Maggie’s Angels

 

Reg flopped down on the lowest step of the raised surround in the big ballroom.  He was weary and worn and would have liked to have wandered away to his own comfortable chalet and put himself to bed.  There were a dozen or so couples in the centre of the shiny dance floor, determined to squeeze the last atom of participation from the evening’s entertainment.  The band was playing leisurely; the vocalist sat in her slinky dress on the edge of the stage, the slit in the long skirt open showing a straight bronzed leg.  Most of the seats on the three sides of the open space were empty but perhaps fifty or sixty remained in their seats in casual conversation.  On the floor in front of the dais were five or six wheelchairs, their occupants revelling in the realisation that they were on holiday among a crowd of merrymakers.  To every enquiry they had responded that they were not tired, not ready for bed and Reg and his companions had to accept the decision until the very last minutes of a long tiring evening.

 

Reg looked up at the four people seated above him, their glasses empty on the table in their centre, the curling tendrils of smoke from their cigarettes spreading into the haze of the darkness above them.

 

“You know what we are, don’t you?” he queried aggressively.  The four looked at him expectantly.

 

“I’ll tell you what we are” Reg continued, “we’re Maggie’s slaves.  Why she doesn’t carry a whip, I don’t know”

 

The four onlookers looked sympathetically at the top of his head.  The lady nearest to him bent and smoothed the thin strands of hair on the top of his balding cranium.

 

“No” she contradicted him, “not Maggie’s slaves; Maggie’s angels” Reg looked up at her surprised.  “You’ve made my day” he assured her gratefully.  He stroked the smooth bald surface on the top of his head with an exploratory palm.

 

“I believe I can feel a halo coming” he announced.