Just Deserts

by Richard Joyce

  Journalist: Sad news I fear, Madam. One of your girls drowned yesterday in the Lake –

  Sheila: Drowned? Who drowned? A pupil? One of our girls?

  Journalist: A member of the cast no less. Ophelia. The one chosen to play the part of Ophelia –

  Sheila: O heavy news indeed. Eisha. A peer among her peers. (aside) This will sit badly on the school for not taking more care. Mike, how did this happen?

  Journalist: Mr Jonson led a party to the Lake –

  Sheila: Ah, My son again! – Let me think – Ray, we can have it put out that –

  A pupil enters up L and stops by the door.

  Yes, what do you want?

  Pupil: Ma’am, bad news; I can scarcely bear to deliver it.

  SHEILA starts putting on her royal robe and crown.

  Sheila: Then don’t. We have enough to deal with already.

  Pupil: But I must Ma’am. I was sent expressly to tell you. From the meeting. It’s Delia, Delia Josephs’s dead. Drowned yesterday at the lake.

  Parker: Oh drear tidings. Not just one, but two deaths in one fell stroke.

  Pupil: No, only one, sir. Delia. She was caught by the reeds in the lake, while going to the aid of Eisha Minor.

  Parker: And Eisha?

  Pupil: Eisha’s all right. Eisha swam clear.

  Parker: Then Delia alone. A peer among her peers. Modest, self-effacing – This is a heavy loss indeed.

  PARKER starts putting on his robe and crown as noises are heard faintly off.

  Sheila: ’She should have died hereafter; tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow – ’

  Parker: Wrong play, Sheila.

  Louder noises off.

  Hearken to the noise. This is Delia’s brother, Titus, – ’come in secret from France, and wants not buzzers to infect his ear – Attend, where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door’.

  Sheila: ’How cheerfully on the false trail they cry!’

  Parker: ’The doors are broke.’

  TITUS enters noisily.

  Titus: Where is this Parker?

  Sheila: Calmly, Titus.

  Parker: Titus, what’s the matter? Sit down.

  Titus: My sister, where is she?

  Parker: Dead, I fear.

  Titus: Dead? What desperate news is this? How came she dead? ’I’ll not be juggled with. To hell allegiance, vows to the blackest devil –’

  A noise is heard off.

  But what noise is that?

  DELIA enters, dressed as Ophelia in the play.

  ’O heat, dry up my brains; burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!’

  She hands flowers in turn to TITUS, and PARKER.

  Ophelia: ’There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays.’

  Goes to give a flower to SHEILA but backs away.

  ’O you must wear your rue with a difference,

  Offers JOURNALIST a flower,

  There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all.’

  He receives the flower, and claps.

  Journalist: Wonderful performance. Such professionalism. I always knew she should’ve had the part in the first place.

  Ophelia: ’For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy –’

  Parker: Lead her off. Gently now.

  Ophelia: ‘I pray God. God bye you.’

  She exits, curtseying, while JOURNALIST continues clapping.

  Parker: (aside) This is most strange. Frightening almost.

  SHEILA moves across to TITUS who is trying in vain to follow OPHELIA, but is held by invisible cords.

  Sheila: ’Will you be ruled by me?’

  Titus: ‘Ay, so you will not o’errule me to a peace.’

  Sheila: ’To thine own peace.’

  TITUS exits.

  Follow him. See he’s not driven to desperation.

  GUARDS exit.

  Parker: Come, follow, my dear, that we may find some means to mitigate this disaster.

  All exit except WILLY.

  Willy: What hidden working is it about Ophelia’s desperate end which moves us so? This portrait of young womankind goes direct to the heart, by-passing reason. And how excellently our self-effacing Delia would have played the role upon the stage. My casting was much lacking. She was indeed the playwright’s image of Ophelia. But I must hold back my tears. There’s yet work to be done.

  Exit. The CURTAIN falls.

  Scene 6

  Storm. A wild place out on the moor, somewhere near the school. A large boulder in place up R.

  A clap of thunder heralds Delia’s arrival down R.

  Delia: A thunder-clap to set the scene;

  A drearier place I’ve never been.

  Yes, now I’m really Ophelia. This airy state has its advantages, but I miss the gravitas of the other condition. Anyway, no room for self-pity; back to the plot. The school play was cancelled; it had to be. And Wildmoor’s story too might have finished there, but for Kilman and his abominable secret.

  Shenanigans and dirty tricks,

  It falls to me this play to fix.

  But alas, as your narrator, I confess I seek in vain an ending to it all.

  She notices JOURNALIST approaching.

  But wait; who comes here?

  Enter JOURNALIST up L, reeling drunkenly.

  This foolish man of copied word

  whose gestures render him absurd,

  Perhaps in him I’ll find a way

  by swift device to end the play,

  They say from babes’ and sucklings’ mouths,

  the simplest truths will often shout.

  She moves up R, invisible to JOURNALIST, who approaches the rock.

  Journalist: Summer storms like this I’ve rarely seen. In sympathy, sans doute, with the rare happenings at Wildmoor. But, I confess, I come direct from Al’s wedding, where I’ve imbibed too much knavish champagne.

  He leans heavily against the rock. A noise is heard in the wings down L.

  But soft, a protagonist approaches –

  JOURNALIST runs down C as BEN approaches down L.

  – Ben Jonson, alone, and in haste.

  JOURNALIST runs to down R, where he notices WILLY approaching.

  Ah, Willy coming too – I’m pinched in the middle, like a lemon.

  He hides behind the rock. WILLY enters down R, and he and BEN meet down C.

  Willy: Ben. In this wild place on such a night?

  Ben: Willy, my former colleague, I wish I could stay, but I fear for my life.

  Willy: Where will you go, Ben?

  Ben: I’ll find a safe house in the City and wait for the clouds to pass. Kilman and the Major are in the ascendance and, without Sonny, we have no case at all.

  Willy: I’ll send out in search of him; trust me. You’ll be vindicated.

  Ben Thanks. But meanwhile what will you do?

  Willy: Term is ended. I’m off to France. There’s nothing to keep me here. The play’s in tatters.

  Ben: Play Hamlet yourself, Willy. You know the lines.

  Willy: You were always so positive. I’ll think about it, but for now, good luck; we’ll meet again, I know. I’ll be back.

  Both exit in opposite directions.

  Delia:

  Men are such dour and stubborn fools,

  Stir trouble up and flaunt the rules,

  It’s up to us weak womenfolk,

  To make amends what they have broke,

  JOURNALIST comes from behind the rock.

  Journalist: ‘I’ll be back’, ‘the play’s in tatters’, ‘play Hamlet yourself’. What wondrous things. This play’s not over while those two live. I’ll follow it where it may lead. But meanwhile, alas, the champagne remains in the ascendency.

  He leans drowsily against the rock. DELIA zaps him, and he slumps.

  Delia: What this poor fellow, in his ignorance, affirms has prompted an idea. We have two stories; then let us have two endings.

  I’ll
put his sleep to ready use,

  And in his slumbers find excuse,

  A culmination to produce —

  And as our humble play asserts,

  Each shall receive his just deserts.

  Lights begin slowly to dim and a gentle music is heard in the background. DELIA sprinkles star-dust in JOURNALIST’S eyes and covers him with a blanket.

  Take heart, fear naught, oh brave reporter,

  Help is at hand from every quarter,

  On this rude earth lie down for now,

  And let your dreams reveal how,

  As if by magic, in a trice,

  Your way is ope’ to paradise.

  She stands majestically as music swells and lights swirl wildly.

  Yes, ’tis high time this poor fellow, dreaming upon his windy heath, discovers that reality hurts but fiction doesn’t. Sweet dreams.

  Exit, but returning after a second.

  Be advised, good audience, the final act of our play contains some flash photography and scenes viewers may find disturbing.

  Exit. The CURTAIN falls.

  Act 5

  Scene 1

  Several weeks later. A space near the lake. [Note: At the discretion of the Director, this Act could be performed throughout in costume].

  Enter WILLY, down L. He watches a group of Wildmoor PUPILS, laying wreathes against a tree. The sleeping JOURNALIST remains in evidence, under his blanket.

  Willy: What tree is this that marks with sad-cut flowers so sunny a spot? This promontory should else have hosted merriment and holiday happiness. But wait, Laura, Sally and Eisha too. What means their grief? Why, this place must be the spot at which poor Delia drowned. It can be no other.

  He makes to exit.

  I’ll leave Delia’s memory undisturbed. Villainy’s afoot and I must away to find faithful Sam.

  Notices Sam Steadfast approaching up R.

  This is the very same – Sam, good friend, and now I hope to call you comrade in arms.

  Sam: Mr Wagstaff, sir. I believed you to be in France. I fear Wildmoor is no longer the hopeful place it once was. What brings you back so soon?

  Willy: Practical reasons. I’ve come to seek your timely help. I have, in France, received a disturbing letter from my good colleague, Mr Jonson, hinting at dangers to his life. Here, read it for yourself.

  Sam: Alas, throw away the letter. And, with it, throw away your hopes. I fear you’ve come too late. Ben Jonson is no longer here.

  Willy: No longer here? Where then?

  Sam: Dead. But seven days hence. It’s said he took his own life. We buried him here, where he loved to be.

  Willy: Alas, no Delia then, but Ben Jonson. What a fall is here. What hideous conclusion to a rich and talented life. Then you and I, Sam, together with the doers of this fateful deed, are alone in knowing it was brutish murder. What remains but to hunt the perpetrators down? But when conspiracy peeps with sleepless eyes, where to begin?

  Sam: Either find Sonny or despatch Kilman ourselves, and make our justice as rough as his.

  Willy: You speak of ‘we’, Sam. Are you then with me in this?

  Sam: Mr Jonson was as dear to me as he to you. I think our dead friend will have need both of Hamlet and Horatio.

  Willy: Faithful Sam, it does my heart good to hear. Let’s advertise discreetly across the land for the shy boy and draw him from his hidey-hole. Come away and, with best speed, timely proclaim a happier day.

  They exit. The CURTAIN falls.

  Scene 2

  A room in the school.

  KILMAN, SHEILA, PARKER. JOURNALIST (asleep up R).

  Kilman: I have it on good report Wagstaff is come back from France, and set foot again on these troubled shores. His hasty leaving in the summer, the death of the girl, and, dear Sheila, your son’s departure from this world, all plead for speedy closure.

  Sheila: Let me not think upon it, good Sir Jack. ’Tis more sorrow than I can bear.

  Kilman: Sheila, we share your grief, together with your just anger ’gainst the doers of this deed. But be advised, ’tis now known Wagstaff’s sudden return was not to seek your son’s friendship but his death.

  Sheila: How possible, when in his life my son embraced the man with true amity?

  Kilman: Ay, but this snake, and never your son, was himself immorally implicated with the girl, Delia, and for the covering-up of this crime, your son, not Wagstaff, has paid the double price: his exile and his death.

  Sheila: At the hands of Wagstaff. Can it be true? Oh, viperous treachery. My heart will ne’er find rest till Wagstaff’s been despatched and my son avenged.

  Kilman: Then, good lady, let us cleave together in this matter – We might construct a plan that will triple-serve our difficulties and leave our own involvement quite undetected. Let’s think on it –

  Sheila: I have it. Gentles, know you the play?

  Kilman: Which play, Sheila, my chuck?

  Sheila: ‘Hamlet’. What other? Why, Wagstaff considered himself Hamlet no less; then, what fond irony to borrow a device from that play to lure him to his own death?

  Parker: Sheila, you stretch the fantasy too far.

  Sheila: Nay. What’s good for Hamlet will be good for Wagstaff. Rest assured, husband. Sir Jack and I will withdraw awhile and orchestrate the matter, and in due time unfold the manner whereby Wagstaff shall not escape perdition. Come, we have work to do.

  Exit all but KILMAN.

  Kilman: Oh, were it but the one. Might I not already have slipped by vigilant justice and tasted sweet repentance for my most heavy crime, but for these fresh voices: the father first, and then the fledgling son, and now the colleague to the son, all threatening to expose what I have done. Is there to be no end to the blood-letting? Alas, within life’s fixed canons, foul matter, once spilled, will spread to its completion. There is no going back. Then let it be. This final cutting-off of the little teacher might yet plug the gap and lead me to a state where I might sleep again. By attempting all in one final blow, I might yet defy the past and thus to heaven go.

  Exit. The CURTAIN falls.

  Scene 3

  An open place near the school.

  Enter WILLY and SAM, down L. JOURNALIST sleeps unnoticed.

  Sam: The boy is not to be drawn then from his hiding-place?

  Willy: No, so what’s plan B?

  Sam: DIY. We’ll despatch the man ourselves. But hush, someone approaches.

  Willy: My god, Cocky Cockrell. You can bet he’ll have something seriously unserious to say. This chap lacks a certain gravitas. Watch.

  COCKRELL enters down R in modern dress and bows to them.

  Cockrell: Fancy, bumping into you two outside Tesco! What brings the Prince of Denmark to these parts?

  Willy: I’m afraid, no longer the Hamlet you once knew, Cocky.

  Cockrell: Oh dear. Have you come down in the world? But to be honest, I never really thought Hamlet suited you. Too introspective. I, of course, preferred the less demanding role, with a – shall we say – less ‘dramatic’ ending.

  Sam: What was Osric’s ending, Mr Cockrell?

  Cockrell: Nobody knows. He was just conveniently forgotten by his author. Like most of us in real life – Anyway, to the point; the Major has commissioned me to invite you to the ‘Games Day’ at Wildmoor this weekend.

  Willy: Of what does this ‘Games Day’ consist, Hugh?

  Cockrell: A new highlight in the competitive calendar. Let me see – a soccer match, to be followed by a wrestling contest in which –

  Sam: – A wrestling contest, for heaven’s sake!

  Cockrell: Yes, a wrestling contest in which – in which –

  Willy: Between whom, Cocky, this contest?

  Cockrell: Oh yes, you are summoned to wrestle against Sheila’s ‘champion’ – a veritable trial by ordeal – a contest the like of which – the like of which –

  Willy: – He’s forgotten his lines again.

  Cockrell: – the like of which – hasn’t occurred since David fought
with Goliath.

  Sam: Are you intending to wrestle, Mr Cockrell?

  Cockrell: No, I’m to referee the contest – But I must away. Fail us not, Willy, and let us hope you’ll shortly blazon your sporting prowess in the lists. Au revoir.

  He struts off.

  Willy: The emptiness of these people is their chief ally; they’re full of such hot air, they keep afloat like a balloon.

  Sam: Mr Wagstaff, it’s a trick; those tricksters have something up their sleeve.

  Willy: Perhaps, but we have gone too far in this business that we should falter at the final sprint. Besides, I begin to tire of this endless pursuit. Time to conclude the matter.

  Sam: I’ll look after you, Mr Wagstaff. Come, let’s away to the school.

  They exit, up R, and JOURNALIST gets up and approaches C.

  Journalist: Showdown at the hoe-down. I can’t remember anything so exciting since Ali took on Liston in the jungle. I’ll follow them, report this strange scene and be a part of it too – I’m in it anyway in fact, for one thing I’ve learned: a play is but a bite size of reality, and life little more than a giant pageant, in which we poor players struggle to remember our lines. Hey-ho. I pray you follow me and see our final pageant.

  Exit. The CURTAIN falls.

  Scene 4

  An open place at the school.

  Curtains open to reveal a platform, on which SHEILA and PARKER are seated on thrones in their royal cloaks. Standing behind them are KILMAN, MINOR and assembled company of pupils. COCKRELL and a masked WRESTLER stand to one side of the platform. A mat has been placed in front of the gathering, a goblet of wine stands on a table in front of the seated couple, and music plays gently in the background. JOURNALIST’S empty blanket is still evident up R. Enter WILLY, SAM and JOURNALIST.

  Sheila: Ah, a protagonist; just in time. So glad to see you back, Mr Wagstaff, and Sam Steadfast too. Welcome all, Governors, good friends of the school, and others, on this our first Wildmoor Gamesday and our sporting highlight: a wrestling contest between my own champion here, and Willy Wagstaff.

  JOURNALIST steps forward and starts taking photos.

  Wait; we have photos enough, I think.