Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature)

by Flann O'Brien

  CRIES: Where . . . where?

  CAPTAIN: The propellor of the starbaord ingin is below in d’Irish Say.

  (Consternation. Enormous lurching, a flash, a crash, and the lights go out. Entire stage is now black. The voices are heard again.)

  CAPTAIN: I think I see lights beyond there. Maybe Rafferty can glide in. Rafferty’s a right lad, one of the Rafferty crowd beyond there in Mulhuddard.

  MAC: He is not, he’s a Skerries man.

  LADY IN FRONT: Captain, I heppen to be a chennel swimmer. If we DO happen to go down into the water, I do hope you will allow me to assist you.

  CAPTAIN: Sairtintly, me good girl. I’d do annthin’ to oblige a lady in distress.

  NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: Some demn fool has blundered, there is no doubt about eet. I say, Ceptain, could I send a wireless message to my London offeece saying I will be delayed? (No reply from CAPTAIN.)

  VOICE: Ay, you. Keep yer elbow outa me eye!

  ANOTHER VOICE: Somebody’s boots is pokin into me back.

  NO. V/N. OF IRELAND MAN: Ah wonder where that wee gairl in the unyform is gawn, because Ah could do with another gloss of dray sherry.

  NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: I wonder where the dickens that Ceptain is gone?

  MAC: D’ye know, I think that was a pariachute I seen him wearin.

  A VOICE: I think we’ll be O.K. I see lights down there.

  ANOTHER VOICE: Are ye there, Mac?

  MAC: Would ya mind tellin me where else I could be?

  SAME VOICE: Right. Give us an oul’ bar of a song.

  MAC: Right.

  (Begins to sing “The Wild Colonial Boy.” Half-way there is a shout:)

  SHOUT: We’re comin DOWN. . . . We’re going to CRASH.

  (There is a terrific crash and tearing sound, followed by confused shouts.)

  A SHOUT: Are yez all right?

  (Lights in plane go on, showing passengers piled in confusion on floor, with the exception of CAPTAIN and LADY, who are locked in each other’s arms on seat. CAPTAIN quietly disengages himself, others sort themselves out.)

  CAPTAIN: Didn’t I tell ye Rafferty would do it? Didn’t I tell ye? Hah?

  VOICES: Ye did indeed. Three cheers for Rafferty.

  (ENGLISHMAN clutching brief-case comes urgently forward to CAPTAIN.)

  NO. III/ENGLISHMAN: I say, old boy, thet was a really megnificent feat of nevigation. Would you kindly convey my congretulations to Officer Refferty.

  CAPTAIN: Sairtintly. Guramahagut.

  NO. III:/ENGLISHMAN: Pawdon?

  CAPTAIN: Guramahagut.

  NO. III:/ENGLISHMAN: WOT?

  CAPTAIN: Guramahagut. Thanks very much.

  NO. III:/ENGLISHMAN: (Turning to go.) Ao. I think I’ll just be in time for my meeting after all. Goodnight. (Exit.)

  CAPTAIN: There’ll be right ructions when he finds he’s in Wexford—eh lads?

  (Loud laughs.)

  THE END

  * * *

  1 It is unclear in the original text whether Mac is another passenger, or one of the seven introduced earlier.

  THE MAN WITH

  FOUR LEGS

  A True Tale of Terror

  Players

  a.) MR. O’BRIEN

  main character

  b.) MISS GLASS

  office worker

  MISS O’SHAUGHNESSY

  office worker

  MISS CURRAN

  office worker

  MISS CROTTY

  office worker

  MISS SCALLY

  office worker

  MR. HICKORY

  a bowsie

  BARNEY BARNES

  a veterinary surgeon

  SERGEANT O’HARA

  a.) He is a youngish, debonair, well-spoken man.

  b.) As the play shows, these people are all pests but it is desired that they should be as varied as possible as to age, dress, accent and manner.

  PART I

  The screen shows MR. O’BRIEN busy at his desk, which carries a heavy load of files, papers and books. There are two telephones and he frequently picks one up to originate a call or answer one. This goes on in dumb show for about five minutes but meanwhile his voice is heard on the sound track.

  MR. O’BRIEN: My name’s O’Brien. And there you see me in my office, working very hard. I mean that. There was an inexhaustible stream of matters to be dealt with, questions to be answered, perplexities to be unravelled, and problems thought out. Nothing short of sheer hard work would be any good in that situation. Anybody who even paused would be engulfed by memoranda and files as by a veritable tidal wave. I need not trouble you with any account of what sort of work it was but it is important to know that my office was in a very large building containing perhaps 500 other workers. They were all office workers of one kind or another and, for Ireland, that was a big staff. (Pause.)

  I would say that about 400 of those people were women. (Pause.)

  There is one thing I must emphasise at the outset, and do please believe me, or at least try to. The story I am going to unfold is absolutely true. It happened to me, and it was horrible. Looking back on it, I now see I acted with incredible stupidity. All the same, I was the victim, step by step, of a slow, malignant destiny. It could have happened to you, too. Maybe it won’t after this revelation I am going to make. Perhaps you can be wise after MY event. The experience I had was harrowing and it originated in the goodness of my heart in an attempt, for a paltry tuppence, to help the black babies in the heart of Africa. To give to the poor and unenlightened—that seems to be at least a simple and uncomplicated thing. You might imagine that it is not a thing that would lead you to see the inside of a jail. Very well. Just attend to this chronicle and try to take it seriously. (Pause.)

  Those ladies would not leave me alone. It would be an exaggeration to say that one of them invaded my room every day of the week, but in retrospect it seems like that. The money their visits cost me was trivial enough but I detested the intrusions, the interruptions in my attempts to concentrate. What, you may ask, of the time they took off from their own work, for you may be sure that I was by no means the only person they pestered? Some supervisor was badly to blame. Still, this was the method those ladies invented for making sure they would get to heaven. (Pause.)

  Oh well . . . I suppose we must be patient and tolerant. But let me show you what happened in practice.

  (Sound is now transferred to the actual sounds being played in the office.)

  O’BRIEN: (Startled by sudden opening of door.) Oh! Hello.

  MISS GLASS: Mr. O’Brien, I hope I’m not interrupting you. I’m Miss Glass.

  O’B: How do you do, Miss Glass?

  G: I was wondering if you’d buy a ticket?

  O’B: A ticket? How much are they?

  G: Only two pence each.

  O’B: And what’s the prize? A car?

  G: Ah no. (Giggles.) A sleeping doll.

  O’B: What? What would I do with a sleeping doll?

  G: Oh well, if you won it your sister might like it.

  O’B: My sister has real dolls of her own and they don’t seem to do much sleeping.

  G: Well, I’m sure you have a little niece.

  O’B: I suppose so. Well, give me three tickets.

  (Miss G. quickly inscribes counterfoils, hands over the tickets and takes sixpence.)

  G: Thanks very much, Mr. O’Brien. And I wish you the best of luck.

  O’B: Thanks. Goodbye.

  (On the screen appears the notice ANOTHER DAY. The scene is the same, and a slatternly elderly lady enters, speaking with pronounced Cork accent.)

  MISS O’SHAUGHNESSY: Ah, Mr. O’Brien, I’m on the war path. We want you to help a very deserving charity.

  O’B: You are Miss—

  O’S: O’Shaughnessy.

  O’B: Well, I suppose every real charity is deserving. What’s this one?

  O’S: It’s a plan we have to buy boots for the poor newsboys.

  O’B: Hmm. I suppose you’re selling tickets? />
  O’S: Yes. (Flourishing book.) Only threepence each.

  O’B: I’ll risk two. Put me down on the counterfoils. What’s the big prize?

  O’S: A genuine Chinese shawl. A lovely thing. Bee-eautiful.

  O’B: Very well. I suppose I can lie on it in the Phoenix Park when the weather takes up.

  O’S: Thanks very much. But ah, that would be a pity. You could hang it up on a wall in your home. It has a dragon and all on it.

  O’B: I might hang it up on the wall here, to frighten people away when I’m busy.

  O’S: Well, I know you’re busy now. Thanks. (Departs.)

  (Screen ANOTHER DAY. MISS SCALLY enters, a good-looking and rather haughty character. She smiles distantly and waves a book.)

  MISS SCALLY: Mr. O’Brien, I’m selling tickets for a new bicycle.

  O’B: I see. How much are they?

  S: Only sixpence.

  O’B: All right. Give me two, even if I hate bikes.

  (Phone rings. O’B takes up receiver irritably as he lays a shilling on the desk and MISS S. completes the counterfoils.)

  O’B: Yes, Mr. Farrell. That’s correct. Yes. (Long pause.) The land is absolutely essential for the outfall works and your firm got ample notice of the situation. You can’t blame us if you now stand to lose money. You shouldn’t have built anything there, and I don’t see any prospect of compensation. (Pause.) The needs of the community come first. Surely you must know that. (Pause.) Very well. Three o’clock tomorrow. I’ll be here but it’s all a waste of time. Goodbye.

  S: That’s very good of you, Mr. O’Brien. Cheerio.

  (Screen ANOTHER DAY. MISS CROTTY enters, a middle-aged large woman with a heavy Dublin accent.)

  MISS CROTTY: Mr. O’Brien, I’m getting ould and we’re all gettin ould. Some day we won’t be able to do a hand’s turn or hold down any class of a job.

  O’B: You’re Miss Crotty, I think? Yes, you speak nothing but the truth. I’m not feeling too well myself, even today. There is too much work here. Those telephones are always going off.

  C: Ah but I’m lookin ahead. I’ve been going roun here for the last few days sellin tickets for a raffle to help the Old People’s Home in Phibsboro.

  O’B: You think you might be looking for a place there yourself some day?

  C: I’m sairtin of it. Where else would I go?

  O’B: Oh well . . . you might yet marry a millionaire.

  C: I might, right enough. Or win the sweep and go and live in Monte Carlo. Look what happened Princess Grace. Tuppence each. How many will I give you, Mr. O’Brien?

  O’B: Three, I suppose.

  C: Fair enough. (Begins scribbling on counterfoils.)

  O’B: There’s the cash. (Gets up.) There’s a man waiting to see me outside. More trouble, more work, more worry. (They leave together.)

  (Screen ANOTHER DAY. MISS CURRAN enters, a nondescript, cranky sort of individual whose manner is one of gush.)

  MISS CURRAN: Ah, Mr. O’Brien, amn’t I lucky to get you in. God bless you, I know you’re always ready to help.

  O’B: Help what?

  CU: Now don’t you know. All my life there has been only one charity for me. The Black Babies.

  O’B: Well, certainly Africa is much in everybody’s mind nowadays. You’re running a raffle, I suppose?

  CU: Indeed and I am. I run six of them every year, all on my own.

  O’B: Do you really think you will make any real impression on Africa? I don’t know how many tens of millions of people live there.

  CU: Mr. O’Brien, every little helps. Nourish and convert one youngster there, and who knows how many of his own people he will look after when he grows up.

  O’B: True enough, I suppose. How much are your tickets?

  CU: Only twopence.

  O’B: All right, I’ll take six. What’s the prize?

  CU: A lovely, rich cake, made by myself. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s bake fancy bread. It’s the sort of thing you’d never buy in a shop. Wonderful icing and almonds and all.

  O’B: Very good. There’s the money. You fill up the dockets. I must make a phone call right away. (Picks up instrument.) Hello . . . (Fades.)

  (Screen STILL ANOTHER DAY. The office door is burst open and MISS CROTTY rushes in, wildly excited. She rushes to the desk and grasps MR. O’BRIEN’s hand.)

  MISS CROTTY: Mr. O’Brien! Congratulations! We had the draw below just now. Congratulations! You’ve won the first prize!

  O’B: (Also startled.) Me? The first prize? Well, well. Miss Crotty, I don’t think you told me what the prize was. (Pause.) Just what IS the first prize?

  C: A donkey, Mr. O’Brien.

  O’B: A what?

  C: A grand donkey, a lovely animal.

  O’B: But . . . I’m not a farmer or anything of that kind. What am I supposed to do with a donkey?

  C: But isn’t it a grand thing to have about the house? Donkeys are so friendly and good tempered. Have you any land where you live?

  O’B: Well, there’s a field behind my place out in Blackrock. Where is this animal now?

  C: In a stable up a lane near Smithfield. Know where that is?

  O’B: Down near the Four Courts, I think.

  C: Correct. Here’s the address. I’ve written it down for you. And here’s your winning ticket. All you have to do is go down there and contact Mr. Barnes. He’s in charge of it. A most respectable man, I believe.

  O’B: (Aghast.) Heavens Almighty!

  C: I knew your luck would turn some day, Mr. O’Brien.

  O’B: Turn? Turn for me or against me?

  C: Poor little Neddy! He’s in good hands now.

  O’B: (Sarcastically.) I suppose I should thank you from the bottom of my heart, Miss Crotty?

  C: Ah not at all, don’t mention it.

  O’B: Heavens above.

  FADE OUT.

  END OF PART I

  PART II

  The camera, in a van ahead, shows O’BRIEN gloomily walking down the south quays on the Liffey-side footpath. After a short time he passes the camera, which continues to show him in back view, with background of the distant Four Courts. Meanwhile O’BRIEN’s voice is heard on the sound track. (This episode is not absolutely necessary in the evolution of plot but would be invaluable on grounds of atmosphere and realism.)

  O’B: To be honest, as I made my way down the quays towards Smithfield, I couldn’t see anything but trouble in this ridiculous affair. Why couldn’t those women leave me alone? And what did I want with a donkey? What use was it? Whatever else I was, I wasn’t a tinker. I knew absolutely nothing about that class of animal except that the donkey is very fond of carrots, the most expensive vegetable of the lot. Maybe I’d be expected to buy carrots by the stone. Now if it was a dog—a good thoroughbred pup—I’d be pleased enough. I like dogs. Very intelligent little articles. And the donkey is famous for his stupidity and his stubbornness. I’ve heard of farmers having to light a fire under a donkey to make him move. (Morose pause . . .) Robert Louis Stevenson wrote a book called Travels with a Donkey. Will I be expected to travel? If so, to where? (Pause.) Cork, maybe . . . or Skibbereen? I don’t believe Stevenson ever had a donkey in his life. . . .

  There is a large open space in Smithfield itself. O’BRIEN could be seen traversing it, again for the sake of atmosphere. Eventually he is shown in a dirty lane, knocking at the small door beside the large doors of what appears to be a tumbledown type of old coach-house. It is opened by an appalling lout with a shatteringly flat Dublin accent. He is indolently dangling a cigarette from his mouth and his manner is one of easy insolence. This is BARNEY BARNES.

  O’B: Ah, good morning.

  B.B: Morra.

  O’B: Are you Mr. Barnes?

  B.B: Who wants to know?

  O’B: I do. I called about a donkey.

  B.B: I see. Are you the wan that won it?

  O’B: Yes, I am.

  B.B: How do I know that?

  O’B: I have the proof here. (Produce
s ticket.) And you can ring up Miss Crotty if you like. She’s the lady who ran the raffle. I can give you the phone number.

  B.B: Aw take it aisy now. I’m the man in charge here and I’m entitled to know me business. What’s the name, plee-az?

  O’B: My name is O’Brien.

  B.B: Well, that’s all right sairtintly.

  O’B: Where is the donkey?

  B.B: Yer man is inside. Want to have a look?

  O’B: Yes, by all means.

  B.B: Well, come on in.

  (He opens the door wider and O’B. enters. He is next seen in a dishevelled sort of crude kitchen, with an opening into a larger apartment. Both go into this opening and an outline of the rear quarters of a donkey can be seen, but the lighting is very bad.)

  B.B: Do you know what I’m goin to tell ya? That’s a luvly angimal.

  O’B: No doubt. The light is very bad in there?

  B.B: Ah but’s that very restful for anny angimal. That crowd do go asleep on their feet, you knaow. They’ve some class of trick of locking the joints of the legs, d’ya understand. If you are me tried to do that and go asleep, we’d get a desperate fall.

  O’B: I see. I don’t know an awful lot about donkeys, or indeed any animals.

  B.B: That so? Well now, you’re missin a lot. Ah, they do be a great comfort. It’s lonely down here, you knaow, and I’m not a married man.

  O’B: Indeed; do you tell me that.

  B.B: And I’ll tell ya a surprising thing. They do keep the house warm in the hard weather.

  O’B: A sort of radiator on four legs.

  B.B: He’s as good as a turf fire, and that’s a fact.

  O’B: Turf causes a bit of a smell—a pleasant healthy one, I admit. Is there . . . is there any smell off a donkey?

  B.B: At at all, man. Unless what ya get in a clean meada is a smell.

  O’B: (Hastily.) Of course I had no intention of keeping him in my own house.

  B.B: What direction do ya live in, Mister O’Brien?

  O’B: Out to the south of Dublin, Blackrock way. I have a field behind my house. I had it let for a while to a man with a cow, but the cow’s gone this last six months.