Ms Finch was branded on her right cheek in the yard outside “Ye Olde Great British Blacksmith’s Forge” at midday on summer solstice 2023. The forge was built in the 14th century. A squat and sturdy structure, it was famous for only having burned down once every one hundred years since its initial construction. And of those times only three had “caused a greater conflagration so as to imperil the village.”*
The current owner we all called “The Blacksmith”, even though his real name was Gary.
Gary was muscled and slow on any uptake, but he could beat a piece of iron all day without complaint. All his hair had long singed off in the heat of the furnace. His wife painted his eyebrows on each morning, but no one was impolite enough to mention it. We just treated him as he was, a patriot.
Ms Finch was branded on a perfect English summer day. Far superior to the over baked days they were rumoured to favour on the Continent. The sky blue forever with the sun just hot enough to make people complain, but you still had to work to get burnt. A soft breeze flowed through the village and children chased a puppy along the high road. At the time meat was only included in the rations once a week.
The mood in Raylee had been building to a fever all week. Bus stops were plastered with posters announcing the branding, time and place, and urging “All to come and join in the celebration of patriotism. Be sure to bring your children along!”. Schools closed for the day. It was a very local public holiday.
Our Churchill even carried the news in a daily segment just after “Patriotic Thought for the Day”. I smacked my lips in satisfaction when I heard our noble little village get its mention.
“And now…The Branding, Shaming and Marriage News. The following public shamings will take place in town squares, or other named places, in the following places today. Bucketforth, three local residents to be publicly shaved for heresy. Mincehead, one local suspected of spying for Brussels to fight a pig. Enema, five forced marriages to occur simultaneously alongside the cow insemination ceremony in the larger field…Raylee, one resident to be branded on the cheek for Wireless Crime…and now the national anthem sung by the Children’s Choir of Spitmore.“
Ms Finch’s branding itself wasn’t pitch perfect. Some joker had scrawled “ry” onto the end of “Forge” on the sign over the Blacksmith’s and it detracted from the solemnity of Ms Finch screaming.
“This is a crying shame,” I said to my rosy cheeked wife as we waited for the event. “This branding is supposed to be the highlight of the day. Ms Finch has been in solitary confinement preparing all week.”
Ms Finch was led out all the same by a well turned out squad of Brexit Youth.
“Don’t they look full of purpose in their brown shorts,” my wife noted. Shorts was a little generous. Due to a shortage of cotton, linen, denim and polyester the shorts were made locally out of hessian sacks. The children of the Brexit Youth knew better than to complain. They wanted dinner.
The youth tied Ms Finch to a stout, oak stake driven into the earth just outside the forge.
“I wager if Prime Minister Johnson hadn’t got Brexit done we could not have done this,” I commented. “Some nanny red tape from Brussels would have forbidden sovereign Englishmen from tying traitors to stakes in village squares.”
There was a card table set up close by the staked Ms Finch. The Food Ministry had allowed a special allocation of baking rations for the village to prepare tea and cakes. No one was going home without getting their hands on something.
There were formalities to observe first though. Ms Finch was photographed by anyone who still had a working smartphone. She did herself proud here, scowling like a traitor at everyone who stepped up to photograph her.
Next a poem about Great British Potatoes was recited by Clarence, the butcher.
“On the continent their potatoes cause incontinence,
But a Great British Potato will see you through,
With its red, white and blue...”
Then the pharmacist Ms Formaldyhide held up a black cat before Ms Finch’s face. If it failed to hiss the branding would be called off. At first the feline seemed reluctant, but a quick jerk of its tail and it passed judgement.
“Now it’s time for Gary to shine,” I whispered.
The Blacksmith took the hot iron from the coals. We could see its light in the shadows of his forge. Silence. Anticipation.
Gary’s wife had painted eyebrows on that curved up. As he walked out of the shadows holding the white iron he looked permanently surprised. I suspect it was his wife’s little joke. Mrs Gary and Ms Finch weren’t close, even before we reclaimed our sovereignty.
“No. No. No. Please no!” Ms Finch screamed. She had learned the lines on the script given to her. I clapped and others followed suit.
“You people are fucking animals!” Ms Finch bellowed, as the sizzling iron neared her face. This was off script. The crowd muttered disapprovingly.
“Watch it or you’ll be voted off and you won’t be on next week’s show!” I shouted at her. Everyone laughed.
“Well if you don’t like it here why don’t you go and live in Europe!” Clarence the Butcher bellowed. Slapping his aproned thighs and laughing. He got less response than me. I would later revise down my estimation of his poetry.
My watchful wife whispered an observation to me but between Ms Finch making a racket and Clarence laughing himself silly I couldn’t catch it.
“What’s that?” I shouted back.
She whispered again but I still couldn’t hear her.
Louder woman. Louder. I motioned with my hands.
Suddenly Ms Finch went quiet, the branding iron held theatrically inches from her face, and Clarence shut up too.
“I DON’T KNOW WHY CLARENCE WEARS THAT APRON STILL! HE HASN’T HAD A CARCASS TO BUTCHER”
I clamped my hand over Mrs French’s mouth. To comment publicly on food shortages was treason.
Everyone turned to glare at her, except The Blacksmith. He chose then to press the iron into Ms Finch’s face. She got back on script immediately. She screamed for all she was worth. Everyone was so distracted they forgot my foolish wife. It was a lucky escape.
The brand itself was a gem. It had been cast from steel recycled from the fuselage of a Spitfire dug up in a field outside of town. It was found by some treasure hunters days before they were drafted into the army to serve as bomb disposal and mine clearance. The brand’s design came direct from 10 Downing Street. Legend said it was designed by one of Prime Minister Bunsen’s infant children. His artistic flair was prodigious the moment he left the womb. The papers regularly carried reproductions of his work to keep morale high.
The design was the Flag of Europe, minus one star.
All who saw a branded face knew where their loyalties lay. After today Ms Finch would be an outcast.
The Blacksmith stepped back and admired his handiwork. He would have had an easier time of that if Ms Finch wasn’t thrashing and complaining. She lacked Blitz Spirit, there was no denying it. I could smell her burnt flesh and I wasn’t complaining, and it was a terrible smell. One wondered at her diet.
“Hang on,” Gary said. He stepped back up. He held Ms Finch’s head still with one of his giant hands and carefully pressed the brand back into the same spot. Harder this time.
“CLARENCE!” she shouted out. “CLARENCE!”
People looked at the butcher. He just shrugged and circled his finger around his temple to signal she was mad.
My wife poked me in the ribs. This was my moment. I stepped up to Ms Finch and turned to the crowd.
“From this day forth Ms Finch is outcast from all full time employment. From now on she can only seek minimum wage work in fruit picking, social care, hospitality, medicine, auto-manufacturing or any other of the sectors that were betrayed by EU workers during Cardinal Patel’s long and glorious reign.”
The crowd nodded in approval.
“None are to give her comfort. She is to find no shelter from the storm. None may lay a hand on her. None may consort with her carnally or in conversation about politics. She must be ready to work in the digital economy and not complain if her shift is terminated early. When visiting any hospital to work she must pay full car parking charges regardless of whether she has driven to work or not. When you see the stars branded onto her cheek you know she was caught attempting to change the channel on her Churchill wireless!”
Just then the puppy ran into the circle, interrupting my speech. The gaggle of children burst in after it, led by Cyclops. The wretched puppy made straight for Ms Finch and climbed onto her feet, whimpering and cringing there. A poor choice of sanctuary.
“Do you want me to brand the puppy too?” The Blacksmith asked. “Won’t take but a moment to heat the iron back up.”
“It does look a foreign breed,” I replied. “Let’s put it to a referendum?”
“I’ll get some papers and we can write our votes on them,” Ms Formaldyhide offered and went off at speed shouting “The will of the people!” in excitement.
“Shall we have the tea and cakes while we wait?” my generous wife asked, pointing to the card table.
The Blacksmith shrugged. “I hadn’t noticed the food. Great!” He went into his forge just long enough to put the iron back in the fire and then made straight for the table. That started a rush. He was famous for his appetite.
Clarence was the only one who stood still. He didn’t see that I saw, but his eyes were fixed to Ms Finch, a single fat tear rolling slower than time itself down his cheek.
*Chapter Five, page 14, “The Lives and Times of Raylee – A Very British Village”, published by anon.