The Candidate

Sogmarsh Wireless Presents — being thirty minutes of high electoral ambition, for an office nobody wants.

The market square. A hustings of one plank on two barrels. Rain, and a small, unconvinced crowd.

ANNOUNCER. Sogmarsh Wireless presents The Candidate; in which Mr Horace P. Dudgeon, President for Life of No. 4½ Sump Lane, stands for high office, and is defeated by a goat with no platform whatsoever.

Interior. The kitchen, that morning. HORACE reads a notice, electrified.

HORACE. Mercy! The office of Bucket-Warden falls vacant! An election! A chance for a man to rise, by the will of the people, to a station of true civic —

MERCY. The Bucket-Warden empties the ceremonial bucket, Horace. Into the drain. On a Friday. That's the whole of the office.

HORACE. (undimmed) It is a foothold, Mercy. From Bucket-Warden, a man ascends. Today the bucket; tomorrow the realm. (sweeping out) I shall need a manifesto. And a rosette.

MERCY. (to herself) Nobody's stood for Bucket-Warden in twenty years. They usually just catch whoever's slowest.

Interior. The square. SOL runs the campaign, meaning he runs a book on it. HORACE mounts the plank.

SOL. (low) Right, I'm your campaign manager. Ten per cent of the stipend, rosettes a shilling, and I've got a very handsome book running on the result. Even money the goat.

HORACE. (distracted) What goat?

SOL. Don't worry about the goat. Give your speech.

HORACE. (to the sparse crowd, thunderous) PEOPLE of Drudgeford! You stand at a crossroads! For too long the ceremonial bucket has been emptied without vision — emptied by men who saw only a bucket, and a drain, and a Friday! I see MORE! I see a Bucket-Wardenship of destiny! I pledge — a bucket emptied not merely on Fridays, but aspirationally! I pledge — a NEW ERA for the effluent of this parish! (beat, ringing) Vote Dudgeon, and the drain shall RUN with the future!

A pause. Rain. One person coughs.

BILLY. (from the crowd, helpfully) That was very loud, Mr Dudgeon.

HORACE. (hissing) Thank you, Billy. (aloud) Are there questions? Questions from the electorate for their next Warden?

A VOICE. Who's the goat?

HORACE. (exasperated) There is no — why does everyone keep — what goat?

SFX: a small, contented bleat. AUBREY VANE, returning officer, consults his ledger.

VANE. (wearily) The other candidate. A goat. Belongs to nobody. Wandered onto the register Tuesday and has expressed no interest in the position whatsoever.

HORACE. (incredulous) I am standing against a goat?

VANE. You are standing against a goat, Mr Dudgeon, and I must tell you the goat is favourite.

HORACE. On what PLATFORM?

VANE. None. That's rather the appeal. (reading) The goat has made no promises, delivered no speeches, and pledged nothing to run with the future. The electorate finds this deeply reassuring in a Bucket-Warden.

SFX: the vote. A shuffling. A tin counting.

VANE. (formally) The result of the poll for Bucket-Warden of Drudgeford. Mr Horace P. Dudgeon: two votes. (beat) The goat: the remainder.

HORACE. (stricken) TWO? I made a speech! I had a rosette! I promised an ERA! The goat did nothing!

VANE. (gently) Yes. That was its manifesto, and it was a very popular one. (closing ledger) The people of this realm have been governed by vision before, Mr Dudgeon. They found it emptied the bucket late and charged for the privilege. They would sooner have a goat that turns up. (beat) At least you know where you are with a goat. It wants nothing from you but the grass.

SOL. (pocketing his winnings, cheerful) Even money, paid handsome. Lovely goat. (to the goat) No hard feelings, Your Wardenship. (to Horace) You came a very respectable second, Horace. Both your votes.

HORACE. (hollow) ...Who was the other one? Who voted for me besides myself?

BILLY. (proudly) Me, Mr Dudgeon. I thought your speech was very loud and I like you.

HORACE. (a long pause; then, quietly touched despite it all) ...Thank you, Billy. That is — of my entire electorate — that is the finest reason a man was ever voted for. (beat) You and I. Against the goat. We shall not forget it.

Interior. The kitchen. MERCY. HORACE, deflated but oddly at peace.

MERCY. Heard you lost to a goat.

HORACE. (with dignity) I lost to a candidate of no promises, Mercy, in a realm that has learned, the hard way, to distrust a man with a vision and a rosette. (pause) The goat wanted nothing. I wanted everything. The people know which is safer to hand a bucket. (sighs) ...It is, when you consider it, rather wise of them.

MERCY. (fond, flat) You'll stand again next year, though.

HORACE. (rallying, immortal) Against a goat, Mercy? (beat) ...Only if it makes the mistake of issuing a manifesto. The moment it promises anything, it's finished, and the seat is mine.

ANNOUNCER. Sogmarsh Wireless has presented The Candidate. The Bucket-Warden of Drudgeford is a goat, and is discharging the office to universal satisfaction, having pledged nothing and delivered exactly that. Mr Dudgeon polled two, and treasures them both.

A contented bleat. The drip. Slow fade.

— end —