AGENT: I beg your pairding, ma’am, but when the doctor tells me to take a tonic, he says to touch nothing but bar brandy.
THE MAN: Come on, carry on with the work.
AGENT: I suppose you might be looking for a small fortune for the hearthrug? Or should we call it a fancy bit of carpet?
THE MAN: What! At the fireplace?
THE WIFE: Well, the dear knows, isn’t this nice? Listen to me, now. That’s not a hearthrug and it’s not for sale. That is Annie. Annie is a Tibetan sheepdog. If you wake her with the clack of your loud, drunken tongue, I wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled the living daylights out of you. But I wouldn’t like to see her poisoned.
THE MAN: Quiet, please. Come in here. Just a quick look-around at two more rooms.
AGENT: What’s this—a pantry?
THE MAN: It’s not a pantry.
THE WIFE: Well, there’s no doubt—the cheek of some people . . .
AGENT: Another table? Why the divil have you it covered with a dirty blanket?
THE MAN: You mean that article by the window? It has four legs but it is not a table.
AGENT: Well, what is it if it’s not making you to break a secret?
THE MAN: It’s my bed.
AGENT: Mean to say you sleep in that? Well, well—holy salted mackerel!
THE WIFE: Will you control your tongue, you dirty thing you!
AGENT: In the days of me youth I slept on a sheepskin in the middle of the Sahara with millions of mosquitoes and buzzers all around me—but THAT!
THE MAN: Come on now and see the wife’s room with the bathroom off.
THE WIFE: What! He’ll do nothing of the kind. Have you taken leave of your wits, Aloysius? Having that inebriated looderamawn snooping and poking about my private boody-war? Not one step will you put into that room, sir. Keep your distance. (Shrilly.) There is a telephone next door and I can get the police.
THE MAN: Now look here, for heaven’s sake. . . .
AGENT: You’ll oblige me, ma’am, by keeping your voice down or do you want to bring the roof down on the top of all of us. I don’t need to see the rest. I’ve a fair idea of the sticks we’ll have to shift. I’ll have to tell Rafferty to be careful when he comes along with the lurry. We don’t want a hollyocast with all and sundry buried in the debree. I suppose this place is condemned to be the Corporation?
THE WIFE: How dare you!
THE MAN: Certainly not. This is a fine, old-world residence. Georgian type. One of the gems of old Dublin.
AGENT: There’s plenty of GERMS of old Dublin in them floors. If the Corporation sent a Dangerous Buildings man along and he began dancing on the joyces, the whole shootin-match would collapse. Course I know the slums is a terrible curse in this town.
THE WIFE: Aloysius, where did you pick up this gawm at all? He’s not coming near the kitchen either. Faith and if he does, I’ll get something there and with it I’ll give him something that he badly needs. Clear out of here.
THE MAN: For Pete’s sake!
AGENT: Think of the valves of your heart, ma’am. Me dear man, you’re the one I’m talking to. I’ve seen enough, and be the jabbers I’ve heard enough too. I’ll go back and figure out the price. If it suits you, then we’ll get Rafferty along with the lurry.
THE MAN: Very good. That sounds satisfactory.
AGENT: Wait now till I get me cawb and me casogue offa the rack.
THE MAN: Right. Just let yourself out.
THE WIFE: And good riddance.
AGENT: Cheers, now.
(Noise of door slamming.)
THE WIFE: Don’t let me catch you bringing any other dirty character like that into this house. Suppose my sister happened to call and found the like of him here? What under God would she think of us?
THE MAN: I don’t care what yours sister would think and I don’t give a damn. How was I to know the man was a bowsie?
THE WIFE: Kindly moderate your language. I got a letter this morning. The Swanlinbar house is sold and the job up yonder is filled.
THE MAN: (In a howl.) WHAT! Why didn’t you tell me?
THE WIFE: I only got the letter this morning.
THE MAN: Well why didn’t you tell me this morning before I went out to contact that gorilla?
THE WIFE: (Severely.) You know very well that I never open letters until I get down to the butcher’s.
THE MAN: O dear, dear, dear. May the Lord look down on me. (Begins to sob.)
THE WIFE: We may stay here . . . till we die, I suppose. Stop that nonsense. There are two heavy bins in the yard. Carry them out to the front. I’ll be up to Mrs Clohessy’s if Fanny calls with the turnips.
THE MAN: Aaawwww.
CURTAIN
TELEVISION
PLAYS
THE BOY FROM
BALLYTEARIM
After a poem from
Songs of the Glens of Antrim,
by Moira O’Neill
As you will see, the sentiment of Moira O’Neill’s Poem has been turned upside-down and the pathos largely nullified. An attempt is made to achieve comedy by the exploitation of the regional accent, after the manner of O’Casey and the Dublin accent.
NOTE—North of Ireland accents, natural but exaggerated, are essential for this piece, and it is suggested that Belfast players might be sought. Apart from accent, all the lines are in the Northern idiom.
Only rudimentary camera cues are given. Generally this task is left to the producer. In the text below, scarcely any phonetic version of the talk is attempted.
There are 2 acts. It is suggested that the intermission be filled (If not by advertising.) by the playing of the Coolin or some well-known plaintive air on solo violin. It might be well to have the screen bear the legend END OF ACT I until the air is nearly over, when the legend changes to ACT II.
The kitchen scene is unchanged throughout. The scene should be cleanly but poor, with crude (home-made?) furniture. There should also be an atmosphere of over sixty years ago and careful exclusion of anything modern, particularly as to dress.
Players
A VOICE, off
THE FATHER / PETER (Pether Gormley)
THE MOTHER / ANNIE
THE BOY / HUGHIE
THE GIRL / SHEILA (who does not appear)
ELDERLY NEIGHBOUR / MRS. MCCREA
A TRAMP / PACKY
ACT I
As the play opens, PETER and ANNIE are alone in the kitchen, evidently at the end of a tiring day. The oil lamp is alight. After a little aimless moving about, PETER sits in the best chair, takes out his pipe and picks up an old newspaper. ANNIE is busy getting his tea and laying the table (no cloth). Neither of them speak. The VOICE is heard, off:
VOICE: He was born in Ballytearim, where there’s little work to do,
An’ the longer he was livin’ there the poorer still he grew;
Says he till all belongin’ him, “Now happy may ye be!
But I’m off to find me fortune,” sure he says, says he.
“All the gold in Ballytearim is what’s stickin’ to the whin;
All the crows in Ballytearim has a way of gettin’ thin.”
So the people did be praisin’ him the year he wint away—
“Troth I’ll hould ye he can do it,” sure they says, says they.
Och, the boy ‘ud still be thinkin’ long, an’ he across the foam,
An’ the two ould hearts be thinkin’ long that waited for him home:
But a girl sat her lone an’ whiles, her head upon her knee,
Would be sighin’ low for sorra, not a word says she. . . .
PETER: (From paper.) Well this Boor Waar is a caution. Lord save us this night an’ day!
ANNIE: Well God knows it’s not much that botherin’ ye, Pether, if it’s oney the Boor Waar. That turkey’s layin’ out again.
PETER: It’s the gold out there that has them all out of their wuts.
ANNIE: (Bitterly.) No is that all? We could do with a bit of yon stuff in the ground here. This year’s praties i
s half rotten. They’re bad enough to give the pig the gollops.
PETER: (Meditatively.) Yon Kroojer is a brave wee man all the same. Lord, if oney ParNELL was alive an’ the pair of them got together. . . .
ANNIE: (Barking.) Parnell! Don’t let me hear ye givin’ out of ye about that blaggard.
PETER: Och now, Annie, he wasn’t the worst.
ANNIE: Maybe he wasn’t the worst, Pether. There’s always Judas O’Scariote to think about but Parnell was a right boy with other people’s weemen, an’ he was a Protisin.
PETER: Ah I know, Annie, I know. It was the priets done him down.
ANNIE: (Rounding on him shrilly.) The priets, is it? If ye say another derogary word about the priests in this house, I’ll waarm yer ear. God look down on us, there’s enough trouble here. The praties bad, a pig with the gollops, a turkey hidin’ her eggs, and then Hughie. . . .
PETER: Ah now, please God, things’ll turn out all right.
ANNIE: Aye. If we don’t forget to say wur prayers. Do ye want me to try to roast a few of these spuds for yer eggs? Do you want chalahaans with yer tea?
PETER: Naw, Annie. Just make me a wee bit of boxty an’ plenty of tea. Lord, I’m dyin’ for a cup o’ tea.
ANNIE: Ah, right enough. Cock ye up, Pether.
PETER: An’ I’ll raise me cup to Kroojer. God strike down that Kitchener ownshuck. Course, we mustn’t forgit the poor niggers eether.
ANNIE: (With feigned resignation.) Glory be to God, yes! We nearly forgot the black men. Nothing wrong with them poor divils except that they was born in Africa an’ own the country, gold an’ all.
(She is stooped at the fire, with skillets.)
PETER: In God’s good time they’ll all get what’s comin’ to them.
ANNIE: That’s jist what the niggers is afraid of. They’ll all be slaughtered and extermionated to make more room for your Dutch herroes and mebbe for the English amadans. Heigh-ho, what a world it is!
PETER: Haven’t we ten pounds four in the post office?
ANNIE: We have indeed but we have a fair at the end of the month an’ if you an’ Hughie go in with the hiffer, there might be eight pounds four in the post office an’ the hiffer back with ye.
PETER: Now, now, Annie, ye know I never touch a drop of anything ona fair day except when a bargain’s made.
ANNIE: Aye. But thon Hughie could do the work of two in Ward’s public house. Do ye remimber last Septimber?
PETER: Ah shure I wudn’t mind that. The lad was murdhered be the toothache.
ANNIE: Yes, so ye said. He has a couple of teeth left for the next fair if the notion takes him.
FROM THE DOOR: Ah, hello there!
(MRS. MCCREA enters, wearing shawl, beaming about her. She sits down.)
ANNIE: God bliss us, ye gave me a fright, Mrs McCrea.
MRS. MCCREA: I was just passin’ and rain in for a second. It’s a grand evenin’ thank God.
PETER: Hello, Mrs McCrea. An how’s the big man at home?
MRS. MCCREA: Ah, th’ould back is at him again. Or so he says. Never done complainin’.
PETER: I tould him meself to go to the doctor.
ANNIE: Sit, Pether. Sit over.
PETER: (Moving to table.) We were talkin’ about Kroojer an’ the Boors, Mrs McCrea.
MRS. MCCREA: Do ye know (camera moves up to give detailed view of fat face, suddenly worried) I’ve a wee . . . a wee sort of a wee boil near me elbow meself.
ANNIE: Ah, that’s the blood, Mrs McCrea. The blood runs down at this time o’ the year. I know what ye need for that. . . .
PETER: (Close up of him busy at the table.) A right dose of potcheen, Mrs McCrea, can’t work wonders. (Sniggers.) The dead arose and appeared unto many.
ANNIE: A good iron tonic, Mrs McCrea.
MRS. MCCREA: It’s sore, mind ye, it’s very sore.
ANNIE: Mebbe th’ elbow is the best place to have it all the same. There are other places. . . .
PETER: Let ye weemen not laugh at me when I say this: very busy people never have a thing wrong with them. Ye won’t find the like of Kroojer bothered be boils.
ANNIE: Listen to him!
MRS. MCCREA: Mr Gormley, if ye mean I have no work to do, ye have a great consate in yerself. I never have a minit. There’s three pigs there that have me killed.
PETER: Well, never mind Kroojer. Look at me. There hasn’t been a damn thing wrong with me since 1894, thanks be to God.
ANNIE: Yes can thank the cod liver oil, too.
MRS. MCCREA: Lord save us—an’ the washin’! I blame thon mangle for me wee boil.
ANNIE: Why don’t ye get yon lump of a son of yours to turn it?
PETER: It’s a woman’s work woman.
MRS. MCCREA: He’s far too busy. Playin’ cards and goin’ out after hares. And maybe coortin’ weemen behind the turf when the pair of them had work to do.
ANNIE: Ah shure, God look down on us, they’re all the same.
MRS. MCCREA: I’m told poor Mrs Shaughnessy down the road has some sort of bad scabs on her left ankle.
PETER: That’s from roastin’ her feet too near the fire.
(The door opens and Hughie stands in it.)
MRS. MCCREA: Hello, Hughie. (Rises.) Lord, I didn’t know it was so late. I must be off.
HUGHIE: Hello there, Mrs McCrea.
(She walks toward the door and he stands aside to let her pass.)
MRS. MCCREA: God bliss ye all now.
(Goes out. Camera goes up to disclose Hughie as a gangling young man, sour in face but handsome in a crude way.)
ANNIE: Sit down, Hughie.
(He morosely goes to the fire and sits down.)
PETER: How’s the turf goin’, Hughie?
HUGHIE: Aw, it’s all right, I suppose. There’s nothing but muck up on yon bog.
ANNIE: There’s a bit o’ bacon here, if it’s not boiled away. And some poundies for yer dinner, Hughie.
HUGHIE: I don’t want any dinner.
PETER: What was that?
HUGHIE: I don’t WANT ANY DINNER!
ANNIE: God bliss us, are you sick or what?
HUGHIE: I’m not sick. I got a bite on the way up.
ANNIE: Is that so? Well I needn’t ask where. We were seein’ wur lady friend.
HUGHIE: I’ll see anybody I like.
PETER: Now, Hughie. . . .
HUGHIE: Aw, will ye leave me alone. D’ye hear me? Leave me alone. I don’t want any dinner.
ANNIE: Ye’re gettin’ to be the right cranky we article.
PETER: Annie, let things be, let things be.
ANNIE: Why should he be makin’ himself cheap before that flighty wee thing?
HUGHIE: Ye needn’t be takin’ yer tongue to a girl that’s not here. Leave her alone and leave me alone.
PETER: Whisht now, the pair of ye, for pity’s sake.
HUGHIE: (Temper rising.) I’ll tell ye something else if ye want to know. I was asked to go to a dance at the Cross on Monday week, a late dance. I said I wouldn’t. Do you know why?
ANNIE: Maybe ye have cards to play somewhere else.
HUGHIE: (Voice bitter and loud.) Because I have no boots to wear.
ANNIE: Do you hear that, Pether?
HUGHIE: Because I have no bloody boots to wear!
ANNIE: I bought you new boots at Easter, less than eighteen months ago.
HUGHIE: You did, feth. Look at them! (Raises foot.) LOOK AT THEM! Like a bundle of wet rags tied to me feet.
PETER: Were ye wearin’ them to the bog, Hughie?
HUGHIE: What else had I to wear?
ANNIE: I got ye a nice muffler last Chrissmas.
HUGHIE: I don’t know if ye mean I should go to a dance in me bare feet an’ wearin’ a muffler. God knows I’m bad enough but I’m not a cornerboy yet.
PETER: Hughie, we might manage another pair of boots before the date, d’ye see.
HUGHIE: Oh yes, an’ mebbe ten cigarettes. I haven’t had a smoke since this mornin’.
PETER: Things’ll work out.
ANNIE: If ye want to go about like a lord here, ye’ll have to earn the money.
HUGHIE: Me best Sunday suit is six years old, all mended an’ patched an’ darned.
PETER: Well, Hughie, I haven’t a Sunday suit at all.
HUGHIE: Me galluses is in flitters.
ANNIE: Yer father here might manage to fix up a trip for you to the Boor Waar. He’d get ye into Kroojer’s army.
HUGHIE: The Boor Waar?
ANNIE: An’ there’s any amount of gold out there in Africa—pucks of it.
PETER: Now, now, Annie. . . .
ANNIE: An’ ye could bring thon linnet Shiela with ye to keep house and frighten the life outa Lord Kitchener.
HUGHIE: By gob now . . . ye’re tryin’ to grig me. I know that. Yes, tryin’ to upset me and make me mad. But do ye know this?
ANNIE: What?
HUGHIE: Ye’re talking sense, woman, unbeknownst to yerself. I will go away somewhere. Not to Africa . . . but somewhere. There’s nothin’ here. Nothin’ but work an’ muck an’ starvation.
ANNIE: Will ye listen to him, Pether?
PETER: Ye’re out of yer wuts, man. Who’s to feed the pig here . . . an’ the two hiffers . . . an’ all that rampagin’ above on the bog?
HUGHIE: Ye’ll have to think about that yerself. Don’t worry. I won’t be away until three weeks or so. I’ll have to borry money. An’ I think I know where I’ll lay hands on it.
ANNIE: If ye go near the P.P. I’ll break yer head for ye.
HUGHIE: No, not the P.P. He wouldn’t have it.
PETER: Now, son, don’t get any silly notions. There’s bad times in more places than Ireland.
HUGHIE: That’s it! I’ll go off an’ make me fortune!
ANNIE: Ye’ll go off an’ get yerself arrested.
HUGHIE: (Standing up, very pleased, smiling.) It’s the very ticket! Why the hell didn’t I think of it before?
ANNIE: This boy is havin’ another of his stoons.
HUGHIE: I’ll make me fortune, an’ then come back for me girl!
PETER: God bliss us! (Turning on her.) YOU started this with yer ould talk!
ANNIE: Me, Pether?
PETER: Ye never know when to hould yer whisht.
HUGHIE: Just three weeks to get the money. And then I’m off to California in the mornin’!!
Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature) Page 20