Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature) (35 page)

(
He smokes.
MAGGIE
re-enters with a short-sighted middle-aged man who is neatly and primly dressed, carrying a bowler.
)

MAGGIE:
This is my husband, Fred Matthews, Mr. Hackett.

(
HACKETT’S
voice is precise and neat.)

HACKETT:
Ah, delighted, Mr. Matthews.

FREDDIE:
Do sit down, Mr. Hackett.

HACKETT:
(
Seating himself fastidiously.
) Rather heavy sort of weather, don’t you think?

MAGGIE:
Yes, indeed. Some rain would do us good.

HACKETT:
Your wife has been talking to me about you, Mr. Matthews. You are lucky to have such a counsellor and friend.

FREDDIE:
(
Surprised.
) Indeed? Nothing derogatory, I hope.

HACKETT:
Oh indeed no. It’s just that she’s a little bit worried about you.

FREDDIE:
Worried about me? If you mean my odd bouts of rheumatism, I wouldn’t bother about that at all. I’ve had these little attacks all my life. They pass over quickly. It’s nothing serious.

MAGGIE:
No, no. It was something else that Mr. Hackett and I were talking over.

FREDDIE:
Something else? What, for instance?

HACKETT:
I understand, Mr. Matthews, that you retired a short time ago from a lifetime of office work and that your life has become, so to speak, rather empty.

FREDDIE:
(
Emphatically.
) Oh, nothing of the kind, I assure you.

Nothing of the kind.

MAGGIE:
Now Freddie, we might as well be honest. You hardly ever go out. Except, of course, sometimes at night, to do some elbowbending.

HACKETT:
It’s really an old problem, Mr. Matthews. Every man is a creature of his environment. Man was born to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. Working is man’s natural destiny. He must be occupied, otherwise he will run to seed.

FREDDIE:
Well, I suppose that’s true, but. . . .

HACKETT:
In other words, we have what we may call the Perils of Retirement.

MAGGIE:
Or the Dangers of Desistence.

FREDDIE:
Now, look here, I’m not in any danger.

HACKETT:
No, that word is a bit strong. I’ll put it like this. A working man may be likened to a valuable, highly-intricate machine. When the machine runs down and finally stops working, what happens? The gleaming, polished parts begin to rust. As time passes, the machine becomes obsolete, decrepit.

FREDDIE:
What? Me decrepit?

HACKETT:
It’s just my metaphor, Mr. Matthews. In fact, you look far from decrepit.

FREDDIE:
Well, thank you. I’m glad to hear you admit that. I’ve never felt better in my life. My best years are before me. I have any amount of things to occupy my time.

MAGGIE:
What you lack, Freddie, is a system, an organised way of doing something useful.

FREDDIE:
In this very room, Maggie, I listed all the things I planned to get down to now that I can call my time my own.

MAGGIE:
Yes, yes, but there has been very little more than talk.

HACKETT:
I think your wife is right, Mr. Matthews. You will find that many other men, on retirement, find that the best way to preserve health and well-being is to take a new and quite different job. That is—to look for work, but light work, of course.

MAGGIE:
Exactly. To work in their spare time.

FREDDIE:
Well, of course, if a man is ignorant, without a well-stocked mind, it’s a poor look-out for him on retirement. He’d be apt to go off his rocker from sheer boredom. Thank God I’M not in that boat!

MAGGIE:
We’re not always the best judges in our own cases.

HACKETT:
Quite. It may seem a queer thing to say, Mr. Matthews, but work is a thing that can be missed, like a favourite armchair, a cherished picture, or a beloved wife.

MAGGIE:
Yes . . . and to say nothing of a well-loved pint of stout, or a half-one.

FREDDIE:
Mr. Hackett, could I offer you a glass of sherry?

HACKETT:
No, thank you very much. I never touch anything strong.

FREDDIE:
I see. You mentioned light work. What exactly do you mean by that term?

HACKETT:
Well, what we might term part-time work but something that is nevertheless interesting.

FREDDIE:
My wife mentioned that you were yourself interested in animals, Mr. Hackett.

HACKETT:
Ah yes, animals are part of my life.

MAGGIE:
Mr. Hackett is Assistant Keeper at the Zoo.

FREDDIE:
Good heavens, the Zoo!

HACKETT:
Yes, the Zoo. We have a wonderful collection there. One of the best in Europe, and the place itself is a scenic wonder. Beautiful . . . beautiful.

MAGGIE:
Yes, and the air there is wonderful. It almost makes you intoxicated.

FREDDIE:
Well, in a way I must say I envy you, Mr. Hackett. I’m terribly fond of animals myself. They are wonderful creatures and very cute, some of them. And all bouncing with good health, their captivity notwithstanding.

HACKETT:
Ah, on that last point I would have to say yes and no. Some animals do not take well to zoo life. They are inclined to get delicate in their health. They need careful watching.

MAGGIE:
And careful treatment and nursing too, I’m sure.

HACKETT:
Oh yes. Of course the patrons never see any animals who are sick. They are kept and treated in private quarters.

FREDDIE:
Right enough, a whole zooful of animals must be quite a handful, everything from mice to lions, from snakes to baboons.

HACKETT:
Yes indeed—and they all have their own peculiar disorders and weaknesses. Above in the Zoo we have to be very versatile doctors.

MAGGIE:
Ah but it’s a grand life. You have the feeling all the time that you’re doing good, Mr. Hackett.

HACKETT:
Quite true, Mrs Matthews.

FREDDIE:
May I ask with respect what all this has got to do with me?

MAGGIE:
Mr. Hackett is in a bit of a spot. He needs help.

FREDDIE:
If it’s a question of money or a subscription, Mr. Hackett, I’m afraid there is not much I could do. You see, my pension, adequate if you like, is modest enough. But I would be glad to canvass for subs.

HACKETT:
My dear sir, money is not the crux at all. We’re not badly off, and we have many friends who remember us in their wills. It’s the kangaroos.

FREDDIE:
The kangaroos? Heavens, what about the kangaroos?

HACKETT:
I’m terribly worried about my kangaroos.

FREDDIE:
Is that so? Are they sick?

HACKETT:
Not exactly sick. They have a certain complaint, and they need more care and grooming than they get.

FREDDIE:
(
Puzzled.
) I see? Constipation or something of that kind, I suppose?

HACKETT:
(
Smiling amiably.
) No, thank goodness. They have a complaint from which even humans are not immune.

FREDDIE:
Ah! Chilblains, or—Good Lord!—rheumatism?

HACKETT:
No. Dandruff!

FREDDIE:
(
Shocked.
) What?

HACKETT:
Yes, they suffer from dandruff all over their coats. As we know, it’s not a fatal affliction. But it makes them very irritable and affects their appetites.

FREDDIE:
I’ll certainly take your word for that.

MAGGIE:
Another thing, it’s very unsightly. It puts people off.

FREDDIE:
(
Blankly.
) Yes. Dandruff. Yes.

MAGGIE:
Unfortunately, Mr. Hackett is short-handed.

HACKETT:
Ah, that’s the rub, Mr. Matthews. My men are kept very busy and can’t really give the kangaroos the specialised attention they require. It’s a terrible pity, because they are beautiful and gentle animals. They are as friendly as little dogs.

FREDDIE:
Yes, and they are great men for lepping. What special attention do they require?

HACKETT:
Oh, a careful going over for a few hours each day.

FREDDIE:
Going over? How do you mean?

HACKETT:
Well, each one of the four would have to be curry-combed. It takes a bit of time to do the job properly. Patience, too.

MAGGIE:
But of course that would be nothing to a true animal-lover.

HACKETT:
As well as the curry-combing, there is a special lotion to be rubbed in afterwards.

MAGGIE:
How long would it take per day, do you think, Mr. Hack-ett?

HACKETT:
Oh, not so very long. If Mr. Matthews could manage to arrive by half eleven, he could be off by half four, with his lunch thrown in.

FREDDIE:
(
Aghast.
) Who, ME? What?

MAGGIE:
Why not? I could get the beds made here, and the house cleaned up.

FREDDIE:
ME—curry-combing kangaroos?

HACKETT:
The pay we offer, Mr. Matthews, for a six-day week, is modest. Four pounds five shillings.

MAGGIE:
It’s quite generous when we remember it’s for the good and relief of the brute creation.

FREDDIE:
Oh, heavens above! If my friends in the golf club heard about this!

MAGGIE:
There’s no need to worry. This would be a private sort of vacation.

HACKETT:
Oh, absolutely. We have a small private paddock where the animals would be attended to one by one. Mrs Matthews told me that this little job would interest you, and I am delighted. A bargain, then?

(
He rises and holds out his hand, which
FREDDIE
takes speechlessly.
MAGGIE
smiles as
HACKETT
prepares to leave
.)

MAGGIE:
Well, thanks for coming, Mr Hackett. My husband will be very happy with you from next Monday morning, and I’m sure the kangaroos will take him to their hearts.

FREDDIE:
(
Blankly.
) Kangaroos? Me? At MY age?

HACKETT:
(
At the door.
) A very good day to you, Mr Matthews.

FREDDIE:
Good . . . good bye.

THE END

FLIGHT

Players

The
CAPTAIN
,
the
AIR HOSTESS
and at least 8 miscellaneous characters, numbered here I–VIII.

Interior of Aer Lingus plane, cut-away half-section showing one row of seats, each occupied by two passengers, carpet of aisle in foreground; plane brightly lit, rest of stage blacked-out. Plane structure should rest on some sort of central pedestal to make possible plunges, etc., in rough weather. There is a magnificent blonde in front seat.

The drone of the engines can be heard off. The
AIR HOSTESS
comes in from rear.

HOSTESS:
Youz may loosen yer belts now. (
They do so.
)

NO. I:
(
Flashy young man near front.
) Ay, Mac. (
Turns round, calling to a pal in the rear.
) Is this yoke safe?

MAC:
¹
(
Drooping blasé type.
) Sairtintly it’s safe.

NO. I:
I thought the Captain had a few jars on him and we comin’ in here.

MAC:
Notachall. A most abstemyus man, the Captain.