Jez Butterworth Plays

by Jez Butterworth

  GRIFFIN gets up. He takes a roll of toilet paper out of the tallboy.

  I’ll just get some more coal.

  GRIFFIN leaves, taking the coal pail on the way. They sit there in silence.

  BOLLA. Do you fancy some crème de menthe?

  WATTMORE. No thanks.

  Silence.

  BOLLA. Any pets?

  WATTMORE. What? No.

  BOLLA. Me either. Had a mouse inside.

  WATTMORE. Right.

  BOLLA. When I was in solitary. I used to talk to it at night. And it used to talk back. You’re short of company in solitary. It gets extremely lonely.

  Pause.

  Griffin says you’ve been a little ‘piano’ recently.

  WATTMORE. What?

  BOLLA. A bit low. Not yourself.

  WATTMORE. Did he?

  BOLLA. Anything you want to talk about?

  WATTMORE. Not really.

  Pause.

  BOLLA. Has something happened? Apart from the Cubs.

  WATTMORE. No. Nothing’s happened.

  Pause.

  BOLLA. So is Fen Ditton nice?

  WATTMORE. Few shops. Earl of Great Gloucester. That’s about it.

  BOLLA. Right.

  WATTMORE. There’s the mobile library comes Mondays and Thursdays.

  BOLLA. Right.

  WATTMORE. And the carnival in September. And a May Day festival. That’s about it. Carnival’s not bad. One year I helped pick out the Carnival Queen.

  BOLLA. Really?

  WATTMORE. It was Jane Livingstone.

  BOLLA (shakes her head). Sorry.

  WATTMORE. She was sixteen. She had these beautiful blue eyes. We rode on the float and they had a brass band. It was in the Bugle. With a picture of the Mayor, Jane Livingstone, and me.

  BOLLA. That’s nice.

  WATTMORE. She’s married now. The Mayor said I was the type of person they could use in the Town Hall. Anyway it was in the Bugle. The other thing in the Bugle was all wrong. They got the wrong end of the stick.

  Pause.

  BOLLA. So this boy, Warren. What made you think he was a wrong ’un.

  WATTMORE. What?

  BOLLA. I just wondered. What was it you saw?

  WATTMORE. I’d rather not talk about it.

  BOLLA. Oh. Right. But you sensed something in him. You sensed something in him was wrong. Something was bad.

  WATTMORE. You can’t describe it.

  BOLLA. But when someone is bad, you can tell. If someone was sitting here, for instance, in your house, you think you could tell if they were bad or not. How do you do it. Do you look into their eyes. If you look into their eyes can you see it. Can you see it?

  Pause.

  Can you see it Jess?

  Silence. WATTMORE is frozen staring into BOLLA’s eyes.

  WATTMORE. What are you saying?

  Pause.

  BOLLA. I think it’s very nice that you’re showing me hospitality.

  Pause.

  When I first got here, I thought you and me might butt heads. But now I think different. Now I think we’ve got more in common than it appears initially, on the surface. Much, much more in common.

  Pause.

  And if you’ll excuse me for a moment, Jess, I must just pop to the little girls’ room.

  She gets up. WATTMORE gets up. She leaves WATTMORE alone. He stands there. Enter GRIFFIN with a pail full of coal.

  GRIFFIN. Here we go. Keep the party going. Where’s she gone?

  WATTMORE. We’ve got to get her out of here.

  GRIFFIN. What? What’s happened. What have you said Jess Wattmore. What have you done.

  WATTMORE. I didn’t do anything. What are you doing?

  GRIFFIN. What? I’m fetching coal. What have you said to her? What did you say while I was out.

  WATTMORE. Nothing.

  GRIFFIN. What have you said to her?

  WATTMORE. Nothing.

  GRIFFIN. Wattmore...

  WATTMORE. She had a familiar.

  GRIFFIN. What?

  WATTMORE. She had... she had a mouse...

  GRIFFIN. When? What? When?

  WATTMORE. She used to talk to it and it used to talk back. She said it used to talk back. We don’t know what she is!

  Silence.

  GRIFFIN. I tell you what Jess. Why don’t you ask her when she comes out? ‘Excuse me, we were just wondering if you were by any chance a succubus? You know, just for the record, do you fornicate with Satan and suckle his imps?’ Better still, why don’t you go down the Bugle in the morning and tell them. I bet you a hundred pound they put you on the front page again.

  WATTMORE. What are you doing telling her I was in the Bugle.

  GRIFFIN. You were in the Bugle. If you weren’t in the Bugle we wouldn’t be sat here.

  WATTMORE. I don’t want everyone knowing it.

  GRIFFIN. Everyone already knows it. It was in the Bugle. It was on the front page. Local Scoutleader Goes Batshit.

  WATTMORE. Just shut up about it. And shut up about Dougal. And shut up about The Sons.

  GRIFFIN. See. I told you it was called that.

  WATTMORE. I’m warning you Griffin.

  GRIFFIN. I didn’t get us in this mess Wattmore. If you’d have not become so bloody special all of a sudden –

  WATTMORE. Shut up.

  GRIFFIN. If you’d not become so bloody special.

  Pause.

  WATTMORE. She did something.

  GRIFFIN. What?

  WATTMORE. She looked at me.

  GRIFFIN. What do you mean.

  Pause. Then:

  WATTMORE. ... her eyes...

  Enter BOLLA. She stands there, as if she may have heard. She enters the room.

  BOLLA. I see Griffin’s back.

  GRIFFIN. Yes. He is.

  BOLLA. Drink?

  GRIFFIN. Lovely.

  BOLLA. Jess.

  WATTMORE. No thank you.

  Pause.

  Yes. Please.

  BOLLA. What have we got. Brandy. Bacardi. Frisky whisky. You’re going to get me drunk.

  GRIFFIN. Steady as she goes.

  BOLLA. You all right Jess. You look pale.

  GRIFFIN. He’s fine.

  BOLLA. Are you sure?

  WATTMORE. Yes.

  Pause. She looks at them both.

  BOLLA. So who’s the bard?

  GRIFFIN. Shakespeare.

  BOLLA. No. I mean who’s the wordsmith? Who’s writing the poems?

  GRIFFIN. What?

  BOLLA. There’s poetry in my bathroom. On top of my bog. It must have been there from before I moved in because I never saw it.

  GRIFFIN. Oh that’s right.

  BOLLA. Was it you Jess?

  WATTMORE. I don’t know poetry.

  BOLLA. Was it you Griffin? Eh? Don’t be shy.

  WATTMORE. Yes.

  BOLLA. Here you are.

  She hands it to him.

  I didn’t read it. Just the first two lines. I thought it may be private. I think it’s important to respect privacy. Don’t you?

  Pause.

  So is it finished?

  GRIFFIN. It’s just begun. It’s a work in progress.

  BOLLA. What’s it called?

  Beat.

  GRIFFIN. ‘The Garden’.

  BOLLA. ‘The Garden’.

  GRIFFIN. Yeah.

  BOLLA. What’s it about?

  GRIFFIN. It’s about where we worked I suppose. It’s about the garden in the summer. See a few years ago Jess did a mass planting in the new flower beds, so he went all the way to King’s Lynn and spent sixty pounds of his own money on two sacks of Organite. It’s Organic nitrogen fertiliser. The factory’s in King’s Lynn. Anyway he went and got it and he spent all week turning in the two sacks, and it really did the trick because next May Day they all came into bloom at once. You had to see it. We had tulip, primrose, violet, marigold, pansies, dahlia, zinnia, daisies, cockscomb, oriental lily. We were the envy of all the colleges. It was beautiful
, that summer. So yeah. Anyway. That’s what it’s about. It’s not finished.

  BOLLA. What does it represent?

  GRIFFIN. What?

  BOLLA. The garden. What does it represent?

  GRIFFIN. Search me. It’s just a garden.

  BOLLA. You’ve got a problem.

  GRIFFIN. What?

  BOLLA. With the poem. With your garden.

  GRIFFIN. Why?

  BOLLA. It doesn’t represent nothing and nothing rhymes with garden. Except harden. And pardon. That’s your lot. You could try and rhyme some of the flowers, but, see the flowers are all tough rhymes. Daffodil. Begonia. Rhododendron. It’s well known. The flowers are buggers to rhyme. Plus it’s already been done.

  GRIFFIN. When?

  BOLLA. Andrew Marvell. He did the garden in 1681. It goes:

  What a wondrous life I lead,

  Ripe apples drop about my head,

  The luscious clusters of the vine

  Upon my mouth do crush their wine;

  The nectarine and curious peach

  Into my hands themselves do reach.

  Stumbling on melons as I pass,

  Ensnar’d with flowers I fall on grass.

  She stands up. She speaks the rest of the poem straight to WATTMORE.

  Such was that happy garden-state,

  While man there walk’d without a mate;

  After a place so pure and sweet,

  What other help could yet be meet!

  But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share

  To wander solitary there:

  Two paradises ’twere in one

  To live in paradise alone.

  Blackout.

  Interval.

  Four

  The radio returns. It is a report about the birdwatcher in Addenbrooke’s Hospital. It says the police believe he was attacked and robbed by a masked assailant.

  Wind. Dry, rolling thunder. Lightning. The cabin as before, except lit by candles. GRIFFIN sits alone in the candlelight, listening to the thunder. The lights in the cabin flash on and off a few times, and then come back on. GRIFFIN breathes a small sigh of relief. Enter WATTMORE, grim-faced, with the toilet roll. He stows it in the tallboy.

  GRIFFIN. Maybe it’s a blessing.

  WATTMORE. Maybe it’s not.

  WATTMORE takes off his coat.

  GRIFFIN. We prayed didn’t we. We prayed for help. Maybe... I don’t know. Maybe them prayers got heard.

  WATTMORE. Maybe they didn’t.

  Silence.

  GRIFFIN. Power’s back on. That’s a relief anyway.

  WATTMORE. You shouldn’t have told her about the Cubs.

  GRIFFIN. Look just drop it, will you. It’s done.

  WATTMORE. You shouldn’t have told her about the Bugle, you shouldn’t have told her about getting the sack. You shouldn’t have told her anything.

  GRIFFIN. You’re sat there like a sack of spuds. I was trying to keep the party going.

  WATTMORE. Why don’t you just tell her the rest? Tell her all of it. Why don’t you tell her everything?

  GRIFFIN. She can help us.

  WATTMORE. How? Oh for pity’s sake...

  GRIFFIN. What? She can...

  WATTMORE. Griffin –

  GRIFFIN. What? She knows it. She knows poetry.

  Thunder and lightning. The lights flash and fail. Complete darkness.

  That’s wonderful. That’s all we need. Wattmore.

  WATTMORE. Dear Lord, defend this place from –

  GRIFFIN. Oh stop it.

  WATTMORE. Defend this place from –

  GRIFFIN. Stop it Wattmore. Stop it.

  WATTMORE. Defend this place from evil, drive out the fetid envious fiend –

  GRIFFIN. Brilliant.

  WATTMORE. ... and leave this house for meditation of your word. Help me Prince. Help me.

  GRIFFIN strikes a match. At that moment all the lights come on. BOLLA is standing right in front of him. He jumps. WATTMORE is on his knees.

  BOLLA. There’s a storm coming.

  GRIFFIN. What? Yes.

  BOLLA. I was on the throne and all the lights went out.

  GRIFFIN. It’s the storm. I’ll uh... I’ll light the candles.

  BOLLA. Not to worry. If it happens again, we can pretend it’s the olden days.

  You all right down there Jess?

  WATTMORE. I’m fine thank you Bolla.

  BOLLA. Good. Good.

  GRIFFIN. You know, Bolla, it’s very kind of you to furnish us and all. This really is a fitting evening.

  BOLLA. Thank you Griffin. That’s extremely touching. I was a bit worried at first, but by this point I feel very at home.

  GRIFFIN. That’s because you are at home Bolla.

  BOLLA. Yes. I suppose in a way I am.

  She smiles.

  I’ve been looking to settle down for a while now.

  Pause.

  GRIFFIN. We were just wondering Bolla. How do you know about poetry?

  BOLLA. What do you mean?

  GRIFFIN. Well we... I just wondered... We just were saying I wonder how she knows that.

  BOLLA. Why shouldn’t I?

  GRIFFIN. No reason. I was just...

  BOLLA. I don’t understand the question.

  GRIFFIN. No it’s just, it’s unusual isn’t it. We don’t, I don’t you know... Not many people bother with it any more.

  Pause.

  BOLLA. I have studied verse.

  GRIFFIN. Oh right.

  BOLLA. In Holloway.

  GRIFFIN. Oh I see. I see. (To WATTMORE.) Do you see?

  BOLLA. We had options. It was an option.

  GRIFFIN. Right. It was an option. Right.

  BOLLA. First year was Mah-Jong. Then Anatomy. Then Bench-pressing. Then the Aztecs and Incas. Then Verse. Some young girl, local poet, came in Saturday afternoons. She was all right but she was overly shy. She read her poems. And we read our poems. Then she got herself pregnant and never came back.

  Beat.

  I used to know hundreds. Me and this other girl learned them by heart. Then I got put in solitary. When I came out she’d gone.

  GRIFFIN. There’s a competition.

  WATTMORE. Griffin.

  GRIFFIN. What? There’s a prize. You have to write one poem.

  WATTMORE. Griffin –

  GRIFFIN. They want one poem. That’s all.

  BOLLA. What’s the prize?

  GRIFFIN. It’s one thousand pound.

  BOLLA. Stone me Griffin. For verse? Who’s got one thousand for verse?

  GRIFFIN. The university. Cambridge University.

  She falls silent.

  Are you okay Bolla?

  She sits there in silence.

  Did I say something wrong. Bolla. Are you... is everything okay?

  Silence.

  BOLLA. Don’t bother Griffin.

  GRIFFIN. What?

  BOLLA. Don’t waste your time.

  GRIFFIN. Why not?

  BOLLA. Fucking cunts. Fucking fucking bastard fucking cunts. Excuse my French.

  GRIFFIN. What is it?

  BOLLA. One grand? They’ll have a May Ball, spend that on ice. They’ll roast one swan, that’s a bottle of port. One grand? They shit it. Excuse my French.

  Pause.

  I’m sorry, it’s just I hated the place.

  GRIFFIN. Oh. I see. You... you went to Varsity?

  BOLLA. What? No. My mum worked for St John’s College. She was a bedder. You don’t know what a bedder is do you Jess?

  WATTMORE. No.

  BOLLA. Griffin.

  GRIFFIN. You bedder tell me.

  Beat.

  No, sorry I don’t.

  BOLLA. Bedder. It means some toff leaves his skidders in the middle of the floor, you have to pick ’em up. He leaves a rubber johnny swinging on the bedpost, you have to flush it for him. Because he’s too busy to do it himself. He’s busy off somewhere singing in Latin. In truth, he’s swigging champagne in the back of a punt got his hand on some duchess’s muff. Three
and six an hour for eighteen years. I’ll tell you what that is. It’s degrading. Call me anything. Shave my head. No one degrades me.

  GRIFFIN. Right.

  BOLLA. She used to have to take me in with her, when I was a little girl. I watched toffs talk down to her. Bastard big students with their bastard big hands. Some day I’m going to go back there, and clean up for good.

  Enter ROYCE, a policeman. BOLLA stands straight up.

  Who are you?

  ROYCE. Your porch is smashed.

  WATTMORE. Royce.

  GRIFFIN. Royce. Fucking hell. Don’t you knock?

  ROYCE. It’s knackered. There’s glass all over.

  GRIFFIN. It was the wind. Don’t you knock?

  ROYCE. I was just on my way over Fen Ditton thought I’d drop in. How’s your ribs Jess?

  WATTMORE. On the mend.

  ROYCE. That’s good. I’ve been asking around. I think I’m getting to the bottom of it. I’m forming the strong opinion that it was mindless violence.

  WATTMORE. I see. Well thanks anyway.

  ROYCE. Who’s this?

  BOLLA. Who are you?

  ROYCE. Who are you?

  BOLLA. I asked first.

  ROYCE. No you didn’t.

  GRIFFIN. Bolla this is Royce. Royce this is –

  BOLLA. Fiona.

  Beat.

  GRIFFIN. Fiona. Royce this is Fiona.

  ROYCE. Pleasure.

  GRIFFIN. Fiona’s stopped here. She’s our lodger.

  ROYCE. Treat to meet you Fiona. There’s a storm coming.

  BOLLA. Griffin. Can I have my forty pound back please?

  GRIFFIN. What?

  BOLLA. Can I have my forty pound back please.

  GRIFFIN. Why?

  BOLLA. I’ve changed my mind.

  GRIFFIN. But...

  BOLLA. I didn’t know. That you, you know... that you had friends. You never said you were friends with the coppers.

  GRIFFIN. What? Oh. No. (Laughs) No. Royce is fine.

  BOLLA. He’s the coppers.

  GRIFFIN. No he’s not. Well, yes he is.

  BOLLA. Can I have my money back please?

  GRIFFIN. No. No. Royce’s a mate. Aren’t you Royce.

  ROYCE. That’s right.

  BOLLA. I know. That’s why I want my money back.

  GRIFFIN. Look it’s perfectly all right.

  BOLLA. Can I have my forty pound back please Griffin, and I’ll be on my way.

  GRIFFIN. Excuse us.

  GRIFFIN takes BOLLA downstage. Beat.

  Look Bolla.

  BOLLA. Fiona.

  GRIFFIN. Fiona.

  BOLLA. He’s the coppers Griffin.

  GRIFFIN. Okay. First of all, he’s a bit

  He makes a ‘he’s mad’ sign.