Jez Butterworth Plays

by Jez Butterworth

GRIFFIN. This is no court of law and this is no copper.

  WATTMORE. No. I want to tell them.

  ROYCE. Do you mind if I take some notes? I suppose we should start at the beginning. Where were you on the day in question...? The day Floyd Fowler brought his boy to Corpus Christi.

  WATTMORE. I was in the garden. I was working on the quince tree. I’d been working on it all day. I was in its branches, with a hand-saw, trying to stem the disease, you see. I had an idea that it was the left side which was sick, and that the right side could be saved, and it might grow back and in fifty, hundred years no one would know the difference. Anyway, I was up in the quince tree, when the boy walks underneath.

  ROYCE. Little Peter. Little Peter Fowler.

  WATTMORE. Floyd’s boy. Yes.

  ROYCE. Did he speak to you? Did he say anything?

  WATTMORE. He asks me where his dad is. And I said he could be in the Scholars’ Garden, he could be in the Chapel Garden, something like that. He could be anywhere see. So I said I don’t know. I don’t know where your dad is. Then the boy says he’s cold, so I climbed down.

  ROYCE. You climbed down.

  WATTMORE. Yes. Well I could see he was shivering. His teeth were chattering.

  ROYCE. So you climbed down the quince tree. Then what did you do.

  WATTMORE. I took him into the potting shed.

  GRIFFIN. That’s enough now Wattmore.

  WATTMORE. No Griffin. Let me tell it. I took him in the potting shed. I remember what time it was because I heard the bells of King’s Chapel ring five times. And it was going dark, so I lit the lamp. I lit the lamp, and I turned the heater so the boy could get warm. It was dark now, I lit the lamp, and rubbed the boys hands to warm them up.

  DOUGAL. And then what?

  WATTMORE. And that was it. When he was warm, I buttoned up his coat, and he left me alone.

  Pause.

  I’m a good man.

  DOUGAL. Do you swear Jess Wattmore. Do you swear this is what happened. The town will need the truth Jess. The town must know. Do you swear?

  WATTMORE. On my eternal soul, and Jesus’ eyes, and on the cross, I swear.

  The BOY appears from the back room, standing naked. Long pause.

  BOY. Shelley.

  ROYCE. What?

  Pause.

  BOY. What is heaven?

  A globe of dew,

  Filling in the morning new,

  Some eyed flower whose young leaves waken,

  On an unimagined world,

  Constellated suns, unshaken

  Orbits measureless, are furled.

  In that frail and fading sphere,

  With ten million gathered there,

  To tremble, gleam and disappear.

  Shelley.

  He goes back inside. Closes the door. Silence.

  DOUGAL. Explain this Jess Wattmore.

  Silence.

  WATTMORE. I can’t.

  Silence.

  I’m the Jack O’Lanterns. I robbed the man out on the marsh. Here.

  He shows the binoculars.

  I beat him and I blinded him. I went out and I robbed him and his boy, and I beat him with a hammer.

  ROYCE. Is this true?

  GRIFFIN. It’s a lie.

  DOUGAL. And Floyd Fowler’s boy? Is that a falsehood too?

  WATTMORE. I touched Floyd Fowler’s boy. I touched him. I’m a grabber. I’m a dirty grabber, me. I’m the Jack O’Lanterns. I’m the Jack O’Lanterns. I’m the Will O’Wisp.

  Silence.

  DOUGAL. The town shall know. Jess Wattmore. The town shall know.

  ROYCE. God rain down pity on your soul. And on this boy’s.

  Enter NEDDY.

  DOUGAL. Leave this place Neddy Beagle. Leave this place.

  Exit ROYCE, and DOUGAL, and the others. Silence.

  NEDDY. Griffin.

  GRIFFIN stands there in silence.

  NEDDY. Well. I see you’ve found a buyer Griffin.

  GRIFFIN. What?

  NEDDY. I say I see you’ve found a buyer, for your car.

  GRIFFIN. What do you mean?

  NEDDY. I’ve just passed her on the road to Fen Ditton. A woman it was. Going fast, but I saw her all right. It’s not a bad car, that. I’m glad for you too. We’ll see an end to this now. Will you come now Griffin?

  GRIFFIN. What?

  Pause.

  Yes. Yes I will.

  Pause.

  I’m going to Cambridge Jess.

  Pause.

  I’m coming with you Neddy Beagle. We’ll settle this balance today.

  GRIFFIN puts his coat on. He picks up his gardening equipment. He stops and picks up his poem. He looks at it.

  I know who’ll win it. Someone who doesn’t need it. Some professor. Some girl. Some girl on her computer.

  He burns the poem in the stove. Exit GRIFFIN. WATTMORE is left alone. The peal of church bells is heard. Dawn touches the marsh outside the window. The distant church bells are pealing. WATTMORE presses play on the tape recorder. He goes into BOLLA’s room.

  TAPE. Then there was a war in Heaven. Michael and his angels under his command fought the dragon and his angels. And the dragon lost the battle and was forced out of Heaven.

  He comes back out carrying the BOY in his arms. He lays him on the Chesterfield. He looks at him sleeping.

  This dragon – the ancient serpent called the Satan, the one deceiving the whole world – was thrown down to Earth with all his angels.

  He bends over him, and kisses his cheek. He goes to the tallboy drawer and fetches his rope. The tape continues, as he carries the rope into the back room, and closes the door.

  Then I heard a loud voice shouting across the heavens, ‘It has happened at last – They have defeated the Accuser by the blood of the Lamb. By the blood of the Lamb has he been thrown down. And they were not afraid to die. They were not afraid to die.’

  WATTMORE’s tin whistle is heard, playing alone on the tape. Suddenly BOLLA’s voice jump cuts in on the tape.

  BOLLA’S VOICE. ... to explain why I came here in the first place. Anyway, I leave you my poem. I never wrote it down because as you probably guessed I’m not much of a writer. Or a reader. So I’ve spoke it instead, and perhaps if you think it could win, one of you could jot it down. I always liked you. It’s called ‘A Broken Bowl’.

  Everything I touch ends up broken.

  The dolls I had never had any heads.

  When Good Bolla wakes up, the sun is shining,

  She doth look out the window and behold the golden sun.

  But when Bad Bolla wakes up,

  She doth see a black sun in a black sky,

  She doth see bad angels, pulling down the stars,

  Burning the oxygen, she doth feel everything smashing down

  Lying on its side

  Like a broken bowl,

  With the pieces still rocking.

  We feel the moment when WATTMORE hangs himself. The old wooden beams of the cabin bend and groan. Dust rains down from the beams in the sunlight. The birds cry out.

  The BOY wakes up. He sits up, rubbing his eyes in the sunlight. He sits there rubbing his eyes. On the tape, WATTMORE’s tin whistle resumes. It stops, and the only sound is the birds out on the marsh.

  Enter a MAN and a BOY, with a knapsack and binoculars, wrapped up against the cold.

  MAN. I don’t mean to disturb you but the porch was open. Excuse me. Do you have a glass of water?

  BOY. What? Yes.

  MAN. Thank you. I see you have a view of the marsh. I am Tors. And you are?

  BOY. Jonathan.

  MAN. We are here on vacation. For two days. You know the night heron? We came to see him, but I think he has gone now. Do you know why he came?

  BOY. No.

  MAN. How to explain... aahh. I don’t know the word. I can’t explain... Aaahh. In short, he was lost. He will have fought to stay on course, but the winds are too strong. It is the winds, you know. The winds decide in advance. But I think we were
blessed that he was once among us, no? Have you seen him?

  BOY. No. I don’t think... I don’t think I have. Have you?

  MAN. Nycticorax nycticorax. The native Indians called him the Night Angel. No. We have not seen him, no. But one day, perhaps. Maybe one day we shall see him.

  They stand watching the light change across the broad marsh.

  The End.

  THE WINTERLING

  For Shena Malone

  The dog starv’d at its Master’s gate

  Predicts the ruin of the State.

  William Blake

  The Winterling was first performed at the Royal Court Theatre Downstairs, London, on 2 March 2006, with the following cast:

  WEST

  Robert Glenister

  DRAYCOTT

  Roger Lloyd Pack

  WALLY

  Jerome Flynn

  PATSY

  Daniel Mays

  LUE

  Sally Hawkins

  Director

  Ian Rickson

  Designer

  Ultz

  Lighting Designer

  Johanna Town

  Sound Designer

  Ian Dickinson

  Composer

  Stephen Warbeck

  Characters

  in order of appearance

  WEST, forties

  DRAYCOTT, forties

  WALLY, forties

  PATSY, twenty-five

  LUE, twenty-ish

  The action takes place in an abandoned farmhouse in the centre of the forest of Dartmoor.

  Act One begins in the dead of winter. Act Two begins in the previous winter. Act Three is the first winter again.

  ACT ONE

  Darkness. Distant shelling. Small-arms fire. Closer. All at once, overhead, the deafening cacophony of war. Just when it can’t get any louder it fades into

  Light.

  Dartmoor. The heart of the frozen forest, on clenched, sideways land. Sheep. Far off, a dog barking.

  A deserted, half-derelict farmhouse. Doors off. Stairs up.

  A rat-gnawed armchair. Small table, with no chairs. A large axe waits by a giant inglenook fireplace. The fireback is a red-rusty circular saw. Dark windows look onto an area beyond; a concrete-floor utility room, in which stands a mangle, a piece of red canvas protruding from its jaws like a lapping tongue.

  From an overhead drier hangs a black woollen suit, waiting.

  Suddenly, warplanes burst over, looming, shuddering. The full blaring cacophony of... It passes, back to a rumble in the distance.

  Blackout.

  Lights.

  WEST stands wearing the woollen suit.

  A brace of duck hangs in the kitchen, where the suit was.

  WEST takes a bottle of wine and pulls the cork. He places it on the table, with three glasses.

  WEST. Dolly. Din Dins. Dolly. Din Dins. (Goes to the cupboard. Opens a tin of dog food.) Din Dins, Dolly. Dolly! DOLLY!! DIN DINS.

  Puts it in a bowl, carries it to the door.

  DOLLY. DIN DINS. DIN DINS. DIN DINS.

  Nothing. He cocks his head. The planes approach. As they scream over, he opens his mouth wide, as if to...

  Blackout.

  Lights.

  WEST. Opposite him, DRAYCOTT.

  DRAYCOTT. Sorry to bother you. (Pause.) I was just passing. I heard a din. A man it was. Top of his lungs. Yelling his bonce off. Did you hear it?

  WEST. The dog’s gone off.

  Pause.

  DRAYCOTT. The little fella. I seen him. Oftentimes, I’m up this way, early morn. He’s gone off, you say?

  WEST. She.

  DRAYCOTT. I see. Bitch, is it? You had her done? You’ve got to watch ’em, bitches. If she’s ripe. Out there looking for it, no doubt. You want to watch that one. She’ll come home got.

  WEST. What do you want?

  DRAYCOTT. I was on my way over Okement Foot. They’re gassing the badgers. It was on the radio. There’s a mighty sett down Okement Foot. Been taking hens. Pheasants. All the way from here to Dolton. They got coughs too. Hacking coughs. The Government’s had enough. They’re sending a team in. Experts. What do you say? Eh? You want in? He’s not far. Three, four mile, across the fields. He’s a mighty sett. An underground city. Might be worth it. Might be something. Can I tempt you? What do you say?

  WEST. I’m busy.

  Pause.

  DRAYCOTT. Oh. Well, that’s that. If you’re busy. Say no more. If a man’s busy... (Beat.) I had a fight with a badger once. Wphew! It’s a long story. Don’t go there. Lost three pints of blood to it. And a nipple. By the way, you haven’t got any Dettol, have you?

  WEST. What?

  DRAYCOTT. I fell yesterday. In the dark. I’ve chipped my hip. He’s tightening. The skin’s broke. There’s a flap of sorts. I was thinking of staunching the pain. Dettol’s my best bet. Itches. Stitches, palsies or gout, Dettol’s the boy. You wouldn’t keep a supply, would you? Any linament? Oinment, what have you...?

  WEST. No.

  DRAYCOTT. Sprays? Unguents?

  WEST. I’ve got no ointments. I’ve got no sprays. I can’t help you.

  DRAYCOTT. No harm asking. I’ll just have to keep him mobile.

  WEST. Why don’t you do that?

  DRAYCOTT. Exactly. I will.

  WEST. Better not stop too long. He might seize up.

  DRAYCOTT. You’re not wrong.

  WEST. Get infected. Gangrenous. Then where would you be?

  DRAYCOTT. Don’t. They’ll lop me to pieces. Butchers they are, with the likes of me. Before I know it I’ll be in three bin bags and down the chute. By the way, is it still convenient?

  WEST. Is what convenient?

  DRAYCOTT. The arrangement.

  WEST. What arrangement?

  DRAYCOTT. Have I got this wrong? About... about the porch. I don’t want to be a pain. I won’t make a mess or a smell. I’ll be gone at first light. Like I was never there.

  WEST. Yes.

  DRAYCOTT. That’s awful kind. There won’t be a trace. Above all, there won’t be no mess nor smell. You’ll never even know I was –

  WEST. No. I mean Yes. Yes I do mind.

  Pause.

  DRAYCOTT. Oh.

  WEST. It’s not convenient. It’s not convenient at all.

  DRAYCOTT. Oh dear. I’ve got this wrong.

  WEST. Come back tomorrow.

  DRAYCOTT. I see. You’re busy. Say no more. You’re expecting someone. Is that a drop of brandy wine I see? I bet he’s a vintage. Is he a nice drop? French, is he?

  WEST. It’s none of your business. (Beat.) Just stay back for one day. You come back tomorrow, I’ll have something for you.

  DRAYCOTT (of the brace of duck). I noticed them. They’re beauties, they are. Full in the breast. Say no more. I’ll stay back. You won’t hear a peep. In fact, I’ll start right now.

  WEST. Why don’t you do that?

  DRAYCOTT. It’s a juicy piece that. I know a recipe. I’m a good cook, me. I’ve cooked all over. I once cooked for fifty-six turf accountants. (Beat.) Well that’s that. I’m off. And if I see that bitch of yours, I’ll send her up the track. It’s Okement Foot, if you change your mind. Those badgers don’t know what they got coming. All warm in their holes. Bedding down. They don’t know what’s next.

  Pause. He leaves. WEST looks at his watch. He picks up the dog bowl.

  WEST. Dolly. Din Dins. Din Dins.

  A plane screams over. He goes out the side door.

  After some time, from the door out at the back, through the utility room, enter WALLY in suit and winter coat. He is soaking, caked in mud from the knee down. He looks around. He looks at the wine.

  Enter PATSY, in leather jacket. He is also caked in mud from the knee down. While PATSY speaks, WALLY regards the three chairs. The wine glasses. He goes over. Pours himself a glass. Sniffs it. Looks at it...

  PATSY. Just for the record, did I say, ‘Don’t rev it. (Beat.) Wally, don’t spin the wheels. Just let her off, slowly. Let it bite.’


  (Beat.) Or. Did I say, ‘Whatever you do, Wally, fuckin’ floor it. Do a donut. In this boggy, soggy field. Dig me, Wally, a lovely big hole. Halfway to China.’ (Beat.) That car’s finished, mate. It’s a landmark. In fifty thousand years, they will come in their hordes, gaze upon it and say, ‘That was Wally done that. He must have revved it.’ (Beat.) Don’t worry. I found my way up here. Half a mile. No torch. Could have sworn I brung one. Oh, there is it. In your hand. It’s not like it’s pitch black out there. It’s not like I completely lost the path after fifty yards, ended up bumbling through brambles. Fucking stingers up to here. It’s not like I had to swim a considerable part of the way. Quick question Wally. Do you know who Ozwald Boateng is?

  WALLY (sips the wine. Pause). This coffee is cold.

  PATSY. I’m not talking to you.

  WALLY. This coffee is cold. (Beat.) This muffin is stale.

  PATSY. I said. I’m not talk –

  WALLY. This muffin’s stale. It’s dry.

  PATSY. Did you taste it? It was like rock. Like a rock someone sprayed brown. What do you want me to say? ‘Ooh this is lovely, Wally. Thank you for this poo muffin. Thank you for this shit service-station coffee and rock-hard muffin. Thank you for this delightful...’ Did you bake it, mate? Did you bake that muffin?

  WALLY. The car’s too hot.

  PATSY. How much was it? Ninety pence? Go on. Just for a bit of peace and quiet.

  WALLY. It’s too hot. My heated seat is stuck on hot.

  PATSY. Is it your car? No. It’s not. Try the passenger seat, mate. It’s like a fucking Turkish bath. I lost about a stone on the M4 alone.

  WALLY. What do you like, Patsy?

  PATSY. I like London, Wally. I like pavements. I like to walk out the door and not sink up to my tits in primordial sludge. I don’t like sheep. I don’t like Dartmoor. I don’t like the country. It’s covered in shit.

  Pause.

  WALLY. You uptight, Patsy?

  PATSY. Not me.

  WALLY. You seem nervous.

  PATSY. Why would I be nervous?

  WALLY. You’re not going to have one of your nosebleeds, are you? Make me look silly?

  PATSY. I’m not nervous.