Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature) (22 page)

MRS. BEETLE:
Ay, here, come back, don’t leave me alone. Ah, begob, the bugger’s gone. Sure there’s a nice dark hole up there. It looks all right to me. Wait now till I have a decko. Wait till I have a peep now. What we want is a very dark . . . sacred . . . sanitary . . . quiet hole, wan that nobody knows anything about. . . .

(
Her voice trails off as she makes her way up to the nest and disappears into it. Enter a
STRANGE BEETLE
.)

STRANGE BEETLE:
(
Jauntily.
) O here’s me chance, the very thing the doctor ordered. There’s nobody here. We take it like this . . . and we roll it away. (
Begins to roll it off.
)

TRAMP:
(
Starting up.
) Ay, listen here, mind where yer goin!

STRANGE BEETLE:
Take yer feet out of me way.

EGG:
To be born—to live—to get into the bright blue world! I’m coming, I’m nearly here!

TRAMP:
What sort of dirty muck is that yer shovin’ around?

STRANGE BEETLE:
That’s me capital, me pile, everything I have. That’s me savins, d’ye understand.

TRAMP:
Yer savins? I see. Well there’s a bloody awful hum off yer savins then.

STRANGE BEETLE:
(
Offended in a very genteel way.
) I beg yer pardin?

TRAMP:
There’s a fierce smell offa that ball.

STRANGE BEETLE:
Who ever heard of a smell being off a life’s savins. Sure all this stuff is me capital. It’s grand stuff, I’m a happy man, it does me heart good to feel it and see it. . . .

(
Exit rolling the ball.
MRS. BEETLE
emerges from nest, fussing.
)

MRS. BEETLE:
There’s somebody livin’ there, that wouldn’t do at all. AY! Where is it? Where’s the pile? WHERE’S THE CAPITAL GONE?

TRAMP:
Yer man took it.

MRS. BEETLE:
(
Rushing at him.
) Thief, thief! Where is it, give it to me before I call me husband!

TRAMP:
Now fair enough, take it easy. I’m tellin’ you where it is. Yer man took it.

MRS. BEETLE:
Who, who? Where is it?

TRAMP:
Yer man that’s after walkin’ out there, a dark fat round fella with a bit of a belly on him.

MRS. BEETLE:
Do you mean me husband?

TRAMP:
An ugly lookin’ customer with crooked feet.

MRS. BEETLE:
That’s me husband all right, he must have found his hole. Where is the bloody fool gone to?

TRAMP:
That’s the way he went—out there.

MRS. BEETLE:
Wait till I get him. Why didn’t he tell me? Our lovely gorgeous capital, our nest egg. (
Hurries out.
)

TRAMP:
(
Musing.
) Well begob can you beat that! The bloody bees do spend the time blathering out of them but your men the beetles is all for work, gatherin’ up all classes of muck and dirt an’ rollin’ it into big balls, balls that would take the sight out of yer eyes with the smell that’s off them. That’s the queerest game of the whole lot bar none. And there’s a bloody awful stink in the air here after them.

EGG:
Let the world prepare, let everything be ready! Be ready, prepare!

TRAMP:
Is it you again? What’s bitin’ you now?

EGG:
I’m being born. BORN!

TRAMP:
Fair enough.

EGG:
I am going to do enormous things—vast, strange, terrible things. I am going to be momentous when I’m born.

TRAMP:
I see. Being born, of course, is a very hard thing . . . but it’s very interestin’. Ah yes. An’ it’s a great thing to be born right, of course. Ah certainly.

EGG:
I intend to be . . . implacable, wayward, devilish. And powerful, famous, a lord over the world.

TRAMP:
I see. Well don’t let me stop you. But get yourself born first, you’ll never get annywhere without being born. God be with the days when I was born meself.

(
The
DUCK
enters, dragging along a dead ladybird with its claw. It enters the nest.
)

DUCK:
Look, chick, Daddy’s bringing you something nice.

(
The
DUCK’S
voice is sinister and high-pitched and it speaks with a most refined foreign accent.
)

EGG:
My birth-pangs are making the earth and the heavens quake. The stars halt in their courses. The fearful hour of my deliverance is at hand.

TRAMP:
(
Irritably.
) Now that’ll be enough out of you, me bucko. There’s more oul’ chat of you than I heard from annything the same size.

DUCK:
(
Returning.
) No, chickabiddy, mustn’t come out, just eat what Daddy gave you now. Be a good little chick now.

(
An ugly yellow-headed chick puts its head out of the nest.
)

DUCKLING:
(
Puling.
) Daddy, I’m . . . tired.

DUCK:
Now, now darling, back to bed. Daddy is going to get you another nice ladybird. Would my little pet like that?

DUCKLING:
I don’t know what I’d like Daddy. I’d . . . I’d like something nice.

DUCK:
Ha-ha! Back to bed now, my little treasure. The dote doesn’t know what she’d like. But I really must get something good for her, something interesting, something frightfully delicate. I must hunt. (
To
TRAMP
.) Who are you?

TRAMP:
Who—me?

DUCK:
Does one eat a thing like you, I wonder?

TRAMP:
(
Sniggering.
) Ate me? Not if you have the pledge because you’d only get drunk if you et a man like me.

(
DUCK
sniffs at him.
)

DUCK:
Nao, black shaow, frightfully stale smell. Who are you?

TRAMP:
Yerra sure I’m only a fella havin’ a bit of sleep here on me tod.

DUCK:
Ao? Any family?

TRAMP:
Not at all man, sure I haven’t even a wife.

DUCK:
Did you happen to notice the daughter? Fearfully brilliant child, can talk and all that. Deliciously witty person. I do think she is frightfully fetching. Like children?

TRAMP:
Ah well of course the young wans is all right, I wouldn’t be heard sayin’ a word against them. They’re a very nice crowd, some of them.

DUCK:
D’you knaow, I do think that children are wizard, full of beans, d’you knaow, and all that. I do think it’s frightful fun goin out to get things for them, beetles and all that sort of thing. I mean, parenthood gives one pleasure, you knaow. Give her two or three meals a day.

TRAMP:
O’course a growing child d’want that, the bones does be soft and they do have to get lime into them in the feeds. Ah certainly.

DUCK:
Matter of fact I’m frightfully proud of her. She’ll be a great lady when she grows up—hunting and fishing and skin-foods and that sort of thing. But really, I must toddle off and get her something to eat.

DUCKLING:
(
From nest.
) Daddy, I’m fed up, I’m bored. I want something. I’m tired, Daddy.

DUCK:
(
Delighted.
) Hear that? Pretty average wizard talk for a child if you ask me. Really, old man, I must toddle off and get her something very special. Cheerio, sweetness! Be good till Daddy comes back. (
Exit.
)

TRAMP:
(
Reflectively.
) I see. (
He suddenly bellows out in mock rage.
) What are you squawkin’ out of you about, you bloody little yella bad-tempered bastard?

DUCKLING:
(
In a bored supercilious voice.
) Shut up, you awful person.

TRAMP:
(
Shouting.
) I’ll shut you up with wan twist of your scraggy neck, you bloody withered peacock, if you don’t look out for yourself!

EGG:
(
Shouting.
) Be ready for me! The great moment of crisis is at hand. PREPARE! BE READY!

TRAMP:
You again? Don’t you start now, because begob I won’t have the pair of yez roarin’ out of yez at me.

DUCKLING:
(
In a low voice to herself.
) Perfectly impossible person really.

TRAMP:
(
Meditatively.
) I don’t know . . . I don’t know. It’s haird . . . it’s haird, but it’s very interesstin’. It’s haird but it’s very interesstin’. Your man the bird works the feathers off his back to feed this dirty heap of yellow muck inside in the nest. That’s nature for you, of course. And I suppose the people that owns this zoo does be layin’ out good hard earned money to feed the hen. And then there’s this bastard in the shell lettin’ roars out of him every minute. Everybody’s well looked after bar meself. It’s haird. It’s very haird but it’s very interesstin’.

(
Enter
MR. BEETLE
.)

MR. BEETLE:
(
Calling.
) Where are you Maggie? Where the hell are you? Ay, where’s me ball? Where’s me wife?

TRAMP:
Yer wife? Don’t tell me that that big fat bags that was here a minute ago is yer wife? You don’t mean to stand there and tell me you get into bed with that. If you do, keep far away from me, me boy.

MR. BEETLE:
That’s her alright—where is she? Do you hear me? And where’s me pile? WHERE’S ME PILE?

TRAMP:
She’s humped off lookin’ for you.

MR. BEETLE:
But me pile, me ball of capital! Where is it? Do you hear me, where’s me bloody capital?

TRAMP:
That muck with the bad smell offit? Sure some chancer came along and rolled it off with him. Yer oul wan wasn’t here at the time.

MR. BEETLE:
WHAT! What are you sayin’ man?

TRAMP:
The stuff is gone and that’s all.

MR. BEETLE:
It’s gone? Great God! O great God! Gone! Stolen! Me capital, me savins I’m ruined, I’m destroyed! (
Cries out hysterically.
) They’ve stolen me savins, me capital, they’ve stolen me investments, me pile! I’m ruined, ruined, where was that bloody bitch of a wife of mine? I’m ruined, ruined. Thief, thief, stop him. Stop him! Murder! Murder! (
Exit moaning.
)

TRAMP:
I see. As I said before, it’s all very haird but it’s very interesstin’. It’s very interesstin’. Your man kills himself gatherin’ up a ball of muck. Then when he has rolled it up nice and big and smelly, along comes your other man and nabs it. And your man, of course, gets nothing for all his trouble and his bloody exertions. It’s haird, it’s haird.

(
Enter
MR
.
and
MRS. CRICKET
.
Both speak with the rawest of all possible Cork accents.
)

MR. CRICKET:
Mind oorself now.

MRS. CRICKET:
Yerra sure I’m all right.

MR. CRICKET:
But oo know the way oo are now, sure didn’t the doctor tell you to be careful.

MRS. CRICKET:
Well do oo know, I’m worn out with the travellin’.

MR. CRICKET:
But why wouldn’t oo be after comin’ all de way from Cork? Sure ‘tis a hoor of a journey. Let you sit down now.

MRS. CRICKET:
Do oo know, if I’d known this is the way I’d be, not a bit of me would let you do it.

MR. CRICKET:
Yerra, gwan out of that wid oo.

MRS. CRICKET:
I’m as tired as a corpse.

MR. CRICKET:
Oo poor little wife, let oo sit down there now and be aisy. Sure won’t it be grand altogether when we have the youngster, chirping and crowin’ and laughin’ out of him on the floor.

MRS. CRICKET:
Yerra but won’t it be the fine father you’ll make, yourself and your youngster.

MR. CRICKET:
And look at the fine . . . grand . . . impartant job he’ll get in the civil service.

MRS. CRICKET:
Yerra I’m tired—doan’t be annoyin’ me. Is dis our new home?

MR. CRICKET:
It is faith. And a grand fine little home it is.

MRS. CRICKET:
But is it sound, is it dry?

MR. CRICKET:
As dry as a bone, girl.

MRS. CRICKET:
I hope it is—oo know I doan’t like damp.

MR. CRICKET:
Yerra doan’t be talkin’, sure didn’t another cricket live here, a cricket from Cork.

MRS. CRICKET:
(
Moaning.
) O, O, the pains is at me—hard. And phwat happened him. The cricket from Cork. Did he get a fine job in the service and move to a bigger house?

MR. CRICKET:
(
Laughing.
) Ha ha! No, he didn’t get e’er a jab in de service at all. Do oo know phwat happened him. Could oo guess?

MRS. CRICKET:
Ah doan’t be annoyin’ me. Phwat happened him?

MR. CRICKET:
I’ll tell oo. A bird took a fancy to him and et him up. Et him up, every bit and bitteen of him. Ha-ha-ha! And wasn’t it lucky for oo and me? (
He makes chewing noise and laughs.
)

MRS. CRICKET:
Phwat? Et him up . . . alive?

MR. CRICKET:
Sure twas a shtroke of providence, girl. Only for de bird eatin’ him we’d have ne’er a house over our heads at all.

MRS. CRICKET:
But Lord save us, eaten up alive! Sure that’s terrible altogether, dat’s a fright. OO! Phwat’s dat. Oooooo!

MR. CRICKET:
(
Alarmed.
) What’s wrong, girl? What’s de matter?

MRS. CRICKET:
O no, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be yet. The pains is at me again—hard. Do oo know, I’m frightened.

MR. CRICKET:
Don’t worry now, oo’ll be allright. Every woman, oo know, has to go through all dat class of ting sooner or later. Sure ‘tis only nature, girl.