Brian Friel Plays 1 Page 11

  MICHAEL: Where?

  SKINNER: Where, Missus, where?

  LILY: How would I know?

  SKINNER: I’ll tell you where you are.

  MICHAEL: Where?

  SKINNER: You. Are. Inside. The Guildhall.

  LILY: We are not!

  SKINNER: In fact you’re in the Mayor’s parlour.

  LILY: You’re a liar!

  SKINNER: The holy of holies itself!

  LILY: Have a bit of sense, young fella. What would we be doing in –?

  SKINNER: Look around! Look around!

  MICHAEL: How did we get in?

  SKINNER: By the side door.

  MICHAEL: It’s always guarded.

  SKINNER: The soldiers must have moved into the Square to break up the meeting. (To LILY) When the trouble started you must have run down Guildhall Street.

  LILY: How would I know where I run. I followed the crowd.

  SKINNER: (To MICHAEL) You did the same.

  MICHAEL: After the canister burst I don’t know what happened.

  LILY: So we just walked in?

  SKINNER: By the side door and along the corridor and in here.

  Into the private parlour of His Worship, the Lord Mayor of Derry. (He flings a cushion at the wall.) Yipeeeeeeeee! (LILY stands up. MICHAEL stands up. They stare in awe at their surroundings. As they gaze: A SOLDIER crouches at the very edge of stage right and speaks into his portable radio. His message is received by a SOLDIER at the very edge of stage left.)

  SOLDIER 1: Blue Star to Eagle. Blue Star to Eagle.

  SOLDIER 2: Eagle receiving. Come in, Blue Star.

  SOLDIER 1: The fucking yobbos are inside the fucking Guildhall!

  SOLDIER 2: Jesus!

  SOLDIER 1: What the fuck am I supposed to do?

  SOLDIER 2: How did they get in?

  SOLDIER 1: On fucking roller skates – how would I know!

  SOLDIER 2: How many of them?

  SOLDIER 1: No idea. The side door’s wide open.

  SOLDIER 2: What’s your position, Blue Star?

  SOLDIER 1: Guildhall Street. At the junction of the quay. What am I to do?

  SOLDIER 2: Hold that position.

  SOLDIER 1: Fucking great! For how long?

  SOLDIER 2: Until you’re reinforced.

  SOLDIER 1: Thanks, mate!

  SOLDIER 2: Do not attempt to enter or engage.

  SOLDIER 1: Okay.

  SOLDIER 2: I’ll get back to you in a few minutes.

  (They go off. A television newsman, LIAM O’KELLY, appears on one of the battlements. Into a microphone:)

  O’KELLY: I am standing on the walls overlooking Guildhall Square in Derry where only a short time ago a civil rights meeting, estimated at about three thousand strong, was broken up by a large contingent of police and troops. There are no reports of serious casualties but unconfirmed reports are coming in that a group of about fifty armed gunmen have taken possession of the Guildhall here below me and have barricaded themselves in. If the reports are accurate, and if the Guildhall, regarded by the minority as a symbol of Unionist domination, has fallen into the hands of the terrorists, both the security forces and the Stormont government will be acutely embarrassed. Brigadier Johnson-Hansbury who was in charge of today’s elaborate security operation has, so far, refused to confirm or deny the report. No comment either from the Chief Superintendent of Derry’s Royal Ulster Constabulary. But usually reliable spokesmen from the Bogside insist that the story is accurate, and already small groups are gathering at street corners within the ghetto area to celebrate, as one of them put it to me, ‘the fall of the Bastille’. This is Liam O’Kelly returning you to our studios in Dublin.

  (As he finishes, a man enters left – the BALLADEER. A glass in one hand, a bottle in the other. He is unsteady on his feet but his aggressive jubilance makes him articulate. Dressed in shirt and trousers; the shirt dirty and hanging over the trousers. As he swaggers across the stage he is followed by an ACCORDIONIST and a group of dancing CHILDREN. He sings, to the air of ‘John Brown’s Body’.)

  BALLADEER: A hundred Irish heroes one February day

  Took over Derry’s Guildhall, beside old Derry’s quay.

  They defied the British army, they defied the RUC.

  They showed the crumbling empire what good Irishmen could be.

  (The CHILDREN join in the chorus:)

  CHILDREN: Three cheers and then three cheers again for Ireland one and free,

  For civil rights and unity, Tone, Pearce and Connolly.

  The Mayor of Derry City is an Irishman once more.

  So let’s celebrate our victory and let Irish whiskey pour.

  BALLADEER: The British Army leader was a gentle English lad; If he beat those dirty Paddys they might make him a lord.

  So he whispered to his Tommies: ‘Fix them, chaps; I’ll see you right!’

  But the lads inside the Guildhall shouted back ‘Come on and fight!’

  TOGETHER: Three cheers and then three cheers again for Ireland one and free,

  For civil rights and unity, Tone, Pearce and Connolly.

  The Mayor of Derry City is an Irishman once more. So let’s celebrate our victory and let Irish whiskey pour. (They go off right. MICHAEL begins to move around the parlour, silently, deferentially. LILY stands very still; only her eyes move. SKINNER watches her closely. Pause.)

  MICHAEL: Christ Almighty – the Mayor’s parlour!

  (Silence.)

  MICHAEL: I was here once before. I don’t mean in here – in his public office – the one down the corridor. Three years ago – that bad winter – they were taking on extra men to clear away the snow, and my father said maybe if I went straight to the top and asked himself … That public office, it’s nice enough. But my God this …

  (Silence.)

  LILY: We shouldn’t be here.

  MICHAEL: God, it’s very impressive.

  LILY: No place for us.

  MICHAEL: God, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?

  SKINNER: (To LILY) Isn’t it beautiful?

  (LILY still has not moved. She points.)

  LILY: What’s that?

  SKINNER: Record player and radio.

  LILY: And that?

  SKINNER: Cocktail cabinet. What’ll you have, Missus?

  LILY: What’s in that yoke?

  (SKINNER tries to open the top of the display cabinet.)

  SKINNER: Locked. But we’ll soon fix that.

  (He produces a penknife and deftly forces the lock.)

  MICHAEL: Feel the walls. And the doorhandles. Real oak. And brass. The very best of stuff.

  (SKINNER takes out a ceremonial sword and an ancient musket, each with a descriptive label attached.)

  SKINNER: This is a ‘Fourteenth-century ceremonial sword with jewelled handle and silver tip’. How are you off for swords, Missus?

  MICHAEL: Feel the carpet. Like a mattress.

  SKINNER: And this is a ‘Musket used by Williamite garrison besieged by Jacobite army. 1691’.

  LILY: Who’s that?

  SKINNER: (Reads) Sir Joshua Hetherington MBE, VMH, SHIT. Is he a mate of yours?

  LILY: I was thinking it wasn’t the Sacred Heart.

  (MICHAEL reverently examines the desk set on the table.)

  MICHAEL: Feel the weight of that – pure silver. And look – look – real leather – run your hand over it (desk top).

  SKINNER: We’ll have to sign the Distinguished Visitors’ Book, Missus. Are you distinguished?

  LILY: What’s in there?

  (MICHAEL opens the dressing-room door and looks in.)

  MICHAEL: Wardrobes – toilet – wash-hand basin – shower. Pink and black tiles all round. And the taps are gold and made like fishes’ heads. (Closes door.) God, it’s very impressive. Isn’t it impressive, Missus?

  SKINNER: Isn’t it, Missus?

  LILY: It’s all right.

  SKINNER: Two pounds deposit against breakages and it’s yours for ten bob a week. Or maybe you don’t like the localit
y, Missus?

  LILY: Mrs Doherty’s the name, young fella, Mrs Lily Doherty.

  SKINNER: Are you not impressed, Lily?

  (MICHAEL reads the inscription below the stained-glass window.)

  MICHAEL: ‘Presented to the citizens of Londonderry by the Hon. The Irish Society to commemorate the visit of King Edward VII July 1903.’

  SKINNER: That’s our window, Lily. How would it look in your parlour?

  MICHAEL: I read about the Hon. The Irish Society. They’re big London businessmen and big bankers and they own most of the ground in the city.

  LILY: This room’s bigger than my whole place.

  SKINNER: Have you no gold taps and tiled walls?

  LILY: There’s one tap and one toilet below in the yard – and they’re for eight families.

  SKINNER: By God, you’ll sign no Distinguished Visitors’ Book, Lily.

  LILY: And I’ll tell you something, glib boy: if this place was mine, I’d soon cover them ugly bare boards (the oak walls) with nice pink gloss paint that you could wash the dirt off, and I’d put decent glass you could see through into them gloomy windows, and I’d shift Joe Stalin there (Sir Joshua), and I’d put a nice flight of them brass ducks up along that wall.

  (SKINNER and MICHAEL both laugh.)

  SKINNER: You’re a woman of taste, Lily Doherty.

  LILY: And since this is my first time here and since you (SKINNER) seem to be the caretaker, the least you might do is offer a drink to a ratepayer.

  (She sits – taking possession. MICHAEL laughs.)

  MICHAEL: The Mayor’s parlour – God Almighty!

  LILY: (To MICHAEL) And will you quit creeping about on your toes, young fella, as if you were doing the Stations of the Cross.

  MICHAEL: I never thought I’d be in here.

  LILY: Well now you are. Sit down and stop trembling like Gavigan’s greyhound.

  SKINNER: What’ll you have, Lily?

  LILY: What have you got?

  SKINNER: Whiskey – gin – rum – sherry – brandy – vodka –

  MICHAEL: Ah now, hold on.

  SKINNER: What?

  MICHAEL: Do you think you should?

  SKINNER: What?

  MICHAEL: Touch any of that stuff.

  SKINNER: Why not?

  MICHAEL: Well I mean to say, it’s not ours and we weren’t invited here and –

  LILY: Lookat, young fella: since it was the British troops driv me off my own streets and deprived me of my sight and vision for a good quarter of an hour, the least the corporation can do is placate me with one wee drink. (Grandly to SKINNER) I think I favour a little port wine, young fella, if you insist.

  MICHAEL: Honest to God, this is mad, really mad – sitting in the Mayor’s parlour on a Saturday afternoon – bloody mad!

  (He giggles.)

  LILY: What do they call you, young fella?

  MICHAEL: Michael.

  LILY: Michael what?

  MICHAEL: Michael Hegarty.

  LILY: What Hegarty are you?

  MICHAEL: I’m from the Brandywell.

  LILY: Jack Hegarty’s son?

  MICHAEL: Tommy. My father used to be in the slaughter house – before it closed down.

  LILY: Are you working?

  MICHAEL: I was a clerk with a building contractor but he went bust six months ago. And before that I was an assistant-storeman in the distillery but then they were taken over. And now my father’s trying to get me into the gasworks. My father and the foreman’s mates. And in the meantime I’m going to the tech. four nights a week – you know – to improve myself. I’m doing economics and business administration and computer science.

  LILY: You must be smart, young fella.

  MICHAEL: I don’t know about that. But I’m a lot luckier than my father was. And since that North Sea discovery there’s a big future in gas. They can’t even guess how big the industry’s going to grow.

  SKINNER: But you’ll be ready to meet the challenge; wise man. Are you smart, Lily?

  LILY: Me? I never could do nothing right at school except carry round the roll books. And when the inspector would come they used to lock me in the cloakroom with the Mad Mulligans. Lucky for my wanes the chairman’s got the brains.

  SKINNER: Mr Hegarty?

  MICHAEL: What?

  SKINNER: A drink.

  MICHAEL: I don’t think I should. I think –

  SKINNER: Suit yourself.

  LILY: (To MICHAEL) Are you a victim?

  MICHAEL: What?

  LILY: To the drink.

  MICHAEL: No, no, no. It’s just that there’s no one here and it’s not ours and –

  LILY: Will you take one drink and don’t be such an aul woman! (To SKINNER) Give him a drink, young fella.

  MICHAEL: A very small whiskey, then.

  LILY: Michael’s a nice name. I have a Michael. He’s seven. Next to Gloria. She’s six. And then Timothy – he’s three. And then the baby – he’s eleven months – Mark Antony. Every one of them sound of mind and limb, thanks be to God. And that includes our Declan – he’s nine – though he’s not as forward as the others – you know – not much for mixing; a wee bit quiet – you know – nothing more nor shyness and sure he’ll soon grow out of that, won’t he? They all say Declan’s the pet. And praise be to Almighty God, not one of them has the chairman’s chest. D’you see his chest, young fella? Ask him to carry the water or the coal up the three flights from the yard and you’d think Hurricane Debbie was coming at you. And give him just wan whiff of the stuff we got the day and before you’d blink he’d be life everlasting.

  MICHAEL: Five children?

  LILY: Five? God look to your wit! Eleven, young fella. Eight boys and three girls. And they come like a pattern on wallpaper: two boys, a girl, two boys, a girl, two boys, a girl, two boys. If I had have made the dozen, it would have been a wee girl, wouldn’t it?

  MICHAEL: I – I – it –

  LILY: And I would have called her Jasmine – that’s a gorgeous yalla’ flower – I seen it once in a wreath up in the cemetery the day they buried Andy Boyle’s wife. But after Mark Antony the chairman hadn’t a puff left in him.

  (SKINNER hands round the drinks.)

  SKINNER: Compliments of the city.

  LILY: Hi! What happened to you?

  SKINNER: Me?

  LILY: Your hair – your shirt – you’re soaked!

  SKINNER: The water-cannon got me.

  LILY: Will you take that off you, young fella, before you die of internal pneumonia.

  SKINNER: I’m dry now.

  LILY: Take off that shirt.

  SKINNER: I’m telling you – I’m dried out.

  LILY: Come here to me.

  SKINNER: I’m dry enough.

  LILY: I said come here!

  (She unbuttons his shirt and takes it off – he is wearing nothing underneath – and dries his hair with it.)

  LILY: ‘Wet feet or a wet chemise/The sure way to an early demise.’ Lord, there’s not a pick on him.

  SKINNER: Leave me alone. I’m okay.

  LILY: And you’ve been running about like that for the past half-hour! What way’s your shoes? Are them gutties dry?

  SKINNER: I’m telling you – I’m all right.

  LILY: Take them off. Take them off.

  (He takes off the canvas shoes. He is not wearing socks.)

  LILY: Give them to me.

  (She hangs the shirt across a chair and puts the shoes on their sides.)

  LILY: D’you see our Kevin? He’s like him (SKINNER). Eats like a bishop and nothing to show for it. I be affronted when he goes with his class to the swimming pool.

  MICHAEL: Well. To civil rights.

  LILY: Good luck, young fella.

  SKINNER: Good luck.

  MICHAEL: To another great turn-out today.

  LILY: Great.

  MICHAEL: Good luck.

  (A PRIEST in a surplice appears on the battlements. He addresses a congregation in the parlour.)

  PRIEST: At eleve
n o’clock tomorrow morning solemn requiem Mass will be celebrated in this church for the repose of the souls of the three people whose death has plunged this parish into a deep and numbing grief. As you are probably aware, I had the privilege of administering the last rites to them and the knowledge that they didn’t go unfortified before their Maker is a consolation to all of us. But it is natural that we should mourn. Blessed are they that mourn, says our Divine Lord. But it is also right and fitting that this tragic happening should make us sit back and take stock and ask ourselves the very pertinent question: Why did they die?

  I believe the answer to that question is this. They died for their beliefs. They died for their fellow citizens. They died because they could endure no longer the injuries and injustices and indignities that have been their lot for too many years. They sacrificed their lives so that you and I and thousands like us might be rid of that iniquitous yoke and might inherit a decent way of life. And if that is not heroic virtue, then the word sanctity has no meaning.

  No sacrifice is ever in vain. But its value can be diminished if it doesn’t fire our imagination, stiffen our resolution, and make us even more determined to see that the dream they dreamed is realized. May we be worthy of that dream, of their trust. May we have the courage to implement their noble hopes. May we have God’s strength to carry on where they left off.

  In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

  (When the PRIEST finishes he goes off; and immediately we hear VOICES from behind the battlements call to one another in shocked, awed tones.)

  VOICE 1: There’s at least a dozen dead.

  VOICE 2: Where?

  VOICE 1: Inside the Guildhall.

  VOICE 3: I heard fifteen or sixteen.

  VOICE 1: Maybe twenty.

  VOICE 3: And a baby in a pram.

  VOICE 1: And an old man. They blew his head off.

  VOICE 2: O my God.

  VOICE 3: They just broken the windows and lobbed in hand-grenades.

  VOICE 2: O my God.

  VOICE 1: Blew most of them to smithereens.

  VOICE 2: Fuck them anyway! Fuck them! Fuck them!

  Fuck them!

  (An ARMY PRESS OFFICER appears on the battlements and reads a press release to a few reporters (O’KELLY, the PHOTOGRAPHER of opening sequence, etc.) below.)

  OFFICER: At approximately 15.20 hours today a band of terrorists took possession of a portion of the Guildhall. They gained access during a civil disturbance by forcing a side-door in Guildhall Street. It is estimated that up to forty persons are involved. In the disturbance two soldiers were hit by stones and one by a bottle. There are no reports of civilian injuries. The area is now quiet and the security forces have the situation in hand. No further statement will be issued.