Scene: The River Styx, mist curling like old cigarette smoke. A rickety ferry groans at the dock. Charon, the boatman, looks mildly irritated.
Tony Harrison (clutching a notebook):
“This is no Tyne ferry, mind. No brass bands, no bairns, just bloody oblivion. I’ll write a sonnet about it — ‘Styx: A Crossing in Iambic Regret.’”
Menzies Campbell (adjusting his tie):
“I must say, the EU never regulated this sort of passage. No life jackets, no cushions, no safety briefing. Is there a parliamentary procedure for negotiating with the dead?”
Patricia Routledge (as Hyacinth Bucket):
“I do hope they’ve reserved me a seat near the prow. I simply cannot abide sulphurous mist in my décolletage. And I shall not share a bench with any shades who failed to RSVP.”
Jane Goodall (gazing into the gloom):
“Fascinating. I believe I saw a spectral bonobo waving. Perhaps the underworld has its own primate hierarchy. I must observe quietly — no flash photography, please.”
Harold ‘Dickie’ Bird (peering over the edge):
“I’ve umpired at Headingley in fog thicker than this. If Cerberus tries to bowl a googly, I’ll call it wide. And I’ll not be intimidated by any three-headed sledging.”
Charon (deadpan):
“No pets. No poetry. No parliamentary inquiries. And no singing. Especially not Gilbert and Sullivan.”
Patricia (offended):
“I’ll have you know I was the mezzo-soprano in the East Cheshire Light Operatic Society. I once sang ‘Poor Wand’ring One’ with such pathos that the vicar wept into his cassock.”
Tony (scribbling):
“‘Cassock damp with grief / as Hyacinth sang / the Styx hissed beneath.’ That’s a keeper.”
Menzies (to Jane):
“Do you suppose the ferry accepts contactless? I’ve only got a commemorative coin from the Liberal Democrat centenary.”
Jane (smiling):
“I think Charon prefers obols. Or perhaps bananas.”
Dickie (to Charon):
“Right then, lad. Let’s get this show on the road. Or the river. And if you see any underworld LBWs, I’ll be watching.”
Charon (sighing):
“I should’ve taken the day off.”
The ferry has docked at the ashen shores of the underworld. Our party disembarks, greeted by a customs desk that resembles a cross between a post office in Huddersfield and Kafka’s worst nightmare.
Scene: The Reception Hall of Hades. A flickering fluorescent light buzzes overhead. A sign reads “Welcome to the Afterlife. Please queue in alphabetical order unless you were famous.”
Receptionist (a skeletal civil servant with a clipboard):
“Name, occupation, and any unresolved earthly grievances.”
Tony Harrison (stepping forward):
“Poet. Grievance: the decline of working-class vowels. And the closure of Leeds libraries.”
Receptionist (scribbling):
“Noted. You’ll be assigned to the Department of Eternal Lamentation. Tuesdays are sonnet days.”
Menzies Campbell (producing a sheaf of papers):
“I’ve brought my own dossier. I’d like to appeal for a moderate afterlife with proportional representation.”
Receptionist:
“You’ll be in the Bureau of Futile Petitions. Next.”
Patricia Routledge (adjusting her handbag):
“Hyacinth Bucket. That’s ‘Bouquet,’ if you please. I expect a suite with a view and no proximity to the damned.”
Receptionist:
“You’ll be in the Department of Mispronounced Names and Social Climbing. It’s next to the Lake of Mild Disappointment.”
Jane Goodall (softly):
“I’d prefer a quiet corner with access to spectral chimpanzees. And perhaps a grove of ghostly fig trees.”
Receptionist:
“You’re in the Sanctuary of Ethical Souls. No meat, no mirrors, no monarchy.”
Dickie Bird (cheerfully):
“I’m just here to umpire. I’ve got my hat, my finger, and my moral compass. If Cerberus sledges, he’s out.”
Receptionist:
“You’ll be posted to the Field of Eternal Overs. Watch out for phantom leg-before appeals.”
Charon (muttering):
“I told you lot to bring exact change.”
Tony (scribbling again):
“‘Exact change for Charon / no card, no coin, no hope / bureaucracy floats.’”
Patricia (sniffing):
“I do hope the underworld has a Waitrose.”
Menzies:
"Has anyone seen my pile of cushions?"
The reunion tea, one year after our spectral ensemble has served their time in the bureaucratic bowels of Hades. The venue: the Elysian Lounge, a faintly glowing tearoom with ghostly scones and a harp that plays itself, slightly out of tune.
Scene: The Elysian Lounge. A sign reads “Reunion Tea: One Year Post-Assignment. Please check your aura at the door.”
Tony Harrison (arriving with a battered notebook):
“I’ve written 47 elegies and one limerick. The Department of Eternal Lamentation is a bit heavy on the sighing. I miss Yorkshire sarcasm.”
Patricia Routledge (in full Hyacinth mode, wearing a spectral fascinator):
“I spent the year organising a posthumous cotillion for the socially ambitious. We had ghostly vol-au-vents and a séance with Lady Bracknell. I was, of course, the toast of the Lake of Mild Disappointment.”
Menzies Campbell (carrying a folder labelled “Coalition Possibilities in the Afterlife” and a cushion):
“I attempted a cross-departmental alliance with the Bureau of Futile Petitions. We drafted a motion to install a second ferry. It was vetoed by Cerberus.”
Jane Goodall (serene, sipping nettle tea):
“I’ve been studying the behavioural patterns of the underworld’s primates. Fascinating creatures. One ghost chimp built a shrine to a banana peel. I’ve named him Plato.”
Dickie Bird (cheerfully):
“I umpired 312 matches, 14 of which were interrupted by banshees. I gave a phantom LBW and the crowd booed in Latin. Still, I kept my finger firm and my hat on straight.”
Charon (lurking near the samovar):
“I’ve been promoted to Head of Transport and Existential Ennui. I now operate the ferry and the escalator to Limbo. It’s mostly paperwork.”
Tony (reading aloud):‘Tea with the dead / scones without jam / ghosts gossiping / like it’s a WI AGM.’”
Jane (smiling):
“I do hope Plato can join us next year. He’s learning to knit.”
Menzies (to Dickie):
“Do you suppose we could form a cricket caucus? I’ve drafted a charter.”
Dickie:
“Only if we play on the Field of Eternal Overs. And no sledging from the damned.”
Patricia (raising her cup):
“To the afterlife — may it remain moderately tolerable and tastefully lit.”
All:
Hear hear.”
The setting: a dimly lit parlour in the Elysian Lounge, with ghostly tea and suspiciously sharp cake forks.
Scene: The Elysian Lounge, Thursday afternoon. A sign reads “No Necromancy During Tea.” A spectral grandfather clock ticks backwards.
Patricia Routledge (straightening her lace cuffs):
“I propose we form a club. Not a bridge club — too many ghosts cheat. A murder club. Thursdays. With proper minutes and refreshments.”
Tony Harrison (scribbling):
“A club for the dead to solve the deaths of the dead. I smell irony. And possibly ectoplasm.”
Menzies Campbell (producing a binder):
“I’ve drafted a constitution. Clause one: all murders must be metaphorical, historical, or committed by someone with a peerage.”
Jane Goodall (nodding thoughtfully):
“I’m in. But only if we investigate the mysterious disappearance of the underworld’s fig trees. And the suspicious behaviour of ghost baboons.”
Dickie Bird (adjusting his umpire’s hat):
“I’ll keep score. And if anyone tries to bowl a red herring, I’ll call it out. No foul play on my watch.”
Charon (lurking near the biscuit tray):
“You lot are the reason I applied for early retirement. But fine. I’ll be the driver. And the occasional suspect.”
Patricia (beaming):
“Splendid. We’ll meet every Thursday. Dress code: spectral chic. First case: who poisoned the custard at last week’s tea?”
Tony (reading aloud):
“‘Custard of doom / spooned with intent / Thursday’s club / plots its ascent.’”
Jane (to Menzies):
“Do we need a permit for interrogating the damned?”
Menzies:
“Only if they’re unionised.”
Dickie (brandishing a ghostly magnifying glass):
“Right then. Let’s solve some murders. Or at least stir up some gossip.”
Patricia (raising her cup):
“To the Thursday Murder Club — may our mysteries be murky and our tea eternally warm.”
All:
“Hear hear.”
Our spectral ensemble gather once more in the Elysian Lounge, sipping ghostly Darjeeling and casting their dream team for the inevitable adaptation of The Thursday Murder Club: Underworld Edition. The casting conversation is spirited, theatrical, and just a touch competitive.
Patricia Routledge (adjusting her spectral pearls):
“I insist on Helen Mirren. Regal, poised, and capable of delivering a withering glance that could curdle ectoplasm.”
Tony Harrison (scribbling):
“I want Christopher Eccleston. Northern grit, poetic soul, and he can scowl in trochees.”
Menzies Campbell (leafing through a casting directory):
“I rather fancy Charles Dance. Gravitas, diction, and a brow furrowed by centuries of constitutional ambiguity.”
Jane Goodall (smiling gently):
“Emma Thompson. She’d bring warmth, wit, and a certain irritating respect for ghostly gorillas.”
Dickie Bird:
“I’ll have Jim Broadbent. He’s got the hat, the twinkle, and he knows how to call a phantom LBW.”
Charon (deadpan, sipping tea):
“I nominate Steve Buscemi. No one does weary ferry operator with existential dread quite like him.”
Patricia (nodding):
“Excellent. We’ll need a poster. Something tasteful. Perhaps Helen in a misty fascinator, holding a poisoned scone.”
Tony (reading aloud):
“‘Mirren in mist / Eccleston grim / Dance with the dead / and Broadbent’s whim.’”
Menzies:
“We should include a parliamentary subplot. Perhaps a prime minister buying a donkey field.
Charon:
“I’ll be in my trailer. Which is also a boat.”
Five souls. One ferry. Infinite regrets. And someone’s been tampering with the custard.
• Helen Mirren as Patricia Routledge — the imperious hostess with a poisoned teacup and a flair for fascinators
• Christopher Eccleston as Tony Harrison — the brooding poet who suspects everyone, including the furniture
• Charles Dance as Menzies Campbell — the constitutional ghost with a monocle and a motive
• Emma Thompson as Jane Goodall — the primate whisperer with a knack for solving crimes and calming banshees
• Jim Broadbent as Dickie Bird — the umpire of the afterlife, calling foul on phantom foul play
• Steve Buscemi as Charon — the weary ferryman who’s seen too much and rowed too far