Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature) (29 page)

SECOND GENTLEMAN:
Mr. Dunleary, Mr. Chairman and friends, I beg to associate meself with this very happy . . . and auspicious . . . occasion. I speak on behalf of the rank and file and wan an’ all I have no hesitation in expressing the happiness we all feel . . . here tonight . . . in being associated with this auspicious occasion. (
Loud applause.
) Mr. Dunleary is . . . in my humble opinion . . . A GREAT GENTLEMAN. Mr. Dunleary—I won’t call him Peter, that wouldn’t be in ordher at all (
Laughter.
)—Mr. Dunleary is A WHITE MAN. (
“Hear hear!”
) And I’ll tell yez a little story to prove me point. It’s about Mr. Dunleary and me humble self. Last year, God help us all, I was marked late eighteen times. No fault of mine, of course—the bus was always behind time. (
Loud laughter.
) I got a letter saying to attend before my superior officer Mr. Dunleary . . . and furnish me explanations. (
Laughter.
) Begob I got into a terrible sweat. That letter put the heart across me! (
Laughter.
) Next day I went up to Mr. Dunleary’s door, the knees knockin’ like hell, certain sure I was goin’ to have the face chawed off me. In I goes. Your man is sittin’ in the chair. Take a seat, says he. Then he begins to have a screw at the personal papers. (
He gestures.
) Begob, I got into a desperate sweat. Then he looks up. Seán, says he, what happened you? (
He pauses impressively.
) Seán, says he, what happened you? (
There is applause and great approval.
) And that’s all I have to say tonight about Mr. Dunleary. The blessins’ of God on him—he’s a decent man.

(
There is renewed applause. Mr.
DUNLEARY
then replies in a prim “cultured” voice.
)

DUNLEARY:
Gentlemen, I can scarcely convey to you how touched I am by your kindly and generous gesture, and how much I appreciate the gift of these handsome carvers. I will cherish them so long as I live and so will my wife. Thank you all, very VERY much indeed.

I have a slight confession to make. To-night is memorable for another reason. Gentleman, to-night I had my first glass of whiskey. It was stood to me by your good Chairman here. I fear I have missed a lot in life up to now. I propose to have another one right now!

(
There is very loud applause and the swaying figures in the background burst into “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”
)

CURTAIN

A MOVING TALE:
A DUBLIN
HALLUCINATION

Characters in the play

Snatch of air on the piano, one minute.

THE MAN:
Well now . . . I’ve got to be a bit of a philosopher. Sure we all have to be that these days. We have to learn to take things as they come, cut out worrying so much as possible else the nerves will give. Life is just one crisis after another, every one of them full of danger. I seen strong men going to the wall just because they couldn’t relax. The trouble was they never trained themselves to it and the whole central nervous system came down on top of them like a ton of bricks. Sure isn’t birth, marriage and death—everyone one of them, a crisis in itself. And don’t the whole three of them lend to trouble one way or another.

Trouble? Yes. I came to a new and vexatious cross-roads recently, and cross-roads is right! You will know what I mean when I say that I was for moving house and it was a question of getting the furniture and stuff shifted from one house to another. People have all sorts of reasons for moving. It might be due to a natural growth in the family, or a terrible looderamawn of a neighbour next door, or (
chuckles
) it might be an all-out attempt to shift the wife’s mother, who came for a fortnight’s visit in 1928.

Do you know, it’s only on moving house that a man gets to know all the unbelievable assortment of stuff that he has amassed unbeknownst to himself. I’m thinking of that stuff under the stairs. Where did I get that Victorian skirt reinforced by wires, a sort of a crinoline? And the broken jack-in-the-box? The two stout bottles full of cobwebs with a label that says they were bought in Swanlinbar in 1931. The rusty lawn-mower with the shaft missing? Then the machine. It is some class of an electrical thing with a half-rotten flex ending in a plug to shove into the wall, several gauges and switches and a big wheel at the top. What’s it for? Who owns it and why is it there? I’ll tell you this—I wouldn’t plug that thing in for a million pounds. That’s a lot of money but not enough to be blun up for. There’s a lot of other rubbish all over the house I won’t bother telling about except that I don’t know where it came from or what some of it is for at all.

The first thing was to contact a party that moves furniture. A pal had given me a certain name and address and said this crowd was very good. I won’t say more than that, for the head-buck-cat might be listening in. I just put on me hat one morning and made for that office.

(
Brief passage from same air on piano.
)

Tell you the truth, this building up a side street wasn’t exactly luxurious. My man was on the second floor and the dark stairs up there was a divil. But at the heel of the climb I came to a door marked ENQUIRIES and knocked.

(
Knocking noise.
)

I walked in. There was a class of a young banshee sitting there at a typewriter and smoking a fag.

TYPIST:
(
Shrill, loud voice.
)—What is it? Are ya lookin’ for somebody?

THE MAN:
Well, yes: his Nibs.

TYPIST:
What? Do you mean Mr. Cooley?

THE MAN:
I suppose so.

TYPIST:
He’s very busy inside. He has me nearly druv mad with his letters. What do you want with him? Are you from the printers? You won’t be paid till next week.

THE MAN:
I . . . I’m not from any printers. I wanted to see him about moving furniture.

TYPIST:
Have you an appointment?

THE MAN:
No. I just called.

TYPIST:
That’s a nice way to do business. I told you he is up to his ears. (
Rises.
) But I’ll see. WOULD YOU MIND YOUR CIGARETTE ASH! That’s a carpet under you!

(
Fade out. Another brief passage on piano. Then
THE MAN
is seen approaching a desk at which a ruffianly-looking fat man, the
AGENT
,
is seated and on telephone.
THE MAN
seats himself nervously.
)

AGENT:
(
To telephone.
) For the last time I’m telling you we did NOT break the blooming mirror. There was damn-all glass in it when we got it. WE’RE a very careful crowd in this business. What? An action for DAMAGES? Hah? NEGLIGENCE? WELL that’s a good wan. That’s very good sairtintly. You ask us to shift a houseful of junk and then say we broke it? I wouldn’t give ya two pounds five for the whole load—for it’s nothing oney a jungle of woodworm and fungus. And do you know what I’m goin to tell ya, ma good woman. That so-called house of yours is held together oney be the wall-paper. We took our lives in our hands going into it at all. Good day to ya. GOO DAY!

(
Bashes down receiver and turns to
THE MAN
,
scowling.
)

AGENT:
Do you know what I am? A holy martyr. Them tramps and tinkers with their dirty wardrobes and bockety chairs, their crazy beds with mattresses full of fleas and mice—they’d drive a man out of his right mind.

THE MAN:
Well yes, I suppose you meet all sorts of people in this business.

AGENT:
(
Ferociously.
) I meet oney wan sort and they’re all the wrong sort. Sure this country is on its last legs, man. You meet nothing now but hop-off-me-thumbs and fly-be-nights. Fellas without a decent shirt to their back but putting on the airs of Lord Muck. And they won’t work if you paid them.

THE MAN:
Em, yes . . . it’s difficult.

AGENT:
Well, what’s on your mind now? Don’t tell me you’re looking for a job because there’s no chance of that at all. This firm is nearly down the Swannee between rates and tax and gurriers that won’t pay their bills. I’m near crazy with worry—do you know that?

THE MAN:
No, no, I don’t want a job. I have one, thanks. I wanted to arrange about moving house.

AGENT:
The WHO? Moving house?

THE MAN:
Yes. Getting the furniture shifted.

AGENT:
I see. Well, me poor bucko, I can oney say I’m very sorry.

THE MAN:
Sorry? Why? I thought you were in that business?

AGENT:
Sairtainly I am. We can shift anybody’s sticks of furniture anyway. I oney meant it’s a bit tough on yerself. But shure we all have our ups and downs in this Vale of tears.

THE MAN:
(
Nettled.
) What do you mean, sir?

AGENT:
(
Unheeding.
) Scaling things down, ah? And I suppose the old job has gone for its tea. Ah musha musha.

THE MAN:
(
Angry.
) What the devil are you talking about? I told you I had a job and a good one.

AGENT:
(
Paying no attention.
) I have them in here every day, man. DRINK! The number of decent men destroyed be drink in this country is . . . stupendious. It is drink, drink, drink night and day. Home, family and religion—all thrun away. The poor babbies roarin their heads off them and not a cup of soup in the skillet for them. And you call this a Christian country?

THE MAN:
(
Heatedly.
) I didn’t call this country anything. I called here on business.

AGENT:
Ah yes. Write your name and address on that sheet. If that crowd, the Irish people, could keep many away from the booze, they’s all be sitting on the golden thrones, men. But no. It’s drink and then more drink.

THE MAN:
(
Frigidly.
) If you refer to intoxicants I may say I never touch them. I happen to be a total abstainer since I was a boy.

AGENT:
(
Low, menacing voice.
) But there’s wan thing worse than drink. Ten thousand times worse. WOMEN!

THE MAN:
That may be true but I may say that I have been happily married for twenty-five years.

AGENT:
I have them in here every day. And the married man is the worst. Good lord! Some of the stories I’ve heard would frighten you—FRIGHTEN YOU. Home, faith, fatherland, the sweet vows taken at the th’altar, all gone bang. Baldy-headed oul fellas with ten children stuffed into wan room in the slums traipsin into them lounge bars with some low hawsie on th’arm, or a bold, ugly strap of a farmer’s daughter.

THE MAN:
I happen to be married to a farmer’s daughter, and she is not a bold, ugly strap.

AGENT:
And there’s another thing. The children is neglected, all covered with skin diseases and scabs. Never a dacent hot meal, dressed in rags and out all day robbin orchards.

THE MAN:
I called here to arrange for the removal of my furniture. (
Loudly.
) My furniture, do you hear?

AGENT:
And then you have them ruffians spending a fortune on the dirty Sunda papers.

THE MAN:
(
Desperately.
) Can you PLEASE talk about my furniture and give me a price?

AGENT:
Ah yes, there sairtainly are more queer hawks in this world. Your furniture? Hm, Yes, I couldn’t give you a price until I run me eye over the stuff. Where are you moving to?