Brian Friel Plays 2 (7 page)

And at the end of the night there was a competition for the Best Military Two-step. And it was down to three couples: the local pair from Ardstraw; wee Timmy and myself – he was up to there on me; and Brian and Bernie …

And they were just so beautiful together, so stylish; you couldn’t take your eyes off them. People just stopped dancing and gazed at them …

And when the judges announced the winners – they were probably blind drunk – naturally the local couple came first; and Timmy and myself came second; and Brian and Bernie came third.

Poor Bernie was stunned. She couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t talk. Wouldn’t speak to any of us for the rest of the night. Wouldn’t even cycle home with us. She was
right, too: they should have won; they were just so beautiful together …

And that’s the last time I saw Brian McGuinness – remember Brian with the …? And the next thing I heard he had left for Australia …

She was right to be angry, Bernie. I know it wasn’t fair – it wasn’t fair at all. I mean they must have been blind drunk, those judges, whoever they were …

Maggie
stands
motionless,
staring
out
of
the
window,
seeing
nothing.
The
others
drift
back
to
their
tasks:
Rose
and
Agnes
knit;
Kate
puts
the
groceries
away;
Chris
connects
the
battery.
Pause.

Kate
Is it working now, Christina?

Chris
What’s that?

Kate
Marconi.

Chris
Marconi? Yes, yes … should be …

She
switches
the
set
on
and
returns
to
her
ironing.
The
music,
at
first
scarcely
audible,
is
Irish
dance
music
–
‘The
Mason’s
Apron’,
played
by
a
ceili
band.
Very
fast;
very
heavy
beat;
a
raucous
sound.
At
first
we
are
aware
of
the
beat
only.
Then,
as
the
volume
increases
slowly,
we
hear
the
melody.
For
about
ten
seconds
–
until
the
sound
has
established
itself
–
the
women
continue
with
their
tasks.
Then
Maggie
turns
round.
Her
head
is
cocked
to
the
beat,
to
the
music.
She
is
breathing
deeply,
rapidly.
Now
her
features
become
animated
by
a
look
of
defiance,
of
aggression
;
a
crude
mask
of
happiness.
For
a
few
seconds
she
stands
still,
listening,
absorbing
the
rhythm,
surveying
her
sisters
with
her
defiant
grimace.
Now
she
spreads
her
fingers
(which
are
covered
with
flour),
pushes
her
hair
back
from
her
face,
pulls
her
hands
down
her
cheeks
and
patterns
her
face
with
an
instant
mask.
At
the
same
time
she
opens
her 
mouth
and
emits
a
wild,
raucous
‘Yaaaah!’
–
and
immediately
begins
to
dance,
arms,
legs,
hair,
long
bootlaces
flying.
And
as
she
dances
she
lilts
–
sings
–
shouts
and
calls,
‘Come
on
and
join
me!
Come
on!
Come
on!’
For
about
ten
seconds
she
dances
alone
–
a
white-faced,
frantic
dervish.
Her
sisters
watch
her.

Then
Rose’s
face
lights
up.
Suddenly
she
flings
away
her
knitting,
leaps
to
her
feet,
shouts,
grabs
Maggie’s
hand.
They
dance
and
sing
–
shout
together;
Rose’s
Wellingtons
pounding
out
their
own
erratic
rhythm.
Now
after
another
five
seconds
Agnes
looks
around,
leaps
up,
joins
Maggie
and
Rose.
Of
all
the
sisters
she
moves
most
gracefully,
most
sensuously.
Then
after
the
same
interval
Chris,
who
has
been
folding
Jack’s
surplice,
tosses
it
quickly
over
her
head
and
joins
in
the
dance.
The
moment
she
tosses
the
vestment
over
her
head
Kate
cries
out
in
remonstration,
‘Oh,
Christina
–!’
But
her
protest
is
drowned.
Agnes
and
Rose,
Chris
and
Maggie,
are
now
all
doing
a
dance
that
is
almost
recognizable.
They
meet
–
they
retreat.
They
form
a
circle
and
wheel
round
and
round.
But
the
movements
seem
caricatured;
and
the
sound
is
too
loud;
and
the
beat
is
too
fast;
and
the
almost
recognizable
dance
is
made
grotesque
because
–
for
example
–
instead
of
holding
hands,
they
have
their
arms
tightly
around
one
another’s
neck,
one
another’s
waist.
Finally
Kate,
who
has
been
watching
the
scene
with
unease,
with
alarm,
suddenly
leaps
to
her
feet,
flings
her
head
back,
and
emits
a
loud
‘
Yaaaah!’

Kate
dances
alone,
totally
concentrated,
totally
private;
a
movement
that
is
simultaneously
controlled
and
frantic;
a
weave
of
complex
steps
that
takes
her
quickly
round
the
kitchen,
past
her
sisters,
out
to
the
garden,
round
the
summer
seat,
back
to
the
kitchen;
a
pattern
of
action
that
is
out
of
character
and
at
the
same
time
ominous
of
some
deep
and
true
emotion.
Throughout
the
dance
Rose,
Agnes,
Maggie
and
Chris
shout
–
call
–
sing
to
each
other.
Kate
makes
no
sound.

With
this
too
loud
music,
this
pounding
beat,
this
shouting
–
calling
–
singing,
this
parodic
reel,
there
is
a
sense
of
order
being
consciously
subverted,
of
the
women
consciously
and
crudely
caricaturing
themselves,
indeed
of
near-hysteria
being
induced.
The
music
stops
abruptly
in
mid-phrase.
But
because
of
the
noise
they
are
making
the
sisters
do
not
notice
and
continue
dancing
for
a
few
seconds.
Then
Kate
notices
–
and
stops.
Then
Agnes.
Then
Chris
and
Maggie.
Now
only
Rose
is
dancing
her
graceless
dance
by
herself.
Then
finally
she,
too,
notices
and
stops.
Silence.
For
some
time
they
stand
where
they
have
stopped.
There
is
no
sound
but
their
gasping
for
breath
and
short
bursts
of
static
from
the
radio.
They
look
at
each
other
obliquely;
avoid
looking
at
each
other;
half
smile
in
embarrassment;
feel
and
look
slightly
ashamed
and
slightly
defiant.
Chris
moves
first.
She
goes
to
the
radio.

Chris
It’s away again, the aul thing. Sometimes you’re good with it, Aggie.

Agnes
Feel the top. Is it warm?

Chris
Roasting.

Agnes
Turn it off till it cools down.

Chris
turns
it
off
–
and
slaps
it.

Chris
Bloody useless set, that.

Kate
No need for corner-boy language, Christina.

Agnes
There must be some reason why it overheats.

Chris
Because it’s a goddamn, bloody useless set – that’s why.

Rose
Goddamn bloody useless.

Kate
Are Wellingtons absolutely necessary on a day like this, Rose?

Rose
I’ve only my Wellingtons and my Sunday shoes, Kate. And it’s not Sunday, is it?

Kate
Oh, dear, we’re suddenly very logical, aren’t we?

Maggie
(
lighting
a
cigarette
)
I’ll tell you something, girls: this Ginger Rogers has seen better days.

Kate
It’s those cigarettes are killing you.

Maggie
(
exhaling
)
Wonderful Wild Woodbine. Next best thing to a wonderful, wild man. Want a drag, Kitty?

Kate
Go and wash your face, Maggie. And for goodness’ sake tie those laces.

Maggie
Yes, miss. (
at
window
)
Where’s Michael, Chrissie?