Plays One Page 2

  PAUL. Not really, no. How long’s dinner anyway?

  MARY (brightly). Four inches – it’s a sausage.

  PAUL. Please don’t try to be funny, Mummy. It doesn’t suit you.

  MARY. Sorry. There’s plenty of cereal in the cupboard.

  PAUL. What sort?

  MARY. Go and have a look.

  PAUL. I won’t bother then.

  MARY gets a bowl of cereal and gives it to PAUL.

  PAUL. Where’s the milk?

  MARY (puts milk and sugar in the bowl of cereal). There you are, dear.

  PAUL. Ta, Ma.

  MARY. Did you hear Simon come in last night?

  PAUL (stuffing his face). Nope.

  MARY. I don’t think he came home last night. I haven’t had a chance to look in his bedroom.

  PAUL. He’s a big boy now. A man of the world.

  MARY. Even men of the world meet with fatal accidents. How would it look, ‘Church warden’s son run over and killed three days ago – his mother never even noticed’?

  PAUL. Give it a rest, Mum.

  MARY. I give up with you lot. Where’s John?

  PAUL. Judging by the sound of creaking bed springs coming from his room, I’d say he was reading magazines.

  MARY. What on earth … Sometimes I can’t follow a word you boys are saying. (She shouts.) John! Are you up? (Then:) Tut, they just ignore you. I don’t know.

  PAUL. Mum … I was wondering, could you see your way clear to lending me a fiver?

  MARY. You mean give.

  PAUL. It’s difficult, Mum … I mean …

  MARY. You go out to work. I lent you five pounds out of the housekeeping last week. What did you do with that?

  PAUL. Oh, you know, I mean, it’s not like the day when you could buy a pound of apples for a penny.

  MARY. And when was the last time you bought a pound of apples? Here, you’re not on drugs, are you?

  PAUL (laughing). At a fiver a week, I couldn’t even afford to be on Smarties.

  MARY. There’s five pounds in the drawer.

  PAUL. Ta.

  MARY. Don’t you think you can get off that lightly. The washing-up, please.

  PAUL. Ah … Mummy?

  MARY. Who left all this out last night? That’s what I’d like to know.

  PAUL. Oh, Ma, give over. Stop going on for once, first thing in the morning, it’s too much.

  MARY. Perhaps next time you could wash up after yourself.

  PAUL (already halfway through the door). Shut up, will you? You old bag.

  MARY. PAUL!

  PAUL goes out.

  DAVID enters.

  DAVID. Not nagging him already dear. (He shouts.) Morning, son!

  PAUL (off). Wotcher, Dad.

  DAVID. Mm, something smells good.

  MARY. Well, I don’t know what. I haven’t had a chance to put anything in the oven yet.

  DAVID. Not to worry. Plenty of time, eh? That’s the idea. Now I hate to mention it, but (He points to his trousers.) that stain on the knee is still there.

  MARY. Sorry. I couldn’t get it out. I’ll have to take them to the dry cleaner’s.

  DAVID. Don’t be too rash, ha ha.

  MARY. Pardon?

  DAVID. I’m sure taking them to the dry cleaner’s will be the great event of the week. Only a little quip. Hmm, yes well. Now, I really must be going. I suppose the car keys are in Paul’s room. And you will make an effort to be at the service, won’t you, dear?

  DAVID goes out.

  MARY (shouts). John, if you’re not down here in one minute … please.

  PAUL enters.

  PAUL (putting head round the door). By the way, is it okay if I bring a bird home with me tonight?

  MARY. I suppose you mean a girl.

  PAUL. I don’t mean a sparrow, do I?

  MARY. You know your friends are always welcome here. Only I don’t want you spending too much time in the bedroom. Whatever would people think?

  PAUL. Okay. Okay.

  MARY. Now just a minute … I want you to take these shirts upstairs for me. (She counts the shirts.) I must be going mad. Thirty-eight shirts for one week, between four men. Fancy wearing more than one shirt a day. (She hands the shirts to PAUL.) Daft. The whole lot of you.

  PAUL. All right, Mum. I don’t know whose is whose, so you’ll have to sort them out later. I’ll leave them on your bed.

  MARY. Thank you, dear.

  PAUL goes out.

  DAVID enters.

  DAVID. Mary, you’ll have a word with that lad. I found something in his room which I am far from pleased about.

  MARY. Oh.

  DAVID. It’s disgusting. Look!

  He opens his hand just long enough for the audience to register that it is a used condom. MARY does not take it in.

  On his floor. I’ll not have it.

  MARY. No, it is a bit much.

  DAVID. A bit much?

  MARY. What will you do with it?

  DAVID. Burn it.

  MARY. That’s a bit cruel.

  DAVID gets an envelope out of the drawer, puts the condom in it, seals it and puts it in his pocket.

  DAVID. What do you suggest I do? Frame it? And while we’re on about the sordid part of this family, you and I really must have a talk about Anna.

  MARY. Oh, good. I’ll drop her a line this evening if I get a chance. You know, I can’t tell you how much I miss her.

  DAVID. She’s a disgrace.

  MARY. David!

  DAVID. We’ll have a long chat about it later.

  MARY. Yes.

  DAVID. Oh, and there, I almost forgot to tell you. I’ve invited Roger and Daphne back after the morning service.

  MARY. Oh, that’s nice. (Slight pause.) They won’t want anything to eat will they?

  DAVID. No, just lunch and tea.

  DAVID goes out.

  MARY. Oh. (She continues writing.) Tell Paul – no slugs in the bedroom. Two extra for lunch. Peel more potatoes. More sausages, to make the chicken go further. (Pause.) Why does my life seem like a half-finished jigsaw while everybody else seems to have completed their pictures? What did he mean about Anna? Dear God, if our lives are predestined what’s the point of prayer? (Pause.) Even if they are not, what’s the point?

  Blackout.

  Scene Two

  RENE’s kitchen. ALF is drunk. SUSAN sits silently at the table. RENE buzzes around frantically, dusting and polishing the tatty furniture. She is a nervous, agitated woman with a frail, frightened voice, which seems to be about to break into a more hysterical pitch.

  ALF (at SUSAN). Bleedin’ slut. Cow. Little filthy fucker. See, yer know what this bleedin’ is, eh? Retribution from God. Allbleedin’ mighty. Mighty wrath of God lands you with a shitty, vegetating baby. Thank fuck Christ it’s dead. (He lifts his hand to hit SUSAN.)

  RENE (thin screech). Steady, Alf, there’s no need. Your dinner’s almost ready. Toad in the hole, your favourite. I’ve managed to get the sausages you like – plenty of pork. The butcher was only saying …

  ALF. Shut your stupid fucking gob.

  RENE. He doesn’t mean it. He’s just upset. He’s hurt. It’s upset him more than we’ll ever know. He doesn’t mean it.

  ALF (shaking SUSAN). You cow. You fuckin’ wretched whore. Blasted fuckin’ bitch, you reduced the whole fuckin’ family to humiliation, you stupid ignorant slut.

  RENE. Please, Alf. All she’s been through. I know … maybe they got the babies mixed up at the hospital. A mistake. These things can happen, yer know. That’s probably it.

  ALF. You bleedin’ fuckin’ stupid bitch. Can’t you shut that fuckin’ blabberin’ cake-hole for one fuckin’ minute before I shuts it permanently for you?

  The doorbell rings.

  RENE. My God, who can that be?

  ALF (pokes SUSAN). Answer it, slut.

  SUSAN goes to the door and comes back with ROGER.

  RENE (tidying herself). Oh, hello, Vicar.

  ROGER. Hello there …

  ALF
. ’lo Vicar.

  ROGER (smiles). And you must be Susan.

  RENE. Yes. Say hello to the vicar, Susan.

  SUSAN. Hallo.

  RENE. I know we haven’t been to church recently like, Vicar, well ever. But we’ve had a lot on our plates and Alf here used to work nights, when he was employed like, and sometimes he had to work on a Sunday as well, I know that don’t make it right, for one thing you’re not supposed to work on the Sabbath …

  ALF (through gritted teeth). Rene, my dear.

  RENE. Sorry. Sorry. Ha! I do go on, don’t I?

  ROGER. I’ve come to offer my sincere sympathies about little Peter. I baptised him just before he was taken.

  ALF. He needed more than that, with no disrespect, Vicar.

  ROGER. I realise this must be a very difficult time for you all, especially for Susan, and sometimes there is simply no explanation for these things.

  ALF. She’s not married, Reverend, there’s your answer. Sin of the flesh.

  ROGER. I’m afraid that we don’t believe God is that hard these days.

  RENE. Can I offer you a cup of tea, Vicar, or something to eat? We was just about to ’ave dinner. There’s plenty.

  ROGER. Thanks, but I’ve already accepted an offer from my church warden. I really called round to say that if ever – and I don’t believe in ramming religion down other people’s throats – but if ever you feel that there is anything you’d like to discuss or if you need spiritual guidance, do pop round to the vicarage and if I’m not there my wife will always be willing to chat over a cup of tea. Or the church warden’s wife, Mrs Johnson, is very homely.

  SUSAN. You baptised Peter? … What does it mean? Did you try to bring him back to life?

  ROGER. No, my dear, but it does mean that he will definitely partake of the life hereafter.

  SUSAN. Oh.

  ROGER. He will be in paradise. I can vouchsafe. Well, nice to see you all. I’m only sorry that it couldn’t have been in happier circumstances.

  RENE. Nice of you to call, Vicar, and we can’t thank you enough. I’ll see you out. (They both go to the door.) It was a terrible thing to happen. Tragic. But we’re over the worst of it now. I hope.

  ROGER. So do I. God be with you.

  RENE. And you.

  They both go out.

  ALF (to SUSAN). Bring it back to life? You stupid, ungrateful cow.

  RENE enters.

  RENE. Well, it was nice of him to call.

  ALF. Bleedin’ irony of it. Poncing in here saying, ‘I don’t want to ram religion down other people’s throats’, well that, unfortunately, happens to be what he’s bleedin’ paid for. Soddin’ git, don’t know what a bleedin’ day’s work is anyway. Fuck it, I’m off out.

  RENE. What about your dinner?

  ALF. I’ll have it when I get back.

  RENE. It’ll be spoilt.

  ALF. It’d bleedin’ better not be, and for fuck’s sake woman, clear this place up a bit – it’s like a fuckin’ shit pit.

  ALF goes out.

  RENE. It ain’t right, you know, Susan. I don’t care what you say. Naturally you’re upset but we got to pick up the threads somewhere, and I for one ain’t going to take this lying down. I’m so upset, we, we all are – oh, yes, even your father, although he’d never show it of course. We’ll sue those doctors, and we’ll start with that Dr Cart-bleedin’ double-barrelled Wright-Smith. Probably his name was Smith, and he pinched the Cartwright bit off his wife. Well, it’s the same the world over, men always pinch the best things off women, bleed ’em dry, and for another thing …

  SUSAN (quietly). Please, Mum …

  RENE. We never ’ad no handicap in this family, and as for completely … well so badly handicapped he died …

  SUSAN. Totally fucked up.

  RENE. Susan, don’t say that. It’s a something syndrome. I’m so sorry, love, but we knew it was going to happen and I s’pose it’s better now than later, oh what am I saying? It’s just too easy to go on blabbing about all for the best.

  SUSAN. When the baby’s funeral’s over, you and me are going.

  RENE. Where could I possibly go at my age? I know your father’s not exactly gracious … downright hostile … but it’s not his fault … He’s done his best by you he has.

  SUSAN. So I noticed. Sorry. Perhaps we’d both better have a chat with the vicar’s wife.

  RENE. You’ve got to be joking. She’s a real loony, she is. Mrs Wallanger from number forty-five can see their garden from her place. She told me that while the organ plays ‘All things bright and beautiful’ that vicar’s lady wife tramps through the garden, ripping the heads off the snowdrops, shouting, ‘Die damn you, die’.

  SUSAN. Mum – Mrs Wallanger’s hearing aid would have exploded if it was powerful enough to pick up that from the tenth floor – (Slight pause.) By the way, I’m going to see Julie next week.

  RENE. What for? She didn’t even know he existed.

  SUSAN. There’s no need to be so criticising.

  RENE. You know what I think of that young lady – that’s the wrong word – that young hermaphrodite more like, well I hope you don’t pick up no bad habits, that’s all I can say. Take it from me, Susan, women like that are never ’appy, how can they be?

  SUSAN. Not like we are then, eh, Mum?

  RENE. I thought it would be different when we was rehoused to Potter’s Bar. (She speaks more softly.) It’s my fault. I talked yer outta the abortion – mothers are supposed to know best – only this one’s a complete bloody flop.

  SUSAN. Mum, it’s nobody’s fault. If only for a few days Peter was alive.

  RENE (rising hysteria). Alive! Alive my arse, he was like a bit of squashed fruit. (She slaps herself.) Oh, for Christ’s sake, shut up, Rene.

  SUSAN. Mum, I love you.

  RENE (getting out hanky). Oh, shit. (Pause.) There’s nothing to keep you here now, love. You go.

  SUSAN. And leave you alone with him? No way.

  RENE. What would I have done if you’d been a boy?

  SUSAN. You’d ’ave ter have done the laundry yourself for starters. (She picks up the laundry basket.) See yer later.

  RENE (starts reading from the back page of Woman’s Own aloud). Dear Mary Grant, My wife and I make love about five times a week, which suits me down to the ground, but she will insist on watching telly over my shoulder. I don’t mind this so much, but she will keep one hand free so she can switch stations with the remote control.

  Pause.

  RENE puts down the magazine.

  Dear Mary Grant, I have a husband who drinks all my money away. I have two jobs to try to give him enough so he doesn’t feel the need to slap me and my daughter around, but I usually fail. I have to lie in piss-soaked sheets, as my husband wets the bed every night. My daughter’s severely handicapped baby has just died and I just can’t stop fuckin’ talking. I have dreams of doing myself in. Please don’t reply as my husband rips up my mail regardless.

  Blackout.

  Scene Three

  ANNA and JULIE’s kitchen. ANNA is knitting. JULIE is watching television.

  JULIE. What yer doing?

  ANNA. Washing-up.

  JULIE. Yer bleedin’ knitting, ain’t yer? Yer disgustin’ pervert. Yer know what yer equivalent to, eh? A man exposin’ himself in public.

  ANNA. I’m not in public, but I’ll go to the window and wave it out shouting, ‘Get a load of this double ply’, if you like.

  JULIE. Same difference. Same crime.

  ANNA. Be quiet, you’re missing the programme.

  JULIE. It’s finished.

  ANNA. Haven’t you got an essay or something to write?

  JULIE. Yeah. I’ve done it.

  ANNA. Already?

  JULIE. Here.

  She hands ANNA a postcard.

  ANNA (reading). Open University, Milton Keynes.

  JULIE. Other side, Rubberhead.

  ANNA (turns it over, reads). ‘Dear madam, and if there is not a woman on the premises don’t both
er to read any further. I am writing to inform you that I cannot respond to any essay title with the word ‘mankind’ in it. Because it has the kind of alienating effect which really fucks me off.’

  JULIE. What do you think?

  ANNA. You can’t start a sentence with ‘because’.

  JULIE. Do you think it’s long enough?

  ANNA. For you it’s almost a thesis.

  JULIE. Hey, that reminds me, what did your mother have to say this week?

  ANNA. What did my mother have to say this week?

  She hands JULIE a letter.

  Here, read it for yourself.

  JULIE (reads). ‘Dear Anna, sorry I can’t write much as I have to get on with the beds, love Mum.’ (She looks up.) That’s it? Blimey, the Post Office should’ve let her have a stamp half price fer that.

  ANNA. I just don’t know what to make of it.

  JULIE. Are you sure you didn’t upset her when you went home?

  ANNA. Yes, at least, I don’t think so. It’s difficult to tell, he puts her on edge so much.

  JULIE. Who?

  ANNA. The old bastard.

  JULIE. Oh, Flash Gordon, the church warden.

  ANNA. Sometimes I feel my visits cause more trouble than they’re worth.

  JULIE. Did you get a chance to speak to her on her own?

  ANNA. Yes, but she’s … I don’t know. I can’t explain it.

  JULIE. She’s been bullied so long she don’t know how to pick herself up again.

  ANNA. Yes, but my father has never so much as raised his hand to her.

  JULIE. So what exactly did you say to her?

  ANNA. Nothing really. I thought it would make things about a million times worse if I told her about me and you.

  JULIE. A cop out.

  ANNA. Not altogether. I said I’d always preferred women to men.

  JULIE. Not bad. What did she reckon to that?

  ANNA. She gave me a long, wistful smile, ‘Oh, do you, dear?’, then, after a pause, she said, ‘To tell you the truth, so have I. Half the time I don’t know what men are on about.’

  JULIE (shrugs). No one can say you didn’t try.

  ANNA. How can you explain to somebody whose whole life is centred around God and the family that our relationship is justifiable, let alone natural?

  JULIE. It ain’t up to us to tell her she’s wrong.

  ANNA. Hang on, is this the same person who had to be physically removed from the pub last night, screaming ‘Off with their rocks!’?