by Nick Enright
Playwright’s Biography
After early experience J. C. Williamson’s, Sydney University Dramatic Society (SUDS), Nimrod Theatre and Melbourne Theatre Company, Nick Enright trained for the theatre at New York University School of the Arts, where he studied playwriting with Israel Horovitz.
His plays include On the Wallaby, Daylight Saving, St James Infirmary, Mongrels, A Property of the Clan, The Quartet from Rigoletto, Blackrock, Good Works, Playgrounds, Spurboard, Chasing the Dragon, A Man with Five Children and A Poor Student. With Justin Monjo, he adapted Tim Winton’s Cloudstreet for the stage.
For film Nick wrote Lorenzo’s Oil with George Miller (for which they were nominated for Academy and WGA Awards for Best Original Screenplay), and Blackrock; and for television Coral Island and the miniseries Come In Spinner. Many of his plays have been broadcast and he also wrote original work for radio.
With composer Terence Clarke, he wrote the musicals The Venetian Twins and Summer Rain. Other musical collaborations include Miracle City with Max Lambert, Mary Bryant and The Good Fight with David King and the book for the Australian production of The Boy From Oz.
Good Works and Cloudstreet won Melbourne Green Room Awards for Best Play. Daylight Saving, A Property of the Clan, Blackrock (screenplay) and Cloudstreet have all won Writers’ Guild Gold AWGIE Awards. Nick was honoured to receive the 1998 Sidney Myer Performing Arts Award.
Nick had long been involved as a teacher and writer with young actors, especially at the National Institute of Dramatic Art (NIDA) and the Western Australia Academy of Performing Arts (WAAPA), as well as community based companies such as Freewheels. He was instrumental in setting up, with Jessica Machin and Julian Louis, (State of) Play, an actor ensemble in Sydney which develops and presents new works.
Nick Enright died in Sydney in March 2003.
For Sandy, and for David, with thanks
FIRST PRODUCTION
Daylight Saving was first produced by the Ensemble Theatre, Sydney on 21 September 1989 with the following cast:
TOM Neil Fitzpatrick
FLICK Sandy Gore
BUNTY Diana Davidson
JOSH Barry Langrish
STEPHANIE Linden Wilkinson
JASON Alex Morcos
Directed by Peter Kingston
Designed by Monita Roughsedge
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Daylight Saving was given a rehearsed reading by the Sydney Theatre Company at The Wharf on 6 June 1988 under the direction of George Ogilvie. My thanks to George and the actors and to the STC for offering valuable help in bringing the play to its present form. Informal workshop facilities were graciously provided by the management of The Glendale, though I brought the scones. Hilary Linstead, Viccy Harper and their tireless cohorts have my undying gratitude. Thanks, finally, to Sandra Bates and the Ensemble Theatre for producing the play, and to Peter Kingston and his splendid cast and production team, named above; and to my friends, whose encouragement and support have meant more than they know.
CHARACTERS
TOM FINN, forty-two
FELICITY (FLICK), TOM’s wife, thirty-seven
BUNTY, FLICK’s mother
JOSHUA MAKEPEACE, thirty-seven
STEPHANIE
JASON STRUTT, twenty-one
SETTING
The play is set in a house overlooking Pittwater, north of Sydney. The action takes place on two consecutive Saturdays in March, the second of which is the night daylight saving ends and the clocks are put back an hour.
ACT ONE
SCENE ONE
The living-room and deck of FLICK and TOM’s house. The front door is prominent. There are two other doors - a swinging door to the kitchen, and a door or hallway to bedrooms and bathroom. The house next door is accessible from one end of the deck. The room is casually but elegantly furnished – a rug over polished wood floors, sofas, dining table and chairs, a TV and VCR, books, pictures and photographs on the walls. Beyond the windows and past the deck, there is an impression of height, of trees. The deck has a view of Pittwater. The house is high, the front door a fair climb up steps from the road. FLICK is at the front door, waving off an unseen group, who are calling goodbyes and thank-yous.
FLICK: My pleasure.
She closes the door.
My pleasure? I’ve had more fun at the dentist’s.
She examines a spot in the rug.
Burnt right through. Thanks, guys.
A key turns in the front door. TOM hurries in, casually dressed, carrying a briefcase.
TOM: That’s quite a crew.
FLICK: You’re not kidding. The sound guy put out his cigarette on the rug.
TOM: You got off lightly. I’m running, Flix. Can you pack those files for me?
He thrusts his briefcase into her hand, and goes into the bedroom, tearing off his clothes. FLICK starts to pack the files.
How was the interview?
FLICK: Interview? It felt more like an inquisition.
TOM: [off] When are they showing it?
FLICK: Friday night.
TOM: [off] I’ll have to miss it.
FLICK: So will I. Can you believe it, she asked me if I’d been unfaithful? Well, near enough.
She listens for a response from the bedroom.
Tom? She asked me—
TOM re-enters, half-dressed.
TOM: Have you seen my reading glasses?
FLICK: About fidelity.
TOM: What about fidelity?
FLICK: That’s what she said. What kind of question is that?
TOM: Par for the course. Australian journos are only interested in dirt. If you brought them Simpson and his donkey, they’d be checking them for steroids. Have you seen them?
FLICK: What?
TOM: My reading glasses.
FLICK: By the bed.
He goes back into the bedroom. She goes on packing.
She was out for blood, I think. And she got it. She said the damned word, and I blushed. Would that show up on television? That will look great, won't it? What do you think about fidelity, Felicity? And… whoosh. Sunset over Pittwater.
TOM: [off] What did she ask about Jason?
FLICK: Do you remember when I used to blush all the time?
TOM: [off] What?
He reappears with a suitcase which he dumps in the middle of the floor.
What did you say?
FLICK: I said I used to blush, remember, at the drop of a—
TOM: About Jason.
FLICK: What?
TOM: She must have asked.
FLICK: Well, she didn’t, Tom. There are other topics in the world.
The telephone rings. TOM answers.
TOM: Hi, Jason. Hang on. [To FLICK] Could you pack my razor?
She goes.
Yes, I did… Yes, I did… Yes, I will… I said I will, Jase. I’ve cancelled that… because I don't want you talking to anyone without me there, Jason.
FLICK returns with the razor.
And my swimmers?
She goes.
Because we both know what happens… Yes, we do… Then cast your mind back to Monte Carlo…
FLICK returns with the swimmers.
Monte Carlo airport, and a large glass of pomegranate juice… All right, guava juice… You didn't spill it, you threw it over them… Well, it’s not the usual way to end a press conference… Jason, you… [To FLICK] Toilet-bag.
She goes into the bedroom.
No, not you, Jason, I’m talking to Flix. Jason, you don't seem to… I’m not arguing the point, mate… No, and that's an order… Beverly Hills Hotel…Yes, I will. I’ve got a plane to catch, Jason. See you in a week.
He hangs up as FLICK returns with the toilet-bag.
FLICK: He’s not going with you?
FLICK: Why not?
TOM: Promise not to laugh?
FLICK: Promise.
TOM: His clairvoyant advised him not to fly this week.
FLICK starts to giggle. TOM laughs with her for a moment.
Who’d have kids? Okay, let’s go. Diary.
FLICK: His clairvoyant. In the briefcase.
TOM: A toilet-bag.
FLICK: In the suitcase.
TOM: What would I do without you?
FLICK: You’d buy another toilet-bag in L.A. There are six in the bathroom cupboard. I like the cunning little fake-fur number. Or is it a sporran?
The phone rings.
TOM: If that's him again—
FLICK: You’re not here. [Answering] Hello? Jean-Luc, hi. He has? Oh, poor old Doog… oh, Christ. So I have…Yes, I will…I will. Bye.
She hangs up.
Tom, I’m sorry. Disaster. I’ve given Sharon the evening off, and now Doog’s come down with a migraine. I’m going to have to go down to the restaurant and cook.
TOM: Oh, shit, Flix.
FLICK: You’ll make it, don’t worry.
TOM: I wanted you to drive me.
FLICK: You can call a cab, can’t you?
TOM: I thought we’d have some time to talk.
FLICK: About what?
TOM: Just talk. You’ve been so busy—
FLICK: I’ve been so busy?
TOM: Yes. I’ve hardly seen you.
FLICK: Give me a break!
TOM: All right. I’ll do just that.
FLICK: What?
TOM: You want a break? Come with me.
FLICK: What?
TOM: Come to L.A.
FLICK: To L.A. for a break? You must be mad!
TOM: Maybe so. But it’ll give us some time together.
FLICK: You really think so?
TOM: Go on, pack a bag.
FLICK: I can’t, Tom.
TOM: It’s not what you would have said a couple of years ago.
FLICK: A couple of years ago I hadn’t seen you in action.
TOM: Come on, you deserve a break.
FLICK: And so do you, but can you take one?
TOM: Sure. A couple of days for business, then—
FLICK: We tried this already, remember?
TOM: Did we? When?
FLICK: Several times.
TOM: Name one.
FLICK: Mexico City. Two days for business, then the wonders of Popocatapetl and Ixtywhatsis. Fat chance. Five days of the wonders of Casa del Hilton. I don’t want to sit in a hotel room and watch you on the telephone. I can get all that at home.
TOM: Don’t lay that on me. I’ve been home for a whole, week.
FLICK: A whole week!
TOM: No, longer. Nine days since Monte Carlo, and—
FLICK: Nine days. A second honeymoon. We even finished a tube of toothpaste together. That’s what I call stability.
TOM: Okay, the days have been busy, but every night—
FLICK: Every night, you're conked out asleep in front of the television—
TOM: Waiting for you to knock out two thousand words on extra-virgin olive oil and Baltic vinegar.
FLICK: Balsamic. And let me remind you about last Wednesday night, Tom. You were cooking dinner, remember? I was going to come home and there’d be something smoking away in the Weber, and something cooling the ice, and we’d sit out there and watch the sun set over the water.
TOM: And you didn’t get home till after dark.
FLICK: Granted, but by the time I was out of the shower, you were on the phone to Tokyo.
TOM: It was a crisis.
FLICK: It was one hour and ten minutes by the clock, followed by another hour with that old hippy in the mountains.
TOM: That old hippy knows more about deep tissue therapy than anyone in the country.
FLICK: Gosh.
TOM: He gave some very helpful advice.
FLICK: While our dinner dried out—
TOM: Which has worked wonders for Jason.
FLICK: Then it wasn’t a wasted evening.
TOM: If the call hadn’t been important—
FLICK: It’s always important, and it always comes—
The telephone rings. He answers.
In the middle of something unimportant.
TOM: Hello?
FLICK: Like our lives.
TOM: It’s for you. Dougal.
FLICK: Oh.
She takes the phone.
Doog… How are you feeling, baby? Jean-Luc called me… No, don’t, sweetheart. We’ll manage. Just stay lying down… Don’t worry…Yes, I will… Love you. Bye.
She hangs up.
TOM: You sure he's not trying one on?
FLICK: Doog? Never. He was worried that I couldn’t handle Saturday on my own. He’s forgotten what I used to handle…
TOM: I haven’t. You were a whizz.
FLICK: Was I?
They glance at one another. Pause.
You’d better call that cab. I’ll pick you up, promise. Leave your flight number on the phone pad.
She kisses him.
TOM: I’ll take the car.
FLICK: Suit yourself. See you for dinner on Saturday.
TOM: Sunday.
FLICK: Sunday? You said a week.
TOM: And one day.
FLICK: Cut the day. Come back Saturday.
TOM: Can’t do it, Flix.
FLICK: Course you can.
TOM: Big dinner, Friday night, L.A. time.
FLICK: Skip it.
TOM: I wish I could. But it’s the house rules in California. First the sushi, then the contract.
FLICK: You can’t change it?
TOM: They’re flying in from everywhere. It’s quite a big deal, this one.
FLICK: A big deal. Well, so is—
TOM: [over her] Jason’s going to be a very rich…
[registering] What? So’s what?
FLICK: Never mind. Sunday week.
She waves and heads out the door.
TOM: Sunday week. Hang on. Reading-glasses…
FICK: By the bed.
TOM runs into the bedroom. She goes out, closing the door as TOM re-enters. He picks up his bags, and is hurrying out the door, when there is a ring from within the briefcase. He opens it, and answers a mobile phone inside it.
TOM: Yes? Jason… because I’m not in the car, I’m still trying to get out the door. No, I won’t, Jason… no, I won’t… because I’m not into all that…I don’t care if I she’s got a swimming-pool… She’s not my speed, Jason… No, Jason… Jason… All right… I will… I’ll call her… I said I’ll call her… No, I don’t, but I can look it up… All right, give it to me…
Balancing the mobile phone, he extracts a small diary and pen, takes out his reading glasses, and jots down a number.
Yes, I will, I’ll call her… but Jason, not a word about this to anyone, all right?
He hangs up, puts his glasses away and picks up his keys. He picks up his bags and goes out the front door.
SCENE TWO
A week later. FLICK sings cheerfully in the kitchen.
FLICK: [singing off]
Shall we gather at the river
The beautiful, the beautiful, the river…
She enters, in an apron, and puts down a vase of Australian native flowers.
Shall we gather at the river…
She glances out at the view.
Yes, we shall.
She goes on half-singing, half-humming quietly as she lays the table.
Yes, we will gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful, the river,
Yes we will gather at the river,
That flows by the throne of—
The doorbell rings.
Oh, God!
She takes off the apron, and hurries to the front door, opening it to see BUNTY in a tennis dress.
Oh, Bunty.
BUNTY: Darling. I was worried.
FLICK: Worried?
BUNTY: Are you all right, Felicity?
FLICK: I’m fine.
BUNTY: Truly? I dropped into the restaurant and spoke to Jean-Luc…oh, those eyelashes.
FLICK: Yes, they do more work than he does.
BUNTY: And he said you’d taken the night off, and naturally I feared the worst…
FLICK: What worst?
The phone rings. She answers.
Hello? Dougal? I said no calls, Doog… Lobster… just grilled with…
BUNTY murmurs approval.
Oh, Doog, what's wrong? … Oh, he wouldn't… He wouldn't leave you, he cares too much about…Oh, he did… He said that? Well, I'm sure you can work it out. Jean-Luc is young, Doog, and… Oh, yes, he's lovely—
BUNTY: Gorgeous.
FLICK: Gorgeous, my mother says gorgeous. Bye. [She hangs up.] Jean-Luc is a shameless little trollop.
BUNTY: Darling, boys can't be trollops.
FLICK: Yes they can, specially with eyes that blue. Mother, I’m a bit pressed at the moment.
BUNTY: You don’t mean depressed?
FLICK: No, I mean busy.
BUNTY: You looked thoroughly miserable last night.
FLICK: Last night? Oh. Last night.
BUNTY: And then that awful review in the Herald this morning. I knew you’d be upset. We certainly were.
FLICK: We?
BUNTY: The girls at tennis. They felt so sorry for you.
FLICK: Mother, it was a television interview, not a firing squad.
BUNTY: Don’t snap, Felicity, I came to cheer you up.
FLICK: I don’t need cheering up!
BUNTY: [seeing the table set] Well, at least Tom’s back tonight.
FLICK: No, tomorrow.
BUNTY: But darling! Isn’t it your anniversary?
FLICK: You remembered?
BUNTY: And Tom didn’t? Oh, men never do. You should remind him.
FLICK: He still couldn’t have been here. Jason-talk in L.A.
BUNTY: Oh! What a pity. There’s something so romantic about this last twilight before the clocks go back. Look at that sunset. It’s telling you something, darling.
FLICK: It’s telling me it’s time to start dinner.
BUNTY: It’s time to start your family.
FLICK: Take it up with Tom, mother. Now—
BUNTY: It takes a little effort on both sides.
FUCK: These days it takes a little effort to get in a handshake, let alone anything that might lead to conception.