London, 8 May 1945.

The bunting is crooked.

The chairs do not match.

Neither do the cups.

There are sandwiches from six different kitchens, one very small cake and far too many children who have been told not to touch anything.

The war in Europe is over.

And for once, the adults are behaving almost exactly like children.

CHIBI

They’re being weird.

MARA

They’re celebrating.

CHIBI

Adults don’t do this.

MARA

They are doing it.

CHIBI

Normally.

Mara looks around.

People are singing.

Dancing badly.

Climbing things.

Sharing food.

Laughing too loudly.

For once, nobody seems to be checking the time.

Or tomorrow.

CHIBI

They’re like us.

MARA

That’s insulting.

CHIBI

I mean children.

MARA

I know.

CHIBI

Why?

MARA

Maybe they’re allowed to be today.

Later, Mara notices an empty chair.

Mrs Evans keeps touching its back.

MARA

Who’s the chair for?

MRS EVANS

Nobody.

Mara waits.

Adults often say “nobody” when they mean somebody very much.

MRS EVANS

My boy liked parties.

CHIBI

Where is he?

Mrs Evans looks towards the bunting.

MRS EVANS

France.

CHIBI

Is he coming home?

A pause.

MRS EVANS

No, love.

CHIBI

Oh.

MRS EVANS

His name was David.

MARA

Was?

Mrs Evans looks at her.

MARA

Isn’t it still?

Mrs Evans laughs through sudden tears.

MRS EVANS

Yes.

Yes, it is.

CHIBI

Was he good at dancing?

MRS EVANS

Terrible.

CHIBI

Good.

Everyone here is terrible.

He’d fit in.

Mrs Evans laughs properly this time.

Later, the street raises a toast.

MAN

To those who came home.

Glasses rise.

MAN

And those who didn’t.

For one moment, the celebration becomes quiet.

People look at empty chairs.

Empty windows.

Empty places beside them.

Then they drink.

And the music starts again.

Later, Mara finds Chibi hiding beneath a table with stolen cake.

CHIBI

Why are they happy?

MARA

The war’s over.

CHIBI

No.

Mrs Evans isn’t happy.

That woman over there is crying.

Mr Clarke still can’t walk properly.

So they’re not happy.

Mara thinks.

MARA

Maybe celebrating isn’t the same as being happy.

CHIBI

Then why celebrate?

Mara looks out from beneath the table.

Food being shared.

Hands reaching for one another.

Mrs Evans telling children about David.

MARA

Because everyone’s here.

CHIBI

David isn’t.

MARA

They’re saying his name.

Maybe that’s one way of being here.

Then Mara notices a man sitting in David’s empty chair.

Young.

Mud on his uniform.

Exhausted.

His uniform looks almost familiar, but not quite.

MARA

That’s David’s chair.

YOUNG MAN

I know.

MARA

Did you know David?

YOUNG MAN

Yes.

CHIBI

Are you dead?

MARA

Chibi!

YOUNG MAN

Probably.

MARA

Probably?

YOUNG MAN

Things get confused.

Names.

Faces.

Who remembers whom.

CHIBI

Do you want to dance?

The young man almost smiles.

YOUNG MAN

I don’t think I remember how.

CHIBI

Nobody here does.

The music changes.

Mara looks away for one moment.

When she looks back, the chair is empty.

On it lies a paper party hat.

Old.

Yellowed.

Folded from a newspaper dated:

11 November 1918.

CHIBI

That’s the other war.

MARA

Yes.

CHIBI

Maybe he celebrated that one.

Later, after dark, London lights itself again.

Windows.

Streetlamps.

Doors.

A city that spent years hiding finally becomes visible.

Chibi watches the adults dancing below.

CHIBI

I know why grown-ups celebrate.

MARA

Do you?

CHIBI

They’re tired of being grown-ups.

All day it’s:

Be careful.

Save this.

Don’t waste that.

Think about tomorrow.

Today they don’t have to.

MARA

Tomorrow still exists.

CHIBI

I know.

MARA

People are still dead.

CHIBI

I know.

MARA

There are still problems.

CHIBI

I know.

But not right now.

Right now there’s cake.

Right now there’s music.

Right now Mrs Evans is laughing.

And right now everyone we love is here.

Mara looks towards the empty chair.

MARA

Not everyone.

CHIBI

No.

But maybe that’s why we say their names.

Maybe that’s why people make toasts.

And photographs.

And stories.

MARA

You’re getting dangerously clever.

CHIBI

I’ve always been clever.

MARA

No.

CHIBI

Probably.

Celebration cannot undo death.

It cannot rebuild everything that was destroyed.

It cannot make grief disappear.

Sometimes it is simply a crooked row of bunting, a tiny cake, terrible music and the decision to gather anyway.

A way of saying:

Look.

We’re still here.

These are our people.

And tonight, life is allowed to contain something other than what tried to destroy it.

QUESTION FOR YOU

When you think about the celebrations that matter most, is it really the food, the music or the occasion you remember —

or simply the feeling that, for one brief moment, the people you loved were all there with you?

PLAY EPIC. FEEL THE STORY.

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