalises violence in a marriage. Trust me Roger, I know a lot about that.”

 The recently empowered Ms Watkins settled into her seat on the 3:15 express train returning to London. She was second-guessing the professor’s response. Maisie was pleased he’d asked her to re-pack the large puppet suitcase after the performance. Perhaps his show would henceforth be known as ‘The Judy Show’ since Mr Punch had done a runner. Maisie wasn’t present to watch the concrete pour which entombed Mr Punch on the construction site at the rear of the Fairhaven Hotel in Weymouth. With a tinge of regret, she recalled dispatching the vicious little bastard there in the rushed interval between her hotel checkout and boarding the 3:15. And for the remainder of the homeward rail journey, despite glorious English countryside, Maisie wrestled with her conscience…. maybe we’re all hard-wired to exact retribution.