FENENDERS: PILOT
This is simultaneously the pilot and the final episode for the first ever Fenland-based soap opera, FenEnders.
It stars myself, as myself, aged 13. And myself, as my mother, aged 47. And myself, as my father, aged 52. And myself, as both halves of a lesbian couple, aged 35 and 35.
Any resemblance to persons, fictional or otherwise, living or otherwise, is entirely intentional.
*
TITLE SCENE
It’s me, sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the television screen. I’m wearing a slightly-too-small, swamp-coloured parka with the hood pulled all the way up. The camera has caught me from behind, slightly side-on, so I’m just a tremulous green polyester sack, head haloed in matted fronds of fake fur trim, back-lit by the screen’s cathode glow. My sack-esque-ness is furthered by my lack of hands, them being shoved behind my back under my bum like a Gallagher brother. I’m sat, hunched over, a small dribble glitters its way down my chin and soaks it way up through my parka, leaving a dark stain.
Then, from within the scene, a series of percussive beats announce themselves from the television, followed by an upbeat piano and strings track. The show is starting. On the TV, overhead drone footage spirals in a circle, zooming out like the mystery picture round of a primetime gameshow, only revealing just more flat greenbrown, greenbrown divided by the chalky streaks of the broad post-medieval dykes and the watery runnels of the post-industrial baby dykes. Over top, a title fades in: F.E.N.E.N.D.E.R.S, FenEnders.
The music is now not coming from the television in front of my seated body, but has soared to the level of the non-diegetic soundtrack, radiating as non-specific atmosphere, addressing you, the previously unhailed viewer of this whole set piece. Suddenly, I whip my head around to face the camera. A broad grin lifts the corners of my mouth and I raise my hand in a sloppy, childish wave, windscreen-wipering all over the shop. My eyes are watering––I am really pleased to see you.
The title card from the television in my living room leaves the little box to engulf my goofy, glazey face.
Welcome to FenEnders.
*
Fade in on an image of the same living room from before, only this time angled differently, so that more of the room, including the sofa came into view. The one single window in the end wall is bright white with light above the straight flat of the horizon line, ruled on with the exactitude of a spirit level.
My mum and dad are sat on the sofa––cream suede, which had looked dirty from the second it was new. They are both staring in the same direction, identical pink polka dot mugs in their hands. Maybe it’s the silly mugs, but they look like they are wearing someone else’s clothes. My mother is sat in a purple boucle jumper and skirt two-piece, a green pussy-bow blouse tied at her neck, and pale pink stockings that show the dirt from the floor collected around the toes. A petit pois is squashed into one of the heels, another splash of green that ties the ensemble together. My father is himself squeezed into a sailor suit, the blue and white smock top creased at the collar, a presentation unacceptable had it ever been worn on a ship, but it probably never had. The suit had a non-specific look about it that suggested it was not a functioning sailor suit. An orange-red neckerchief hung loosely down under the smock’s pointy lapels.
Separating my mum from my dad is an abject sinkhole in crushed suede, a ghost bum dimple. But if that is my arseprint, where am I?
My mother shouts me out from somewhere else in the house. I make myself known at the doorway before she has even got my full name free from her mouth, appearing just like I had never been anywhere else apart from here, at the room’s edge. I am wearing a slightly too-small swamp-coloured parka with a fake fur trim around the hood.
My father tells me I have been upstairs in my room all day. He tells me to go outside and play with my friends.
I am confused––caught off-guard, I keep looking down the wrong lens for my reaction shot. My nose starts to burn on the inside, at the top of the nostrils, near the bridge. I don’t have any friends, outside, or anywhere. No one lives down this end.
There are no cameras outside either, because this is a family show, i.e., a show about family. Outside there are only dykes, which only mark private property, they are not so themselves.
There is nothing to do around here except be on TV. There used to be a pub called Dyke’s End, but then the lease on that place ended too. Now it is an AirBnB, after being bought by a lesbian couple from London who saw the name and thought it was funny. They work in media––they were actually the ones who actioned this programme, only now they are never here.
Over FaceTime, with me sat on the cream suede sofa in the living room on my iPhone 5, them sat together in their home office, a vintage print of the cover of a book called ‘A Room of One’s Own’ by Virginia Woolf on the wall behind them, the blonde one calls me a little dyke. She says this while smiling but it didn’t seem to be a good thing in practice. This had something to do with the news they were calling to share––there hadn’t been much interest in the pilot of FenEnders, the other blonde one says. Feedback was the show lacked any heart. Plus there was not a large enough cast of characters for long-term growth and story line development. Meaning not enough to kill off a few each year. Without these deaths, the Fens were just too real, the other blonde one says. Which equals too depressing, the original blonde one says. Here is where she calls me a little dyke, which is how I picked up on the funky feeling behind the smile. Good story-telling is also knowing what has to be left out, the other blonde one says. And knowing when to call it quits completely, the original blonde one says. The show is over folk, the other blonde one says.
*
Suddenly, I whip my head around to face the camera. A broad grin lifts the corners of my mouth and I raise my hand in a sloppy, childish wave, windscreen-wipering all over the shop. My eyes are watering––it’s been really great to see you.