by Jonthan Thomason and co-author Copilot
Characters:
Edna – 78, retired dinner lady, knows everyone’s secrets but keeps her own sealed in Tupperware.
Malcolm – Her late husband, spoken of frequently but never appears.
Derek – Next-door neighbour, tinkerer, possibly a genius, definitely got banned from Maplin.
Scene:
A modest sitting room in Salford. Vinyl armchair, net curtains, and a plasma cylinder glowing faintly on a tea trolley next to a stack of Woman’s Weekly magazines. Outside, the rain lashes down.
EDNA (alone, addressing audience):
I didn’t believe Derek at first. I mean, he’s the kind of man who once made a lawnmower out of a slow cooker and two crutches. That’s not engineering, is it? That’s grief with screws.
But then last winter, when the pipes burst and the council forgot us, Number 9 started humming. Proper low frequency—like Barry White had moved into the attic. And Derek, bless him, with his silly eyebrows and knack for soldering, said: “It’s a rain-fed plasma reactor, Edna. Powers the kettle, the telly, and me foot spa.”
(beat, proud) We didn’t lose power once. Even made toast. Twice.
(She picks up a sugar cube, inspects it like it holds memories.)
Malcolm would’ve laughed. Said Derek had wires where sense ought to be. But these days, when the storms roll in and the street goes dark... Number 9 glows. Like hope, but with a plug.
And Derek swears it’s clean—“Carbon zero, Edna,” he said, “I’ve made peace with the climate and the Electric Board.” He’s even got blueprints. Drew them on the back of his final demands.
(laughs softly) He offered to rig mine up. Said all I’d need’s an old light fitting, rainwater, and a box of fuses from 1983. I said, “Derek, love, I’ve only just got used to cordless kettles.” He winked. Said it’d boil my doubts.
(She leans in, conspiratorial.)
Between us, I have got a bit of the kit now. In the pantry. Glows when I hum. Don’t tell Carol. She’ll want hers to play Classic FM.
But this is what I’m saying, love: sometimes salvation doesn’t look like angels. Sometimes it’s a cylinder bubbling steam on a trolley and a neighbour with dodgy socks. And sometimes, if you’re lucky... it powers eight houses on Christmas, forty the rest of the year, and keeps your cuppa hot when the world’s gone cold.
(She drops the sugar cube into her tea. It glows faintly.)
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