After a poem from
Songs of the Glens of Antrim,
by Moira O’Neill
As you will see, the sentiment of Moira O’Neill’s Poem has been turned upside-down and the pathos largely nullified. An attempt is made to achieve comedy by the exploitation of the regional accent, after the manner of O’Casey and the Dublin accent.
NOTE—North of Ireland accents, natural but exaggerated, are essential for this piece, and it is suggested that Belfast players might be sought. Apart from accent, all the lines are in the Northern idiom.
Only rudimentary camera cues are given. Generally this task is left to the producer. In the text below, scarcely any phonetic version of the talk is attempted.
There are 2 acts. It is suggested that the intermission be filled (If not by advertising.) by the playing of the Coolin or some well-known plaintive air on solo violin. It might be well to have the screen bear the legend END OF ACT I until the air is nearly over, when the legend changes to ACT II.
The kitchen scene is unchanged throughout. The scene should be cleanly but poor, with crude (home-made?) furniture. There should also be an atmosphere of over sixty years ago and careful exclusion of anything modern, particularly as to dress.
Players
A VOICE, off
THE FATHER / PETER (Pether Gormley)
THE MOTHER / ANNIE
THE BOY / HUGHIE
THE GIRL / SHEILA (who does not appear)
ELDERLY NEIGHBOUR / MRS. MCCREA
A TRAMP / PACKY
ACT I
As the play opens, PETER and ANNIE are alone in the kitchen, evidently at the end of a tiring day. The oil lamp is alight. After a little aimless moving about, PETER sits in the best chair, takes out his pipe and picks up an old newspaper. ANNIE is busy getting his tea and laying the table (no cloth). Neither of them speak. The VOICE is heard, off:
VOICE: He was born in Ballytearim, where there’s little work to do,
An’ the longer he was livin’ there the poorer still he grew;
Says he till all belongin’ him, “Now happy may ye be!
But I’m off to find me fortune,” sure he says, says he.
“All the gold in Ballytearim is what’s stickin’ to the whin;
All the crows in Ballytearim has a way of gettin’ thin.”
So the people did be praisin’ him the year he wint away—
“Troth I’ll hould ye he can do it,” sure they says, says they.
Och, the boy ‘ud still be thinkin’ long, an’ he across the foam,
An’ the two ould hearts be thinkin’ long that waited for him home:
But a girl sat her lone an’ whiles, her head upon her knee,
Would be sighin’ low for sorra, not a word says she. . . .
PETER: (From paper.) Well this Boor Waar is a caution. Lord save us this night an’ day!
ANNIE: Well God knows it’s not much that botherin’ ye, Pether, if it’s oney the Boor Waar. That turkey’s layin’ out again.
PETER: It’s the gold out there that has them all out of their wuts.
ANNIE: (Bitterly.) No is that all? We could do with a bit of yon stuff in the ground here. This year’s praties is half rotten. They’re bad enough to give the pig the gollops.
PETER: (Meditatively.) Yon Kroojer is a brave wee man all the same. Lord, if oney ParNELL was alive an’ the pair of them got together. . . .
ANNIE: (Barking.) Parnell! Don’t let me hear ye givin’ out of ye about that blaggard.
PETER: Och now, Annie, he wasn’t the worst.
ANNIE: Maybe he wasn’t the worst, Pether. There’s always Judas O’Scariote to think about but Parnell was a right boy with other people’s weemen, an’ he was a Protisin.
PETER: Ah I know, Annie, I know. It was the priets done him down.
ANNIE: (Rounding on him shrilly.) The priets, is it? If ye say another derogary word about the priests in this house, I’ll waarm yer ear. God look down on us, there’s enough trouble here. The praties bad, a pig with the gollops, a turkey hidin’ her eggs, and then Hughie. . . .
PETER: Ah now, please God, things’ll turn out all right.
ANNIE: Aye. If we don’t forget to say wur prayers. Do ye want me to try to roast a few of these spuds for yer eggs? Do you want chalahaans with yer tea?
PETER: Naw, Annie. Just make me a wee bit of boxty an’ plenty of tea. Lord, I’m dyin’ for a cup o’ tea.
ANNIE: Ah, right enough. Cock ye up, Pether.
PETER: An’ I’ll raise me cup to Kroojer. God strike down that Kitchener ownshuck. Course, we mustn’t forgit the poor niggers eether.
ANNIE: (With feigned resignation.) Glory be to God, yes! We nearly forgot the black men. Nothing wrong with them poor divils except that they was born in Africa an’ own the country, gold an’ all.
(She is stooped at the fire, with skillets.)
PETER: In God’s good time they’ll all get what’s comin’ to them.
ANNIE: That’s jist what the niggers is afraid of. They’ll all be slaughtered and extermionated to make more room for your Dutch herroes and mebbe for the English amadans. Heigh-ho, what a world it is!
PETER: Haven’t we ten pounds four in the post office?
ANNIE: We have indeed but we have a fair at the end of the month an’ if you an’ Hughie go in with the hiffer, there might be eight pounds four in the post office an’ the hiffer back with ye.
PETER: Now, now, Annie, ye know I never touch a drop of anything ona fair day except when a bargain’s made.
ANNIE: Aye. But thon Hughie could do the work of two in Ward’s public house. Do ye remimber last Septimber?
PETER: Ah shure I wudn’t mind that. The lad was murdhered be the toothache.
ANNIE: Yes, so ye said. He has a couple of teeth left for the next fair if the notion takes him.
FROM THE DOOR: Ah, hello there!
(MRS. MCCREA enters, wearing shawl, beaming about her. She sits down.)
ANNIE: God bliss us, ye gave me a fright, Mrs McCrea.
MRS. MCCREA: I was just passin’ and rain in for a second. It’s a grand evenin’ thank God.
PETER: Hello, Mrs McCrea. An how’s the big man at home?
MRS. MCCREA: Ah, th’ould back is at him again. Or so he says. Never done complainin’.
PETER: I tould him meself to go to the doctor.
ANNIE: Sit, Pether. Sit over.
PETER: (Moving to table.) We were talkin’ about Kroojer an’ the Boors, Mrs McCrea.
MRS. MCCREA: Do ye know (camera moves up to give detailed view of fat face, suddenly worried) I’ve a wee . . . a wee sort of a wee boil near me elbow meself.
ANNIE: Ah, that’s the blood, Mrs McCrea. The blood runs down at this time o’ the year. I know what ye need for that. . . .
PETER: (Close up of him busy at the table.) A right dose of potcheen, Mrs McCrea, can’t work wonders. (Sniggers.) The dead arose and appeared unto many.
ANNIE: A good iron tonic, Mrs McCrea.
MRS. MCCREA: It’s sore, mind ye, it’s very sore.
ANNIE: Mebbe th’ elbow is the best place to have it all the same. There are other places. . . .
PETER: Let ye weemen not laugh at me when I say this: very busy people never have a thing wrong with them. Ye won’t find the like of Kroojer bothered be boils.
ANNIE: Listen to him!
MRS. MCCREA: Mr Gormley, if ye mean I have no work to do, ye have a great consate in yerself. I never have a minit. There’s three pigs there that have me killed.
PETER: Well, never mind Kroojer. Look at me. There hasn’t been a damn thing wrong with me since 1894, thanks be to God.
ANNIE: Yes can thank the cod liver oil, too.
MRS. MCCREA: Lord save us—an’ the washin’! I blame thon mangle for me wee boil.
ANNIE: Why don’t ye get yon lump of a son of yours to turn it?
PETER: It’s a woman’s work woman.
MRS. MCCREA: He’s far too busy. Playin’ cards and goin’ out after hares. And maybe coortin’ weemen behind the turf when the pair of them had work to do.
ANNIE: Ah shure, God look down on us, they’re all the same.
MRS. MCCREA: I’m told poor Mrs Shaughnessy down the road has some sort of bad scabs on her left ankle.
PETER: That’s from roastin’ her feet too near the fire.
(The door opens and Hughie stands in it.)
MRS. MCCREA: Hello, Hughie. (Rises.) Lord, I didn’t know it was so late. I must be off.
HUGHIE: Hello there, Mrs McCrea.
(She walks toward the door and he stands aside to let her pass.)
MRS. MCCREA: God bliss ye all now.
(Goes out. Camera goes up to disclose Hughie as a gangling young man, sour in face but handsome in a crude way.)
ANNIE: Sit down, Hughie.
(He morosely goes to the fire and sits down.)
PETER: How’s the turf goin’, Hughie?
HUGHIE: Aw, it’s all right, I suppose. There’s nothing but muck up on yon bog.
ANNIE: There’s a bit o’ bacon here, if it’s not boiled away. And some poundies for yer dinner, Hughie.
HUGHIE: I don’t want any dinner.
PETER: What was that?
HUGHIE: I don’t WANT ANY DINNER!
ANNIE: God bliss us, are you sick or what?
HUGHIE: I’m not sick. I got a bite on the way up.
ANNIE: Is that so? Well I needn’t ask where. We were seein’ wur lady friend.
HUGHIE: I’ll see anybody I like.
PETER: Now, Hughie. . . .
HUGHIE: Aw, will ye leave me alone. D’ye hear me? Leave me alone. I don’t want any dinner.
ANNIE: Ye’re gettin’ to be the right cranky we article.
PETER: Annie, let things be, let things be.
ANNIE: Why should he be makin’ himself cheap before that flighty wee thing?
HUGHIE: Ye needn’t be takin’ yer tongue to a girl that’s not here. Leave her alone and leave me alone.
PETER: Whisht now, the pair of ye, for pity’s sake.
HUGHIE: (Temper rising.) I’ll tell ye something else if ye want to know. I was asked to go to a dance at the Cross on Monday week, a late dance. I said I wouldn’t. Do you know why?
ANNIE: Maybe ye have cards to play somewhere else.
HUGHIE: (Voice bitter and loud.) Because I have no boots to wear.
ANNIE: Do you hear that, Pether?
HUGHIE: Because I have no bloody boots to wear!
ANNIE: I bought you new boots at Easter, less than eighteen months ago.
HUGHIE: You did, feth. Look at them! (Raises foot.) LOOK AT THEM! Like a bundle of wet rags tied to me feet.
PETER: Were ye wearin’ them to the bog, Hughie?
HUGHIE: What else had I to wear?
ANNIE: I got ye a nice muffler last Chrissmas.
HUGHIE: I don’t know if ye mean I should go to a dance in me bare feet an’ wearin’ a muffler. God knows I’m bad enough but I’m not a cornerboy yet.
PETER: Hughie, we might manage another pair of boots before the date, d’ye see.
HUGHIE: Oh yes, an’ mebbe ten cigarettes. I haven’t had a smoke since this mornin’.
PETER: Things’ll work out.
ANNIE: If ye want to go about like a lord here, ye’ll have to earn the money.
HUGHIE: Me best Sunday suit is six years old, all mended an’ patched an’ darned.
PETER: Well, Hughie, I haven’t a Sunday suit at all.
HUGHIE: Me galluses is in flitters.
ANNIE: Yer father here might manage to fix up a trip for you to the Boor Waar. He’d get ye into Kroojer’s army.
HUGHIE: The Boor Waar?
ANNIE: An’ there’s any amount of gold out there in Africa—pucks of it.
PETER: Now, now, Annie. . . .
ANNIE: An’ ye could bring thon linnet Shiela with ye to keep house and frighten the life outa Lord Kitchener.
HUGHIE: By gob now . . . ye’re tryin’ to grig me. I know that. Yes, tryin’ to upset me and make me mad. But do ye know this?
ANNIE: What?
HUGHIE: Ye’re talking sense, woman, unbeknownst to yerself. I will go away somewhere. Not to Africa . . . but somewhere. There’s nothin’ here. Nothin’ but work an’ muck an’ starvation.
ANNIE: Will ye listen to him, Pether?
PETER: Ye’re out of yer wuts, man. Who’s to feed the pig here . . . an’ the two hiffers . . . an’ all that rampagin’ above on the bog?
HUGHIE: Ye’ll have to think about that yerself. Don’t worry. I won’t be away until three weeks or so. I’ll have to borry money. An’ I think I know where I’ll lay hands on it.
ANNIE: If ye go near the P.P. I’ll break yer head for ye.
HUGHIE: No, not the P.P. He wouldn’t have it.
PETER: Now, son, don’t get any silly notions. There’s bad times in more places than Ireland.
HUGHIE: That’s it! I’ll go off an’ make me fortune!
ANNIE: Ye’ll go off an’ get yerself arrested.
HUGHIE: (Standing up, very pleased, smiling.) It’s the very ticket! Why the hell didn’t I think of it before?
ANNIE: This boy is havin’ another of his stoons.
HUGHIE: I’ll make me fortune, an’ then come back for me girl!
PETER: God bliss us! (Turning on her.) YOU started this with yer ould talk!
ANNIE: Me, Pether?
PETER: Ye never know when to hould yer whisht.
HUGHIE: Just three weeks to get the money. And then I’m off to California in the mornin’!!
PETER: God look down on us.
HUGHIE: (Going towards door.) I’m happy as Larry for wanst in me life.
FADE OUT.
ACT II
The scene is the same with, perhaps, a few trifling changes as to the disposal of furniture, decorations. At least fifteen years have passed.
PETER and ANNIE are present at the fire, he peering at a paper, she knitting in a desultory way. Both have aged startlingly. Her hair is white and Peter is mostly bald. It is winter and the lamp is alight. The remains of a meal are still on the table.
PETER: Boys but this Kyzer is a fierce divil, Annie.
ANNIE: Some people is nivver happy without waar. Waar, waar, waar.
PETER: I suppose that’s true. Sure history is nothing but waar.
ANNIE: (Sententiously, lifting her head.) To have waar, ye don’t need all them grand big battalions of armies . . . an’ gorillas . . . an’ lan’ mines . . . an’ deevastation. Ye can have waar in a wee town. There’s many a wee town in Ireland with waar goin’ on in it . . . for centuries, Pether.
PETER: Feth, Annie, I think ye’re right.
ANNIE: Ye can have waar . . . on wan farm.
PETER: Aye, indeed. In wan house. Wan brother killin’ another to get the land.
ANNIE: Or slaughterin’ his own faather.
PETER: God look down on us.
ANNIE: As I tould ye many a time, Pether, I don’t like that man of ours Mick Rourke.
PETER: Well what can we do? Shure I’m hardly fit to take the top off an egg. Lord save us, I can hardly move a leg in the mornin’.
ANNIE: All the same, that Mick fella is . . . very sley. You couldn’t tell what he’s thinkin’ about.
PETER: He does a day’s work all the same.
ANNIE: With over twenty hens out there, how is it they can only manage six eggs between them!
PETER: D’ye think Mick is puttin’ eggs by and sellin’ them?
ANNIE: He might be up to more than yon. I’m goin’ to count those hens tomorra.
PETER: Ah no, Annie, he’s too fley to do a thing like that. Far too fley.
ANNIE: God I don’t know. Manys the thing he’d do an’ not let on. Ah, heigh-ho. . . .
PETER: They say a waar gives the people work, but. Factories everywhere makin’ all classes of bums an’ boollets.
ANNIE: Aye . . . an’ coffins.
PETER: No, Annie, they don’t bo’er about coffins in a waar.
ANNIE: I suppose they don’t, Pether. Just shovel them all into wan big hole.
PETER: This Frinch crowd I wouldn’t trust very far. They done wurselves no good in ‘98. (Mutters.)
The Frinch are in the bay,
Says the Shan Van Vocht,
They’ll be here without delay,
Says the Shan Van Vocht,
They’ll come in from the say,
They’ll anchor at the kay,
And we’ll have them here for tay,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
ANNIE: Dear-O. They’re great men to fight, all the see-em.
(Suddenly there is a noise as the door is flung noisily open. Framed in it is a youngish man—a much older HUGHIE. He is gaudily overdressed and has a bowler in his hand. A gold watch-chain spans his waistcoat. He stares in, smiling.)
ANNIE: Hughie! (She jumps up.)
PETER: Well God Almighty! Well, well. (He struggles to his feet, wincing from the pain.)
HUGHIE: Lord bliss us! The old folks at home!
(He advances into the kitchen and shakes hands with his parents. His air is jaunty and though he has by no means lost his northern accent, it is overlaid by a drawling American tone. They all sit down again. ANNIE is anxious, PETER just astonished.)
ANNIE: Well Hughie, God bliss ye and welcome back. . . . How are ye gettin’ on?
HUGHIE: Aw, just graund.
PETER: Be the sufferin’ saints, Hughie . . . ye’re . . . a new man. Lord I’d hardly know ye!
HUGHIE: (Laughing.) Ah now, I’ve not changed that much.
ANNIE: Ye’re gettin’ brave an’ fat.
HUGHIE: Well thanks bit a God I’ve had plenty to eat. Not a bo’er on me.
PETER: Why didn’t ye write, Hughie?
HUGHIE: Well, I did write.
ANNIE: Just two wee letters . . . years an’ years ago.
HUGHIE: Well, I was movin’ round, d’ye see. I’d no address for a long time, ye might say.
PETER: A rollin’ stone, ye might say. Well, this country of ours here may be a fine country but it’s a wee Country. An’ the States is brave an’ large.
HUGHIE: Ye could put Ireland ten times into Texas. Aye, an’ fifteen times. Texas is where they have the oil. Pitrol an’ all that sort of thing.
PETER: Aye indeed. An’ cowboys an’ prairies.
ANNIE: Hughie, will ye have a wee cup of tea, an’ a couple of rashers. An’ we have any God’s amount of eggs.
HUGHIE: No, ma. Not just now. I had a bit of a dinner about an hour ago in the town. Ye want to keep yerself in right shape when ye’re drivin’ a car.
PETER: A car, Hughie? Ye don’t mean to say ye have a motor?
HUGHIE: (Smiling.) Aye indeed. A graund Ford. I haven’t been lettin’ the grass grow under me feet.
ANNIE: Pether, have ye a wee bottle in the house at all?
PETER: Well, maybe there might be wan in the house somewhere. In this damp part of the world we have to be on guard against heavy colds, d’ye onderstaund. (Rises.)
ANNIE: Well away an’ get it. We all deserve a wee toast when Hughie comes home. (PETER, nodding, leaves room.)
ANNIE: Hughie, what trade are ye in across in America?
HUGHIE: Trade? I’m in no trade, woman dear.
ANNIE: Well, yer Ford motor . . .
(PETER re-appears with bottle of colourless content. ANNIE rises to get glasses from kitchen press.)
HUGHIE: (Laughing easily.) There’s more ways than bein’ in a trade for makin’ the dollars.
PETER: Lord, Hughie, I’m proud that a son o’mine should be able to meet the Yankees face to face. Were ye in the cattle business?
HUGHIE: Not at all, man. Oil. Pitrol. This is a new age. The motor is the great thing now . . . for today . . . en’ tomorra . . . an’ for centuries.
(ANNIE has placed the glasses on the table, and PETER has measured out three generous doses of poteen. They all re-seat themselves, glass in hand. They silently raise the glasses as the camera quickly but minutely examines the grimace on each face as the liquor is encountered.)
HUGHIE: I’m home for two months. An’ then I’m off again to make the second half of me fortune.
ANNIE: Well, may God watch over ye, Hughie.
PETER: An’ bring ye back safe.
HUGHIE: Here’s luck to us all.
(There is a noise as the door is put in to reveal the disreputable person of PACKY the Tramp. He is cheerful and jaunty, and calls out as he closes the door——)
PACKY: God save all here for goodness sake!
ANNIE: Hello, Packy.
PACKY: Lord bliss us, that’s not watter ye have.
PETER: Get yerself a cup, Packy.
(PACKY does so, from the dresser.)
PACKY: Well, ‘clare to God I didn’t notice it first but I see ye have company here.
(HUGHIE looks at him idly.)
PACKY: I hope I’m not intrudin’, Pether, d’ye onderstaund.
PETER: Ye’re welcome Packy. Here, have a wee drop of this stuff.
(PACKY holds out cup.)
PACKY: With the motor outsidd I thought maybe it was the doctor or somebody.
HUGHIE: Ye don’t know yer own friends, Packy.
(PACKY, close-up, staring.)
PACKY: Lord save us! It’s Hughie!
ANNIE: Of course it’s Hughie.
PACKY: ‘Clare to God it is! Well, my-O!
HUGHIE: Ye’d think I was a ghost or something.
PACKY: Well, I never heard tell of ye after ye went away, Hughie. Ye might as well have been in Kingdom Come.
HUGHIE: I was in a better place, Packy. I was in the States. God’s own country.
PETER: Well, ye were away a brave wee while.
PACKY: Ye’re a sight for sore eyes an’ that’s a fact. Wait till I tell the people about this. . . .
ANNIE: What time will ye have yer tea, Hughie?
HUGHIE: Aw, not for a few hours. I’m off for a walk.
PACKY: Maybe I’ll be a bit of the way with ye, Hughie.
HUGHIE: Ye needn’t bo’er yourself, Packy. I’m goin’ for to make a call. Just to drop in on an ould friend an’ give her the surprise of her life.
ANNIE: (Startled.) Is it Shiela, Hughie?
HUGHIE: Aye, indeed.
PETER: Ah man dear, Hughie . . . ye can’t do that.
HUGHIE: Can’t do that? Who says I can’t do that?
ANNIE: Hughie . . . yon poor girl Shiela . . . she’s not there.
HUGHIE: She’s not there? And where is she? Don’t tell me she’s gone away . . . or—Lord!—don’ tell me she’s married.
PACKY: Ah Hughie, me poor man.
ANNIE: (Softly.) Hughie, Shiela’s in heaven.
HUGHIE: (Aghast.) What? Where?
ANNIE: The poor girl died five years ago.
PETER: (Gently.) Aye, Hughie, she’s dead.
HUGHIE: Oh my God!
(Elbows on his knees, he buries his face in his hands. PACKY retrieves HUGHIE’S glass and replenishes it from PETER’S bottle.)
HUGHIE: Ah, the poor girl. Dead. Dear O. . . .
PETER: But she never forgot ye, Hughie. The whole country knows that.
ANNIE: I know it’s a hard blow for ye, Hughie. God pity ye. Things like that happen in this world. It would break yer heart.
PETER: But as you know, Hughie . . . ye’ll meet her again. Thank God there’ll be an end to all our troubles wan day.
HUGHIE: (Still stooped and near tears.) And to think I came all this way to meet her . . . and marry her . . . and take her away with me. . . .
ANNIE: Have another wee drink, Hughie.
HUGHIE: An’ to find she’s in her grave.
PACKY: A wee drink will help ye to bear up, Hughie.
HUGHIE: Yes, Packy. (Raises his head and takes glass.) An’ now I’ve no business here at all. I’ve no call to be here. Shiela’s gone from here. It’s time I was gone meself.
PETER: Ah now, Hughie, try to keep yer heart up. . . . This farm, I needn’t tell ye, will be yours. Ye’ll get another nice girl yet.
ANNIE: Aye surely.
HUGHIE: There’s nothing or nobody here for me now.
PACKY: Ah Hughie, man, cheer up. It’s not the end of the world yet.
HUGHIE: Nobody and nothing. I’ll go away.
ANNIE: Now, Hughie. . . .
HUGHIE: This time for good. For good an’ all.
PETER: Ye’ll stay here the night, Hughie. Sure ye’re only after walkin’ into the house after fifteen years. Ye must think of me an’ yer mo’er.
HUGHIE: Here’s me last drink to ye. I wish ye the best of luck. (He drinks deeply.) An’ I hope ye wish me luck too, for I’m thinkin’ I’ll need it.
ANNIE: For God’s sake ye’re not goin’ to walk out that door now, Hughie?
HUGHIE: I am, faith.
PETER: For pity’s sake, Hughie, don’t be daft.
ANNIE: Is the drink affectin’ him, Pether?
HUGHIE: (Going to the door.) No, it’s not the drink. Ye know why I must go.
PACKY: Hughie . . . !
HUGHIE: (Raising his hand in the doorway.) May God bliss ye all an’ keep ye.
(He is gone. The three characters maintain their positions, motionless. VOICE is heard again:)
VOICE: |
He won home to Ballytearim, an’ the two were livin’ yet, When he heard where she was lyin’ now the eyes of him were wet; |
Then the boy from Ballytearim set his face another road, An’ whatever luck has followed him was never rightly knowed; But still it’s truth I’m tellin’ ye—or may I never sin!—All the gold in Ballytearim is what’s stickin’ to the whin. |
THE END
THE TIME
FREDDIE RETIRED:
A TELEVISION PLAY IN
THREE EPISODES
Players
FREDDIE MATTHEWS |
A civil servant just retired, |
MAGGIE |
His wife, rather plain |
JOE HARTIGAN |
A neighbour, similar age |
NORA |
His wife |
MR. HACKETT |
A visitor |
This is a comedy but in no circumstances should a part be assigned to a known comic. The piece must be played straight.
The scene, which is the same for the three acts, is the Matthews’ sittingroom. It is comfortably furnished and there is a sideboard. It is winter, with a good fire burning. The Hartigans are visiting, and the atmosphere is bright and jolly. Each of the four has a drink, and there is a bottle of whiskey and some stouts on view. The disposal of the characters is left to the producer.
ACT I
JOE HARTIGAN: (Cordially, raising glass with whiskey.) Well, it’s well for your Freddie. A good pension for life and not a bother on you.
NORA: You’ll be bored, Freddie, with nothing to do.
MAGGIE: (Who has glass of stout.) Nothing to do? I’ve been at him for the last nine months to paint the front gate.
FREDDIE: (Beaming.) Ah Maggie, don’t mind the front gate. Don’t let a thing like that worry you. I’ll take down that gate, re-hang it, oil it, give it two undercoats and a top coat of waterproof vermilion paint that I’ll get specially from Germany.
MAGGIE: (Snorting.) Faith and I hope so.
JOE: Oh, there’s plenty of odd jobs to be done around any house.
FREDDIE: Joe, Nora’s remark about me having nothing to do is just a bit funny. Were you codding me, Nora? The truth is that at last I’ll have an opportunity to tackle a hundred and one things I’ve been thinking about all my life.
JOE: Well, more luck to you, Freddie.
MAGGIE: What sort of things, Fred?
NORA: Gardening, I suppose, Maggie.
FREDDIE: What sort of things? Well, that would take some answering. First of all, I’ll have to do some planning.
NORA: Planning what, Freddie?
FREDDIE: I mean, I’ll have to plan each day, divide it up into sections. Hole and corner dabbling at this and that would get me nowhere.
JOE: But lord, Freddie, isn’t that the very sort of thing you’ve just been released from? I mean, signing the attendance book before half-nine, a strict hour and a quarter for lunch, sending the letters up for signature at half-four, and all that. Slavery!
MAGGIE: You can call it slavery, Joe, but it was a good, decent job.
FREDDIE: Planning one’s life day by day, Joe, needn’t mean a system of wooden routine.
NORA: But what are you going to DO, Freddie? I mean, how are you going to put in the day? I feel somehow that a man who’s been used to regular work all his life will feel lost without it.
MAGGIE: Well now, Nora, I don’t think my bold Freddie will be too easily lost. He’s as lazy a man as the best of them.
JOE: Ah now, Maggie. We’re here tonight celebrating Freddie’s liberation.
MAGGIE: Yes, I know. First thing, he won’t get up till about twelve in the day. . . .
FREDDIE: Your granny!
MAGGIE: He’ll want breakfast in bed, and then lie there for hours, smoking and reading the paper.
JOE: (Laughing.) Maggie, I think he managed to do a bit of that in the office – AND GOT PAID FOR IT.
FREDDIE: All you people have bad, suspicious minds. I am going to have two broad branches of activity.
JOE: Well, what are they?
FREDDIE: What I would call pursuits of leisure, and WORK. Yes, I said work. Real work. Not a lot of futile form-filling and totting up figures.
NORA: Pursuits of leisure, and work? It sounds promising, I’ll say that. I never hear you talking like that, Joe.
JOE: Me dear Nora, there’s many a thing I do without talking about it.
FREDDIE: (Briskly.) Here now, let’s have another drink. Maggie, will you do the honours like a good girl.
(MAGGIE rises and replenishes all glasses. The ladies are drinking stout, the gentlemen whiskey. The talk continues as she does so.)
JOE: That’s a very nice drop of malt, Freddie. But come here. Tell us what those two categories mean. What do you mean by leisure and what do you mean by work?
NORA: Joe here represents the Gestapo.
FREDDIE: Oh indeed there’s nothing secret or confidential about the things that are going to occupy my time. Take leisure first. My golf handicap is 20, which is disgraceful. That’ll have to come down. And I’ll get plenty of God’s fresh air getting it down.
MAGGIE: Yes, Freddie. That seems to mean that on most of your trips to that club, it wasn’t to play golf you went there.
FREDDIE: Oh for goodness sake, Maggie. A club is a club.
JOE: Well, fair enough, Freddie. What else?
FREDDIE: Well, I’m going to attend properly to my St. Vincent de Paul conference. That’s leisure. I enjoy that.
NORA: Bravo! That Society does a lot of good.
JOE: Anything else?
FREDDIE: Oh yes. I want to get my eye in again at snooker. I used to be fairly good but I’m out of practice.
MAGGIE: When I was a girl no respectable person would be seen at games like that. Only cornerboys would go into those low clubs.
JOE: Ah now, I don’t know about that, Maggie.
NORA: All I know is my own father played billiards.
FREDDIE: Of course. It’s a game of skill. It’s training for the hand and eye that comes in handy in other things.
JOE: Well, is that the lot, Freddie?
FREDDIE: Ah, I don’t know. Grapes. I’ve always had an idea about growing grapes.
MAGGIE: What? In this country?
FREDDIE: Yes, Maggie. I’d need a heated glasshouse, of course.
JOE: But heavens, Freddie, that would cost a fortune.
FREDDIE: Certainly not. I would put it up myself.
NORA: And install the heating?
FREDDIE: Yes. I’m pretty handy and I’ve got decent tools. Maggie will tell you.
MAGGIE: I’m sick, sore and tired talking to you about putting up an extra upper shelf in the hot press.
FREDDIE: I haven’t forgotten that, Maggie. I’m waiting for Larrie to get me the timber.
NORA: Are you very fond of grapes?
FREDDIE: Not particularly. But there’s nothing like a decent bottle of wine.
JOE: Good heavens, Freddie! Irish wine? Mean to say you’re going to make wine from your grapes?
FREDDIE: Certainly. Why not?
JOE: Well bedad you’re going to change the whole country.
FREDDIE: I’ll keep myself occupied anyhow.
NORA: Well, so much for amusing yourself, Freddie. How about this work you’re going to do? What work?
FREDDIE: Ah well that would be mostly for the evening time. When there’s a bit of peace and quiet.
JOE: Yes, but what sort of work?
FREDDIE: Well, for a start, I’ve got to get down to my book.
MAGGIE: (Startled.) God save us! (She gazes around.) Don’t tell me the man is going to start betting and bookmaking? That would be the last.
NORA: Your book, Freddie?
FREDDIE: Yes, my book. That’s what I said.
JOE: Do you mean . . . writing a book?
FREDDIE: Of course I do.
NORA: Well, what will you be up to next.
MAGGIE: Do you remember that for your holidays in 1949 you said you were going to climb the Alps. Instead you spent a fortnight in Skerries.
JOE: For Pete’s sake, Freddie, a book about what? Will it be a novel or a thriller, or what?
FREDDIE: No, no. Something important and substantial. It will be in part autobiographical. There will be plain speaking on certain political matters. There are some things that require to be said. And said very bluntly.
JOE: You mean—you’re going to tell all?
FREDDIE: I suppose that’s about the size of it. Unmask all our political and business chancers, denounce humbug . . . cheating . . . immoral films . . . suggestive books . . . contempt for marriage in high places.
MAGGIE: (Sourly.) Yes. If you go about that in the right way, you’ll lose your pension and I suppose I’ll have to go out and get work scrubbing floors.
NORA: Ah now, Maggie, don’ be discouraging Freddie like that. He might also win the Nobel Prize and then be able to afford holidays climbing in the Alps every year.
JOE: (Genially.) Yes faith. And maybe sell the film rights of this book.
MAGGIE: We don’t even own this house.
FREDDIE: I’ve enough money in the bank to clear off what’s owing here but it doesn’t suit me to do so because, Maggie, we’ll be moving to a better and a bigger house soon. I want a proper garden where I can grow strawberries and raspberries.
JOE: Faith, you’re going to be the busy man, Freddie.
FREDDIE: Creative writing can only be done at night. I’ll have the days to put in in some useful and interesting way. Waste not, want not.
NORA: Anything else on the programme.
FREDDIE: Well, not much, Nora. I have a notion that I would like to learn to play the violin. It’s a beautiful instrument. Of course, I’d hardly develop into another Menuhin or Kreisler at my age but I could be as good as a lot of chaps I’ve heard.
MAGGIE: (Sternly and loudly.) Well is that so now? Let me tell you this, Fred. You’ll not start any of that nonsense in this house so long as I’m here. Sawing and screeching and howling to drive a person batty.
NORA: Haven’t you a piano there that would be simpler to learn?
MAGGIE: (Sharply.) The piano is locked and locked it is going to stay.
JOE: Your best plan, Freddie, would be to learn to play the organ. You could practice only in churches.
FREDDIE: (Smiling.) Ah, we’ll forget about music for the moment. One thing at a time.
JOE: Good for you. Use your retirement wisely. Look at me. I’ve no pension to look forward to. People like me have to work till they drop. Isn’t that so, Nora?
NORA: So you say anyway. The question is . . . will you be LET work till you drop? You could damn well get the sack any day.
MAGGIE: (Piously.) God forbid.
FREDDIE: They wouldn’ be so mad as to do anything like that. A man of Joe’s experience isn’t to be found in every hole and corner.
NORA: He was warned twice about drink.
JOE: Now stop talking nonsense, EVERYBODY. (He begins to beam, and struggles to feet with glass outstretched.) I want to propose a toast to Freddie Matthews. . . .
(The two ladies rise; FREDDIE remains seated.)
JOE: Here’s to Freddie Matthews . . . may the years ahead of him be many and long . . . and may the many great enterprises, upon which he is intent, flourish!
(They drink, and sit down again.)
FREDDIE: Thanks, Joe. Thanks everybody. I know you mean that. It is very nice of you.
CURTAIN
ACT II
The scene is the same but it is a forenoon, six weeks later. There is a dull flicker of a fire (if any) in the grate. FREDDIE MATTHEWS is lolling in an armchair sideways, his legs hanging down over the arm. One slipper has fallen off his foot. He is wearing pyjamas under a nondescript dressing gown. He is smoking and reading a newspaper. After a moment, MAGGIE barges in wearing an apron carrying a dust-pan and a stiff hand-brush. Her movements are noisy and fussy, and her voice is bad-tempered, loud.
MAGGIE: It’s after twelve. When are you going to shave or am I supposed to keep the hot water switched on all day?
FREDDIE: I don’t think I’ll shave at all today.
MAGGIE: Is that the way? You have no objection to going about looking like a tramp or a tinker?
FREDDIE: Plenty of men I know shave only every second day.
MAGGIE: Yes, and skip washing themselves too.
(She stoops and sweeps something off the carpet into her pan. As the talk proceeds, she continues doing this in various parts of the floor.)
FREDDIE: Look, Maggie, I’m reading the paper. It’s part of my business now to know what’s going on in the world.
MAGGIE: Your business? Your business is loafing and lazing about this house, getting in people’s way and making a mess everywhere you go.
FREDDIE: Getting in people’s way? All I’m doing is sitting in my own armchair.
MAGGIE: You call that sitting. Sprawling would be a better word. If I saw a young fellow carrying on like that, I’d take a stick to him. . . .
FREDDIE: What in God’s name do you expect from me? Sugar and spice and all that’s nice? I’m entitled to take it easy if the humour is on me. I’ve worked hard enough and I deserve it.
MAGGIE: I honestly don’t believe you know what real work is. Look at the job I have on my hands—looking after you, and cleaning up after you.
FREDDIE: Now Maggie, be fair. You know very well that I’m no bother to you.
MAGGIE: (Voice rising in anger.) Why have I got to break my back bending down day after day sweeping up cigarette ash off the carpet? You have the carpet destroyed.
FREDDIE: Oh, that’s just an accident.
MAGGIE: Because you’re too lazy to use an ash-tray.
FREDDIE: Nonsense, Maggie.
MAGGIE: Nonsense, is it? Where is the ash-tray you’re using now?
FREDDIE: Well, I’ve only just lit this cigarette.
(She snatches up an ash-tray from the mantelpiece and rudely dumps it on the edge of his chair.)
FREDDIE: Oh thanks.
MAGGIE: I suppose that’s another of my duties—chasing after you with ash-trays. You have the blankets in the bed ruined too, yourself and your cigarettes.
FREDDIE: An odd little scorch is no harm, for goodness sake.
MAGGIE: An odd little scorch? Some night you’ll set the bed on fire and have the pair of us roasted alive.
FREDDIE: (Giving a small forced laugh.) Well, what about it? I have both of us well insured. That son of ours below in Cork will get enough to set him up in his own business.
MAGGIE: (Now moving about dusting various objects.) Very, very funny. Do you remember several weeks ago, when you had the Hartigans from next door in for your little party the night after you retired?
FREDDIE: I do indeed.
MAGGIE: Do you remember all the grand things you were going to do. You had a list the length of your arm.
FREDDIE: Yes, and I stand by that list.
MAGGIE: Do you remember me saying that I was sick sore and tired talking to you about fixing up an extra shelf in the hot press?
FREDDIE: I haven’t forgotten or overlooked that little matter. Just now this attack of rheumatism I have will make any hard physical work out of the question for some days.
MAGGIE: (Sneering.) Musha, the poor man!
FREDDIE: You may remember that one thing I planned to do was to reduce my golf handicap by real practising.
MAGGIE: That itself would get you out of my way here.
FREDDIE: Well, there you are. I can’t even play golf just now.
MAGGIE: You mean your small pension prevents you from going up to that golf club to do what you always did up there . . . and I needn’t say what that is.
FREDDIE: I just have to keep quiet, Maggie, until this rheumatism business clears up. You know that past attacks always lasted a few weeks.
MAGGIE: Are you as crippled as all that?
FREDDIE: I am. This morning I knew I’d have to move around a bit before I could hope to be able to pull my trousers on.
MAGGIE: Well, for goodness sake! Johnny was at the door this morning with his fresh eggs. He said he thought you were looking very well. He seen you last night in Cullen’s.
FREDDIE: In Cullen’s? Ah yes, I dropped in there for cigarettes.
MAGGIE: Is that so? Well, bad as your rheumatism may be, it seems there was very little wrong with your right arm.
FREDDIE: What do you mean?
MAGGIE: You were strong enough to order pints of stout. And your right arm was good enough to raise those big heavy glasses. . . .
FREDDIE: Oh, now, now . . .
MAGGIE: And you were well enough in yourself to SCOFF the porter. Not one pint, but several.
FREDDIE: When a man finds himself in a public house, he has to stand his round, even if he doesn’t particularly want any more drink for himself.
MAGGIE: That’s a grand phrase of yours – “when a man finds himself in a public house.” You’d imagine you were swept in there by some fierce, diabolical gale, and that you couldn’t help yourself. . . .
(Freddie has stubbed his cigarette and lit another.)
FREDDIE: My dear Maggie, when one lives in a civilised community, one must participate in the social organism. One cannot stand aloof without being in danger of getting the name of being eccentric, or queer in the head, or downright mad. I pride myself on being normal. Do you understand me? NORMAL. I try to regard everybody as my friend. It is the only way to go through life. You don’t have to fall over everybody but good manners and courtesy never hurt anybody.
MAGGIE: And all that’s true of the golf club too, I suppose?
FREDDIE: Certainly.
MAGGIE: Do you remember one evening about this time two years ago when you left the house with fifteen pounds in your pocket and went up to that club?
FREDDIE: I do indeed.
MAGGIE: And you came home late that night with NOTHING in your pocket!
FREDDIE: Yes, and I told you what had happened. I just had a unique run of incredible bad luck. It was completely contrary to any law of averages. Nothing like it was ever seen before.
MAGGIE: What you mean is that you started playing cards and lost all your week’s wages.
FREDDIE: It was just lousy, lousy luck.
MAGGIE: Playing cards with louts, cheats and con-men, people you were no match for.
FREDDIE: Now, now, have a heart. The members are all respectable citizens of this town. An honest game of poker now and again is no sin.
MAGGIE: And, as I said at the time, they took care to ply you with whiskey. Very likely hot whiskey, until you could hardly tell one card from another.
FREDDIE: Oh, rubbish. I’m known to be a good poker player. And a good loser, I hope. But no man can win during a night if he doesn’t get the cards. Anybody will tell you that.
MAGGIE: Wouldn’t it be a simple thing to keep completely away from card-sharks?
FREDDIE: It would. Like cigarettes or drink, I can take it or leave it. But we live in a community. I can’t give everybody the back of my hand. I don’t want myself to be sticking out in this town like a sore thumb.
MAGGIE: Very likely you’re well known at present for all your trickery, boasting and boozing.
FREDDIE: Don’t be ridiculous, Maggie. I drink very little. I could almost be called an abstemious man.
MAGGIE: I once overheard a certain party make mention of Mad Matthews.
FREDDIE: Is that so? Well, that was a joke, or somebody else of the same name.
MAGGIE: Did you take a bath last night?
FREDDIE: I did.
MAGGIE: Two days ago I gave the bathroom a proper cleaning up, scrubbed and polished the floor, did the taps, and put in three new towels.
FREDDIE: Yes, I noticed that.
MAGGIE: This morning I found the floor soaking with water and slops. . . .
FREDDIE: Ah now, listen—
MAGGIE: Two of the towels pitched on the floor wringing wet, mud on one of them from dirty shoes, and a lump of soap half under the bath.
FREDDIE: Well, you can’t take a bath without using towels.
MAGGIE: The place was a shambles.
FREDDIE: Well, maybe I was a bit careless in the bathroom.
MAGGIE: (Voice rising.) Do you think it’s my job to keep on cleaning up after you?
FREDDIE: Not at all, no.
MAGGIE: And have all my housework go for nothing?
FREDDIE: No, no. It’s this rheumatism. I can’t stoop to pick things up.
MAGGIE: I don’t believe there’s a damn thing wrong with you.
FREDDIE: Who, me? You know very well I’m a martyr to rheumatism.
MAGGIE: You’re a martyr to laziness since you left that job, and you’re making MY life a misery by loafing about here and messing up the house.
FREDDIE: Ah now, that’s not fair.
MAGGIE: You told the Hartigans you were going to practice your snooker. . . .
FREDDIE: And so I am.
MAGGIE: God knows, bad and all as that business is, and low as the louts are who go into that hall, it would be a mercy to me if it got you out of this house.
FREDDIE: I couldn’t hold a cue in my present condition.
MAGGIE: Is that so? Couldn’t you stagger down to the hall, sit down and watch others?
FREDDIE: Maybe I could, but how about putting on my collar and tie? I don’t like to say it, but——
MAGGIE: You don’t like to say what?
FREDDIE: I don’t like to say it, but I’m a helpless invalid.
MAGGIE: (Snorting.) Ah, well, well . . . a helpless invalid. I must remember to buy some babyfood.
FREDDIE: I’ll be all right after a good rest.
MAGGIE: I’ll tell you one thing, martyr and all as you are. Starting tomorrow, you are going to make your own bed.
FREDDIE: (Smiling weakly.) Oh well, I suppose that won’t kill me. I was once a Boy Scout, remember.
MAGGIE: And talking about a good rest, I’m going out now to visit my sister. If you want anything to eat at half past one, you can make it yourself.
FREDDIE: Oh dear . . .
MAGGIE: (Going out.) You know where the sugar and tea is. And yesterday’s stale loaf.
ACT III
The scene is the same, and the time is the afternoon. FREDDIE, fully dressed, is sitting smoking as MAGGIE comes in, rather formally dressed. She is in a relaxed mood; the attitude of scold is muted.
MAGGIE: Digesting your lunch, I see?
FREDDIE: Yes. That was a nice bit of corned beef.
MAGGIE: And the rheumatism is nearly gone?
FREDDIE: Ah, very much improved, thank God.
MAGGIE: And you’ll soon be able to go out?
FREDDIE: I hope so.
MAGGIE: You’d better be. We’re having a visitor this afternoon. (Looks at clock.) In fact, any time now.
FREDDIE: A visitor? What visitor? Who, Maggie?
MAGGIE: Nobody that you know. His name is Hackett. Mr. Cyril Hackett. He’s . . . a scientist.
FREDDIE: A scientist? Well, well. That’s a big surprise. As you know, Maggie, I have a profound interest in science. A much neglected subject in this country, I must say.
MAGGIE: Maybe so. But perhaps we’ll have an opportunity to mend that.
FREDDIE: Which branch of science does he deal in, Maggie? I mean, is it chemistry . . . or astronomy?
MAGGIE: Neither. I suppose the answer would be Nature and Wild Life. He deals with animals.
FREDDIE: Ah-ha? Animals? A fascinating subject. The dumb animals have much to teach us. Man himself, I’m afraid, is the dumbest of the animals.
MAGGIE: Yes. Even the lowliest animal can look after himself, keep himself clean, and leave no mess behind.
FREDDIE: True, I suppose. Look at the way cats wash themselves.
MAGGIE: Yes. And they haven’t even a bathroom to muck up.
FREDDIE: Tell me, is this man a vet, and what is he coming here for?
MAGGIE: No, he is not a vet. (A ring is heard.) Ah, here he is now, I’m sure. You’d better offer him a drop of sherry. (Goes out.)
FREDDIE: (To himself.) Animals? Begors, now? Maybe he runs a school for horse-riding. Or could he be a lion-tamer. Heavens, am I to be invited to go on safari?
(He smokes. MAGGIE re-enters with a short-sighted middle-aged man who is neatly and primly dressed, carrying a bowler.)
MAGGIE: This is my husband, Fred Matthews, Mr. Hackett.
(HACKETT’S voice is precise and neat.)
HACKETT: Ah, delighted, Mr. Matthews.
FREDDIE: Do sit down, Mr. Hackett.
HACKETT: (Seating himself fastidiously.) Rather heavy sort of weather, don’t you think?
MAGGIE: Yes, indeed. Some rain would do us good.
HACKETT: Your wife has been talking to me about you, Mr. Matthews. You are lucky to have such a counsellor and friend.
FREDDIE: (Surprised.) Indeed? Nothing derogatory, I hope.
HACKETT: Oh indeed no. It’s just that she’s a little bit worried about you.
FREDDIE: Worried about me? If you mean my odd bouts of rheumatism, I wouldn’t bother about that at all. I’ve had these little attacks all my life. They pass over quickly. It’s nothing serious.
MAGGIE: No, no. It was something else that Mr. Hackett and I were talking over.
FREDDIE: Something else? What, for instance?
HACKETT: I understand, Mr. Matthews, that you retired a short time ago from a lifetime of office work and that your life has become, so to speak, rather empty.
FREDDIE: (Emphatically.) Oh, nothing of the kind, I assure you.
Nothing of the kind.
MAGGIE: Now Freddie, we might as well be honest. You hardly ever go out. Except, of course, sometimes at night, to do some elbowbending.
HACKETT: It’s really an old problem, Mr. Matthews. Every man is a creature of his environment. Man was born to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. Working is man’s natural destiny. He must be occupied, otherwise he will run to seed.
FREDDIE: Well, I suppose that’s true, but. . . .
HACKETT: In other words, we have what we may call the Perils of Retirement.
MAGGIE: Or the Dangers of Desistence.
FREDDIE: Now, look here, I’m not in any danger.
HACKETT: No, that word is a bit strong. I’ll put it like this. A working man may be likened to a valuable, highly-intricate machine. When the machine runs down and finally stops working, what happens? The gleaming, polished parts begin to rust. As time passes, the machine becomes obsolete, decrepit.
FREDDIE: What? Me decrepit?
HACKETT: It’s just my metaphor, Mr. Matthews. In fact, you look far from decrepit.
FREDDIE: Well, thank you. I’m glad to hear you admit that. I’ve never felt better in my life. My best years are before me. I have any amount of things to occupy my time.
MAGGIE: What you lack, Freddie, is a system, an organised way of doing something useful.
FREDDIE: In this very room, Maggie, I listed all the things I planned to get down to now that I can call my time my own.
MAGGIE: Yes, yes, but there has been very little more than talk.
HACKETT: I think your wife is right, Mr. Matthews. You will find that many other men, on retirement, find that the best way to preserve health and well-being is to take a new and quite different job. That is—to look for work, but light work, of course.
MAGGIE: Exactly. To work in their spare time.
FREDDIE: Well, of course, if a man is ignorant, without a well-stocked mind, it’s a poor look-out for him on retirement. He’d be apt to go off his rocker from sheer boredom. Thank God I’M not in that boat!
MAGGIE: We’re not always the best judges in our own cases.
HACKETT: Quite. It may seem a queer thing to say, Mr. Matthews, but work is a thing that can be missed, like a favourite armchair, a cherished picture, or a beloved wife.
MAGGIE: Yes . . . and to say nothing of a well-loved pint of stout, or a half-one.
FREDDIE: Mr. Hackett, could I offer you a glass of sherry?
HACKETT: No, thank you very much. I never touch anything strong.
FREDDIE: I see. You mentioned light work. What exactly do you mean by that term?
HACKETT: Well, what we might term part-time work but something that is nevertheless interesting.
FREDDIE: My wife mentioned that you were yourself interested in animals, Mr. Hackett.
HACKETT: Ah yes, animals are part of my life.
MAGGIE: Mr. Hackett is Assistant Keeper at the Zoo.
FREDDIE: Good heavens, the Zoo!
HACKETT: Yes, the Zoo. We have a wonderful collection there. One of the best in Europe, and the place itself is a scenic wonder. Beautiful . . . beautiful.
MAGGIE: Yes, and the air there is wonderful. It almost makes you intoxicated.
FREDDIE: Well, in a way I must say I envy you, Mr. Hackett. I’m terribly fond of animals myself. They are wonderful creatures and very cute, some of them. And all bouncing with good health, their captivity notwithstanding.
HACKETT: Ah, on that last point I would have to say yes and no. Some animals do not take well to zoo life. They are inclined to get delicate in their health. They need careful watching.
MAGGIE: And careful treatment and nursing too, I’m sure.
HACKETT: Oh yes. Of course the patrons never see any animals who are sick. They are kept and treated in private quarters.
FREDDIE: Right enough, a whole zooful of animals must be quite a handful, everything from mice to lions, from snakes to baboons.
HACKETT: Yes indeed—and they all have their own peculiar disorders and weaknesses. Above in the Zoo we have to be very versatile doctors.
MAGGIE: Ah but it’s a grand life. You have the feeling all the time that you’re doing good, Mr. Hackett.
HACKETT: Quite true, Mrs Matthews.
FREDDIE: May I ask with respect what all this has got to do with me?
MAGGIE: Mr. Hackett is in a bit of a spot. He needs help.
FREDDIE: If it’s a question of money or a subscription, Mr. Hackett, I’m afraid there is not much I could do. You see, my pension, adequate if you like, is modest enough. But I would be glad to canvass for subs.
HACKETT: My dear sir, money is not the crux at all. We’re not badly off, and we have many friends who remember us in their wills. It’s the kangaroos.
FREDDIE: The kangaroos? Heavens, what about the kangaroos?
HACKETT: I’m terribly worried about my kangaroos.
FREDDIE: Is that so? Are they sick?
HACKETT: Not exactly sick. They have a certain complaint, and they need more care and grooming than they get.
FREDDIE: (Puzzled.) I see? Constipation or something of that kind, I suppose?
HACKETT: (Smiling amiably.) No, thank goodness. They have a complaint from which even humans are not immune.
FREDDIE: Ah! Chilblains, or—Good Lord!—rheumatism?
HACKETT: No. Dandruff!
FREDDIE: (Shocked.) What?
HACKETT: Yes, they suffer from dandruff all over their coats. As we know, it’s not a fatal affliction. But it makes them very irritable and affects their appetites.
FREDDIE: I’ll certainly take your word for that.
MAGGIE: Another thing, it’s very unsightly. It puts people off.
FREDDIE: (Blankly.) Yes. Dandruff. Yes.
MAGGIE: Unfortunately, Mr. Hackett is short-handed.
HACKETT: Ah, that’s the rub, Mr. Matthews. My men are kept very busy and can’t really give the kangaroos the specialised attention they require. It’s a terrible pity, because they are beautiful and gentle animals. They are as friendly as little dogs.
FREDDIE: Yes, and they are great men for lepping. What special attention do they require?
HACKETT: Oh, a careful going over for a few hours each day.
FREDDIE: Going over? How do you mean?
HACKETT: Well, each one of the four would have to be curry-combed. It takes a bit of time to do the job properly. Patience, too.
MAGGIE: But of course that would be nothing to a true animal-lover.
HACKETT: As well as the curry-combing, there is a special lotion to be rubbed in afterwards.
MAGGIE: How long would it take per day, do you think, Mr. Hack-ett?
HACKETT: Oh, not so very long. If Mr. Matthews could manage to arrive by half eleven, he could be off by half four, with his lunch thrown in.
FREDDIE: (Aghast.) Who, ME? What?
MAGGIE: Why not? I could get the beds made here, and the house cleaned up.
FREDDIE: ME—curry-combing kangaroos?
HACKETT: The pay we offer, Mr. Matthews, for a six-day week, is modest. Four pounds five shillings.
MAGGIE: It’s quite generous when we remember it’s for the good and relief of the brute creation.
FREDDIE: Oh, heavens above! If my friends in the golf club heard about this!
MAGGIE: There’s no need to worry. This would be a private sort of vacation.
HACKETT: Oh, absolutely. We have a small private paddock where the animals would be attended to one by one. Mrs Matthews told me that this little job would interest you, and I am delighted. A bargain, then?
(He rises and holds out his hand, which FREDDIE takes speechlessly. MAGGIE smiles as HACKETT prepares to leave.)
MAGGIE: Well, thanks for coming, Mr Hackett. My husband will be very happy with you from next Monday morning, and I’m sure the kangaroos will take him to their hearts.
FREDDIE: (Blankly.) Kangaroos? Me? At MY age?
HACKETT: (At the door.) A very good day to you, Mr Matthews.
FREDDIE: Good . . . good bye.
THE END
Players
The CAPTAIN, the AIR HOSTESS and at least 8 miscellaneous characters, numbered here I–VIII.
Interior of Aer Lingus plane, cut-away half-section showing one row of seats, each occupied by two passengers, carpet of aisle in foreground; plane brightly lit, rest of stage blacked-out. Plane structure should rest on some sort of central pedestal to make possible plunges, etc., in rough weather. There is a magnificent blonde in front seat.
The drone of the engines can be heard off. The AIR HOSTESS comes in from rear.
HOSTESS: Youz may loosen yer belts now. (They do so.)
NO. I: (Flashy young man near front.) Ay, Mac. (Turns round, calling to a pal in the rear.) Is this yoke safe?
MAC:1 (Drooping blasé type.) Sairtintly it’s safe.
NO. I: I thought the Captain had a few jars on him and we comin’ in here.
MAC: Notachall. A most abstemyus man, the Captain.
NO. III: (Prim Englishman.) I say, look here, flying personnel are prohibited by law the use of intoxicants or drugs.
NO. IV: (Another Dublin man.) Doesn’t say he mightn’t take odd jar on the quiet all the same. There’s hawks and cute hawks.
HOSTESS: That reminds me. Would anybody like a drink?
NO. III:/ENGLISHMAN: (Sharply.) Certainly not.
HOSTESS: They’re complimentary. . . . You KNOW?
LADY IN FRONT: (English.) D’you mind if I hev a Cointreau with a tiny little desh of French vermouth. End some ice, please. Thank you.
HOSTESS: Sairtintly.
NO. I: I don’t suppose you’d have e’er a pint here at all? I never touch the hard stuff. (Taps chest.) The hairrt, you know.
NO. VII: (Dublin. Loud bawling voice.) I’ll have a glass of Powers’s Gold Label with quantum sufficio of aqua pura.
NO. V: (North of Ireland man.) Ah thenk Ah’ll have a wee dray sherry, Miss. Do ye mind what Ah’m sayin’ now? A dray sherry. Dray, dray, dray, DRAY.
HOSTESS: (Departing as plane gives terrific lurch.) Sairtintly.
NO. I: (Frightened, roaring.) Holy Godfathers! Whoa, there—WHOA! Ay, Miss—tell that driver to be more careful.
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: Only an air pockeet, old boy.
NO. I: Well by Gob there must be a hole in it.
(Enter the CAPTAIN from front.)
CAPTAIN: Good evenin’ all.
MAC: Owairye, Captain.
NO. I: Try and be a bit more careful drivin’ this yoke, Captain. I got half of me stummick taken out two years ago and what’s left isn’t right.
CAPTAIN: Right. Tell me now—has anybody here got such a thing as a monkey wrench?
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: (Indignant.) A WOT?
NO. VIII: (Quiet old lady.) Would a nail scissors be of any assistance. I think I have one here in my bag. . . . (Begins to rummage, while plane gives another devastating plunge, nose up. CAPTAIN falls into the arms of the pretty LADY IN FRONT.)
CAPTAIN: I’m very, very sorry ma’am. I beg yer pairdin.
LADY IN FRONT: (Frigidly.) That’s quite all right.
CAPTAIN: I’m sure yer man out there done that deliberately. Rafferty’s a hewer.
MAC: Tell Rafferty he’s making the crowd in here nairvis.
NO. I: Tell him I’LL have his bloody life if he doesn’t cut out actin’ the maggot.
CAPTAIN: Ma’am give me that nail scissors.
(There is another lurch, and cries of dismay.)
CAPTAIN: I’m not happy in meself at all with that port ingin. (Shakes head.) Not happy at all. (Exit. Passengers look at each other.)
(HOSTESS comes in with drinks on tray. NO. I grabs glass of malt.)
NO. I: So the Captain’s not happy in himself, eh? (Turns to shout to MAC.) Ay, Mac, to hell with me stummick!
MAC: More luck!
(Plane gives series of sea-saw lurches. Queer spluttering noises come from engine, then steady drone is much diminished. Enter CAPTAIN.)
SOMEBODY: Anything the matter, Captain?
CAPTAIN: The port engine has gone for its tea.
GENERAL CRY: Whaaaaat . . . ?
CAPTAIN: The sprockets is gone.
NO. I: Whataya talkin’ about?
CAPTAIN: And the plugs is in an absolutely shockin’ state.
NO. I: You tell Rafferty to get all that plugs cleaned up and stop actin’ the bags or I’ll have that chiner’s bloody life. D’you hear me?
CAPTAIN: The whole oil job has gone for the milk too. I’ll have to turn back.
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: (Very servere.) WOT? I absolutely forbid you to turn beck. I hev most urgent business in London.
CAPTAIN: I can turn back . . . or not turn . . . back . . . or turn left or turn right . . . or fly backwards . . . IN ME ABSOLUTE DISCRETION, now do you understand, me good man. A Captain, if you understand me (lurch) a Captain is endowed with ferociously wide powers. In me absolute discretion I could marry that gairrl there. In me absolute discretion I can hold a furenal sairvice. As a matter of fact I could clamp the whole crowd of ye in irons. D’ye understand me?
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: I think you’re a demn fool. If you turn this aircraft beck, I will report you.
MAC: You shut yer gob. This is an Irish aerioplane, and We’ll do what WE like.
NO. III:/ENGLISHMAN: I don’t like the Irish, actually.
NO. VII: (Loud, bawling voice.) Oh is that so? Well let me tell you this. We bet you and your crowd out of the country (lurch) and will again if ye put yeer dirty noses back into it, and we’ll run ye out of Six Counties yet me bould segotia, ye runt of a limey.
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: Captain, I absolutely insist on being put down in London.
CAPTAIN: Now look at here. That gentleman is pairfictly right. This flight we’re on (lurch) doesn’t take much more than sixty minutes. You KNOW? But how the SIX HUNDRED YEARS? Not a word about that . . . (fearful lurching). . . at all. Where do you lave Strongbow marryin’ a dacent Irish gairrl be force below in Waterford when he was after slaughterin’ every man, woman, child, dog and divil in the town? Do you know what YOU ought to do? (Lurch, lurch.)
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: Wot you talking about?
NO. I: He ought to read the Four Glorious Years in d’Irish Press.
CAPTAIN: Yooughta shut yer gob and kindly remember there’s ladies present. (Enormous sea-saw lurching, all present holding on to seats and each other. CAPTAIN again falls into LADY’S lap.)
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: Really, you Irish! I should like you to notice, Captain, thet I have contrived, notwithstending the behaviour of this obsolete aircraft, to keep my hends off the ladies.
CAPTAIN: (To LADY.) I beg yer pairdin, ma’am.
LADY IN FRONT: Ew, thet’s quite all right, Captain.
CAPTAIN: And You—You—I tolded you, I TOLDED YOU TO SHUT UP. I’m keepin’ a great control of meself. (Lurching.) But I’m afraid of me life I’ll break out yet.
MAC: Don’t pay any attention to him, Captain—don’t give him the satisfaction. He’s only a bowsy.
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: ‘Fraid I didn’t get the Ceptain’s other name. Could it be Casanova?
(Further lurching in the middle of which mild OLD LADY, who gave captain the scissors, rises unsteadily, approaches ENGLISHMAN from rear, and bashes him over the head with her umbrella.)
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: O I say, look here!
(UPROAR. Lurching. Strange noises from engine.)
NO. V/N. OF IRELAND MAN: Hov ye no monners, wumman? Holy Goad, to strake an unforetunate mon on the back of tha had is a thing ye wouldn’t even see in the wilds of Conamawra.
SOMEBODY: I’ll Conamara you. Shut up and finish yer dray, dray sherry.
NO. V/N. OF IRELAND MAN: What are ye talking about? Ah have it finished hours ago mon.
NO. VIII/OLD LADY: (Fuming quietly.) The cheek of some people.
CAPTAIN: Did ye hear the starboard ingin? By Gob I don’t like the sound of that at all. (Lurch.)
MAC: Shure we must be nearly across be now, Captain?
CAPTAIN: Do you know what I’m going to tell you, we’d betther be. I’m thinking maybe we’ll have to land in the say.
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: (Laughs drily.) Demn good, thet.
NO. I: WHAT’S damn good? (Lurch, lurch.).
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: Wot the Ceptain said. Terribly Irish. “Land on the sea.” ’Ow could you lend on the sea?
CAPTAIN: Aw, smairty, eh? (Imitates accent.)“’Ow could you lend on the sea?” Would ye prefer us to sea on the sea now?
NO. III:/ENGLISHMAN: Just my little joke, old boy. (Amid terrible lurching and uproar, ENGLISHMAN takes out the Times and begins reading.) By Jove, Compton is hitting ‘em again!
CAPTAIN: (Shouting above din.) Hould fast lads. I’ll have to see Rafferty about this other ingin. (Exit.)
NO. V/N. OF IRELAND MAN: Tell him to lond somewhere where we’ll all be dray, d’ye undherstond.
(More lurching.)
NO. I: (Plaintively.) I don’t know what put it into me head to be here at all and that’s the God’s truth, I’d be bether off where I was last night, having a scoop for meself in the Scotch House.
(Engine begins to conk. Enter CAPTAIN wearing life-jacket.)
CAPTAIN: Ye know the propellor on the starboard ingin?
NO. V/N. OF IRELAND MAN: Well what about the wee propellor, Captain?
CAPTAIN: Do ye know (lurches) do ye know where it is?
CRIES: Where . . . where?
CAPTAIN: The propellor of the starbaord ingin is below in d’Irish Say.
(Consternation. Enormous lurching, a flash, a crash, and the lights go out. Entire stage is now black. The voices are heard again.)
CAPTAIN: I think I see lights beyond there. Maybe Rafferty can glide in. Rafferty’s a right lad, one of the Rafferty crowd beyond there in Mulhuddard.
MAC: He is not, he’s a Skerries man.
LADY IN FRONT: Captain, I heppen to be a chennel swimmer. If we DO happen to go down into the water, I do hope you will allow me to assist you.
CAPTAIN: Sairtintly, me good girl. I’d do annthin’ to oblige a lady in distress.
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: Some demn fool has blundered, there is no doubt about eet. I say, Ceptain, could I send a wireless message to my London offeece saying I will be delayed? (No reply from CAPTAIN.)
VOICE: Ay, you. Keep yer elbow outa me eye!
ANOTHER VOICE: Somebody’s boots is pokin into me back.
NO. V/N. OF IRELAND MAN: Ah wonder where that wee gairl in the unyform is gawn, because Ah could do with another gloss of dray sherry.
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: I wonder where the dickens that Ceptain is gone?
MAC: D’ye know, I think that was a pariachute I seen him wearin.
A VOICE: I think we’ll be O.K. I see lights down there.
ANOTHER VOICE: Are ye there, Mac?
MAC: Would ya mind tellin me where else I could be?
SAME VOICE: Right. Give us an oul’ bar of a song.
MAC: Right.
(Begins to sing “The Wild Colonial Boy.” Half-way there is a shout:)
SHOUT: We’re comin DOWN. . . . We’re going to CRASH.
(There is a terrific crash and tearing sound, followed by confused shouts.)
A SHOUT: Are yez all right?
(Lights in plane go on, showing passengers piled in confusion on floor, with the exception of CAPTAIN and LADY, who are locked in each other’s arms on seat. CAPTAIN quietly disengages himself, others sort themselves out.)
CAPTAIN: Didn’t I tell ye Rafferty would do it? Didn’t I tell ye? Hah?
VOICES: Ye did indeed. Three cheers for Rafferty.
(ENGLISHMAN clutching brief-case comes urgently forward to CAPTAIN.)
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: I say, old boy, thet was a really megnificent feat of nevigation. Would you kindly convey my congretulations to Officer Refferty.
CAPTAIN: Sairtintly. Guramahagut.
NO. III:/ENGLISHMAN: Pawdon?
CAPTAIN: Guramahagut.
NO. III:/ENGLISHMAN: WOT?
CAPTAIN: Guramahagut. Thanks very much.
NO. III:/ENGLISHMAN: (Turning to go.) Ao. I think I’ll just be in time for my meeting after all. Goodnight. (Exit.)
CAPTAIN: There’ll be right ructions when he finds he’s in Wexford—eh lads?
(Loud laughs.)
THE END
1 It is unclear in the original text whether Mac is another passenger, or one of the seven introduced earlier.
THE MAN WITH
FOUR LEGS
A True Tale of Terror
Players
a.) MR. O’BRIEN |
main character |
b.) MISS GLASS |
office worker |
MISS O’SHAUGHNESSY |
office worker |
MISS CURRAN |
office worker |
MISS CROTTY |
office worker |
MISS SCALLY |
office worker |
MR. HICKORY |
a bowsie |
BARNEY BARNES |
a veterinary surgeon |
SERGEANT O’HARA |
a.) He is a youngish, debonair, well-spoken man.
b.) As the play shows, these people are all pests but it is desired that they should be as varied as possible as to age, dress, accent and manner.
PART I
The screen shows MR. O’BRIEN busy at his desk, which carries a heavy load of files, papers and books. There are two telephones and he frequently picks one up to originate a call or answer one. This goes on in dumb show for about five minutes but meanwhile his voice is heard on the sound track.
MR. O’BRIEN: My name’s O’Brien. And there you see me in my office, working very hard. I mean that. There was an inexhaustible stream of matters to be dealt with, questions to be answered, perplexities to be unravelled, and problems thought out. Nothing short of sheer hard work would be any good in that situation. Anybody who even paused would be engulfed by memoranda and files as by a veritable tidal wave. I need not trouble you with any account of what sort of work it was but it is important to know that my office was in a very large building containing perhaps 500 other workers. They were all office workers of one kind or another and, for Ireland, that was a big staff. (Pause.)
I would say that about 400 of those people were women. (Pause.)
There is one thing I must emphasise at the outset, and do please believe me, or at least try to. The story I am going to unfold is absolutely true. It happened to me, and it was horrible. Looking back on it, I now see I acted with incredible stupidity. All the same, I was the victim, step by step, of a slow, malignant destiny. It could have happened to you, too. Maybe it won’t after this revelation I am going to make. Perhaps you can be wise after MY event. The experience I had was harrowing and it originated in the goodness of my heart in an attempt, for a paltry tuppence, to help the black babies in the heart of Africa. To give to the poor and unenlightened—that seems to be at least a simple and uncomplicated thing. You might imagine that it is not a thing that would lead you to see the inside of a jail. Very well. Just attend to this chronicle and try to take it seriously. (Pause.)
Those ladies would not leave me alone. It would be an exaggeration to say that one of them invaded my room every day of the week, but in retrospect it seems like that. The money their visits cost me was trivial enough but I detested the intrusions, the interruptions in my attempts to concentrate. What, you may ask, of the time they took off from their own work, for you may be sure that I was by no means the only person they pestered? Some supervisor was badly to blame. Still, this was the method those ladies invented for making sure they would get to heaven. (Pause.)
Oh well . . . I suppose we must be patient and tolerant. But let me show you what happened in practice.
(Sound is now transferred to the actual sounds being played in the office.)
O’BRIEN: (Startled by sudden opening of door.) Oh! Hello.
MISS GLASS: Mr. O’Brien, I hope I’m not interrupting you. I’m Miss Glass.
O’B: How do you do, Miss Glass?
G: I was wondering if you’d buy a ticket?
O’B: A ticket? How much are they?
G: Only two pence each.
O’B: And what’s the prize? A car?
G: Ah no. (Giggles.) A sleeping doll.
O’B: What? What would I do with a sleeping doll?
G: Oh well, if you won it your sister might like it.
O’B: My sister has real dolls of her own and they don’t seem to do much sleeping.
G: Well, I’m sure you have a little niece.
O’B: I suppose so. Well, give me three tickets.
(Miss G. quickly inscribes counterfoils, hands over the tickets and takes sixpence.)
G: Thanks very much, Mr. O’Brien. And I wish you the best of luck.
O’B: Thanks. Goodbye.
(On the screen appears the notice ANOTHER DAY. The scene is the same, and a slatternly elderly lady enters, speaking with pronounced Cork accent.)
MISS O’SHAUGHNESSY: Ah, Mr. O’Brien, I’m on the war path. We want you to help a very deserving charity.
O’B: You are Miss—
O’S: O’Shaughnessy.
O’B: Well, I suppose every real charity is deserving. What’s this one?
O’S: It’s a plan we have to buy boots for the poor newsboys.
O’B: Hmm. I suppose you’re selling tickets?
O’S: Yes. (Flourishing book.) Only threepence each.
O’B: I’ll risk two. Put me down on the counterfoils. What’s the big prize?
O’S: A genuine Chinese shawl. A lovely thing. Bee-eautiful.
O’B: Very well. I suppose I can lie on it in the Phoenix Park when the weather takes up.
O’S: Thanks very much. But ah, that would be a pity. You could hang it up on a wall in your home. It has a dragon and all on it.
O’B: I might hang it up on the wall here, to frighten people away when I’m busy.
O’S: Well, I know you’re busy now. Thanks. (Departs.)
(Screen ANOTHER DAY. MISS SCALLY enters, a good-looking and rather haughty character. She smiles distantly and waves a book.)
MISS SCALLY: Mr. O’Brien, I’m selling tickets for a new bicycle.
O’B: I see. How much are they?
S: Only sixpence.
O’B: All right. Give me two, even if I hate bikes.
(Phone rings. O’B takes up receiver irritably as he lays a shilling on the desk and MISS S. completes the counterfoils.)
O’B: Yes, Mr. Farrell. That’s correct. Yes. (Long pause.) The land is absolutely essential for the outfall works and your firm got ample notice of the situation. You can’t blame us if you now stand to lose money. You shouldn’t have built anything there, and I don’t see any prospect of compensation. (Pause.) The needs of the community come first. Surely you must know that. (Pause.) Very well. Three o’clock tomorrow. I’ll be here but it’s all a waste of time. Goodbye.
S: That’s very good of you, Mr. O’Brien. Cheerio.
(Screen ANOTHER DAY. MISS CROTTY enters, a middle-aged large woman with a heavy Dublin accent.)
MISS CROTTY: Mr. O’Brien, I’m getting ould and we’re all gettin ould. Some day we won’t be able to do a hand’s turn or hold down any class of a job.
O’B: You’re Miss Crotty, I think? Yes, you speak nothing but the truth. I’m not feeling too well myself, even today. There is too much work here. Those telephones are always going off.
C: Ah but I’m lookin ahead. I’ve been going roun here for the last few days sellin tickets for a raffle to help the Old People’s Home in Phibsboro.
O’B: You think you might be looking for a place there yourself some day?
C: I’m sairtin of it. Where else would I go?
O’B: Oh well . . . you might yet marry a millionaire.
C: I might, right enough. Or win the sweep and go and live in Monte Carlo. Look what happened Princess Grace. Tuppence each. How many will I give you, Mr. O’Brien?
O’B: Three, I suppose.
C: Fair enough. (Begins scribbling on counterfoils.)
O’B: There’s the cash. (Gets up.) There’s a man waiting to see me outside. More trouble, more work, more worry. (They leave together.)
(Screen ANOTHER DAY. MISS CURRAN enters, a nondescript, cranky sort of individual whose manner is one of gush.)
MISS CURRAN: Ah, Mr. O’Brien, amn’t I lucky to get you in. God bless you, I know you’re always ready to help.
O’B: Help what?
CU: Now don’t you know. All my life there has been only one charity for me. The Black Babies.
O’B: Well, certainly Africa is much in everybody’s mind nowadays. You’re running a raffle, I suppose?
CU: Indeed and I am. I run six of them every year, all on my own.
O’B: Do you really think you will make any real impression on Africa? I don’t know how many tens of millions of people live there.
CU: Mr. O’Brien, every little helps. Nourish and convert one youngster there, and who knows how many of his own people he will look after when he grows up.
O’B: True enough, I suppose. How much are your tickets?
CU: Only twopence.
O’B: All right, I’ll take six. What’s the prize?
CU: A lovely, rich cake, made by myself. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s bake fancy bread. It’s the sort of thing you’d never buy in a shop. Wonderful icing and almonds and all.
O’B: Very good. There’s the money. You fill up the dockets. I must make a phone call right away. (Picks up instrument.) Hello . . . (Fades.)
(Screen STILL ANOTHER DAY. The office door is burst open and MISS CROTTY rushes in, wildly excited. She rushes to the desk and grasps MR. O’BRIEN’s hand.)
MISS CROTTY: Mr. O’Brien! Congratulations! We had the draw below just now. Congratulations! You’ve won the first prize!
O’B: (Also startled.) Me? The first prize? Well, well. Miss Crotty, I don’t think you told me what the prize was. (Pause.) Just what IS the first prize?
C: A donkey, Mr. O’Brien.
O’B: A what?
C: A grand donkey, a lovely animal.
O’B: But . . . I’m not a farmer or anything of that kind. What am I supposed to do with a donkey?
C: But isn’t it a grand thing to have about the house? Donkeys are so friendly and good tempered. Have you any land where you live?
O’B: Well, there’s a field behind my place out in Blackrock. Where is this animal now?
C: In a stable up a lane near Smithfield. Know where that is?
O’B: Down near the Four Courts, I think.
C: Correct. Here’s the address. I’ve written it down for you. And here’s your winning ticket. All you have to do is go down there and contact Mr. Barnes. He’s in charge of it. A most respectable man, I believe.
O’B: (Aghast.) Heavens Almighty!
C: I knew your luck would turn some day, Mr. O’Brien.
O’B: Turn? Turn for me or against me?
C: Poor little Neddy! He’s in good hands now.
O’B: (Sarcastically.) I suppose I should thank you from the bottom of my heart, Miss Crotty?
C: Ah not at all, don’t mention it.
O’B: Heavens above.
FADE OUT.
END OF PART I
PART II
The camera, in a van ahead, shows O’BRIEN gloomily walking down the south quays on the Liffey-side footpath. After a short time he passes the camera, which continues to show him in back view, with background of the distant Four Courts. Meanwhile O’BRIEN’s voice is heard on the sound track. (This episode is not absolutely necessary in the evolution of plot but would be invaluable on grounds of atmosphere and realism.)
O’B: To be honest, as I made my way down the quays towards Smithfield, I couldn’t see anything but trouble in this ridiculous affair. Why couldn’t those women leave me alone? And what did I want with a donkey? What use was it? Whatever else I was, I wasn’t a tinker. I knew absolutely nothing about that class of animal except that the donkey is very fond of carrots, the most expensive vegetable of the lot. Maybe I’d be expected to buy carrots by the stone. Now if it was a dog—a good thoroughbred pup—I’d be pleased enough. I like dogs. Very intelligent little articles. And the donkey is famous for his stupidity and his stubbornness. I’ve heard of farmers having to light a fire under a donkey to make him move. (Morose pause . . .) Robert Louis Stevenson wrote a book called Travels with a Donkey. Will I be expected to travel? If so, to where? (Pause.) Cork, maybe . . . or Skibbereen? I don’t believe Stevenson ever had a donkey in his life. . . .
There is a large open space in Smithfield itself. O’BRIEN could be seen traversing it, again for the sake of atmosphere. Eventually he is shown in a dirty lane, knocking at the small door beside the large doors of what appears to be a tumbledown type of old coach-house. It is opened by an appalling lout with a shatteringly flat Dublin accent. He is indolently dangling a cigarette from his mouth and his manner is one of easy insolence. This is BARNEY BARNES.
O’B: Ah, good morning.
B.B: Morra.
O’B: Are you Mr. Barnes?
B.B: Who wants to know?
O’B: I do. I called about a donkey.
B.B: I see. Are you the wan that won it?
O’B: Yes, I am.
B.B: How do I know that?
O’B: I have the proof here. (Produces ticket.) And you can ring up Miss Crotty if you like. She’s the lady who ran the raffle. I can give you the phone number.
B.B: Aw take it aisy now. I’m the man in charge here and I’m entitled to know me business. What’s the name, plee-az?
O’B: My name is O’Brien.
B.B: Well, that’s all right sairtintly.
O’B: Where is the donkey?
B.B: Yer man is inside. Want to have a look?
O’B: Yes, by all means.
B.B: Well, come on in.
(He opens the door wider and O’B. enters. He is next seen in a dishevelled sort of crude kitchen, with an opening into a larger apartment. Both go into this opening and an outline of the rear quarters of a donkey can be seen, but the lighting is very bad.)
B.B: Do you know what I’m goin to tell ya? That’s a luvly angimal.
O’B: No doubt. The light is very bad in there?
B.B: Ah but’s that very restful for anny angimal. That crowd do go asleep on their feet, you knaow. They’ve some class of trick of locking the joints of the legs, d’ya understand. If you are me tried to do that and go asleep, we’d get a desperate fall.
O’B: I see. I don’t know an awful lot about donkeys, or indeed any animals.
B.B: That so? Well now, you’re missin a lot. Ah, they do be a great comfort. It’s lonely down here, you knaow, and I’m not a married man.
O’B: Indeed; do you tell me that.
B.B: And I’ll tell ya a surprising thing. They do keep the house warm in the hard weather.
O’B: A sort of radiator on four legs.
B.B: He’s as good as a turf fire, and that’s a fact.
O’B: Turf causes a bit of a smell—a pleasant healthy one, I admit. Is there . . . is there any smell off a donkey?
B.B: At at all, man. Unless what ya get in a clean meada is a smell.
O’B: (Hastily.) Of course I had no intention of keeping him in my own house.
B.B: What direction do ya live in, Mister O’Brien?
O’B: Out to the south of Dublin, Blackrock way. I have a field behind my house. I had it let for a while to a man with a cow, but the cow’s gone this last six months.
B.B: Well, that sounds the very place for My Nabs.
O’B: My trouble is—how am I going to get him out there?
B.B: Now listen here, mister-me-friend, you’re not goin to put a finger on that angimal until me expenses has been ped. That beast in there doesn’t live on air. Ya’ll find he’s the best-nourished donkey in all Ireland bar none.
O’B: What expenses?
B.B: What expenses? All the grub he’s swallied, man, for weeks and weeks.
O’B: I see. What does a donkey eat?
B.B: It’d be better to ask what he doesn’t eat. He ett an oul coat of me own. But hegoes every day for hay, oats and a queer class of a mash I make for him outa maize or Injun meal, cabbage and spuds. And that’s not all.
O’B: What else?
B.B: He’s a devil for skim milk. And tell ya what he’s very fond of.
O’B: What?
B.B: Apples, man. Matteradamn whether they’re cookin apples or aytin apples, he’ll chaw and swally the lot. An’ bananas.
O’B: Has he any interest in carrots?
B.B: He’d give his life for carrots but they’re hard to get. I do give him a few carrots an odd time.
O’B: Well, he seems to be a very well-fed animal. What does all this expense come to?
B.B: Eight pounds, sixteen shillings and eightpence.
O’B: WHAT . . . ?
B.B: Eight . . . sixteen . . . eight. That’s what the job cost. There’s no profit in it for me.
O’B: The Lord save us! Well, I suppose it must be paid. Do you mind a cheque?
B.B: At at all.
O’B: If I add in another pound, will you undertake to bring him out to my place at Blackrock?
B.B: Course I will. That’ll be no trouble at all.
O’B: (Producing cheque book and writing at table.) Well, so be it. The music must be faced. Little did I think how fast the price of that tuppenny ticket would grow. I’ll leave my address with you. Could you bring out the beast to arrive about six on Tuesday evening?
B.B: Sairtintly I could. That’ll be game ball.
O’B: All right. Till then I’ll say goodbye.
B.B: The best of luck sir, now.
FADE OUT
END OF PART II
PART III
Scene is a comfortable living-room in O’BRIEN’s house, where he is sitting, reading. A window is prominent at the back of the room. There is a knock outside. O’B. rises, leaves room and comes back with B. BARNES.
O’B: Welcome, Barnes. Sit down.
B.B: Well . . . thanks, Mister O’Brien.
O’B: Today I telephoned a vet to come and have a look at that animal. So you succeeded in bringing him out?
B.B: Well, he’s here all right. But I wouldn’t say it was meself that brought him out.
O’B: What do you mean? Don’t tell me you got C.I.É. to cart him here and that there’s another bill to pay?
B.B: At at all. It was HIM that brought ME out.
O’B: WHAT—you rode the poor animal here? A heavy, able-bodied man like you?
B.B: At at all. He’s in the field. Come over here to the winda. (They rise and move to it.)
O’B: Right enough, there he is grazing away. Hey! What are those things sticking up in the air?
B.B: The shafts of an oul cair.
O’B: And where on earth did you get that?
B.B: That thing was lyin in the lane for the last eight weeks or so. Some gurrier left it there. Some damned tinker.
O’B: And does that give you any right to take possession of it?
B.B: I know that crowd. When they’re finished with anything they throw it away. They just leave it somewhere. They leave it somewhere where it does be obstructin other people. That crowd’s no use.
O’B: (Emphatically.) But listen here. How are you going to get it back into town? It’s not yours.
B.B: Who said an’thin about gettin it back into town? You’re pairfitly right in sayin it’s not mine. I’m making YOU a present of it.
O’B: ME? Don’t be ridiculous. What use would I have for a tinker’s old cart?
B.B: Sure this is the summer. Couldn’t you go for a nice drive in it some evening down to Dun Lough Air, an’ maybe have a good swim for yerself?
O’B: You’re talking absolute nonsense, Barnes. I have no intention of going out to show myself off before the neighbours driving a donkey and cart.
B.B: (Viciously.) Many a betther man than you done that. It’s a healthier and handier thing than them mothor cairs.
O’B: (Angrily.) What you’ve done is plant an item of stolen property on my land.
B.B: That’s a nice way to thank me for makin ya a useful present. You could draw turf in that cair, or carry parcels. A nice plank for a seat across it an’ ya could bring yer mott for a drive.
O’B: My WHAT?
B.B: Yer mott.
O’B: This ridiculous mess gets worse. (Meditatively, looking at carpet.) I’m not sure what to do. (Suddenly.) You, Barnes—get to hell out of here!
B.B: I beg yer pairdin?
O’B: You heard what I said. GET OUT!
B.B: (Shrugging portentously.) Oh well, O.K. Keep yer hair on. (Rising.) An’ don’t ask me to do you anny more favours.
O’B: (At door, opening it.) Clear out of this house. (Barnes shambles out through the doorway.)
(Screen A FEW DAYS PASS. Scene is the room as before. It is disclosed empty but immediately O’BRIEN enters with another well-spoken man, who is also well-dressed but wears gum boots.)
O’B: I needn’t tell you, Hickory, that all this is a great shock to me.
HICKORY (vet.): Well, an ass in a poke is the same as a pig in a poke. You shouldn’t have had anything to do with that animal in the first place.
O’B: (Getting pencil and paper.) I’d better take down the list in writing.
H: Why? Anthrax is enough. You’ll be prosecuted if you’re found with that animal in your possession, no matter where you got it or from whom.
O’B: Well . . . I suppose you should know.
H: Anthrax is a terrible disease. There’s external and internal anthrax. The bacteria that cause anthrax are the most vicious in the world, and the bacilli or spores are such as to make the disease very infectious. And let me tell you this. Human beings can get anthrax.
O’B: Well . . . Lord save us!
H: During the First World War thousands of British soldiers got anthrax from using infected shaving brushes made in Japan. That was a nice day’s work.
O’B: You mean the bristles were contaminated because they came from animals which were suffering from anthrax.
H: Exactly. Very likely from animals who had died from anthrax.
O’B: Well, well, well. And what other disease did you say the donkey had?
H: Mange. And he has it bad.
O’B: Mange. I thought only dogs got that. (Writing.) Is that the lot?
H: You saw yourself that he can hardly walk. He’s also got what we call laminitis.
O’B: I see. And just what is laminitis?
H: It means inflammation of the hoof. The poor beast is completely banjaxed.
O’B: It certainly looks like it. Is there anything else?
H: As I told you in the field, I didn’t want to carry out a detailed examination, and the reason is obvious enough, I hope. I don’t want to get anthrax. But that ass is blind or with sight so bad that he’ll very soon be blind. And it looks the blindness of old age.
O’B: If you ask me, the plan was to fob that animal off on me. I’m just the victim of a conspiracy.
H: Looks like it. But what you must get down to now, right away, is ACTION.
O’B: I agree. Precisely what would you advise me to do?
H: Have you got a gun?
O’B: Well . . . I have. (Rises and goes to the lower press compartment of bookcase and takes out shotgun.) I haven’t used this for at least three years. Have a look.
H: Hmmm. Handsome machine, that.
O’B: It is. My father’s. He was a crack shot.
H: Tomorrow you must shoot that ass at very close quarters in the head. In the head, remember and from the side. But first get a man to dig a grave—and a very deep one. Believe it or not, rats are very partial to dead donkeys, even when the corpse is choked with anthrax.
O’B: Lord! And then we would have rats running about the place with doses of anthrax of their own?
H: Exactly. Make your man dig deep. At least six feet, take the day off yourself and see that a proper job is done.
O’B: Yes. That gravedigger means another quid gone west.
H: All right, but it’s money well spent.
O’B: Well, Hickory, that’s agreed. I’ll proceed as directed. And tell me this. (Produces cheque book.) What do I owe your good self?
H: Oh, whatever you think. Two guineas, we’ll say.
O’B: That’s fair enough. (Writes.) This is a right mess I’ve got myself into.
H: (Pleasantly.) Ah well, these things happen.
(Fade out.)
(Screen A FEW DAYS LATER. Scene is the same room. O’Brien is again reading and again there is a knock without. He goes out and returns with a bulky, elderly sergeant of the Guards. This man is pleasant of manner and speaks with a pronounced country accent.)
SERGEANT: And how are you keeping, Mr. O’Brien?
O’B: Oh, fair enough, I suppose. The health is fine, but there’s always trouble of one kind or another.
S: Ah but shure what about it? Isn’t it the same with us all, God help us.
O’B: I suppose it is. It’s a mercy we don’t know what’s in store for us.
S: Well, well. (He has caught sight of shotgun which has been left leaning against the wall.) I never knew you were a sportsman, Mr. O’Brien. (Breaks gun open and examines it.) Faith now and that’s a nice weapon. The Purdey make, too.
O’B: Yes. It’s a bit old, but it’s good.
S: (Head bent.) I suppose, Mr. O’Brien . . . I suppose you have a licence for this?
O’B: (Startled.) Oh! What? Bedamnit but I haven’t. I haven’t used the gun for three years. I completely forgot all about it.
S: Ah yes. That happens sometimes. It’s bad luck and nothing else. You know, of course, that whether you use a gun or not has nothing to do with the necessity for having a license?
O’B: I do indeed, Sergeant. Damned stupid of me.
S: You understand, Mr. O’Brien, that the trouble with this country is that there’s too many knocking about, and too many wild fellows knocking them off.
O’B: Oh, true enough, Sergeant. Of course, I keep that under lock and key.
S: Ah, faith, they’d find it no matter where you had it.
O’B: Indeed, I suppose so, Sergeant.
S: I’m sure you’ll understand, Mr. O’Brien, that I must report this. It’ll only mean a fine of between two and five pounds. There’s just one snag.
O’B: ONE snag? Isn’t a ferocious fine enough?
S: Well, you see, there’s always the danger that the Justice would order the gun confiscated as well.
O’B: But Good Lord, that gun’s worth at least thirty pounds.
S: Faith and I wouldn’t doubt you. It would all depend on who the Justice would be. If you were wise, you’d ask your solicitor to get a barrister on the job.
O’B: Heavens above! More and more ruinous expense!
S: It’s another matter I called to see you about, Mr. O’Brien. Another matter entirely.
O’B: Indeed, Sergeant. What other trouble am I in?
S: Well, I seen the guts of it out in the field.
O’B: You mean the donkey?
S: Ah no. Not the grand little donkey. I mean the cart. It’s stolen property.
O’B: But I didn’t steal any cart, Sergeant.
S: Shure don’t we know that. Sure we pulled in that scallywag Barnes yesterday. That man has a record the length of your arm.
O’B: Well, thank goodness. That lets me out.
S: You don’t understand, Mr. O’Brien. The charge against you is that you’re a receiver of stolen property, knowing it to have been stolen.
O’B: (Aghast.) But look here, Sergeant, surely this is utter bosh? I mean to say—
S: Mr. O’Brien, you may think it’s silly, but these things will have to be gone through with. You may be sure you’ll get bail while the Justice is taking the depositions. And of course, there’ll be a good long delay after you’re sent for trial.
O’B: May Heaven keep my wits about me! Sent for trial?
S: The charge is what they call a felony.
O’B: And suppose I’m convicted? What then?
S: Well now, it’s hard to say. It would depend a lot on the Judge. It might be just a fine. (Rises and takes up cap.) It might be just a heavy fine and be bound to the peace. I think I’ll slip away now, Mr. O’Brien, and maybe see you again tomorrow. I’m on duty at the station to-night.
O’B: Sergeant, you say it MIGHT be a heavy fine and be bound to the peace. What else could it be?
S: (At door.) Ah now, Mr. O’Brien, don’t keep looking all the time at the dark side of things. It COULD mean six months hard labour in Mountjoy but I’m sure it won’t. Good night. (Departs.)
O’B: (Burying head in hands and then raising it to stare at camera.) I ask you. (Spreads arms.) I bought four legs under a donkey for tuppence. Counting the loss of the gun and the possible fines, I’d be down maybe a hundred quid. And perhaps six months in Mountjoy. AND THE LOSS OF MY JOB!
THE END
THE DEAD SPIT
OF KELLY
A Play in Four Parts
The scene of this play is Dublin, though it could be any city or big town. There is only one important character, BURKE. The part naturally calls for a good player but particularly one whose voice and accent are unmistakeable, because some of his utterances (By way of thought.) are heard on the sound track while he proceeds on the screen in dumb show.
PART 1
The play opens in a taxidermist’s workshop. There is a door to left outside which occasionally a bell rings to show there is a caller in the outer shop. The workshop contains two large heavy tables as well as shelves, presses, etc. for gear, and here and there are examples of work done, e.g., stuffed birds, dogs, cats, etc. (A practising taxidermist could no doubt advise about the lay-out of this scene and possibly lend suitable objects.)
BURKE is present, working on what looks like a dog, behind table to right and facing audience. He is talking to a visitor friend PAT, who sits in a raincoat on a chair with three-quarters back to camera.
BURKE: All the same, Pat, it’s a hard oul station. Any God’s amount of work but not so much pay.
PAT: Well . . . I suppose we can all say that. Here, have a cigarette. (Rises and offers one.)
BURKE: Thanks, Pat. The fags keep us going, anyway.
PAT: Do you like this work? Is it hard?
BURKE: Is it hard? By gor then and it’s not what a lot of people think it is. In th’oul days they used just to empty an animal out and stuff the skin with straw.
PAT: (Chuckles.) Well, that wouldn’t take much doing.
BURKE: With the result was that everything from a cat to an elephant just looked like a burst football. No shape or size to anything.
PAT: Well, that day is gone. What’s that white stuff in the bucket?
BURKE: Plaster of Paris. Tell you how the job is done now. First of all we gut the animal and put the insides in that furnace over there. We give the empty skin special treatment. Then we decide what stance that crature is going to have. Take this baste here now.
PAT: What is that? Is it a young leopard or what?
BURKE: Not at all. This is a dog, a tarrier. When he’s finished, he’ll be standing alert, with his tail up, just as if he’d seen a rat. Real lifelike.
PAT: Yes, I know—you’d be afraid he’d bite you.
BURKE: Ah, don’t be talkin’. We cut the skin down the middle and then we build a sort of a dummy inside it, made of plaster of Paris, or burlap, or mayber papeer mawshay. D’you see?
PAT: Yes indeed. Fancy that! I never thought of that.
BURKE: When the dummy’s perfect and fits right, we use it to make a sort of skeleton, mostly from wire. This goes in and then we sew the skin up. And there you are!
PAT: Well by dad, ye are the right men. Nobody would think there was all that work in stuffing an oul geezer, say. It’s not everybody could do it, and that’s a certainty.
BURKE: A taxidermist—that’s the right word—a taxidermist has to be a lot of things. Here, have another cigarette, Pat.
PAT: Thanks. Must be going soon.
BURKE: A taxidermist has to be a scientist . . . and a carpenter . . . and a naturalist . . . and an artist . . . and a docthor.
PAT: You’re quite right. And a surgeon, a mechanic and a sculptor.
BURKE: Ah, yes. (Drops all tools to emphasize talk.) Now listen here, Pat. I like this class of work. Matter of fact, I wouldn’t know how to do anny other sort of work. But . . . Kelly, the man I work for here! Oh Lord!
PAT: Yes, I think you told me about him before. I don’t think you’d give him the first prize for good manners, if I remember aright.
BURKE: I’m telling you, Kelly’s one character I always remember in my prayers. Know what it is? He’s the greatest swine in this whole country.
PAT: A bit full of himself, I believe.
BURKE: He has the vanity of Satan himself. I loathe . . . and detest . . . and abominate that awful man.
PAT: It must be a bit of an extra load on you to have to work in the same room as such a character.
BURKE: He’s never done whinging and snivelling. Wants to know why I smoke and pollute the atmosphere. Imagine a pig like that giving out about me polluting the atmosphere!
PAT: Pity you couldn’t get a job in some other firm in the same line of business. Or maybe get a job in some museum looking after this class of stuff.
BURKE: Ah, there’s no other real firm in this business. And another thing. I get all the lowest sort of work that comes in here—an odd parrot, and dogs and cats. A year ago some mad oul fella sent in a rat to be fixed up. Who would you say got the rat?
PAT: I wouldn’t say that Mr. Kelly took the job in hand.
BURKE: Your humble servant got the rat. But if a crocodile was brought in, or a Great Borneo spider, or a baby gorilla, they would all be Kelly’s work.
PAT: I must be off. (Rises.) I’m damn sorry that things are like this. It’s a lousy fix for a man to be in. Sorry I can’t think of some way I could help.
BURKE: Oh indeed I know you are, Pat. Sure I suppose I’ll have to put up with it, for the present, anyhow. The so-and-so is so mean, if you understand me.
PAT: (At door.) Ah, I know. Well the best of luck now.
(He departs. BURKE takes up a tape and carries on some measurement operations on the object on his table, humming softly. Suddenly KELLY walks in and hangs coat and hat on back of door. He is about the same build as BURKE but very different physically, being quite bald, unshaven, and in manner obviously irascible by habit. His expression is sour, his voice unpleasant.)
KELLY: Any message while I was out, Burke, or any letter?
BURKE: No, Mr. Kelly.
KELLY: The curse of God on those damned tinkers in Camden Street. They swore they’d pay today.
BURKE: Nobody called, Mr. Kelly.
KELLY: It’s a holy wonder the rate collector didn’t call roaring for his thirty-nine pounds.
BURKE: (Pointing to object on his table.) Do we want this dog’s mouth open?
KELLY: Do the damned thing any way you like.
(There is something on KELLY’S own table and he is now bent attending to it.)
KELLY: (Suddenly.) By God, Burke, a man would need to have a right pair of eyes in his head to see what he’s doing in this place. You’ve been at those dirty cigarettes again.
BURKE: I’ll smoke when I choose, Mr. Kelly. Only another thousand million people or so are doing the same thing.
KELLY: They’re not doing it in my workshop, Burke.
(The shop bell rings and KELLY goes out. He returns nearly at once and roars:)
KELLY: Hand me that cursed bird over there, Burke.
(BURKE does so and KELLY goes out with it and comes back very soon.)
KELLY: Yes. When an odd customer does pay on the nail, he certainly expects service. Where is my cursed scissors?
BURKE: On the shelf behind you.
KELLY: Yes. I might as well be playing blind man’s bluff here. I can’t see what I’m doing. Do you know what it is, Burke? You have made the air in this room taste like a sewer.
BURKE: I don’t know what sewers taste like.
KELLY: And do you know why?
BURKE: Do I know why what?
KELLY: Do you know why? Because you are only a slob.
BURKE: What was that you called me?
KELLY: Because you are only a slob. A slob.
(KELLY is stooped at his table, his back towards BURKE. The latter picks up a heavy metal bar and smashes him over the back of the head with it. KELLY collapses face down behind the table. In a frenzy BURKE continues to bash him on the head. He stops and looks towards the camera, aghast.)
BURKE: (Hand to head.) Good Lord! Great Lord! I’ve killed the bastard. Heavens Almighty.
(Camera forward to show close up BURKE rolling KELLY on his back, and checking pulse at wrist.)
BURKE: (As if talking to self.) He’s dead all right. Gone for his tea. Dead. Stone dead. I suppose I smashed the skull. Smashed it up like an egg shell. Well, well, WELL.
(Goes to back of door and struggles into raincoat and hat. He is very frightened.)
BURKE: Me a murderer, ah? Lord save us! I must do some thinking. Maybe a drink might help.
FADE OUT.
END OF PART 1.
PART 2
BURKE is seen sitting alone at a table in the shabby lounge of a pub. A few nondescript other customers are seen at adjacent tables; they are talking but no sound is heard from them. BURKE is drinking whiskey and occasionally presses a bell and points to his empty glass when the attendant arrives. He is frowning, gazing about unseeingly, lighting cigarettes, and sometimes propping his head on a hand. His voice is heard on the sound-track conveying his lines of apprehensive thought.
BURKE’S VOICE: I always knew it was only a matter of time. Sooner or later he’d push me to it. I was a fool that I didn’t get out years ago, even if it meant digging holes in the road for a living. Digging holes? Faith and I might be digging a hole yet, not for a living . . . but for the dead. Lord save us, what a damned mess this is! There he is, dead on the floor of the shop. There he’ll have to stay, all night. Well, he’ll be safe and sound, I suppose. He’s in no danger. Suppose there was a fire in the building, though, and the brigade had to break in? And the Guards with them? Even if they did find him dead, what is there to connect me with it? Maybe I should have shown the place messed about, with some odds and ends missing, to make it look like a robbery. Still, there’s hardly anything worth stealing. Damn it! Had Kelly money on him, or anything else valuable? Why didn’t I go through his pockets? What about his big turnip of a watch? Solid gold, no doubt about that. All the same, it’s still there, safe as a house.
Dammit, suppose there was a real robbery, or an attempt at it during the night. Two thugs break in and start going over the place. But they make noise and show lights or something. The Guards hop in on top of them and nail them. But what’s this? They find Kelly’s body. Your men are hauled off and charged. Not only for attempted larceny or burglary or something, but also with murder. The police would even produce a blunt instrument. That charge would take some answering. While they were rooting about in the shop, Kelly walked in and surprised them. They got into a panic and hit him with that iron rule, the nearest thing to hand. Makes sense all right. If they had a good man appearing for them, they might get off with manslaughter. I’d give evidence myself of course. The last time I had seen Mr. Kelly, he was in his usual health and good spirits. So far as I knew, he had not an enemy in the world. Lord, I wouldn’t half lie in that witness box.
Yes, the body. That’s always the trouble with a killing, even an accidental one. The body. The tell-tale body. In this case the body with the fractured skull, injuries that couldn’t be caused by a fall. The dead, silent body that tells a tale. Lord God Almighty, I wonder how many innocent men were sent to the scaffold just because a dead man can’t say outright how he was killed and exactly who it was that killed him? Instead, those Sherlock Holmes types would have to follow their clues, get bits of hair and dried blood analysed and so on and so on to find the answer to the question Who killed Cock-Robin? And then get the wrong answer. Next thing his Lordship puts on the black cap. Have you anything to say as to why sentence of death should not be pronounced against you? And the poor so-and-so in the dock, innocent as a lamb unborn! What a sad, sorry mess.
After a few more jars I’d better go home to the digs and go to bed. But bring a few babies, because some hard thinking must be done about Kelly’s body. Yes, and done tomorrow. Even a small delay could be dangerous. That furnace seems to be the answer. A machine that can incinerate the bones and guts of a buck deer should be well able to deal with a mere man. Certainly there can be no question of getting Kelly out of the workshop and out of that house. Even very late at night it would be far too dangerous. Even if I got him into a box, even cut in two to make him look smaller, I couldn’t carry it without help. Call a taxi and ask the taximan to give a hand? Oh Lord no. No, no, no. Far too dangerous. A witness, a deadly witness. He asked me, sir, to help him to carry the heavy box to the car sir. No, that wouldn’t do at all.
But wait a minute.
Wait a minute now. There’s another way of doing this. Yes, indeed—another way. An artistic way, too. Lord, funny I didn’t think of it before. Yes, yes, this IS a brilliant notion. Only the likes of me would think of it.
(Here he chuckles, takes long, slow drink and orders another by gesture.)
But I’ve thought of it now. And tomorrow is the day. I’ll do it tomorrow. Go in, lock up behind me, and spend the whole day on the job. And finish it. This is serious but all the same it’s nearly funny. I’ll treat Mr. Kelly in his personal workshop as if he was one of his own “patients,” as if he was a dead, pet chimpanzee. I’ll gut him! I’ll gut the bastard! I’ll put bones, entrails and all into the furnace. But I’ll keep the skin and the head and all the rest. And I’ll treat the skin, treat it as I would any other skin. And when it’s ready, I’ll put it on. Why not? We’re almost exactly the same build. And any skin is a bit elastic, anyway. Yes indeed.
(He drinks deeply and looks better.)
Yes Burke goes into that shop in the morning. But he doesn’t come out in the evening. Kelly comes out—fit, hale and hearty. And Kelly goes home to his own digs. Yes his own digs. His mad witch of a landlady wouldn’t notice any difference, not if he came home with horns sticking out of his head. I’ve met her, I know her well. I’ll take on the other lodgers gradually, one by one. Kelly kept to himself a lot, I know that too. And if he behaved in the digs as he did in the shop, there wouldn’t be any rush there for his friendship. He mightn’t even be on speaking terms with anybody.
Ah yes, it seems easy. It looks even obvious now. Why didn’t it come into my head before? The only thing I must watch is Kelly’s accent, his mean manners, his shifty looks. I know I’m good at taking off other people but this job needs great care and cunning. Thank God Kelly took a drink.
Well, that’s that. Tomorrow I become Kelly. That night I go home and sleep in Kelly’s bed. I work as usual the following day. I go home for Kelly’s tea in the evening. That night I’ll go to the club. Yes sir, business as usual! The sooner Kelly is seen by everybody the better. And that club. When I joined it I didn’t know Kelly was a member. He thought I did, and that I joined it to watch him, to snoop on him, to keep an eye on the passes he makes on the lady members. The damned cheek of him. It was to get away from him that I went in there at all. Ah, but all that’s over. Over and done with. I think I’ll have a last drink, a large one. (Presses bell.) Burke’s last drink in a public house. The most solemn moment in Burke’s life. I’ll have to drink to the health of Kelly, and a long life.
FADE OUT.
END OF PART 2.
PART 3
The scene is a common-room of a sleazy club. Only males are present. In the foreground is a full-sized billiards table on which a game of snooker is in progress. In the background there is a small bar, inset in the wall.
Standing at the bar drinking whiskey is BURKE, though in appearance the dead spit of Kelly. He is thoughtful and morose in manner. Near him two other nondescript members are conversing but no sound is heard from them or from others concerned in the snooker game, which is seen intermittently.
After the cameras have established the silent scene, BURKE is largely concentrated on. He is reflected sourly, and his thoughts are heard on the sound track:
BURKE’S VOICE: Well, this is the queer set-up and no mistake. Nearly make you laugh. . . .
Why do those lads play snooker if they don’t know how to score? Why isn’t the table reserved for people who know how to hold a cue? But they have their rights, I suppose. This club’s rotten with democracy. . . .
I think everything’s still under control but I’ll have to be careful—damn careful. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance. Three days and two nights gone and no real slip-up yet. . . .
But Lord, what a damn fool I was to sleep in Kelly’s bed the first night, and in Kelly’s skin! How was I to know that his damned pelt, in the heat of the bed would stick to my own skin, marry it, and become part of me? Why did I do that at all? One answer, of course—drink. DRINK! Yes, the old landlady is a half-wit, and half blind into the bargain, but I had no right to bank on that. . . .
My luck was in, and that’s all.
I’ll have to go easy on this drinking. It leads to carelessness maybe makes a man go to sleep at the wrong time. And I’ve a lot of little things to concentrate on until I’ve learnt to take this situation as much as other people do—or seem to. I must—I MUST—practice Kelly’s handwriting and signature. Money and bills and accounts will have to be looked after with the greatest care. Thank God I’ve met that bank manager fellow a couple of times, even if he wasn’t too polite to me as poor Mr. Burke. I’ll keep away from him as far as I can but Kelly’s signature on a check WILL HAVE TO BE DEAD RIGHT. No mistake about it—DEAD RIGHT. Wouldn’t it be too damn awful to have some busibody coming along with talk about fraud and dud cheques—forgery by gob! That would be a sickener and no doubt. A man saves a farmer from his own mad bull and then the farmer prosecutes him for trespassing! That’s the ticket—the greatest care about little things. . . .
Yes. Take this smoking. Kelly damned well hated cigarettes but nobody has yet passed any remark on the fact that I’m now seen smoking. Thank God for that. It was a risk. But at least I knew it was a risk. And it had to be taken. Lord . . . if I was to cut out the fags . . . in the middle of this how-are-ya . . . the nerves would be in tatters inside two hours. Well, even Kelly could change his mind about the fags. I’ll have a smart and a quick answer for any smart-alec that wants to pass any remark on it.
I think I can see things more clearly now. Except for his lousy manners with me, Kelly was a negative type. He minded his own business and made no strong impression on anybody. He paid his way. He owed nobody money, and that meant nobody had any excuse for poking his nose into Kelly’s affairs. Very likely he hasn’t a friend in the world. Has he any relatives, I wonder? Isn’t it the mercy of God for me that he hadn’t a wife, or an old sick mother, or even a granny! . . .
Then there’s that locked drawer in his bedroom. What would be in that, now, and where’s the key? Would he have an insurance policy, I wonder? Yes, that’s a thought. If he had, it might have a fat surrender value, if Kelly himself applied for it. Yes, indeed. But matters like that will have to wait. The handwriting must be perfected before we can begin any big new scheme. Safety first—that’s the watchword. Forcing open that locked drawer in the bedroom would be child’s play, but there need be no hurry with any of that class of scheme. . . .
(The camera has returned to the table and dwells on the rather desultory snooker game, now in its final stages. But no sound is heard from it as BURKE, with KELLY’S voice, is heard continuing:)
When things have blown over properly, I think a fortnight’s holiday away from everything would be a good idea. The seaside, I suppose . . . some nice, quiet place. Business is good and steady and when I get around to asking Kelly’s bank to send along a statement of account, I’m damn sure there will be plenty of cash stacked up there . . . yes, and any God’s amount of stocks and shares and that class of thing. . . . Whatever Kelly used to spend his money on, it certainly wasn’t in paying me a decent wage. B-b-blast him!
Lord, I might be a snug well-to-do man at the heel of the hunt. By gob but this situation is nearly funny. If only I could be certain—CERTAIN—of everything. Everything properly packed up, everything snug, and no loose ends. Just one more month and all the little doubts should be wiped away. It’s just stupid, I suppose, for a man of my age to be dreaming about living happily ever after, like a young prince in a fairy-tale but, dammit, it’s natural, isn’t it? I deserve a few decent years in this world, I’m OWED them and that’s the plain truth. Even a dog is entitled to get sick of the life of a dog. I’ve had enough of bad times and bad luck. A few days ago I could have truly said that things were so bad they couldn’t get worse. Now they can only get better. So let’s cheer up. Maybe even Kelly felt a bit cheerful an odd time. It’s hard to imagine. Still. . . .
(SOUND has become general as the snooker game ends. One player lays his cue on the table, the other retains his while both cheerfully approach BURKE (KELLY) at the little bar.)
PLAYER NO. 1: (To steward.) Two halves, Charlie!
PLAYER NO. 2: Well, Mr. Kelly, you weren’t paying much attention to that game of ours.
BURKE: Well, you were long enough about it. Who won?
NO. 2: Your man here. Just a succession of flukes, of course. The usual.
NO. 1: (Handing drinks.) Don’t mind him, Mr. Kelly. I’m more charitable and I’ll say it was a good game. Touch and go to the last. A black ball game. Have a cigarette, Mr. Kelly.
BURKE: Thanks, Mr. Buckley.
NO. 2: I see you’re taking a great interest in tobacco, at last. Time for you.
BURKE: Ah, I do smoke a fair bit when I’m working. But these small clubrooms get pretty fuggy with too much smoking. However, we can’t have everything.
NO. 1: I was pulling on butts at school, before I was out of short pants. And many a wallop I got for it.
NO. 2: School is where most of us learnt the wrong things.
BURKE: Overdoing things, lads—that’s the main thing we’ve got to look out for. Backing horses, drinking, smoking, going to shows and so on—they’re all perfectly all right provided they’re done in reason.
NO. 2: And so say all of us.
NO. 1: Well, that table there, Mr. Kelly, is one thing I don’t mind if I overdo a bit. I’m now the champion with my cue in my hand. Care for a game?
BURKE: Thanks. I’d be delighted.
NO. 2: Right. Billiards? A hundred up?
BURKE: Snooker if you’d prefer it.
NO. 2: But, Mr. Kelly, I thought billiards was YOUR game. Mean to say, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at snooker before.
BURKE: I don’t play it here often, but you might be surprised.
NO. 2: Well, I’m glad to hear it. Snooker is a better game.
BURKE: It’s not a better game but it’s an easier game. Anybody can pot a ball but you have to do a lot of thinking before you play a shot at billiards.
NO. 1: All right. Wait till I fix up the reds.
(He fetches wooden triangle and sets about arranging triangle of red balls and spotting the colours.)
NO. 2: Well, well, Mr. Kelly. A dab at snooker and billiards, and then non-stop on the fags. What next, I wonder? Drugs?
BURKE: There’s nothing wrong about being able to play a decent game of snooker.
NO. 2: Well there’s one snooker man in this club I’d bet you wouldn’t beat.
BURKE: Who is that?
NO. 2: Burke.
BURKE: What was that?
NO. 2: Burke. Your own man, Burke.
BURKE: Ah, I don’t know. I’d say I’d give him a tight game.
NO. 1: Come on, Mr. Kelly. (Hands him cue.) We’re ready for the fray.
BURKE: Right-O. Just one game. I’ll have to go home after that.
NO. 2: Good enough. I’ll polish you off in no time.
(They begin to play. Camera leaves the table and concentrates on NO. 2 and the other two bystanders, who are following the play in silence and exchanging glances. Finally:)
NO. 2: Well, blast me anyway! This Kelly can play alright, hah?
BYSTANDER: He certainly can.
NO. 2: A red, a black, a red and a blue, and then leaves nothing on. . . .
BYSTANDER: Must have been taking a few secret lessons. Sure he was never much good even at billiards.
NO. 2: In league with the divil.
NO. 2: Good Lord, there he goes again. . . .
FADE OUT.
END OF PART 3.
PART 4
Limited close-up shot of BURKE (KELLY) abstractedly entering taxidermist workshop and immediately turning back to hang up coat and hat on peg behind door. He gives a cry when, turning, he sees two reasonably well-dressed men, complete strangers, sitting on chairs in the body of the room.
BURKE: Ow! You startled me! Who are you?
(One man rises, smiles and extends his hand.)
CASSIDY: Mr. Kelly? My name’s Cassidy. My friend here’s Tim Riordan. You ask who are we? Well, we’d better present our cards.
(Two small folding cards are shown.)
CASSIDY: Won’t you sit down, Mr. Kelly. We just called for a little chat.
BURKE: (Making for chair, bemused.) Detective Branch? Lord save us! How did you get in here?
RIORDAN: That’s my little speciality, Mr. Kelly. I have a bunch of keys in my pocket that would open any door in the world.
BURKE: (Sitting down.) Don’t tell me this place has been burgled.
There’s no money kept here, and all this stuff (sweeps hand) would be no use to anybody.
CASSIDY: Ah no, it’s not a burglar we’re after.
RIORDAN: Something a damn sight more important is worrying us, Mr. Kelly.
BURKE: Stolen property, I suppose. Well, we act in good faith when anybody sends an animal for treatment here. It might be a deer shot on private lands, but how are we to know?
CASSIDY: (Seriously.) Mr. Kelly, I want to ask you some questions and must remind you that we are police officers and I therefore formally caution you.
BURKE: Oh, that’s all right. I always do anything I can to help the law. But what the devil is the trouble?
CASSIDY: For several days we have been investigating the disappearance of a Mr. Burke, who worked here with you. He just vanished.
BURKE: (With feigned astonishment.) Burke? Yes. He hasn’t reported for duty for over a week now. I thought he was sick.
RIORDAN: Well, he’s not in any hospital.
CASSIDY: And it was his landlady who raised the alarm. It seems Burke was a man of very regular habits.
BURKE: So he was, and a painstaking clever man at the sort of job we do here.
CASSIDY: His landlady reported the matter to the police, and we have been on the job since. Do you know anything about Burke’s disappearance, Mr. Kelly?
BURKE: Nothing at all. How do you know he didn’t go down the country to a funeral or something, or maybe go off looking for a new job across the water?
CASSIDY: He didn’t. We have a way of checking that sort of move with other police forces. We carried out a very close examination of his bedroom in the digs.
RIORDAN: Took samples of various things, and photographs.
BURKE: Well, it’s . . . it’s very mysterious.
CASSIDY: Apart from the fact that he hadn’t paid his rent for the week, a thing he always does on the nail, he took nothing away with him from the bedroom. Common things like pyjamas, shaving gear, hair oil—they’re all there.
BURKE: What about loss of memory?
CASSIDY: Genuine cases of that are easily noted. He has some friends, including members of that club you attend yourself. We have questioned them all. None of them has seen him or heard a word about him. You might say he may have entered some religious house to make a retreat. Every possible establishment of that kind has been contacted and none of them ever heard of Burke or anybody like him.
BURKE: I know it’s not the season but perhaps he went for a swim, got a cramp or something, was carried out and drowned. He was a swimmer, I know that.
CASSIDY: Yes, and he might have taken a trip to the moon, too. He worked here every day, Mr. Kelly. Are you serious that you know nothing at all about his disappearance?
BURKE: Nothing whatever. How could I?
CASSIDY: You were alone with him every day.
RIORDAN: In this very workroom, with the door closed.
BURKE: Quite true. And for how many years? At least eighteen. I was very fond of Burke and I’m sure he’ll yet turn up.
CASSIDY: Perhaps. But dead or alive?
BURKE: Burke wasn’t beyond a big leg-pull. What do you mean dead?
CASSIDY: Just that. DEAD.
BURKE: If the poor man’s dead, where’s his body?
CASSIDY: There are many ways of getting rid of a body.
RIORDAN: Yes, but few of them are absolutely safe.
BURKE: Well, I can only say that I never read detective stories. But I know about a lot of dead animals that don’t disappear at all. We make them live again in this house. Even mice start a new life here.
CASSIDY: At this stage I don’t intend to give you details of all our enquiries or their scope but I promise you some surprises when you are interviewed by my chief superintendent. We have been in this house four times already without your knowing it.
BURKE: Well, well, that is one surprise for a start.
RIORDAN: And very likely we’re not finished yet.
CASSIDY: Do you see that range or furnace of yours?
BURKE: I do.
CASSIDY: We had the ashes in it taken away and analysed, ashes and other remnants. Know what they turned out to be?
BURKE: That furnace is used for destroying the insides of animals stuffed here.
CASSIDY: They were the remains of human bones.
BURKE: (Dismayed.) For heaven’s sake!
CASSIDY: We believe those bones belonged to Burke.
BURKE: That is ridiculous, the height of nonsense.
CASSIDY: And the State suspects that you are the man who murdered Burke.
BURKE: Look here, you must be going off your head. Very likely, you’ve been drinking.
CASSIDY: I don’t touch drink at all. I prefer work.
BURKE: Now that I look at you, the pair of you look like two fellows who’ve been on the batter for several days.
CASSIDY: What we look like doesn’t matter. You are under arrest, Mr. Kelly.
BURKE: (Aghast.) I’m WHAT? Under arrest?
CASSIDY: Under arrest. You must come with us.
BURKE: Are you seriously saying that I’m under arrest . . . for the murder of Burke?
CASSIDY: On suspicion of that.
BURKE: But that’s ridiculous and impossible.
CASSIDY: Maybe so. But that will be a matter for the court to decide. You will get a fair trial.
BURKE: I nearly have to laugh. You chaps are crazy.
CASSIDY: (Standing up, with Riordan.) We have a car outside, round the corner. Just put on your hat and coat, like a good man.
BURKE: For the last time: are you serious or just trying to be funny?
RIORDAN: Dead serious.
CASSIDY: When we get to the station you won’t be in any doubt at all.
BURKE: (Rising.) Well, I’ll get my coat and hat and go that far with you. There can’t be much harm in that.
CASSIDY: Nowadays, when a man is charged no matter for what but not yet tried and convicted, he’s very well treated. In law he’s still innocent.
RIORDAN: You’ll get the same food as the rest of us, and cigarettes as well.
BURKE: (Facing camera, wide-eyed.) Just fancy this! Me, Kelly, charged with murdering Burke, to be tried, maybe convicted, and then hanged! Well . . . well . . . well.
FADE OUT.
END
O’DEA’S YOUR MAN
Episode One: THE MEANING OF MALT
The scene, which will be the same for the entire series, is an old-fashioned (no electronic nonsense here) railway signal box. To the (viewer’s) right a battery of six shiny levers protrude, resembling exactly the beerpulls in a pub. There are a few plain chairs and on the parts of the wall which are not glass are printed notices, not necessarily legible.
JIMMY O’DEA is seated, reading a newspaper. A little bell tinkles musically. JIMMY rises, puts the paper aside and listens intently. A distant whistle is heard.
JIMMY: Ah-ha. The seven forty-two. It’ll be Rafferty again tonight, I’ll go bail.
(He pulls down one of the levers, no easy job. He then sits down again.)
Ah yiss. Yiss. Know what I’m going to tell ya. In twenty-wan years in this box I don’t believe I’ve ever pulled down wan of those signal yokes without half-expecting a pint of stout to come out down below somewhere. And isn’t it the right gawm I’d look if it did come, and me here without a tumbler to catch it in. (Sniggers.) It’d make ya laugh. Here is me signalman pulling pints for himself in the box, getting mowldy, forgetting to stop a train going into a single-line section after he’s let in another travelling in the opposite direction, and then . . . CRASH! And a thremendious death-roll. Yiss. Drinking on these premises is, of course, TEETOTALLY PROHIBITED. Yiss.
(A loud and sustained crashing noise is heard, off. Jimmy listens but does not look out.)
Ah yiss, that’s Rafferty, not a doubt of it. Sixty-wan miles an hour, and a speed restriction here of forty-five. That man . . . that man will get into trouble sooner than he thinks. It’s not that he drinks too much but that he doesn’t understand what drink IS. No use talking to him, of course. He knows all about drink and everything else. Stout or whiskey, it’s all the wan—down the hatch with it and then out with the fags. A walkin bucket of pison, that’s what that man is.
IGNATIUS: That class of a man should be locked up.
JIMMY: Yiss. ’Course, pison, that’s a thremdiously big compairtment of human debauchment in itself. Thremendiously big. Matter of fact there’s pison all around us—in th’air, in the light, in things we ate and drink. How manny people have died roarin after goin out at the break o’day to gather a plateful of musharooms? Ah yiss.
IGNATIUS: I often heard them is dangerous men to sit down and ate. Taking yer life in yer hands.
JIMMY: Bring the musharooms back, on with the kettle for the cuppa tay, four slices of toast, and then into the pan with the musharooms, and there y’are—a breakfast fit for the King of the Great Blasket Island.
IGNATIUS: Yiss. And bags of trouble coming up?
JIMMY: What happens me man half an hour afterwards? He starts yelpin out of him, houldin the gizzard, sweatin like a trooper on Vinegar Hill, and shoutin for the neighbours. A looderamawn of an oul fella comes in and says WHAT AILS YA, puttin the wind up all the dacent people in the vice-ininity. Me man lets another roar, and says he feels like he’d swallied a coil of rusty barbed wire that was now givin him blood pis’nin’ in the stummick and to get him a docthor for the love an honour of Saint Patrick. Th’oul fella says Hould Hard till I get to the dispinsery on me bike. Ah well, I suppose we all know the answer. . . .
IGNATIUS: Yiss, begob. Docthor or no docthor, yer man is well and truly banjaxed?
JIMMY: Be the time the docthor arrives, me man’s face is . . . pucecoloured.
IGNATIUS: Well shure wasn’t it the price of him?
JIMMY: What in heaven’s name have ya been doin to yerself, me good man? says the doc. Have ya been on a batter drinkin pints of whitewash? Yer temperature is wan O four.
IGNATIUS: What would a slob like that know about temper’ture?
JIMMY: Ah docthor, says me poor man, I swallied nothin oney a bit of toast, a cuppa tay and a little plate of musharooms I picked this mornin. Me stummick feels like the citadel of Sevastipol. That weeds you ett, says the doc, was NO MUSHAROOMS. Them things was poisonous fungus, fatal to man an’ baste. Stay aisy there till I get me pump from the cair.
IGNATIUS: The doc was a fast worker.
JIMMY: Ah now for pity’s sake, doc, says me segotia the patient (his face now a nice tinge of black and tan) me name’s not DUNLOP and I don’t want to be blun up like a tyre on a lurry.
Shut yer clack, says the doc, it’s me stummick pump I mane.
Yer man got better after seven days in bed, with nuthin going into him bar beef-tea and gru-ell. But it was a close shave, and ya could nearly hear the beatin of the wings of th’angel of death.
IGNATIUS: If ya ett nuthin at all ya were right.
JIMMY: The brother wanst treated himself to a tin of salmon from Japan.
What happened an hour later? Collapse, prose-stration and profuse paralysis. Sent for the docthor, of course. You’re pisoned, says the doc, but I have here what we call an Auntie Dote. He gets out his needle, fills it up with stuff the colour of water and then GOODBYE—he pumps all this how-are-ya into the brother’s backside.
IGNATIUS: For desperate disases ya have to have desperate remedies, of course. Yiss.
JIMMY: What was that Auntie Dote that ya gev me, asks the brother. Mostly strychneen, says the doc. Some people asks me is whiskey pison. Come here till I tellya, Ignatius. Whiskey is med from grain, like bread. It is the grandest nourishment anny man could ask for, it loosens up th’arteries, smoothes down the nairves, and gives the party takin it a luvly complexion. It does the heart good, if ya know what I mane.
IGNATIUS: Aw, nuthin wrong with a glass o’malt.
JIMMY: But . . . BUT . . . another particular thing arrives in the fermentation of the grain. Know what THAT is? Mister-me-friend FUSIAL OIL! And that’s the boy that makes the difference. When ya have an honest firm makin whiskey or stout, the amount of fusial oil that comes natural is small, just enough to give a man a kick. But never forget this—FUSIAL OIL IS PISON! That stuff that ya get from the doc with a needle—morphia—is pison too, but the dose is very small and does ya good. Do ya twig?
IGNATIUS: Ah sairtintly.
JIMMY: If ya start givin yerself fusial oil ad lib, ye’ll get headaches and a ferocious thirst, next convulsions, and at the heel of the hunt, you’re lucky if ya don’t pass out and die. Ah? Isn’t that a nice state of affairs? Too much fusial oil will drive a man mad.
IGNATIUS: There’s no livin doubt, ya’d want to look out for yerself.
JIMMY: The brother knows a lot about this. Wan day he was visitin a distillery—not in Dublin, by the way—and he sees a great big tanker pullin into the yard. It was like wan of the big perthrol yokes, but there was no name on the side. What’s this, says the brother to wan of the distillery men—milk for the firm’s canteen? Atachal, says yer man, that tank is full of fusial oil. Do ya want to kill the people, asks the brother. Ah no, says this hop-off-me-thumb, but we like to wake the customers up. They don’t expect to get just slop, and we don’t sell them slop. Our stuff puts life in them. Fair enough, says the brother, but I think the right place for your crowd is Mountjoy.
I told ya, Ingatius, that fusial oil can drive a man mad. There was fierce brutalities in the First World War. The Jairmins was very strong in some parts of the Front, and now and again stuck in some position where the Allies thought no power on earth could dislodge them. What did the generals do? They sent for a detachment of the Irish millytairy that was in the war. The Lord preserve us but the slaughter was ferocious. It’s not that the Irish crowd dislodged the Jairmins. They killed the whole damn lot of them, and took all their machine guns. And who was this Irish crowd, wouldya think?
IGNATIUS: A crowd from Cork I’ll go bail.
JIMMY: Wrong! The Dubalin Fusialeers, of course, every man-jack full of whiskey that was ninety per cent fusial oil.
But there’s a time and a place for everything, and I warn everybody to be careful when it comes to havin a glass of malt in a strange public house. Never forget the foe, the F. O.—FUSIAL OIL!
END
TH’ OUL LAD OF KILSALAHER
Episode One: TROUBLE
ABOUT NAMES
Players
UNCLE ANDY
PUDDINER (MARIE-THÉRÈSE)
A. N. OTHER, To Appear In Occasional Scripts, For Some Good Reason.
UNCLE ANDY is a very old man, wears reach-me-downs that don’t fit, several waistcoats or gansies and inhabits a becketty armchair, cane type, which is littered with old flattened cushions and bits of blanket. Perhaps he has a heavy moustache and/or a bit of a smig. He hardly ever gets up. Anybody who thinks he is doting or living in the past will get a succession of shocks when Andy repeatedly shows that he not only knows everything that is going on but more than appears on the surface, and the proper remedy for big snags when they arise.
MARIE-THÉRÈSE (whom he calls PUDDINER.) is his niece, and both apparently comprise the entire household. She is young, witty, flighty, and in dress and manner could be called a tart. There is a never-ending private war going on between her and UNCLE ANDY but usually PUDDINER manages to give as good as she gets.
The accent of both will be Dublinesque but the script makes it clear from time to time that they are exiles in the country. Country customs and situations obtrude.
The scene is always a comic kitchen. The fireplace is better off-centre, and a real turf fire is desirable. The space to the right gives PUDDINER elbow-room for business of various kinds, or for a visitor, and the narrow table is necessary, as well as a few odd kitchen chairs. The long mantelpiece is deep, and there is room for a fiddle and bow on it over UNCLE ANDY’S head. (He sometimes mucks up the action by threatening to play.) Of three pictures, the one on the left would be a holy one (? St. Colmcille.), the centre one President Kennedy and the other perhaps one of the last Kaiser. Over the mantel-piece could also be a Crosóg Bhride and all sorts of incongruous objects with, fixed to the back wall, a double-barrelled shotgun. To the right of the fireplace would be a shortish sofa, with a back to it. A radio and/or TV set might also be on view.
UNCLE ANDY is alone in his chair at the fire, peering desultorily at a newspaper. He puts the paper down and takes off his glasses. It is late and he is tired.
ANDY: Well, declare to the fathers, it must be all hours.
(After rummaging, he extracts a turnip, watches and studies it.)
Twenty-two minutes fast. Take twenty-two away and, Lord save us, its five to eleven! This kelooderin’ll have to stop. I must put me fut down.
(Puts watch away carefully.)
There must be a little bit of law and order in every house.
(There is a noise to the right and MARIE-THÉRÈSE comes in—tight-belted-coat, head-scarf, vastly painted and carrying enormous handbag.)
PUDDINER: Ah, Uncle Andy, good night to ya. And isn’t it a gloryus night that’s in it—moon, stars and all, and a light below in Lanigan’s pub.
ANDY: It’s a very late night that’s in it, me good woman.
PUDDINER: Ah now, now, what’s wrong with me poor uncle? (Cajolingly.) Me own poor dacent darling, me sweet segotia. I’ll get yer hot jar ready in a minit.
(Throws coat, etc. on a chair and sits on sofa.)
ANDY: Now lookat here, Puddiner, you’re late every night.
PUDDINER: And I bought something for ya, uncle.
ANDY: We don’t want this house turned into a night club and have the name of Kilsalaher stink in the nostrils of the whole world. For pity’s sake have a thought for the neighbours.
PUDDINER: Now don’t be talkin through the back of yer head, uncle.
ANDY: And for the P.P. I thought he gev me a bit of a look a few Sundas ago.
PUDDINER: The P.P. well knows that I’m one of the best chickens in his whole flock.
ANDY: Well, Puddiner, you might think of yer poor oul uncle’s grey hairs.
PUDDINER: (Suddenly irritated.) Now I’ve told you before, Uncle Andy, to stop calling me that. You know very well I have two names—Maree and Terrayz. You can call me both, or wan or d’other. But that word Puddiner is low vulgarity the like of which you’d oney hear in the Queen’s Theatre in Dublin.
ANDY: I told you it was yer mother, God be good to her, who called you Puddiner first.
PUDDINER: Because if ya don’t call me by me proper name, then there’s oney wan thing I can do.
ANDY: Faith now! And what’s that?
PUDDINER: I’ll have to ask ya to call me Miss Prendergast.
(ANDY gives a low wheezing laugh.)
ANDY: Ah-ha, that’s a good wan. Suppose a man come to the door with a two-pound box of chocolates and said they were for Miss Prendergast, know what’s I’d tell him? Me dear man, I’d say, you’ve got the wrong address. Nobody be that name lives here.
PUDDINER: Do you want me to have the Gairds on ya?
ANDY: The day after you were born, Puddiner, I called to see yer poor mammy. She was in good form, mindya. “Andy,” says she, “hand me over that puddiner.” Took the feet from under me. “Me good woman,” says I, “you’re oney after havin a child, and you’ll get no puddin. You’ll get milk . . . and whey . . . and beef tea, maybe a little chicken, and that’s all.”
PUDDINER: (Nastily.) A yiss, Uncle. You were the nice man to visit a sick mother’s room, with bottles of stout stickin out of every pocket, and three or four pints already in the pit of yer stomach. Yiss—it wasn’t a bunch of flowers you were bringin the poor sufferin woman.
ANDY: Will you whisht, girl. Your mammy pointed with her arm. “Hand me over here,” says she, “the little pink puddiner that’s over in that cot in the corner.”
PUDDINER: And do you say she was talking about me? God forgive ya, Uncle Andy, for you can have a bad tongue in yer head, y’oul fraud. Don’t you dare to insult me poor mother’s memory.
ANDY: (Still good-humoured.) Now, now, Puddiner, keep yer temper. I carefully lifted ya and handed ya into the bed. But it wasn’ to kiss an’ canoodle ya she wanted. . . .
PUDDINER: What dya mean, uncle?
ANDY: We’ll say no more. She had to attend to ya. I had to lave the room.
(PUDDINER gets up angrily, starts rooting in her handbag, finds cigarettes and lights one.)
ANDY: And it’s a good job the poor woman didn’t live to see the bould strap and fly-be-night her daughter was to grow into.
PUDDINER: (Viciously.) You shut up or I’ll go to bed without bothering meself about your hot jar.
ANDY: Ah now, Puddiner, I’m a hard oul chaw still and that wouldn’t kill me.
PUDDINER: Yiss indade—it’s hard to kill a bad thing.
ANDY: Might I respectfully inquire, madam, where you were tonight to his hour?
PUDDINER: Sairtintly you may inquire. You have a sharp nose from stickin it in where it isn’t wanted. I was with me steady, Shaymus, and he has a bit of a job on his hands.
ANDY: What ails Shaymus now?
PUDDINER: Shaymus got a present of a pup and he doesn’t know what to call it.
ANDY: Doesn’t know what to call it? Can’t he call it anything that comes into his head? Can’t he think of the name of somebody he doesn’t like and calls the baste be that name?
PUDDINER: Ah yiss, Uncle Andy. I asked him would he like to call it after you, hah?
ANDY: Well now Puddiner and is that so? If he done that, I’d call to see Shaymus and give him me answer with the business end of my Irish blackthorn stick. Mind that now.
PUDDINER: Well, you’re the man with the head on you. What should he call it?
ANDY: (Chuckling reflectively.) Tell ya wan thing, Puddiner. I thank God I wasn’t born to be a dog in England!
PUDDINER: Lord save us! Why, Uncle Andy?
ANDY: Because, me dear gerrl, if you’re a dog in England, matteradamn what breed or size you are, you are bound to be called either Rex or Rover.
PUDDINER: Ah yis, I suppose that’s true. Now suppose I was a bitch in England.
ANDY: (Shocked, sits up.) The what was that?
PUDDINER: A female dog, stupid. I’d be called Flossie . . . or Ursula . . . or Dympna . . . or Bridie. Is that right? The names of Christians?
ANDY: The names of saints, ya mean. Disgraceful!
PUDDINER: Yiss. It’s a good job that neither of us is man’s best friend, (daintily) a fluffy little bundle of tricks and affection.
ANDY: (Sententiously.) The trouble about names—any name—is that it lasts forever. Even if ya find it doesn’t suit, ya can’t change it. Ya have to be careful. . . .
(PUDDINER has risen, got ANDY’S old-fashioned porcelain hot water jar and is attending to it at the fire, where a kettle has been suspended from the chain.)
PUDDINER: (With resignation.) Ya can say that again. I should know. I, Maree-Terrayz.
ANDY: But you can be too careful. Would ya like to hear, Puddiner, what happened me when I was a young fella not four years married below in Arkla?
PUDDINER: Don’t ya know I’m very fond of fairy tales, always was.
ANDY: Well, dya see, Puddiner, there I was with me little houseful. Declan was just over two, a lovely chi-ild with fair hair and blue eyes, all th’oul wans used to stop and kiss in the street. Ah, ya couldn’t help losin yer heart to the little divil. Dya understand, Puddiner?
PUDDINER: Yiss. Usually the sort of youngster that needs a good skelp.
ANDY: Ah now Puddiner, give little Declan a chance. Declan was game-ball, a lovely chisler. Then there was Cruhoor, about a year old, the dead spit of his da and one of the . . . prettiest . . . tenderhearted little babbies that God made. Ah, Puddiner, you’d take him in yer arms!
PUDDINER: (Looking up.) What? And have meself destroyed?
ANDY: But then what? You’d never guess. I’m presented with a third son! Hah! You talk about yer man Shaymus being stuck for a name?
PUDDINER: (Standing up, the bottle filled.) Shure that would be no problem to a man with a head like yours.
ANDY: Now take it easy, Puddiner. I was bet. I got a headache trying to think. At the heel of the hunt, I went to the P.P., a most accomplished and saintly man. I put the whole thing before him, told him all about Declan and Cruhoor, and then this new arrival in search of a name. Well, lookat, Puddiner. The grand old priest looked at me and do you know what he said?
PUDDINER: What, Uncle Andy?
ANDY: Are you married, says he! Are you married? says he!
PUDDINER: Oh, help!
(She dissolves into a howl of laughter but the camera, moving up to close up, shows the laugh freeze on her face and her jaw drop.)
PUDDINER: And Uncle Andy . . . were ya?
ANDY: (Sulkily silent, rises and is handed his hot water bottle.) Time for bed.
PUDDINER: Uncle Andy, you never asked me what I bought you.
ANDY: Well, what?
PUDDINER: A baby power!
ANDY: Oh, em. Thank you . . . Miss Prendergast.
END