Plays One Read online

  JOYCE. Oh, is he still hanging around?

  CLAIRE. She and Riq have been lovers for five years.

  JOYCE. It’s about time they jolly well got married then.

  CLAIRE. That’s their business, Mum.

  JOYCE. And, it’s a good deal better than some other people’s arrangements.

  CLAIRE (gently). Now, Mum.

  JOYCE (sighs). Still it’s your life, each to their own, live and let live, that’s what I always say.

  VAL (deliberate sarcasm). Ha. Ha.

  CLAIRE. Val?

  VAL (snaps). Fine, fine, I’m fine.

  JOYCE. Course you are, course she is, just not been herself, right now … lately. (To CLAIRE:) Now don’t you start probing and upsetting everyone. I notice nobody bothers to ask how I am. I suppose I’m not worth bothering with.

  CLAIRE (curtly). I just did, only you ignored it.

  JOYCE. Sometimes, frankly, it’s just as well not to ask. Life’s not a bowl of anything much. Especially with neighbours banging away into the night – they’ve even got an hydraulic cat-flap, God alone knows why, on the twelfth floor. Still, moaning about it doesn’t get you anywhere. Laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone, that’s my motto.

  VAL (quietly). One by one we all file on down the narrow aisles of pain alone.

  JOYCE. Pardon? Val?

  VAL. Thought I’d finish where you started.

  JOYCE (choosing not to take this up). What a life, I ask you. I tell you I need one of those Help programmes all to myself. I thank God I’m not a Catholic, that’s all I can say, not that he’s not the best pope so far, this one.

  VAL (flatly). Hurray, hurray, it’s Mother’s Day.

  JOYCE. What’s got into you these days, Val? You used to be so sensitive.

  CLAIRE. Mum!

  JOYCE (to CLAIRE). Which is more than I can say for you, I’m afraid, young lady.

  CLAIRE. Woman.

  JOYCE. Oh Claire, where is all this nitpicking getting you?

  (Firmly.) I’ll tell you one thing for nothing: when you were born, they didn’t say to me, ’Mrs Roberts, you’ve got a lovely little baby woman.’

  CLAIRE. I’m sure they didn’t say ’You’ve got a lovely little baby lady’ either.

  JOYCE. Whereas Val could have been a poet, couldn’t you, dear? I’ll never forget when I met one of her lecturers, he said you’ve got a potential …

  VAL (flatly). The distortion of abortion is a Catholic contortion from which I can only conceive that the Papist is a rapist.

  JOYCE. Well, you haven’t been feeling very well lately, have you? No, no, we won’t go into that now. Every day in every way getting better all the time. You look much better than when I last saw you. Doesn’t she?

  CLAIRE. Did you ever enrol for those cookery classes, Mum?

  JOYCE. What went wrong? Oh, what went wrong? I didn’t mind that you were all girls, oh no I didn’t. I just wished that you’d all turn out like those Brontë sisters. (VAL and CLAIRE exchange exasperated looks.) Yes, well, that was a load of pie-in-the-sky nonsense. For a start their father was a priest. I don’t suppose for one minute that many great lady – (She looks at CLAIRE.) – women novelists had dockers, unemployed ones at that, for fathers. (To CLAIRE:) There, that’s what you should be going on about in your sociological stuff.

  CLAIRE (controlled). That’s what I do go on about, Mum, only my analysis isn’t quite so succinct.

  JOYCE. And that’s another thing. I bet Charlotte Brontë didn’t talk to her mother like that.

  CLAIRE. If I remember rightly her mother died when she was seven.

  JOYCE. And that’s where I’ll be, in the grave, thanks to you. Things you’ve put me through.

  CLAIRE (through clenched teeth). Mother, please.

  JOYCE. It wasn’t for the want of trying, my girl, didn’t I always encourage you to play with the vicar’s daughter?

  VAL laughs out loud, CLAIRE suppresses a smile.

  Now what are you laughing at? They were a very nice family. Mark and Harriet – wonderful people, and I hoped by you mixing with their daughter Mary some of the respectability might rub off.

  CLAIRE. Mum? Mary had three abortions by the time she was eighteen.

  JOYCE. Well, with a name like that she was hardly blessed. Still, it’s quite something to have your father called by God like he was.

  VAL. Probably all he heard was a dog with a sore mouth, going ’Mark, Mark’.

  JOYCE. Val! Please not in front of the child.

  POPPY. Did you know, Nan, ’god’ spells dog backwards.

  JOYCE. Poppy!

  CLAIRE. Poppy, I think you’ve overstepped the mark.

  POPPY. But it’s true.

  JOYCE. Is this what it comes down to, one of my daughters calls the Pope a sod, the other says he’s a rapist, and my granddaughter goes one further and calls God a dog. Heaven help us, on Mothering Sunday as well.

  Silence.

  POPPY. I didn’t call God a dog.

  CLAIRE. Mum, we’ve done all right. Everything considered. And we owe that to you. (To POPPY:) No, I know you didn’t, love.

  JOYCE (to CLAIRE). I’ve taken enough blame for everything. Don’t start on me.

  CLAIRE. Look Val and I went to university, neither you nor Dad went there. And we weren’t pushed into it like loads of others. Mum, you were always saying don’t get married like you did at nineteen and regret it.

  JOYCE. Regret it? Regret it? What have I got to regret? I might have said don’t get married at sixteen, but I didn’t say don’t get married at all or fornicate or emigrate or crack up or go the other way or whatever. My God, I wanted three daughters like the Brontës and I ended up with a family fit for a Channel Four documentary. Regrets, me? It’s you lot that should have regrets.

  CLAIRE. I give up.

  JOYCE. Now you know how I feel – I gave up a long time ago.

  CLAIRE. Why do you have to criticise me all the time?

  JOYCE. Me? Criticise? Just what do I criticise you about?

  Enter JEAN behind JOYCE.

  CLAIRE. Hi, Jean.

  JOYCE. Personal cleanliness is the last thing I’d criticise you for – you can tell that by your fingernails – spotless. (She sees JEAN.) Oh, hello Joan – did you have a nice time?

  JEAN (flatly). I went to my mother’s.

  JOYCE. Not a good recipe for success, if my mother was alive today she’d wish herself dead again. Poor woman, God rest her soul.

  JEAN sees the way the conversation is going and exits.

  Not that there’s not plenty I could be having a go at you for.

  CLAIRE. Perhaps not now, eh, Mum?

  JOYCE. I wonder whether my feelings ever get taken into consideration.

  CLAIRE. Mum!

  JOYCE. Don’t worry, I know – L-I-T-T-L-E E-A-R-S.

  Pause.

  POPPY. Little ears, what does that mean?

  JOYCE. Nothing, love, it’s slang for Nanny’s got a big mouth.

  POPPY. Mum? There’s only three. Demeter had four.

  CLAIRE. You’re the fourth.

  POPPY (pointing at JOYCE). So you’re Demeter.

  JOYCE. Don’t point dear, it’s rude.

  POPPY (nodding towards VAL). You’re Psyche and Aunty Sybil can be Athena.

  VAL. Do you learn this at school?

  POPPY. No, Claire – (She looks at JOYCE.) – Mummy tells me.

  JOYCE. Course, Val did her degree in the classics, didn’t you love.

  VAL. I never finished it.

  JOYCE. No, but only because nature had something better designed for you, didn’t it? Not that your father and I weren’t upset at the time because we were, we were, but Colin is a very decent man and he’s done the best thing by you, he has. You have a marvellous husband and a lovely family, sometimes I think you don’t realise how lucky you are, I don’t.

  CLAIRE. Did you ever enrol for those brass rubbing classes, Mum?

  JOYCE. Oh, that’s just typical of you, stick
your head in the sand, hear no evil, see no evil, but (She stops herself.) I tell you this much: a social worker had never so much as put a finger on the doorbell until …

  CLAIRE (harshly). Mum, leave it out, please.

  JOYCE. It’s all very well you saying, ’Mum, please’, but that won’t solve anything.

  CLAIRE. And nor will your carrying on about it.

  JOYCE. Honestly. Have you no shame?

  CLAIRE (slowly). Will you stop picking on me.

  JOYCE. Me? Me? Picking on you? Huh, I like that. It’s usually only drunk and insane mothers who are considered unfit for parental control.

  CLAIRE. Shut up.

  VAL. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

  JOYCE. There, look now, what you’ve done now. Look.

  CLAIRE. I haven’t upset anyone. If anyone’s upset anyone …

  JOYCE. What about me and my ties with her?

  CLAIRE (shouts). Drop it please.

  Enter SID.

  SID. Drop what? I came straight in, the door was open.

  JOYCE (startled). Oh Sidney, love, it’s you. Where’s Colin?

  SID. Trying to park the car. This must be getting into a trendy area, can always tell when the Citroëns are double-parked. Hello there, Val, Claire. And how’s Poppy?

  POPPY. Hello Grandad – you can be – (To CLAIRE:) Who can he be? I know, Zeus.

  SID. That’s my cleverest granddaughter. (To CLAIRE:) And if I’m Zeus, who are you?

  POPPY. Pepsi-phone.

  SID. Now me, I’m somewhat Carling-Black-Label-prone myself.

  POPPY. Where have you been?

  SID. Tell who this one’s taking after. (He looks at JOYCE.)

  JOYCE. He’s been to the pub, as if we need ask, when he knows full well that we haven’t got the money for him to go swilling beer down his neck with.

  SID. You know what her latest economy is now? Eh? Keeps the curtains drawn so the sunlight doesn’t fade the carpet.

  JOYCE. Someone’s got to budget.

  SID. Nothing will budge it either, the pattern will be stuck on it a long time after we’re gone. Hey, Poppy, do you want to sit on my knee?

  POPPY. No thank you.

  SID (to CLAIRE). If that kid grows up with any weird ideas, I’ll kill you.

  CLAIRE. Oh really? Not before I kill you, I suppose.

  JOYCE. What are you going to do, stab him to death with your ‘Women Against Violence’ badge?

  VAL (to SID). Leave her alone.

  SID (to CLAIRE). D’you hear me?

  CLAIRE. Father, your theories of biologically-inherited traits are about as informed as your vocabulary.

  SID. Don’t sauce me, girl, you’re not too big to feel the back of my hand.

  CLAIRE. You what?

  Enter COLIN.

  JOYCE. Ah ha, hello Colin, how lovely to see you. We were just going to make a nice cup of tea – would you like one?

  COLIN. No thanks, if it’s all the same. It’s just that I’ve left the boys with the neighbours. How are you feeling, Val?

  VAL. Fine.

  COLIN. Oh well, no worse, that’s better. Are you ready?

  SID. I know what I meant to say – you didn’t show up for that game of arrows last Tuesday.

  COLIN. Sorry about that, but I like to spend time with my family.

  JOYCE (to the WOMEN). What a lovely man. (To SID:) He’s got better things to do with his money than booze it away, not like some I could mention.

  SID. You want to know something, my wife’s so mean, when she tried to get the last bit out of the toothpaste tube she broke her foot.

  COLIN feels he has to smile.

  JOYCE. What are you coming as, Les Dawson?

  SID. Wish I was.

  JOYCE. You know very well that’s not true. I cut them in half and use a rolling pin. (To the WOMEN:) He loves me really.

  SID. I’ll tell you another thing.

  VAL. Shut up.

  COLIN. I think we’d better be making tracks. The boys will probably be demolishing next-door’s patio by now.

  JOYCE (to VAL). Don’t worry about your father, he’s just trying to do his impression of a river – small at the head and big at the mouth.

  COLIN (to SID). Can I give you a lift?

  SID. Very kind of you, boy. (To JOYCE:) Come on then, let’s be having yer.

  CLAIRE. Bye, Dad.

  POPPY. Bye, Grandad.

  SID. See you soon, Poppy, Claire.

  COLIN. Shall we make a move?

  CLAIRE. Take care, Val.

  VAL nods. Exit VAL, COLIN and SID.

  JOYCE. We must have a family get-together more often. It’s been lovely to see you. Thanks very much for my presents.

  POPPY. S’okay. Bye, Nan.

  JOYCE kisses POPPY and then CLAIRE.

  CLAIRE. Bye, Mum. And stop worrying.

  JOYCE. What else am I supposed to do? What else can I do? Sometimes you forget -

  SID (overlapping, off). Come on, stop jawing, girl.

  JOYCE. Any rate, enough said. Bye. (Exit JOYCE.)

  POPPY and CLAIRE sit down.

  CLAIRE. Phew.

  POPPY. I don’t know which one is more crackers, Nan or Aunty Val.

  CLAIRE. Val’s not crackers, love. She’s depressed.

  POPPY. What’s that?

  CLAIRE. It’s … it’s … I think it’s like when you feel angry but can’t show it, so you feel sort of sad.

  Enter JEAN.

  JEAN. Coast clear?

  CLAIRE. Just about. Where’s Riq?

  JEAN. He’s putting the boys to bed.

  CLAIRE. Come on Poppy, I’ll run the bath for you.

  POPPY. I’ll do it.

  CLAIRE. Okay. I’ll come up for a chat when you’re in bed.

  POPPY. I’ll shout when I’m ready. (Exit POPPY.)

  CLAIRE. Was your weekend really awful?

  JEAN. Worse. How was yours?

  CLAIRE. Very quiet, apart from this evening; Mum’s beside herself.

  Enter LAWRENCE.

  JEAN. We should have locked the back door.

  LAWRENCE. I want a word with my wife. Alone.

  JEAN. Your wife doesn’t live here.

  LAWRENCE. Claire. Clever clogs.

  CLAIRE. Lawrence, how many more times. This sort of confrontation is s’posed to be done through our solicitors.

  LAWRENCE. I want a word with my ex-wife in private.

  CLAIRE. Say what you want to say and go.

  LAWRENCE. I want to see my daughter then.

  CLAIRE. Don’t be so irresponsible.

  LAWRENCE. It was my turn to have her this weekend.

  CLAIRE (quietly angry). No, Lawrence, it was your turn last weekend, but you rang up and cancelled it because your wife -

  LAWRENCE (overlapping). She does have a name you know.

  CLAIRE. Abigail had to go and look after her dad.

  LAWRENCE. So I should have seen Poppy this weekend.

  CLAIRE (as if to a child). No, Lawrence, last weekend and next weekend. (Then.) For Christ’s sake, it’s Mother’s Day. Even in your perversity, do you not think it’s somehow fitting for my daughter to be with me today?

  LAWRENCE. You’re going to have plenty of time to be sorry enough …

  JEAN (coldly). I thought I told you to leave.

  LAWRENCE (to CLAIRE). We’ve got everything sewn up.

  CLAIRE. You think?

  LAWRENCE. The sordid details are going to make you look unfit to have a goldfish bowl in your care.

  CLAIRE. I should have taken an injunction out.

  LAWRENCE. Not worth it now.

  They both look at him.

  Don’t worry, I’m going.

  Exit LAWRENCE.

  JEAN. How many more times?

  CLAIRE. At least it will be out of his hands soon. Whatever happens he won’t be able to just drop in.

  JEAN. I can’t believe the way he carries on.

  Pause.

  CLAIRE (changing the subject). Do you think you and Riq
will ever live together?

  JEAN. You sound as bad as my mother.

  CLAIRE. Sound as bad as mine come to that.

  JEAN. I’ve got everything I want from a relationship. So has he, except he has to do his own washing.

  CLAIRE. Let’s get everything ready for tomorrow.

  JEAN. Sunday evening, ugg, work tomorrow, it’s so depressing.

  CLAIRE. My job’s the one thing I’ve got going for me.

  JEAN. And you’re good at it. How’s po-faced Marion these days?

  CLAIRE. She found some obscene graffiti last week. Probably kept her going all weekend.

  JEAN. Any excuse for her to go tittle-tattling to the Head. Funny how some people never grow out of attention-seeking.

  CLAIRE (mock dramatic). And worse, she thought the culprit was one of the lower sixth in my group.

  JEAN (smiles). Sounds nasty.

  CLAIRE. It’ll blow over.

  JEAN (getting up). Come on, I’ll set the table, anything to make breakfast more bearable.

  Scene Three

  The next morning. Breakfast bedlam. JUSTIN, SPENCER and POPPY sit at the table. CLAIRE is trying to clear away as they go along. JEAN is trying to cut JUSTIN’s hair. JUSTIN and SPENCER are fighting over the cut-out model on the back of the Rice Krispies packet.

  SPENCER (grabbing the packet; to JUSTIN so JEAN can’t hear). It’s mine.

  JUSTIN (screams). Arhh, he’s not getting it, is he Mum? Mum, is he? It’s mine. It’s mine. I want it. Mum? Mum? Tell him.

  JEAN (twisting JUSTIN’s head back in position). Hold still, Justin.

  SPENCER. It’s my turn, you promised me. Mum, not him, didn’t you, you did, you did, in Sainsbury’s.

  JUSTIN. You liar. She never. It’s my turn, put it back, it’s mine.

  SPENCER (jeering). Ha ha hee hee. I’ve got it now so it belongs to me nar nar.

  JUSTIN. It’s not, you can’t have it. It’s still full up. Put it back.

  SPENCER. Finders keepers, losers weepers.

  JUSTIN. Give it me. Now.

  SPENCER. No.

  JUSTIN makes a lunge for the packet. The scissors miss his ear by a fraction. JEAN grabs the packet and puts it back on the table.

  JEAN. Just piss off. (She puts the scissors down and sits to eat her own cereal.)

  JUSTIN (to SPENCER). She told you to piss off. Piss off. (He puts his tongue out.) She told you to piss off.

  POPPY (telling CLAIRE). Jean said ‘Piss off’.

  CLAIRE. Morning isn’t the best time for any of us.