Prim and Proper are listening to the radio. They are smiling as they sit next to each other, staring straight ahead, and one is tempted to say that they are listening to the wireless, rather than radio, so homely and old-fashioned and lovely is the reverence they accord this everyday activity. Prim and Proper have been doing this for years, and will probably keep on doing this for years, all day, every day, unless something unlikely and unforeseen should happen.

It’s a Tina Turner song now and they give it its due, hearing it out, both perched on the bench in the park, near the modern art sculpture, that big ball of bronze they have never once commented upon, the gravel under their shoes affirmatively hard, and the tune segues into “Drop the Pilot” by Joan Armatrading. Prim might remark that it seems to be an afternoon for female pop singers, should Prim ever talk, or maybe Proper would offer such an observation, should he ever utter, but there really is no need for all that, no need for any utterance at all, for they are probably pondering along the same lines anyway, so accustomed are they to each other and the way the splendid afternoon radio playlists run.

On the news at three the Prime Minister is under attack for failing to disclose certain donations that were made in the Party’s name. The voice of the news broadcaster is stern and authoritative. They like him. If they can be said to like anything, they like him. Though, of course, neither has actually ever said –naturally.

The park is quiet and Prim and Proper keep the radio volume low, enough to listen comfortably without bothering others. Not that there is anyone to bother today; the sky is overcast and earlier a soft rain had fallen, making the bronze sculpture even more shiny. It’s Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and then U2 and then a nice segue into a Billy Joel number. They are almost tempted to foot-tap.

Two youths then, in denim jeans with a Frisbee and bottles of beer, loitering near the sculpture, shouting at each other in some sort of frolic that is unfamiliar to Prim and Proper, for their play consists solely of the attention to the radio and the delight in the songs that it presents. Prim is only slightly taller than Proper, both men are neatly dressed, bow-tied, are similar in look and outlook; a passer-by might think them twins, but there is no one to pass-by today. Except of course for the two ebullient youths who remain, throwing the plastic disc and drinking from their green bottles, voices lifting, making it hard for Prim and Proper to concentrate on The Blow Monkeys, as that final pop song fades to the jingle and proclamation of the news at four.

The news at four declares that the Prime Minister has in fact been taking cash in large sums for political favours, and lists such activities as acquiring passports for certain foreigners.

Prim and Proper aren’t prone to judging, so they do not tut or raise eyebrows at the news, they only ever tut or eyebrow-raise to the songs and their lyrical or musical content. Some time ago — how many years exactly neither could probably tell — they did in fact eyebrow-raise (not tut, mind) to a song that had the chorus line:

When I think about you I touch myself

A little risqué for 3:15 in the afternoon perhaps, though neither said, just a slight arching of an eyebrow (both used the left), a clearing of the throat, and no more. That day they continued to stare ahead, waiting to hear what the radio would play next; that was part of the fun.

Now the Frisbee flies in front of them, ten metres or so, and the drinking youths are getting louder, and it is becoming increasingly harder for Prim and Proper to focus on Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?” They do not look at each other, there is no need for all that, and they are probably pondering the same thing anyway: what has become of today’s youth, and how back in their day a young man was quite content to sit by the radio and enjoy the rock and roll tunes that would come and fill, enliven even, whatever room one happened to be in. But these boors in front of them now, their short, severe haircuts and unshaven faces, they are too busy fooling about, horse-playing, wasting their time, throwing this child’s plaything through the air, and Prim and Proper cannot fathom what is to gain from such an activity.

A second Tina Turner song of the afternoon comes on and this disconcerts Prim and Proper. Someone must have made a mistake when ordering the playlist. Although a couple of hours apart both Prim and Proper think it a sloppy run to have “Private Dancer” so soon after “What’s Love Got to Do With It?” Though neither of them, naturally, says a word. They are both feeling let down, not that they mind Tina Turner at all, it’s just that while the former song sat easy and smooth, the second alludes to prostitution in a way that almost brings an eyebrow-raise, the only other song ever to deal with prostitution on an afternoon playlist is The Police’s “Roxanne,” another tune that, while maintaining a nice upbeat tempo, almost sets tuts in motion.

Boisterous now, it appears that the youths are intent on spoiling Prim and Proper’s day, and there is no way they can enjoy “Walking in Memphis” and its segue into “Land Down Under” without turning up the volume ever so slightly. It is something they have never had to do before, but there it is — Proper taking his hand from his right pocket, leaning over and turning the dial on the joyful Sony radio that sits between them. Prim catches Proper’s eye as the increase of the radio’s volume takes place, and although there is not even a slight nod of acquiescence, Proper knows that he is indeed doing the right thing: such measures have been forced upon them and hopefully it will not be long until the beery youths depart, and they can yet again bask in the warmth of radio, even as the time ticks on, and a chill has barged in on the afternoon and the Tina Turner mistake is forgotten.

The youths, maybe having suspected that their cheer is unsettling the seated gents, fling the disc in the direction of the bench and it lands at their feet. The young men chuckle and delight in this merriment, and sweat is breaking out on the foreheads of Prim and Proper. A long time ago something like this happened, how many years exactly neither can tell, and they dearly hope it will not happen again. One of the denim-jeaned delinquents retrieves the disc from its position near the fine-leathered foot of Prim and flies it back to his mate, excusing himself and apologising, though doing it in such a manner as to appear insincere, belligerent even, to both Prim and Proper.

A newsflash at four thirty declares that the Prime Minister has been using the services of a prostitute and opposition parties are calling for his resignation. This news brings back the memory of the song, “Private Dancer,” and now Prim and Proper grow more uncomfortable on their bench, almost as if they are sweating around their posteriors.

In much the same manner as before the Frisbee is flung and sits at Proper’s foot, in fact it is propped up against his argyled sock, having rolled on its landing and stopped at his shin. More sweat from the seated gents as they do their utmost in trying to appreciate the lyrics of Elvis Costello’s “Alison” as it segues into Michelle Shocked’s “Anchorage.” The adolescents are cackling now, closer to Prim and Proper, and it is clear that enjoyment of such fine lyrics is going to be a hardship, and the obvious recognition of such by the young deviants gives them greater cause for gaiety and they begin to sing and chant in songs and caustic rhyme that are not in tune with, are indeed in stern opposition to, the melody and structure of the tunes that the radio so decently emits, and such is the discordance and the mounting cacophony that when the yellow disc once again lands at their feet and one of the young men comes to retrieve, it takes only eye-contact (twice in the one afternoon!) for both radio-listening gents to sally up and into atrocious action. From his seated position, Prim kicks hard at the head of the bending boy and he falls hard on the gravel. The other youth is stunned by the action and even more stunned by Proper who rises like a colossus and runs and rugby-tackles the other denim-jeaned youth. When the beer bottles fall to the gravel, Prim and Proper, like synchronised swimmers, pick them up and with superb sways and swings land said bottles into the faces of the youths. Blood spurts and spills and Prim and Proper breathe heavily, urging without so much as a glance at one another, and swing segues to whack, and boot and belt are given just as much thrust and weight as more blood spills and covers the small stones and pebbles of the walkway. They stand then, Prim and Proper, giants over the stricken youths, and to finish with a flourish both leap and stamp onto the jawbones of the Frisbee Two. The crack of broken bone is loud, tremendous, as tremendous and daring as the saxophone and rolling rhythms of Springsteen’s “Born to Run” as it segues into the thwacking opening electric guitar and drum crunch of Prince’s “When Doves Cry.”

Prim and Proper dust off their fine-leathered shoes and pull up their argyle socks. They adjust their bow-ties. With handkerchiefs they wipe sweat and blood drops from their brows and the evening breeze presents a welcome cooling to their after-dab. A long time ago something like this happened, how many years exactly though neither can tell, and they were hoping such would never happen again. But it did, and without looking at each other or saying a word, they return to their bench, and Prim bends to lift up the radio as Prince’s song fades into the jingle and the proclamation of the news at five.

The news at five has it that the Prime Minister has been found hanging in his own office and the police have issued a statement saying that it appears to have been suicide, though further investigation will ensue. Prim and Proper aren’t prone to judging, so they do not tut or raise eyebrows at this disclosure, they only ever tut or eyebrow-raise to the songs and their lyrical or musical content.

—

Colin O’Sullivan is an Irish writer living in Japan. He is the author of two books, Anhedonia (short stories) and Majo (a short novel for teenagers), both published by the now defunct Rain Publishing, Canada. His fiction and poetry regularly appear on the web and in print.