Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature) (31 page)

“All the gold in Ballytearim is what’s stickin’ to the whin;
All the crows in Ballytearim has a way of gettin’ thin.”
So the people did be praisin’ him the year he wint away—
“Troth I’ll hould ye he can do it,” sure they says, says they.

Och, the boy ‘ud still be thinkin’ long, an’ he across the foam,
An’ the two ould hearts be thinkin’ long that waited for him home:

But a girl sat her lone an’ whiles, her head upon her knee,
Would be sighin’ low for sorra, not a word says she. . . .

PETER:
(
From paper.
) Well this Boor Waar is a caution. Lord save us this night an’ day!

ANNIE:
Well God knows it’s not much that botherin’ ye, Pether, if it’s oney the Boor Waar. That turkey’s layin’ out again.

PETER:
It’s the gold out there that has them all out of their wuts.

ANNIE:
(
Bitterly.
) No is that all? We could do with a bit of yon stuff in the ground here. This year’s praties is half rotten. They’re bad enough to give the pig the gollops.

PETER:
(
Meditatively.
) Yon Kroojer is a brave wee man all the same. Lord, if oney ParNELL was alive an’ the pair of them got together. . . .

ANNIE:
(
Barking.
) Parnell! Don’t let me hear ye givin’ out of ye about that blaggard.

PETER:
Och now, Annie, he wasn’t the worst.

ANNIE:
Maybe he wasn’t the worst, Pether. There’s always Judas O’Scariote to think about but Parnell was a right boy with other people’s weemen, an’ he was a Protisin.

PETER:
Ah I know, Annie, I know. It was the priets done him down.

ANNIE:
(
Rounding on him shrilly.
) The priets, is it? If ye say another derogary word about the priests in this house, I’ll waarm yer ear. God look down on us, there’s enough trouble here. The praties bad, a pig with the gollops, a turkey hidin’ her eggs, and then Hughie. . . .

PETER:
Ah now, please God, things’ll turn out all right.

ANNIE:
Aye. If we don’t forget to say wur prayers. Do ye want me to try to roast a few of these spuds for yer eggs? Do you want chalahaans with yer tea?

PETER:
Naw, Annie. Just make me a wee bit of boxty an’ plenty of tea. Lord, I’m dyin’ for a cup o’ tea.

ANNIE:
Ah, right enough. Cock ye up, Pether.

PETER:
An’ I’ll raise me cup to Kroojer. God strike down that Kitchener ownshuck. Course, we mustn’t forgit the poor niggers eether.

ANNIE:
(
With feigned resignation.
) Glory be to God, yes! We nearly forgot the black men. Nothing wrong with them poor divils except that they was born in Africa an’ own the country, gold an’ all.

(
She is stooped at the fire, with skillets.
)

PETER:
In God’s good time they’ll all get what’s comin’ to them.

ANNIE:
That’s jist what the niggers is afraid of. They’ll all be slaughtered and extermionated to make more room for your Dutch herroes and mebbe for the English
amadans.
Heigh-ho, what a world it is!

PETER:
Haven’t we ten pounds four in the post office?

ANNIE:
We have indeed but we have a fair at the end of the month an’ if you an’ Hughie go in with the hiffer, there might be eight pounds four in the post office an’ the hiffer back with ye.

PETER:
Now, now, Annie, ye know I never touch a drop of anything ona fair day except when a bargain’s made.

ANNIE:
Aye. But thon Hughie could do the work of two in Ward’s public house. Do ye remimber last Septimber?

PETER:
Ah shure I wudn’t mind that. The lad was murdhered be the toothache.

ANNIE:
Yes, so ye said. He has a couple of teeth left for the next fair if the notion takes him.

FROM THE DOOR:
Ah, hello there!

(
MRS. MCCREA
enters, wearing shawl, beaming about her. She sits down.
)

ANNIE:
God bliss us, ye gave me a fright, Mrs McCrea.

MRS. MCCREA:
I was just passin’ and rain in for a second. It’s a grand evenin’ thank God.

PETER:
Hello, Mrs McCrea. An how’s the big man at home?

MRS. MCCREA:
Ah, th’ould back is at him again. Or so he says. Never done complainin’.

PETER:
I tould him meself to go to the doctor.

ANNIE:
Sit, Pether. Sit over.

PETER:
(
Moving to table.
) We were talkin’ about Kroojer an’ the Boors, Mrs McCrea.

MRS. MCCREA:
Do ye know (
camera moves up to give detailed view of fat face, suddenly worried
) I’ve a wee . . . a wee sort of a wee boil near me elbow meself.

ANNIE:
Ah, that’s the blood, Mrs McCrea. The blood runs down at this time o’ the year. I know what ye need for that. . . .

PETER:
(
Close up of him busy at the table.
) A right dose of potcheen, Mrs McCrea, can’t work wonders. (
Sniggers.
) The dead arose and appeared unto many.

ANNIE:
A good iron tonic, Mrs McCrea.

MRS. MCCREA:
It’s sore, mind ye, it’s very sore.

ANNIE:
Mebbe th’ elbow is the best place to have it all the same. There are other places. . . .

PETER:
Let ye weemen not laugh at me when I say this: very busy people never have a thing wrong with them. Ye won’t find the like of Kroojer bothered be boils.

ANNIE:
Listen to him!

MRS. MCCREA:
Mr Gormley, if ye mean I have no work to do, ye have a great consate in yerself. I never have a minit. There’s three pigs there that have me killed.

PETER:
Well, never mind Kroojer. Look at me. There hasn’t been a damn thing wrong with me since 1894, thanks be to God.

ANNIE:
Yes can thank the cod liver oil, too.

MRS. MCCREA:
Lord save us—an’ the washin’! I blame thon mangle for me wee boil.

ANNIE:
Why don’t ye get yon lump of a son of yours to turn it?

PETER:
It’s a woman’s work woman.

MRS. MCCREA:
He’s far too busy. Playin’ cards and goin’ out after hares. And maybe coortin’ weemen behind the turf when the pair of them had work to do.

ANNIE:
Ah shure, God look down on us, they’re all the same.

MRS. MCCREA:
I’m told poor Mrs Shaughnessy down the road has some sort of bad scabs on her left ankle.

PETER:
That’s from roastin’ her feet too near the fire.

(
The door opens and Hughie stands in it.
)

MRS. MCCREA:
Hello, Hughie. (
Rises.
) Lord, I didn’t know it was so late. I must be off.

HUGHIE:
Hello there, Mrs McCrea.

(
She walks toward the door and he stands aside to let her pass.
)

MRS. MCCREA:
God bliss ye all now.

(
Goes out. Camera goes up to disclose Hughie as a gangling young man, sour in face but handsome in a crude way.
)

ANNIE:
Sit down, Hughie.

(
He morosely goes to the fire and sits down.
)

PETER:
How’s the turf goin’, Hughie?

HUGHIE:
Aw, it’s all right, I suppose. There’s nothing but muck up on yon bog.

ANNIE:
There’s a bit o’ bacon here, if it’s not boiled away. And some poundies for yer dinner, Hughie.

HUGHIE:
I don’t want any dinner.

PETER:
What was that?

HUGHIE:
I don’t WANT ANY DINNER!

ANNIE:
God bliss us, are you sick or what?

HUGHIE:
I’m not sick. I got a bite on the way up.

ANNIE:
Is that so? Well I needn’t ask where. We were seein’ wur lady friend.

HUGHIE:
I’ll see anybody I like.

PETER:
Now, Hughie. . . .

HUGHIE:
Aw, will ye leave me alone. D’ye hear me? Leave me alone. I don’t want any dinner.

ANNIE:
Ye’re gettin’ to be the right cranky we article.

PETER:
Annie, let things be, let things be.

ANNIE:
Why should he be makin’ himself cheap before that flighty wee thing?

HUGHIE:
Ye needn’t be takin’ yer tongue to a girl that’s not here. Leave her alone and leave me alone.

PETER:
Whisht now, the pair of ye, for pity’s sake.

HUGHIE:
(
Temper rising.
) I’ll tell ye something else if ye want to know. I was asked to go to a dance at the Cross on Monday week, a late dance. I said I wouldn’t. Do you know why?

ANNIE:
Maybe ye have cards to play somewhere else.

HUGHIE:
(
Voice bitter and loud.
) Because I have no boots to wear.

ANNIE
: Do you hear that, Pether?

HUGHIE:
Because I have no bloody boots to wear!

ANNIE:
I bought you new boots at Easter, less than eighteen months ago.

HUGHIE:
You did, feth. Look at them! (
Raises foot.
) LOOK AT THEM! Like a bundle of wet rags tied to me feet.

PETER:
Were ye wearin’ them to the bog, Hughie?

HUGHIE:
What else had I to wear?

ANNIE:
I got ye a nice muffler last Chrissmas.

HUGHIE:
I don’t know if ye mean I should go to a dance in me bare feet an’ wearin’ a muffler. God knows I’m bad enough but I’m not a cornerboy yet.

PETER:
Hughie, we might manage another pair of boots before the date, d’ye see.

HUGHIE:
Oh yes, an’ mebbe ten cigarettes. I haven’t had a smoke since this mornin’.

PETER:
Things’ll work out.

ANNIE:
If ye want to go about like a lord here, ye’ll have to earn the money.

HUGHIE:
Me best Sunday suit is six years old, all mended an’ patched an’ darned.

PETER:
Well, Hughie, I haven’t a Sunday suit at all.

HUGHIE:
Me galluses is in flitters.

ANNIE:
Yer father here might manage to fix up a trip for you to the Boor Waar. He’d get ye into Kroojer’s army.

HUGHIE:
The Boor Waar?

ANNIE:
An’ there’s any amount of gold out there in Africa—pucks of it.

PETER:
Now, now, Annie. . . .

ANNIE:
An’ ye could bring thon linnet Shiela with ye to keep house and frighten the life outa Lord Kitchener.

HUGHIE:
By gob now . . . ye’re tryin’ to grig me. I know that. Yes, tryin’ to upset me and make me mad. But do ye know this?

ANNIE:
What?

HUGHIE:
Ye’re talking sense, woman, unbeknownst to yerself. I will go away somewhere. Not to Africa . . . but somewhere. There’s nothin’ here. Nothin’ but work an’ muck an’ starvation.

ANNIE:
Will ye listen to him, Pether?

PETER:
Ye’re out of yer wuts, man. Who’s to feed the pig here . . . an’ the two hiffers . . . an’ all that rampagin’ above on the bog?

HUGHIE:
Ye’ll have to think about that yerself. Don’t worry. I won’t be away until three weeks or so. I’ll have to borry money. An’ I think I know where I’ll lay hands on it.

ANNIE:
If ye go near the P.P. I’ll break yer head for ye.

HUGHIE:
No, not the P.P. He wouldn’t have it.

PETER:
Now, son, don’t get any silly notions. There’s bad times in more places than Ireland.

HUGHIE:
That’s it! I’ll go off an’ make me fortune!

ANNIE:
Ye’ll go off an’ get yerself arrested.

HUGHIE:
(
Standing up, very pleased, smiling.
) It’s the very ticket! Why the hell didn’t I think of it before?

ANNIE:
This boy is havin’ another of his stoons.

HUGHIE:
I’ll make me fortune, an’ then come back for me girl!

PETER:
God bliss us! (
Turning on her.
) YOU started this with yer ould talk!

ANNIE:
Me, Pether?

PETER:
Ye never know when to hould yer whisht.

HUGHIE:
Just three weeks to get the money. And then I’m off to California in the mornin’!!

PETER:
God look down on us.

HUGHIE:
(
Going towards door.
) I’m happy as Larry for wanst in me life.

FADE OUT
.

ACT II

The scene is the same with, perhaps, a few trifling changes as to the disposal of furniture, decorations. At least fifteen years have passed.

PETER
and
ANNIE
are present at the fire, he peering at a paper, she knitting in a desultory way. Both have aged startlingly. Her hair is white and Peter is mostly bald. It is winter and the lamp is alight. The remains of a meal are still on the table.

PETER:
Boys but this Kyzer is a fierce divil, Annie.

ANNIE:
Some people is nivver happy without waar. Waar, waar, waar.

PETER:
I suppose that’s true. Sure history is nothing but waar.

ANNIE:
(
Sententiously, lifting her head.
) To have waar, ye don’t need all them grand big battalions of armies . . . an’ gorillas . . . an’ lan’ mines . . . an’ deevastation. Ye can have waar in a wee town. There’s many a wee town in Ireland with waar goin’ on in it . . . for centuries, Pether.