[Tom and Karen, husband and wife both in their mid-forties, are sitting across from one another at a small table in a busy restaurant.]
Tom: This is nice isn’t it? Karen: It is nice. Tom: We don’t do stuff like this anymore. Karen: No and I really think we should. Tom: We should. Karen: Although to tell you the truth I don’t much like waiting for the food. Tom: It’s busy tonight. Karen: But really. Steak and a few vegetables. I could’ve gone in there and made it myself in this time. Tom: But you’re not cooking for yourself tonight. I’ve taken you out which means someone else will cook for you. Karen: Yes I know. Tom: I suppose I could’ve cooked for you. Karen: Oh no. Tom: No? Karen: No I want to enjoy myself. Tom: And are you enjoying it tonight? Karen: I am… I really think I am. Tom: Good. [They sit a little, looking around at all the other couples who are mostly a lot younger and all chatting away enthusiastically.] Karen: Are we past it Tom? Tom: What? Karen: Well I mean… are we too old for this? Tom: Too old to go to a restaurant? Karen: Too old for a date. Too old for Valentine’s. Tom: Now look here. I know you don’t like Valentine’s. Every year you make it quite clear, ‘no cards, and ‘no flowers.’ So over the years I have completely forgotten what day Valentine’s even is. Then I thought, well this weekend we’ll go out. I’ll take out my wife for dinner. And what do you know… I booked the table on Valentine’s Day. They had a cancellation see. Karen: Poor dears. Tom: Who? Karen: The people who cancelled. Do you think they broke it off? Tom: I don’t know. All the guy on the phone said was that they’d had a cancellation on Sunday and that was their only free table all weekend. Funny I thought, going out for dinner on a Sunday. But still, I wanted to treat you. It was only when he started asking about set menus and complimentary bubbles that the penny finally clicked. Karen: I was lying all those years you know? Tom: Hm? Beat Karen: About not wanting cards. I was lying. I always wanted cards… and flowers, and chocolates. Tom: You don’t like chocolate. Karen: I only say that because I have to watch my figure. You know I bloat easy. Tom: Do you? Karen: Yes. Tom: Never noticed. Karen: Well anyway. I was lying. Tom: Why? Karen: It’s just what you do. You say, ‘no don’t worry yourself, it’s a silly day really,’ but actually you do want love and attention. We all want to be cherished. Tom: I do cherish you. Karen: You don’t though… not enough…. Not anymore. Tom: I will then. Karen: What? Tom: I’ll cherish you more. Karen: Only because I asked you to. How pathetic. Tom: Me or you? … no anyway that’s not the point. It’s not that you asked me, it’s just that you’ve made your emotions clear and now, I am reacting. I am responding. Karen: I don’t even think I want you to cherish me anyway. Tom: …okay? Karen: I don’t think I want us to be together anymore. Tom: You mean…? Karen: Yes I mean we… Tom: Part ways? Karen: Divorce. Officially. Tom: What does officially mean? Karen: We’ve been divorced emotionally for years. But not legally. That’s what officially means. Tom: But it’s Valentine’s Day. We can’t get divorced on Valentine’s Day. Karen: I think it’s the perfect day. Because the only thing worse than being alone today is being with someone whom you loathe. Tom: You loathe me? Karen: I loathe you. Tom: You were supposed to say you love me. Blackout
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[Alex, a singer-songwriter in his early twenties, sits on a stool practising on a guitar. Ali, a singer of the same age enters]
Ali: working on something new? Alex: no, don’t you recognise it? Ali: no. sing it again? Alex: [sings] “There are cherry trees in the middle of this town, Void, bereft of bloom, And said all the men that lived in this town, A cherry will blossom there soon Ali: [joining in] “But snows fell down on a summer’s day, Withering the roots, No flower did shoot, though try it may, Nor would there given up fruits.” Alex: see you remember the words and everything. Ali: I loved that song. Alex: I loved writing it. Ali: we should put it in tonight. Alex: sure. Ali: why not? Alex: I don’t think anyone else will get it. They don’t like verses. The people who come into a place like this are generally chorus type people. Ali: Just one song. Just one good song amongst all the regular dross. Alex: I said they like choruses, I hope none of our songs are dross. Ali: you know what I mean though. Alex: I don’t want to put Cherry Trees in. Ali: why not? Alex: I’ve moved on since I wrote that. It needs work. Ali: I like it the way it was. Alex: I don’t Ali: don’t do yourself down. Alex: I’m not, I’m just saying how I feel about it. Ali: let’s ask Josh. Alex: well he won’t like it will he? Ali: why? Alex: well he likes choruses too. And there’s no drum part. Ali: he can write one. Alex: it’s not really a drum part kind of song. [Josh enters] Ali: here he is. Josh: what? Ali: what do you think…? Alex: don’t worry mate, she’s just having a moment. Josh: oh. Ali: what do you think about putting Cherry Trees in the set tonight? Josh: Cherry who? Alex: See, he doesn’t even remember it without a chorus. Just like the crowd. Let’s rehearse, we don’t have long. Josh: oh your Cherry Trees? Ali: yes! See he does remember. Alex: Great, well shall we get down to it. Only an hour till they start coming in and we haven’t run a track yet. Josh: Yeah, we should put Cherry Trees in. Alex: what? Josh: I used to love that song. Alex: what all eleven minutes of it? Josh: you could cut a few versus for sure, but yeah I used to love it. Let’s put it in near the end. We’ll have them by then so they’ll go with us I’m sure of it. Ali: see. Alex: there’s no drum part though. Josh: doesn’t bother me mate… unless you want me to write one. Coz I’m totally cool with that [vocal percussion] bomb bomb bomb te-kat te-kat. Alex: no, no. The song’s fine without drums but… Ali: I can put some harmonies in. And you can lead. Draw them in with the sound. The open, natural sound. We should, you know we should put it in. Alex: I don’t want to. Ali: why? Josh: yeah why? Alex: I’m not ready. Josh: for what? Alex: to put my music out there again. Ali: why? Alex: it’s hard you know. Playing someone else’s music is one thing. It’s all about performance. But playing your own is so much more honest. Ali: you don’t want to be honest? Alex: being honest is hard for some of us. It’s too revealing. Josh: but you used to play it for us all the time. Alex: you’re my friends. I can be honest with you. But them out there. No. Ali: okay then. Let’s perform. Josh: other people’s songs. Alex: dishonestly. Josh: not exactly dishonest, just. Alex: less honest. Ali: behind a mask. Josh: are you wearing masks now? Are you both going to wear masks? No fair, I want a mask. Ali: pathological masks. Alex: erm… Psychological. Ali: that’s what I said. Josh: so let’s perform. Blackout [Two poets, they may be male or female and any adult age, sit at a bar waiting for drinks. The bar tender, a young man, attends on them.]
Poet One: What did you think of the news? Poet Two: news? I didn’t come here to talk about news. I thought we were drinking. Poet One: We’ve had two already. Poet Two: So we’re warming up. Poet One: I don’t think I can stomach another. Poet Two: have something else then. Excuse us bar keep! I’ll have another dry martini… and you’ll have? Poet One: I really don’t… Poet Two: and a double Jameson for my friend here. Bar Tender: Coming up. Poet One: a double? Poet Two: a single isn’t worth the money. Poet One: I don’t even like Whiskey. Poet Two: then you should have said what you did like. Poet One: but I didn’t want a drink. Bar Tender: Ice with the Jameson? Poet Two: sure. Poet One: do I want ice? Poet Two: “My love is like to Ice” Poet One: I don’t need any information about your love life. Not after last time. Poet Two: look, I don’t see any of the old crowd anymore. These nights between us are the only fun I have all week. Let me enjoy it. Bar Tender: [bringing over drinks] here you go. Poet Two: thank you. Keep it on the tab. Bar Tender: of course. Poet One: [sipping the drink] oh…. Oh no I do like Whiskey. What is it I don’t like? Poet Two: Sex… you don’t like sex. Poet One: how would you… Poet Two: well I think you like sex in principle, but it’s the fucking you find unpleasant. Poet One: we’ve never even… Poet Two: I learned it for myself… I read your book. Poet One: which one? Poet Two: the last one…. The… what was it? The one about plums. Poet One: “Plums might be the only fruit?” Poet Two: Yeah that’s it. Poet One: and how does that relate to my sex life? Poet Two: all that stuff about rotting purple flesh and… “De-stoning with a look.” It’s obvious. Poet One: Is it? Poet Two: yeah. I know you think your poems are all about nature and wild-life and… what was it you said in the Financial Times? Poet One: oh… “Cezanne did to the canvas what I am doing to the page.” Poet Two: That’s it! Poet One: pretentious really. Poet Two: but at the end of the day. All poems are about sex. Poet One: really? Poet Two: Sure. Songs are about love and sorrow, Odes and epics are about heroes, Novels are about community, Plays are about relationships and Poems are about sex. And you can see why. Even those less prudent of us can never really say what we think about the act of sex, so we express it in the form which allows us to hide behind artifice and imagery. Poet One: Your poems are all about sex, but I don’t think you really hide behind anything. Poet Two: aha? Poet One: “destiny extends from between my legs, To prod, perchance to dream…” Doesn’t leave much to the imagination does it? Poet Two: no you’re wrong. It’s all in the imagination. So I’m talking about a cock. But cocks can’t dream can they? It’s all about what you take from it. Poet One: so what do you take from my poem? Poet Two: You think that passion and eroticism are for teenagers and drug addicts… and that once the sexual awakening has paced, all your bits shrivel up and rot, because you no longer need them. And that feeling is why you don’t like having sex. You think you might look down and see a rotting prune where a plum used to be. Poet One: it’s funny. All the old ladies who bought that book just thought it was about a bowl of fruit…. That’s poetry I suppose. Poet Two: That’s marketing. Bar Tender: Last orders. Blackout. [Jules, a heavily pregnant middle aged woman is walking slowly up a narrow garden path. Tony, her twenty year old son, waits in a garden chair, smoking. It is late at night]
Jules: you’re here then. Tony: where else would I be? Jules: you were supposed to pick me up tonight. Tony: I’d had a drink. I didn’t think it safe to drive. Jules: no of course. You could have phoned me though. Told me. Tony: I thought one of the other women would drive you. Jules: they were all gone before I realised you weren’t coming. I assured them you would be there. Tony: that’s really more your fault than mine. Jules: okay Anthony, I’ve had a long night so let’s not fight now. Tony: who said anything about fighting? Jules: so have you thought anymore about what we discussed this morning? Tony: I thought about it. Jules: any conclusions? Tony: I just don’t know what good it’ll do. Jules: well like I said. It might mature you. It bring the two of you closer together. Tony: do we even need to be closer? Jules: well I think… and this is only my opinion… but I think it has reached the time where you either get closer or you part ways. Tony: do you? Jules: it’s all up to you of course, but like I say, that’s my opinion…. That’s what I think. Tony: I’m glad you expressed your opinion. Jules: I think I’ll go straight to bed. Tony: you haven’t eaten yet. Jules: no but I’m tired. I walked half way home. Tony: why did you do that? Jules: I thought I could make it. Tony: what made you think that? Jules: a few weeks ago I could’ve made it. Tony: you’re fit to burst, you can’t be walking half way across town. Jules: well it’s easy to forget. It’s been twenty years since I was pregnant. Tony: thirteen. Beat. Jules: well you know what I mean. It’s been a long time anyway. Tony: is that why you want to give the baby up? Jules: what do you mean? Tony: because of Jim. Jules: don’t bring him up. Tony: because you reckon Jim would’ve given you grandkids the proper way? Jules: who said anything about… Tony: so you give me yours and then you have grandkids and great-grandkids and it all works out. Jules: it was just a thought. I thought it would bring you…. Tony: why would you want us closer together? You hate Patrick. Jules: well he’s not what I would’ve chosen but I think he’s…. Tony: no you would’ve chosen Sally from down the road. Jules: where’s all this coming from? I’ve never said a word about… Tony: I’m just trying to see why you want to get rid all of a sudden. I thought you were happy. ‘A happy accident’ you said. Jules: I was in shock then. You don’t expect to conceive at my age. Tony: so you obviously weren’t using protection. Jules: well no we didn’t Tony: the irony. A Queer boy lecturing his mum about condoms. Jules: I don’t think that is irony actually. And don’t say Queer, you’re degrading yourself. Tony: no, we’ve reclaimed that word. We’re allowed to use it again now. Jules: are we? Tony: yeah. Jules: I see. Beat. Jules: look. I just don’t think it’s fair to bring up a baby at my age. I thought… well you used to talk about kids. I thought it might focus you. And if you really do care for Patrick, then maybe it would help a little. Tony: nah, having a baby to save a relationship sounds more like your sort of game. [stands, they stare at each other in the eye for a moment.] I’m going up. See you in the morning. Jules: see you. [They hold each other’s gaze a moment longer. As Tony turns away the lights begin to fade. Jules screams in pain. Blackout] [We see two young men, Sam and Bill, who are in a harness, dangling in front of a large clock face which they are cleaning.]
Sam: it’s warmer today isn’t it? Bill: what? Sam: I said it’s warmer today isn’t it? Bill: Oh yeah, quite a bit warmer. A bit damp though too hey? Sam: you’re not wrong. It does feel damp. Bill: I reckon that’s just the sponges though. Sam: you what? Bill: I reckon that’s just the sponges. Sam: the sponges don’t make the air damp. Bill: but they make us damp, so we feel that it is damp. But actually it might not be damp at all. It could just be the sponges. Sam: you talk shit sometimes. Bill: do I? Sam: yeah you do. Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t say anything. Better to say nothing than talk shit like you do. Bill: I won’t say anything then. Sam: well no, don’t be all sensitive. You can say some things, but just don’t talk crap. Bill: but how can I tell what’s crap and what’s not? I reckon it’s the sponges what makes us damp, you say that’s crap, but I disagree. Sam: fine, you just say whatever’s on your mind and I’ll tell you if it’s crap. Sound good? Bill: not really. Sam: why? Bill: well, it’s a bit degrading. Sam: is it now? Bill: yeah it is. Because at the end of the day, some of the things you say sound like crap to me. Sam: oh yeah? Bill: yeah. Sam: like what? Bill: like you saying it’s warmer. Sam: what today? Bill: yeah it’s not warmer today. It’s colder if anything, so that’s crap what you said. Sam: you agreed with me. Bill: I was being polite. I wouldn’t just come out and say something was crap like you do. Beat. Sam: do you really not think it’s warmer today than it was yesterday? Bill: no I don’t. I think it might be colder if anything. Sam: really? Bill: really, I do. That’s my opinion. And it’s not crap. Sam: right…. And the dampness. You think it’s the sponges? Bill: could be. We’re damp so we think it is damp. But at the end of the day, it’s actually just us who is damp. Sam: you know when you say it like that I can come around to agreeing with you. Bill: really? Sam: yeah. Bill: great. Sam: great. Long pause. Sam: reckon we’ll finish this on time today? Bill: we better. It’s bloody freezing. [Emma, a woman in her thirties, stands in an art gallery looking up at a large painting of a sea battle. Kate, a younger woman enters and stands very close to her, looking at the same painting. After a moment, Emma shuffles away, looks at Kate, then back to the painting. Kate looks at Emma, then the painting. They shuffle a little toward each other].
Emma: do you like this painting? Kate: no. Emma: oh? Then why are you looking at it? Kate: because that’s what people do at art galleries. Emma: is it? Kate: well, what else are they supposed to do? Emma: but surely if you don’t like the painting, then you don’t have to look at it. You could just move on to one that you do like. Kate: but what if you don’t like any of the paintings? Emma: then you are in the wrong place. Kate: I disagree. Emma: how so? Kate: I just don’t think there is such a thing as a wrong place. Emma: [laughs a little] okay. Kate: besides, it is raining outside. It is raining, I have very little money so this is in many ways the perfect place for me. I could have gone into the coffee shop over the road but then I would have needed to buy a coffee and they would have tried to get me to move on after I had finished it. I could have gone to the library round the corner but you need a library card to swipe in and I don’t have one. Here I can just walk in off the cold, wet street and gaze at paintings for hours, and I haven’t had to spend a single, solitary, penny. Emma: the perfect place. Kate: exactly. Emma: so what is it about this painting that you don’t like? Kate: it looks dusty. I think they don’t clean it very often. Emma: I suspect they don’t. You have to be careful with old paintings. You can’t go up to them with a bottle of pledge and a yellow duster. Kate: and I hate the idea of someone sitting on a beach somewhere looking out and seeing all the carnage; and rather than help they just took out a canvas and started painting. Emma: we all respond to different things in different ways. A soldier might have ran into the thick off it or gathered troupes and sailed into the battle. A mother might have stood and wept at the lives lost. A gambler might have struck up a trade, taking bets on both sides. But a painter… paints. Kate: which one are you? Emma: what? Kate: how would you react? Which one are you? Emma: well I suppose I’m a mother who paints in her spare time. Kate: right. So you would weep but you’d also have a sketch book nearby to give you something to work on later once the kids are in bed? Emma: perhaps, something like that. Kate: I like that. Emma: and what about you? Kate: me? I’m an activist. So I guess I would sail off in a small boat with a flag of peace and a megaphone. I would give long speeches about the futility of war and offer to oversee the peace treaty as a neutral party. Emma: right so, you’re a pacifist. No wonder you don’t have any money. Kate: and you’re a kept women. No wonder you seek thrills in an art gallery. Emma: it has stopped raining. You could probably go now. Kate: three o’clock. Time to pick up the kids. Emma: goodbye. Kate: goodbye. [They leave by opposite ways, crossing paths. Lights fade on the painting. Blackout] [William, a man in his mid-fifties with a shirt and a tie tucked into his breast pocket sits forward on a wooden chair, in profile to the audience. Opposite him, also in profile sits Jamie, a man in his early twenties wearing a green hoodie. Both men face each other when they speak, though they are not aware of each other’s presence.]
William: He was a bright kid. Some people said he could’ve gone to Cambridge, or Oxford, but he never would’ve done. Not because he wasn’t bright enough. He was plenty bright enough, but he just didn’t want that life. Even as young as twelve I remember him dreaming away about running off with the circus. And at thirteen he was already a frequent drug user. Now I’m not as innocent as I look. I’ve done things. I lived once. But thirteen and already smoking weed. Drinking a fair bit too. I could see where it was going to lead. And that’s the problem I suppose, because although I was prepared for a disaster, I was prepared for the wrong one. What happened had nothing to do with drugs or drink. It had nothing to do with him choosing a different university. At the end of the day the only thing I can track it all down to was his mother. And people said she shouldn’t have blamed herself, but I blamed her and I still do. Eighteen months. When did you last see your father? Jamie: So it’s half past ten, pm. Early still. And I go out the back window, just like I’ve done a thousand times before. I steady myself on the window-sill before I make my move. You have to be quick, you have to take the roof and the descent all in one fluid motion otherwise you’re lost. I’ve got a few scars to testify. But I’m practised by now, and I’m not too stoned, so I make it and I go out the back gate, up the alley, turn left and cross the park. He’s there, just like I asked him to be. We make the transaction, quick with no fuss, and we part ways, off to enjoy the night ahead. I didn’t return home for two days. And that’s when it started. Once I learned of the suffering I could cause just by doing my own thing; I felt powerful and I felt invincible and I knew that I would do it again. William: the guys in work, most of them are a damn sight younger than I am. And some of them have started having kids. They look up to me – sort of. I’m not a father figure or anything and a lot of them probably think I’m a twat, but I’ve outlasted all my contemporaries and I’m still on the shop floor – cutting a path. I’m a fifty-six year old man in a profession where the average age is twenty-four. And so even if I am a twat, they respect me on some level. And so they ask me about being a father. They come up and they say, ‘Billy, the wife’s four months now, what’s the best thing about being a father?’ Jamie: The tax-break. William: The smiles. That’s what I say. Because I can still remember how my son used to smile up at me when I came home from work. He was only young, exhausted probably, way past his bed-time. But his mum had kept him up so he could see me before he went to bed. Jamie: He was my Hero. William: I was his hero. And he smiled up at me, and I read him a story and I put him to bed. The smiles, I say, the best bit is the smiles. Jamie: So I decided to enrol at Kings. That way I could live at home. They were happy about that because they thought it meant all this silliness was consigned to the past. They thought I wanted to stay at home because I loved them and I didn’t want to move away. But they were wrong. Living at home meant I could keep up the game. It meant that a two week bender wouldn’t go unnoticed like it does when kids move away for Uni. And it meant they could watch as I slowly declined from a first to a third. I graduated, but only just. And that was the last time I saw her. William: She left me for an older man. Some sort of sick joke. You expect them to leave you for something younger. A twenty or thirty something Latin chap with slim hips. Or if they’re older, then maybe you expect them to be rich. But he wasn’t rich. He was heading toward retirement and I don’t think he had a private pension. That’s what hurts. She loved him. She left because she loved him. If she’d have left me for more money or to re-live her youth I might have understood eventually. But she loved him, and she didn’t love me. And that hurts. And that’s what gave him the idea I think. He thought, if she can do it so can I. Jamie: I go and see him from time to time. Well, I go and look at him. He doesn’t know I’m there. I watch him through the window. He’s in the living room and there’s something on the TV which he isn’t watching. He’s reading some book, I think it might be one of those Scandinavian crime thrillers. I don’t know for sure, but it’s the sort of thing I can imagine him reading. He looks lonely. I think he’s inwardly crying every time he takes a breath, turns a page, glances up. I leave him be. It’s better this way. William: I just want to know that he’s safe. I just want to know that he’s still alive. I just want to see him. I just want him to come home. I just want my son back. Jamie: Families are screwed-up things. Love is the worst drug of them all. Second, maybe, only to pain. Causing pain, through love, is the strongest drug I’ve known. I can hurt you, because you love me. If you didn’t, I would have nothing to live for. William: Come home. Jamie: I am Blackout. [Sally and Imogen, two women in their seventies, sit in arm chairs next to each other. Radio 3 is playing quietly.]
Sally: who’s conducting? Imogen: as if I should know. Sally: well you’ve got the listings in front of you. Imogen: but I haven’t read them Sally: well could you read them now do you think? Imogen: what does it matter who’s conducting? Sally: I like to know who I’m complaining about. Imogen: oh don’t start with the letters again. Sally: why shouldn’t I write letters? It’s our BBC after all. Imogen: I just think you could do better things with your time. Sally: what, feed the ducks? Go to knit and natter? No thank you. I’m fine here. Imogen: you might be. Sally: well you didn’t have to move here, if it bores you so much. Imogen: I wanted to live with my best friend. And besides, without me you couldn’t carry on living here. Sally: and I suppose I should be grateful to you? Imogen: you don’t owe me anything, but you might be a little thankful from time to time. Sally: might I? Imogen: look let’s not fight now, it’s only half past eleven. I can’t face a whole day of this. Sally: well I’m sorry. Imogen: I’m sorry too. Beat. Sally: did you never want to marry him? Imogen: we’ve spoken about this already. Sally: not in detail. You always change the subject. Imogen: well what more is there to say? Sally: I know you’re used to a more active life than me. You go on holidays and you drink champagne. Imogen: so what? Sally: well if you’d stayed together he could have given you all that. You wouldn’t be sitting here with me listening to Radio 3. Imogen: well perish the thought we ever went anywhere. We could even switch to Radio 2 just for a change. Sally: I like the way I live. And I won’t change it. Imogen: do you know I always thought it was Bryan that made you stay in. Typical I thought, the man wants to stay in and watch darts and listen to the radio so old Sal has to as well. When he died I thought you’d get a new lease of life. Sally: don’t talk about Bryan. I don’t like it when you talk about Bryan. Imogen: why? Sally: because you always sound so happy to remind me that he’s dead. Imogen: well he is dead. He’s been dead nearly five years. And I understand. I’m a widow too. I know you miss him, I know you want to remember him. But look, you can’t live in his shadow. You’ve got your health. You could go another ten years at least, more if you’re lucky. Think what you could do in ten years Sal. My mick was the love of my life but I’m not afraid to say he was an arse too at times. Sally: Bryan wasn’t an arse though. He was perfect for me. He gave me exactly the life I wanted. He gave me this house. Imogen: a house that’s falling apart and you can hardly afford to keep. Sally: well that’s why you’re here isn’t it? Imogen: I’m here because that old place was too big for a little old woman on her own and because I thought living with an old friend would beat a retirement home. I thought we could go on days out. I thought we might even go on holidays together. I thought we could accompany one another to all the family parties that we have to go to, but would rather not. Sally: you moved in because I cried down the phone to you that I was going to have to sell up. You came because that big old place of yours was worth a fortune and you thought you could help out. I’m a charity case to you. And I always have been. Imogen: that’s not true. Sally: I should’ve seen it coming. That day in lower fifth when you gave me the money for the bus because it was raining hard and you felt sorry for me on my bike. Imogen: where’s all this coming from? Sally: we never wanted a honeymoon. Bryan took two days off work and we were going to stay in and finish up the left-over buffet food. I was really excited for that. Imogen: I was just trying to… Sally: But no, you had to come over with those tickets and those hotel reservations. Everyone thought you were the best friend in the world. I just thought you were a spiteful cow. Imogen: you might have said something at the time. Sally: well I’m saying it now. Imogen: you were married over fifty years. Bryan’s been dead five. And this is the first time you’ve even mentioned it. beat. If you don’t want me here I’ll go. I’ve been looking at a flat in Croatia. Sally Croatia? Imogen: it’s like Italy but it’s cheaper. It was going to be a holiday flat, maybe an investment of sorts. But perhaps I’ll go live there. That should be far away enough from you shouldn’t it? Especially as you’re not on the internet. Sally: go if you like. Imogen: I will. Sally: fine. Imogen: fine. Beat. Sally: we could feed the ducks if the weather holds. Imogen: Mmm. Sally: there’s some old bread in the kitchen. Imogen: not supposed to feed them bread now are you? Sally: Mmm. Imogen: we could just stay in today. Sally: yeah. You can pop on Radio 2 if you like? Imogen: no, it’s Stravinsky up next. I like Stravinsky. Fade to Black. [Alex and Jess, two women in their mid-twenties, sit opposite each other at a small table. They both smoke continuously throughout the scene.]
Alex: so Jess: so what? Alex: so will you? Jess: so will I what? Alex: so will you do it? Jess: so will I do what? Alex: then you won’t. Jess: I didn’t say that. Alex: well you didn’t say you would either. Jess: I’m just thinking about it. Alex: you’ve had long enough to think haven’t you? Jess: have I? Alex: that’s what yesterday was for. Yesterday was for thinking, Jess: I don’t think a day is long enough to think about a thing like this. Alex: I do. Jess: do you? Alex: yeah I do. In fact I think a whole day is too long. Jess: really? Alex: yeah, far too long. A whole day is a mighty long time to be thinking about a thinking about a thing like this. Jess: well I need a moment longer. Just a moment longer. Alex: you have to answer me soon. Jess: I could go to prison. Alex: not if I protect you. Jess: but that’s what I’m thinking about. I’m not sure that you can protect me. Alex: you aren’t so sure. Jess: no, I’m not so sure. And I reckon that if you can’t protect me, then I could go to prison. Alex: but I can protect you, I will protect you. Just as long as you give me an answer. Jess: alright. Alex: alright what? Jess: alright I will. Alex: alright you will what? Jess: alright I will do it. Alex: alright you will do what? Jess: alright I will kill him. Alex: there’s a good girl. A very good girl. Jess: ain’t I older than you? Alex: don’t make any difference. You’re still a girl. But I’m a woman. I know things. Jess: well how are you going to protect me then? Alex: I have friends. Friends who know more than you or I do. Jess: and they can protect me? Alex: well they won’t know that they’re protecting you. That’s the trick of it. Jess: why won’t you tell them who they’re protecting? Alex: because girl, they wouldn’t want to protect you if they knew who you was. Jess: so you’re tricking them? Alex: that’s right. Jess: just like you is tricking me. Alex: I’m tricking you am I? Jess: yes. Alex: so you wouldn’t be killing him if it wasn’t for me? Jess: No. Alex: you would Jess: wouldn’t. Alex: even when you think about him before you sleep and then you never sleep? Even when you remember his hands on you and his fingers and his tongue? Jess: shut up. Alex: the smell of him. You remember the smell don’t you? Even I can still smell him on you. Cigars and whiskey and gun powder and grass. Jess: he was a soldier then. I had to let him. Alex: I never let one near me. You let him because you was weak, but I’ve made you strong ain’t I? Jess: yes. Alex: and you’ll kill him won’t you? Jess: yes Alex: just like I showed you with the Ken dolls? Jess: one clean cut. Knee to nape. Alex: that’s right girl. And see if you can’t take his offending weapons with you hey? Jess: knee to nape. Alex: you are a good girl. Jess: and you will protect me? Alex: yes. Jess: just like the others? Alex: that’s right girl. You’ll be with the others soon enough. [Alan and Maud sit next to each other on a bench in the corner of a library, surrounded by shelves of books. They are both in their early eighties.]
Alan: He’s taking his time. Maud: He’s only been a minute. Alan: time was I could have found it myself. Maud: yes but your knee’s Alan, you need to be careful with your knees. Alan: wouldn’t have taken me so long, I’d have found it in no time. Maud: and it’s probably all changed since our day. New systems. Alan: this young’un doesn’t know his left from his right. Maud: young’un? Alan he was in his thirties at least. Alan: he’s young to us. Maud: I’ll make you right there. Alan: did you see they have DVD’s here now? DVD’s in a library. Maud: we had tapes. Alan: Yes, and I never agreed with it. Maud: You didn’t mind the records. Alan: that’s different. Classical music… on vinyl… that’s completely different. Maud: we had jazz too. Alan: yes… on vinyl. Maud: and prog rock. Alan: Yes well you have to compromise somewhere, I’m not a cave man. Beat. Maud: I’m still not sure why you need it so bad. You’ve read it before. Alan: every time I come back to it I see something new. Maud: we must have a copy in the loft. Alan: well that’s the point. You won’t let me up there because of my knees. Maud: Peter could find it for you. Alan: Peter’s over twenty minutes away, he’s got young kids. He won’t come all this way just to find a book in the loft. Maud: we could buy a copy. Get it delivered. Alan: I’m shocked you would even suggest using them. Maud: we could get a second hand one, from a third party. An independent bookseller. Would that make it better? Alan: sometimes I don’t recognise you anymore. Maud: fine then. We’ll wait. We’ll just wait here until the nice man finds a copy. Alan: we have to support the libraries. If not they’ll all be closed. Maud: I know. Alan: When we both started out. The place would’ve been packed. We were rushed off our feet. Maud: but that was in the Senate building. I think UCL is still a lot busier than Deal community library. Alan: but still. There was a buzz then. Even when we married and we moved out to Maidstone. There was still a buzz. A Classless centre for learning; a cathedral of literature and culture; a focal point of the community. Look at it now. Nothing but old blokes and drunks with no-where else to go. Maud: there was a fair bit of that in our day too. Alan: yes but there wasn’t just that… not only that. [A Pause. Simon enters.] Simon: I’m really sorry Mr Geale. There must be a problem with our records. It should be on the shelf, but that isn’t a copy there. I can order one from Canterbury. It will take two days. Alan: two days? Simon: yes. I do apologise but that’s the best I can do. Alan: why isn’t it on the shelf? Simon: our records are a few days behind. The whole top floor is being cleared to become a café. A lot of our stock has been sold off and the rest relocated. Alan: a café? Maud: will they serve cake? Simon: yes madam. A whole range of freshly prepared cakes, biscuits, hot and cold sandwiches as well as coffees, teas, and hot chocolate. All organic of course. Alan: A café in a library? Simon: that’s right. Maud: we can make a day of it now. We can get lunch. Alan: We have coffee at home. What’s the point when there’s no books? Simon: our contemporary fiction will still be very well stocked. As well as the children’s section. Alan: contemporary fiction? What about the classics? What about Byron, Shakespeare, Ovid? What about Ibsen, Strindberg, Tolstoy, Bulgakov? What about Wordsworth and Dickens and Gogol? What about Nietzsche, Voltaire and Milton? Simon: we have to move with the times. If we don’t pull our weight, the whole library will go. Alan: The library closed the moment you got rid of that book. Come on Maud, we’ll go to Waterstone’s, they might have a copy. [Alan stands and leaves, Maud follows a little behind.] Simon: I can give you a voucher for the café, when it opens. 25% off and a free muffin. Maud: thank you. Sorry about him. Simon: that’s alright. It means a lot to him. Maud: hm… have you ever read it? Simon: No. never heard of it even. Maud: perhaps you should. If it turns up, give it a read. Or you can get it online. Simon: what’s the name again? Maud: As I Lay Dying. [Maud leaves. Simon pauses a moment, then leaves. Fade to black.] |
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