Brian Friel Plays 2

by Brian Friel

Terry Why not? (He fills the outstretched cup again.)

  Frank Can’t drink it without water.

  Terry Any left in the holy well?

  Frank Enough. (Again he scoops up water and makes a drink.) Aren’t you joining me?

  Terry Pass this time. To the book.

  Frank No, no, not to the book. The book’s nothing, nothing at all; a silly game of blind man’s buff. No, to the other, to the mystery itself, Terry. To the goddamn wonderful, maddening, necessary mystery. (He shudders as if with cold.)

  Terry You’re cold in that shirt. Here. Put this on. (He takes off his jacket and puts it round Frank’s shoulders.) That’s definitely your colour.

  Frank And to my goddamn wonderful wife. Is it profane to talk about her in the same breath as the sacred?

  Terry Is it?

  Frank Look at her. Now there’s an apparition. She’s … miraculous in that light, isn’t she? Fourteen years married and the blood still thunders in my head when I look at her … Have you any idea, Terry, have you any idea at all of the turmoil, the panic people like me live in – the journeymen, the clerks of the world? No, no, the goddamn failures for Christ’s sake.

  Terry Frank, you –

  Frank Of course I am. Husband – father – provider – worthless.

  Terry Your book will –

  Frank The great book! (He makes a huge gesture of dismissal.) She pretends to believe in it, too. But she’s such a bright woman – she knows, she knows. You both know. Oh, Jesus, Terry, if only you knew, have you any idea at all just how fragile it all is …? (He calls:) Maybe you should stay where you are, lads. It’s not quite all in place here yet … Damn good whiskey. What is it? Coleraine 1922! That’s very special. May I help myself? (He proclaims:) Lord, it is good for us to be here! Isn’t it …? (He moves away.)

  Pause.

  Angela (softly, tentatively) Oh my God …

  Terry What is it?

  Angela Oh God, is it …?

  Trish What’s the matter, Angela?

  Angela I think – oh God – I think –

  Trish Angela, are you sick?

  Angela There’s our boat.

  Berna Where?

  Trish Stop that, Angela.

  Frank Where? Where is it?

  George sits up.

  Berna I see no boat.

  Terry Where is it, Angela?

  Frank Are you sure?

  Trish Where? – show me – where? (to George) The boat’s here, she says.

  Angela (pointing) There. It is, Terry, isn’t it?

  Trish Is it, Terry?

  Berna There is no boat.

  Angela Oh God, Terry, that’s our boat – isn’t it?

  Trish Point to it.

  Angela Maybe it’s only – can you see nothing? – that patch of light on the water – just beyond that I thought I saw –

  Frank Nothing. There’s nothing.

  Trish Where’s the patch of light?

  Berna There’s no patch of light.

  Terry Is it anywhere near that mist?

  Frank Nothing. All in her head.

  Angela He’s right … sorry … nothing … for a minute I was certain … sorry …

  Berna You shouldn’t do that, Angela.

  Angela Sorry.

  Berna You really shouldn’t do that.

  Angela I’m very sorry. I really am.

  Terry There is a patch of light there; and if you stare at it long enough it seems to make shapes … Anyhow, no harm done. (Pause. Privately to Angela) I ordered your favourite chocolate mints. Somebody must have eaten them. I suspect Charlie.

  Angela The boatman?

  Terry My driver. Minibus Charlie. How could you forget Charlie? And the boatman’s name is Carlin.

  Angela Give me a drink, Terry, would you?

  Terry Wine? Gin? Vodka?

  Angela Anything at all. Just a drop.

  Berna (suddenly standing up and proclaiming) All right! I’ll tell my story now!

  Trish Good girl, Berna.

  Berna I had a different psychiatrist in the clinic last week, a very intense young Englishman called Walsingham. He told me this story.

  Angela (accepting drink from Terry) Thanks.

  Terry Anybody else?

  Frank Quiet.

  Trish Attention, please. (to Berna) ‘Once upon a time …’

  Berna Not once upon a time, Trish. I can give you the exact date: 1294. And in the year 1294, in the village of Nazareth, in the land that is now called Israel, a very wonderful thing happened. There was in the village a small, white-washed house built of rough stone, just like these; and for over a thousand years the villagers looked on that house as their most wonderful possession; because that house had been the home of Mary and Joseph and their baby, Jesus.

  And then in the year 1294, on the seventh day of March, an amazing thing happened. That small, white-washed house rose straight up into the air, right away up into the sky. It hung there for a few seconds as if it were a bird finding its bearings. Then it floated – flew – over the Mediterranean Sea, high up over the island of Crete, across the Aegean Sea, until it came to the coast of Italy. It crossed that coast and came to a stop directly above a small town called Loreto in the centre of Italy. Then it began to descend, slowly down and down and down, until it came to rest in the centre of the town. And there it sits to this day. And it is known as the Holy House of Loreto – a place of pilgrimage, revered and attested to by hundreds of thousands of pilgrims every year. The Holy House of Loreto.

  Nobody knows how to respond. Pause.

  Trish A flying house? … And it’s there now? … Well, heavens above, isn’t that a –

  Berna And because it took off and flew across the sea and landed safely again, all over the world Our Lady of Loreto is known as the Patron Saint of Aviation.

  Another brief pause.

  Frank There you are …

  Trish (breezily) Good girl, Berna.

  Frank Never knew that …

  Trish Live and learn.

  Frank Indeed … live and learn …

  Terry Wonderful story, Berna. Well done.

  Frank Terry says this is my colour. What do you think?

  Berna In our second year we had a lecturer in Equity, a Scotsman called – I’ve forgotten his name. We called him Offence to Reason because he used that phrase in every single lecture. We used to wait for it to come. ‘Does that constitute an offence to reason?’ (She laughs.) He was in awe of reason. He really believed reason was the key to ‘truth’, the ‘big verities’.

  Terry The sun’s trying to come up, is it?

  Berna No, it’s not a wonderful story, Trish. It’s a stupid story. And crude. And pig-headed. A flying house is an offence to reason, isn’t it? It marches up to reason and belts it across the gob and says to it, ‘Fuck you, reason. I’m as good as you any day. You haven’t all the fucking answers – not by any means.’ That’s what Dr Walsingham’s story says. And that’s why I like it.

  She begins to cry quietly. Terry moves towards her. But Trish holds up her hand and he stops. Then Trish goes to Berna and holds her.

  Trish Shhh, love, shhh …

  Berna (into Trish’s face) It’s defiance, Trish – that’s what I like about it.

  Trish I know … I know …

  Berna It’s stupid, futile defiance.

  Trish Shh …

  She moves away from Trish and goes to the end of the pier. Her narrative has charged the atmosphere with unease, with anxiety.

  Frank (breezily) You’re right, Terry; the sun is trying to come up.

  Terry Yes?

  Frank (sings) ‘Dear one, the world …’ You and I could do a neat dance to that, Berna. Anybody know it?

  Terry (sings) ‘… is waiting for the sunrise –’

  Frank and Terry sing together.

  Terry and Frank ‘Every rose is heavy with dew …’

  Frank George?

  Trish George is tired. He (Frank) knows the words of everything. What sort
of a head have you got?

  Frank (brightly) Full of rubbish. And panic. (He sings.) ‘The thrush on high his sleepy mate is calling …’ (He fades out.)

  Angela Did you bring a swimsuit, Berna?

  No answer. Berna now moves up to the catwalk.

  Trish (to Berna) I brought mine. You can have mine.

  Frank Or better still, Berna – I say, I say, I say – you may have mine!

  Angela We’re all too tired, Frank.

  Frank Are we? (He sings the first two lines of the refrain of ‘Lazy River’. Brief pause.) Right, Trish – all set?

  Trish What?

  Frank You’re next!

  Trish What’s he talking about?

  Frank For a story!

  Terry Yes, Trish!

  Trish I don’t know any –

  Terry You’re a wonderful story-teller. Isn’t she, Berna?

  Trish Ah, come on, Terry. You know very well –

  Angela Go on, Trish!

  Frank Any kind of fiction will do us.

  Angela Myth – fantasy –

  Terry A funny story –

  Angela A good lie –

  Frank Even a bad lie. Look at us for God’s sake – we’ll accept anything! Right, Berna?

  Now Trish understands that their purpose is to engage Berna again.

  Trish You want a story? Right! (She jumps to her feet and launches into her performance with great theatricality and brio.) So I’m on then? All right-all right-all right!

  Frank Certainly are.

  Trish (stalling, improvising) You want a story?

  Angela We need a story.

  Terry Come down and hear this, Berna.

  Berna looks over the wall.

  Trish A story. Absolutely. Yes. Once upon a time and a very long time ago –

  Terry She’s bluffing.

  Angela Terry!

  Terry Look at her eyes.

  Frank What do her eyes say, George?

  Angela (to Trish) Pay no attention to him (Terry). Once upon a time …?

  Trish May I proceed?

  Frank Let the lady speak.

  Terry That’s no lady – that’s-a ma sista.

  Angela Terry!

  Trish Once upon a time and a very long time ago –

  Frank sings the first line of ‘Just a Song at Twilight’.

  Angela Please, Frank.

  Suddenly Trish knows what her story is.

  Trish The morning we got married, George! OK?

  George OK.

  Frank Good one. Yeah.

  Angela What story’s that?

  Trish May I, George?

  George Go ahead.

  Angela I’ve forgotten that story.

  Terry That’s a boring story, Trish.

  Frank Is it? Boring is soothing.

  Angela Do I know the story?

  Frank Boring reassures.

  Terry ’Course you do.

  Frank I’m all for boring. Sedate us, Trish.

  Trish If I may continue …?

  Frank And it came to pass –

  Trish Twenty-two years ago. Saint Theresa’s Church.

  Frank Parish of Drumragh.

  Trish Ten o’clock Mass.

  Terry Best man. (He bows.)

  Trish And little Patricia, all a quiver in gold tiara, cream chiffon dress and pale-blue shoes with three-quarter heels, has left her home for the last time and –

  Frank (sings) ‘There was I –’ George?

  George picks up his accordion.

  Terry You were bridesmaid, Berna. Remember?

  Angela (remembering) It’s the story of the missing –!

  Frank Don’t! (i.e., interrupt)

  Trish May I? She arrives at the door of Saint Theresa’s. And now her little heart starts to flutter because just as she enters the church on her Daddy’s arm, Miss Quirk begins to play the harmonium –

  She is suddenly drowned out by George playing the first line of ‘There was I’ – which is immediately picked up by Frank.

  Frank (sings) ‘… waiting at the church –’ That’s it! ‘Waiting at the church –’ Terry!

  Terry and Frank do a dance/march routine and sing together:

  Frank and Terry

  ‘Waiting at the church

  When I found –’

  Frank What?

  Terry ‘– he’d left me in the lurch –’ Angela!

  Angela (sings) ‘Oh, how it did upset me –’

  Terry and Frank (sing) ‘Tra-la-la-la-la.’

  Angela Sorry, Trish.

  Trish (pretending anger) Fine – fine –

  Angela Behave yourselves, you two!

  Trish Have your own fun.

  Frank Please, Trish –

  Trish No point, is there?

  Frank Go on, Patricia: ‘The flutter bride was all a-chiffon –’

  Trish See?

  Terry Anyhow we all know how the story ends, don’t we?

  Frank So what? All we want of a story is to hear it again and again and again and again and again.

  Angela Are you going to let the girl finish?

  Frank And so it came to pass …

  George now plays Wagner’s ‘Wedding March’ very softly, with a reverence close to mockery.

  Trish Thank you, George. (She blows him a kiss.) The church is full to overflowing. My modest eyes are still on the ground. Daddy’s gaze is manfully direct. We walk up that aisle together with quiet dignity until we come to the altar –

  Frank She’s a natural!

  Trish And then for the first time I raise those modest eyes so that I can feast on my handsome groom-to-be, my beloved George.

  Frank Yes?

  Trish But lo –

  Frank Go on!

  Trish Who steps out to receive me –?

  Frank But –

  Terry The anxious bookie – the groomsman!

  Frank Groomsman? Where’s the groom?

  Trish No groom. No George.

  Howls of dismay.

  Angela Shame, George, shame!

  Frank Where can he be?

  Terry (calls) George!

  Frank (calls) We need you, George!

  Terry (calls) Where are you, George?

  Frank (calls) Heeelp!

  Frank and Terry (call) Heeelp!

  Angela Will you let the girl finish her story?

  Trish Haven’t seen him for over a week. Last heard from him two days ago from Limerick –

  Terry Cork.

  Trish – where the Aeolians – Michael Robinson and himself – they’ve been giving Beethoven recitals in schools and colleges there.

  Terry Knew she’d get it wrong.

  Frank (to Terry) Please.

  Trish But these concerts, I know, are finished. Why isn’t he here?

  Terry Playing with the Dude Ranchers.

  Trish Why isn’t he here for his wedding?

  Terry Finishing a tour in County Cork.

  Trish Terry, the Aeolians were in Limerick doing a series of –

  Terry The Aeolians had broken up three months before you got married.

  Trish Don’t you think I might –?

  Terry George was working full-time with the Ranchers when you and he got married.

  Trish Terry –

  Frank Those details don’t –

  Terry That’s why George packed in the Aeolians – to make some money – so that you and he could get married. Right, George?

  Angela So what? The point of Trish’s story is –

  Terry (to Trish) You asked me to take George on. Don’t you remember?

  Trish So that when we –?

  Terry And that’s when the Ranchers really took off. When he packed in the Aeolians and joined the Ranchers. He made the Ranchers. We would never have come to anything without George.

  Trish (totally bewildered) But how could I? … God … And when did –?

  Terry You’ve forgotten – that’s all. (He hugs her quickly.) I’d signed George up three months before your wedd
ing.

  Angela And all this has nothing to do with the story. The point is that he did turn up at Saint Theresa’s – and only ten minutes late. Well done, George.

  Terry (to Trish) I didn’t mean to –

  Trish But how could I have –?

  Frank Certainly did turn up. On a motorbike – right? Soaked through and purple with cold.

  Angela With the wedding-suit in a rucksack on his back.

  Frank Changed in the organ-loft – remember?

  Trish Oh my God, how could that have happened?

  Angela That was a good day.

  Frank Great day.

  Terry (to Trish) Sorry.

  Frank A wonderful day … God … what a day that was …

  Angela Well done, Trish. A great story. The best story yet. Very well done.

  Silence. Again they withdraw into themselves. Berna now climbs from the catwalk up to the top wall. As she does she sings, without words, ‘O Mother, I Could Weep’. She walks along the top of the wall. Terry now sees her.

  Terry Berna, please come down from there.

  Frank Berna.

  Terry That is dangerous, Berna.

  Trish (to Terry) For God’s sake bring her down!

  Angela Berna, love –

  Terry (commanding) Come down, Berna! At once!

  Berna, still singing, is now at the end of the wall. Without looking at anybody she jumps into the sea.

  Frank Berna!

  Terry Jesus!

  Angela Berna!

  Terry Oh Jesus Christ …!

  Act Two

  Before the lights go up we hear George playing:

  ‘All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small

  All things wise and wonderful, the Good Lord made them all.’

  At that point lights up.

  A new day has opened. A high sky. A pristine and brilliant morning sunlight that enfolds the pier like an aureole and renovates everything it touches.

  Berna, a cardigan round her shoulders, is in different clothes – her Act One clothes are drying across a bollard. Trish is brushing and combing Berna’s hair. Terry is up on the catwalk, looking casually across the landscape, occasionally using binoculars. Angela is playing a game she has invented. From a distance of about five feet she pitches stones (lobster-pot weights) at an empty bottle placed close to the lifebelt stand. (When the game ends there is a small mound of stones.) On the lifebelt stand now hangs – as well as Angela’s sun hat from Act One – the silk scarf Berna wore in Act One. George continues playing:

  ‘Each little flower that opens, each little bird that sings, He made their glowing colours, he made their tiny wings.