Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature) (30 page)

THE MAN:
Up to Swanlinbar.

AGENT:
Holy Moses! Well, would it be O.K. if I called to your house tomorrow morning at half ten?

THE MAN:
Yes, that would suit.

AGENT:
It shall be done accordingly, as the man said.

(
Another brief piano excerpt. Then very loud, violent hammering on the door is heard.
)

THE MAN:
(
To himself
.) Heavens, here he is. The Inspector-General has arrived. (
Opens door.
)

AGENT:
Ah here we are again! Good morra to you. How are ya this morning?

THE MAN:
Very well, thanks.

AGENT:
You look a bit pale around the gills. I’m telling you now—there’s nothing like a quiet life. Into bed at half-nine is my motto. I’d better throw off this coat and hat.

THE MAN:
Oh! Do you expect to be long?

AGENT:
Ah no. I’ll just stick these things on the peg.

THE MAN:
What peg?

AGENT:
The rack, I mean.

THE MAN:
For your information, that is a hall-stand. It is an antique and a family heirloom. Oblige me by not calling it a peg or a rack. On the under side of the drawer there in the middle you can clearly make out the word Stradivarius.

AGENT:
Well, aren’t there pegs on a fiddle?

(
Roars laughing at own joke.
)

THE MAN:
Well, let’s look about.

AGENT:
I suppose you’re for selling this place. If I were you, I wouldn’t touch that line here in the hall. Bad and all as it is, it hides the boards. They’re sure to be crawling with woodworm. Buyers are cuter than you think.

THE MAN:
That lino’s nearly new.

AGENT:
Yes, but’s what is it made of? Let’s have a look at this room. (
Raises voice in alarm.
) Oh the Lord save us, what is that?

THE MAN:
You mean with the four legs?

AGENT:
Yes, just there in the centre.

THE MAN:
It is supposed to be a table.

AGENT:
Do you tell me? Well, me good man, I’d rather your dinner on it than mine. Is them stunted things chairs?

THE MAN:
They are, period chairs. Hepplewhite, I think. Hullo! There’s the hall door. That’ll be the lady of the house.

AGENT:
Well now, begob! Are ya married to her or is this another graw-machree-mo-colleen-dhas business?

THE WIFE:
(
Calling distantly.
) Hello! Anybody home? Hello. (
Noisy footsteps as she comes in.
) Well now. Who is this man, Aloysius? Is this the Sweep?

THE MAN:
No, no.

AGENT:
That thing you think is a brush is oney me moustache, ma’am. (
Laughs uproariously.
)

THE MAN:
He’s seeing about shifting the furniture dear. Just having a look round.

THE WIFE:
I don’t know what your name is but you seem to have a right sup of drink in your craw. You’re like a lot more. Don’t let me catch you putting your hands on my china.

AGENT:
If it’s any smell you’re goin by, Ma’am it could be off more than me and that’s a bloomin fact, faith.

THE WIFE:
The cheek of you!

THE MAN:
For heaven’s sake let’s get on with this inspection. Come on in here. Never mind that yellow wall-paper—it was here when we came twelve years ago.

AGENT:
These walls is all weepin.

THE WIFE:
Never you mind the walls. We don’t intend to bring the walls with us.

AGENT:
Be the dad then and I might get a right dose of plerrissy if I stopped long here. There’s fumes comin from that corner. I suppose you’ve a lot of old papers in that press?

THE MAN:
Press? That’s an antique, chased, mahogany sideboard.

AGENT:
Chased! Ha-ha-ha, over walls and ditches and you caught it at last, ah?

THE WIFE:
You said there were fumes from that corner. By the living godfathers there’s fumes coming from somewhere else fit to knock a person down. You would think we were all standing in a brewery.

AGENT:
I beg your pairding, ma’am, but when the doctor tells me to take a tonic, he says to touch nothing but bar brandy.

THE MAN:
Come on, carry on with the work.

AGENT:
I suppose you might be looking for a small fortune for the hearthrug? Or should we call it a fancy bit of carpet?

THE MAN:
What! At the fireplace?

THE WIFE:
Well, the dear knows, isn’t this nice? Listen to me, now. That’s not a hearthrug and it’s not for sale. That is Annie. Annie is a Tibetan sheepdog. If you wake her with the clack of your loud, drunken tongue, I wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled the living daylights out of you. But I wouldn’t like to see her poisoned.

THE MAN:
Quiet, please. Come in here. Just a quick look-around at two more rooms.

AGENT:
What’s this—a pantry?

THE MAN:
It’s not a pantry.

THE WIFE:
Well, there’s no doubt—the cheek of some people . . .

AGENT:
Another table? Why the divil have you it covered with a dirty blanket?

THE MAN:
You mean that article by the window? It has four legs but it is not a table.

AGENT:
Well, what is it if it’s not making you to break a secret?

THE MAN:
It’s my bed.

AGENT:
Mean to say you sleep in that? Well, well—holy salted mackerel!

THE WIFE:
Will you control your tongue, you dirty thing you!

AGENT:
In the days of me youth I slept on a sheepskin in the middle of the Sahara with millions of mosquitoes and buzzers all around me—but THAT!

THE MAN:
Come on now and see the wife’s room with the bathroom off.

THE WIFE:
What! He’ll do nothing of the kind. Have you taken leave of your wits, Aloysius? Having that inebriated looderamawn snooping and poking about my private boody-war? Not one step will you put into that room, sir. Keep your distance. (
Shrilly.
) There is a telephone next door and I can get the police.

THE MAN:
Now look here, for heaven’s sake. . . .

AGENT:
You’ll oblige me, ma’am, by keeping your voice down or do you want to bring the roof down on the top of all of us. I don’t need to see the rest. I’ve a fair idea of the sticks we’ll have to shift. I’ll have to tell Rafferty to be careful when he comes along with the lurry. We don’t want a hollyocast with all and sundry buried in the debree. I suppose this place is condemned to be the Corporation?

THE WIFE:
How dare you!

THE MAN:
Certainly not. This is a fine, old-world residence. Georgian type. One of the gems of old Dublin.

AGENT:
There’s plenty of GERMS of old Dublin in them floors. If the Corporation sent a Dangerous Buildings man along and he began dancing on the joyces, the whole shootin-match would collapse. Course I know the slums is a terrible curse in this town.

THE WIFE:
Aloysius, where did you pick up this gawm at all? He’s not coming near the kitchen either. Faith and if he does, I’ll get something there and with it I’ll give him something that he badly needs. Clear out of here.

THE MAN:
For Pete’s sake!

AGENT:
Think of the valves of your heart, ma’am. Me dear man, you’re the one I’m talking to. I’ve seen enough, and be the jabbers I’ve heard enough too. I’ll go back and figure out the price. If it suits you, then we’ll get Rafferty along with the lurry.

THE MAN:
Very good. That sounds satisfactory.

AGENT:
Wait now till I get me cawb and me casogue offa the rack.

THE MAN:
Right. Just let yourself out.

THE WIFE:
And good riddance.

AGENT:
Cheers, now.

(
Noise of door slamming.
)

THE WIFE:
Don’t let me catch you bringing any other dirty character like that into this house. Suppose my sister happened to call and found the like of him here? What under God would she think of us?

THE MAN:
I don’t care what yours sister would think and I don’t give a damn. How was I to know the man was a bowsie?

THE WIFE:
Kindly moderate your language. I got a letter this morning. The Swanlinbar house is sold and the job up yonder is filled.

THE MAN:
(
In a howl.
) WHAT! Why didn’t you tell me?

THE WIFE:
I only got the letter this morning.

THE MAN:
Well why didn’t you tell me this morning before I went out to contact that gorilla?

THE WIFE:
(
Severely.
) You know very well that I never open letters until I get down to the butcher’s.

THE MAN:
O dear, dear, dear. May the Lord look down on me. (
Begins to sob.
)

THE WIFE:
We may stay here . . . till we die, I suppose. Stop that nonsense. There are two heavy bins in the yard. Carry them out to the front. I’ll be up to Mrs Clohessy’s if Fanny calls with the turnips.

THE MAN:
Aaawwww.

CURTAIN

TELEVISION
PLAYS

THE BOY FROM
BALLYTEARIM

After a poem from
Songs of the Glens of Antrim
,
by Moira O’Neill

As you will see, the sentiment of Moira O’Neill’s Poem has been turned upside-down and the pathos largely nullified. An attempt is made to achieve comedy by the exploitation of the regional accent, after the manner of O’Casey and the Dublin accent
.

NOTE—North of Ireland accents, natural but exaggerated, are essential for this piece, and it is suggested that Belfast players might be sought. Apart from accent, all the lines are in the Northern idiom
.

Only rudimentary camera cues are given. Generally this task is left to the producer. In the text below, scarcely any phonetic version of the talk is attempted
.

There are 2 acts. It is suggested that the intermission be filled (If not by advertising.) by the playing of the Coolin or some well-known plaintive air on solo violin. It might be well to have the screen bear the legend END OF ACT I until the air is nearly over, when the legend changes to ACT II
.

The kitchen scene is unchanged throughout. The scene should be cleanly but poor, with crude (home-made?) furniture. There should also be an atmosphere of over sixty years ago and careful exclusion of anything modern, particularly as to dress.

Players

A VOICE
, off

THE FATHER
/
PETER
(
Pether Gormley
)
THE MOTHER
/
ANNIE
THE BOY
/
HUGHIE
THE GIRL
/
SHEILA
(
who does not appear
)
ELDERLY NEIGHBOUR
/
MRS. MCCREA
A TRAMP
/
PACKY

ACT I

As the play opens
,
PETER
and
ANNIE
are alone in the kitchen, evidently at the end of a tiring day. The oil lamp is alight. After a little aimless moving about
,
PETER
sits in the best chair, takes out his pipe and picks up an old newspaper.
ANNIE
is busy getting his tea and laying the table (no cloth). Neither of them speak. The
VOICE
is heard, off:

VOICE:
He was born in Ballytearim, where there’s little work to do,

An’ the longer he was livin’ there the poorer still he grew;
Says he till all belongin’ him, “Now happy may ye be!
But I’m off to find me fortune,” sure he says, says he.