by Oriel Gray
Fensham, Rachel & Varney, Denise with Casey, Maryrose & Ginters, Laura 2005, The dolls’ revolution: Australian theatre and cultural imagination, Australian Scholarly, Melbourne
Fiorovanti, David 2003, ‘Oriel Gray, “playwright of ideas”, dies aged 83’, The Age, accessed 23 February 2017 http://www.theage.com.au/articles/2003/07/02/1056825441987.html
Fitzpatrick, P 1979, After ‘The Doll’: Australian drama since 1955, Edward Arnold Australia, Melbourne
Gray, Oriel 1985, Exit Left: memoirs of a scarlet woman, Penguin, Ringwood, Vic
Gray, Oriel (1950), Had We But World Enough, unpublished manuscript
Gray, Oriel 2016, The Torrents, Currency Press, Redfern, NSW
Harper, Ken, ‘The Useful Theatre: the New Theatre movement in Sydney and Melbourne, 1935-1983’, Meanjin, vol.43, no.1, pp.56-71
Healy, Connie, ‘Women in radical theatre in Brisbane’, Rough Reds: Australian stories of rank and file organising, accessed 23 February 2017 http://roughreds.com/twopdf/healy2.pdf
McCallum, John 2009, Belonging : Australian playwriting in the 20th century, Currency Press, Redfern, NSW
Meyrick, Julian 2014, Audio stage ep 5: Julian Meyrick, Guerilla Semiotics, accessed 23 February 2017 http://guerrillasemiotics.com/2014/08/
Meyrick, Julian 2016, ‘The great Australian plays: The Torrents, the Doll and the critical mass of Australian drama’, Arts Review, accessed 23 February 2017 http://artsreview.com.au/the-great-australian-plays
Moss, Merrilee 2015, Australian Women Playwrights: The Sacrifice of Oriel Gray, PhD, Monash University, accessed 15 April 2017 arrow.monash.edu.au/vital/access/services/Download/monash:163685/THESIS01
Pierce, Peter 2009, The Cambridge History of Australian Literature, Cambridge Univeristy Press, Cambridge, England, Port Melbourne, Vic
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‘Worth Reporting’, The Australian Women’s Weekly, 22 February 1956, p.31
The Torrents was first produced at Stow Hall by the Adelaide New Theatre on 9 August 1956 with the following cast:
CHRISTY Frank Gargo
BERNIE Peter Kinnane
JOCK McDONALD Fred Cannon
GWYNNE Fay Cowling
KINGSLEY MYERS Don Tilmouth
RUFUS TORRENT Barry McEwin
BEN TORRENT John Aust
J.G. MILFORD Pamela Jeffries
MR MANSON Herbert Thompson
STUWELL SNR Sid Reid
CHARLIE (STUWELL JNR) Keith Hall
MR SQUIRES Brian Fisher
MR TWIMPLE Rex Munn
Produced by Mary Miller
Set design and painting, Lindsay Wark
Costumes, Ann Neill
Lights, John Dawson
Stage manager, Frank Mueller
CHARACTERS
CHRISTY, old, gnomish, fantastic
BERNIE, aged sixteen, gauche, with a puppy charm
JOCK McDONALD, fifty-years-old, very hard and stringy, a sharp voice, a Scots accent, a shrewd, competent fair-minded man
GWYNNE THOMAS, twenty-one, very pretty and flowery
KINGSLEY MYERS, a sturdy, good-humoured, pleasant-faced, downright young man
RUFUS TORRENT, a handsome, self-possessed man about forty-eight, with thick hair and a magnificent beard
BEN TORRENT, Rufus’ son. Handsome, beguiling, a little spoilt, somewhat in awe of his father
J.G. MILFORD [JENNY], neat, cool and pretty
JOHN MANSON, an arrogant, forceful man, who can hide his ruthlessness in earthy good-fellowship, or display it when he chooses
STUWELL SNR, leading storekeeper—rather pompous
CHARLIE [STUWELL JNR], his bored son
MR SQUIRES, a shrewd rather mean little man
MR TWIMPLE, pleasant but ineffectual
ACT ONE
SCENE ONE
The office of the Koolgalla Argus. The larger part of the set is occupied by an all-purpose room. It is in a dreadful muddle—on the small table downstage right, there are several green baize boxes, bursting at their sides, spilling blocks on to the floor. There is a scratched and bow-legged desk with a typewriter of the period, and a collection of newspaper files. There is also a filing cabinet, and a branching Victorian-type hat-rack... empty at the moment. A door marked ‘PRIVATE’ leads into Rufus Torrent’s office… a small area (preferably on a slightly higher level), furnished with an imposing desk and swivel chair... (all we can see of it).
Except for the dust and the untidiness, the impression of the set is warm and light—windows look down on the main street of Koolgalla.
On one wall is a dusty glass case carrying a plaster cast of a nugget—the first great find in the district. There is also a calendar, which displays—amid a quantity of scrollwork—a picture resembling the ‘Stag at Bay’, and the beginning of the year ‘189-’ (the last digit torn off). There is also a picture of Queen Victoria—to which has been added a long, curly moustache.
As the curtain rises, CHRISTY—old, gnomish, fantastic—is perched on the desk upstage, spinning a yarn to BERNIE, who is sixteen, gauche, with a puppy charm. The feeling of the scene is that of the schoolroom picture of the old sailor telling stories to young Raleigh and Frobisher...
CHRISTY: [this is pure showmanship] O’ course, we all knew there was goin’ to be trouble—there had to be. ‘By Grundy’, says Jim Stephens to me… he was a mate of mine, little feller with a wall eye… ’nuther feller I knew had a piebald gelding with an eye the very spit of Jim’s.
BERNIE: [anxious to get on with the story] And then Jim Stephens said to you—
CHRISTY: Eh? Oh yes—‘By Grundy’, he says, ‘if the red coats take the Reform League lying down, we’ll be able to use ’em for doormats!’ O’ course, we knew they wouldn’t, but—‘Let ’em come’, we said!
BERNIE: [awed and believing] And you really knew Peter Lalor, Christy?
CHRISTY: [with a light laugh] Knew ’im? Well as I know you, young Bernie! ‘Christy’, he used to say, ‘Christy, you’re only the size of half a man, but by Grundy, you’re worth ten!’ He had a quaint way of expressing himself—Irish he was, y’know like his Nibs…
Thumbing a gesture towards the door marked ‘PRIVATE’.
BERNIE: And were you there when they took—the Oath?
CHRISTY: Was I there? By Grundy, I… well, I wasn’t exactly there, because I was called away on business that day, but there was—oh, now, how many would it be… a thousand say—or maybe eight hundred…
BERNIE: Five hundred, Christy…
CHRISTY: As I was saying—five hundred…
BERNIE: [softly: he knows it by heart and he lives it as he speaks] Five hundred armed diggers then assembled, and Peter Lalor was on the stump, holding with his left hand the muzzle of his rifle. A gesture of his right hand signified what he meant when he said, ‘It is my duty now to swear you in’.
JOCK MACDONALD appears in the doorway—a man of fifty, very hard and stringy, a sharp voice, a Scots accent, a shrewd, competent fair-minded man. He watches and listens, half annoyed, half amused. CHRISTY and BERNIE are quite unaware of him.
Lalor now knelt, with head uncovered, and with the right hand pointing to the standard, exclaimed in a firm measured tone.
JOCK: Get those proofs pulled up!
CHRISTY and BERNIE both jump. CHRISTY gets down from the desk. BERNIE looks shamefaced.
When I tell you to do a job, Bernie, I trust you—I don’t expect to have to be calling you every ten minutes, like a mother with a bairn in leading-strings. Now we’re waiting for those proofs, and they’re no’ pulled yet, and the third page can’t be locked up until they are.
BERNIE: I’m sorry, Mr MacDonald, but Christy began to tell me…
JOCK: [sternly] How old are you, Bernie?
BERNIE: Nearly sixteen.
JOCK: Old enough to be working—old enough to take responsibi
lity.
BERNIE: I’ve been hard at it since early this morning, Mr MacDonald.
JOCK: If you don’t like it, my lad, get your mother’s washing up dish and start panning for gold like the rest of the town boys. You wanted to be a journalist—you begged me to get you this position—I swore to Mr Torrent that you’d justify me…
BERNIE: I’m going to, Mr MacDonald, but… but…
JOCK: But what?
BERNIE: [blurting it out] Sorting type and greasing blocks and delivering proofs is an awful long way from being a proper journalist like Ben Torrent.
JOCK: Indeed? And how do you think Ben Torrent—aye, and his father, too—learned to be ‘proper’ journalists except by sorting type, and greasing blocks and delivering proofs.
BERNIE: [defensively] Anyway, I thought you might be holding the proofs until the new reader starts work so’s he could check them and…
JOCK: [sweeping over him] I tell you, Bernie, being a journalist isn’t lounging in court with a flower in your buttonhole and liquor on your breath like some city fellows. If a man canna get a story, write it, set it up, print it—aye, and sell the paper if he has to—if he canna do that, then he’s not good enough for the Koolgalla Argus—or Rufus Torrent—or me! Now away to those proofs!
Abashed, BERNIE goes off at a fast slink.
[Turning his wrath on CHRISTY] As for you, Christy, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, tempting the lad from his work with your lying stories…
CHRISTY: [indignant] Now that’s a libel if ever I heard one! We was talking about the Eureka Stockade.
JOCK: I suppose you were there, too… carrying the banner, most like.
CHRISTY: [virtuously] I never…
JOCK: If they had stood the flagstaff in a barrel of beer, then you would never have left it, that’s certain! Fifty-four—wasn’t that the year you told me you were in Queensland as an officer of the Native Police, holding the wild blacks at bay, and sleeping across the doorway of the Governor’s lady’s bedroom.
CHRISTY: [unabashedly] So it was—and me wishing I was on the other side. By Grundy, Jock she was a fine figure of a woman…
JOCK: None of that talk in front of the lad—he’s drowsy enough already! Get to your work you old he-goat… and hurry!
JOCK bellows this at CHRISTY. CHRISTY is unmoved, but GWYNNE THOMAS is startled. GWYNNE is twenty-one, very pretty and flowery. She wears a riding habit. Just now she is glancing apprehensively over her shoulder, and CHRISTY takes advantage of this to steady her, his little eyes gleaming as he grabs her slim waist.
CHRISTY: Watch it now, Gwynne, or you’ll be tail over turkey… !
JOCK glares, and CHRISTY vanishes from sight.
JOCK: That Christy… ! I think Mr Torrent keeps him for the joke of him. Mind you, he can work if he’s got a mind to it—it’s getting his mind to it that baffles you!
KINGSLEY MYERS comes in, as though he has run up the stairs. He is a sturdy, good-humoured, pleasant-faced, downright young man, and at the moment, he is annoyed.
KINGSLEY: Gwynne, why did you snub me just now?
GWYNNE: I didn’t see you—I mean—I did but—
JOCK coughs. GWYNNE indicates him.
Mr MacDonald’s here, Kingsley…
KINGSLEY shuts up, but he only postpones what he has to say.
JOCK: You’ll be looking for Ben, Miss Thomas?
GWYNNE: Oh, no… The city train’s not in yet.
JOCK: [surprised] Ben came back yesterday, with everything arranged. The new man’s following on this morning’s train…
GWYNNE: [surprised, hiding it] Oh… oh, yes, of course, how silly of me… He told me—last night—
KINGSLEY looking at her.
[Hastily] You’ll be glad to see the new staff member, Mr MacDonald.
JOCK: I will that. Bernie’s a good lad, but Christy and I’ve been fairly worked off our feet—I should say Christy’s been worked off my feet! Once this new chap’s settled in, Mr Torrent’ll take on more staff. He’s promised.
GWYNNE: Koolgalla’s really expanding—that’s what my father says.
KINGSLEY: Oh, Koolgalla’s bursting at the seams—wait for the bang when the gold runs out!
JOCK gives him a shrewd look.
JOCK: That’s a real hobby horse of yours, Mr Myers. A real queer one for an engineer.
KINGSLEY: I’m only an engineer by second choice… It’s the land and the saving of it that I love— [He looks to GWYNNE.] among other things.
JOCK is aware of the tension.
JOCK: I’ll be away…
JOCK goes out. GWYNNE starts to flutter after him.
GWYNNE: Mr MacDonald, I’ll come back…
KINGSLEY catches her by the wrist.
KINGSLEY: I won’t eat you, Gwynne.
GWYNNE clutches at her dignity.
GWYNNE: I have never considered that…
KINGSLEY: That I love you?
She shakes her head.
You’re too honest to lie well, Gwynne.
GWYNNE: I don’t lie!
KINGSLEY: No? Not even when you try to hide the fact that Ben came back last night and didn’t come to see you?
GWYNNE pulls her hand away.
GWYNNE: [attacking him] I thought you were his friend?
KINGSLEY: I am his friend—as much as Ben Torrent needs a friend. But I’m tired of being ‘mates’. There are things I want—and not just for myself. I’ve a right to fight for them.
GWYNNE: I’m to marry Ben—soon.
KINGSLEY turns away… she follows him. She really doesn’t want to let him go.
KINGSLEY: Because his father thinks it’s a good idea—because your father thinks it’s a good idea? Oh, I know how it’s done—a marriage has been arranged. It’s barbaric—one Hottentot chief to another!
GWYNNE touches his shoulder.
GWYNNE: Please, King…
KINGSLEY: Don’t think you’re my only heart’s desire! I want to bring water from the river to the paddocks out there! I want to hold the river against drought and flood. I want to see fruit trees, instead of mine shafts and pot-holes. [Savagely] I’ve got as much chance of that as I have of you. But I haven’t given up!
GWYNNE: This is gold country—Father says it’s rich…
KINGSLEY: It was rich. Riches run out like the wrong kind of love.
GWYNNE: You mustn’t talk like this. I’m to marry Ben…
KINGSLEY: Different people love in different ways. Some people love dangerously and carelessly—living for themselves, as much as they live for each other. That’s their way, and I won’t quarrel with it. That’s Ben’s way, Gwynne—but it’s not yours.
KINGSLEY takes GWYNNE’s hands. She is very drawn to him. CHRISTY comes in with some proofs. His eyes pop from one to the other as GWYNNE turns away sharply.
CHRISTY: Didn’t mean to make you jump—move like a cat—can’t help it. Trained myself to it, you know, in Queensland commanding a troop of native police, I was. Oho, they were a wild lot, too—kept ’em in order with the threat of a flogging and, the promise of rum…
JOCK’s voice is heard downstairs… sturdily respectful.
JOCK: Good morning to ye, Mr Torrent.
BERNIE’s voice chimes in on top of this, calling upstairs.
BERNIE: Good morning, Mr Torrent.
A heavy step on the stairs and RUFUS TORRENT appears in the doorway. He is a handsome, self-possessed man about forty-eight, with thick hair and a magnificent beard, well dressed, his back flung coat displaying a rich, dark waistcoat, strung across with a heavy gold watch chain. In his deep-set eyes, curling nostril and deep-cut mouth there is pride, autocracy, exhibitionism (and withdrawal) and a big slice of charm. As he enters the room his quick glance takes in GWYNNE and KINGSLEY… there is no suspicion in it, just his usual observation. CHRISTY greets him.
CHRISTY: By God and by Grundy, it’s a fine morning, Mr Torrent.
RUFUS: [jovially] So good that God will forgive even the blasphemy, Christy. The
se proofs for me?
He takes them.
Ah, Gwynne, my dear—and as pretty as the morning itself…
In moments like these, RUFUS’ brogue, usually carefully controlled, suggests itself.
Good morning, Kingsley. Christy, remind Mr MacDonald to keep an extra half column open for the court stories, will you? Judge Shaw expects to adjourn early this morning, so Ben should be in at any moment.
CHRISTY nods and shuffles off. RUFUS starts across room to hat stand on which he hangs his glossily dignified hat. He looks over his shoulder.
Did Kingsley have to act as your escort, Gwynne?
GWYNNE is embarrassed and that annoys KINGSLEY.
I hope Ben hears of it… make him envious… keep him up to the mark.
GWYNNE: [hastily] King… Mr Myers and I met here…
RUFUS: Do you want to see me—or Ben—Kingsley?
KINGSLEY: May I see you, sir…?
The coolness intended for GWYNNE reacts on her—and on RUFUS.
RUFUS: Well, that sounds serious. You don’t want to see me, do you, Gwynne?
GWYNNE: Oh, no… I mean…
RUFUS: [joking] You mean, I’m not the right Torrent.
GWYNNE: How is Ben this morning, Mr Torrent?
She is wondering where BEN spent last night.
RUFUS: I haven’t seen him. For once, he had risen early, and had gone before I came down to breakfast—so Mrs. Preston told me. I haven’t even had the opportunity to question him about our new colleague, all he would say was that I was completely justified in the favourable impression I was given by his application… clear, concise. [To GWYNNE] Did Ben give you any information, my dear?
GWYNNE: No, Mr Torrent.
RUFUS: I thought he might have said something last night—but then, young lovers who have been separated have more things to talk about, I imagine… don’t you, Kingsley?
KINGSLEY: I’ve never given the matter any thought, sir.
RUFUS shoots him a questioning glance… RUFUS is never so intent on himself or his business that he loses his awareness of small things.