Brian Friel Plays 1 Read online

  (PUBLIC kicks the shop coat into the air.)

  PUBLIC: Ya-hoooo! (Sings and gyrates at same time.)

  ‘Philah-delph-yah, heah Ah come, rightah backah weah Ah stahted from, boom-boom-boom-boom –’

  (He breaks off suddenly when PRIVATE addresses him in sombre tones of a judge.)

  PRIVATE: Gareth Mary O’Donnell.

  (PUBLIC springs to attention, salutes, and holds this absurd military stance. He is immediately inside his bedroom door, facing it.)

  PUBLIC: Sir.

  PRIVATE: You are fully conscious of all the consequences of your decision?

  PUBLIC: Yessir.

  PRIVATE: Of leaving the country of your birth, the land of the curlew and the snipe, the Aran sweater and the Irish Sweepstakes?

  PUBLIC: (With fitting hesitation) I-I-I-I have considered all these, Sir.

  PRIVATE: Of going to a profane, irreligious, pagan country of gross materialism?

  PUBLIC: I am fully sensitive to this, Sir.

  PRIVATE: Where the devil himself holds sway, and lust– abhorrent lust – is everywhere indulged in shamelessly?

  (PUBLIC winks extravagantly and nudges an imaginary man beside him.)

  PUBLIC: Who are you tellin’? (Poker-stiff again.) Shamelessly, Sir, shamelessly.

  (MADGE has entered from the scullery, carrying an old suitcase and a bundle of clothes.)

  PRIVATE: And yet you persist in exposing yourself to these frightful dangers?

  PUBLIC: I would submit, Sir, that these stories are slightly exaggerated, Sir. For every door that opens –

  (MADGE opens the bedroom door.)

  MADGE: Oh! You put the heart across me there! Get out of my road, will you, and quit eejiting about!

  PUBLIC: Madge, you’re an aul duck.

  MADGE: Aye, so. There’s the case. And there’s a piece of rope for I see the clasp’s all rusted. And there’s your shirts and your winter vests and your heavy socks, and you’ll need to air them shirts before you – Don’t put them smelly hands on them!

  PUBLIC: Sorry!

  MADGE: See that they’re well aired before you put them on. He’s said nothing since, I suppose?

  PUBLIC: Not a word.

  PRIVATE: The bugger.

  MADGE: But he hasn’t paid you your week’s wages?

  PUBLIC: £3 15s – that’ll carry me far.

  MADGE: He’ll have something to say then, you’ll see. And maybe he’ll slip you a couple of extra pounds.

  PUBLIC: Whether he says good-bye to me or not, or whether he slips me a few miserable quid or not, it’s a matter of total indifference to me, Madge.

  MADGE: Aye, so. Your tea’s on the table – but that’s a matter of total indifference to me.

  PUBLIC: Give me time to wash, will you?

  MADGE: And another thing: just because he doesn’t say much doesn’t mean that he hasn’t feelings like the rest of us.

  PUBLIC: Say much? He’s said nothing!

  MADGE: He said nothing either when your mother died. It must have been near daybreak when he got to sleep last night. I could hear his bed creaking.

  PUBLIC: Well to hell with him –

  MADGE: (Leaving) Don’t come into your tea smelling like a lobster-pot.

  PUBLIC: If he wants to speak to me he knows where to find me! But I’m damned if I’m going to speak to him first!

  (MADGE goes off to the scullery.)

  (Calling after her) And you can tell him I said that if you like!

  PRIVATE: What the hell do you care about him. Screwballs! Skinflint! Skittery Face! You’re free of him and his stinking bloody shop. And tomorrow morning, boy, when that little ole plane gets up into the skies, you’ll stick your head out the window (PUBLIC acts this) and spit down on the lot of them!

  (S. B. appears at the shop door. He is in his late sixties. Wears a hat, a good dark suit, collar and tie, black apron. S. B. O’DONNELL is a responsible, respectable citizen.)

  S. B.: Gar!

  (PUBLIC reacts instinctively. PRIVATE keeps calm.)

  PRIVATE: Let the bugger call.

  S. B.: (Louder) Gar!

  (Instinct is stronger than reason: PUBLIC rushes to his door and opens it. But as soon as he opens it and looks out at his father he assumes in speech and gesture a surly, taciturn gruffness. He always behaves in this way when he is in his father’s company.)

  PUBLIC: Aye?

  S.B.: How many coils of barbed-wire came in on the mail-van this evening?

  PUBLIC: Two. Or was it three?

  S.B.: That’s what I’m asking you. It was you that carried them into the yard.

  PUBLIC: There were two – no, no, no, three – yes, three – or maybe it was … was it two?

  S.B.: Agh!

  (S.B. retires to the shop. PUBLIC and PRIVATE come back into the bedroom.)

  PRIVATE: What sort of a stupid bugger are you? Think, man! You went out and stood yarning to Joe the Post; then you carried one coil into the yard and came out with the sack of spuds for the parochial; then you carried in the second coil … and put it in the corner … and came out again to the van … and …

  (PUBLIC skips into the air.)

  Ah, what the hell odds! That’s his headache, old Nicodemus! After tomorrow a bloody roll of barbed-wire will be a mere bagatelle to you. (In cowboy accent) Yeah, man. You see tham thar plains stretchin’ ’s far th’eye can see, man? Well, tham thar plains belongs to Garry the Kid. An’ Garry the Kid he don’t go in for none of your fancy fencin’. No siree. (His eye lights on the fresh laundry MADGE brought in.) And what’ll you wear on the plane tomorrow, old rooster, eh?

  (PUBLIC picks up a clean shirt, holds it to his chest, and surveys himself in the small mirror above his wash-handbasin.) Pretty smart, eh?

  PUBLIC: Pretty smart.

  PRIVATE: Pretty sharp?

  PUBLIC: Pretty sharp,

  PRIVATE: Pretty oo-là-là?

  PUBLIC: Mais oui.

  PRIVATE: And not a bad looker, if I may say so.

  PUBLIC: You may. You may.

  PRIVATE: (In heavy US accent) I’m Patrick Palinakis, president of the biggest chain of biggest hotels in the world. We’re glad to have you, Mr O’Donnell.

  PUBLIC: (Sweet, demure) And I’m glad to be here, Sir.

  PRIVATE: Handsomely said, young man. I hope you’ll be happy with us and work hard and one day maybe you’ll be president of the biggest chain of biggest hotels in the world.

  PUBLIC: That’s my ambition, Sir.

  PRIVATE: You are twenty-five years of age, Mr O’Donnell?

  PUBLIC: Correct.

  PRIVATE: And you spent one year at University College Dublin?

  PUBLIC: Yes, Sir.

  PRIVATE: Would you care to tell me why you abandoned your academic career, Mr O’Donnell?

  PUBLIC: (With disarming simplicity) Well, just before I sat my First Arts exam, Sir, I did an old Irish turas, or pilgrimage, where I spent several nights in devout prayer, Sir.

  PRIVATE: St Patrick’s Pilgrimage – on Lough –?

  PUBLIC: St Harold’s Cross, Sir. And it was there that I came to realize that a life of scholarship was not for me. So I returned to my father’s business.

  PRIVATE: Yeah. You mentioned that your father was a businessman. What’s his line?

  PUBLIC: Well, Sir, he has – what you would call – his finger in many pies – retail mostly – general dry goods – assorted patent drugs – hardware – ah – ah – dehydrated fish – men’s king-size hose – snuffs from the exotic East … of Donegal – a confection for gourmets, known as Peggy’s Leg – weedkiller – (Suddenly breaking off: in his normal accent: rolling on the bed –) Yahoooooo! It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles –

  PRIVATE: Let’s git packin’, boy. Let’s git that li’l ole saddle bag opened and let’s git packin’. But first let’s have a li’l ole music on the li’l ole phonograph. Yeah man. You bet. Ah reckon. Yessir.

  (PUBLIC puts a
record an the player: First Movement, Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto. PUBLIC is preening himself before his performance, and while he is flexing his fingers and adjusting his bow-tie, PRIVATE announces in the reverential tones of a radio announcer:)

  The main item in tonight’s concert is the First Movement of the Violin Concerto in E minor, Opus 64, by Jacob Ludwig Felix Mendelssohn. The orchestra is conducted by Gareth O’Donnell and the soloist is the Ballybeg half-back, Gareth O’Donnell. Music critics throughout the world claim that O’Donnell’s simultaneous wielding of baton and bow is the greatest thing since Leather Ass died.

  Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto, First Movement.

  (PRIVATE sits demurely on the chair. PUBLIC clears his throat. Now PUBLIC plays the violin, conducts, plays the violin, conducts, etc. etc. This keeps up for some time. Then PRIVATE rises from his chair.)

  Agh, come on, come on, come on! Less aul foolin’. To work, old rooster, to work.

  (PUBLIC stops. Turns player down low and changes from the First to the Second Movement. Takes a look at the case Madge brought in.)

  Ah, hell, how can any bloody bugger head into a jet plane with aul’ cardboard rubbish like that!

  (PUBLIC examines the surface.)

  Dammit, maybe you could give it a lick of paint! Or wash it!

  (PUBLIC spits on the lid and rubs it with his finger.)

  God, you’ll rub a hole in the damn thing if you’re not careful! Maybe aul Screwballs’ll slip you a fiver tonight and you can get a new one in Dublin.

  PUBLIC: What a hope!

  (PUBLIC opens the case and sniffs the inside.)

  PRIVATE: Oh! Stinks of cat’s pee!

  (PUBLIC lifts out a sheet of faded newspaper.)

  PUBLIC: (Reads) The Clarion – 1st January 1937.

  PRIVATE: Precious medieval manuscript … my God, was it? … By God it was – the day they were married – and it (the case) hasn’t been opened since their honeymoon … she and old Screwballs off on a side-car to Bundoran for three days …

  PUBLIC: O God, the Creator and Redeemer of all the faithful, give to the soul of Maire, my mother, the remission of all her sins, that she may obtain …

  PRIVATE: She was small, Madge says, and wild, and young, Madge says, from a place called Bailtefree beyond the mountains; and her eyes were bright, and her hair was loose, and she carried her shoes under her arm until she came to the edge of the village, Madge says, and then she put them on …

  PUBLIC: Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine …

  PRIVATE: She was nineteen and he was forty, and he owned a shop, and he wore a soft hat, and she thought he was the grandest gentleman that ever lived, Madge says; and he – he couldn’t take his eyes off her, Madge says …

  PUBLIC: O God, O God the Creator and Redeemer …

  PRIVATE: And sometimes in that first year, when she was pregnant with you, laddybuck, the other young girls from Bailtefree would call in here to dress up on their way to a dance, Madge says, and her face would light up too, Madge says …

  (PUBLIC puts the newspaper carefully inside the folds of a shirt.) … And he must have known, old Screwballs, he must have known, Madge says, for many a night he must have heard her crying herself to sleep … and maybe it was good of God to take her away three days after you were born … (Suddenly boisterous.) Damn you, anyhow, for a bloody stupid bastard! It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles! And to hell with that bloody mushy fiddler!

  (PUBLIC goes quickly to the record-player and sings boisterously as he goes.)

  PUBLIC: ‘Philadelphia, here I come–’

  PRIVATE: Watch yourself, nut-head. If you let yourself slip that way, you might find that–

  PUBLIC: ‘– right back where I started from.’

  (PUBLIC has taken off the Mendelssohn and is now searching for another.)

  PRIVATE: Something lively! Something bloody animal! A bit of aul thumpety-thump!

  (PUBLIC puts on the record.)

  An’ you jist keep atalkin’ to you’self all the time, Mistah, ’cos once you stop atalkin’ to you’self ah reckon then you jist begin to think kinda crazy things – (The record begins – Any lively piece of Ceilidhe Band music.) Ahhhhh!

  PUBLIC: Yipeeeeeeeee!

  (PUBLIC dances up and down the length of his bedroom. Occasionally he leaps high into the air or does a neat bit of foot-work. Occasionally he lilts. Occasionally he talks to different people he meets on the dance floor.)

  Righ-too-del-loo-del-oo-del-oo-del-oo-del-oo-del-ah, Rum-ta-del-ah-del-ah-del-agh-del-ah-del-ah-del-agh.

  Hell of a crowd here the night, eh? Yah-ho! Man, you’re looking powerful! Great!

  (PRIVATE sits on the chair and watches. When he speaks his voice is soft. PUBLIC pretends not to hear him.)

  PRIVATE: Remember – that was Katie’s tune. You needn’t pretend you have forgotten. And it reminds you of the night the two of you made all the plans, and you thought your heart would burst with happiness.

  PUBLIC: (Louder) Tigh-righ-tigh-righ-scal-del-de-da-del-ah, Come on! A dirty big swing! Yaaaaaaaaaaah!

  PRIVATE: (Quietly, rapidly insisting) Are you going to take her photograph to the States with you? When are you going to say good-bye to her? Will you write to her? Will you send her cards and photographs? You loved her once, old rooster; you wanted so much to marry her that it was a bloody sickness. Tell me, randy boy; tell me the truth: have you got over that sickness? Do you still love her? Do you still lust after her? Well, do you? Do you? Do you?

  PUBLIC: Bugger!

  (PUBLIC suddenly stops dancing, switches – almost knocks – off the record-player, pulls a wallet out of his hip pocket and produces a snap. He sits and looks at it.)

  PRIVATE: Shhhhhhhhhhhhh …

  PUBLIC: (Softly) Kate … sweet Katie Doogan … my darling Kathy Doogan …

  PRIVATE: (In same soft tone) Aul bitch. (Loudly) Rotten aul snobby bitch! Just like her stinking rotten father and mother – a bugger and a buggeress – a buggeroo and a buggerette!

  PUBLIC: No, no; my fault – all my fault –

  PRIVATE: (Remembering and recalling tauntingly) By God, that was a night, boy, eh? By God, you made a right bloody cow’s ass of yourself.

  (PUBLIC goes off right.)

  Remember – when was it? – ten months ago? – you had just come back from a walk out the Mill Road, and the pair of you had the whole thing planned: engaged at Christmas, married at Easter, and fourteen of a family – seven boys and seven girls. Gripes, you make me laugh! You bloody-well make me die laughing. You were going to ‘develop’ the hardware lines and she was going to take charge of the ‘drapery’! The drapery! The fishy socks and the shoebox of cotton spools and rusted needles! And you – you were to ask Screwballs for a rise in pay – ‘in view of your increased responsibilities’! And you were so far gone that night, Laddybuck, –

  (PUBLIC and KATE enter from the left and walk very slowly across the front of the stage. They stop and kiss. Then they move on again.)

  – so bloody well astray in the head with ‘love’ that you went and blabbed about your secret egg deals that nobody knew anything about – not even Madge! Stupid bloody get! O my God, how you stick yourself I’ll never know!

  PUBLIC: Kate – Kathy – I’m mad about you: I’ll never last till Easter! I’ll – I’ll – I’ll bloody-well burst!

  (He catches her again and kisses her.)

  PRIVATE: Steady, boy, steady. You know what the Canon says: long passionate kisses in lonely places …

  PUBLIC: Our daughters’ll all be gentle and frail and silly, like you; and our sons – they’ll be thick bloody louts, sexy goats, like me, and by God I’ll beat the tar out of them!

  KATE: But £3 15s, Gar! We could never live on that.

  PUBLIC: (Kissing her hair) Mmmm.

  KATE: Gar! Listen! Be sensible.

  PUBLIC: Mmm?

  KATE: How will we live?

 
; PRIVATE: (Imitating) ‘How will we live?’

  PUBLIC: Like lords – free house, free light, free fuel, free groceries! And every night at seven when we close – except Saturday; he stays open till damn near midnight on Saturdays, making out bloody bills; and sure God and the world knows that sending out bills here is as hopeless as peeing against the wind –

  KATE: Gar! No matter what you say we just couldn’t live on that much money. It – it’s not possible. We’ll need to have more security than that.

  PUBLIC: Maybe he’ll die – tonight – of galloping consumption!

  KATE: Gar …

  PUBLIC: What’s troubling you?

  (He tries to kiss her again and she avoids him.)

  KATE: Please. This is serious.

  PRIVATE: ‘Please. This is serious.’

  PUBLIC: (Irritably) What is it?

  KATE: You’ll have to see about getting more money.

  PUBLIC: Of course I’ll see about getting more money! Haven’t I told you I’m going to ask for a rise?

  KATE: But will he –?

  PUBLIC: I’ll get it; don’t you worry; I’ll get it. Besides, (With dignity) I have a – a-a source of income that he knows nothing about – that nobody knows nothing about – knows anything about.

  KATE: (With joy) Investments? Like Daddy?

  PUBLIC: Well … sort of … (Quickly) You know when I go round the country every Tuesday and Thursday in the lorry?

  KATE: Yes?

  PUBLIC: Well, I buy eggs direct from the farms and sell them privately to McLaughlin’s Hotel – (Winks) – for a handsome profit – (Quickly) – but he knows nothing about it.

  KATE: And how much do you make?

  PUBLIC: It varies – depending on the time of year.

  KATE: Roughly.

  PUBLIC: Oh, anything from 12s 6d to £1.

  KATE: Every Tuesday and Thursday?

  PUBLIC: Every month. (Grabs her again.) God, Kate, I can’t even wait till Christmas!