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MISS WHIPLASH REGRETS…extract

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MISS WHIPLASH REGRETS…

by

                                                                 Tom O’Brien

                                                                    act one

scene one

The sitting room of the flat of John and Madeleine.  (all scenes take place in this room) MADELEINE is seated, doing a x-word. There is a model car on the floor near her, a bright racing-type model.  JOHN is in the bathroom, shaving.

MAD:              What’s the capital of Peru?

JOHN:            (off) Bagota?

MAD:              four letters.  Ends with A.

JOHN:            Pisa…Riga…no, Lima.  Definitely Lima.

MAD:              Liza is leaving Roger.

JOHN:            How many letters?

MAD:              No.  Liza and Roger are splitting up.

JOHN:            I’m not surprised.  She’s been

                        taking him to the cleaners for years.

MAD:              Nothing to do with his laundry arrangements, dear.

                        He’s been fucking some little scrubber in the office

                        for months, apparently.  (beat) Going to seed?

JOHN:            What?

MAD:              Going to seed.  Ten letters.

JOHN:            Ooh…I don’t know.  vegetating? (beat)

                        Who’s the scrubber?

MAD:              Mona.  You know Mona.  Mona with the big…eyes.

                        (counts letters in x-word)  Ten letters… yeah. Oh no, it begins with S.

                        If you had money, would you leave me?

JOHN:            (emerges from kitchen, shaving foam on part of his chin)

                        What?

MAD:              Stagnating.  It’s stagnating

JOHN:            What’s stagnating?

MAD:              The clue, darling.  It’s stagnating.  What did you think

                        I meant…our relationship?

JOHN:            Ha ha.  What did you mean just now?…if I had money…

MAD:              Exactly what I said. If you had money, would you leave me?

JOHN:            (returning to kitchen) That’s what I thought you said.

There is a silence for a moment.

MAD:              Well, would you?

John returns clean-shaven, patting his cheeks.  He picks up a remote control off the armchair and sends the model car racing across the floor. He slows it down and maneuvers it around Madeleine’s legs.

                        Now, that’s a tricky one.

MAD:              You bastard.

JOHN:            It’s academic anyway.  I don’t have any money.

(he tries to move the car, but she prevents it with her foot)

                        Don’t do that.

MAD:              But if you had?

JOHN:            Honestly?

MAD:              Honestly.

JOHN:            I believe I would…stay put.

MAD:              Liar.

JOHN:            Why ask, then?

Pause

MAD   :           Don’t you want to ask me the same question?

JOHN:            No.

MAD   :           Aren’t you curious?

JOHN:            Maybe I don’t want to know the answer

Silence.

MAD:              Has Roger much money?

JOHN:            He has a few bob…yes.

MAD:              I mean – real money?

JOHN:            Yes, real money.

MAD:              How much real money?

JOHN:            I don’t know.

MAD:              You do his books.  If you don’t know, who does?

JOHN:            It’s privileged information.  I couldn’t possibly reveal…

He sits down, and picks up the car.

JOHN:            Look what you’ve done…

He takes a screwdriver from his kit and does some adjustments.

MAD:            Oh, you couldn’t possibly reveal…

                        Why not?  You didn’t take the Hippocratic oath, did you? 

And you’re not a priest – as far as I know.

JOHN:            It would be unethical.  There’s the employer/

                        employee relationship for a start…

MAD:              What relationship? He walks all over you.

                        And you obligingly lie down and make it easy.

JOHN:            It’s not like that.

MAD:              (putting away the x-word and watching him tinker)

                        You men are all little boys at heart, aren’t you?

 Did you have a deprived childhood or something? 

No toys to play with on your birthday…

(John doesn’t answer)

                        What is it like then?  Go on, tell me.

 Refresh my memory about what a bastard he is.

JOHN:            Roger?  He has his off days.

MAD:              So you don’t really want to nail his balls to a plank?

                        Don’t want to stick hot needles under his toenails?

                        That was just you talking in your sleep, was it?

JOHN:            I’m not saying that sometimes he isn’t a…a

MAD:              Four letters, beginning with a capital C…

                         (laughs)  You once wanted to give him

                        the wax treatment…remember?

JOHN:            The wax treatment?

MAD:              You get him to place his….dick on a table, and then

                        you pound it with a mallet until the wax comes out

                        his ears.  (John looks horrified)

                        Well, perhaps it wasn’t you

JOHN:            What sort of people were you mixing with before you met me?

MAD:              Oh, forget it!  I must have read it somewhere.

                        (pause)

Here’s another word.  Five letters, begins with M. Something we lack.

JOHN:            We’re doing okay.

MAD:              Right!  A holiday then. Three weeks in the Caribbean.

JOHN:            Not that okay.

MAD:              Roger’s just come back from two weeks in Benidorm.

Christmas, they went cruising down the Nile. Later

in the year they’re off to Mexico…

JOHN:            Not if  Liza is leaving him.

MAD:              That won’t stop him! He’ll take Mona…or some other floozy.

(beat) If I was a tramp like her…

JOHN:            You don’t know her.

MAD:              I know her type.  (beat)

I could have been like that, thrown myself at men…

it wasn’t for the lack of opportunities, you know…

JOHN:            Why didn’t you?  I find that most women have

                        a talent for that sort of thing.

MAD:              Piss off.

JOHN:            You couldn’t be like her.  Not in a million years.

MAD:              Why not?  What’s she got that I haven’t got?

JOHN:            I‘m not saying she’s got anything. 

Just…It takes a certain type of woman. A…a…

MAD:              Slag?  You don’t think I have what it takes to be a slag?

JOHN:            I was going to say look.  They  have a certain look..

MAD:              (ripping the buttons on her blouse, exposing lots

                        of cleavage, then ripping a slit in her skirt and exposing

                        her thigh)

 Like this, you mean?

JOHN:            Can you afford a gesture like that?  Silk blouses don’t

                        grow on trees.

MAD:              (ripping her blouse off completely, and throwing it at him)

                        It’s not a fucking gesture. (pause)

                      Is this the look?  Go on, tell me

JOHN:            I was under the impression you’d led a sheltered life.

Convent girl, you said  (beat)  Or was that a load of old tosh?

MAD:              Is it or isn’t it?  Is that what turns men on? Turns you on?

JOHN:            (shrugs)  Any half-naked woman is a turn-on for a man. Some more than others, I suppose. That’s a biological thing. 

But that isn’t what I meant. It’s in the eyes, it’s in the

mouth, its in the gestures. It’s an inner thing…subconscious

maybe…I don’t know…,(trails away)

MAD:              Listen to him!  The great lover speaking.

JOHN:            You did ask. I never pretended I was John Travolta or…

MAD:              Hah!  (grabs her blouse and puts it back on)

                        Does she turn you on?  Mona.

JOHN:            I suppose after about six pints I might be tempted. But

                        you know how drink affects me.  With that amount of alcohol

                        inside me a sheep would look inviting.

MAD:              Don’t be crude.

JOHN           Come on, I’m old enough to be her father!

MAD:              When did that ever stop a man?

JOHN:            She’s not my type, Maddy.  You are.

MAD:              I hate it when you call me that.

JOHN:            Sorry.  Madeleine.

Silence

MAD:              Couldn’t we rob a bank or something. 

JOHN:            We?

MAD:              You, then. What about Roger?

Could you fiddle some books?

JOHN:            Wouldn’t be a clever move.

MAD:              It would be a move, though. A…move.

JOHN:            I never heard you like this before.

 (tries the car ,but it doesn’t work)

MAD:              I was never desperate before.

JOHN:            I thought you said it didn’t matter.

MAD:              Do you have to believe everything people say?

                        (beat) I don’t want to wind up being discarded like Liza.

JOHN:            You said she was leaving him.

MAD:              She is. But she could see the writing on the wall from

                        a long way off

JOHN:            Why are you suddenly so concerned?  You hardly know her.

MAD:              Expanding my circle of friends, dear. You don’t

                        seem to have any – and mine are all…well, elsewhere. (beat)

                        We both use the same hairdresser…and…well… you know…

JOHN:            Does Roger know she plans to leave?

MAD:              I shouldn’t think he cares.

JOHN:            I can’t feel sorry for her.  She’s one of life’s takers.

MAD:              There’s plenty to go round.

JOHN:            There isn’t a well deep enough that she couldn’t drain.

                        Do you know how much she spent  last month?

                        Nearly fifteen hundred quid. Fifteen hundred

                        for a few frocks!  Roger is on the warpath.

MAD:              Good for her!  I’d spend it if I had it.

JOHN:            Not my money you wouldn’t.

MAD:             You’re so tight your arse squeaks when you walk, John.

JOHN:            Ungenerous to a fault, that’s me.  (beat)

            Must be my terrific personality that won the day then.

MAD:              No.  And in case you’re wondering, it wasn’t your

                        big cock either.

Before John can reply, the door to the hallway opens and ROGER strides in. Roger is a small cockney with a big voice.

ROGER:        You cant, John!  You facking cant!  Where’s the Priestley

                        cheque?

JOHN:            What…what’s up. Roger?

ROGER:        What’s facking up?  Your number’s up, that’s what. I’ll tell you

                        where the Priestley cheque is. In the bank, that’s where. Belly up.

                        And ten grand of my money is winging it’s way to Gran Canaria,

                         (Sees Madeleine for the first time)

                        Sexy.  You putting on or taking off?

JOHN:            Well, I guess he’ll have cashed it by now.

MAD:              How did you?….the door was…

ROGER:        (hands her a key)  Fifty percent of burglars let themselves in.

                        (looks her over)  I know those legs.

MAD:              Well…I’ve had them all my life.

ROGER:        (wagging his finger)  Nah, nah…They’re familiar.  I’m

                        not much good at faces but I never forget a leg…

                        (turns to John)  ‘Course he’s cashed it you cretin. But he

                        wasn’t supposed to, was he?  Put it on hold till I get back,

                        I said.  And what do I find?  Facking cashed…

JOHN:            I don’t recall…

ROGER:        You don’t recall. (he goes to the phone and picks up the

                        answering machine, then throws it on the settee)  Do you

                        recall what this is?  I spend good money installing it and

                        you don’t even listen to it.

JOHN:            There wasn’t any message…was there Mad?…

ROGER:        You’re havin’ a laugh.  I listened to your poxy voice myself

                        telling me you wasn’t there, before I left the message.

                        You must’a got it.

JOHN:            I didn’t.  I swear.

ROGER:        You’ve cost me ten grand. Ten facking grand. You’re

                        losing it, John. (To Maddy)  Isn’t  he losing it?

MAD:              Seems to me you’re the one whose lost it.

ROGER:        Oh, that’s sharp.  She’s sharp tonight, John.  Tell you

                        what, because she’s brought a smile  to my old boat-race,

                        I’m going to reduce your debt by half. You now only owe

                        me five grand.

MAD:              Now you’re the one having a laugh.

ROGER:        I never joke about my money.

JOHN:            I…can’t pay you five thousand.  I don’t have it.

MAD:              John!  Tell him go fuck himself!

ROGER:        Difficult thing to do – unless you got a dong

                        that goes round corners.

MAD:              Fuck you, buster! (she goes to the sideboard and pours

                        herself a drink.  The bottle is empty now, so she puts

                        it in the bin)

ROGER:        I’m not an unreasonable man. You can pay it off at…

                        say a ton a week.

MAD:              You’ll never make the Comedy Store with material

                        like that.

ROGER:        Well, John?

JOHN:            No.  Roger’s right.  I should have checked the machine

                        properly.

ROGER:        See.  I knew we could settle things amicably.

 (he rubs his hands)  This calls for a celebration. I know.

                        Bubbly. Lets have some  lovely-jubly.

MAD:              You must be joking!

ROGER:        You don’t run to a bottle of the old Dom Perignon then?

                        Pity.  I’ve got a fridge-full at home.  Still, not to

                        worry. Wasn’t that an off-license I saw at the bottom

                        of the street?

Roger takes out his wallet, removes a fifty-pound note, and holds it out.   

After a little hesitation, John takes the note and exits.

ROGER:        No point in having a dog and barking yourself.

                        What do you see in him?

MAD:              None of your effing business.

ROGER:        Must have some hidden talents, Johnny boy.  I mean,

                        he’s not exactly the life and soul, is he?  And he’s no

                        Chippendale, eh?  I mean, you wouldn’t want to rip

                        his trousers off  in a hurry, would you?  Still, he must

                        have something going for him. Maybe he’s got the right

                        knack. You know, what turns you ladies on?

                        Though  where he’s suddenly acquired it from…

                        ‘cos in all the years I’ve known him, he’s had trouble

                        getting his leg over the front doorstep, never mind

                        over…well, you get my drift.

  Maddy sits, pointedly ignoring Roger.  He studies her profile for a moment, then shakes his head.

ROGER:        What did you do before you met John?

MADDY:        Still none of your effing business.

ROGER:        Nah, listen.  For some time now I got this funny feeling about you.

                        Something tells me we’ve met in a previous life.

MAD:              What were you – a pile of manure?

ROGER:        Before you met him…what’s that, six months ago?…what

                        did you do?     Were you ever Miss Whiplash?  You got the

looks for it.  No…?   A dancer?  I bet you was a dancer. You

                        still got the pins.  Lap-dancing up West.  Is that what

                        you did?  The old nut-cracker shufti at my table?

MAD:              Life’s too short to dance with ugly men.

ROGER:        Not dancing then.  How about hooking?  Did you ever

                        do any hooking?

MAD:              I don’t believe what I’m hearing!

ROGER:        No, you’re right.  You don’t look like no hooker I ever knew.

MAD:              And you know plenty, I suppose?

ROGER:        A sex maniac, that’s me.   Can’t get enough of it.

                        You know that survey that found men think of sex

                        every six minutes?  Well, they made a mistake;

                        I reckon it’s  every  six seconds. (laughs)

                        But then, I’m sure Liza has marked your card.

MAD:              Liza  doesn’t confide in me.

ROGER:        You must be the only female in the Western world

                        deprived of that pleasure, then.  Yak, yak, that’s

                        all she does, morning till night.  Her dog-and-bone

                        bill is bigger than a tally-roll at Tesco’s on Christmas

                        eve.  (beat)  Not that she has to pay the facking thing.

                        (another beat)  Mind you, she does do a good turkey.

                        I’ll give her that.

MAD:              I can’t see you appreciating home cooking!

ROGER:        (laughs) Nah, nah.  You got your knickers in a tangle,

                        girl.  Nothing to do with nosh. Well, no…that’s wrong.

  See…it’s…(pause)… What do turkeys do?

MAD:              I don’t know.  Hate Christmas?

ROGER:        Yeah, that’s good. I like a woman with a sense of humor.

                        But it’s not the answer.

MAD:              What is it, then?

ROGER:        (after a pause)  Okay.  Chickens go cheep, cheep

                        Ducks go quack, quack.  Turkeys go…?

MAD:              Gobble, gobble.  (realizes what she has said)

                        Oh, Christ….

ROGER:        Not your cup of tea?  Some women come

                        into their own at that sort of thing. Have the mouth

                        for it.  Like Liza. (pause)  Fellatio, fellatio, where

                        art thou now?  Good fellatiatists…fellatiatists?….are

                        born not made.  Mind you, geography has a lot to do with

                        it.  Take England, for example.  Now, English birds

                        ain’t bad at it…not bad at all. Whereas the Irish, they won’t

                        touch it with a barge pole. Poles now, they’re quite

                        partial to it, but then they would be, wouldn’t they …gives

                        quite a new meaning to the expression ‘sliding down a greasy

                        pole’, don’t you think?… but best of all are American women.

                        They just love it.  ‘Giving head’, they call it. (laughs)

                        You can always tell an American woman by her mouth. Must

                        be all that exercise getting her laughing gear round…

MAD:              Do you practice at being offensive?

ROGER:        Nah.  It just comes naturally. (beat) What are your feelings

                        on going down?

MAD:              On you?  I’d rather go down on a gorilla.

ROGER:        Now, now, don’t be hasty.  It could be financially rewarding.

MAD:              You’re offering me money!  What do you take me for?

ROGER:        Five grand for a few minutes work.  Easy money, eh?

MAD:              You can’t be serious!

ROGER:        Why not? Wipe the slate clean for John.

MAD:              John doesn’t owe you any money.

ROGER:        He cost me ten grand. (pause)  Or maybe you did?

                        Maybe you erased the message?

MAD:              There was no bloody message.

ROGER:        No matter. If I can’t get it out of you, I’ll get it out of him.

 With interest.  He fucked up, he’s gotta pay.  Trouble is,

he can’t afford to pay – not even on my deferred terms.

 You’re a realist, I’d guess….so I’m offering you a way out.

 A blow-job for five grand. (laughs) A grand a minute!

 Even Naomi Campbell doesn’t earn that much!

MAD:              You’re a real bastard, aren’t you, Roger?

ROGER:        Right down to the soles of my Gucci shoes.

                        It’s a done deal, then?

MAD:              You mean now?

ROGER:        No time like the present. (he looks at his watch)

                        If we hurry, you should be able to wash it down with

                        a glass of bubbly.

                                                                                    end of scene one

to be continued…

PECKER DUNNE contd

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The screen is now showing scenes from the film TROJAN EDDIE.  A middle aged man appears; it is RICHARD HARRIS, playing the character of John Power in Trojan Eddie.

            RH:     I’m croakin’ for some lush, Pecker.

            PD:     Who’s that?

RH:     You know me well, Pecker. Didn’t you teach me the cant in that godforsaken hole we spent several weeks in.

PD:     (recognising him) Well, holy God, it’s Richard Harris himself! The last time we met  – the only time we met – was on the set  of the fillum Trojan Eddie.

RH:     That’s the place I’m talking about –  that God forsaken hole. Twas worse than a real halting site

PD:     ‘Twas a real one (laughs) What are you doing here?

RH:     The same as yourself, man.

PD:     (nodding)  Passing through then. You’re dying for a drink?

RH:     That’s what I said. Croakin’ for a lush. (smiles) Your tuition wasn’t in vain. I still remember the whids-

PD:     Aye, the words. The parlay chanter.

RH:     Listen to this. The Seids – the guards. The tohbar –the road. A mush- a man. A raki- a girl.

PD:     Fair play to ya. You didn’t forget. Here  (he hands him a bottle of Guinness) That’s the Buskers Chanter I taught you, a type of parley spoken by travelling musicians and entertainers. There’s lots of different variations. Ah, it’s all died out now; no one uses it anymore. Mores the pity.

RH:     Well, I still remember it. Here’s to you, Pecker Dunne, parley poet and chanter. ( they drink) Did you ever watch the film after it was made.

PD:     I did. I even have a video of it. You and Stephen Rea. John Power and Trojan Eddie. And the girl…what was her name?

RH:     Kathleen.

PD:     Kathleen, yes. Beauty and the beast.

RH:     Steady now. I wasn’t that fucken ugly!

PD:     Sure you were too old for her any road

As they speak we see a scene at a travellers halt. Kathleen, a young girl appears. In her 20’s, she is very beautiful. Richard becomes John Power.

RH:     Kathleen! Come here till I show you something. This is where we used to stop. When we were on the road with me father. Right across here. Let the horses off and pitched our camp. With our little wagon on that hill right there. Fresh water, and –look – lashings of firewood for the fire. Meself and me sister Bridget, running through the woods. And those rocks there – see? – we were always climbing them.

K:        But you settled down, became part of the settled community.

RH:     But I was never a townie. (pause) Ah, I started rambling into the town, knocking around with a few local lads, old billiards halls and that. Then my sister Bridget met a settled boy – and ran off and got married. That sort of finished me on the road too. That summer when my father moved on I refused to go, and they went off without me. I never took to the road again.

K:        (coming close to him) But you married a traveller?

RH:     Aye. I married a traveller. Kitty. The Lord be good to her. You remind me a lot of her.

K:        Was she beautiful?

RH:     Yes. She was beautiful.

K:        They say you’re the wealthiest man in the county.

RH:     Ah, money! All the money in the world doesn’t buy you more than a shave at the end of the day.

K:        ‘Twould make me happy.  That, and a place to call home. (she looks around at the squalor) I don’t like the road meself. When I get married I’m wanting to live in a house. Bit of an orchard at the back and a swing for the children and all. (she looks at John) People think travellers don’t like beautiful things but we do. And they think we don’t like the cold as well, but that’s not true either. ( she links her arm in John’s) You’ll look after me, won’t you John?

Margaret  appears and sings SHE WALKED THROUGH THE FAIR (traditional)

MB:                My young love said to me “My mother won’t mind
And my father won’t slight you for your lack of kind”
And she stepped away from me and this she did say,
“It will not be long, love, till our wedding day”

She stepped away from me, and she went thro’ the fair.
And fondly I watched her move here and move there.
And then she went homeward with one star awake,
As the swan in the evening moves over the lake.

Last night she came to me, she came softly in,
So softly she came that her feet made no din.
And she laid her hand on me, and this she did say
“It will not be long love, till our wedding day”

PD:     She saw you coming a mile off, boy.

RH:     Sure I know that. But where would I get another chance of a fine woman like that in my lifetime? Me, a tinker gone bad. And nothing but a big empty house to go home to every night.

PD:     Aye, you’re right. More power to your elbow John.

RH:     It’s not my elbow that needs the power, boy!

PD:     Is that why she ran away with your nephew  Dermot on your wedding night?

RH:     You know how it is with young girls, their heads are easily turned.

PD:     And the suitcase of money she took with her?

The screen shows Trojan Eddie giving her the suitcase and Dermot in  the background, watching.               

RH:     ‘Twas her own. Her dowry.

PD:     Yerra, I know that. Was she worth it?

RH:     She came back, didn’t she?

PD:     How much was in the suitcase?

RH:     Eleven thousand.

PD:     Which she brought back, of course.

RH:     You know she didn’t. Her family, the McDonaghs, they had that away. Mind you, we broke a few heads. We got our money’s worth, by Christ, anyway

The screen now shows Eddie finding the suitcase under his friend’s bed.

PD:     And Trojan Eddie?

RH:     The Trojan eejit you mean! Sure I bankrolled him most of his life. Without me he’d have starved – him and his family. If he had brains he’d be dangerous.

As he speaks we see Trojan Eddie on screen, doing his spiel, selling his wares.

TE:     What you want I got. And if you can get it cheaper anywhere else then I want to know about it. Trojan Eddies the name, bargain-zinies the game. A walkman? I got it! A razor? I got it! A guitar? I got it! A keyboard? I had one last week. Too late. So listen, don’t be done out of it, get down here now. Trojan Eddie’s of William Street. Now. (a close up shot of him on the screen) What are yeh doin’ sitting there?  I said now! ( the film ends)

PD:     Seems to be doin’ alright for himself now, out on his own. A brand new store. And lashings of stock for sale. What did he have when he worked for you, John? An auld van and a stall be the side of the road. And sellin’ stuff you wouldn’t give to a charity shop. I wonder where he got the money to start up on his own…..?

RH:     What are yeh sayin’?

PD:     I’m  thinking the quare wan wasn’t the only one to see you comin’

RH:     It’s not my money, if that’s what you think.

PD:     Him and Dermot were very close though. Like brothers in fact. Maybe the McDonaghs were only the scapegoats in all this.

RH:     That bloody townie doesn’t know his elbow from his instep. Shure he won’t pay for any of that stuff. It’ll all fall down around his ears before long. You mark my words. Then he’ll be crawlin back to me looking for help. Cos he don’t stand a chance without me. He haven’t got a hope in hell. You see I know who I am, and what I am, and what I am worth. But him, he hasn’t got a clue, not an idea. He’ll come crawling back on his belly, boy. Just like the woman did.  You wait and see. Trojan Eddie!  Trojan fuckin’ eejit! ( by now he is shouting)

PD:     I suppose you are right, John. 

We see Kathleen in the background, calling to John

K:        John. Your tea is ready.

RH:     Right, Kathleen, I’ll be there in a minute.

PD:     She who must be obeyed

RH:     She’s pregnant you know. Our first child.  Isn’t it well for me boy?  ( he goes)

PD:     Fair play to yeh John. ( shakes his head as John disappears)

Margaret and Pecker watch as John walks away.

PD:     No fool like an ould fool.

MB:    He was an outsider, wasn’t he…Trojan Eddie, the townie?

PD:     They both were. Eddie and John. That’s what I liked about the film. It showed what it was like to be an outsider from both sides. Eddie , a townie , because he was working and making his living from John and the travelling community. And John, a traveller, who was living amongst the settled community,  and had made his fortune as a result. Both were despised in their different ways.  (a pause)                                                                                                           That’s where the music helps. Woody Guthrie was an outsider. He used his music to challenge things. I’m an outsider too. I use my music and my songs to challenge people in Ireland about the way Travellers are treated. I’ve also used it to celebrate the richness of Traveller music and Traveller culture. The first people to play the banjo were outsiders to America. They were the black slaves that were dragged halfway across the world from Africa to the cotton plantations of the American south.

Pecker and Margaret sings a verse of Woody Guthrie’s  LONESOME VALLEY (c) Woody Guthrie)

There’s a road that leads to glory
Through a valley far away,
Nobody else can walk it for you,
They can only point the way.

You gotta walk that lonesome valley,
You gotta walk it by yourself,
Nobody here can walk it for you,
You gotta walk it by yourself.

PD:     There’s a freedom, there is wildness, and there’s a sense of pain in Travellers style of music. When you’re downtrodden all your life it gets in your chest and it affects you. And it comes out in your music. I can hear that in Woody. Just as I can hear it in you. Did you feel an outsider Margaret?

MB:    All me life, boy. But I didn’t let that stop me. It was the singing I cared for. Only the singing. If I hadn’t had that, what would I have done? Maybe I might’a been a factory girl.

Margaret sings THE FACTORY GIRL (traditional)

As I went out walking one fine summer morning,
The birds in the bushes did whistle and sing
The lads and the lasses in couples were courtin’
Going back to the factory their work to begin

He spied one among them, she was fairer then many,
Her cheeks like the red rose that blooms in the spring,
Her hair like the lily that grows in yon’ valley
She was only a hard-working factory girl

He said soft beside her, more closely to view her
She said “My young man, don’t stare me so,
I gold in my pocket, and silver as well,
no more will I answer that factory call…”

Pecker appears with his banjo case. He opens the case, takes out his banjo and strums it for a moment.

PD:     The thing I love about the banjo is that it’s the instrument of the outsider. Me father wanted me to be a fiddle player, like himself. I think it broke his heart when I choose the banjo instead. I got my first one in Castlecomer Co Kilkenny when I was little more than a child. We had gone into a harness shop to get some gear for one of our horses and the man pulled out this dusty old banjo from somewhere and gave it to me. There are times in your life – moments when you feel something was planned for you by the man above. As soon as I held that banjo in my hands I knew we were going to spend our lives making special music together. (pause)  And so we did.

Pecker looks at his surroundings for a while then shakes his head.  He gathers his banjo and case etc and begins to move away.  The light gradually fades and we move to a centre spotlight.

Peckers  sings WEXFORD TOWN (c Pecker Dunne)

PD:                 My family lived in Wexford town, stopped travelling and settled down,
Though my father kept a horse and car, we lived within the town,
The people there misunderstood, or they did not know our ways,
So with horse and car, back on the road, I began my travelling days

My father was called the Fiddler Dunne, and I’m a fiddler too,
But although I often felt his fist, he taught me all he knew,
I know I’ll never be as good, and yet I feel no shame,
For the other things my father taught, I am proud to bear his name.

He taught me pride and how to live, though the road is hard and long,
And how a man will never starve, with a banjo, fiddle or song,
And how to fight for what I own, and what I know is right,
And how to camp beside a ditch on a stormy winter’s night.

O times were good and times were bad, and people cruel and kind,
But what I learned of people then, has stayed within my mind,
I’ll honour friends with all my heart, do for them all I can,
But I’ve learnt to go the road again, when they spurn the tinker man.

O Wexford is a town I like, but the travelling man they scorn,
And a man must feel affection for the town where he was born,
I know one day, that I’ll go back, when my travelling days are done,
And people will begin to wonder, what has happened to the Pecker Dunne.

The rest of the cast come out as Pecker finishes the last verse

                                                                                                End  (c) Tom O’Brien

PECKER DUNNE – last of the travellers

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Pecker dunne…part 1

PECKER DUNNE – LAST OF THE TRAVELLERS

By

Tom O’Brien

A play with music about the travelling musicians of Ireland, mostly concentrating on Pecker Dunne and Margaret Barry. They were both from travelling families, Tinkers, and were marginalised by Irish society. Looked down on, indeed persecuted for their way of life. Both were great singers and musicians, and along with the great Johnny Doran, did more to promote Irish traditional music than almost any other person of our times.                               Both are dead now and the play is set in a kind of imaginary ‘halting site’, where departed souls are temporarily resident while awaiting transport to somewhere permanent.

Characters

                        Pecker Dunne………………….40-60 yrs

                        Margaret Barry……………….30-50 yrs

                        Guard Sergeant………………..  40’s

                        Richard Harris/John Power….50-60yrs

                        Kathleen……………………………early 20’s

                        Johnny Doran……………………..late 30’s

                        Mary…………………………………..mid 20’s

                        Tinker Man…………………………30-40 yrs

                        Step-Mother………………………..early 40’s

                        Farmer…………………………………40’s

Apart from Pecker and Margaret, all the other characters can be played by one male and one female actor if need be.

Some musicians may be required, possibly a banjo/fiddle player and an accordionist.

Margaret Barry has a pronounced Cork accent, even when singing.

PECKER DUNNE – LAST OF THE TRAVELLERS

By

Tom O’Brien

Scene one

A darkened stage, then a spotlight. PECKER DUNNE appears, carrying a banjo case. The case has Pecker Dunne stencilled across the body. Bearded, he wears a wide black leather belt with silver buckle on his trousers, and could be anywhere between 40/60 years of age. He sings I’M THE LAST OF THE TRAVELLIN PEOPLE (c) Pecker Dunne)

PD:                 Me name it is Paddy, I’m called Pecker Dunne                                                                     I walk the road but I never run,                                                                                              I’m the last of the travellin’ people                                   

With me banjo and fiddle I yarn and song,                                                    and sing to people who do me no wrong                                                  But if others despise me I just move along,                                                    and know I’ll find friends in the morning                                          Arah money is money and friends they are friends,                                       And drinking with them is where all money ends                                          But it isn’t on money it’s on them I depend                                                         When friends and the guards are against me.                                                           

From Belfast to Wexford from Clare to Tralee,                                             a town with a pub is a living for me                                                                       I haven’t a home but thank God I am free,                                                 I’m the last of the travellin’ people

The road isn’t aisy but it’s what I choose,                                                      I’m not always a winner but I’l           Summer and winter keep travelling I will                                                     But the road it is long and I know it will kill                                                  The last of the travelling people.  

As Pecker finishes the stage lights come up. There is a blank screen as backdrop.  Towards the front we see what looks to be a travellers halting site; campfire, cooking utensils etc – the impression being given is that the wagons etc are just out of sight. It should be a hazy, sort of unreal-looking place, with a few people seated at various points. Some of these can be musicians.

            PD:     Where the bloody hell is this place?

  On screen we can now read HAPPY 80TH BIRTHDAY PECKER.

            PD:     Birthday? Eighty?  What’s goin’ on here?

 MARGARET BARRY appears from the mist with her banjo. She sings THE GALWAY SHAWL (traditional)

MB:                At Oranmore in the County Galway,
One pleasant evening in the month of May,
I spied a damsel, she was young and handsome
Her beauty fairly took my breath away.

Chorus:
She wore no jewels, nor costly diamonds,
No paint or powder, no, none at all.
But she wore a bonnet with a ribbon on it
And round her shoulder was a Galway Shawl.

We kept on walking, she kept on talking,
‘Till her father’s cottage came into view.
Says she, “Come in, sir, and meet my father,
And play to please him The Foggy Dew.”

She sat me down beside the fire
I could see her father, he was six feet tall.
And soon her mother had the kettle singing
All I could think of was the Galway shawl.

I played The Blackbird and The Stack of Barley
Rodney’s Glory and The Foggy Dew
She sang each note like an Irish linnet.
Whilst the tears stood in her eyes of blue.

‘Twas early, early, all in the morning,
When I hit the road for old Donegal.
She said goodbye, sir, she cried and kissed me,
And my heart remained with that Galway shawl.

PD:     God bless all here tonight. Isn’t Margaret great to turn up

for my birthday? Ladies and gentlemen, Margaret Barry.

MB:    That’s the first I heard about any birthday, Pecker.  I was told

there was a few shillings in it for me.

PD:     Ah, g’wan now girl.

MB:    Well, seein’ as it’s yourself Pecker. And it’s not as if we’re strangers. Shure, we sung together before.

PD:     Aye, we did, a long time ago. A chanter supreme, that’s what you are. It’s me birthday today – apparently. What age do you think I am?

MB:    I can still read, boy.  (indicates the screen and laughs)

 Not as ould as me, anyway.

PD:     Sure you’re no age. If you were six months younger I’d run away

with you!

MB:    I was born in 1917, boy.

PD:     That would make you…ah…

MB:    Dead, boy. T’would make me dead. (she looks around) ‘Tis a funny auld place, isn’t it?

PD:     Where is it at all? Is it the afterlife – or just another bit of roadside the council forgot to fence off?

MB:    The afterlife, boy! (looks around) There’s never anyone around to ask. People just seem to come and go.

PD:     You sure it’s not a guard (police)) station? There’s never anyone in them places anymore.

MB:    No, they’re always too busy hidin’ behind hedges and the like to give you a ticket for something or other. Don’t talk to me about the guards.

A uniformed Garda Sergeant walks into view.

            PD:     Well, Lord save us, if it isn’t auld Baldy Tyres himself!

MB:    I know that fella! He stopped me wance in Limerick for havin – how did he put it? – a ‘defective rear light on a moving vehicle’. On t’oul caravan, if you don’t mind! The lousy fecker.

GS:     Well now, what have we here?  The Pecker Dunne and Margaret Barry. When did you pair hitch up together? Or is that too delicate a question?

PD:     Since when did the matter of delicacy ever bother you? Or any Guard for that matter.

GS:     I was only doin’ me job.

MB:    That’s what Cromwell said at Drogheda.

PD:     And a lot more places besides. I wonder now if Guards are descendants of Roundheads?

MB:    (aside)  He have the head of one, anyhow

GS:     What was that? (he is walking about, looking at things) You know, you can’t park here anymore.

PD:     A bit of auld waste ground, on the side of the road – where’s the harm?

PS:      Ah now, it’s not as simple as that. Not like it used to be in the old days. There’s the health and safety issue to be considered for a start…

MB:    Health and safety, boy?  What’s that when it’s at home?  We parked here in 1930, when I was thirteen years old, and we’ve been parking here on and off ever since.

PS:      Not for the past twenty years you haven’t.  There’s new laws these days, official halting sites, proper…

PD:     He’s talkin’ about all these new EU laws, girl. Ah, shure it’s all changed since you…since you…(pause)  It’s the new United States of Europe. We’re all only satellites now, being told what to do be some mush in Brussels.

MB:    Is that a fact? I’m well out of it then.

PS:      Be that as it may. I know you Pecker, and I know what will happen if I give you permission to stay here. There’ll be a swarm of you here before you can say ‘Ballybunion’.

PD:     It’s me birthday. I’m entitled to ask a few friends round for me birthday.

PS:      Have ye any horses? I don’t want any horses roamin’ the road – or the farmer’s fields for that matter.

PD:     Prags? What would a traveller want with a prag these days? The only thing I travel with these days – apart from me four be four – is this. (he waves his banjo case)

PS:      I’ll be keeping a close eye on all of you. I don’t want any trouble now. ( he heads off)

MB:    He won’t go far, boy. He’ll be peeping from behind some hedge.

Pecker and Margaret sing DANNY FARRELL (by Pete St John)

I knew Danny Farrell when his football was a can
With his hand-me-downs and Welliers and his sandwiches of bran
But now that pavement peasant is a full grown bitter man
With all the trials and troubles of his travelling people’s clan

He’s a loser, a boozer, a me and you user
A raider, a trader, a people police hater
So lonely and only, what you’d call a gurrier
Still now, Danny Farrell, he’s a man

I knew Danny Farrell when he joined the National School
He was lousy at the Gaelic, they’d call him amadán – a fool
He was brilliant in the toss school by trading objects in the pawn
By the time he was an adult all his charming ways had gone

I knew Danny Farrell when we queued up for the dole
And he tried to hide the loss of pride that eats away the soul
But mending pots and kettles is a trade lost in the past
“There’s no hand-out here for tinkers” was the answer when he asked

He’s a loser, a boozer, a me and you user
A raider, a trader, a people police hater
So lonely and only, what you’d call a gurrier
Still now, Danny Farrell, he’s a man

I still know Danny Farrell, saw him just there yesterday
Taking methylated spirits with some wino’s on the quay
Oh, he’s forty going on eighty, with his eyes of hope bereft
And he told me this for certain, there’s not many of us left

He’s a loser, a boozer, a me and you user
A raider, a trader, a people police hater
So lonely and only, what you’d call a gurrier
Still now, Danny Farrell, he’s a man

Lights fade, then Spotlight on Margaret Barry

MB:    I was born on the first of January 1917 in the city of Cork. Peter Street. Me mother was seventeen years married to me father when she died. I was about twelve then. She was a beautiful woman; I don’t think there was a lovelier woman to be got in Cork. Lovely black hair, you know. She used to wear it in a plait right around her head, and all got up in a big bun at the back, with a big hairpin stuck in it. She got double pneumonia and it killed her. I remember her calling me to her bedside in the hospital and saying ‘Margaret, my Margaret’. I never got over her dying. Never. Me father re-married, but I couldn’t get on with them, so I set off on me own when I was sixteen and settled in the North of the country.                                                                                                            I sang through the fairs. And the markets. And I had very enjoyable times. And more times it wasn’t so nice because there was wind and rain, and I’d get wet coming back on me bicycle from somewhere. But I enjoyed every minute of it. Me heart was delighted when I went through the fairs and could keep on singing all the time. But as soon as ever I’d finish up at some fair or a market I’d actually go to some house. I used to always be hired. They knew me that well. Around Castleblaney,  Monaghan, Crossmaglen, Armagh, and all these places. And they used always come along for me and say ‘we’d like for you to come up to the house some night, and play a few tunes and sing a few songs’. And there I was, I used to go to the house at eight o clock in the evening and from then until maybe seven in the morning I’d keep on playing for them and singing. I’d get a rest about twelve o clock and get something to ate. And then off I’d go again. I’d play some half sets, and if there was room enough in the place they’d take away the furniture, and  they’d dance away the night. It would just be a sociable thing; it wouldn’t be a wedding or a wake or anything like that, it was the way they were around them parts, the way they enjoyed themselves. They loved that kind of life you see, the dancing and the craic. It was what they called a house ceili. And naturally enough, it was never without drink.  (shakes her head)  All gone now, boy.

Margaret sings THE FLOWER OF SWEET STRABANE  (traditional)

MB:                If I were King of Ireland and all things at my will
I’d roam through all creations new fortunes to find still
And the fortune I would seek the most you all must understand
Is to win the heart of Martha, the flower of sweet Strabane

Her cheeks they are a rosy red, her hair golden brown
And o’er her lily white shoulders it carelessly falls down
She’s one of the loveliest creatures of the whole creation planned
And my heart is captivated by the flower of sweet Strabane

If I had you lovely Martha away in Innisowen
Or in some lonesome valley in the wild woods of Tyrone
I would use my whole endeavour and I’d try to work my plan
For to gain my prize and feast my eyes on the flower of sweet Strabane

Oh, I’ll go o’er the Lagan down by the steam ships tall
I’m sailing for Amerikay across the briny foam
My boat is bound for Liverpool down by the Isle of Man
So I’ll say farewell, God bless you, my flower of sweet Strabane

STREET CORNER – a short play

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STREET CORNER

By

      Tom O’Brien

Characters

Shirl….teens

Jan…..teens

Al……teens

Kev…teens

NWM ….40’s

Period 1980’s

A street somewhere in London. ( Location can be changed if desired) Empty shop with FOR SALE sign. Garage attached to end of shop with door missing. Strewn with rubbish inside. Pavement – and presumably road – runs away to right of stage.. Another road runs at right angles to left of stage. The actors are free to stand, sit, or move within the setting as the action progresses. SHIRL, JAN and AL are on stage at curtain rise.

            SHIRL:          You go.

            AL:                 No, you go.

            SHIRL:          No-o, you go.

            AL:                 You go.

            JAN:               Bleedin’ hell!  I’ll go

            SHIRL:          Alright. Get me a coke. Diet.

            AL:                 Yeah. The same.

            JAN:               (not moving) Well Then?

            AL:                 Well what?

            JAN:               Money like. It costs ya know.

            AL:                 (hands her a fiver) Get ‘em out of that.

            SHIRL:          ‘Ere! Where’d you get a fiver? You was skint earlier

            AL:                 Sold a computer game, didn’t I?

            SHIRL:          (suspicious) ‘Oo to?

            AL:                 Fat Annie

            SHIRL:          She closes early Thursdays

            AL:                 She didn’t today. Ask Kev.

Jan has moved away at this point. Shirl shouts after her.

SHIRL:          Jan! Make mine a lilt instead  (To Al)  Where is Kev anyway?          We said six.

AL:                 He’ll be here.

SHIRL:          Is it true he fancies Nadine?

AL:                 Nadine who?

SHIRL:          The Nadine. The one who told you to sod off at the party.

AL:                 She never.

SHIRL:          She wouldn’t be seen dead with him anyway. She likes a good time.

AL:                 What are you doing here then?

SHIRL:          Who says I’m goin’ with Kev?

AL:                 Aren’t you?

KEV saunters up at this point.

            KEV:              Alright?

            AL:                 Alright.

            SHIRL:          You’re late.

            KEV:              Me mum’s sick. I had to do the housework.

            SHIRL:          That’s a laugh!

            KEV:              Okay, I was robbing a bank.

            SHIRL:          They’re closed, stupid.

            KEV:              A launderette then. Will that do?

Jan returns with the drinks at this point.

            JAN:               You’re late.

            KEV:              She already said that.

            JAN:               Well, you are.

Kev watches her handing out the drinks.

            KEV:              Where’s mine?

            JAN:               You weren’t here.

            KEV:              I’m here now.

            SHIRL:          Come on, Jan, we’ll get another.

After they go, Kev gets out his cigarettes out and they light up. Al offers his coke.

            AL:                 You get it?

KEV:              Yeah. Fifteen squids. You already got a fiver, so if I give you another that makes us quits. Right?  ( he hands over a fiver)

AL:                 (trying to work it out) Yeah, yeah. (pause) And she called you a thicko!

KEV:              Who did?

AL:                 Her. That Nadine.

KEV:              (laughs) Plankton head

AL:                 Plankton?

KEV:              That’s what they called her at school. Plankton head. Y’know… seaweed? Her hair?

AL:                 (vague) Oh, right

Shirl and Jan return. Shirl hands a coke to Kev

            SHIRL:          Don’t say I never give you nuffing.

She shoves the change in Kev’s pocket. He takes it out and counts it.

            SHIRL:          It’s all there.

            JAN:               Guess what?

            KEV:              You’re pregnant.

JAN:               Don’t be stupid. Someone nicked all the lead of the church hall roof last night.

SHIRL:          Yeah. Old what’s-is-name, the neighbourhood watch bloke, was sayin’ in the shop…

JAN:               I thought roofs was all slates?

KEV:              Flashing.

JAN:               You what?

KEV:              The flashing. The bits that go round the edges. They’re lead.

SHIRL:          Clever, ain’t ya!

JAN:               What’s anyone want to nick that for?

AL:                 Scrap metal. There’s money in scrap metal.

SHIRL:          Yeah? Anyway, he reckons they’re bound to catch whoever done it. They found a knife up there…

Al drops his coke.

AL:                 Shit! (he picks it up) Sod this. Who wants a beer?

JAN:               I thought we was goin’ to the pictures?

KEV:              Plenty of time yet. (pause) Comin’ Al?

They move away. Jan takes a mirror from her purse and studies her face.

JAN:               Which on d’ya fancy then, Shirl?

SHIRL:          Which one d’you fancy?

JAN:               You first.

SHIRL:          No, you.

JAN:               Kev’s nice.

SHIRL:          You fancy him?

JAN:               Yeah.

SHIRL:          I know. Let’s toss (searches her bag) You got ten pee?

Jan hands her ten pee.

SHIRL:          Best of three, right? (she tosses)

JAN:               Heads.

Jan gives a squeal of delight when she wins. She loses the next two and makes a face.

            JAN:               Your hair is nice. Where’d you get it done?

SHIRL:          Me sister’s. I nearly died. I’m stiin’ there with all this gunk on my head and he comes in. You know, TONY, her fella? And she goes ‘you’re drunk’, and he goes’ you’re ugly but I’ll be sober later’. Then she goes, ‘you pig’., and he goes…

JAN:               And was he?

SHIRL:          Was he what?

JAN:               Drunk.

SHIRL:          I s’pose so. He kissed me when she was out of the room.

JAN:               He never! You want to be careful. Married men only want one thing.

SHIRL:          They ain’t married, are they. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind. He’s kinda hunky…

Shirl pauses as someone comes in their direction. It’s the Neighbourhood Watch man

            SHIRL:          Oh-oh. It’s old what’s-is-name

NWM:            Well, if it ain’t the terrible twins. Like hanging around empty properties, do you?

JAN:               That’s our business.

NWM:            And mine. Got to make sure nothing goes on inside, see? No drinking or smoking. No raves.

SHIRL:          Raves around this dump! You gott’a be joking!

JAN:               What’cha want anyway?

NWM:            I’m looking for Al Massey. You know him?

SHIRL:          Yeah, we know him.

NWM:            Seen him lately? (both shake their heads) If you do see him tell him I want a word. Before the cops do.

JAN:               What’s ‘e done, then?

NWM:            Why should he have done anything?

JAN:               You said….

NWM:            Never assume, young lady. Only an ass assumes. I would merely like to know why a knife with the initials AM should be laying on the roof of the church hall. Maybe he can tell me before I mention it to the law.

SHIRL:          Don’t they know?

NWM:            Not about the knife. Yet.

JAN:               Why haven’t you told them?

NWM:            His dad and me, we go back a long way. I just can’t believe…(pause) So if you see him tell him I want a word. ( he moves away)

JAN:               Wot you reckon. Shirl?

SHIRL:          About what?

JAN:               Al, was it him on the roof?

SHIRL:          Him and Kev, you mean. All for one and one for all, that’s their motto, innit?

JAN:               Not with me it ain’t! I’m not sharing…

At this point Kev and Al can be seen returning

SHIRL:          They’re coming back. Quick….!

The two girls move up the alley way and disappear behind the garage.

            KEV:              Where’ve they got to then?

AL:                 The bog probably. Girls are always in the bog doin’ things to themselves.

They sit beside the garage and open two cans of beer

            KEV:              We goin’ to the pictures or what?

            AL:                 Or what. Yeah.

            KEV:              How are we, like, goin’ to pair off?

            AL:                 I don’t know. Wot’cha think?

            KEV:              Jan’s okay.

            AL:                 Yeah. I know. Let’s toss. ( he produces a coin)

            KEV:              Heads. (he loses) Oh well…

Al looks down the road. He sees someone in the distance.

            AL:                 What? (listens) Yeah. We got it. Thanks. (to Kev) That was Tony   

            KEV:              I heard.  That Shirl’s sister, she gives him a hard time.

            AL:                 Yeah.

            KEV:              It’s not his fault he can’t get a job.

            AL:                 No.

            KEV:              Fifty sovs, that’s all he needed.

            AL:                 Yeah. Well, he’s got it now, ain’t he.

            KEV:              Yeah.

            AL:                 D’you reckon it’s true what Shirl said about the knife?

            KEV:              I reckon. I s’pose the old bill will be around.

            AL:                 Yeah. What ya think they’ll do?

            KEV:              (shrugs) A knife is just a knife. They can’t prove anything.

            AL:                 What about fingerprints?

Shirl and Jan have heard enough by now. They come running out.

JAN:               And initials. It had your initials on it, stupid. Old what’s-is-name has been round. He said so.

KEV:              (hands them beers) Have a beer. All that listening must be thirsty work.

SHIRL:          We wasn’t listening.

KEV:              What were you doin’ back there – sunbathing?

SHIRL:          Very funny! It was only a game. We couldn’t help hearing

AL:                 A stupid game.

JAN:               Not half as stupid as nicking that lead.

AL:                 We didn’t.

JAN:               Pull the other one.

AL:                 We Didn’t!

JAN:               He found your knife.

AL:                 Not mine.

JAN:               It’s got your initials on…

AL:                 Not my initials. (he takes a knife from his pocket and hands it ot her) That’s my knife

SHIRL:          Whose then?

KEV:              Maybe it was Tony’s

SHIRL:          Don’t be stupid, Kev!

JAN:               Shirl. Tony?…Anthony…

SHIRL:          Oh shit!

JAN:               Wot’s ‘is surname.

SHIRL:          I don’t know, do I? ( pause)  I think it’s Moran. Stupid…stupid… You knew? (to Kev)

KEV:              He told us earlier on. He hid the lead last night and got rid of most of it this morning. What bits were left he said we could have. (he holds up his beer) Cheers Tony!

They are all silent, finishing their drinks.

SHIRL:          What will happen now? To Tony, I mean?

AL:                 He might be lucky. Then again he might not.

KEV:              (to Shirl) And all because your sister wanted an expensive birthday present.

Kev finishes his beer and tosses it into the pile in the garage.

KEV:              Picture time.

Kev and Al begin to move away.

            AL:                 You comin’ or what?

Shirl and Jan look at each other for a moment, then shrug and follow.

Curtain.

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

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Scene 4

Lionels grubby flat.

LIONEL:                                                                                                                                  People ask why I never married. Well, I’m married to dozens of people. I am not married to a lady, and I have no children. But I loved one lady very much, but alas she died. Maybe I should’a married her. (pause)                                                                                                                               I am a gypsy; I am also an Arab. Know what I mean? I lived in Morrocco for over three years, and to me sex and love are two different things. And gender too. There’s love for a man, love for a boy, love for a woman and love for a girl. (pause and laughs)                        So am I bisexual?  (laughs) Maybe I’m trisexual! I don’t know. Whatever! I’m spontaneous.

Pause to pour and drink some vodka. He dozes for a little while, sitting on a settee with a big Teddy Bear. For company

LIONEL:                                                                                                                                        I woke up one day to realise I was my own audience. No one else was looking.

 (he waves the drink  and pats the Teddy)

Then I found Lionel (hugs the Teddy)                                                                                         I couldn’t hold a pen long enough to stop my hands shaking. (laughs) And my drying out sessions lasted as long as Elisabeth Taylor’s diets!

We hear knocking

 I used to kick my day off with a bottle of vodka, and finish it off with two more by the end of it. (laughs) You know, I never really liked the taste of alcohol, but I soon discovered it was the quickest route to oblivion

We can hear knocking again but Lionel ignores it.

LIONEL:                                                                                                                                     I was lonely y’know? (pause) Apart from Alma in 1966 my greatest personal loss came in 1977 when my lifelong friend and drinking partner, Sean Kenny, died. He was only in his early forties. (pause) I wasn’t completely friendless though: John – John Gorman – kept me from losing it completely…

We can hear more loud knocking and a voice shouting.

VOICE:                                                                                                                                    LIONEL! IT’S JOHN. ARE YOU IN THERE? OPEN THE BLOODY DOOR

LIONEL:                                                                                                                                          It’s not bloody locked. There just a table behind it. Give it a good push!

We can hear some noise, then John comes storming in and notices the bear

JOHN:
What the bloody hell…? (points at the bear) Is that the effing bear from the opening night?

LIONEL:                                                                                                                                   That’s Lionel. My new friend. You’re right, he was at the opening night of ‘Lionel’ with me. (pause) What a bloody disaster.

JOHN:                                                                                                                                       I  didn’t see the show myself. Thank God. But I read the reviews. They were, well…desperate.

LIONEL:                                                                                                                                  The whole show was a pile of crap. It struggled on for a few weeks then closed. They say it lost a quarter of a million. (laughs) At least it wasn’t my dough this time. (he pats the Teddy) We could have fixed it, couldn’t we, Lionel? but they barred us from the rehearsals.

JOHN: (seeing him talking to the Teddy)                                                                             Lionel, are you sure you are okay? I mean, talking to…that.  Maybe you should see a psychiatrist.

LIONEL:                                                                                                                                       You’d want to be mad to see a psychiatrist! (pats the bear) What do you think Lionel?

John loses his temper, grabs the bear, and throws it out the door. He starts cleaning up, tossing bottles into the bin. He takes the drink from Lionel and shakes him.)

JOHN:
Snap out of it, Lionel! This isn’t you.

(Lionel looks at him, a mix of defiance and vulnerability in his eyes.)

LIONEL:
Isn’t it?

(Blackout)

Scene 5
(John is talking to the audience. Lionel is in the background, sitting at a table, writing. The lighting is dim, with a spotlight on John. As the scene progresses, the lighting shifts to create a dreamlike atmosphere when Alma appears.)

JOHN: (looking at Lionel)
Look at him. He’s been like that for the best part of twenty years. Ever since Twang! went belly up, to be honest. (shakes his head) It’s hard to calculate how much that disaster cost him. (pause) Well, no. It isn’t. It cost him everything. Maybe even his sanity.

(John walks closer to Lionel’s table, glancing at the papers scattered there.)

I read somewhere that his old place, The Fun Palace, sold recently for one point five million pounds. Bart was forced to sell it for half what he paid for it when you add up all the improvements he made to it. I know, ‘cos I’ve been doing his books more or less since the Twang! fiasco.

(John sighs, then looks back at the audience.)

He doesn’t talk much these days. Just sits there, scribbling away. Songs, mostly. Songs no one will ever hear.

(As John speaks, the lights on Lionel begin to soften, and a faint, ethereal glow appears stage left. Alma steps into the light, dressed as she was in her prime, radiant and smiling. Lionel doesn’t notice her at first, but the audience does. John continues, unaware of Alma’s presence.)

JOHN:
They say you can’t kill a dream, but I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen it happen to him.

(Lionel looks up from his writing, sensing something. He sees Alma. The music begins softly, a haunting piano melody. Lionel stands, slowly, as if in a trance.)

LIONEL: (whispering)
Alma?

ALMA: (smiling)
Hello, Lionel.

(John freezes, as if time has stopped for him. The spotlight on him dims, leaving only Lionel and Alma illuminated. Alma begins to sing the first verse of “The Man I Used to Be.” Her voice is soft, nostalgic, and filled with warmth.)

ALMA: (singing)
I once held the world in my hands,
A kingdom built on melodies and dreams.
But the notes turned to dust, and the stage grew cold,
And nothing’s quite as it seems.

(Lionel joins in, his voice trembling at first but growing stronger as he sings with her. Their voices blend in harmony, creating a poignant, bittersweet duet.)

LIONEL & ALMA: (singing together)
I chased the light, I caught the flame,
But the fire burned too bright to tame.
Now I sit here, pen in hand,
Trying to rewrite what I don’t understand.

(As they reach the chorus, Alma steps closer to Lionel, placing a hand on his shoulder. The lighting shifts to a warm, golden hue, suggesting a moment of connection and healing.)

LIONEL & ALMA: (singing together)
Where is the man I used to be?
The one who danced with destiny.
The songs I wrote, the love I knew,
Are echoes now, but still ring true.

(After the chorus, Alma speaks, her voice gentle but firm.)

ALMA:
You’re still that man, Lionel. The music never left you. It’s still there, inside.

(Lionel looks at her, tears in his eyes.)

LIONEL:
I lost it all, Alma. The money, the fame, the… the Fun Palace. Even you.

ALMA: (smiling softly)
You didn’t lose me. I’ve always been here, in your songs, in your heart.

(She begins to sing the bridge, her voice filled with reassurance. Lionel joins her, their voices intertwining once more.)

ALMA & LIONEL: (singing together)
Maybe the music never dies,
It lives on in the tears we cry.
And though the world has moved along,
The heart still sings its timeless song.

(As they finish the song, Alma steps back, the light around her beginning to fade.)

ALMA:
Keep writing, Lionel. The world still needs your songs.

(She disappears into the shadows. The spotlight returns to John, who unfreezes, unaware of what just transpired. Lionel sits back down, picking up his pen with a renewed sense of purpose. John looks at him, puzzled but relieved.)

JOHN:
Well, I’ll be damned. He’s smiling.

(The lights fade as Lionel begins to write again, the faint sound of a piano melody lingering in the air.)

BLACKOUT.

THE END.

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

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Scene 2

Lionel’s new place. He is  calling it THE FUN PALACE. It has lots of trendy touches; cushion everywhere, coffee  tables, drinks, food, lots of pictures on the walls. Lionel is smoking (it could be weed) with a glass of drink in his hand.

LIONEL:                                                                                                                                                                            The life of…Lionel eh! I’ve got money coming out of me…out of every orifice

John and Alma are wandering about, admiring the lavishness of the place.

JOHN:                                                                                                                                                                               By the looks of things you’re getting rid of it  as fast as you’re getting it in. (looks around) How much did this kip set you back?

LIONEL:                                                                                                                                                                        There was not much left out of a hundred K. And another hundred to get it up to the standard I have in mind.

JOHN:                                                                                                                                                                        HUH!  It’s far from the life of…Lionel you were reared.  Where was it again? Whitechapel?

LIONEL:                                                                                                                                                                                  I’ll have you know we were almost middle class. Dad was a tailor. He had his own business.

JOHN                                                                                                                                                                                OhYeah!. That  broken shed at the bottom of your garden, wasn’t it?

LIONEL:                                                                                                                                                                         We got by. (sees Alma studying some paintings) What do you think Alma?

ALMA:

(looking at a painting) This is very good. Why has this one got your name on the bottom?

LIONEL:

That’s because I painted it.

JOHN&ALMA (amazed)                                                                                                                                                                       WHAT?

LIONEL:                                                                                                                                                                   grinning)
(I was an artist long before any of this…(pause) At the age of thirteen I won a scholarship to St Martins School of Art on the Charing Cross Road. Imagine, at that age catapulted in to the weird world of beardie bohemians and naked art. One of the first models I had to draw was Quentin Crisp, who later became famous for writing The Naked Civil Servant. And when I drew him he was naked too! Anyway, by the time I was sixteen I mounted my first exhibition at the College, mostly paintings of pregnant women. I was pretty good apparently.                                                               But then, when I left home, my mother had a clear-out of my room. Everything, including most of my paintings wound up in a skip. Mind you, by then I had given up painting anyway

ALMA:                                                                                                                            Why?  Why did you pack it in?

LIONEL:                                                                                                                         because it’s too lonely an occupation, Alma. And I like plenty of people around me -as you know!

ALMA:
(smiling)
I didn’t know you had it in you, Lionel. You’re full of surprises.

JOHN:
(teasing)
Yeah, full of something.

LIONEL:
(laughing)
Cheeky bastard.

ALMA:
(pointing at another painting)
Is that supposed to be you, Lionel? It looks… abstract.

LIONEL:
(grinning)
It’s modern art, Alma. You wouldn’t understand.

JOHN:
(concerned)
Lionel, you’re spending money like it’s going out of fashion. What happens when the well runs dry?

LIONEL:
(defiant)
It won’t, John. The money will keep coming.

ALMA:
(softly)
Just be careful, Lionel. Success can be a double-edged sword.

LIONEL:
(smiling)
Don’t worry about me, Alma. I’ve got everything under control.

(He takes a long drink from his glass, then sets it down with a shaky hand. The lights dim slightly, focusing on Lionel as the others fade into the background.)

LIONEL:
(to the audience)
But the truth was, I didn’t have everything under control. The money, the fame, the pressure… it was all starting to take its toll.

 (looks around as if fearful somebody might be listening)

To be honest, I have already sold the rights to Oliver to Donald Albery. Well, I didn’t know it was going to be so successful, did I? And worse still, I have already sold the film rights to Max Bygraves!  Well gave them away more or less, for the price of a packet of fags and a few beers! Well, five hundred smackers – and now I hear tell he’s already been offered a quarter of a million for them!

(The lights dim further as the scene transitions to the next part of the story.)

Lionel sitting at a table. John comes in and throws some papers on the Table

JOHN:                                                                                                                                    We need to talk about TWANG!!

LIONEL: (sweeps the papers of the table)                                                                            No, we fucking don’t

JOHN: (picking the papers up)                                                                                            Yes, we bloody do. You’re broke. Stoney broke.

LIONEL:                                                                                                                                      Think I don’t bloody know that! Okay. I admit it was a turkey. I thought it was the golden goose, but it turned out to be a bloody turkey. The biggest turkey I ever wrote.

JOHN:                                                                                                                                          What went wrong, Lionel? (shows him the papers) Everything’s in the red.

LIONEL:                                                                                                                             What could I do, John? When my other backers pulled out, I was left with only that American outfit – and they wanted guarantees. So, I had to cough up myself when the shit hit the you-know-what. (pause)                                                                          I could have walked away I suppose. But I thought – I genuinely thought -I had a big hit on my hands. I believed in it, John. Really believed. I even thought it could be bigger than OLIVER!                                                                                                    (pause)                                                                                                                                  What went wrong? I don’t really know. Too many chiefs, maybe. (pause)                      I knew we were in trouble when Joan Greenwood walked out two nights before the opening.                                                                                                                          It was supposed to be a comedy, but in the end, I don’t know what it became. (laughs) Robin turned out to be more of an East End wide boy than anything else.

JOHN (laughing)                                                                                                                           A bit like yourself, eh! Robin Hood and his Merry Men a comedy!

LIONEL:                                                                                                                   Yeah. The critics killed it off even before we opened. After a month of desperation I’d had enough and called it a day. (shakes his head)                                                        Y’know, OLIVER! was still running in the West End on the night we closed.

Another pause as he pulls a piece of paper from his pocket

LIONEL:                                                                                                                             I wrote a song about it the other night. Wanna hear it? (sings)

Twang! Goes My Heart
(A playful, upbeat tune with a touch of melancholy)

Verse 1:
Oh, the stage was set, the lights were bright,
We dreamed of glory, we dreamed of night.
But the jokes fell flat, the set fell down,
And the critics laughed as they tore us down.

Chorus:
Twang! Goes my heart,
When the curtains part,
And the world can see my art.
Twang! Goes my soul,
When the reviews roll,
And they say I’ve lost control.

Verse 2:
I wrote the songs, I wrote the lines,
I thought they’d sparkle, I thought they’d shine.
But the audience groaned, the actors cried,
And my dreams of fame went up in smoke and died.

Chorus:
Twang! Goes my heart,
When the show falls apart,
And the crowd just wants to depart.
Twang! Goes my pride,
When I’m left inside,
With nowhere left to hide.

Bridge:
Oh, the spotlight fades, the laughter dies,
But I’ll keep on singing beneath these skies.
For every flop, there’s a spark of gold,
And a story that’s waiting to be told.

Final Chorus:
Twang! Goes my heart,
But I’ll make a new start,
With a song and a dream and a part.
Twang! Goes my soul,
But I’ll reach my goal,
And I’ll never let them take my role.

Outro:
Twang! Goes my heart,
But the show’s just the start,
And I’ll keep on playing my part.
Twang! Goes my heart…

End of scene

LIFEAINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

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Scene 4

Lionel’s flat. Sometime later. Both are relaxing

ALMA:
(pausing)
There’s something I need to tell you, Lionel.

LIONEL:
(stops playing)
Sounds serious. What is it?

Lionel’s flat. Sometime later. Both are relaxing

LIONEL:                                                                                                                     When did we first meet Alma? It was at your flat in Kensington, wasn’t it?

ALMA:                                                                                                                                     Yes, I think so. Tommy Steele brought you along. You had just written Rock With The Cavemen for him and it was a big hit.  Must be five years or more now.  (teasing)
But you’ve written so many hits—Living Doll for Cliff, As Long As He Needs Me for Shirley…but you can’t expect me to remember that far back.

We see her nervously fiddling and twisting her handkerchief

LIONEL:
(looking up)
You’ve been quiet tonight, Alma. Something on your mind

ALMA:
(takes a deep breath)
It’s about John. John Lennon.

LIONEL:
(raising an eyebrow)
What about him?

ALMA:
(hesitating)
We… we had a thing. A secret. It didn’t last long, but… it happened.

LIONEL:
(stunned)
You and Lennon? When?

ALMA:
(softly)
A couple of years ago. It was just after they started getting big. He was… different. Wild. And I was… curious.

LIONEL:
(bitterly)
Curious? Is that what you call it?

ALMA:
(defensive)
It wasn’t like that, Lionel. It was just a moment. A mistake.

LIONEL:
(standing up)
A mistake? You and one of the most famous men in the world? That’s not a mistake, Alma. That’s a headline.

ALMA:
(pleading)
It didn’t mean anything. It was just… something that happened.

LIONEL:
(sighing)
And now you’re telling me. Why?

ALMA:
(because I care about you, Lionel. Because I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.

LIONEL:
(softening)
Secrets have a way of coming out, Alma.

ALMA:
(smiling faintly)
I know. But I’d rather you hear it from me.

(They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of her confession hanging in the air. Lionel walks over to the piano and plays a few notes, lost in thought.)

LIONEL:
(softly)
You’re full of surprises, Alma.

ALMA:
(smiling)
That’s what keeps life interesting, isn’t it? Anyway, now it’s you turn.

LIONEL:                                                                                                                      My turn?

 ALMA:                                                                                                                         What secrets are you hiding? Come on…fair’s fair!

Lionel is silent for a while

LIONEL:                                                                                                                          I can’t read or write music

ALMA: (laughing)                                                                                                   Everybody already knows that! Come on…give!

LIONEL:                                                                                                              Well…lots of people think we are a couple, don’t they? I mean, we go places together, don’t we? And we often go away together for a couple of days… stuff like that.

ALMA:                                                                                                                             Like a married couple you mean? But we not really like that, are we?
(teasing) You know, Lionel, we’d make a great team. Maybe we should just get married and write hit songs together forever.


LIONEL:
(laughing)
And who’d keep us in line? You’d be off touring the world, and I’d be locked in a room with a piano.

ALMA: (jokingly)

I’m serious! (pause) Lionel, you’ve been my best friend, my collaborator, and the one person who always understands me. So, what do you say? Shall we make it official?

LIONEL:
(stunned)
Alma, are you serious?

ALMA: (smiling)

I could be
LIONEL                                                                                                                       N…No, you couldn’t.

ALMA:                                                                                                                       And we both know why, don’t we? (Lionel nods) We’re just friends. Good friends, but still only friends. (pause) Are you happy with that?

Lionel nods again

ALMA:                                                                                                                         Then so am I

ALMA sings ‘A HARD DAYS NIGHT’ while Lionel accompanies her on piano

Song by

The Beatles

It’s been a hard day’s night
And I’ve been working like a dog
It’s been a hard day’s night
I should be sleeping like a log
But when I get home to you
I find the things that you do
Will make me feel alright

You know I work all day
To get you money, to buy you things
And it’s worth it just to hear you say
You’re gonna give me everything
So why on earth should I moan
‘Cause when I get you alone
You know I feel OK

When I’m home
Everything seems to be right
When I’m home
Feeling you holding me tight
Tight, yeah

It’s been a hard day’s night
And I’ve been working like a dog
It’s been a hard day’s night
I should be sleeping like a log
But when I get home to you
I find the things that you do
Will make me feel alright, owww!

So why on earth should I moan
‘Cause when I get you alone
You know I feel OK

When I’m home
Everything seems to be right
When I’m home
Feeling you holding me tight
Tight, yeah

Mmm, it’s been a hard day’s night
And I’ve been working like a dog
It’s been a hard day’s night
I should be sleeping like a log
But when I get home to you
I find the things that you do
Will make me feel alright
You know I feel alright
You know I feel alright

(They share a quiet moment, the tension slowly easing. The lights dim as the scene fades.)

End of scene

Scene 5

STOLEN WORDS

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FETCHING THE WATER WITH NEDDY

Where I come from is who I am:
Tangled blackberry bushes
Smoke rising from a solitary chimney
The pine grove in the distance
And Father shouting
“More water in that barrel”
As we bucketed it from our well
To our asses cart,
Creel-less for once.
Other days Neddy would be laden down
With wood from the nearby thicket
Ash trees, young Sally’s, stumps of furze bushes.
Sometimes he hauled sand and gravel
From the quarry at Carroll’s Cross,
Part of Father’s master plan
To build us an outside toilet.
This would mean more water from the well
To feed the tank on its roof,
Unless it rained a lot
Which of course it often did
In our neck of the woods.

451


Ah Montag, Montag, where are you now?
Steeped in your kerosene world
You burnt the books
The houses and even the people.
Then fire seared your brain
And cleansed your senses
Books were made to be read not torched.
So you ran to the river
The Mechanical Hound snapping at your heels.

The sun burns every day
It burns time
The firemen burn the books
They burn them every day
Ah Montag, Montag, time burns everything away.

I HAVE A GOOD BOOK IN ME

According to perceived wisdom
Everybody has a good book in them
I now have a good book in me
I ate one this morning
For breakfast
I am still digesting the contents

RAINY NIGHTS IN SOHO


See all the down-and-out lickers and fuckers
Down the Embankment they tumble
Unable any longer to bear much reality
Too much self-knowledge
And time spent trotting
Between the Tate and the National
Or one of their endless reading groups
Believing they had
A story to tell
If only things had worked out,
If only the monkey had hit the right keys.
Hush! if you listen carefully
You can hear the dead click
Of their keyboards
In the raucousness of the Soho night;
The minicabs, the limos, the rickshaws all screaming
Take me…take me…I’m free
And the hen nighters, the stag nighters,
The whatever-the fuck nighters,
Lingering in pools of their own vomit
Waiting for the paramedics to call;
Shirts open to the navel, skirts slit
From here to eternity.
Late summer, later winter, who gives a shit?
The restaurants are all full
Though nobody is really eating
Just being there is what matters.
Smokers stop the traffic
Inspecting their mobiles
What would a Martian make of that?
No one sees anything any more
Except the lampposts they walk into;
There are no witnesses to crime;
How anybody falls in love anymore is a puzzle
Eyes no longer meet in lingering amazement
Unless they are reflected
In all those infernal hand-held screens.

Some poems from my collection STOLEN WORDS. Available on Amazon.

MY FATHER – a poem by John Osborne

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John Osborne poet

John Osborne  was an English playwright, screenwriter, actor and critic of the Establishment. The success of his 1956 play Look Back in Anger transformed English theatre.

In a productive life of more than 40 years, Osborne explored many themes and genres, writing for stage, film and TV. His personal life was extravagant and iconoclastic. He was notorious for the ornate violence of his language, not only on behalf of the political causes he supported but also against his own family, including his wives and children.

Osborne was one of the first writers to address Britain’s purpose in the post-imperial age. He was the first to question the point of the monarchy on a prominent public stage. During his peak (1956–1966), he helped make contempt an acceptable and now even cliched onstage emotion, argued for the cleansing wisdom of bad behaviour and bad taste, and combined unsparing truthfulness with devastating wit.

MY FATHER

My father lived a simple life
But he was a man apart
With gentle ways and humble mind
And an understanding heart

He loved and cared for people
Helping those in need.
He strove to make folk happy
For kindness was his creed.

He never aimed for dizzy heights
Of luxury or fame
But where he walked and where he talked
With love he carved his name.

He was like a rock to lean upon
Each problem he would share.
He found his strength in his belief
And in kneeling down in prayer.

He loved his home and lived his life
With fullness to the end
He taught me much I owe him much
A father and a friend.

Death was peace and joy to him
It was no fearful thing,
His faith was simple and sincere
And God alone his king.

John Osborne

HOME BEFORE DARK

/ gorgeousgael / 5 Comments

SEPTEMBER IS THE LOVELIEST MONTH
September is the loveliest month.
The sky is on permanent fire
The trees painted many colours
Burnished, it seems, with pure desire
In the park, ducks glide silently by
And the always busy seagulls
Resemble sea-planes
Coming in to land from on high
Whilst near the dozing oak tree
The squirrels nutmeg each other
Each acorn hoarded
For the soon-to-come cold weather.
Your arm in mine
We stroll down the park
Heading towards the sunset
Home before dark.