by Alan Moore
JOHN CLARE: Well, to be fair, that manner of confinement is a thing that very few of us have properly anticipated or have made allowance for. The general measure of it is, it’s always a surprise. One moment you’re Lord Byron and the next you’re in a morning room that’s full of idiots eating porridge.
THOMAS BECKET: And you said yourself that I’m to quit Northampton and make off for France where it would seem to me that I’m to be in exile, a confinement I was not anticipating.
JOHN CLARE: From what I heard, in the dead of night you made off through a breach was in the castle wall, and then went out the north gate of the town, what’s up there at the end of Sheep Street just past where the old round church is.
THOMAS BECKET: Aye, I know it.
JOHN CLARE: It appears that you went out the gate and rode off to the north, so they should think that was where you were headed, then you doubled back and made away down south to Dover and from there across to France.
THOMAS BECKET: That seems a cautious and a clever thing to do. I shall remember it when I awake.
BECKETT: Yes, I thought that about a line of dialogue that the wife here spoke not half an hour ago, but I have already forgotten it. It strikes me it was something about earwigs.
JOHN CLARE: [To THOMAS BECKET.] There is some controversy about the route you took on your escape. It is a common tale that in your leaving of Northampton you made halt to take a drink from the stone well that’s down by Beckett’s Park. But if indeed you left by the north gate then that would not seem likely.
THOMAS BECKET: That is answered easily enough. I know the well you mean and took a drink there where I next went into Hamtun by its Dern gate. It was in the coming to the town and not the leaving of it but apart from that the tale is true enough, although it seems a thing of little consequence. I am more taken with the thought that there should be a park named for me.
JOHN CLARE: Well, again, there’s some controversy. Although there is the story of the well, the park’s name has two Ts upon the end of it, unlike your own, and so may not be named for you at all.
BECKETT: Two Ts? Well, there’s a thing. I don’t suppose that it could be named after me at all?
JOHN CLARE: The way that I was told, it is a lady benefactor to the town gave the park her name, rather than either of you gentlemen. The stuff about the well is possibly no more than a coincidence. Although now that I come to think about it, I believe the well is likewise spelled with two Ts at the end of it, though that is likely no more than abiding local ignorance and clumsiness with words in their correct expression. I hope that I haven’t let you down with what I’ve said.
THOMAS BECKET: [Sounding disappointed.] Let down? No, I wouldn’t say … no, not let down. It would be a vain man indeed who was let down by such a thing, and have you not already said that I shall be a saint? No. Not let down. Why should I be?
BECKETT: [Sounding similarly disappointed.] Me neither. I had made my comment in the manner of a joke, when the plain truth is that it makes no difference if a park were named for me or not. It’s all the same as far as I’m concerned. To have a park named after you would seem to be a vulgar and a common thing, such as the many parks that bear the name Victoria.
JOHN CLARE: Ah, yes. My pretty little daughter. Have you heard much news about her? How’s she getting on with life?
BECKETT: Dear God, not all this nonsense just when I thought we were done with it. I can’t be bothered with it anymore. And to be frank I’m not expecting much more out of this pair either. I’ve a feeling that they’ve pretty much exhausted what they had by way of conversation.
THOMAS BECKET: There I must agree. They sit half-dazed amid a sorry wreckage of their own accomplishment and neither seek atonement nor can have an expectation of redemption. It is a drear tale too often told and like you I am wearied with it. And besides, if what you’ve told to me is true I have my own drear tale to make a way through. I think I may carry on in that direction [THOMAS BECKET points towards the audience, as if at an off-stage street] to the castle where my former playmate waits for me.
BECKETT: Aye, I might join you. I was planning to walk down that way myself and take a look at old Saint Peter’s Church, the way I first did when I came here for the cricket.
THOMAS BECKET: It is a fine building of the old kind and I know it well. I must say that I am surprised to hear it is still standing, getting on a thousand years since. Has it fallen to neglect? Are all the horrible grotesques that I recall still grimacing from out the stonework?
JOHN CLARE: There’s a few have fallen off or been knocked down across the years, but the majority are still in place. So, both of you are off, then? I cannot persuade you to remain and keep me company so that I shall have someone who can hear me that I can converse with?
BECKETT: I apologise, but no, I cannot be persuaded. It has been a pleasure of a kind to meet with you, for all of your wild fancies and your tale of having impudently bedded Lucia. I should not mind if I met you again, although I must admit I say that in the expectation that it will be not be the case.
JOHN CLARE: For my part I’ll be sorry to be left here on my own, but as a consequence of my insanity I will no doubt have soon forgotten you were ever here, or will have otherwise become convinced of your delusory nature as with my first w– as with some other comical misapprehensions that I may have had. I’ve found you likeable enough, the pair of you, but must remark that you are very similar, both in the spelling of your names, and in the fact that I have thought the two of you to be quite grim.
BECKETT: You are not grim yourself, at all?
JOHN CLARE: No. I partake in a great deal of unproductive melancholy, but I don’t think I’ve the courage to be grim. Bleak sometimes, possibly, but not what you’d call grim. I’ve not the stomach for it.
THOMAS BECKET: [Kindly and sympathetically.] Will you not accompany us to the church? I should not like to think that we had left you by yourself.
BECKETT: [Aside, quietly exasperated.] Oh, that’s just great!
JOHN CLARE: [To THOMAS BECKET.] No, thank you for your offer, but I think I shall stay here awhile. I am not sure these two are finished their debate, and am yet hopeful there shall be some poetry to its conclusion. Though not very hopeful. I am after all by nature a realistic man, at least in my descriptions, for all that they say I am romantic or am otherwise a fool. The pair of you enjoy your evening, now, and leave me to enjoy my own. Good luck to you, especially to you, Saint Thomas, and congratulations on avoiding the decomposition.
THOMAS BECKET: Hm. Yes, well, thank you … though I cannot think in all humility that it was through some effort on my own part.
BECKETT: Aye, good luck to you as well. Remember that John Clare was a much better poet than Lord Byron. That should keep you straight. Farewell, now. [SAMUEL BECKETT and THOMAS BECKET stroll away towards STAGE RIGHT, talking as they go.] So, the being canonised and all of that. Had you no inkling of miraculous abilities prior to the business of not rotting?
THOMAS BECKET: Not that I recall. I had a certain fluency of penmanship, but I myself did not think it miraculous. And for your own part, you are still acquainted with the Holy Church?
BECKETT: Well, I’ll not lie. We’ve had our ups and downs … [They EXIT RIGHT. JOHN CLARE stands in place and follows them with his eyes, first tracking away to STAGE RIGHT, then turning his head slowly until he is peering out over the audience. There is a long pause as he waits to be sure they are too far off to hear.]
JOHN CLARE: I still say that I had your lady friend. The lexicon came out my ears as though it were a sperm of language. It was an encounter I found bracing, and I don’t regret it. [CLARE stands where he is a moment or two longer, idly gazing at the unresponsive HUSBAND and WIFE. When they do not move or speak, he sadly and resignedly turns to shuffle back towards his alcove at the CENTRE/RIGHT REAR of the STAGE, where he sits down, staring mournfully at the motionless couple in the foreground. After a few moments more there is the SOUND from OFF of the CHURCH CLOCK ST
RIKING ONCE. Sitting on their step, the WIFE looks up at this as if appalled, while the HUSBAND does not react.]
WIFE: It’s still one o’clock. How can it still be one o’clock? Why is it always one o’clock?
HUSBAND: [Unsympathetically.] You said yourself, it’s too late from now on. It’s always half past nothing to be done.
WIFE: But that was you. You were the one who brought this down upon us. Why is it still one o’clock for me?
HUSBAND: Because you were as much a part of them as I was, all the goings on. And that’s the thing I’ve learned with goings on. They go on. They continue. Nothing’s ever done with.
WIFE: [After a horrified pause, as she reflects on this.] Is this hell? Johnny, have we gone to hell?
HUSBAND: [Wearily, not looking at her.] Celia, I don’t know.
JOHN CLARE: We talked about that earlier, and we thought purgatory to be the greater likelihood. Not that I’m claiming any great authority upon the subject. [A pause.] You can’t hear me. What’s the point of any of it? [Along with the HUSBAND and WIFE, CLARE lapses into a gloomy silence. After a few moments a HALF-CASTE WOMAN ENTERS STAGE LEFT beneath the portico. After a few steps she stops and appraises the scene, looking first at the couple on the steps and then at JOHN CLARE sitting in his alcove.]
WOMAN: You’re the poet, ain’t yer? You’re John Clare.
JOHN CLARE: [Surprised.] I am? You’re sure of it? Not Byron or King William?
WOMAN: [Kindly and sympathetically.] No, love. You’re John Clare. From what I heard, it’s just you get a bit mixed up from time to time.
JOHN CLARE: That’s true. I do. And you don’t find it off-putting?
WOMAN: No. To be honest, darling, when I heard about you, I thought that you sounded like a laugh. And some of what you wrote, it’s lovely. Is that true, about you walking eighty miles back here after you’d legged it from a nut house down in Essex?
JOHN CLARE: Nut house?
WOMAN: Yeah, you know. The funny farm. Napoleon factory. Laughing academy. The loony bin.
JOHN CLARE: [Laughing, amused and delighted.] Oh, you mean the coney hatch. You should have said. Yes, that was where I was. You seem to know a lot about me.
WOMAN: Oh, I know about all sorts of things. You know, it’s really nice to meet you, Mr. Clare. I’m well pleased.
JOHN CLARE: Well, it’s mutual. What’s your name, lass?
WOMAN: Everybody calls me Kaph.
JOHN CLARE: Kath?
WOMAN: Kaph. K-A-P-H. It’s got a P in it.
JOHN CLARE: That’s an unusual name, all right. And which parts of Northampton and eternity would you be from?
WOMAN: Spring Boroughs, 1988 to 2060. Mostly I worked down at the Saint Peter’s annexe, next door to the church, trying to sort out all the refugees come from the east.
JOHN CLARE: The east of India?
WOMAN: Of Anglia. Yarmouth and round there. We get a fair bit of trouble with the weather in the time I’m from.
JOHN CLARE: Aye, well, ’twas ever thus in England.
WOMAN: No it wasn’t, sweetheart. Trust me. Not like this it wasn’t. It’s all falling in the sea, love, and when you’ve got all the people moving then they bring their problems with them, and their problems are all that much worse. Drugs and diseases, violence and abuse and all the mental problems that come with ’em. When I was down at the annexe I come up with an idea for processing – that means, like, sorting out – big crowds of people who were caught up in emergencies. It wasn’t anything that clever. It was just this questionnaire, done as an app, and it was only common sense from what I’d seen while I was working with the refugees. Anyway, it got took up across the world and saved a lot of lives, apparently.
JOHN CLARE: I am ashamed to say I do not have the first idea of what I have been told just now. The gist I caught was that you are a woman of unusual intelligence and merit, but being the fool I am I got caught up in looking at your bosom and so may have missed the greater part of it. Please don’t think badly of me.
WOMAN: [Laughing.] Oh, you’re all right. You’re John Clare. It’s quite an honour you should make the effort to look at me boobs.
JOHN CLARE: You are a kind woman, I think, and a robust one of a cheery humour. I should pay you the respect of listening to what you say. Please tell it to me all again, and be sure that I look you in the eye.
WOMAN: Ah, you’re a legend. You’re just how I thought you would be from the poetry. I’m not saying I’ve not read a lot of them but there were some of ’em that made me cry. As for me, there wasn’t that much more to tell. The business with the questionnaire meant that I ended up getting a lot more notice than I’d ever wanted or deserved. They started calling me a saint, but to be honest I found that a bit depressing. Like I say, it wasn’t anything I’d ever wanted.
JOHN CLARE: You’re a saint, then?
WOMAN: Not a proper one. Just in the papers. They’ll make anyone a saint. I tried not to have anything to do with it.
JOHN CLARE: We had a real one pass by just now on this very spot. Thomas á Becket.
WOMAN: Really?
JOHN CLARE: Else I dreamed it.
WOMAN: He’s well famous, Thomas Becket.
JOHN CLARE: Aye, he’s famous for a well, all right. We talked about it. He was passing by this spot because he did so on his way to condemnation at the castle. Then the other Mr. Beckett, he was here revisiting the churches of Northampton as he’d done upon a previous occasion, whereas Mr. Bunyan passed through on his way to hear a proclamation in the market. As for me, this is the place I always sat, so that’s the explanation for my presence, but what of yourself? Do you consider yourself to be dead or dreaming, and in either case what brings you here?
WOMAN: Oh, I’m dead. There’s no doubt about it. I got caught up in a water riot when it was getting bad in twenty-sixty and me ticker couldn’t handle it, not in me seventies.
JOHN CLARE: You don’t look seventy.
WOMAN: Well, ta. This is me in me thirties, when I looked me best. To be quite honest, any younger and I was a mess, and I got a bit scrawny after I was knocking on a bit. As for the reason why I’m here, it’s them. [The HALF-CASTE WOMAN nods towards the couple on the steps.]
JOHN CLARE: You know them, then?
WOMAN: Oh, yeah. Well, not in life I never met ’em, no, but I know all about ’em. Him, the bloke, that’s Johnny Vernall and the woman’s his wife Celia. This is the night their daughter locked them out the house in Freeschool Street and they came here and sat beneath the portico until the morning. What it was, I knew their daughter, Audrey.
JOHN CLARE: Ah, yes. That would be the one the things were done to. I was trying to fathom it with all the other ghosts that were here earlier. It sounded like a miserable business.
WOMAN: Oh, it was. It was. But then, I suppose it had to be.
JOHN CLARE: How did you know her, the poor child?
WOMAN: Well, she was an old woman when I met her. It was one night back when I was young, and when I was in trouble, and she saved me life. She was the most frightening, amazing person that I’ve ever seen, and that night turned everything round for me. If what I went on to do later helped a lot of people, it was all because of her. If she’d not helped me, I’d have been dead and then none of that, the questionnaire, none of that would have happened. She’s the real saint, Audrey. She’s the martyr, and this is the night before they took her to the stake. And that’s the reason why I’m here. After what Audrey done for me, I thought that it was only right. I thought that it was only right that I should come and see, and be a witness.
JOHN CLARE: If there is a poetry to all of this, it seems as though hurt women are a central matter. [A pause.] But where are my manners! I’ve got a young lady stood here all this time and never offered her a seat!
WOMAN: [She laughs, starting to walk towards JOHN CLARE’s alcove.] Oh, well, that’s very nice. I –
JOHN CLARE: [Slightly alarmed, fearing she’s misunderstood him.] No, not this one. This is mine. T
he one there on the other side is what I keep for visitors. I’m told it’s very comfortable.
WOMAN: [Surprised, but more amused than offended.] Oh, right. Okay, then. Over here, yeah? [She goes and sits in the alcove to STAGE LEFT of the door.] Mm. You’re right. It’s very nice. Nice place to sit.
JOHN CLARE: Well, not as nice as this one, but I am sincere in hoping it is to your liking.
WOMAN: [She laughs, charmed by his earnestness.] It’s fine. It’s like a little throne. So, with Johnny and Celia there, what have I missed?
JOHN CLARE: You know the most of it, apparently. The wife berated him a while until he upped and made a full confession, whereat she berated him some more. A little while ago he raised the point of her being aware of what was going on and in this sense being complicit in their abject circumstances.
WOMAN: How did she take that?
JOHN CLARE: Not noticeably well, in the first instance. She made her outraged denials though I could not help but feel they were half-hearted at the bottom of it. Then, after some time it seemed that she accepted what was said, whereafter she became more haunted and contrite. Most recently she seemed concerned by the idea that they might be in hell, although it seems to me a more widespread and popular opinion that the whole of this is purgatory.
WOMAN: What, this? Nah, bollocks, this is heaven. All of this is heaven.
JOHN CLARE: Is it?
WOMAN: Well, of course it is. Look at it. It’s miraculous.
JOHN CLARE: What, even with the incest and the misery?
WOMAN: That there’s anything alive at all to interfere with its own children; that there’s children; that there’s sexual interference; that we can feel misery. The way I see it, on the whole there’s not much to complain about. Its heaven. Even in a concentration camp or when you’re getting beaten up and raped, even if it’s an off day, it’s still heaven. You’re not telling me that you wrote all that stuff about the seasons and the ladybird and everything and you don’t know that?