The Minister of Familiarity knew thirty-seven thousand birthdays and had attended six. Five had been his own. The sixth had been a clerical error.
Each morning, Miss Nettle wheeled the Great Book of Particulars to his desk. It contained the preferred names, favorite biscuits, old triumphs, useful anecdotes, and acceptable degrees of intimacy of every registered resident of the Canal Ward.
The Minister took pride in never writing “Dear Resident.”
“Anyone can do that,” he said, selecting his copper ink.
On Monday he wrote to the baker: My flour-dusted friend. To the lockkeeper: Captain. To Mara Venn, who ran the Small Theatre: You magnificent troublemaker.
He had used that last salutation eleven times.
“An excellent week's correspondence,” he said.
“It's Monday,” said Miss Nettle.
“Then we're ahead.”
At ten, Mara Venn arrived carrying a paper parcel. Rain had flattened the feathers on one side of her head. She declined the Ministry biscuit.
The Minister rose.
“You magnificent troublemaker!”
“That's what I wanted to speak to you about.”
He glanced at Miss Nettle. She opened a fresh page.
“You'd prefer just ‘troublemaker’?”
Mara unwrapped the parcel. Inside were three letters, pressed flat between two pieces of cardboard.
The first congratulated her on another triumphant season. The second said he could practically hear the applause. The third asked whether she had found time to put her feet up.
“The theatre roof came off six weeks ago,” she said.
“Yes,” said the Minister. “Awful business.”
“The seats filled with rain.”
“I have the report.”
“Then why could you hear applause?”
The Minister examined the second letter.
“An expression.”
Mara waited.
“Of confidence,” he added.
She turned the paper over. A little brown stain ran through the Ministry seal.
“I used this one to blot a puppet.”
Miss Nettle looked down at her page. Her pen did not move.
The Minister opened the Great Book. There was Mara's birthday, her fondness for ginger biscuits, and the account of a performance during which a marionette had called the deputy mayor a spoon. Beneath these, in Miss Nettle's precise hand, were the missing roof, the wet seats, and three requests to borrow the Ministry hall.
The requests had been marked ANSWERED. Each pointed to one of the letters on his desk.
“There has been a failure of tone,” he said.
“Has there?” said Mara.
He took out a clean sheet.
My dear Mara, he began.
“Please don't write me another letter while I'm sitting here.”
The Minister set down his pen.
For a moment, nothing in the office moved except the little brass clock that recorded time spent in meaningful contact.
“What did you need the hall for?” he asked.
“A rehearsal. Tuesday evenings. Five chairs, one table. Somewhere dry for the puppets.”
“The application says cultural resilience.”
“Your form wouldn't accept ‘somewhere dry for the puppets.’”
He turned to Miss Nettle.
“What happens in the hall on Tuesdays?”
“The Subcommittee for Reducing Correspondence.”
“How many of them?”
“Three. They send apologies.”
The Minister looked at Mara.
“You can have it.”
She did not smile immediately. He found that uncomfortable and managed to leave it alone.
“And a cupboard?” she asked.
They inspected the hall together.
It was a fine room, though most of its windows had been covered by charts demonstrating the Ministry's warmth. One chart showed a steady increase in the use of first names. Another measured biscuit acceptance.
Mara stood beneath the largest.
“Can that come down?”
“It records nine years of progress.”
“We need somewhere for the moon.”
The Minister fetched a ladder.
Behind the chart was a high, dusty window. Afternoon light fell through it onto the floor. Mara looked at the patch of light, then moved the table a foot to the left.
“There,” she said.
The Minister waited for her to explain. She was already measuring the cupboard.
By Tuesday evening, five chairs stood in a crooked row. The Ministry's velvet lectern had become a mountain. A dragon's head rested among the cups in the cupboard, looking mildly disappointed by the quality of the china.
The Minister stayed to watch.
Mara put a puppet on each hand. One was a fox in a blue coat. The other was a very small horse with an enormous crown.
Halfway through, the fox failed to deliver a parcel because he was busy preparing a certificate confirming its successful delivery.
The Minister looked at Miss Nettle.
She was watching the stage.
He laughed a little late.
Afterward, he approached Mara with a new expression prepared: a triumph of indomitable community spirit. He had got as far as opening his bill when the horse fell off the table.
A seam had split beneath its crown.
“Oh, you tiresome little king,” Mara said, picking it up.
The Minister bent to retrieve a bead that had rolled against his shoe.
“Does that happen every time?”
“Only when anyone important is watching.”
“Then he's safe here.”
Mara laughed. It was a short, surprised sound.
The next morning, the Great Book lay open to her page. The Minister crossed out nothing. He added the key number for the hall cupboard and a note that the rehearsals needed half an hour afterward for packing away.
Under preferred form of address, he wrote Mara.
Miss Nettle brought the correspondence tray.
“Only fourteen today,” she said.
The Minister read the first letter twice.
A week later, a new puppet appeared at rehearsal. It had a copper pen, a magnificent waistcoat, and a bill that opened and closed without anything else happening.
The children liked it immensely.
The Minister watched it congratulate a bucket on its excellent swimming.
Then it congratulated the mop.
Then it congratulated the flood.
Mara glanced over the little curtain.
He was laughing too hard to turn the page of his programme.