They seek him here, they seek him there....

I hoisted myself up onto the empty armchair. My dad was sitting on the couch, watching a movie. I studied the screen. “They’re in jail?” I asked.

My father nodded.

“How come?”

“Because they had lots of money and there were people who didn’t have any money who thought that wasn’t fair,” my father explained. That sentence probably ranks as one of the most stripped down explanations of the French Revolution in the twentieth century. For a six year old, it made just enough sense.

I stared in fascination at the guillotine on screen. “Did they really cut off the people’s heads?”

My father turned to gauge how upset I was. “Yup. Did you want to go back upstairs?”

I shook my head vehemently. This was cool.

So began a love affair that would last at least five years. That’s right, at the tender age of six, I became completely enamoured with The Scarlet Pimpernel (1982, Anthony Andrews & Jane Seymour). The movie was a swashbuckling tale of a dandy who spirited French prisoners away from Madame Guillotine while hiding his identity behind a foppish facade. What six year old could resist that?

My father had taped it – an act my mother would later bemoan – and I began watching it three or four times a week. I was obsessed with everything: the costumes, the intrigue, the hair – I loved it all. Mostly, though, I loved Percy.

Countless times, I closed my eyes and pictured that heart-breaking scene in the library. I was Marguerite, facing away from Percy – the Pimpernel – as he put his hand on my shoulder and gently squeezed. Twenty-three years later, I can still feel that phantom hand.

My own elusive Pimpernel.