Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature) (16 page)

PETER:
The Lord between us and all harm!

MR. C.:
It was like bein’ grilled—except there was no gravy.

PETER:
I suppose the eyes were affected, too.

MR. C.:
Don’t be talkin’ man! The eyes—the eyes begun to get singed and burnt at the edges. And, as well as that, the watery part dried up in a way that was something fierce. (
Pause.
) Before I knew where I was—the eyebrows were gone!

PETER:
No!

MR. C.:
Withered and scorched away be the heat they were. Hell itself. (
Gulps another drink.
) It was terrible. There we were, staggerin’ through the bloody—brazen—boilin’—blanketty-blank heat. The skin chippin’ and curlin’ off our faces. Our bodies dryin’ up and witherin’ into wrinkles like—prunes! And the worst of it—a hot, dry thirst comin’ up outa our necks, like the blast from a furnace. Oh, my God, it was desperate—desperate. (
He gulps again.
) D’you know the first thing the lads done—nearly every one of them? (
Pause.
) Took off their water-bottles—and threw them away. And do you know why? Do you know why? (
Pause.
) I’ll tell you why—the water-bottles were made of metal. Some class of anumilliyum—anumulliyum as thin as paper. When that sun got to work on them bottles, I needn’t tell you what happened. First of all, the water got up near to boiling-point. Even if you could hold the bottle in your hand and open it, the water would be no good to you—because it would scald the neck off you. There was only one thing to do with the bottles—get rid of them! Matteradam what else happens.

PETER:
Wasn’t it terrible, throwin’ away bottles full of water in the middle of the desert.

MR. C.:
Well, there you are—there you are.

JEM:
Of course you coulda buried all the bottles deep down in a hole and come back for them when the thirst was at you. The water’d be nice and cool then.

PETER:
And what happened after that?

MR. C.:
What happened after that is not a thing I would like to swear to because—the heat began to have a very bad effect—up here—(
tapping forehead
)—in the attic.

PETER:
I suppose so.

MR. C.:
There’s a lot of moisture and blood and so on in the brain, y’know. The brain is like a wet sponge, and very queer things are goin’ to happen. Very queer things.

PETER:
I suppose you’re lucky to be alive at all.

MR. C.:
Very queer things. (
Lowering voice.
) The first thing was—I lost me sense of direction! I didn’t know whether me head was me heels or whether I was standin’ or sittin’, d’you know? I was fallin’ all over the place.

PETER:
I declare to me——

MR. C.:
So were the other lads—walkin’ and crawlin’ on top of each other—every man as dry as a brick, with his tongue swollen out in his parched mouth half-chokin’ him. And—the—thirst!!! My God, the thirst!!!!

(
SERGEANT
comes to counter and takes three drinks, one by one, and drinks them.
)

SERGEANT:
Tell me, lads. Tell me—does anyone mind if I sing ‘The Rose of Tralee’?

(
They all sing.
)

THIRST

(long version)

The curtain goes up on the bar. It is after hours. Light from a distant street-lamp shines faintly on the window. The bar is lit (very badly.) by two candles which are set on the counter, one of them stuck in a bottle. The publican
,
MR. C
.,
who is suitably fat and prosperous in appearance, is leaning over the centre of the counter talking to
PETER
,
who is sitting on a stool side-face to the audience.
JEM
,
who is in the nature of a hanger-on, is away in a gloomy corner where he can barely be discerned. Both customers are drinking pints; the publican has a small whiskey. The curtain has gone up in the middle of a conversation between
PETER
and the publican.

MR. C.:
(
Dramatically.
) And do you know why? (
There is a pause.
) Do you know why?

PETER:
Begor, Mr Coulahan, I couldn’t tell you.

MR. C.:
(
Loudly.
) Because he’s no good, that’s why. He’s no bloody good!

(
He finishes his drink in one gulp, turns to the shelves for the whiskey bottle and noisily fills himself another. As the talk proceeds he is occupied with pulling two further stouts to fill up the customers’ glasses.
PETER
smokes and bends his head reflectively.
JEM
is silent save for drinking noises. He shows his face for a moment in the gloom by lighting a cigarette.
)

MR. C.:
And another thing. He has a brother from the County Galway that comes up every year for the Horse Show, a hop-off-me-thumb that you wouldn’t notice passing you on the stairs, all dressed out in fancy riding-breeches. Last year he turned up in the uncle’s pub beyond in Drumcondra, complete with fountain-pen . . . and cheque-book. Gave your man as his reference. (
He pauses ominously.
) My God, the unfortunate bloody uncle. (
He laughs hollowly.
) The poor unfortunate bloody uncle. Twelve pounds fifteen shillings he was stuck for. Thirteen pounds, you might say. Thirteen pounds that he spent a good month of his life gathering together by the sweat of his brow. Now for God’s sake—did you ever hear anything like it?

JEM:
(
Who has a strong Dublin accent.
) Oh, the cheque-book is the man. Manny’s the time I wished to God I had one of me own!

PETER:
(
Slyly.
) It’s a lot of money to be stung for, there’s no doubt. Some publicans are very foolish. Of course, that crowd digs with the other foot—you know that, I suppose.

MR. C.:
If you ask me, they dig with both feet! Whatever foot suits their book at the time, they’ll dig with that one. And they do all the digging in other people’s pockets! (
His voice rises.
) Sure, I believe your man’s wife was up for lifting stuff out of Woolworth’s.

PETER:
(
Surprised.
) Is that so? I didn’t hear that.

MR. C.:
Certainly, man. Certainly she was.

JEM:
Begob, half the town’s wheelin’ stuff outa that place night and day, they do be bringin’ hand-carts up there, some of them.

PETER:
(
Reflectively.
) It’s funny how some families seem to go all the one way. It’s some sort of a streak. It’s in the blood, I suppose. There’s a bad ugly streak in that crowd although every one of them got a good education, they were all at the Christian Brothers.

MR. C.:
Don’t be talking man, sure it’s locked up above in Mountjoy I’d have every one of them and that’s where they’ll be yet—doing a stretch of seven years apiece for grand larceny and robbery and thievery and every crime in the calendar. And wasn’t there another brother that skipped to America after sticking up a bank in the troubles—all in the holy name of Ireland.

JEM:
That’s another thing I didn’t think of at the time!

MR. C.:
Sure we put up with far too much in this country. There’s a certain other man that comes in here for his pint that ought to be locked up too, a very . . . very . . . respectable . . . gentleman—(
He breaks off.
) What was that?

PETER:
(
Startled.
) What? I heard nothing.

MR. C.:
Shhhhh!

(
He blows out one of the candles, completely obliterating
JEM
.
He tiptoes to the window and listens with bent head.
)

MR. C.:
(
In an agitated whisper.
) Shhhhh! Now for God’s sake! I think that bloody Sergeant is on the prowl.

JEM:
(
Whispering.
) Ah, not at all.

PETER:
We’ll keep very quiet.

MR. C.:
(
Loudly, in a violent agitation.
) SHHHHHH!

(
There is complete silence.
PETER
leans over to the remaining candle and cups the flame in his hands to hide the light.
MR. C
.
is bent nearly double in his intent listening and keeps on shhhhh-ing and waving a hand for even further silence. There is no sound at all without. Thirty seconds pass. Suddenly
MR. C
.
leaps at the candle and blows it out, leaving nothing visible save the window that is lit by the street-lamp. Almost simultaneously three loud knocks are given on the door.
)

JEM:
(
Half aloud.
) Oh Holy God! We’re bunched!

MR. C
. and
PETER:
(
Frantically.
) Shhhhhh!

(
The knocks are repeated more urgently. The three remain completely still. The knocks are given again, the bottom of the door is kicked slightly, and the thick brogue of the sergeant is faintly heard shouting something.
MR. C
.
is heard sighing heavily.
)

MR. C.:
Well that’s that. That’s that. That’s that. (
He is groping for his matches, finds them and carefully lights both candles.
) Yes, that’s that. (
The knocks are repeated even louder.
) That’s that. (
He comes from behind the counter and goes to the door.
) Holy God almighty. Alright, Sergeant. (
He opens the door boldly.
) Good night to you, Sergeant. That’s a hardy cold one for you.

JEM:
Well, this is a five bob fine in anny case if it’s not something worse. (
Half to himself.
) Sure I haven’t five bob.

PETER:
This is terrible.

(
The
SERGEANT
enters without a word and the door is closed and barred behind him. He is the large, solemn, country type, full of the majesty of his office. He moves very slowly, takes up the two half-pint measures to examine them. There is complete silence.
MR. C
.
is standing in petrified trepidation near the door. The
SERGEANT
has at last satisfied himself as to all the facts of the situation and begins a leisurely search for his notebook. Then he speaks in a thick Cork brogue.
)

SERGEANT:
It is, indeed, Mr. C, a cowld . . . raw. . . class of a night. ‘Tisn’t a seasonable night at all. ‘Tis not indeed!

MR. C.:
(
Coming forward with a show of forced gaiety and going back behind the counter.
) Well, we can’t complain, we had an easy enough winter. No, we can’t complain. We can’t complain. We can’t . . . complain.

(
The
SERGEANT
has found his note-book and pencil.
)

SERGEANT:
It’s in the wife’s name, if I’m not mistaken, Mr. C.?

MR. C.:
Yes, Sergeant, the house is in the wife’s name.

SERGEANT:
(
Writing very slowly.
) Yes. Of course it was a good hardy day, were lucky to get the rain at night and not have it down on us in the middle of the morning.

PETER:
(
Brightly.
) You’re quite right, Sergeant, quite right. You know my name, I suppose?

SERGEANT:
I do. I do. And if I’m not altogether mistaken, that’s another old friend of mine beyant. An old friend.

JEM:
Oh, too true, Sergeant. Manny’s the time we’ve met before. And will again, please God.

SERGEANT:
O faith we will, we’ll meet again, and many a time. Many and many a time.

JEM:
I suppose, Sergeant, you wouldn’t mind if I finished me pint? We don’t want waste in these hard times, do we?

SERGEANT:
(
Turning away from
JEM’S
direction with great deliberation.
) What you might do when me back is turned is a thing I would know nothing at all about.