The radio was on, chatter and song; background. Then we heard a conversation, words caught the attention. We were on one of those drives, returning from Portknockie to Peelhill, whiling away the hours. Mockingbird.
Len Pennie it was, on her Arts Mix, and she was speaking to Gabriel Scott. Jem. On tour, Edinburgh, then Glasgow. Full houses, going down a storm. Huge enjoyment.
Can we get tickets? Eh, what's that? To see the play. Haven't watched the film for years; video's broken.
Few seats left for any Glasgow performances, and all up in the gods, dynamic pricing. Try Edinburgh. I had been warned. Offensive a friend had mentioned. That word. Good thought I, for it has to remain true to the book; reflect the times in which it was set.
And so it was that we edged into the familiar brewery-fumed air of the Auld Toon, reeking yet, on a dark and wet night, satnav doing the grunt work. Heading for a theatre out by The Meadows. Pre-booked parking down a dark lane. Brisk walk along crowded streets. Not used to busy pavements. Found the seats. Restricted view, one small portion of the stage out of sight. The jury, which may have been fortunate.
By the time Scout and Jem had taken us to the interval I knew I'd be reading the book within days. Enraptured, captured. The play is brilliant, picking out the main plot, the players. Shocking us. Bringing it all back. Standing ovation. We need more Scouts, and Atticus.
And what a book, to mark my 150th read of 2025. Much more background than the theatre could possibly provide in less than three hours. 1960 it was published - of course there was a first edition on the shelf - the year after my birth. In my lifetime. Albeit set earlier. In the final stages there's a discussion between Scout and her teacher, Hitler, Democracy and Dictatorship.
I had been to the US of A just the once, a wedding, some time ago. Where are Kelly and Stephen now? As it happens the event was in Alabama, rural, a plantation house. Stepping back in time. Not that far back. Not quite.
We escaped, a flight to N'Orleans, and a few days of jazz, a bit of voodoo, Bourbon Street and Preservation Hall. I heard last night that one of my favourite jazz musicians, Jack de Johnette, had passed away. Drummer, coloured. Only Keith Jarrett remains of The Trio, and strokes preventing him from performing. Glad I took that chance, London's Southbank, the night sleeper back in time to get the children to school.
But I digress. Harper Lee's classic tale. To Kill A Mockingbird. So beautifully presented in Aaron Sorkin's stage adaptation. Lessons from yesterday. Lessons for today. Voting rights; jury selections. That N-word may have gone, but have we really made any progress? I am left thinking of the detritus that fills our screens day after day; of that conversation between Scout and her teacher. Of today's dictators.
And I recall the atmosphere in the theatre last week. An audience much younger than I expected, which gives a bit of hope. Ovations. And tears. The book was hard to put down, less than 24 hours, finding the hours when other things should have been done. Thinking of that community. Of Calpurnia, and of Atticus, remembering that Scout was a young child. And recalling Anna Munden's feisty portrayal. That was what Len Pennie was trying to get out of Gabriel Scott, the difficulty in playing a child. Looked pretty well practiced to me. But that was Harper Lee's characters, children moulded by their father, and their house-keeper, more mature than their years. In those times.
It's a book that should be compulsory reading. A play that does full justice. To the injustice. Now, where can I find the film, replace that old DVD...
