The story we imagine
Somewhere in the 1940s a father spent his evenings in the shed. He had scrap timber, a tin of paint, and a wish to make something his daughter would love. He cut the body long and narrow, jointed the legs with screws, and stitched a bridle from a scrap of old blue knitting. When it was finished he gave the mule to his daughter, and she gave him a name known only to the two of them.
The photograph shows her on a doorstep working him on his strings, the mule standing at her feet. She looks down at him with the quiet fondness a child has for a favourite toy. We call her Florrie.
Now the mule is here and Florrie is not. There is a sadness in him. He misses his owner, and he has missed her a long time, waiting the way only a much-loved toy can wait, for a girl who is not coming back.
What you will receive
You will receive the mule himself. He is the real thing, a handmade string puppet from the 1940s, not a reproduction made to look old. His body is painted cream and dark brown, long and narrow, with jointed legs, a frayed blue bridle and a tail of rough fibre. You can see where his father's hands worked the wood. He hangs from his red wooden stand by two cords, hooves just touching the base. The stand is not original to him but made in keeping with the period.
You will also receive the original photograph from the 1940s. It shows his girl on the doorstep with his strings in her hand, caught playing rather than posing. The print is mounted in a period-correct frame, exactly as it was kept.
Using him in your show
He is not a trick. He is a story. Begin with the photograph and tell it. Let the audience sit with the girl on the doorstep before they ever see the mule. When you finally bring him out, the moment will already have weight.
How you use him from there is yours to decide. Perhaps you found him at a house clearance with the photograph still beside him, the only thing left that remembers her. Perhaps an old lady named Florrie entrusted him to you, and you promised to look after him. Perhaps her father passed away long ago, and the mule became a substitute for something she could not keep. Perhaps you never mention her again and let the photograph do its work alone.
His name is a door you can leave shut or walk through. Keep him nameless, since his name went with her and the one thing the audience wants is the one thing you cannot give them. Or make finding it the performance itself, and let the audience help you ask. But never say what became of Florrie. The gap in the story is where each listener puts their own loss.
Some performers end the night by turning him to face her photograph. It costs nothing and it says everything.
Whether he is a grieving object or a haunted one is yours to decide. Either way, tell his story with understatement and he will carry whatever you give him.
Sale
