MAGGIE: Yes, indeed. Some rain would do us good.
HACKETT: Your wife has been talking to me about you, Mr. Matthews. You are lucky to have such a counsellor and friend.
FREDDIE: (Surprised.) Indeed? Nothing derogatory, I hope.
HACKETT: Oh indeed no. It’s just that she’s a little bit worried about you.
FREDDIE: Worried about me? If you mean my odd bouts of rheumatism, I wouldn’t bother about that at all. I’ve had these little attacks all my life. They pass over quickly. It’s nothing serious.
MAGGIE: No, no. It was something else that Mr. Hackett and I were talking over.
FREDDIE: Something else? What, for instance?
HACKETT: I understand, Mr. Matthews, that you retired a short time ago from a lifetime of office work and that your life has become, so to speak, rather empty.
FREDDIE: (Emphatically.) Oh, nothing of the kind, I assure you.
Nothing of the kind.
MAGGIE: Now Freddie, we might as well be honest. You hardly ever go out. Except, of course, sometimes at night, to do some elbowbending.
HACKETT: It’s really an old problem, Mr. Matthews. Every man is a creature of his environment. Man was born to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. Working is man’s natural destiny. He must be occupied, otherwise he will run to seed.
FREDDIE: Well, I suppose that’s true, but. . . .
HACKETT: In other words, we have what we may call the Perils of Retirement.
MAGGIE: Or the Dangers of Desistence.
FREDDIE: Now, look here, I’m not in any danger.
HACKETT: No, that word is a bit strong. I’ll put it like this. A working man may be likened to a valuable, highly-intricate machine. When the machine runs down and finally stops working, what happens? The gleaming, polished parts begin to rust. As time passes, the machine becomes obsolete, decrepit.
FREDDIE: What? Me decrepit?
HACKETT: It’s just my metaphor, Mr. Matthews. In fact, you look far from decrepit.
FREDDIE: Well, thank you. I’m glad to hear you admit that. I’ve never felt better in my life. My best years are before me. I have any amount of things to occupy my time.
MAGGIE: What you lack, Freddie, is a system, an organised way of doing something useful.
FREDDIE: In this very room, Maggie, I listed all the things I planned to get down to now that I can call my time my own.
MAGGIE: Yes, yes, but there has been very little more than talk.
HACKETT: I think your wife is right, Mr. Matthews. You will find that many other men, on retirement, find that the best way to preserve health and well-being is to take a new and quite different job. That is—to look for work, but light work, of course.
MAGGIE: Exactly. To work in their spare time.
FREDDIE: Well, of course, if a man is ignorant, without a well-stocked mind, it’s a poor look-out for him on retirement. He’d be apt to go off his rocker from sheer boredom. Thank God I’M not in that boat!
MAGGIE: We’re not always the best judges in our own cases.
HACKETT: Quite. It may seem a queer thing to say, Mr. Matthews, but work is a thing that can be missed, like a favourite armchair, a cherished picture, or a beloved wife.
MAGGIE: Yes . . . and to say nothing of a well-loved pint of stout, or a half-one.
FREDDIE: Mr. Hackett, could I offer you a glass of sherry?
HACKETT: No, thank you very much. I never touch anything strong.
FREDDIE: I see. You mentioned light work. What exactly do you mean by that term?
HACKETT: Well, what we might term part-time work but something that is nevertheless interesting.
FREDDIE: My wife mentioned that you were yourself interested in animals, Mr. Hackett.
HACKETT: Ah yes, animals are part of my life.
MAGGIE: Mr. Hackett is Assistant Keeper at the Zoo.
FREDDIE: Good heavens, the Zoo!
HACKETT: Yes, the Zoo. We have a wonderful collection there. One of the best in Europe, and the place itself is a scenic wonder. Beautiful . . . beautiful.
MAGGIE: Yes, and the air there is wonderful. It almost makes you intoxicated.
FREDDIE: Well, in a way I must say I envy you, Mr. Hackett. I’m terribly fond of animals myself. They are wonderful creatures and very cute, some of them. And all bouncing with good health, their captivity notwithstanding.
HACKETT: Ah, on that last point I would have to say yes and no. Some animals do not take well to zoo life. They are inclined to get delicate in their health. They need careful watching.
MAGGIE: And careful treatment and nursing too, I’m sure.
HACKETT: Oh yes. Of course the patrons never see any animals who are sick. They are kept and treated in private quarters.
FREDDIE: Right enough, a whole zooful of animals must be quite a handful, everything from mice to lions, from snakes to baboons.
HACKETT: Yes indeed—and they all have their own peculiar disorders and weaknesses. Above in the Zoo we have to be very versatile doctors.
MAGGIE: Ah but it’s a grand life. You have the feeling all the time that you’re doing good, Mr. Hackett.
HACKETT: Quite true, Mrs Matthews.
FREDDIE: May I ask with respect what all this has got to do with me?
MAGGIE: Mr. Hackett is in a bit of a spot. He needs help.
FREDDIE: If it’s a question of money or a subscription, Mr. Hackett, I’m afraid there is not much I could do. You see, my pension, adequate if you like, is modest enough. But I would be glad to canvass for subs.
HACKETT: My dear sir, money is not the crux at all. We’re not badly off, and we have many friends who remember us in their wills. It’s the kangaroos.
FREDDIE: The kangaroos? Heavens, what about the kangaroos?
HACKETT: I’m terribly worried about my kangaroos.
FREDDIE: Is that so? Are they sick?
HACKETT: Not exactly sick. They have a certain complaint, and they need more care and grooming than they get.
FREDDIE: (Puzzled.) I see? Constipation or something of that kind, I suppose?
HACKETT: (Smiling amiably.) No, thank goodness. They have a complaint from which even humans are not immune.
FREDDIE: Ah! Chilblains, or—Good Lord!—rheumatism?
HACKETT: No. Dandruff!
FREDDIE: (Shocked.) What?
HACKETT: Yes, they suffer from dandruff all over their coats. As we know, it’s not a fatal affliction. But it makes them very irritable and affects their appetites.
FREDDIE: I’ll certainly take your word for that.
MAGGIE: Another thing, it’s very unsightly. It puts people off.
FREDDIE: (Blankly.) Yes. Dandruff. Yes.
MAGGIE: Unfortunately, Mr. Hackett is short-handed.
HACKETT: Ah, that’s the rub, Mr. Matthews. My men are kept very busy and can’t really give the kangaroos the specialised attention they require. It’s a terrible pity, because they are beautiful and gentle animals. They are as friendly as little dogs.
FREDDIE: Yes, and they are great men for lepping. What special attention do they require?
HACKETT: Oh, a careful going over for a few hours each day.
FREDDIE: Going over? How do you mean?
HACKETT: Well, each one of the four would have to be curry-combed. It takes a bit of time to do the job properly. Patience, too.
MAGGIE: But of course that would be nothing to a true animal-lover.
HACKETT: As well as the curry-combing, there is a special lotion to be rubbed in afterwards.
MAGGIE: How long would it take per day, do you think, Mr. Hack-ett?
HACKETT: Oh, not so very long. If Mr. Matthews could manage to arrive by half eleven, he could be off by half four, with his lunch thrown in.
FREDDIE: (Aghast.) Who, ME? What?
MAGGIE: Why not? I could get the beds made here, and the house cleaned up.
FREDDIE: ME—curry-combing kangaroos?
HACKETT: The pay we offer, Mr. Matthews, for a six-day week, is modest. Four pounds
five shillings.
MAGGIE: It’s quite generous when we remember it’s for the good and relief of the brute creation.
FREDDIE: Oh, heavens above! If my friends in the golf club heard about this!
MAGGIE: There’s no need to worry. This would be a private sort of vacation.
HACKETT: Oh, absolutely. We have a small private paddock where the animals would be attended to one by one. Mrs Matthews told me that this little job would interest you, and I am delighted. A bargain, then?
(He rises and holds out his hand, which FREDDIE takes speechlessly. MAGGIE smiles as HACKETT prepares to leave.)
MAGGIE: Well, thanks for coming, Mr Hackett. My husband will be very happy with you from next Monday morning, and I’m sure the kangaroos will take him to their hearts.
FREDDIE: (Blankly.) Kangaroos? Me? At MY age?
HACKETT: (At the door.) A very good day to you, Mr Matthews.
FREDDIE: Good . . . good bye.
THE END
FLIGHT
Players
The CAPTAIN, the AIR HOSTESS and at least 8 miscellaneous characters, numbered here I–VIII.
Interior of Aer Lingus plane, cut-away half-section showing one row of seats, each occupied by two passengers, carpet of aisle in foreground; plane brightly lit, rest of stage blacked-out. Plane structure should rest on some sort of central pedestal to make possible plunges, etc., in rough weather. There is a magnificent blonde in front seat.
The drone of the engines can be heard off. The AIR HOSTESS comes in from rear.
HOSTESS: Youz may loosen yer belts now. (They do so.)
NO. I: (Flashy young man near front.) Ay, Mac. (Turns round, calling to a pal in the rear.) Is this yoke safe?
MAC:1 (Drooping blasé type.) Sairtintly it’s safe.
NO. I: I thought the Captain had a few jars on him and we comin’ in here.
MAC: Notachall. A most abstemyus man, the Captain.
NO. III: (Prim Englishman.) I say, look here, flying personnel are prohibited by law the use of intoxicants or drugs.
NO. IV: (Another Dublin man.) Doesn’t say he mightn’t take odd jar on the quiet all the same. There’s hawks and cute hawks.
HOSTESS: That reminds me. Would anybody like a drink?
NO. III:/ENGLISHMAN: (Sharply.) Certainly not.
HOSTESS: They’re complimentary. . . . You KNOW?
LADY IN FRONT: (English.) D’you mind if I hev a Cointreau with a tiny little desh of French vermouth. End some ice, please. Thank you.
HOSTESS: Sairtintly.
NO. I: I don’t suppose you’d have e’er a pint here at all? I never touch the hard stuff. (Taps chest.) The hairrt, you know.
NO. VII: (Dublin. Loud bawling voice.) I’ll have a glass of Powers’s Gold Label with quantum sufficio of aqua pura.
NO. V: (North of Ireland man.) Ah thenk Ah’ll have a wee dray sherry, Miss. Do ye mind what Ah’m sayin’ now? A dray sherry. Dray, dray, dray, DRAY.
HOSTESS: (Departing as plane gives terrific lurch.) Sairtintly.
NO. I: (Frightened, roaring.) Holy Godfathers! Whoa, there—WHOA! Ay, Miss—tell that driver to be more careful.
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: Only an air pockeet, old boy.
NO. I: Well by Gob there must be a hole in it.
(Enter the CAPTAIN from front.)
CAPTAIN: Good evenin’ all.
MAC: Owairye, Captain.
NO. I: Try and be a bit more careful drivin’ this yoke, Captain. I got half of me stummick taken out two years ago and what’s left isn’t right.
CAPTAIN: Right. Tell me now—has anybody here got such a thing as a monkey wrench?
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: (Indignant.) A WOT?
NO. VIII: (Quiet old lady.) Would a nail scissors be of any assistance. I think I have one here in my bag. . . . (Begins to rummage, while plane gives another devastating plunge, nose up. CAPTAIN falls into the arms of the pretty LADY IN FRONT.)
CAPTAIN: I’m very, very sorry ma’am. I beg yer pairdin.
LADY IN FRONT: (Frigidly.) That’s quite all right.
CAPTAIN: I’m sure yer man out there done that deliberately. Rafferty’s a hewer.
MAC: Tell Rafferty he’s making the crowd in here nairvis.
NO. I: Tell him I’LL have his bloody life if he doesn’t cut out actin’ the maggot.
CAPTAIN: Ma’am give me that nail scissors.
(There is another lurch, and cries of dismay.)
CAPTAIN: I’m not happy in meself at all with that port ingin. (Shakes head.) Not happy at all. (Exit. Passengers look at each other.)
(HOSTESS comes in with drinks on tray. NO. I grabs glass of malt.)
NO. I: So the Captain’s not happy in himself, eh? (Turns to shout to MAC.) Ay, Mac, to hell with me stummick!
MAC: More luck!
(Plane gives series of sea-saw lurches. Queer spluttering noises come from engine, then steady drone is much diminished. Enter CAPTAIN.)
SOMEBODY: Anything the matter, Captain?
CAPTAIN: The port engine has gone for its tea.
GENERAL CRY: Whaaaaat . . . ?
CAPTAIN: The sprockets is gone.
NO. I: Whataya talkin’ about?
CAPTAIN: And the plugs is in an absolutely shockin’ state.
NO. I: You tell Rafferty to get all that plugs cleaned up and stop actin’ the bags or I’ll have that chiner’s bloody life. D’you hear me?
CAPTAIN: The whole oil job has gone for the milk too. I’ll have to turn back.
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: (Very servere.) WOT? I absolutely forbid you to turn beck. I hev most urgent business in London.
CAPTAIN: I can turn back . . . or not turn . . . back . . . or turn left or turn right . . . or fly backwards . . . IN ME ABSOLUTE DISCRETION, now do you understand, me good man. A Captain, if you understand me (lurch) a Captain is endowed with ferociously wide powers. In me absolute discretion I could marry that gairrl there. In me absolute discretion I can hold a furenal sairvice. As a matter of fact I could clamp the whole crowd of ye in irons. D’ye understand me?
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: I think you’re a demn fool. If you turn this aircraft beck, I will report you.
MAC: You shut yer gob. This is an Irish aerioplane, and We’ll do what WE like.
NO. III:/ENGLISHMAN: I don’t like the Irish, actually.
NO. VII: (Loud, bawling voice.) Oh is that so? Well let me tell you this. We bet you and your crowd out of the country (lurch) and will again if ye put yeer dirty noses back into it, and we’ll run ye out of Six Counties yet me bould segotia, ye runt of a limey.
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: Captain, I absolutely insist on being put down in London.
CAPTAIN: Now look at here. That gentleman is pairfictly right. This flight we’re on (lurch) doesn’t take much more than sixty minutes. You KNOW? But how the SIX HUNDRED YEARS? Not a word about that . . . (fearful lurching). . . at all. Where do you lave Strongbow marryin’ a dacent Irish gairrl be force below in Waterford when he was after slaughterin’ every man, woman, child, dog and divil in the town? Do you know what YOU ought to do? (Lurch, lurch.)
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: Wot you talking about?
NO. I: He ought to read the Four Glorious Years in d’Irish Press.
CAPTAIN: Yooughta shut yer gob and kindly remember there’s ladies present. (Enormous sea-saw lurching, all present holding on to seats and each other. CAPTAIN again falls into LADY’S lap.)
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: Really, you Irish! I should like you to notice, Captain, thet I have contrived, notwithstending the behaviour of this obsolete aircraft, to keep my hends off the ladies.
CAPTAIN: (To LADY.) I beg yer pairdin, ma’am.
LADY IN FRONT: Ew, thet’s quite all right, Captain.
CAPTAIN: And You—You—I tolded you, I TOLDED YOU TO SHUT UP. I’m keepin’ a great control of meself. (Lurching.) But I’m afraid of me life I’ll break out yet.
MAC: Don’t pay any attention to him, Captain—don’t give him the satisfaction. He’s only a bowsy.
NO. III/EN
GLISHMAN: ‘Fraid I didn’t get the Ceptain’s other name. Could it be Casanova?
(Further lurching in the middle of which mild OLD LADY, who gave captain the scissors, rises unsteadily, approaches ENGLISHMAN from rear, and bashes him over the head with her umbrella.)
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: O I say, look here!
(UPROAR. Lurching. Strange noises from engine.)
NO. V/N. OF IRELAND MAN: Hov ye no monners, wumman? Holy Goad, to strake an unforetunate mon on the back of tha had is a thing ye wouldn’t even see in the wilds of Conamawra.
SOMEBODY: I’ll Conamara you. Shut up and finish yer dray, dray sherry.
NO. V/N. OF IRELAND MAN: What are ye talking about? Ah have it finished hours ago mon.
NO. VIII/OLD LADY: (Fuming quietly.) The cheek of some people.
CAPTAIN: Did ye hear the starboard ingin? By Gob I don’t like the sound of that at all. (Lurch.)
MAC: Shure we must be nearly across be now, Captain?
CAPTAIN: Do you know what I’m going to tell you, we’d betther be. I’m thinking maybe we’ll have to land in the say.
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: (Laughs drily.) Demn good, thet.
NO. I: WHAT’S damn good? (Lurch, lurch.).
NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: Wot the Ceptain said. Terribly Irish. “Land on the sea.” ’Ow could you lend on the sea?
CAPTAIN: Aw, smairty, eh? (Imitates accent.)“’Ow could you lend on the sea?” Would ye prefer us to sea on the sea now?
NO. III:/ENGLISHMAN: Just my little joke, old boy. (Amid terrible lurching and uproar, ENGLISHMAN takes out the Times and begins reading.) By Jove, Compton is hitting ‘em again!
CAPTAIN: (Shouting above din.) Hould fast lads. I’ll have to see Rafferty about this other ingin. (Exit.)
NO. V/N. OF IRELAND MAN: Tell him to lond somewhere where we’ll all be dray, d’ye undherstond.
(More lurching.)
NO. I: (Plaintively.) I don’t know what put it into me head to be here at all and that’s the God’s truth, I’d be bether off where I was last night, having a scoop for meself in the Scotch House.
(Engine begins to conk. Enter CAPTAIN wearing life-jacket.)
CAPTAIN: Ye know the propellor on the starboard ingin?
NO. V/N. OF IRELAND MAN: Well what about the wee propellor, Captain?
CAPTAIN: Do ye know (lurches) do ye know where it is?
Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature) Page 23