Plays 1

by Kwame Kwei-Armah

  Alfred I don’t need your help. What help I need?

  Gemma – which actually brings me neatly to what I wanted to talk to you about. Your daughter and I have decided to arrange some ‘assistance’.

  Alfred For who?

  Gemma A private home-help person to come here.

  Alfred Come where?

  Gemma Three times a week, just for a couple of hours . . . To check up on you.

  Alfred I don’t need no one to check up on me.

  Gemma See that you’re eating . . . You won’t let Janet near you, and –

  Alfred She kick me out she house in the middle of the night!

  Gemma – and I’m not the look-after-Dad-at-home kinda gal, so . . .

  Alfred I don’t want you to look after me.

  Gemma Good, cos it’s already sorted.

  Beat.

  Alfred And who paying for this?

  Gemma Janet and me . . .

  Alfred Oh, really. You, with your broke self?

  Gemma Yes, me. I’m going to pay her back, alright.

  Alfred Let me tell you something. I don’t want anything from any of all you, you understand me? Now get you arse out me house. Get. Get. And the next time you come to my house ever talk stupidness to me like that again and I’ll throw hot water in you face.

  Gemma You’re ignorant, Dad, proper ignorant. Your prescription of painkillers from the hospital . . . Make sure you eat, Dad.

  Alfred And don’t you just love me for it?

  She takes a packet and a prescription from her pocket and puts them on the radiogram.

  Alfred Pussyhole.

  Gemma slowly walks out. After she’s gone Alfred picks up the packet, opens it, looks at the painkillers.

  Lights.

  Scene Two

  The next day.

  Alfred, in his house clothes, is sitting on his sofa. He is holding the top part of his chest. We can see that he is in pain.

  He stands, walks to the drawer and pulls out the painkillers. He just stares at them and then throws them back in.

  He pulls a joint out of his pocket and lights up. After two or three pulls he’s settled again. Suddenly he hears a key go into the front door lock. We hear a slight struggle with the door. After a few beats we hear it open.

  Alfred heads to the sitting-room door, raising his walking stick high in the air. As Maria – twenty-five, dyed red hair covered with baseball cap, and very pale – walks into the front room, Alfred brings the cane down with force, only missing her head by inches. Maria jumps back in fright.

  Maria Jesus!

  Alfred (snaps out) Who are you? What you doing in my house?

  Maria I Maria, you help . . .

  Alfred I’ll bust this stick in you arse . . . how’d you get keys to my house?

  Maria Look . . . look . . . you helper.

  She takes paper out of her bag and shoves it in his direction.

  From agent-cie. They tell me to come – 21 Johnstone Avenue. Go see . . . see – you Mr . . . Mooorishh.

  Without putting down the cane, he takes the paperwork from her and reads. After a few beats he slowly puts down the cane and looks at her.

  Alfred (sharp) Where are you from?

  Maria Eh, um, Good Home Services – they have all reference . . .

  Alfred No, no, no, I say where you from, which country you born?

  Maria Oh, um, Poland.

  Alfred laughs. Maria is unsure why he is laughing.

  Maria Why you laugh?

  Alfred Well, look at me crosses – my children really don’t know me. Dem don’t send me a non-English-speaking immigrant to look after my needs. Listen, Polish – and I’ll speak slowly so that you understand – what did they tell you to do at 21 Johnstone Avenue?

  Maria They say look after sick man.

  Alfred Could a sick man nearly knock your head off with a cane?

  Maria Depends where sick. If in the head – then, yes . . .

  Alfred (slightly wrong-footed) Well, there is nothing wrong with my head or any other part of me. I don’t need no home help . . . I definitely don’t want no Polish thieving the Englishman job neither.

  Maria They warn me you would be – how they say – upset.

  Alfred Who is they?

  Maria The agent-cie.

  Alfred (correcting her) Cy, cy, the agen-cy.

  Maria Agency.

  Alfred You know – when we come to dis country dem wouldn’t let we into they house and we could only speak the Queen’s – you lot just reach and look? Everyone breaking down they house so they could bring all you in to fix it up. Not me a rass! This blasted country makes me sick.

  Maria So you do sick.

  Alfred No, it’s an English figure of speech, Polish.

  Maria No!

  Alfred No what?

  Maria No Polish. You say is English figure of speech and Polish.

  Alfred No, I was calling you Polish.

  Maria My name is Maria . . .

  Alfred What you say, Polish?

  Maria Not Polish, my name’s Maria. Your name?

  Alfred Doesn’t it say on the letter?

  Maria Mr . . . A. Moorishhh – sorry, Morrris. What is first name?

  Alfred Who are you, social se-bloody-curity?

  Maria I tell you mine, is only fair you tell me yours.

  Alfred Fair? You think is fair that they let so many of you into the country thieving work from we young people?

  Maria I don’t . . .

  Alfred Give a monkey’s. Get de fuck out me house.

  Maria looks at him.

  Maria This word ‘fook’ – is bad word in English, no?

  Alfred Yes, it is.

  Maria Then why you use?

  Alfred It brings a wonderful focus and clarity to my sentences. Now, tell your agency that it is not your fault, just those that employed their services were incorrect in their assessment of my needs.

  Maria May I sit for moment before I . . . ? My heart still fast beating from attack.

  Alfred I didn’t attack you.

  Maria No you, on street before here. Two young boys.

  She shows him bruise on her arm.

  Want phone – I give – when they see old make, they push me, give back and run. Old trick I use in Poland – always carry shit – people no like shit . . . This is big house. How many rooms you have?

  She sits.

  Alfred Five. Why?

  Maria Plenty cleaning.

  Alfred No one lives in the rooms, what they need to get clean for?

  Maria My, how you say, unc-lel . . . Unclel is right word?

  Alfred I struggle to understand your sentences, you think I can work out singular words?

  Maria My brother . . . my mother brother – unc-lel . . .

  Alfred Ohh, uncle.

  Maria Yes, is word. He too has big house – not so big, but look like this. You used to have money, yes . . .

  Alfred I beg your pardon?

  Maria Well, house now looking little . . . well, how we say in Polish . . .

  Alfred Listen, young lady, I’m not interested in how you describe my house in Polish, Yiddish or Azerbaijanish. How I choose to display my wealth is my own private affair. Now before you so impertinently put my key in my door, I was on my way to a calling that people of my age ignore at their peril. When your heart has settled you can see yourself out. Leave my keys on the table. Goodbye Ms Polish – Maria.

  Maria You want help toilet?

  Alfred No! I do not . . . my leg is bandaged, I have not lost it. I’m going to keep the door open. Any nonsense and I’ll be out swinging . . . as it were. Goodbye.

  He leaves, quickly. Maria takes a bottle of water out of her bag. Then she unwraps her sandwiches from the foil, takes a single bite and wraps them back again. Maria looks around and spots the gramophone and globe. She thinks for a second, then gets out her cleaning liquids and starts to polish the globe.

  Maria Tom to jest. [There you are.]

  And then she
continues. When she finishes the globe she looks at the gramophone and marvels at it.

  She lifts the head of the gram and sees the turntable inside.

  Mr . . . A. Morriss, what is this – ?

  She looks at the name of the machine.

  Bluespot . . .

  Alfred (shouts from off) What are you doing near my gramophone? Get away from my gram.

  We hear the toilet flush and Alfred moves as fast as he can back to the front room.

  Who told you to touch up me tings? Step away from the gram.

  Maria (ignoring his stress) How beautiful is this machine . . . I no see before . . . I take back, you man of taste . . .

  Alfred Take back?

  Maria Oh when I came in I thought you like most English, rich but no understanding of history.

  Alfred History?

  Maria Is wrong word but I know what I mean. How many years you have this?

  Alfred Umm, if you must know, July 12th 1963. First thing I ever bought in England.

  Maria Wow. Many years older than me. You must be old Mr . . . Morrisss.

  Alfred (ignoring) Thank you. Is the only way I does remember my children birthday actually. Janet was born four years after I bought Lillie – that’s she name – and then the mistake – Gemma – eight years after that . . .

  Maria Mistake? What is that mean?

  Alfred (softer, but correcting her) What does that mean.

  Maria (trying it) What does that mean?

  Alfred Exactly.

  Maria So?

  Alfred Oh! It means, how can I say this politely? I thought we were covered against such mishaps – but nothing in life is one-hundred-per-cent safe.

  Maria I think I know what you speak of. Yes, life can throw – how Americans say – curve ball.

  Alfred looks blank.

  Maria My boyfriend love baseball. Lillie is nice antique.

  Alfred Antique? This is a hi-tech, hi-spec, fully functioning gramophone. This baby doesn’t only still play, it polishes the record before she plays them . . .

  Maria Nooo, she still can work?

  Alfred What you mean?

  He dashes over to ‘Lillie’ with joy.

  OK, you ready for this?

  He slides open the bottom drawer and takes out three LPs.

  Which shall it be, Lillie? Who will show you off the best to our Polish friend here that thinks we don’t have class or pedigree?

  Eyes closed, he places each LP on ‘Lillie’ as if waiting for her to reply. After placing all three, he goes back to the second one: The World of Nat King Cole.

  He places the disc on the turntable and it starts to play the jazzy introduction to ‘Let There Be Love’.

  Alfred smiles all over his face as Nat’s dulcet tones glide their way through the words. He starts to sway almost with the rhythm.

  Alfred (shouts over music) You have them rhythm dere in Poland, girl? Heyyy! Who needs people, eh, when you have Nat? I tell you something – forget CD, DVD, greenray or stingray, you have a problem in this world, Nat and Lillie guaranteed to have the answer. Doesn’t she sound glorious?

  Maria She does. But must you play so loud?

  Alfred Oh!

  He bends over to turn down the volume, but has a shooting pain in his chest.

  Ah!

  Maria Are you alright?

  Moves to help him. He pushes her arm off quite violently.

  Alfred I’m fine . . .

  Maria Here, have chair . . .

  Alfred I said I’m fine. I’m not an invalid, you know.

  He slowly makes his way back to his chair. Once seated he begins to breath in and out, in and out, quite deeply while gently massaging his chest. He takes a packet of Polo mints out of his pocket and places one in his mouth.

  Eventually he returns to breathing normally.

  Maria It say nothing on medical record of heart.

  Alfred That’s because there is nothing wrong with my heart. Let me see that?

  He takes a sheet from her and stares at it, checking out what it says about him.

  Where did they get this information?

  Maria I don’t know. Why you rub?

  Alfred Because, Ms Noseache Maria, I very occasionally have problems breathing.

  Maria Do your doctor know?

  Alfred (kisses his teeth) Don’t get me started on my doctor – huh! Char, I have my own remedy. Is not everything you must wait on the state to do for you. Your people know all about that, don’t they, Polish?

  Maria Know what?

  Alfred Horrors of the state doing everything for you . . .

  She looks blank.

  Alfred Lech Walesa? Solidarity?

  Maria I know very little of politics, Mr Morrisss.

  She moves next to the gram. Opens her arms as if about to twirl.

  (Changing subject.) But I know lovely music. It reminds me of America . . . I learn all my English from American film. You ever been to America, Mr Morrisss?

  Alfred Once or twice.

  Maria Is it wonderful there – like in movie? ‘Make my day, punk.’ ‘I be back.’

  Alfred Of all the glorious black-and-white romantic movies, that’s what you know?

  Maria Is what I want to say to those boys today.

  Alfred You wanted to shoot them?

  Maria just smiles as if entertaining the thought.

  Alfred You been in the country two minutes and you want to start shooting black children already? You have no idea what those children are going through, no idea what their parents and grandparents have been through, so don’t you come here and start to judge them . . . Do you hear me, Ms White Polish?

  Maria Who say they black?

  Beat. Alfred coughs.

  Alfred Like I was saying, I’ve been to America a few times. Nothing like the movies at all.

  Maria What is like then?

  She sits, almost eager to hear. He takes a second to take in that Maria actualy wants to hear him speak.

  Alfred (surprised she wants to hear) You really want to (know). . . (Smiles.) Big. Everything is double the size you think it should be. Including the women.

  Maria I don’t think is very funny, Mr Morisss.

  She shows him the badge on her jacket: ‘Route 66’.

  Have you been here? Route 66? Tomas, my boyfriend, say he see it. But I don’t believe him. He lie very much.

  Alfred smiles, indicates for her to wait a minute. He places the needle on a track. The jazzy opening of Nat King Cole’s ‘Get Your Kicks on Route 66’.

  At Nat’s words, Maria laughs, and she asks:

  Maria Is really two thousand kilometre?

  Alfred (jumping to music) No, miles, that’s about what? Three thousand kilometre? Isn’t this baby jumping?

  Maria starts to dance to the music.

  After another verse, Alfred switches it off.

  Maria I am beginning to believe you – this Nat . . . ?

  Alfred King Cole.

  Maria He do – (correcting herself) does have answer to questions.

  Alfred smiles.

  Alfred All questions in the world! This is what don’t have me in one ah, England madhouse.

  Maria How long you been in England, Mr Morrissss?

  Alfred (rubbing head) Last count? . . . Forty-five years, three months, and two weeks.

  Maria When you last count?

  Alfred This morning.

  Maria So you English then!

  Alfred (flash of vexation) Don’t you ever call me that!

  Maria Oh. OK.

  Alfred How long you been thieving English jobs, Ms Polish?

  She raises her eyes.

  Maria I been here year and half months. But I go home soon for holiday? I miss my home.

  Alfred That never changes, no matter how long you here.

  Maria (very gently) May I give you trick for chest?

  She waits for permission.

  Put real ginger from shop on corner in pot of hot water with lemon and um, how you
say? (She says it in Polish first.) Like pepper . . .

  Alfred What you talking about, child? That is an old West Indian remedy. What all you people in the cold know about ginger and clove?

  Maria I don’t know where come from. I just use with my father.

  Alfred Well, I’m not your father, and when you quoting West Indian tings with me . . .

  Maria suddenly jumps up.

  Maria Oh!

  Alfred What?

  She looks at her watch.

  Maria I am due next job?

  Alfred You’ve only been here a few minutes.

  Maria They tell me come, Johnstone Avenue, client will attack you with stick, you leave immediate, claim full hour . . . Next client booked thirty minutes after attack.

  Alfred They knew I would attack you?

  Maria (throws away) Yes. Other lady say no, but for full hour pay is worth risk – and I need money . . .

  Alfred (ignoring) What cleaning could you possibly do in an hour?

  Maria All new job start with hour, then, if both happy, increase. (Beat.) You want increase Mr A. Morris?

  Alfred looks up at her. And stares for a while.

  Alfred (almost reluctantly) I don’t need no increase of nothing . . . but if you passing the chemist or even the ginger shop you could bring these back with you – if you dare.

  He takes the prescription from his pocket and hands it to her, along with a fiver.

  Maria smiles and exits. Alfred smiles before pulling a hard face again.

  Lights.

  Scene Three

  A few weeks later. Alfred is by a drawer. He pulls out a letter and slips it in his pocket as secretly as he can. Gemma is walking around.

  Gemma Three weeks and the place looking better already, boy . . . Look like Polish workin’ hard . . .

  Alfred That’s what you paying her for, innit?

  Gemma Innit. What’s your leg doing out of bandage? It’s suppose to be on for another week.

  Alfred Think I rely on dem man dere? I remembered a therapy my mother use to tell me about and bam, the leg fix. Nothing a little ginger rub won’t cure. Anyway, what you doing here again?

  Gemma doesn’t reply to that.

  Gemma Dad . . . can’t you forgive Janet? I know she went too far – but calling she husband a white bastard and de child a half-breed wretch, cos she told you to not smoke weed in she house, it’s enough to make anyone flip.