Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature) (38 page)

O’B:
To be honest, as I made my way down the quays towards Smithfield, I couldn’t see anything but trouble in this ridiculous affair. Why couldn’t those women leave me alone? And what did I want with a donkey? What use was it? Whatever else I was, I wasn’t a tinker. I knew absolutely nothing about that class of animal except that the donkey is very fond of carrots, the most expensive vegetable of the lot. Maybe I’d be expected to buy carrots by the stone. Now if it was a dog—a good thoroughbred pup—I’d be pleased enough. I like dogs. Very intelligent little articles. And the donkey is famous for his stupidity and his stubbornness. I’ve heard of farmers having to light a fire under a donkey to make him move. (
Morose pause
. . .) Robert Louis Stevenson wrote a book called
Travels with a Donkey.
Will I be expected to travel? If so, to where? (
Pause.
) Cork, maybe . . . or Skibbereen? I don’t believe Stevenson ever had a donkey in his life. . . .

There is a large open space in Smithfield itself.
O’BRIEN
could be seen traversing it, again for the sake of atmosphere. Eventually he is shown in a dirty lane, knocking at the small door beside the large doors of what appears to be a tumbledown type of old coach-house. It is opened by an appalling lout with a shatteringly flat Dublin accent. He is indolently dangling a cigarette from his mouth and his manner is one of easy insolence. This is
BARNEY BARNES
.

O’B:
Ah, good morning.

B.B:
Morra.

O’B:
Are you Mr. Barnes?

B.B:
Who wants to know?

O’B:
I do. I called about a donkey.

B.B:
I see. Are you the wan that won it?

O’B:
Yes, I am.

B.B:
How do I know that?

O’B:
I have the proof here. (
Produces ticket.
) And you can ring up Miss Crotty if you like. She’s the lady who ran the raffle. I can give you the phone number.

B.B:
Aw take it aisy now. I’m the man in charge here and I’m entitled to know me business. What’s the name, plee-az?

O’B:
My name is O’Brien.

B.B:
Well, that’s all right sairtintly.

O’B:
Where is the donkey?

B.B:
Yer man is inside. Want to have a look?

O’B:
Yes, by all means.

B.B:
Well, come on in.

(
He opens the door wider and
O’B
.
enters. He is next seen in a dishevelled sort of crude kitchen, with an opening into a larger apartment. Both go into this opening and an outline of the rear quarters of a donkey can be seen, but the lighting is very bad.
)

B.B:
Do you know what I’m goin to tell ya? That’s a luvly angimal.

O’B:
No doubt. The light is very bad in there?

B.B:
Ah but’s that very restful for anny angimal. That crowd do go asleep on their feet, you knaow. They’ve some class of trick of locking the joints of the legs, d’ya understand. If you are me tried to do that and go asleep, we’d get a desperate fall.

O’B:
I see. I don’t know an awful lot about donkeys, or indeed any animals.

B.B:
That so? Well now, you’re missin a lot. Ah, they do be a great comfort. It’s lonely down here, you knaow, and I’m not a married man.

O’B:
Indeed; do you tell me that.

B.B:
And I’ll tell ya a surprising thing. They do keep the house warm in the hard weather.

O’B:
A sort of radiator on four legs.

B.B:
He’s as good as a turf fire, and that’s a fact.

O’B:
Turf causes a bit of a smell—a pleasant healthy one, I admit. Is there . . . is there any smell off a donkey?

B.B:
At at all, man. Unless what ya get in a clean meada is a smell.

O’B:
(
Hastily.
) Of course I had no intention of keeping him in my own house.

B.B:
What direction do ya live in, Mister O’Brien?

O’B:
Out to the south of Dublin, Blackrock way. I have a field behind my house. I had it let for a while to a man with a cow, but the cow’s gone this last six months.

B.B:
Well, that sounds the very place for My Nabs.

O’B:
My trouble is—how am I going to get him out there?

B.B:
Now listen here, mister-me-friend, you’re not goin to put a finger on that angimal until me expenses has been ped. That beast in there doesn’t live on air. Ya’ll find he’s the best-nourished donkey in all Ireland bar none.

O’B:
What expenses?

B.B:
What expenses? All the grub he’s swallied, man, for weeks and weeks.

O’B:
I see. What does a donkey eat?

B.B:
It’d be better to ask what he doesn’t eat. He ett an oul coat of me own. But hegoes every day for hay, oats and a queer class of a mash I make for him outa maize or Injun meal, cabbage and spuds. And that’s not all.

O’B:
What else?

B.B:
He’s a devil for skim milk. And tell ya what he’s very fond of.

O’B:
What?

B.B:
Apples, man. Matteradamn whether they’re cookin apples or aytin apples, he’ll chaw and swally the lot. An’ bananas.

O’B:
Has he any interest in carrots?

B.B:
He’d give his life for carrots but they’re hard to get. I do give him a few carrots an odd time.

O’B:
Well, he seems to be a very well-fed animal. What does all this expense come to?

B.B:
Eight pounds, sixteen shillings and eightpence.

O’B:
WHAT . . . ?

B.B:
Eight . . . sixteen . . . eight. That’s what the job cost. There’s no profit in it for me.

O’B:
The Lord save us! Well, I suppose it must be paid. Do you mind a cheque?

B.B:
At at all.

O’B:
If I add in another pound, will you undertake to bring him out to my place at Blackrock?

B.B:
Course I will. That’ll be no trouble at all.

O’B:
(
Producing cheque book and writing at table.
) Well, so be it. The music must be faced. Little did I think how fast the price of that tuppenny ticket would grow. I’ll leave my address with you. Could you bring out the beast to arrive about six on Tuesday evening?

B.B:
Sairtintly I could. That’ll be game ball.

O’B:
All right. Till then I’ll say goodbye.

B.B:
The best of luck sir, now.

FADE OUT
END OF PART II

PART III

Scene is a comfortable living-room in
O’BRIEN
’
s house, where he is sitting, reading. A window is prominent at the back of the room. There is a knock outside.
O’B
.
rises, leaves room and comes back with
B. BARNES
.

O’B:
Welcome, Barnes. Sit down.

B.B:
Well . . . thanks, Mister O’Brien.

O’B:
Today I telephoned a vet to come and have a look at that animal. So you succeeded in bringing him out?

B.B:
Well, he’s here all right. But I wouldn’t say it was meself that brought him out.

O’B:
What do you mean? Don’t tell me you got C.I.É. to cart him here and that there’s another bill to pay?

B.B:
At at all. It was HIM that brought ME out.

O’B:
WHAT—you rode the poor animal here? A heavy, able-bodied man like you?

B.B:
At at all. He’s in the field. Come over here to the winda. (
They rise and move to it.
)

O’B:
Right enough, there he is grazing away. Hey! What are those things sticking up in the air?

B.B:
The shafts of an oul cair.

O’B:
And where on earth did you get that?

B.B:
That thing was lyin in the lane for the last eight weeks or so. Some gurrier left it there. Some damned tinker.

O’B:
And does that give you any right to take possession of it?

B.B:
I know that crowd. When they’re finished with anything they throw it away. They just leave it somewhere. They leave it somewhere where it does be obstructin other people. That crowd’s no use.

O’B:
(
Emphatically.
) But listen here. How are you going to get it back into town? It’s not yours.

B.B:
Who said an’thin about gettin it back into town? You’re pairfitly right in sayin it’s not mine. I’m making YOU a present of it.

O’B:
ME? Don’t be ridiculous. What use would I have for a tinker’s old cart?

B.B:
Sure this is the summer. Couldn’t you go for a nice drive in it some evening down to Dun Lough Air, an’ maybe have a good swim for yerself?

O’B:
You’re talking absolute nonsense, Barnes. I have no intention of going out to show myself off before the neighbours driving a donkey and cart.

B.B:
(
Viciously.
) Many a betther man than you done that. It’s a healthier and handier thing than them mothor cairs.

O’B:
(
Angrily.
) What you’ve done is plant an item of stolen property on my land.

B.B:
That’s a nice way to thank me for makin ya a useful present. You could draw turf in that cair, or carry parcels. A nice plank for a seat across it an’ ya could bring yer mott for a drive.

O’B:
My WHAT?

B.B:
Yer mott.

O’B:
This ridiculous mess gets worse. (
Meditatively, looking at carpet.
) I’m not sure what to do. (
Suddenly.
) You, Barnes—get to hell out of here!

B.B:
I beg yer pairdin?

O’B:
You heard what I said. GET OUT!

B.B:
(
Shrugging portentously.
) Oh well, O.K. Keep yer hair on. (
Rising.
) An’ don’t ask me to do you anny more favours.

O’B:
(
At door, opening it.
) Clear out of this house. (
Barnes shambles out through the doorway.
)

(
Screen A FEW DAYS PASS. Scene is the room as before. It is disclosed empty but immediately
O’BRIEN
enters with another well-spoken man, who is also well-dressed but wears gum boots.
)

O’B:
I needn’t tell you, Hickory, that all this is a great shock to me.

HICKORY
(
vet.
): Well, an ass in a poke is the same as a pig in a poke. You shouldn’t have had anything to do with that animal in the first place.

O’B:
(
Getting pencil and paper.
) I’d better take down the list in writing.

H:
Why? Anthrax is enough. You’ll be prosecuted if you’re found with that animal in your possession, no matter where you got it or from whom.

O’B:
Well . . . I suppose you should know.

H:
Anthrax is a terrible disease. There’s external and internal anthrax. The bacteria that cause anthrax are the most vicious in the world, and the bacilli or spores are such as to make the disease very infectious. And let me tell you this. Human beings can get anthrax.

O’B:
Well . . . Lord save us!

H:
During the First World War thousands of British soldiers got anthrax from using infected shaving brushes made in Japan. That was a nice day’s work.

O’B:
You mean the bristles were contaminated because they came from animals which were suffering from anthrax.

H:
Exactly. Very likely from animals who had died from anthrax.

O’B:
Well, well, well. And what other disease did you say the donkey had?

H:
Mange. And he has it bad.

O’B:
Mange. I thought only dogs got that. (
Writing.
) Is that the lot?

H:
You saw yourself that he can hardly walk. He’s also got what we call laminitis.

O’B:
I see. And just what is laminitis?

H:
It means inflammation of the hoof. The poor beast is completely banjaxed.

O’B:
It certainly looks like it. Is there anything else?

H:
As I told you in the field, I didn’t want to carry out a detailed examination, and the reason is obvious enough, I hope. I don’t want to get anthrax. But that ass is blind or with sight so bad that he’ll very soon be blind. And it looks the blindness of old age.

O’B:
If you ask me, the plan was to fob that animal off on me. I’m just the victim of a conspiracy.

H:
Looks like it. But what you must get down to now, right away, is ACTION.

O’B:
I agree. Precisely what would you advise me to do?

H:
Have you got a gun?

O’B:
Well . . . I have. (
Rises and goes to the lower press compartment of bookcase and takes out shotgun.
) I haven’t used this for at least three years. Have a look.

H:
Hmmm. Handsome machine, that.

O’B:
It is. My father’s. He was a crack shot.

H:
Tomorrow you must shoot that ass at very close quarters in the head. In the head, remember and from the side. But first get a man to dig a grave—and a very deep one. Believe it or not, rats are very partial to dead donkeys, even when the corpse is choked with anthrax.

O’B:
Lord! And then we would have rats running about the place with doses of anthrax of their own?