FOR WHOM THEY TOLL – a work in progress



Tom O’Brien

                                                               ACT ONE

scene one

A burial ground. Bells can be heard tolling in the background. Off-stage a burial is taking place. VALERIE DANBY-SMITH , a vivacious 21yr old, dark-haired and somberly dressed, watches the proceedings in the distance, a tearful expression on her face. After a few moments, GREG HEMINGWAY, not so somberly attired, arrives and looks on.

GREG:           (extending his hand)  Hello. I’m Greg

VAL:              (shaking hands)  I know.  I saw your picture.  I’m Valerie.  

GREG:           I know. I saw your picture too.

They watch the scene again for a moment.

GREG:           It’s a great day for a funeral.

VAL:              It is – if you’re not the main attraction.

GREG:           How well did you know my father?

VAL:              I worked for him and Mary for about eighteen months.  (pause)

                        He was a wonderful person.

GREG:           Yes – I expect he was. (pause) I am glad he is dead.

VAL:              You don’t mean that.  (Greg doesn’t reply) Why Greg?

GREG:           Because it means that I can’t disappoint him anymore. (he shrugs)

                        How come you’re not…?

                        (he indicates the funeral party)

VAL:              It’s a bit…delicate. I was officially invited then when Mary

 found out I was working for Newsweek…(shrugs)

You know how it is with reporters.

GREG:           No, how is it?  (laughs) Family secrets have

                        a way of escaping at funerals don’t they?

                        I can imagine Mary being mortified when she

                        realised her mistake.

VAL:              Not that I would have said anything of course.

                        But I can understand why she doesn’t want me too

                        close. (pause)  What’s your excuse?

GREG:           Oh, nothing dramatic. I simply wasn’t welcome

                        when he was alive, and I don’t suppose he’s had any reason

                        to change his mind just because he’s dead.

                        (pause) He never spoke to you?  About me?

VAL:              No.

GREG:           Not even disparagingly?

VAL:              Not even that way. I saw a photo of you once, but

                        Mary warned me never to speak of you in his presence.

                        (pause) It must have been something terrible between you.

GREG:           In his eyes it was unforgivable (he doesn’t elaborate then shakes his head.) He finally took the coward’s way out.

VAL:              Why would you say a thing like that?

GREG:           I was thinking of something he himself said about his own father. ‘My father was a coward. He shot himself without necessity’.

VAL:              He committed suicide too?

GREG:           Yeah. Almost identical. Only thing different was the gun. He used a revolver.

VAL;              Your grandfather?

GREG:           (nodding) He was a weak man. He made bad investments and was bullied by my grandmother, so he shot himself. When Papa found out the true facts he came to hate her. ‘My mother is an all time all American bitch’ he once said, ‘she would make a pack mule shoot himself. He eventually forgave his father but felt ashamed for him’. (a long pause)

                        Why did he kill himself?

VAL:              I don’t know, Greg

GREG:           He never confided in you?

VAL:              I haven’t worked for him or seen him in…oh, six months

                        You really should speak to Mary.

GREG :           My wicked stepmother?  She is in complete denial about

                        the whole affair. I read that she keeps insisting it was an accident.

VAL:              Perhaps it was.

GREG:           Do you believe that?

VAL:              No.

GREG:           Papa knew about guns. He was a crack shot.

                        How could he accidentally blow his head off

                        with a shotgun for chrissakes?

                        (looks into the distance again)

                        Look at them. Like vultures circling

VAL:              You’re wrong. They’re his friends. All his friends.

GREG:           Huh! Isn’t that Uncle Leicester I see?

                        What’s he doing there?

                        They haven’t spoken for years.

VAL:              It will hardly make any difference now, will it?

                        They are just paying their respects that’s all.

                        He was a great man you know. A great writer.

GREG:           I know that. It’s just that I wish I’d…

                        Oh Christ, I need a drink.  Where’s the nearest bar?

Lights change to signify change of scene.

The scene is now a bar, where the mourners are ‘celebrating’ after the funeral. Valerie and Greg are seated at a table drinking shorts.  LEICESTER HEMINGWAY  sees them and heads towards them. Leicester is in his mid forties, a younger version of his brother Ernest.

LEIC:             Greg!  How the hell are you?  I haven’t see you since

you were, well  knee-high to a grasshopper.

GREG:           Uncle Leicester. (they shake) It’s not that long. We spoke a

                        couple of years ago. Some convention, I believe.

LEIC:             Did we?   Nope, I don’t recall.

                        (he looks at Valerie)

GREG:           This is…

LEIC:             I know who it is. (Val and he shake)

                        Your ladyship. I seen your picture in the paper.

VAL:              All the papers seem to have used the same ones

LEIC:             They say my brother’s eyesight was fading,

                        but seeing you I am not so sure.

                        (pause) Can you tell me where my manuscript is?

VAL:              Your manuscript?

LEIC:             The one I sent to Ernest. In Cuba. You were there.

                        I know.  I read about it. Personal assistant they

                        called you. You must have opened it…in that


VAL:              Yes, I did.

LEIC:             And?

VAL:              I don’t know what happened to it. Perhaps  P…

                        Ernest read it, perhaps he didn’t. He was very

                        busy at that time.

LEIC:             You passed it on to him?

VAL:              Yes I did

LEIC:             He never commented on it?

GREG:           Uncle, this really isn’t the time…

GREG:           It was my life’s’ work goddamit. I don’t

                        want it rotting in some stinking cellar in Havana…

VAL:              It’s all right. No, he never spoke to me about it.

LEIC:             I really must have it back.

                        I wouldn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands

                        now that Ernest’s gone.

VAL:              I don’t see how I can help. I no longer have

                        any connection…

LEIC:             I think my sister-in-law may have plans for you.

                        in that respect. (he waves at somebody)

                        I do believe she has spotted us.

                        (he pauses ,then whispers conspiratorially)

                        Ernest had this thing about young women.

                        And about every ten years or so he fell in love with a new one

                        You were the next in line, you know that?

VAL:              Next in line for what?

LEIC:             The next Mrs. Hemingway. Come on, surely you knew?

                        All the signs were there

                        (Val doesn’t reply)

                        He never asked you?  Well, all I can say is that you must’ a

                        been putting out  the right signals – otherwise you wouldn’t’ a

                        been keeping him company for so long.

                        (finishes his drink)

                        Time for this old horse to find another watering hole.

                        I never could stand weeping widows.

And remember, if you do lay your hands on my

literary masterpiece, guard it with your life. 

Leicester exits as MARY HEMINGWAY enters. Mary is in her fifties, still strikingly beautiful, in a well-worn sort of way

MARY:          Well, the manners of some people!

                        What did Leicester want?

VAL:              The whereabouts of his manuscript.

MARY:          And did you tell him?

VAL:              No-oo.

Both women laugh at this

GREG:           Well, come on, where is it?

MARY:          Papa took one look at it and threw on the fire.

                        He took great pleasure in describing the colour

                        of the flame as he watched it burn. ‘Look at that – Purpley-blue.

The colour of Leicester’s cheeks I expect,

could he but see it. One genius is enough in a family’.


                        One genius less now.

                        I am glad you came, Greg. Papa would have liked it.

GREG:           I think he would be indifferent. Just as he was in life

                        I don’t like this glorifying the dead. I think we should all be

                        chucked over a cliff or down a ravine when our time comes,

                        with as little fuss as possible.

                        Let the buzzards or the coyote have us

                        Don’t you think Papa would have liked it that-a-way?

                        (he rises)

                        I’m going back to New York. Anybody coming?

                        (no reply)

                         It’s been nice meeting you Valerie.

                        I hope we can do it again sometimes.

VAL:              I ‘d like that.

(she writes something on a piece of paper and hands it to him)

Call me sometime.

Greg exits

MARY:          Greg is more trouble than he’s worth.

VAL:              What kind of trouble?

MARY:          You’ll find out soon enough.

VAL:              It’s only for a drink.

MARY:          Oh yeah?   I’ve seen that look before. (shrugs)

                        Go ahead, it’s your funeral

                        Oh Christ, did I really say that!


                        Papa’s gone. What am I going to do now, Valerie?

VAL:              My mother had a saying back in Ireland  ‘We never

                        died a winter yet’

MARY:          Meaning?

VAL:              Meaning we’ll get by somehow.

                        You’ll get by somehow.

MARY:          I intend to go back to Cuba sometime soon.

I want to try and get as much

of Papa’s personal stuff out as I can.

VAL:              Don’t you think that’s dangerous.

MARY:          Fidel Castro’s war is with America, not Ernest Hemingway.

                        Papa was good for Castro, good for Cuba.

                        The world’s greatest writer living there!

                        Besides, they were personal friends.


                        I want you to come with me.

VAL:              Why?  You don’t even like me.

MARY:          Don’t be ridiculous!  Why wouldn’t I like you?

                        As a matter of fact you remind me a lot of

                        myself when I was your age.

                        You think it’s because of Papa? How he felt.

                        Nothing happened, did it?

VAL:              Of course not.

MARY:          Well then, what are you worrying about?

VAL:              I have a job

MARY:          Newsweek? I can offer more than them.

                        Think of the excitement. The sense of adventure.

                        Remember Pamplona? The matadors, the bullfights,

                        the camaraderie. Weren’t you excited then?  Even

                        a little frightened?

VAL:              Yes.

MARY:          This will be better. Much better.

                        Can Newsweek offer you access to Papa Hemingway’s

                        private and personal papers? And a promise that you can work

on them when we get them back from Cuba?

VAL:              No

MARY:          See? No contest is it?

                        What were you going to write about today?

VAL:              Nothing. I was going to write nothing

MARY:          More fool you then.  Because I would have.

                        You forget that I was a journalist before I gave

                        it all up to look after Papa.

                        Here’s some advice;

                        Don’t let sentiment get in the way of a good story.

                        I did – and look what happened to me.

                        Well, what do you say? Cuba or bust?

Valerie miles at her, but doesn’t reply.

Change of scene. Valerie’s apartment. While Val is writing up her diary. ERNEST HEMINGWAY  ‘appears’

VAL:              (reading what she has written)

                        Around the hearthstone every night/

                        the storyteller lives forever

                        That was on one of the wreaths, Papa

                        The one that Brendan Behan sent.


                        He once asked me why I wanted to work for America’s

                        greatest writer, when I could work for Ireland’s finest.

                        And when he discovered I had spent some time in Spain

                        he wanted to know all about it….

Ernest Appears, a drink in his hand It should be slightly dream-like, because Val is clearly imagining this part.

HEM:             Well now, Miss Smith. And what have you to say

                        about Spain?  Did your time with our little group

                        live up to your expectations?

VAL:              Oh yes. Much more. Much, much more. I shall never

                        forget this summer. The Spanish people are so…so

                        liberating. And the bullfights, I never saw such passion,

                        such drama in my life.

HEM:             Not even at your Abbey Theatre?

VAL:              The Abbey is not a patch on it! This is real life.

HEM:             You must come to Cuba with us. After the season

                        is over.

VAL:              But I couldn’t. You have been too kind already.

HEM:             I insist. Besides, I still have need of your services. I think

                        Mary finds it all a bit much these days.

VAL:              I don’t know. I have already made plans for the next couple

of months. Spend some time in Paris…visit Italy with

some friends…go back to Dublin and see my family…

HEM:             In the New Year then, When you have finished your


VAL:              I shall have to think about it.

HEM:             What is there to think about? Besides, I can only work well

 when you are around. I need you.  You must come.


                        Look, your coming means everything to me. My life,

                        my work, my future – our future.


                        If you don’t come, I will have no reason to go on.

VAL:              Ah, I see now. Another little game of yours

HEM:             No game

VAL:              What do you mean then?

HEM:             What I said. I will have no reason to go on.

VAL:              (after a pause)

                        You told me once that your father committed suicide

HEM:             Yes

VAL:              You said you despised him for it.

HEM:             Yes I did.

VAL:              And you called him a coward and

                        said killing oneself was the ultimate act of cowardice.

HEM:             Yes.

VAL:              No. This isn’t…I don’t understand


How does Mary feel about my coming to Cuba?

                        Have you even mentioned it to her?

HEM:             Ah well, Mary is a bit jealous of you. As you are probably aware.

                        You know how it goes.

 Young woman, older man…older woman gets jealous…

VAL:              I never gave her any reason to be jealous.

HEM:             I suppose not. Those nights you used to sit with me,

                        hold my hand, when I couldn’t sleep… I think they…

                        I think she…

VAL:              Nothing happened. I hope you told her that.

HEM:             Yes, yes. (pause) I love you. I hope you realize that.

VAL:              Papa! You shouldn’t joke.

HEM:             Who’s joking? Do you love me?

VAL:              I have a great affection for you, Papa.  You and Mary.

HEM:             I think my days with Miss Mary are numbered. She

                        no longer cares for me. She has even hinted that she

                        wants a divorce.


                        Look, once I have sorted the mess out, we could

                        get married.  What do you say?

VAL:              Now I know you are joking!

HEM:             Say yes, Val. We could have the daughter I’ve

                        always wanted. Mary’s too old for that, anyway.

                        Look, I know you’re a good Catholic, but so am I.

I’ve only been married once in the church, to my first

wife Pauline – and she’s now dead, so there shouldn’t

be any problems on that front…

VAL:              Stop it Papa!

Silence for a moment.

HEM:             No, you are right. It won’t work. It couldn’t work.

                        Besides, my health is getting worse. Much worse My

                        eyes. But not just my eyes. My whole system

                        is breaking down

VAL:              Don’t talk like that. You will get better. I know you will.

                        Look, all I want or expect is to be a friend, and I don’t

                        mean a fair-weather friend.  Your health, good or bad, shouldn’t

                        change anything between us. I shall stick around as long as

you need me.

HEM:             That’s good to hear. (chuckles)

                        Thought I had frightened you off there for a moment.

                        But it doesn’t change things. How I feel about you.


                        As you probably know, all the women I cared about

                        have had new lives breathed into them in my books. As

                        far as I am aware, none of them minded being immortalized

                        in that way. Not by name of course, but they knew

just the same. I wanted you to be part of that… quadrille

Wanted to immortalize you…


But maybe I’m too old. Too far down the winding road.

When that happens there’s only one thing to do;

Get off the god dam road…

(he finishes his drink)

Hell with it. Let’s have another of these.

Might help me sleep.

(they refill their glasses)

Look, about what I said just now.  Let’s keep it between us

No one else need know. Especially not Mary.

We’ll just go on as before.

He looks at Val for a long moment, until her eyes assent.

Valerie awakes from her daydream and is clearly troubled. She takes a bottle of vodka, pour a stiff measure into a glass and drinks it quickly.

Lights change to signify change of scene. Valerie’s apartment in NY.

Valerie and Greg are seated at a table, clearly enjoying themselves. Val puts on a flamenco record and demonstrates the art of flamenco dancing to him.

VAL:              But of course I can do the flamenco…

                        (she demonstrates)

                        Antonio taught me.

                        Antonio Ordonez, the bullfighter?

GREG:           Oh…him

VAL:              What do you mean!

He’s the finest bullfighter in Spain.

He said the dancing helped him in his work

(she demonstrates a ‘pass’, using a coloured scarf)

I said it was a shame there were no lady bullfighters

Everybody laughed uproariously, including Papa,

who said Antonio’s sister, Carmen, was a

better matador than  him, but she would have

to grow a moustache and some  cojones if

she wanted to take part.

But I was serious.

GREG:           I bet you were.

VAL:              I think I would have made a good… matador, don’t you?

                        (she finishes with a few more fancy touches, then drinks)

GREG:           I think you might have made a dead one

                        (he looks at some photos)

                        Those beasts look ferocious to me.

                        Mind you, that was Papa’s world.  Always on the

                        edge. He didn’t mind what it was; lions tigers,

                        wild boar, as long as there was an element of danger.

                        I remember once he challenged a wild bear that was

                        terrorizing the folk back in Idaho.

VAL:              No!  what happened?

GREG:           Well, as I recall, the bear was stopping traffic from getting by,

                         wouldn’t let anybody pass. Papa just drove up and

                        began shouting at it.

 Why, you’re just nothing but an ugly son-of-a-bitch Black.

You’re not a Polar Bear, not even a Grizzly;

                        just a plain ordinary Black . Now get off the goddam road you bum!

                        And you know, in the end that bear just slunk away. Every time

                        after that it hid behind the trees when a car came by.

VAL:              Why didn’t you get on…you and Papa?


Another funeral. This time Greg Hemingway’s.  Valerie is present with her son Brendan.

VAL:              I’ve been on God’s earth over sixty years now, and for more

                        than forty of them I have been inextricably linked with the

                        Hemingway name. I don’t expect that will change in the future.


                        I have four children, and all of them are Hemingway’s –

                        except one.

                        (she nudges Brendan)

                        Come on, Brendan, let’s go home


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