Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature) (39 page)

H:
Exactly. Make your man dig deep. At least six feet, take the day off yourself and see that a proper job is done.

O’B:
Yes. That gravedigger means another quid gone west.

H:
All right, but it’s money well spent.

O’B:
Well, Hickory, that’s agreed. I’ll proceed as directed. And tell me this. (
Produces cheque book.
) What do I owe your good self?

H:
Oh, whatever you think. Two guineas, we’ll say.

O’B:
That’s fair enough. (
Writes.
) This is a right mess I’ve got myself into.

H:
(
Pleasantly.
) Ah well, these things happen.

(
Fade out.
)

(
Screen A FEW DAYS LATER. Scene is the same room. O’Brien is again reading and again there is a knock without. He goes out and returns with a bulky, elderly sergeant of the Guards. This man is pleasant of manner and speaks with a pronounced country accent.
)

SERGEANT:
And how are you keeping, Mr. O’Brien?

O’B:
Oh, fair enough, I suppose. The health is fine, but there’s always trouble of one kind or another.

S:
Ah but shure what about it? Isn’t it the same with us all, God help us.

O’B:
I suppose it is. It’s a mercy we don’t know what’s in store for us.

S:
Well, well. (
He has caught sight of shotgun which has been left leaning against the wall.
) I never knew you were a sportsman, Mr. O’Brien. (
Breaks gun open and examines it.
) Faith now and that’s a nice weapon. The Purdey make, too.

O’B:
Yes. It’s a bit old, but it’s good.

S:
(
Head bent.
) I suppose, Mr. O’Brien . . . I suppose you have a licence for this?

O’B:
(
Startled.
) Oh! What? Bedamnit but I haven’t. I haven’t used the gun for three years. I completely forgot all about it.

S:
Ah yes. That happens sometimes. It’s bad luck and nothing else. You know, of course, that whether you use a gun or not has nothing to do with the necessity for having a license?

O’B:
I do indeed, Sergeant. Damned stupid of me.

S:
You understand, Mr. O’Brien, that the trouble with this country is that there’s too many knocking about, and too many wild fellows knocking them off.

O’B:
Oh, true enough, Sergeant. Of course, I keep that under lock and key.

S:
Ah, faith, they’d find it no matter where you had it.

O’B:
Indeed, I suppose so, Sergeant.

S:
I’m sure you’ll understand, Mr. O’Brien, that I must report this. It’ll only mean a fine of between two and five pounds. There’s just one snag.

O’B:
ONE snag? Isn’t a ferocious fine enough?

S:
Well, you see, there’s always the danger that the Justice would order the gun confiscated as well.

O’B:
But Good Lord, that gun’s worth at least thirty pounds.

S:
Faith and I wouldn’t doubt you. It would all depend on who the Justice would be. If you were wise, you’d ask your solicitor to get a barrister on the job.

O’B:
Heavens above! More and more ruinous expense!

S:
It’s another matter I called to see you about, Mr. O’Brien. Another matter entirely.

O’B:
Indeed, Sergeant. What other trouble am I in?

S:
Well, I seen the guts of it out in the field.

O’B:
You mean the donkey?

S:
Ah no. Not the grand little donkey. I mean the cart. It’s stolen property.

O’B:
But I didn’t steal any cart, Sergeant.

S:
Shure don’t we know that. Sure we pulled in that scallywag Barnes yesterday. That man has a record the length of your arm.

O’B:
Well, thank goodness. That lets me out.

S:
You don’t understand, Mr. O’Brien. The charge against you is that you’re a receiver of stolen property, knowing it to have been stolen.

O’B:
(
Aghast.
) But look here, Sergeant, surely this is utter bosh? I mean to say—

S:
Mr. O’Brien, you may think it’s silly, but these things will have to be gone through with. You may be sure you’ll get bail while the Justice is taking the depositions. And of course, there’ll be a good long delay after you’re sent for trial.

O’B:
May Heaven keep my wits about me! Sent for trial?

S:
The charge is what they call a felony.

O’B:
And suppose I’m convicted? What then?

S:
Well now, it’s hard to say. It would depend a lot on the Judge. It might be just a fine. (
Rises and takes up cap.
) It might be just a heavy fine and be bound to the peace. I think I’ll slip away now, Mr. O’Brien, and maybe see you again tomorrow. I’m on duty at the station to-night.

O’B:
Sergeant, you say it MIGHT be a heavy fine and be bound to the peace. What else could it be?

S:
(
At door.
) Ah now, Mr. O’Brien, don’t keep looking all the time at the dark side of things. It COULD mean six months hard labour in Mountjoy but I’m sure it won’t. Good night. (
Departs.
)

O’B:
(
Burying head in hands and then raising it to stare at camera.
) I ask you. (
Spreads arms.
) I bought four legs under a donkey for tuppence. Counting the loss of the gun and the possible fines, I’d be down maybe a hundred quid. And perhaps six months in Mountjoy. AND THE LOSS OF MY JOB!

THE END

THE DEAD SPIT
OF KELLY
A Play in Four Parts

The scene of this play is Dublin, though it could be any city or big town. There is only one important character,
BURKE
.
The part naturally calls for a good player but particularly one whose voice and accent are unmistakeable, because some of his utterances (By way of thought.) are heard on the sound track while he proceeds on the screen in dumb show.

PART 1

The play opens in a taxidermist’s workshop. There is a door to left outside which occasionally a bell rings to show there is a caller in the outer shop. The workshop contains two large heavy tables as well as shelves, presses, etc. for gear, and here and there are examples of work done, e.g., stuffed birds, dogs, cats, etc. (A practising taxidermist could no doubt advise about the lay-out of this scene and possibly lend suitable objects.
)

BURKE
is present, working on what looks like a dog, behind table to right and facing audience. He is talking to a visitor friend
PAT
,
who sits in a raincoat on a chair with three-quarters back to camera.

BURKE:
All the same, Pat, it’s a hard oul station. Any God’s amount of work but not so much pay.

PAT:
Well . . . I suppose we can all say that. Here, have a cigarette. (
Rises and offers one.
)

BURKE:
Thanks, Pat. The fags keep us going, anyway.

PAT:
Do you like this work? Is it hard?

BURKE:
Is it hard? By gor then and it’s not what a lot of people think it is. In th’oul days they used just to empty an animal out and stuff the skin with straw.

PAT:
(
Chuckles.
) Well, that wouldn’t take much doing.

BURKE:
With the result was that everything from a cat to an elephant just looked like a burst football. No shape or size to anything.

PAT:
Well, that day is gone. What’s that white stuff in the bucket?

BURKE:
Plaster of Paris. Tell you how the job is done now. First of all we gut the animal and put the insides in that furnace over there. We give the empty skin special treatment. Then we decide what stance that crature is going to have. Take this baste here now.

PAT:
What is that? Is it a young leopard or what?

BURKE:
Not at all. This is a dog, a tarrier. When he’s finished, he’ll be standing alert, with his tail up, just as if he’d seen a rat. Real lifelike.

PAT:
Yes, I know—you’d be afraid he’d bite you.

BURKE:
Ah, don’t be talkin’. We cut the skin down the middle and then we build a sort of a dummy inside it, made of plaster of Paris, or burlap, or mayber papeer mawshay. D’you see?

PAT:
Yes indeed. Fancy that! I never thought of that.

BURKE:
When the dummy’s perfect and fits right, we use it to make a sort of skeleton, mostly from wire. This goes in and then we sew the skin up. And there you are!

PAT:
Well by dad, ye are the right men. Nobody would think there was all that work in stuffing an oul geezer, say. It’s not everybody could do it, and that’s a certainty.

BURKE:
A taxidermist—that’s the right word—a taxidermist has to be a lot of things. Here, have another cigarette, Pat.

PAT:
Thanks. Must be going soon.

BURKE:
A taxidermist has to be a scientist . . . and a carpenter . . . and a naturalist . . . and an artist . . . and a docthor.

PAT:
You’re quite right. And a surgeon, a mechanic and a sculptor.

BURKE:
Ah, yes. (
Drops all tools to emphasize talk.
) Now listen here, Pat. I like this class of work. Matter of fact, I wouldn’t know how to do anny other sort of work. But . . . Kelly, the man I work for here! Oh Lord!

PAT:
Yes, I think you told me about him before. I don’t think you’d give him the first prize for good manners, if I remember aright.

BURKE:
I’m telling you, Kelly’s one character I always remember in my prayers. Know what it is? He’s the greatest swine in this whole country.

PAT:
A bit full of himself, I believe.

BURKE:
He has the vanity of Satan himself. I loathe . . . and detest . . . and abominate that awful man.

PAT:
It must be a bit of an extra load on you to have to work in the same room as such a character.

BURKE:
He’s never done whinging and snivelling. Wants to know why I smoke and pollute the atmosphere. Imagine a pig like that giving out about me polluting the atmosphere!

PAT:
Pity you couldn’t get a job in some other firm in the same line of business. Or maybe get a job in some museum looking after this class of stuff.

BURKE:
Ah, there’s no other real firm in this business. And another thing. I get all the lowest sort of work that comes in here—an odd parrot, and dogs and cats. A year ago some mad oul fella sent in a rat to be fixed up. Who would you say got the rat?

PAT:
I wouldn’t say that Mr. Kelly took the job in hand.

BURKE:
Your humble servant got the rat. But if a crocodile was brought in, or a Great Borneo spider, or a baby gorilla, they would all be Kelly’s work.

PAT:
I must be off. (
Rises.
) I’m damn sorry that things are like this. It’s a lousy fix for a man to be in. Sorry I can’t think of some way I could help.

BURKE:
Oh indeed I know you are, Pat. Sure I suppose I’ll have to put up with it, for the present, anyhow. The so-and-so is so mean, if you understand me.

PAT:
(
At door.
) Ah, I know. Well the best of luck now.

(
He departs.
BURKE
takes up a tape and carries on some measurement operations on the object on his table, humming softly. Suddenly
KELLY
walks in and hangs coat and hat on back of door. He is about the same build as
BURKE
but very different physically, being quite bald, unshaven, and in manner obviously irascible by habit. His expression is sour, his voice unpleasant.
)