by Brian Friel
(PUBLIC attempts to whistle his song ‘Philadelphia, Here I come!’ He whistles the first phrase and the notes die away. PRIVATE keeps on talking while PUBLIC attempts to whistle.)
PRIVATE: We’ll go now, right away, and tell them – Mammy and Daddy – they’re at home tonight – now, Gar, now – it must be now – remember, it’s up to you entirely up to you – gut and salt them fish – and they’re going to call this one Madge, at least so she says –
(PUBLIC makes another attempt to whistle.)
– a little something to remind you of your old
teacher – don’t keep looking back over your shoulder, be one hundred per cent American – a packet of cigarettes and a pot of jam – seven boys and seven girls – and our daughters’ll all be gentle and frail and silly like you – and I’ll never wait till Christmas – I’ll burst, I’ll bloody well burst – good-bye, Gar, it isn’t as bad as that – Good-bye, Gar, it isn’t as bad as that – good-bye, Gar, it isn’t as bad as that –
PUBLIC: (In whispered shout) Screwballs, say something! Say something, Father!
Quick Curtain
EPISODE THREE
PART I
A short time later. The rosary is being said. PUBLIC is kneeling with his back to the audience. S.B. is kneeling facing the audience. MADGE is facing the shop door. PRIVATE kneels beside PUBLIC. MADGE is saying her decade, and the other three – S.B., PUBLIC and PRIVATE – are answering. The words are barely distinct, a monotonous, somnolent drone. After a few moments PRIVATE lowers his body until his rear is resting on the backs of his legs. We cannot see PUBLIC’s face. While PRIVATE talks, the rosary goes on.
PRIVATE: (Relaxing, yawning) Ah-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho. This time tomorrow night, bucko, you’ll be saying the rosary all by yourself – unless Lizzy and Con say it (Joins in a response in American accent) – Holy Mairy, Mother of Gawd, pray for us sinners now and at the hour … (He tails off as his mind wanders again.) No, not this time tomorrow. It’s only about half-four in Philadelphia now, and when it’s half-nine there it’ll be the wee hours of the morning here; and Screwballs’ll be curled up and fast asleep in his wee cot – (To S.B.) – right, honey? And when he’s dreaming, you’ll be swaggering down 56th Street on Third at the junction of 29th and Seventh at 81st with this big blonde nuzzling up to you – (Suddenly kneels erect again and responds in unison with PUBLIC. Keeps this up for two or three responses and slowly subsides again.) You’d need to be careful out there, boy; some of those Yankee women are dynamite. But you’ll never marry; never; bachelor’s written all over you. Fated to be alone, a man without intimates; something of an enigma. Who is he, this silent one? Where is he from? Where does he go? Every night we see him walking beneath the trees along the bank of the canal, his black cloak swinging behind him, his eyes lost in thought, his servant following him at a respectful distance. (In reply) Who is he? I’ll tell you who he is: The Bachelor. All the same, laddybuck, there are compensations in being a bachelor. You’ll age slowly and graciously. and then, perhaps, when you’re quite old – about forty-three – you’ll meet this beautiful girl of nineteen, and you’ll fall madly in love. Karin – that’s her name – no – ah – ah – Tamara – (Caressing the word) Tamara – grand-daughter of an exiled Russian prince, and you’ll be consumed by a magnificent passion; and this night you’ll invite her to dinner in your penthouse, and you’ll be dressed in a deep blue velvet jacket, and the candles will discover magic fairy lights in her hair, and you’ll say to her, ‘Tamara’, and she’ll incline her face towards you, and close her eyes, and whisper –
(From a few seconds back the droning prayers have stopped. Now MADGE leans over to PUBLIC and gives him a rough punch.)
MADGE: Your decade!
(PRIVATE and PUBLIC jump erect again and in perfect unison give out their decade. Gradually, as the prayers continue, they relax into their slumped position.)
PRIVATE: When you’re curled up in your wee cot, Screwballs, do you dream? Do you ever dream of the past, Screwballs, of that wintry morning in Bailtefree, and the three days in Bundoran? …
(PUBLIC stays as he is. PRIVATE gets slowly to his feet and moves over to S.B. He stands looking down at him.)
… and of the young, gay girl from beyond the mountains who sometimes cried herself to sleep? (Softly, nervously, with growing excitement) God – maybe – Screwballs – behind those dead eyes and that flat face are there memories of precious moments in the past? My God, have I been unfair to you? Is it possible that you have hoarded in the back of that mind of yours – do you remember – it was an afternoon in May – oh, fifteen years ago – I don’t remember every detail but some things are as vivid as can be: the boat was blue and the paint was peeling and there was an empty cigarette packet floating in the water at the bottom between two trout and the left rowlock kept slipping and you had given me your hat and had put your jacket round my shoulders because there had been a shower of rain. And you had the rod in your left hand – I can see the cork nibbled away from the butt of the rod – and maybe we had been chatting – I don’t remember – it doesn’t matter – but between us at that moment there was this great happiness, this great joy – you must have felt it too – although nothing was being said – just the two of us fishing on a lake on a showery day – and young as I was I felt, I knew, that this was precious, and your hat was soft on the top of my ears – I can feel it – and I shrank down into your coat – and then, then for no reason at all except that you were happy too, you began to sing: (Sings)
All round my hat I’ll wear a green coloured ribbono,
All round my hat for a twelve month and a day.
And if anybody asks me the reason why I wear it,
It’s all because my true love is far, far away.
(The rosary is over. MADGE and S.B. get slowly to their feet. PUBLIC and PRIVATE are not aware that the prayers are finished. S.B. does the nightly job of winding the clock.)
MADGE: Will you take your supper now?
S.B.: Any time suits you.
(MADGE goes to PUBLIC, still kneeling.)
MADGE: And what about St Martin de Porres?
PUBLIC: Mm?
(He blesses himself hurriedly, in confusion, and gets to his feet.)
MADGE: Supper.
PUBLIC: Yes – yes – please, Madge –
MADGE: (Going off) I suppose even the saints must eat now and again, too.
(Pause. S.B. consults his pocket watch.)
S.B.: What time do you make it?
PUBLIC: Quarter to ten.
S.B.: It’s that anyhow.
PRIVATE: Go on! Ask him! He must remember!
S.B.: The days are shortening already. Before we know we’ll be burning light before closing time.
PRIVATE: Go on! Go on!
PUBLIC: (In the churlish, off-hand tone he uses to S.B.) What ever happened to that aul boat on Lough na Cloc Cor.
S.B.: What’s that?
PRIVATE: Again!
PUBLIC: That aul boat that used to be up on Lough na Cloc Cor – an aul blue thing – d’you remember it?
S.B.: A boat? Eh? (Voices off.) The Canon!
PRIVATE: Bugger the Canon!
(The CANON enters; a lean, white-haired man with alert eyes and a thin mouth. He is talking back to MADGE in the scullery.)
CANON: Hee-hee-hee – you’re a terrible woman.
S.B.: Well, Canon!
CANON: That Madge … hee-hee-hee.
PUBLIC: Good night. Canon.
CANON: She says I wait till the rosary’s over and the kettle’s on … hee-hee-hee.
S.B.: She’s a sharp one, Madge.
CANON: ‘You wait,’ says she, ‘till the rosary’s over and the kettle’s on!’
PRIVATE: Hee-hee-hee.
S.B.: Pay no heed to Madge, Canon.
PRIVATE: And how’s the O’Donnell family tonight?
CANON: And how’s the O’Donnell family tonight?
(PUBLIC sits when the CANON sits.)
S.B.: Living a
way as usual. Not a thing happening.
PRIVATE: Liar!
CANON: Just so, now, just so.
S.B.: Will we have a game now or will we wait till the supper comes in?
CANON: We may as well commence, Sean. I see no reason why we shouldn’t commence.
S.B.: (Setting the board) Whatever you say, Canon.
CANON: Hee-hee-hee. ‘You wait,’ says she, ‘till the rosary’s over and the kettle’s on.’
PRIVATE: She’s a sharp one, Madge.
S.B.: She’s a sharp one, Madge.
CANON: It’ll be getting near your time, Gareth.
PUBLIC: Tomorrow morning, Canon.
CANON: Just so, now. Tomorrow morning.
PRIVATE: Tomorrow morning.
CANON: Tomorrow morning.
S.B.: Here we are.
CANON: Powerful the way time passes, too.
S.B.: Black or white, Canon?
CANON: (Considering the problem) Black or white …
PRIVATE: Black for the crows and white for the swans.
CANON: Black for the crows and white for the swans.
PRIVATE: Ha-ha! (He preens himself at his skill in prophecy.)
S.B.: Have a shot at the black the night.
CANON: Maybe I will then.
PRIVATE: Can’t take the money off you every night.
CANON: Can’t take the trousers off you every night. Hee-hee-hee.
PRIVATE: (Shocked) Canon O’Byrne!
S.B.: You had a great streak of luck last night, I’ll grant you that.
CANON: (A major announcement) D’you know what?
S.B.: What’s that, Canon?
CANON: You’ll have rain before morning.
S.B.: D’you think so?
CANON: It’s in the bones. The leg’s giving me the odd jab.
S.B.: We could do without the rain then.
CANON: Before the morning you’ll have it.
S.B.: Tch tch tch. We get our fill of it here.
CANON: The best barometer I know.
S.B.: Aye. No want of rain.
CANON: Before the morning.
S.B.: As if we don’t get enough of it.
CANON: The jabs are never wrong.
PRIVATE: (Wildly excited) Stop press! News flash! Sensation! We interrupt our programmes to bring you the news that Canon Mick O’Byrne, of Ballybeg, Ireland, has made the confident prediction that you’ll have rain before the morning! Stand by for further bulletins!
CANON: ‘You wait,’ says she, ‘till the rosary’s over and the kettle’s on!’
S.B.: Usual stakes. Canon?
CANON: I see no reason to alter them.
S.B.: What about putting them up – just for the first game?
CANON: The thin end of the wedge, eh, as the Bishop says? No, Sean, the way I see it, a half-penny a game’ll neither make nor break either of us.
(Enter MADGE with cups of tea and a plate of biscuits.)
MADGE: Have you begun already?
S.B.: Shh!
MADGE: If it was turkeys or marble clocks they were playing for they couldn’t be more serious!
S.B.: Quiet!
MADGE: Agh!
(She leaves their tea beside them and brings a cup over to PUBLIC. They talk in undertones.)
MADGE: Wouldn’t you love to throw it round them!
PUBLIC: Scalding hot!
MADGE: And raise blisters on their aul bald pates! – God forgive me!
PUBLIC: Madge.
MADGE: What?
PUBLIC: Why don’t you take a run over to see the new baby?
MADGE: I’ve more on my mind than that.
PUBLIC: I’ll put up the jars and wash up these few things.
MADGE: And this the last night we’ll have you to torment us?
PUBLIC: Go on. Go on. We won’t start swopping the dirty stories till we get you out of the road.
S.B.: Shhhhhhh!
PUBLIC: Hurry up. Nelly’ll be wondering why you didn’t show up.
MADGE: Aye, so.
PUBLIC: Your own namesake, isn’t it?
MADGE: So she says.
PUBLIC: Get a move on. You’ll be back before bedtime.
MADGE: What d’you think?
PUBLIC: Quick!
MADGE: I’m away! (She takes a few steps away and comes back.) Don’t forget: them shirts isn’t right aired.
(Just when she is at the scullery door.)
PUBLIC: Madge.
MADGE: What is it?
PRIVATE: Don’t! Don’t!
PUBLIC: Why did my mother marry him (S.B.) instead of Master Boyle?
MADGE: What?
PUBLIC: She went with both of them, didn’t she?
MADGE: She married the better man by far.
PUBLIC: But she went with Boyle first, didn’t she?
MADGE: I’ve told you before: she went with a dozen – that was the kind of her – she couldn’t help herself.
PUBLIC: But is that what started Boyle drinking?
MADGE: If it was, more fool he. And any other nosing about you want to do, ask the Boss. For you’re not going to pump me. (She goes off.)
PRIVATE: What the hell had you to go and ask that for! Snap, boy, snap! We want no scenes tonight. Get up and clear out of this because you’re liable to get over-excited watching these two dare-devils dicing with death.
(PUBLIC takes his cup and goes towards his bedroom.)
Into your survival shelter and brood, brood, brood. (As if replying to the draught players – who have not noticed his exit.) No, no, I’m not leaving. Just going in here to have a wee chat with my Chinese mistress.
(PUBLIC goes into his bedroom, leaving the door open.
PRIVATE stays in the kitchen. PUBLIC in the bedroom mimes the actions of PRIVATE in the following sequence. PRIVATE stands at the table between S.B. and CANON:)
PRIVATE: Canon battling tooth and nail for another half-penny; Screwballs fighting valiantly to retain his trousers! Gripped in mortal combat! County Councillor versus Canon! Screwballs versus Canonballs! (Stares intently at them.) Hi, kids! Having fun, kids? (Gets to his feet, leans his elbow on the table, and talks confidentially into their faces.) Any chance of a game, huh? Tell me, boys, strictly between ourselves, will you miss me? You will? You really will? But now I want you both to close your eyes – please, my darlings – don’t, don’t argue – just do as I say – just close your eyes and think of all the truly wonderful times we’ve had together. Now! What’ll we chat about, eh? Let’s – chat – about – what? No, Screwballs, not women; not before you-know-who. (Looking at the CANON.) Money? Agh, sure, Canon, what interest have you in money? Sure as long as you get to Tenerife for five weeks every winter what interest have you in money? But I’m wasting my time with you, Canon – Screwballs here is different; there’s an affinity between Screwballs and me that no one, literally no one could understand – except you, Canon (Deadly serious), because you’re warm and kind and soft and sympathetic – all things to all men – because you could translate all this loneliness, this groping, this dreadful bloody buffoonery into Christian terms that will make life bearable for us all. And yet you don’t say a word. Why, Canon? Why, arid Canon? Isn’t this your job? – to translate? Why don’t you speak, then? Prudence, arid Canon? Prudence be damned! Christianity isn’t prudent – it’s insane! Or maybe this just happens to be one of your bad nights – (Suddenly bright and brittle again) – A pound to a shilling I make you laugh! (Dancing around, singing to the tune of ‘Daisy’:) ‘Screwballs, Screwballs, give me your answer do. I’m half crazy all for the love of you. I’m off to Philadelphey, and I’ll leave you on the shelfey –’
(S.B. gives a short dry laugh.)
PRIVATE: A pound you owe me! Money for aul rope! And you, Canon, what about giving us a bar or two?
CANON: Aye.
PRIVATE: You will? Wonderful! What’ll it be? A pop number? An aul Gregorian come-all-ye? A whack of an aul aria?
CANON: I had you cornered.
PRIVATE: �
��I had you cornered’ – I know it! I know it! I know it! (Sings in the style of a modern crooner.) I had you cornered/That night in Casablanca/That night you said you loved me – all set? Boys and girls, that top, pop recording star, Kenny O’Byrne and the Ballybeg Buggers in their latest fabulous release, ‘I Had You Cornered’.
(PRIVATE stands with head lowered, his foot tapping, his fingers clicking in syncopated rhythm, waiting for the CANON to begin. He keeps this up for a few seconds. Then in time to his own beat he sings very softly, as he goes to the bedroom –
Should aul acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to min’?
Should aul acquaintance be forgot
And days o’ lang-syne?
Yah – ooooo.
(PUBLIC suddenly sits up in bed.)
Mendelssohn! That’s the bugger’ll tear the guts out of you! (PUBLIC puts on a recording of the Second Movement of the Violin Concerto, PRIVATE, now almost frenzied, dashes back to the kitchen.)
Give us a bar or two, Mendelssohn, aul fella. Come on, lad; resin the aul bow and spit on your hands and give us an aul bar!
(The record begins. PRIVATE runs to the table and thrusts his face between the players.)
Listen! Listen! Listen! D’you hear it? D’you know what the music says? (To S.B.) It says that once upon a time a boy and his father sat in a blue boat on a lake on an afternoon in May, and on that afternoon a great beauty happened, a beauty that has haunted the boy ever since, because he wonders now did it really take place or did he imagine it. There are only the two of us, he says; each of us is all the other has; and why can we not even look at each other? Have pity on us, he says; have goddam pity on every goddam bloody man jack of us. (He comes away from the table and walks limply back to the bedroom. When he gets to the bedroom door he turns, surveys the men.) To hell with all strong silent men!
(He goes into the bedroom, drops into the chair, and sits motionless. PUBLIC sinks back on to the bed again.)
(Silence.)
CANON: What’s that noise?
S.B.: What’s that, Canon?
CANON: A noise of some sort.
S.B.: Is there?
(They listen.)
S.B.: I don’t hear –