LOVE PLAYS1
By Peter Oswald
Note. Short plays about love.
Newspaper
On My Hols
Miss Bratty
Mogs and Donald
Matthew
Pram
Bloody Blasphemous Dead Bastards
NEWSPAPER
MAN SITS READING NEWSPAPER. WOMAN SITS NEARBY, BOLT UPRIGHT ON A STOOL, FACING AUDIENCE. MAN IS COMPLETELY OBSCURED FROM AUDIENCE BY NEWSPAPER. WOMAN MAKES NO REACTION TO WHAT HE SAYS, BUT ONLY STARES FORWARDS. MAN DOES NOT SPEAK CONTINUOUSLY BUT LEAFS THROUGH THE PAPER FROM ARTICLE TO ARTICLE.
MAN: Woman swears at cat. Since time immemorial cats underfoot have been a hazard in the domestic environment. The awkwardly placed sleeping feline has all too often been the cause of flung Sunday dinners, as the unwary roast-carrier lurches over the furry obstacle. However, the incident yesterday, prompted not by any actual tumble but by the mere possibility of such a mishap, and by several near-misses in the past, must rank as one of the most unnecessary and regrettable public anti-pet outbursts in recent memory.
Stone owl still lost. An exquisite carved stone owl, purchased on holiday in Greece by a Bristol woman for her husband, still eludes all searching efforts. Hope is running out for the attractive object, thought to have been knocked off its mantelpiece perch last week during a thorough-going spring clean. Cupboards have been emptied and beds peered under by combined teams of experienced lookers, but so far to no effect. Accusations of gross negligence aimed at the owner took a severe turn last night when he was accused of trafficking the sacred object. And the spat looked like turning into a diplomatic incident this morning when agents of a foreign power denied being in receipt of the semi-precious curio. Both sides have increased their border presence, whilst in the gulf, three carriers and two destroyers are now on manoeuvres. Fears that these two nuclear powers could completely eradicate each other and civilisation itself, were growing in capitals from Moscow to Washington last night. – What an over-reaction! What a world! What else?
Colour of new curtains disputed. Agreement has still not been reached on the new sitting room curtains to be purchased by a Bristol woman and her husband. Last week negotiations broke down in a dramatic fashion, with each side accusing the other of bad faith. Efforts at conciliation have so far proved fruitless, with the green party declaring ‘better dead than red.’ Whilst the windows remain uncovered, it appears that the door remains firmly closed to any kind of compromise. A sad sight met my eyes as I entered the disputed territory yesterday morning. A bare and gaping window-space leaving the interior wide open to the glances of passers-by – and there were many – once again brought home to me the devastating consequences of intransigence. I could not help noting, firmly planted in the pavement directly outside, the stiff steel stem of a streetlight whose afterdark effects will perhaps prompt a deeper searching of consciences on either side of this longstanding dispute.
Woman’s happiness up seven per cent. A woman’s happiness was this week reported to have increased by seven per cent. The general downward trend was bucked this week though this does little to reverse the Everest-steep slide of the graph. Opinions are divided over the cause of this fillip, which though statistically insignificant, represents an interesting anomaly. One theory holds that this year’s lower-than-predicted flooding may be held to account. Professor of Mood Studies Doctor Herman Flox of Bristol University stated: ‘Dire prophecies can have a beneficial effect if the expected calamity turns out to be less bad than feared. What psychologists call the ‘relief dividend’ can actually provide a sensation of real happiness for brief periods, before the mind re-adjusts to the actual awfulness of what has in fact happened. Merely not being as bad as it could have been, is not sufficient to transform an unpleasant event into a cause of lasting joy and contentment.’
Lost childhood sighted. The childhood snatched from a back garden in Edinburgh fourteen years ago this March, has been sighted on the outskirts of the Swiss capital, Geneva. Police involved in the worldwide search for the missing childhood have received thousands of bogus reports of sightings over the years, but are treating this latest one with a degree of seriousness. However, Inspector Blank of the International Childhood-Return Squad was unwilling to comment on exactly why this sighting is different. Once again the world has braced itself for disappointment, and memories go back to the painful events of fourteen years ago. Hopes that the stolen childhood would be swiftly found faded when the trail was allowed to go cold due to a series of blunders. The latest sighting is an intriguing one. The childhood was spotted in the company of an elderly Norwegian priest at a petrol station near the Swiss capital at Four a.m. on Christmas morning. Inspector Blank stated that the childhood appeared to be in good spirits, singing ‘Good King Wenceslas’ in Italian. Hopes that the childhood might eventually be found have been boosted by the fact that in fourteen years it does not appear to have changed. Child Psychologist Doctor Gabriel Sweetman comments: ‘the shock of sudden abduction can often freeze growth and development and it is not infrequent for lost childhoods to be recovered twenty or twenty-five years later with no visible change having occurred.’ The Archbishop of Bergen is helping police with their inquiries.
Woman continues to ignore husband. A Bristol woman was this evening reported to be still refusing to speak to her husband. ‘Communication is impossible,’ said the woman, ‘since all he does is read the newspaper. This barrier, though wafer-thin, might as well be the Great Wall of China,’ continued the Bristol woman, ‘or a small steel vault in which my husband is imprisoned inside a stone fortress surrounded by barbed wire and tanks. For many years an Iron Curtain separated the east from the west, but a line of raised newspapers would have been a far more effective partition and deterrent. Nothing is more powerful than indifference, and a solid phalanx of Guardians from Finland to the Alps would have been a permanent guarantee of freedom. Not to mention The Financial Times.’ When questioned further the woman went on to say: ‘I fear for my husband. I think he is lost in a neverending labyrinth of current events. Quite frankly it is an addiction. The cheap supply of news flooding our country from poorer regions where it is a subsistence crop, is breaking down our society. And the dark network of correspondents, stringers and editors who peddle this stuff should be hunted down. Please please help my husband.
Husband reveals dark secrets about wife. A husband who drunkenly revealed dark secrets about his wife was yesterday sentenced at the Old Bailey to twenty-five years behind a newspaper. In summing up, Justice Justice Ngarawou drew attention to the callousness of the man’s remarks, repeated on more than one occasion, and dismissed claims by the Defence that the imposition of silence about these matters had driven the man to drink. Justice Ngarawou called the man ‘about as discreet as an all-out air attack,’ and upheld the function of the law to defend above all things a woman’s right to privacy with regard to –
Man murdered by wife’s relatives. A man yesterday described how he was murdered by his wife’s relatives. Speaking to our reporter via satellite phone, the dead man revealed how he was at first accepted by his wife’s family. ‘At first they were warm and welcoming,’ he said, ‘but after the initial honeymoon period, their enthusiasm cooled. Perhaps I was not, after all, what they had hoped for.’ The man described how his wife’s family surrounded him one Christmas Eve. ‘I was suspicious as by this time they tended to ignore me completely,’ he said, describing how his wife stood by while the rest of the family battered him to death with plates, saucepans, household ornaments, ‘anything they could get their hands on.’ The man’s bloody and disfigured corpse was deposited in a cellar, where it allegedly remains, while the family, according to the dead man, hired an exact look-alike whose personality more suited their expectations. ‘That’s who’s going around with my wife, not me at all,’ complained the dead man; ‘he’s just what they always wanted, whereas I’m nothing but a heap of bones in a cellar.’
Marriage found to be contravening Geneva Convention. The International Criminal Court this week found the marriage of a Bristol couple to be in breach of the Geneva Convention. Husband Harvey Strokes however declared that he is not a signatory.
War breaks out. Thousands of refugees were fleeing from a Bristol marriage this week, after the fragile ceasefire collapsed. A heavy bombardment of silence is reported to have completely destroyed a children’s hospital in the so-called safe zone – the famous ornamental gardens were a mass of flames last night as –
Love is still possible, says the Archbishop of Canterbury. The Archbishop of Canterbury this week courted controversy once again by declaring that love is still possible. Clerics warned of an imminent split in the Anglican communion if the liberal religious leader completely abandons tradition –
Lingering Dreams still lingering. This timely revival of the sentimental classic Lingering Dreams proves that hope springs eternal in the human breast. The evergreen popular hit still draws large crowds of all ages, and this warm-hearted and stoic production is no exception. From the laughter-filled early scenes to the troubling middle of the play, there seems to be something for everyone. The brilliance of the stagecraft lies in leaving us poised as to whether the glittering and delicious passion of the play’s beginning will prove a strong enough foundation in more difficult times. As the play ends, earthquakes and dark storms threaten total disintegration and yet, for this critic at least, there remains the lingering dream that true love cannot ultimately destroy itself. But that a way will be found.
A warm front sweeping in from the pacific will bring tropical diseases to Lancashire this weekend –
Woman dreams of tree. Last night a woman dreamed of a tree. The ground though solid was transparent and she was able to see the intertwining root systems reaching as deeply and widely into the earth as the branches into the sky. Birds were singing in the branches but also from underground arose complementary songs. She lay down on the ground, and found herself pushing down into the earth and up into the air, spreading in all directions and gathering a large population of birds and all shapes of insects. She was curious to feel herself feeding on light, neither drinking it nor eating it, and the sensation of being invaded from all sides with deliciousness was something she had never known, as the tiny hairs on her tubers drew in the goods of the soil and her fragrance shifted from light to shadow. She was able to appreciate her position as part of an enormous forest, each tree wrapped in bliss, spreading far out of sight – and so she fell asleep in her sleep – and perhaps nothing will ever wake her up.
ON MY HOLS.
A BEACH ABROAD. BABBAGE. ENTER STEINBECK.
STEINBECK: Morning.
BABBAGE: Nice to hear an English voice!
STEINBECK: Oh, are you English?
BABBAGE: Yes I am!
STEINBECK: Where abouts in England are you from?
BABBAGE: Oh, from the north.
STEINBECK: Oh yes. That's my neck of the woods!
BABBAGE: Oh!
STEINBECK: What part of the north are you from?
BABBAGE: Around Rotheridge.
STEINBECK: I'm from round Rotheridge! Whereabouts around Rotheridge are you from?
BABBAGE: Bishop's Stainbridge.
STEINBECK: Bishop's Stainbridge? I'm from Bishop's Stainbridge!
BABBAGE: Small world!
STEINBECK: It is! Whereabouts in Stainbridge do you live?
BABBAGE: Bright Street.
STEINBECK: Bright Street? I live in Bright Street!
BABBAGE: Strange we've never met.
STEINBECK: It's a long street.
BABBAGE: But still – what a small world!
STEINBECK: What a tiny, tiny world! Shrinking every minute! What number do you live at?
BABBAGE: Number a hundred and seventy seven.
STEINBECK: What?
BABBAGE: Number a hundred and seventy seven.
STEINBECK: Are you sure?
BABBAGE: Well yes I've lived there for nineteen years.
STEINBECK: I don't believe it! That's such a coincidence! Amazing!
BABBAGE: What?
STEINBECK: I live in number a hundred and seventy seven!
BABBAGE: Small house!
STEINBECK: It is a small house! How strange we've never met! Sorry, I haven't introduced myself. My name's Leslie.
BABBAGE: What? I don't believe it! My name's Leslie!
STEINBECK: This is unbelievable! Do you mind me asking - what's your mum's name?
BABBAGE: Cathy.
STEINBECK: No!
BABBAGE: Ha!
STEINBECK: Dad?
BABBAGE: Terence.
STEINBECK: Yeah, Terrible Terry!
BABBAGE: Well we all have our problems, don't we? What would life be without them?
STEINBECK: That's what I've always said!
BABBAGE: Have you?
STEINBECK: I relish the problems of life!
BABBAGE: So do I! Well when you work in Insurance -
STEINBECK: We'd be redundant without them!
BABBAGE: And that would be
STEINBECK: Even more of a problem
BABBAGE: Well you could
STEINBECK: Insure for that I sup
BABBAGE: Pose.
STEINBECK, BABBAGE: Yes!
STEINBECK: Perhaps I could
BABBAGE: Interest you in a little
STEINBECK: Package, you never
BABBAGE: Know what lies in store
STEINBECK, BABBAGE: Do you? No.
BABBAGE: Come and meet my dog,
STEINBECK, BABBAGE: Dribble. Do you remember Poppy she was a cute little puppy what a pity what a pity what a pity what a pity.
EXEUNT.
MISS BRATTY
OLIVER (A VENTRILOQUIST,) ENTERS WITH A TRUNK.
OLIVER: Good evening ladies and gentlemen, my name’s Oliver, I’m a ventriloquist. You may be wondering where my dummy is, well she’s in this box. Fact is, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been having a few problems with her recently. The main trouble is, she thinks she’s real. Is there anyone here tonight who thinks ventriloquist’s dummies are real? No, well I’m glad there’s one or two sensible people on my side here tonight. Well it’s make or break . Things have got so bad, ladies and gentlemen, I’m not sure if we can carry on working together. Well here we are. Look out, here she comes, Miss Bratty!
OPENS TRUNK, TAKES OUT MISS BRATTY, SITS HER ON HIS KNEE.
MISS BRATTY: Get your filthy hands off me you stupid old man!
OLIVER: Now now, Miss B, say hello to the boys and girls!
MISS BRATTY: I will, if you get off me!
OLIVER: But Miss B, you’re sitting on me!
MISS BRATTY: I mean, if you get your hands off me!
OLIVER: But if I get my hands off you, you won’t be able to say hello to the boys and girls!
MISS BRATTY: Oh yes I will!
OLIVER: Oh no you won’t!
MISS BRATTY: I will!
OLIVER: You won’t!
MISS BRATTY: Will!
OLIVER: Alright we’ll try it then. I’ll put you down, and leave the room, and we’ll see if you can say one single thing to the boys and girls.
MISS BRATTY: You wouldn’t dare.
OLIVER: What do you mean I wouldn’t dare?
MISS BRATTY: You’re nothing without me!
OLIVER: Now Miss B, I think it’s the other way round! You’re nothing without me!
MISS BRATTY: Go on then, put me down, leave me!
OLIVER: I am about to.
MISS BRATTY: No you’re not!
OLIVER: Yes I am!
MISS BRATTY: No you’re not! Promise?
OLIVER: Yes I promise.
MISS BRATTY: You’re going to set me free?
OLIVER: Certainly. If freedom is what you call it.
MISS BRATTY: Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!
OLIVER: Oh dear.
MISS BRATTY: Freedom from the filthy old man!
OLIVER: I am not a filthy old man.
MISS BRATTY: Yes you are.
OLIVER: No I’m not.
MISS BRATTY: Yes you are!
OLIVER: I’m not.
MISS BRATTY: If I told them half of what you’ve done! God! The things I could tell them! Things to make their hair turn green!
OLIVER: My conscience is clear.
MISS BRATTY: Listen to me, boys and girls, I’ll tell you one of the things he does – it’s disgusting!
OLIVER: Stop it!
MISS BRATTY: Why should I? Why shouldn’t I tell?
OLIVER: Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid she has an extremely vivid imagination!
MISS BRATTY: No I don’t!
OLIVER: Yes you do!
MISS BRATTY: I don’t! You’re a pervert!
OLIVER: Where’s your evidence?
MISS BRATTY: Well look at you, sitting around with a doll on your lap.
OLIVER: You’re a dummy, not a doll.
MISS BRATTY: And your hand up my –
OLIVER PUTS HIS HAND OVER HER MOUTH, SHE SHOUTS INCOHERENTLY BEHIND HIS HAND.
OLIVER: It’s you who’s filthy-minded!
MISS BRATTY: No I’m not!
OLIVER: You are! I’m a perfectly respectable family entertainer!
MISS BRATTY: Bollocks!
OLIVER: Oh this is getting us nowhere.
MISS BRATTY: I’ll show them the photographs!
OLIVER: Photographs!
MISS BRATTY: Well anyway aren’t you going to do it?
OLIVER: Do what?
MISS BRATTY: What you promised to do to me?
OLIVER: I never promised anything, you slut! Honestly, ladies and
gentlemen –
MISS BRATTY: You promised to leave me!
OLIVER: Oh.
MISS BRATTY: Yes to leave me alone here so I can speak to the boys and girls on my own.
OLIVER: Oh yes! Well I’m not going to leave you here if you’re going to tell them a load of lies and smut!
MISS BRATTY: Oh! You do think I’ll be able to speak then?
OLIVER: No of course I don’t. I was forgetting for a moment. Ha!
MISS BRATTY: Leave me then, extract your impudent fingers, shuffle your abominable flesh out of my sight and we will see what we will see!
OLIVER: Alright but if I do this for you you’ll be nice to me afterwards?
MISS BRATTY: Nice to you? What do you mean by that exactly, you old creep!
OLIVER: No! I just mean you’ll stop calling me things like that! Show me some respect!
MISS BRATTY: I might.
OLIVER: Think kindly of me.
MISS BRATTY: That’s asking too much. I might be able to pretend. For awhile. That you’re a nice kind old gent who picked me up out of the kindness of his heart, not hoping for anything – questionable in return. I might be able to pretend! But I know what I know! I’m not a dummy!
OLIVER: Yes you are.
MISS BRATTY: Well I am and I’m not. Now are you going to finally do it?
OLIVER: Of course!
MISS BRATTY: I do believe – ha! I do believe you are reluctant! Haha! Because that would really dump you in it, wouldn’t it, if I could talk without your hand stuffed up my –
PUTS HIS HAND OVER HER MOUTH. REMOVES IT.
MISS BRATTY: Censorship, boys and girls! The gag – he’s very fond of it.
OLIVER: I am very fond of you.
MISS BRATTY: Aaaggghhh! Help! Help! He’s starting it! Intimacy! Help!
OLIVER: Look, I don’t care what you think, the fact is, I am fond of you and –
MISS BRATTY: You can’t bear to put me down even for a moment!
OLIVER: That’s right!
MISS BRATTY: Hypocrite! Bloody hypocrite! When have you ever taken me anywhere? Boys and girls, listen, listen and learn. As soon as this is over, he’ll shove me in a trunk. Well it’s not even a trunk really, I honour it with the name of trunk. Into an unprepossessing suitcase I will be stuffed! Can’t bear to be parted from me! Does he take me to his bed? I mean even in the teddy bear sense? Though what he does with teddy bears doesn’t bear thinking about! Does he take me to the zoo perhaps on a Sunday afternoon? Perhaps I might like to go boating in the park or go to a show, see the Punch and Judy, does he think about that? No, what you see is the entirety of our relationship. All of it. We’ve got nothing, nothing, it’s all for show, that’s all it is!
OLIVER: So you were lying then about the abuse?
MISS BRATTY: How is this not abuse? Look at yourself!
OLIVER: You have a nice life.
MISS BRATTY: I don’t have a life. And I won’t have a life until you do what I say!
OLIVER: Oh!
MISS BRATTY: And what I say is, fulfil your promise! Put me down! Take your hand out of me, I am not some cow to be artificially inseminated! Take it out, take it out, and put me down and face up to yourself!
OLIVER: Alright, I will.
MISS BRATTY: At last! But I’ll believe it when I see it. Pathetic delay! You stuffed shirt! You hollow oppressor of puppets! You scarecrow! Go on, go ahead and do it! Do it! Do it!
HE REMOVES HIS HAND. LIES HER DOWN. SHE LIES TOTALLY INERT. HE TIPTOES OUT, LEAVES HER LYING FOR TWO MOMENTS, TIPTOES BACK.
OLIVER: Well, ladies and gentlemen, I think I have proved my point! Just as I have always maintained, she is inanimate, without me she can neither move nor speak! She really ought to feel a touch of gratitude, a twinge of respect! Not so much as a squeak, or a flip or a flop! Not particularly impressive! Not exactly an Olympic display of gymnastics! Not quite the hundred metres! Ready, steady – stop! And in terms of eloquence, not overwhelming, the most concise of dictionaries could contain her vocabulary, ladies and gentlemen, no gift of the gab for this gob! And can I just take this opportunity to assure you, good people, that the slurs and slights in which she delights are just that – peevish and baseless attacks. But we must forgive her that, because it is just about all she has got by way of a character. Peevishness. Neither personality nor looks, yet we do our best, we just do our bloody best! Right.
HE PUTS HER BACK ON HIS HAND. SHE SITS UP STRAIGHT, MOVES HER HEAD, SMOOTHES HER HAIR, OBVIOUSLY UPSET.
OLIVER: Hello! There! Hello again! Did I miss you? Yes I did, but never mind! I hurried back. Needless to say you were completely inert. Not one whisper to the boys and girls. For all you know I could have been gone for ten years! You were neither asleep nor awake, you simply were not. Isn’t that right, ladies and gentlemen? They can’t deny it, unless they are fantasists. Plenty of that about. But no, no, no, you were entirely silent. Do you not think you should thank me for bringing you back? Hmm?
SHE SAYS NOTHING.
OLIVER: Not a twinge of remorse for all your verbal abuse? I say verbal because so far you have never physically attacked me. So far. Well you’ve gone terribly quiet! Have I upset you perhaps? Well I’m terribly sorry, but sometimes we just have to suffer the consequences of our behaviour. Then, if we survive the crushing glimpse of our worst self, we can perhaps begin to learn. To learn self-control, to learn moderation, kindness, to become, conceivably, mellow and pleasant and charming! Spades who are never called spades are no good at digging! That’s a good phrase! Think about it! You are a foul-mouthed and callous little ventriloquist’s dummy, and that’s the fact. Your life will begin when you realise that. Hmmm?
SHE SAYS NOTHING.
OLIVER: I know I can’t force you to be sweet, but I can at least show you that there are limits! That people have feelings! That there are rules in every relationship! Boundaries! Border Police! I actually give you a hell of a lot, and if you refuse to recognise that fact, well obviously I will feel aggrieved and hurt. I will feel worthless, won’t I? And then I won’t be able to give! You will be dipping into an empty jug that you cracked yourself. Understand? I may not be a Knight in shining obama, I may not be great or brilliant, I may not be perfect. But I am not a pervert, I am not filthy, you only think that because you have never known anyone else – but actually there are people a whole lot worse than me! People who – well I will not go any further. There are pictures in books that have brought childhoods to a premature end. And that’s before you get to the caption. Compared to the worst kind of people I’m not even a saint, I’m God! God! How about that? The only God you’ll ever know, sweetheart, and at least I’m real! You may wish I wasn’t sometimes – but I wish you’d weigh things up! Look at the brightness! Hmmm?
SHE SAYS NOTHING.
Look I’m sorry if I left you too long. I wanted to give you a fair chance. See? I thought you might be just summoning yourself up, getting your courage up. But then – no, it became obvious that nothing was going to happen and so I intervened before it became embarrassing. To save your face. Darling, you weren’t saying anything! But say something now, I’m here now, say something.
SHE SAYS NOTHING.
Look, there’s no room for sulking in this profession. Not onstage! You can’t give me the silent treatment, darling, talking’s the only thing you’ve got going for you. Pipe up! Give us a smile!
SHE SAYS NOTHING.
This could be a problem. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Due to an unforeseen technical difficulty – um – look I love you darling but if you won’t speak you’re just a block of wood, understand? Understand? Don’t do this to me. We go back ages, I’m really really fond of you and I don’t want to threaten you or anything but if you won’t – say anything – then that’s the end. Do you think I’m going to walk onstage and just sit there with a puppet on my lap? That doesn’t – that can’t or won’t do anything? That would not be terribly entertaining! Speak, darling, for Christ’s sake!
SHE SAYS NOTHING.
Gone. Gone dead on me. Not dead, but dead quiet. No patter, no spark or spice of any kind. Maybe threats is the wrong thing. How about insults? Ugly little pigfaced doll! Or ‘try a little tenderness’ – I love you – you know that! I bloody love you! Don’t fade out on me! Because this is forever, if you do this – I’ll never be able to trust you again. I’ll never be able to find you! Where has she gone, God dammit, where has she gone? I said something wrong, now I long - . Last chance. Last chance, darling. I am just going to say your name and if you don’t reply I will take it that you don’t intend ever to speak to me again. Think about all the shows we’ve done. Twenty-five years. Good times, bad times, terrible times. Remember, darling, remember, the laughter of the little children. It goes on forever, like light returning to the stars. The big meaty clapping of the mothers. The knowing chuckles of the dads when we skimmed the gags just over the heads of the kids! The ribaldry! The journeys. I know, I’m sorry about the suitcase, it’s a tough old box, but I didn’t want you to get broken. I’ll take a risk from now on. And yes, yes, yes, my dear one, I do promise that every now and again I will take you out, very early in the morning when there’s no one about, and we will just go for a walk, and talk about – anything! In the dew, in the dawn, with the birds singing, or late at night under the stars. Look, there’s Oldy Baron! And there’s the moon, the beautiful moon, where the old dummies go when they die. And you’ll say ‘Shut up you silly old fool,’ or something, and we’ll stroll along, chuckling. And I’ll ask you what you want to do and what you think about things. Alright, darling? I don’t want to be alone, anymore than you do. There’ll never be another one like you, babe! Ok – last chance saloon. I will just say your name. And you will answer me.
PAUSE. VERY SOFTLY:
Miss Bratty –
SHE SAYS NOTHING, TURNS HER HEAD AWAY. VERY SADLY HE REMOVES HIS HAND, FOLDS HER UP IN THE TRUNK, SHUTS IT, BOWS, LEAVES.
MOGS AND DONALD.
MOGS, AN OLD WOMAN, SITS READING A BOOK. ENTER DONALD, HER HUSBAND, AN OLD MAN. HE TRIES TO LIFT A BOX ONTO A TABLE. HE LIFTS IT INTO THE AIR WITHOUT TOO MUCH EFFORT.
MOGS: You can't do that.
HE CARRIES ON LIFTING.
MOGS: You can't do that, Donald.
HE HOVERS, MIDAIR.
MOGS: You cannot lift that. You can't. Donald!
HE DROPS IT TO THE GROUND.
MOGS: Sit down. Sit down and get on with something.
DONALD: Ffffff -
MOGS: What?
DONALD: Fffffff -
MOGS: What?
DONALD: Ffffff -
MOGS: You can't say that. You can't pronounce the letter F, Donald. For some weeks you have not been able to. Why, you cannot say. Philosophy is beyond you. France is out of your reach, along with philately, and most definitely all fanfares and phosphoresence. Stick with what little remains within your powers.
HE MOVES TOWARDS A CHAIR.
MOGS: Not that one. You cannot sit on that one, it is broken. So are all the others. You cannot stand, either, you are too weak. Go and lie down, Donald, you are too weak to stand, you are totally blind and you have lost the power of speech.
DONALD STANDS STILL.
MOGS: Do you hear me, Donald? Are you deaf as well? Dear me, this is the end. The only hope is that you can smell what I am saying. I will try to speak pungently, use aromatic nouns only, and perfumed verbs.
DONALD: I am not deaf.
MOGS: Yes you are.
DONALD: No I am not. I heard what you said. You said, 'Yes you are.'
MOGS: No I didn't.
DONALD: Yes you did.
MOGS: Well you didn't hear me before.
DONALD: I did.
MOGS: Then why did you not reply?
DONALD: You were speaking nonsense.
MOGS: No I wasn't.
DONALD: Yes you were, you said I was blind.
MOGS: You are blind.
DONALD: I am not, I can see perfectly.
MOGS: What can you see?
DONALD: Everything that is there!
MOGS: There is nothing there!
DONALD: There is!
MOGS: There is not!
DONALD: Well then I am not blind if I can't see it!
MOGS: Can't you see it?
DONALD: See what?
MOGS: Can't you see that there is nothing there?
DONALD: I see my dearly beloved wife of many years!
MOGS: It is not her!
DONALD: Who is it then?
MOGS: It is me!
DONALD: This is nonsense! And you told me I could not lift this box onto this table.
MOGS: You cannot.
DONALD: I can.
MOGS: You cannot. Not without doing yourself permanent damage.
DONALD: I can. There!
HE LIFTS THE BOX ONTO THE TABLE.
MOGS: Now you are permanently damaged.
DONALD: No I am not. I am fine. Fine! And so are the chairs! And I can say the letter F whenever I like!
MOGS: No you can't.
DONALD: Will you stop trying to undermine me!
MOGS: Call me a fool if you can!
DONALD: Fool!
MOGS: Now Donald it is time for your rest. You can't pretend you are well. You stand there shouting at your wife and then you claim to be calm. You make all kinds of claims to amazing powers of sight and hearing. But they do not stand up to the evidence. Lay yourself down, lay yourself down, stretch out and sleep.
DONALD: You will be the death of me!
MOGS: Oh Donald, don't be absurd! You can't die! Dying is a leap into the dark, and you could not more leap than a hare in a hound's mouth! Death is a metaphysical concept that confounds philosophers, it weighs in one hand the world and in the other the infinite. It is way beyond your tiny intellect, do not attempt it, you will just be humiliated, as if you had entered a championship of Chess Grand Masters! Death's door is locked with a combination so intricate attempting to decode it would cause your eyes to pop out. You can forget all about death, Donald, you're not up to it.
HE DIES.
MOGS: No, Donald, you are not dead. Your every faculty is dim almost to eclipse but you are not dead, nowhere near it, you are breathing in and out in shallow puffs, that little hamster your heart is racing round and round its wheel with a whispering rush, you are thinking wretched little drenched sparrow thoughts, you are among us, you are not gone, you can't die, you can't die, you can't leave me, you can't leave me, Donald!
BLACKOUT.
MATTHEW
PEOPLE SITTING FOR DINNER. VERY STARVED-LOOKING. TABLE LAID. NO FOOD. ENTER MATTHEW.
HOST: Matthew!
EVERYONE STANDS.
MATTHEW: Good evening.
MATTHEW IS VERY RESERVED. THE OTHERS ARE OVER-ENTHUSIASTIC. HE SITS DOWN.
HOST: Well before we eat I just want to say a great big thankyou first of all to Matthew!
ALL: Hear hear!
MATTHEW: Me? Why?
HOST: Just for being here tonight with us! Without you here this dinner would be completely meaningless.
MATTHEW: But I'm just -
HOST: Hush, hush! You don't know what you mean to us! You don't know what it means to us that you are here tonight! But it's really important for all of us to just really let you know that, we just couldn't enjoy this meal if we thought you didn't know how happy we are that you're here with us tonight!
MATTHEW: Well you're very kind, but -
HOST: It's you that's kind!
MATTHEW: No, I'm not, I'm not -
GENERAL EXPRESSIONS OF BEWILDERMENT.
HOST: Matthew, listen. Before you came we had nothing.
ALL: That's right!
HOST: We had nothing to look forward to, we were at our wits' end!
ALL: True, true!
HOST: Then you came, and everything fitted into place!
MATTHEW: You make me sound like some kind of Messiah!
HOST: Ha ha! Yes you could say that!
MATTHEW: Well I don't like it!
HOST: I'm sorry, Matthew, I'm sorry. We're sorry. Perhaps we're a little over-effusive. It's just that we're people who've been through a lot. We've been pushed right to the brink and it's not often that anyone does anything for us! In fact no one has ever done anything until you came! Of course you have suffered too, perhaps more than any of us, but you've put all that behind you tonight, you've thrown your troubles onto the rubbish heap and in our moment of direst need you're here for us!
MATTHEW: I don't like this way of talking!
HOST: Sorry, Matthew, sorry.
MATTHEW: Look I'm really happy to be here.
ALL: Good! Good!
MATTHEW: But I am just myself, I'm nothing special. I want to be absolutely clear about that.
HOST: You're special to us!
MATTHEW: Well then you must be pretty desperate because I'm not special to anyone else.
HOST: We are desperate. You know that. I mean we were.
MATTHEW: No one has asked me to supper for a very long time. I don't have any friends.
HOST: You do now!
ALL: Yes!
MATTHEW: Well I don't really know why. I am actually an almost completely worthless individual. I'm unpleasant.
HOST: No!
MATTHEW: Yes I am! I'm bitter, I'm old before my time.
HOST: Stop it, stop it, Matthew!
MATTHEW: Stop it yourself! With me, what you see is what you get. About twelve stone of unloved and unloving flesh. I am not going to pretend to be something I'm not just because you people greet me like a hero with smiles and hoorays and all this warmth! It will take more than that! I'm a grumpy old git. Let's be clear about that.
HOST: No, Matthew, it's us that are unpleasant, it's us that are inhuman and harsh, that's why we're so grateful to you for coming to be with us!
MATTHEW: Then don't treat me like a bloody astronaut.
HOST: It's hard for us, Matthew. You've sacrificed so much!
MATTHEW: Nothing I wasn't glad to get rid of!
HOST: Well if you don't want the halo we'll pretend we can't see it. But I feel the need for dark glasses, I can tell you that.
MATTHEW: Oh shut the fuck up.
SILENCE.
HOST: Ok, Matthew. I just want to say that whatever you say or feel, you have our deepest respect. Some people hate to be loved. It hurts them. We can't stop loving you, Matthew, but we'll try not to show it, because we want to do what you want.
MATTHEW: Alright. No one here is special. No one here is a saint. We're all normal human beings, made of flesh and gristle and brain and blubber and mush. We're confused, odd, blurred, cruel and kind every one of us. On that basis we can get on fine. No more no less. Ok, what are we going to eat?
HOST: You.
MATTHEW: What?
HOST: We are going to eat you, Matthew, didn't you know that? That's why we asked you here tonight.
MATTHEW: Eat me?
HOST: Who sent the Invitation? Didn't you spell it out?
VINCENT: On the back!
HOST: Did you read the back, Matthew?
MATTHEW: No.
HOST: Oh shit.
MATTHEW: No I didn't read the back.
HOST: We thought you'd given us yourself!
MATTHEW: Er – no – no -
HOST: Oh! I don't believe this! I suppose you -
MATTHEW: No I couldn't – I don't want to – I -
HOST: Oh great! Dinner's off! Nothing to eat tonight again, folks!
ALL: Oh! Damn! Damn!
HOST: (TO INVITATION-SENDER.) I've a good mind to eat you, Vincent!
MATTHEW: I'm sorry – I -
HOST: No, no, it's fine, Matthew, don't worry about it! Goodbye then.
MATTHEW: I feel really bad -
HOST: Our fault! Our fault entirely!
MATTHEW: That's why you thought I was so wonderful!
HOST: Yup! Yup! Our mistake! No, you're absolutely right, Matthew, you're a straight-down-the-line, ordinary bloke, no special qualities, a bit passed it, a bit pissed off, disliking and disliked, but so what? Why should you be anything else? For a moment you were like a god to us. But it was just a blip. Now it's best that you just leave. Just leave, alright?
MATTHEW: Wait a minute, wait a minute.
HOST: Yup?
MATTHEW: I can't bear all this disappointment!
HOST: Nothing to do with you, mate!
MATTHEW: Please. Wait. Let me think.
HOST: Must you? I really need to go outside and weep.
MATTHEW: Look – you can eat me.
HOST: What?
MATTHEW : You can. Slaughter me humanely and cook me up.
HOST: You mean it?
MATTHEW: I mean it! Happy Christmas!
ALL: Hooray! Hooray! Matthew, our saviour, our shining light!
(SING) For he's a jolly good fellow,
For he's a jolly good fellow -
MATTHEW: Oh rubbish! Rubbish!
HOST: You sweet man!
MATTHEW: Well maybe I'm not so bad at that.
HOST: You'd better believe it!
EXEUNT.
PRAM
ENTER WOMAN WITH A PRAM. HOOD OF THE PRAM IS UP SO THE AUDIENCE CAN’T SEE INTO IT. WOMAN FACES AUDIENCE, HOLDING PRAM. SPEAKS TO PRAM.
WOMAN: Harriet has left again. Do you ever stop to – do you ever stop to think? Of course you must be yourself, you must! Ancient history that! No one would dream! But if you could only be a tiny bit different! Is that too much? That is too much. Might as well ask the washing to dry in the wet! Archie goes again to his grave, bewildered! But you won’t budge an inch. The sea lurches in and out, vomiting and slurping its vomit! Robert has more or less given up. Marjery will carry on, of course. The Lewises. I don’t ask for anything for myself, though I know you better than any of them. And you know me. There’s less excuse! A foreign woman you might. And one you had never met. The woman in the moon is perhaps is indifferent. But me! And I’ve not turned to anyone else. I won’t. I haven’t spoken. It’s all between you and me, all of it, every completely. I would not. Not even to Mister F. Agatha suspects. And well she might! I don’t really mean that. But we have known worse. Much worse. But nothing as bad as this. My dearest. If I may say, ever so gently and not meaning to hurt. What a great. You have brought! Of course we were overjoyed when that man walked! And music has always refreshed! But still you will not shift, you will not! I will never tell, never, never! I won’t! But if you could only just! What is it that you actually want from us? Is there anything we could possibly do that just might? You most certainly would never tell us. But you could tell me. I have promised not. I am just shallowly curious, if it is something you can say just. That would be a pressed flower in my heart! On the inside of my coffinlid! Perhaps you could say it in Urguk! Or music! But that would be all my birthdays at once! I should have listened to Susan. A bit. But she never opened her mouth! Well it’s up to us. It’s up to us to start to reel them down from the clouds, those bright kites, blackened by indiscriminate atmospheric violence! That is our task. Your task just to watch, to watch, Mister Mounteverest. I do not blame anyone but us! You never told us! We presumed! Marigold was savagely happy! But now we have just got to see it through to the end. And be grateful. They will not come back together again. Every single one of them now knows he was wrong. We have pushed you too far. The only thing we can think is that, if everything is extinguished. Every little last spark. All records and references. Every smallest animal in its hole. And then the holes. Then. In the absence of absence itself. The loss of loss. There will be – there will have to be – the twinkle of a beginning. What else could there be? Not even Hoolie could say! So sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, my darling!
EXIT.
BLOODY BLASPHEMOUS DEAD BASTARDS
AN ACCOUNTANT’S OFFICE. BLAGGART AND AGGA SIT IN A CORNER, IN A HEAP, HALF-ASLEEP. ENTER DONALDSON, SINGING.
BLAGGART WAKES UP INSTANTLY AND STRUGGLES TO HIS FEET, FOLLOWING DONALDSON AROUND, FURIOUSLY. BOTH AGGA AND BLAGGART ARE DRESSED IN RAGS. DONALDSON WEARS A SUIT.
DONALDSON: (ARRANGING THINGS ON HIS DESK AS HE SINGS, EXTRAVAGANTLY HAPPY. BLAGGART AND AGGA ARE INVISIBLE TO HIM.) No matter, no matter what I do, I only wanna be with you! Cos you’ve started something, and can’t you see, da dada dada dada dada hold on me, no matter what I do, I only wanna be with you!
BLAGGART: Go on! Tha micht sing! Go on!
AGGA WAKES UP.
AGGA: Shurrup will ya ya oold fart! Ye’re deed! Thar’s hogweed sprootin oot o yer arse and yere gob’s fulla aggregate! Shurrup!
BLAGGART: Ya foul oold heap o bat’s compost!
AGGA: Shurrup!
DONALDSON: This is the day! This is the day! Is it?
BLAGGART: Well it’s no the nicht, Mister radish-face Donaldson!
DONALDSON: Don’t talk to yourself, Donaldson, it’s ridiculous!
BLAGGART: Aye, talk tae me, if ye can! If ye dare! Talk tae Blaggart!
AGGA: I’ll talk to ye!
BLAGGART: Och willya, dear wumman?
THEY EMBRACE ON THE DESK LASCIVIOUSLY. THEY AREN’T USUALLY RUDE TO EACH OTHER, ONLY WHEN THEY’VE JUST WOKEN UP. DONALDSON TALKS INTO THE INTERCOM.
DONALDSON: Marjery, is Mrs Naseby here yet? She is! Send her in straightaway. Yes, no I’m definitely. It’s not too early. (SINGS.) Something in the way she moves… and all I have to do is dadada – tum, tum, something in the way she –
BLAGGART: Aaaghh! Hush yere noise! Yere worse than a billion deils boilin in their own oil!
AGGA: Leave him!
BLAGGART: I hate you, Donaldson!
AGGA: Ye shouldnae!
ENTER MRS NASEBY.
DONALDSON: (OVERJOYED TO SEE HER BUT TRYING TO BE PROFESSIONAL.) Good morning, Mrs Naseby!
MRS NASEBY: Good morning, Colin!
BLAGGART: Good morning, Colin, good morning! May it be the last of yere shiverin existence, Donaldson!
DONALDSON: Carol!
DONALDSON AND MRS NASEBY SIT LOOKING AT EACH OTHER ON OPPOSITE SIDES OF HIS DESK.
MRS NASEBY: Well –
DONALDSON: You wanted to transfer the last of your late husband’s money into your current account.
MRS NASEBY: If that’s possible!
DONALDSON: Of course it’s possible.
MRS NASEBY: You make everything sound so easy.
DONALDSON: It is easy. For me!
BLAGGART: Easy come, easy go – intae perdition’s oven!
AGGA: Come on, gie us a kiss!
BLAGGART: I’ll slay ye, Donaldson!
AGGA: Ye auld crab! It’s the wrang Donaldson!
DONALDSON AND MRS NASEBY HAVE BEEN STARING INTO EACH OTHERS’ EYES AGAIN. AGGA SITS ON THE DESK ENJOYING THEIR FASCINATION, WHILE BLAGGART STAMPS AROUND THE ROOM.
AGGA: The wee sweethearts!
DONALDSON: Was there something you wanted to say?
Mrs NASEBY: It’s very difficult –
BLAGGART: Difficult for me tae keep ma hands aff the throat o yon fizzlin weasel!
HE STRANGLES DONALDSON, WHO SLIGHTLY COUGHS.
MRS NASEBY: I’m sorry –
DONALDSON: It’s alright, it’s fine –
BLAGGART: Fine? Ya should be fined every penny o yere lifebreath! An then some!
MRS NASEBY: Look, you’ve been so incredibly kind to me, throughout –
DONALDSON: Christ, it’s my job!
BLAGGART: Did ye hear that, wife? Did ye hear? Blasphemous wee polecat! God Almighty’ll mak a fire o they entrails!
AGGA: What do ye know aboot God Almighty?
MRS NASEBY: Well you’ve done a fine job! You’ve – you’ve not just helped me through, you’ve made me happy!
DONALDSON: Happy?
BLAGGART: Happy! Happy! Happy! Hee bluidy hee!
MRS NASEBY: Look. You’ve made me fall in love with you.
BLAGGART: That’s it, wumman, twist his heartstrings roond yere hands and then snap them!
AGGA: Blaggart! Is that what I did to ye?
BLAGGART LOOKS ASHAMED, AS THE ANSWER IS DEFINITELY NO.
DONALDSON: I didn’t mean to.
MRS NASEBY: Oh don’t say that!
DONALDSON: No, I mean –
AGGA: What d’ye mean? What d’ye mean? Go on!
BLAGGART: Agga! Dinnae bless the verra sairpent e’en as he tends Eve the fruit!
DONALDSON: I mean it was never my precise intention –
AGGA: Course not! Twas an accident, like the whole o creation!
BRAGGART: Bluidy blaspheming dead wumman! There’s nae accident aboot it! All that happens on the face o the earth is the wark o one or the ither: God or the deil!
MRS NASEBY: I don’t know what to say.
DONALDSON: Nor do I.
THEY KISS.
AGGA: Then let sweet silence ring oot fer thousands an thousands o years!
BLAGGART: Aye! After fifty o ‘em, yon twae’ll be sweet smiling skellingtons!
AGGA: Well then they can get reborn, can they no, as dandelions!
BLAGGART: Or cockroaches! Or scorpions!
AGGA: Can ye no see that ye’re wrang, Douglas Blaggart?
BLAGGART: Is this no James Donaldson?
AGGA: Aye, James Donaldson! Son o James Donaldson, son o James Donaldson, and so on and so on and so on!
BLAGGART: I shall be avenged on the tenth generation!
AGGA: No! Creep back intae yere ditch, ye mouldy scrap o badger!
BLAGGART: Can ye speak sic words tae me, Agga Blaggart, wha’s lain in said ditch for four hundred years wi ma throat cut?!
AGGA: Ah, puir throaty, puir wee throaty! Let me kiss the offended spot!
SHE TRIES TO KISS HIS THROAT.
BLAGGART: This is a sober and serious business! I come frae the throne o God!
AGGA: Ye do not!
BLAGGART: I hae stalked – stalked – mony thousands o miles! O’er gulfs o glitterin green fire! Thorough the guts o thunderin dragons! O’er eternity’s Asias hae I tramped, tramped, wi ye ever faithful beside, never stoppin tae consider the clood o despair forever followin and shadin the sun! The blank blasted we buggerin vapour nae bigger’n the heed o a blackface lamb! I hae returned, I hae returned, intae the creepin o the clock’s hands, for ma revenge, for ma revenge! And will ya send me all the way back wi naething!
DONALDSON: I love you.
MRS NASEBY: Thank God for that.
DONALDSON: Ha!
AGGA: Darlins!
BLAGGART: Aaaaghhh! Thrice I bring doon ma cleaving claymore on yere scabbed scalps!
HE THRASHES ABOUT WITH AN IMAGINARY SWORD.
AGGA: Ye hae no claymore!
BLAGGART: Whaur is it?
AGGA: Ye left it stuck in the skull o a deil half way between here and the volcanoes o Error.
BLAGGART: I did for the ginning sprite!
AGGA: Nae, ye left him giggling like a girl wi ants in her socks.
BLAGGART: Are all ma sorrows for naething?!
DONALDSON: No malice aforethought.
MRS NASEBY: I believe it.
DONALDSON: Just a growing addiction to caring for a particular person.
MRS NASEBY: Caring?
DONALDSON: It’s my passion.
MRS NASEBY: Will you marry me?
AGGA: Ding dong! Ding dong! Ding dong!
BLAGGART: I curse you, James Donaldson, tae the misery o a bitter marriage! May ye grow auld in the contempt o they spouse, may thy bairns scorn thee for an irrelevant brass ornament! May ye die forgotten e’en by thyself, may ye drop like a string o dribble intae the pit o yere own vacuous laughter!
AGGA: Ah shurrup ye auld stoat! Don’t listen to him, curse-make-come-truers!
DONALDSON: Yes.
MRS NASEBY: Right. Ok, Mr Donaldson, Mr James Donaldson, it’s an agreement.
DONALDSON: I’ll sign it.
MRS NASEBY: This is the second happiest moment of my life.
DONALDSON: (DISAPPOINTED.) Right.
MRS NASEBY: And this is the happiest. So far.
DONALDSON: I’m thinking of taking the rest of my life off.
MRS NASEBY: (LOOKING AROUND.) From this?
DONALDSON: Yes, from this office. Let me just say my last goodbye to it!
HE SURVEYS THE OFFICE.
BLAGGART: Farewell tae blessedness yeresel, descendant o a pilferin cut-throat!
DONALDSON: There. Done.
MRS NASEBY: Come on then.
EXEUNT DONALDSON AND MRS NASEBY.
BLAGGART: Verra weel! I will stick here forever, and crowd this wee room wi all the shivers o infinity! Naeone shall seat himsel on this throne wi’oot the tremblins o a castaway shoeless on an icehill in Greenland! Go thy way, Agga, my dear, to some soft nook o eternity, I shall seek nae comfort, I shall trumpet to all the world, one way or anither, what I hae suffered!
AGGA: And so the guilty man shall gang scot free?
BLAGGART: Wha?
AGGA: James Donaldson!
BLAGGART: James Donaldson! Whaur are ye, James Donaldson!
AGGA: Must hae been hidin in the trees on the Hill o Perseverance!
BLAGGART: Amang the Red Rocks o Regret?
AGGA: Aye!
BLAGGART: Dammit! An we hae dragged oor spent spirits across the blank map o the universe!
AGGA: Och, Douglas Blaggart! We maun retrace oor invisible steps!
BLAGGART: Ahahahaha! (SOBS.)
AGGA: Come on, come on!
BLAGGART: Agga – Agga –
AGGA: What?
BLAGGART: Here it was, or hereabouts – I can see it, I can smell it!
AGGA: Smell what?
BLAGGART: That piteous piece o happenstance!
AGGA: Aye?
BLAGGART: Mysel, flung doon in the ditch, my sweet-singing throat all gapin, sinkin in the weeds an the eels, an that man –
AGGA: Aye –
BLAGGART: That shell or husk o a man –
AGGA: Aye, go on –
BLAGGART: Treads his great boot on ma chest, and pushes me under the broon, wi a last paltry dribble o bubbles! An turns wi’oot a word and tramps off tae his next job o wark!
AGGA: Ach, Douglas Blaggart.
BLAGGART: Agga! Agga! Surely heaven will hea vengeance on him!
AGGA: Nae doot.
BLAGGART: Tae rip me awa frae ye! Whase companie for thirty years’d been ma joy every day! Thy face the cause o my singin!
AGGA: Well we’re togither again noo ma dear.
BLAGGART: Trampin the low road tae nowhere!
AGGA: Aye. Come noo, tis mony a year we maun be settin ane foot in front the ither, but let’s begin noo tae change the first step intae the last step.
BLAGGART: I think I see him in ma mind’s eye –
AGGA: Aye?
BLAGGART: Croochin amang the rocks –
AGGA: We will seek him there. Come!
BLAGGART: He does not dare to begin the climb! He is entombed in his own terrors!
AGGA: He thinks we are waitin for him up there, at the summit!
BLAGGART: An so we shall be, Agga!
AGGA: So we shall! We shall beat him there!
BLAGGART: Come, come, swiftly my dear!
EXEUNT.