Brian Friel Plays 1

by Brian Friel

  PRIVATE: Madge has such a keen sense of humour, don’t you agree? I love people with a sense of humour, don’t you? It’s the first thing I look for in a person. I seize them by the throat and say to them, ‘Have you a sense of humour?’ And then, if they have, I feel – I feel at home with them immediately … But where was I? Oh, yes-our little talk – I’m beginning to wonder, Screwballs – I suspect – I’m afraid – (In a rush, ashamed) – I think I’m a sex maniac! (Throws his hands up.) Please, please don’t cry, Screwballs; please don’t say anything; and above all please don’t stop eating. Just – just let me talk a bit more – let me communicate with someone-that’s what they all advise – communicate – pour out your pent-up feelings into a sympathetic ear. So all I ask for the moment is that you listen – just listen to me. As I said, I suspect that I’m an s.m. (Rapidly, in self-defence) But I’m not the only one, Screwballs; oh indeed I am not; all the boys around – some of them are far worse than I am. (As if he had been asked the question.) Why? Why do I think we’re all s.ms.? Well, because none of us is married. Because we’re never done boasting about the number of hot courts we know – and the point is we’re all virgins. Because –

  (Voices off.)

  Shhhh! Someone’s coming. Not a word to anybody. This is our secret. Scouts’ honour.

  (Enter MASTER BOYLE from the scullery. He is around sixty, white-haired, handsome, defiant. He is shabbily dressed; his eyes, head, hands, arms are constantly moving-he sits for a moment and rises again – he puts his hands in his pockets and takes them out again – his eyes roam around the room but see nothing. S.B. is barely courteous to him.)

  S.B.: Oh, good night, Master Boyle. How are you doing?

  PUBLIC: Master.

  BOYLE: Sean. Gar. No, no, don’t stir. I only dropped in for a second.

  PUBLIC: Sit over and join us.

  BOYLE: No. I’m not stopping.

  S.B.: Here’s a seat for you. I was about to go out to the shop anyway to square up a bit.

  BOYLE: Don’t let me hold you back.

  S.B.: I’ll be in again before you leave. Master.

  BOYLE: If you have work to do …

  PRIVATE: (To S.B.) Ignorant bastard! (Looking at BOYLE.) On his way to the pub! God, but he’s a sorry wreck too, arrogant and pathetic. And yet whatever it is about you …

  BOYLE: Tomorrow morning, isn’t it?

  PUBLIC: Quarter past seven. I’m getting the mail van the length of Strabane.

  BOYLE: You’re doing the right thing, of course. You’ll never regret it. I gather it’s a vast restless place that doesn’t give a curse about the past; and that’s the way things should be. Impermanence and anonymity – it offers great attractions. You’ve heard about the latest to-do?

  PUBLIC: Another row with the Canon? I really hadn’t heard –

  BOYLE: But the point is he can’t sack me! The organization’s behind me and he can’t budge me. Still, it’s a … a bitter victory to hold on to a job when your manager wants rid of you.

  PUBLIC: Sure everybody knows the kind of the Canon, Master.

  BOYLE: I didn’t tell you, did I, that I may be going out there myself?

  PRIVATE: Poor bastard.

  BOYLE: I’ve been offered a big post in Boston, head of education in a reputable university there. They’ve given me three months to think it over. What are you going to do?

  PUBLIC: Work in an hotel.

  BOYLE: You have a job waiting for you?

  PUBLIC: In Philadelphia.

  BOYLE: You’ll do all right. You’re young and strong and of average intelligence.

  PRIVATE: Good old Boyle. Get the dig in.

  BOYLE: Yes, it was as ugly and as squalid as all the other to-dos – before the whole school-the priest and the teacher – dedicated moulders of the mind. You’re going to stay with friends?

  PUBLIC: With Aunt Lizzy.

  BOYLE: Of course.

  PRIVATE: Go on. Try him.

  PUBLIC: You knew her, didn’t you, Master?

  BOYLE: Yes, I knew all the Gallagher girls: Lizzy, Una, Rose, Agnes …

  PRIVATE: And Maire, my mother, did you love her?

  BOYLE: A long, long time ago … in the past … He comes in to see your father every night, doesn’t he?

  PUBLIC: The Canon? Oh, it’s usually much later than this –

  BOYLE: I think so much about him that – ha – I feel a peculiar attachment for him. Funny, isn’t it? Do you remember the Christmas you sent me the packet of cigarettes? And the day you brought me a pot of jam to the digs? It was you, wasn’t it?

  PRIVATE: Poor Boyle –

  BOYLE: All children are born with generosity. Three months they gave me to make up my mind.

  PUBLIC: I remember very well –

  BOYLE: By the way – (Producing a small book) a little something to remind you of your old teacher – my poems –

  PUBLIC: Thank you very much.

  BOYLE: I had them printed privately last month. Some of them are a bit mawkish but you’ll not notice any distinction.

  PUBLIC: I’m very grateful, Master.

  BOYLE: I’m not going to give you advice, Gar. Is that clock right? Not that you would heed it even if I did; you were always obstinate –

  PRIVATE: Tch, tch.

  BOYLE: But I would suggest that you strike out on your own as soon as you find your feet out there. Don’t keep looking back over your shoulder. Be one hundred per cent American.

  PUBLIC: I’ll do that.

  BOYLE: There’s an inscription on the fly-leaf. By the way, Gar, you couldn’t lend me IOS until – ha – I was going to say until next week but you’ll be gone by then.

  PUBLIC: Surely, surely.

  BOYLE: I seem to have come out without my wallet …

  PRIVATE: Give him the quid.

  (PUBLIC gives over a note. BOYLE does not look at it.)

  BOYLE: Fine, I’ll move on now. Yes, I knew all the Gallagher girls from Bailtefree, long, long ago. Maire and Una and Rose and Lizzy and Agnes and Maire, your mother …

  PRIVATE: You might have been my father.

  BOYLE: Oh, another thing I meant to ask you: should you come across any newspapers or magazines over there that might be interested in an occasional poem, perhaps you would send me some addresses –

  PUBLIC: I’ll keep an eye out.

  BOYLE: Not that I write as much as I should. You know how you get caught up in things. But you have your packing to do, and I’m talking too much as usual.

  (He holds out his hand and they shake hands. He does not release PUBLIC’s hand.)

  Good luck, Gareth.

  PUBLIC: Thanks, Master.

  BOYLE: Forget Ballybeg and Ireland,

  PUBLIC: It’s easier said.

  BOYLE: Perhaps you’ll write me.

  PUBLIC: I will indeed.

  BOYLE: Yes, the first year. Maybe the second. I’ll – I’ll miss you, Gar.

  PRIVATE: For God’s sake get a grip on yourself.

  PUBLIC: Thanks for the book and for –

  (BOYLE embraces PUBLIC briefly.)

  PRIVATE: Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!

  (BOYLE breaks away and goes quickly off through the scullery. He bumps into MADGE who is entering.)

  MADGE: Lord, the speed of him! His tongue out for a drink!

  PRIVATE: Quick! Into your room!

  MADGE: God knows I don’t blame the Canon for wanting rid of that –

  (PUBLIC rushes to the bedroom, PRIVATE follows.)

  Well! The manners about this place!

  (She gathers up the tea things. PUBLIC stands inside the bedroom door, his hands up to his face, PRIVATE stands at his elbow, speaking urgently into his ear.)

  PRIVATE: Remember – you’re going! At 7.15. You’re still going! He’s nothing but a drunken aul schoolmaster – a conceited, arrogant wash-out!

  PUBLIC: O God, the Creator and Redeemer of all the faithful –

  PRIVATE: Get a grip on yourself! Don’t be a damned sentimental fool! (Sings) ‘Phi
ladelphia, here I come–’

  PUBLIC: Maire and Una and Rose and Agnes and Lizzy and Maire –

  PRIVATE: Yessir, you’re going to cut a bit of a dash in them thar States! Great big sexy dames and night clubs and high living and films and dances and –

  PUBLIC: Kathy, my own darling Kathy –

  PRIVATE: (Sings) ‘Where bowers of flowers bloom in the spring’

  PUBLIC: I don’t – I can’t –

  PRIVATE: (Sings) ‘Each morning at dawning, everything is bright and gay/A sun-kissed miss says Don’t be late–’ Sing up, man!

  PUBLIC: I – I – I –

  PRIVATE: (Sings) ‘That’s why I can hardly wait.’

  PUBLIC: (Sings limply) ‘Philadelphia, here I come.’

  PRIVATE: That’s it, laddybuck!

  TOGETHER: ‘Philadelphia, here I come.’

  Curtain

  EPISODE TWO

  A short time later. PUBLIC is lying on the bed, his hands behind his head. PRIVATE is slumped in the chair, almost as if he were dozing. PUBLIC sings absently.

  PUBLIC: (Sings)

  Last night she came to me, she came softly in,

  So softly she came that her feet made no din,

  And she laid her hand on me, and this she did say,

  ‘It will not be long love till our wedding day’.

  (When the singing stops there is a moment of silence. Then, suddenly, PRIVATE springs to his feet.)

  PRIVATE: What the bloody hell are you at, O’Donnell? Snap out of it, man! Get up and keep active! The devil makes work for idle hands! It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles.

  (PUBLIC goes off the bed and begins taking clothes from the chest of drawers and putting them into his case.)

  PRIVATE: (Lilting to a mad air of his own making)

  Ta-ra-del-oo-del-ah-dol-de-dol-de-dol-del-ah – (Continuing as rapidly as he can speak) – Tell me this and tell me no more: Why does a hen cross the road?

  PUBLIC: Why?

  PRIVATE: To get to the other side. Ha-ha! Why does a hen lay an egg?

  PUBLIC: Why?

  PRIVATE: Because it can’t lay a brick. Yo-ho. Why does a sailor wear a round hat?

  PUBLIC: Why?

  PRIVATE: To cover his head. Hee-hee-hee. Nought out of three; very bad for a man of average intelligence. That’s the style. Keep working; keep the mind active and well stretched by knowing the best that is thought and written in the world, and you wouldn’t call Daddy Senator your father-in-law,

  (Sings.)

  Give the woman in the bed more porter

  Give the man beside her water

  Give the woman in the bed more porter

  More porter for the woman in the bed.

  (Confidentially) D’you know what I think, laddie, I mean, just looking at you there.

  PUBLIC: What?

  PRIVATE: You’d make a hell of a fine President of the United States.

  (PUBLIC straightens up and for a second surveys the room with the keen eye of a politician. Relaxes again.)

  PUBLIC: Agh!

  PRIVATE: But you would!

  PUBLIC: You need to be born an American citizen.

  PRIVATE: True for you. What about Chairman of General Motors?

  (PUBLIC shrugs indifferently.)

  Boss of the Teamsters’ Union?

  (PUBLIC shrugs his indifference.)

  PRIVATE: Hollywood – what about Hollywood?

  PUBLIC: Not what it was.

  PRIVATE: Dammit but you’re hard to please too. Still, there must be something great in store for you. (Cracks his fingers at his brainwave.) The US Senate! Senator Gareth O’Donnell, Chairman of the Foreign Aid Committee! (He interviews PUBLIC who continues packing his clothes busily.)

  Is there something you would like to say, Senator, before you publish the findings of your committee?

  PUBLIC: Nothing to say.

  PRIVATE: Just a few words.

  PUBLIC: No comment.

  PRIVATE: Isn’t it a fact that suspicion has fallen on Senator Doogan?

  PUBLIC: Nothing further to add.

  PRIVATE: Did your investigators not discover that Senator Doogan is the grandfather of fourteen unborn illegitimate children? That he sold his daughter to the king of the fairies for a crock of gold? That a Chinese spy known to the FBI as Screwballs –

  PUBLIC: Screwballs?

  PRIVATE: Screwballs.

  PUBLIC: Describe him.

  PRIVATE: Tall, blond, athletic-looking –

  PUBLI: Military moustache?

  PRIVATE: – very handsome; uses a diamond-studded cigarette-holder.

  PUBLIC: Usually accompanied by a dark seductive woman in a low-cut evening gown?

  PRIVATE: – wears a monocle, fluent command of languages –

  PUBLIC: But seldom speaks? A man of few words?

  PRIVATE: – drives a cream convertible, villas in Istanbul, Cairo and Budapest –

  PUBLIC: (Declaims) Merchant Prince, licensed to deal in tobacco –

  PRIVATE: An’ sowl! That’s me man! To a T! The point is – what’ll we do with him?

  PUBLIC: Sell him to a harem?

  PRIVATE: Hide his cascara sagrada?

  (MADGE comes into the kitchen to lift the tablecloth.)

  PUBLIC: (Serious) Shhh!

  PRIVATE: The boys? Is it the boys? To say good-bye?

  PUBLIC: Shhhh!

  PRIVATE: It’s Madge – aul fluke-feet Madge.

  (They both stand listening to the sound of MADGE flapping across the kitchen and out to the scullery.)

  PUBLIC: (Calls softly) Madge.

  (PRIVATE drops into the armchair. PUBLIC stands listening until the sound has died away.)

  PRIVATE: (Wearily) Off again! You know what you’re doing, don’t you, laddybuck? Collecting memories and images and impressions that are going to make you bloody miserable; and in a way that’s what you want, isn’t it?

  PUBLIC: Bugger!

  (PRIVATE springs to his feet again. With forced animation.)

  PRIVATE: Bugger’s right! Bugger’s absolutely correct! Back to the job! Keep occupied. Be methodical.

  Eanie-meanie-minie-mow

  Catch-the-baby-by-the-toe.

  Will all passengers holding immigration visas please come this way.

  (PUBLIC produces documents from a drawer. He checks them.)

  PRIVATE: Passport?

  PUBLIC: Passport.

  PRIVATE: Visa?

  PUBLIC: Visa.

  PRIVATE: Vaccination cert.?

  PUBLIC: Vaccination cert.

  PRIVATE: Currency?

  PUBLIC: Eighty dollars.

  PRIVATE: Sponsorship papers?

  PUBLIC: Signed by Mr Conal Sweeney.

  PRIVATE: Uncle Con and Aunt Lizzy. Who made the whole thing possible. Read her letter again – strictly for belly-laughs.

  PUBLIC: (Reads) Dear Nephew Gar, Just a line to let you know that your Uncle Con and me have finalized all the plans –

  PUBLIC: – and we will meet you at the airport and welcome you and bring you to our apartment which you will see is located in a pretty nice locality and you will have the spare room which has TV and air-conditioning and window meshes and your own bathroom with a shower –

  PRIVATE: Adjacent to RC church. No children. Other help kept.

  PUBLIC: You will begin at the Emperor Hotel on Monday 23rd which is only about twenty minutes away.

  PRIVATE: Monsieur, madam.

  PUBLIC: Con says it is a fine place for to work in and the owner is Mr Patrick Palinakis who is half-Irish –

  PRIVATE: Patrick.

  PUBLIC: – and half-Greek.

  PRIVATE: Palinakis.

  PUBLIC: His grandfather came from County Mayo.

  PRIVATE: By the hokey! The Greek from Belmullet!

  PUBLIC: We know you will like it here and work hard.

  PRIVATE: (Rapidly) Monsieur-madam-monsieur-madam-monsieur-madam –

  PUBLIC:
We remember our short trip to Ireland last September with happy thoughts and look forward to seeing you again. Sorry we missed your father that day. We had Ben Burton in to dinner last evening. He sends his regards.

  PRIVATE: Right sort. Ben.

  PUBLIC: Until we see you at the airport, all love, Elise.

  PRIVATE: ‘Elise! Dammit, Lizzy Gallagher, but you came up in the world.

  PUBLIC: PS About paying back the passage money which you mentioned in your last letter – desist! – no one’s crying about it.

  PRIVATE: Aye, Ben Burton was a right skin.

  PUBLIC: (Remembering) September 8th.

  PRIVATE: By God Lizzy was in right talking form that day –

  PUBLIC: ‘You are invited to attend the wedding of Miss Kathleen Doogan of Gortmore House –’

  PRIVATE: (Snaps) Shut up, O’Donnell! You’ve got to quit this moody drivelling! (Coaxing) They arrived in the afternoon; remember? A beautiful quiet harvest day, the sun shining, not a breath of wind; and you were on your best behaviour. And Madge – remember? Madge was as huffy as hell with the carry-on of them, and you couldn’t take your eyes off Aunt Lizzy, your mother’s sister – so this was your mother’s sister – remember?

  (Three people have moved into the kitchen: CON SWEENEY, LIZZY SWEENEY, and BEN BURTON. All three are in the fifty-five to sixty region. BURTON is American, the SWEENEYS Irish-American. CON SWEENEY sits at the kitchen table with BEN BURTON. LIZZY moves around in the centre of the kitchen. PUBLIC stands at the door of his bedroom. PRIVATE hovers around close to PUBLIC. The three guests have glasses in their hands. None of them is drunk, but LIZZY is more than usually garrulous. She is a small energetic woman, heavily made-up, impulsive. CON, her husband, is a quiet, patient man. BURTON, their friend, sits smiling at his glass most of the time. As she talks LIZZY moves from one to the other, and she has the habit of putting her arm around, or catching the elbow of, the person she is addressing. This constant physical touching is new and disquieting to PUBLIC. A long laugh from LIZZY:)

  LIZZY: Anyhow, there we are, all sitting like stuffed ducks in the front seat – Una and Agnes and Rose and Mother and me – you know – and mother dickied up in her good black shawl and everything – and up at the altar rails there’s Maire all by herself and her shoulders are sorta working – you know – and you couldn’t tell whether she was crying or giggling – she was a helluva one for giggling – but maybe she was crying that morning – I don’t know –