“What’s wrong with cows?” Lady Hucklefish, as she preferred to be called, was propped up in bed as usual, bolstered by so many pillows she was beyond right. Practically acute, in fact.

“I just don’t feel they are really me!”

“Of course they’re not you! They’re cows! How can a cow be you, or you a cow, for that matter? Stupid boy!”

Clive sighed. It was useless arguing with her before her chamber pot was full. Bowel movements tended to bring Temperance.

“TEMPERANCE!” Lady Hucklefish shrieked. “Mi chamb’s full! Bring me t’other post-haste!”

Temperance shot across the room from the kitchen table. Clive caught his sister’s eye as she leant beneath the bed.

She seemed to be saying: Not now, Clive! But then she could equally well have been saying: Why is it always me who has to empty the chamber pot? or even: How many Norwegian fishwives does it take to skin a polar bear? It was hard to tell from a glance.

Clive followed her outside and then back to the kitchen. He stomped his foot, somewhat churlishly, snapping the one remaining nail in the floorboard and causing it to flip painfully up into his knee.

“Temperance, it just isn’t fair! I’ll never get out of here!”

Temperance was washing her hands in a pan of lukewarm, but she spared him a choice and level look. “Why not? You’re always talking about it. What’s stopping you?”

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Clive flipped a hand in the direction of the family bed. “Mother, of course...”

“She’s an old woman, Clive. She can’t stop you. No one here can.”

“But, there’s the cows...”

“The cows’ll take care of themselves, Clive. They always ’ave...”

“And there’s the cabbage patch to tend...”

“You never do any farming, Clive. I do it or it doesn’t get done.”

“And the roof needs fixing...”

“Actually, I fixed it last Thursday.”

“You did?”

“Yep.”

“But that – that was...”

“Your job? Look, Clive, you’re my brother an’ all, so I don’t want to be harsh or anything, but the fact is you’re about as useful round here as a sack of old Irish potatoes. All you ever do, each day everyday, is hide behind that wood stack muttering those lines of yours.”

“Well, I have to rehearse!”

“That play was two winters ago. There hasn’t been another since the village ’all burned down. ‘Oh, for an amusing fire!’ indeed!”

“There’ll be a revival. These things always come back – I mean look at muffin caps, bear-baiting, the monarchy–”

Temperance shook her raven locks. “No Clive, they won’t. The only thing left that even vaguely resembles a stage is the broken marrow cart down by Westfringe Farm–”

“I can take it to the Fringe...”

“Look, Clive. You’re always saying your big break is just waiting for you up north in London. And who’s to say you’re wrong? There’s nothing for you here, and since you’re not pulling your weight – well, quite frankly – I could spare the vittles.”

Clive blinked. “They have comets in London! Two of them! One after the next! Father Whitlock says they are a great poor tent! Not sure how they can be great and poor, or why there’s a bloody tent shooting through the sky but... Perhaps they’re the sign I’ve been waiting for?”

“We have those same comets here, Clive. London and Devon share a sky, remarkably! You should try looking up from those books of yours now and then...”

Lady Hucklefish shrieked again. “Temperance! I’m ready for my wipe-up!”

Temperance started toward, then turned. “Think about it, Clive. I’ll even help you pack! Poor tent an’ all. ’Ow’s that for a sign?”

“Toby or not TOBY, that IS the question!”

“Be. Gone. Clive.”

“Alrighty then.”