by Nina Raine
Nina Raine
TIGER
COUNTRY
NICK HERN BOOKS
London
www.nickhernbooks.co.uk
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Original Production
Acknowledgements
Characters and Note on Staging
Tiger Country
About the Author
Copyright and Performing Rights Information
For Nicky and Maya
Tiger Country was first performed at Hampstead Theatre, London, on 14 January 2011. The cast was as follows:
GIRL
Hannah Banister
GEOFFREY MERCER/MR LEFFE/HUSBAND/ANAETHETIST
David Cann
MARK
Pip Carter
ORTHOPAEDIC SURGEON/PORTER
Nason Crone
REBECCA/COMFORT
Sharon Duncan-Brewster
EMILY
Ruth Everett
NURSE/ORTHOPAEDIC SURGEON
Naomi Heffernan
JOHN/PARAMEDIC
Adam James
VASHTI
Thusitha Jayasundera
ORTHOPAEDIC SURGEON/PORTER
Kevin Kamara
GILLIAN/OLGA
Joan Kempson
JAMES
Henry Lloyd-Hughes
MRS BRACKEN/ROSIE
Maggie McCarthy
BRIAN/MAN OFF A LADDER
Nicolas Tennant
LAKSHMI/BINDU/ORTHOPAEDIC REGISTRAR
Harvey Virdi
Director
Nina Raine
Designer
Lizzie Clachan
Lighting Designer
Rick Fisher
Sound Designer
Fergus O’Hare
Video Designer
Dick Straker
Associate and Movement Director
Jane Gibson
Assistant Director
Hannah Banister
The play was revived in this rewritten version, at Hampstead Theatre, London, on 8 December 2014, with the following cast:
EMILY
Ruth Everett
LAKSHMI/BINDU
Souad Faress
OLGA/GILLIAN
Jenny Galloway
MARK
Nick Hendrix
MR LEFFE/GEOFFREY
Maxwell Hutcheon
MRS BRACKEN
Tricia Kelly
JOHN
Alastair Mackenzie
REBECCA
Wunmi Mosaku
BRIAN
Shaun Parkes
JAMES
Luke Thompson
VASHTI
Indira Varma
SUPERNUMERARIES
Alexine Lafaber
Carolin Ott
Rose Riley
Director
Nina Raine
Designer
Lizzie Clachan
Lighting Designer
Neil Austin
Sound Designer
Fergus O’Hare
Video Designer
Dick Straker
Choreographer
Leon Baugh
Casting
Amy Ball
Associate Director
Hannah Banister
Associate Designer
Ruth Sutcliffe
Acknowledgements
With thanks to:
My family.
All at Kingston Hospital; Queen Victoria Hospital, East Grinstead; John Radcliffe Hospital, Oxford; St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington; Charing Cross Hospital, particularly Ranan DasGupta; and Queen’s Hospital, Burton-on-Trent.
Thank you to all the doctors who talked to me so frankly, particularly Emilie Strawson, Roger Davies, Gus Gazzard, David James, and Peter Friend.
Special thanks also go to: Robin Fox and Amina Dasmal, Henri Lambert, Simon White, St John Donald, Matthew Byam Shaw, Janet Powell, Maria Dawson, Leon Baugh, Thomas Gray, Ramin Gray, Paraskevas Paraskeva, Ed Dick, Claire Lowdon, Sasha Slater, and Tamara Oppenheimer.
Thank you to George Peck and all at Oxford School of Drama, and Nick Moseley and all at Central School of Speech and Drama.
Many thanks to Stephen Brett and the Intensive Care Society.
And finally, but most particularly, my thanks go to Phil Morgan, for your endless help on the script, the choreographing of our log roll, cardiac arrest and chest drain, John Dick, for your incredibly generous help the first time around, and of course, Jyoti Shah. Not only have you been a steadfast support from first conception to final fruition of the play: I could not have written this script without you.
N.R.
Characters
DOCTORS
VASHTI, Urology Registrar, mid-thirties, Indian, RP
JOHN, Cardiology Registrar, mid–late thirties
BRIAN, Urology Consultant (Junior), mid–late thirties
EMILY, FY2, A&E, twenty-seven
MARK, CT2, Surgical, late twenties
JAMES, CT2, Surgical, late twenties
REBECCA, FY2, mid-twenties
MR LEFFE, Senior Consultant, A&E, fifties
PATIENTS
MRS BRACKEN, sixty/seventy upwards
GILLIAN, sixty/seventy
GILLIAN’S HUSBAND, sixty/seventy
BINDU, fifties
MR MERCER, sixty/seventy upwards
OTHER HOSPITAL STAFF
LAKSHMI, Theatre Sister, middle-aged
OLGA, Senior Nurse, middle-aged
COMFORT, Nurse
ROSIE, Senior Nurse, middle-aged
And ANAESTHETISTS, RADIOGRAPHERS, PORTERS, PARAMEDICS, other NURSES, etc., to be played by members of the company.
Staff can and should play patients – doubling suggestions as follows:
OLGA / GILLIAN (sixties)
MRS BRACKEN / NURSE / ROSIE / SURGICAL REG (sixties)
ANAESTHETIST / GILLIAN’S HUSBAND / MR LEFFE / MR MERCER (sixties)
LAKSHMI / BINDU / VARIOUS NURSES (forties)
REBECCA / COMFORT / NURSE (late twenties)
JOHN / PARAMEDIC (late thirties)
BRIAN / MAN OFF A LADDER (mid–late thirties)
The play can be done with a cast of ten.
Note on the Staging
The stage to be left as minimal as possible. A neutral, dark, empty space, that can shrink or expand as it is lit. One set of swinging doors, at the back.
Since everything in a hospital is on wheels (chairs, beds, drips, trolleys of equipment), these are wheeled into scenes as required. Doors, when specified, need not be represented literally.
When we enter the invasive, investigative world of the hospital, as in the operations, and particularly when the echocardiogram is carried out, the images the doctors see should if possible be blown up as back projections.
N.R.
This ebook was created before the end of rehearsals and so may differ slightly from the play as performed.
ACT ONE
A Day in the Life
VASHTI stands, with a polystyrene cup of tea in her hands. Next to her stands JAMES, a junior doctor. She drains her cup, squints at the bottom of it.
VASHTI. Ever read your tea leaves?
JAMES. Can’t say I do.
VASHTI. My grandfather used to read mine.
Out in Bhopal. He was the town healer.
A pause. JAMES holds out a purple form.
JAMES. You’ll be pleased to see the DNR form.
VASHTI. I see the DNR form – but it’s not… (Inspects her watch.) eight o’clock yet, thank you.
She does not take the purple form, but swirls her cup, looking into it.
He’d go like this…
He’d cover the cup with his hand… he had massive hands… (Covers
the top of the cup with her hand.) like this… read off the vibe, the atmo… and he’d go… (Taking her hand off, inspecting the bottom of the cup, speaks in an Indian accent.) ‘Ah, I see…Behta… You are going to heal people… just like me, Vashti. You have a pain in your shoulder – I feel where it is, with my hand – until I feel the pain in my shoulder. I take away your pain.’
They laugh. She stands up, stretches.
Maybe I should try it.
JAMES. A shaman, was he?
VASHTI. A bullshitter. Still, it worked; I believed it all when I was ten.
She looks at her watch. Eight o’clock. Takes the purple form, squints at it.
‘Not for Resuscitation.’
Who?
JAMES. Mr Doon.
VASHTI. Oh, God.
And I suppose I’d better go and talk to him.
She looks out.
What a lovely way to start the week.
She takes the form, signs it. As she does so, people appear around her, with a roaring surge in the sounds of the hospital.
LAKSHMI. Patient’s ready. Good to go?
BRIAN (in scrubs, crossing the stage as he ties on a cap). Can’t find my effing clogs!
MR LEFFE is looking in a brown folder. He smiles.
MR LEFFE. Mr Hall, I have good news for you. No sign of any cancer.
REBECCA (to no one in particular). I’ve got a lady, sixty-five, chest pains, can I refer her to the medics please?
OLGA (loudly). Ethel? Can you hear me? Do you want to open your eyes for me and see who’s talking to you?
MARK (out). ‘We don’t have a bed’ never means ‘We don’t have a bed.’ If I get angry, you’ll find me a bed. (Starts to dial a number into a phone.)
JAMES (looking at a patient’s notes). God, not another one. (To LAKSHMI, passing by.) Everyone’s trying to kill themselves today.
JOHN, coming on from the other side of the stage, also to LAKSHMI.
JOHN. – Chest drain to do on the guy in seven.
ANAESTHETIST (urgently, pushing his head round a door). Okay, she’s arrested, can we put out a crash call please?
The assorted alarms of the crash call sound out. A flurry of activity.
ROSIE (her voice amplified over a Tannoy). Can we have a doctor in resuss now, / please?
A bed is wheeled through the doors, people around it so we cannot see who is in it.
REBECCA (running across the stage in the opposite direction). Okay, okay, I heard you! I’ve got no trolley, no drugs, how the fuck am I meant to lead an arrest?
As she passes JAMES she grabs his stethoscope off him.
JAMES. Hey!
REBECCA (without stopping). I’ve got a crash call / coming.
OLGA (crossing hurriedly in opposite direction, proffering a bag of blood). Who wanted blood?
A knot of people has gathered around the bed.
ANAESTHETIST (at the head of the bed, he is wearing surgical hat and scrubs). What’s her history? Does anyone know what drugs she’s on? We need to know who’s leading this arrest!
REBECCA (arriving at the bed). I’m leading this arrest!
ANAESTHETIST. Then start bloody leading it!
MARK (standing apart, on his own, into the phone). No, you see, ‘We don’t have a bed’ means, ‘In ten minutes there’ll be a bed’, it means, ‘We’ve got a bed, but there’s a dead person in it.’
So get me a fucking / bed!
The defibrillator has arrived at the bedside.
ROSIE. There are too many people round this bed!
Everyone ignores her.
REBECCA (holding pads aloft). I’m clear, clear at the end, clear at the sides, everyone clear, oxygen away, shocking at two hundred, now!!
She plunges the pads down and with the electric shock, we freeze.
Operating Theatre
MARK is at the operating-theatre sinks, scrubbing up, showing EMILY how to do it.
MARK. Scrub from the hand down to your elbows. And let the water drip down. That way the bugs drip off your elbows. Not down onto your hands. Then you turn the tap off with your elbow. (Does so.) Not with your hands or you have to start all over again.
EMILY. Yes, I know. I’m not going to be doing anything, anyway.
MARK. Vashti never lets anyone do anything. All I’m allowed to do is stitch up after her. (Mimes camp, fussy stitching.) ‘Home Sweet Home.’
He strides over to a small, sterile parcel that has been unfolded for him and lies on the top of a small trolley – a theatre gown. He gingerly pulls on the gown.
Do me up.
She does up the Velcro at the back of his neck.
So – where were you before?
EMILY. Brighton. Care of the Elderly.
MARK. And they’ve put you straight on call for general, covering A&E?
EMILY. Yes.
MARK. Let’s hope you’re a quick learner. It won’t be like Care of the Crumble-on-Sea.
Take the tag.
EMILY grudgingly ties the ties at the back of the gown.
EMILY. Do I get one?
MARK. No.
EMILY (shuddering). It’s freezing in here.
MARK. And each of these costs thirty quid. Ten quid to make, twenty quid to sterilise. It’s not a bloody cardigan.
MARK has his forearms crossed across his chest, his fingertips pointing to his shoulders.
EMILY. Why’ve you got your arms like that?
MARK. To keep myself sterile.
EMILY and MARK make their way over from the sinks to the operating area, where the patient lies on the operating table. He is mostly covered in blue paper tenting, only the narrow strip of flesh just above his crotch is revealed. VASHTI is already busy there. Not masked. At her side stands LAKSHMI, passing her instruments. Masked.
VASHTI (looks up, curtly). You’re late. We’ve already started.
MARK. This is Emily. She’s here to observe?
VASHTI (curtly). Whatever.
The atmosphere is intent, concentrated. A short pause during which VASHTI works briskly, with quick, jerky movements. We cannot see what she is doing but hear the sharp ‘tsst’ as she cauterises the edges of the incision, and the hum of the equipment monitoring the patient. The ANAESTHETIST, masked, stands at the head of the patient, studying this equipment for any signs of disruption. But all is calm. MARK inhales the smell of the cauterised flesh.
MARK. Mmm… someone burnt my bacon.
VASHTI (ignoring him). So, ladies, we’re taking out this man’s wasted testicle…
Pause.
Lakshmi, can I have the self-retainer, please…
MARK has positioned himself at the other side of the patient and starts to help, taking the clamp from LAKSHMI and using it to hold the incision open for VASHTI.
So I’m making the incision through the roof of the inguinal canal to get to the spermatic cord…
And we’ll deliver it out that way. What are the layers of the abdomen.
EMILY (taken by surprise). Oh. Er. Me?
VASHTI. Ye-es.
EMILY. Starting from the top? Um, epidermis. Er. Superficial fascia. Deep fascia.
VASHTI. And?
EMILY. Oh. Um, muscle.
VASHTI (stopping suddenly). Look, I know I’m a short-arse, but does this table feel a little high?
LAKSHMI suddenly comes to life.
LAKSHMI. Don’t talk to me about that table. You know it’s officially been condemned? I’ve been asking for a new one for five years.
(To EMILY.) You’re not sterile. Put some music on.
EMILY obediently starts to shuffle through the iPod.
Don’t put on carols. Just don’t. I can’t face it. Not until next week at least.
EMILY.…Um… what about All Woman?
A pop song starts to play, softly.
LAKSHMI. You look at the money they give to the bastards in chemotherapy. The drugs are ongoing. And we’re operating on a twenty-seven-year-old condemned table.
BRIAN comes in.
BRIAN. Oh God. (Picks up the CD case.) Not All Woman again. Do we have to? I’ve got my iPod – (Pulls it out, starts scrolling through it.) we could have The Lion King –
LAKSHMI. Sorry, mate. You’re outnumbered.
There are two of you – (Indicating BRIAN and MARK.) and four of us.
BRIAN. Yes – there’s way too much oestrogen around here today.
LAKSHMI. So it’ll be All Woman.
BRIAN (noting EMILY). Hello.
EMILY (introducing herself). Emily.
BRIAN. Hold on, what about the patient? He’s a man.
LAKSHMI. He doesn’t count.
BRIAN wanders over to the operating table, peers over VASHTI’s shoulder.
BRIAN. We in business?
VASHTI (abstractedly). Fine. (Tugs at something.) I’m just getting at his cord.
BRIAN goes into a little side room, we hear the tinny chord as he starts up his computer to check his emails.
God, I need a coffee. Mark, you can make us all one after this.
MARK. Why is it always me who makes the coffee?
VASHTI. Because I’m the reg and you’re my SHO.
MARK. It’s CT2, Vashti, that’s what we’re called now.
VASHTI. Whatever, Mark. (Points to herself.) Senior – (Points to him.) Junior. It’s called a hierarchy.
(Resuming her teacherly tone.) And when we’ve taken out the wasted testicle, we replace it with what?
They look at her blankly.
EMILY. Do you have to replace it with anything?
MARK. Can’t he just have one ball?
VASHTI. Would you like one ball? – Oh sorry, I forgot. You don’t have any, do you.
LAKSHMI. False balls.
ROSIE lifts up the false balls. They look like small, clear plastic eggs and they are each in their own vacuum pack.
ROSIE. Vashti, we’ve got small, medium and large. Which will you be using?