FLORA. Dr Reid’s got no business lending you that ear.
PEARL. Why ever not?
A beat.
FLORA. It’s … rhuadh. [pron: roo-ah]
PEARL. It’s what? Speak English, Auntie.
FLORA. It’s red.
PEARL. So?
FLORA. That’s Faery hair.
PEARL. Auntie, I’m a redhead, Father was a redhead, are we fairies?
FLORA. No, no, dear, but …
PEARL. But what?
FLORA. You might have a gift.
PEARL. And what’s wrong with that?
FLORA. The gifts of the Faery can be … queer.
PEARL. Well this ear is certainly a gift, if not of “the Faery”, then of Nature.
FLORA. Nature makes mistakes. And tisna’ wise to gaze too long upon them. You might look at something and find you can never look away again.
PEARL peers at the jar through her magnifying glass.
The evil eye dwells in that which is unnatural. Just say a little prayer and put it down, there’s a good lass.
PEARL. Make up your mind, Auntie, are you Pagan or Protestant, you can’t be both you know. Or rather you can, in which case you’re Catholic.
FLORA [scandalized]. I’m no’ Catholic –!
PEARL. I shall contemplate this ear to my heart’s content, for it is an aberration; one of Nature’s exceptions by which we divine Her rules.
FLORA. Look to your own ears, my dear. Thank God He shaped you in His image and do not dwell upon the margin He left to the divil.
PEARL. Auntie Flora, the “divil’s margin” is merely a necessary factor of chance by which all life on Earth has evolved.
FLORA. There’s that evil word again.
PEARL. There’s nothing evil about evolution, Auntie; it’s just a lot of hit and miss in the struggle for reproductive success.
FLORA. Pearl … isn’t there any young man you think of more than another?
PEARL. In what sense?
FLORA. Have you heard from Mr Abbott lately?
PEARL. I should think Mr Abbott is waiting to hear from us. He can’t very well read Father’s will with half the family still off gallivanting.
FLORA. I meant, have you heard from him … socially?
PEARL [suddenly]. Auntie. I dreamt I was wearing Mother’s wedding gown.
FLORA [delighted]. Ach, did you, lass, and were you by chance able to glimpse the groom?
PEARL. Auntie Flora, I’m going to buy a dog.
FLORA. What? Oh no, pet, now don’t you go buyin’ a dog.
PEARL. Why not?
FLORA. Why … your father could never abide a slaverin’ cur.
PEARL. I shall select a non-slavering breed. Besides. Father is dead. And the dog is for Victor. Why are you dressed?
FLORA. I was waiting up … [prevaricating] in case your brother should arrive. His letter said today.
PEARL. And the letter before that said last week. I’d not lose sleep over Victor, Auntie, he’ll turn up when he pleases, in three days or three months. Depending on who’s standing him drinks.
FLORA. Don’t worry, pet.
PEARL. I’m not worried, I’m vexed.
FLORA. You’re hungry.
PEARL. Peckish.
FLORA. What about a nice pickled egg? Or, Young Farleigh’s fixed a lovely finan haddie.
PEARL. Any herring?
FLORA. There’s bloater paste. And a dollop of marmite on toast.
PEARL. Mmmm.
FLORA. I’ll go heap a plate. Now you get back to your stones and snails and puppy-dog tails and … forget about that ear. Especially at this hour.
PEARL. What hour is that, Auntie? “The hour of the Faery”?
FLORA. The hour of the wolf.
Sound of carriage wheels on gravel.
PEARL. Ha! The prodigal returns [rising, delighted in spite of herself]. Let’s have a right midnight feast with silly old Victor, shall we Auntie?
FLORA [urgent]. Stay, Pearl! [covering] It mightn’t be him.
PEARL. Well who might it be “at this hour”?
FLORA [thinking quickly]. Young Farleigh.
PEARL. Young Farleigh? What’s he doing out about?
FLORA. I sent him down to the shore for winkles.
PEARL. Ugh, I can’t abide winkles.
FLORA. Your brother loves them.
PEARL. He can have them [sitting]. Along with everything else.
FLORA. Hush now, this will a’ways be your haim. Our haim.
PEARL. Don’t console me, Auntie, I am quite steeled to my fate. In fact I relish the prospect of Victor inheriting Belle Moral with all its cash and chattels, and squandering the lot within a year. I shall then be forced to earn my living. Book a passage to Egypt. Cross the desert on a camel. Publish my findings anonymously. Return in glory.
FLORA [going to exit]. I’ll fetch some cocoa too.
PEARL. Auntie Flora … was Father proud of me?
FLORA. Ach, you know he was. Look at you. Educated. Modern. And not a bit dried out.
PEARL. I’ve had the oddest feeling lately. Ever since Father’s funeral. As if there was someone missing. But I can’t say who. I suppose you’d say my ancestors are trying to tell me something.
A beat.
FLORA. You miss your father. That’s all it is.
PEARL. Poor Victor always wanted a puppy.
A clock strikes three. FLORA exits. PEARL resumes her work.
Scene 3 The Driveway
FLORA stands outside Belle Moral, holding a lantern, peering into the darkness toward the sound of a horse exhaling, pawing the gravel. A carriage door opens. A footfall. FLORA sees the new arrival. She makes the sign of the cross.
Scene 4 The Drawing Room
Next morning. Over the mantelpiece hangs a family portrait. It is painted in the impressionist style with the prettiness of Monet and the fogginess of Turner. The figures are distinguishable as a bearded red-haired man, a dark-haired woman cradling an infant in a tartan shawl, and PEARL as a young child. There is a sense of the portrait being compositionally off-balance: a gap between PEARL and the infant. On the opposite wall is mounted a set of bagpipes of the same tartan. PEARL is huddled under the hood of a camera. FLORA stands posed, draped in a white bedsheet.
FLORA. Is it to be a religious theme this time, pet?
PEARL. In a manner of speaking. Classical mythology.
FLORA. I’ll no’ be a pagan, Pearl.
PEARL. It’s purely symbolic, Auntie [handing her scissors and a ball of yarn]. You’re one of the Fates.
FLORA. What am I knitting?
PEARL. You’re capriciously toying with the life of some poor sod.
FLORA. Aren’t there any nice myth women?
PEARL. No. None of any importance.
FLORA strikes a pose, scissors poised to cut a length of yarn.
Don’t smile, Auntie.
FLORA. Well how do you want me?
PEARL. Dispassionate. This is a scientific journal. Hold still, now.
PEARL goes to the take the picture but FLORA cocks an ear.
What is it?
FLORA. Nowt. Thought I heard something.
PEARL [about to take the picture again]. Ready? And –
FLORA cocks an ear again.
You’re not going dafty on me now, are you, Auntie?
FLORA. No, dear, I’m a touch forfochen this morning is all.
PEARL [matter-of-fact]. Up half the night worrying about Victor, damn him, you look dreadful. Ready now? one, two, three –
VICTOR enters, wearing a kilt, causing FLORA to smile the instant PEARL takes the picture with a poof and a flash.
FLORA. Victor!
VICTOR [to FLORA, playfully passionate]. My God, what Attic vision; what vestal beauty stands here poised to cut or to extend a mortal skein? Fly, maiden, and transform thyself into a tree, else must I taste thine antique fruits, for I am the Highland Pan!
They hug. FLORA embraces him fervently.
FLOR
A. Victor, ma bonnie, you should have let us know, we’d’ve sent Young Farleigh with the cart.
VICTOR. Hello, Pearl.
He opens his arms, beaming, but she does not embrace him.
PEARL [arch]. What are you doing, gadding about in that savage raiment?
VICTOR. Airing my privates.
PEARL. Don’t be disgusting.
Rapidly.
VICTOR. Don’t start.
PEARL. You started it.
VICTOR. I did not.
PEARL. Indeed you did.
VICTOR. A didna.
PEARL. Did.
VICTOR. Didna.
PEARL. Did.
VICTOR. Didna –! PEARL. Dididid –!
FLORA [making peace]. Noo where’s yer fit bin gangin’ this time, laddie? London? Paris? Rome?
VICTOR. Glasgow.
PEARL [dismissive]. Ha.
VICTOR. I was looking to trace Mother’s ancestors.
PEARL. And what did you discover swinging from the family tree? A backward lot of Highland crofters with an unwholesome fondness for things Fr-r-rench; blood-thirsty and Catholic to boot.
VICTOR [grand]. A martyred race: soaked in glory, culture –
PEARL. And whiskey.
VICTOR. The Highland warrior was the ideal man: fearless, faithful; and failed.
FLORA. If only your mother could see you got up so braw in her family tartan.
PEARL. He looks well in a skirt.
VICTOR. It is a kilt, Madam.
PEARL. You can romanticize failure all you like, Victor, but the fact is, we bear the mundane burden of success, with all its rights and responsibilities. If you’re genuinely interested in your heritage, why not learn Gaelic? I’ll tell you why not; because that would take work. The truth is, all the Highlanders with any get-up-and-go, got up and left years ago. They now run banks and shuffle documents. A waist-coated legion armed with briefcase and pince-nez.
VICTOR Poch ma hohn [pron. pog ma hoyn] [trans: “kiss my arse.”]
FLORA gasps.
Begging your pardon, Auntie. See, Pearl? I’ve been learning Gaelic.
FLORA. Ainaibh ri cheile. [pron. Eh-nev ree kaylee]
VICTOR. What does that mean?
PEARL. “I’ve been learning Gaelic.”
VICTOR. Shutup. [Nearly overlapping:]
PEARL. Shutup.
VICTOR. Pearl – PEARL. Pearl –
VICTOR. Act your age – PEARL. Act your age –
VICTOR. Auntie –! PEARL. Auntie –!
FLORA [suprising fury]. Eneuch!
PEARL and VICTOR stop, startled. FLORA is in deadly earnest.
You’ve naebody but ilk ither noo. There’s nane left but you twa. You maun look after one another. [A beat. Cheerful once more:] Victor, you must be faimished after your journey, and look at ya, ya wee skinnama-link, I’ll go fix a plate –
PEARL. Auntie, don’t bring the winkles in here, they’re revolting.
FLORA. Winkles?
PEARL. Ay, winkles. You said Young Farleigh –
FLORA [remembering her lie]. Och ay, winkles! They were nane of ’em any good. Shells were empty.
PEARL. All of them?
FLORA. Pixies. Belike gobbled ’em up.
PEARL. “Pixies”? Why not fairies?
FLORA. Fairies dinna eat winkles.
PEARL. Auntie, you find evolution far-fetched, yet you’ve no difficulty with your taxonomy of fairies, pixies and werewolves.
FLORA. There’s no such thing as a werewolf.
VICTOR. No matter, Auntie, I’ve gone vegetarian.
PEARL [muttering so Auntie won’t hear]. Got to be difficult, haven’t you.
FLORA. Ma poor lad, shall I send for Dr Reid?
VICTOR. I’m fine, Auntie. I saw a play in London by an anti-vivisectionist; he annoyed so many people with his socialists, sensualists and suffragists that I wound up converted in spite of the fact he’s an Irishman. So I’m no longer eating animals.
FLORA. I’ll fetch a bit of cold mutton, then, shall I?
VICTOR. Any of your shortbread about?
FLORA. Fresh this morning! Now behave yourself, your sister’s working.
FLORA exits. VICTOR takes a silver flask from his sporran and offers it to PEARL. She merely stares at him.
VICTOR [toasting her]. “Scots wha’ hae.” [drinks]
PEARL. Don’t let Auntie see that, it would kill her.
VICTOR. What’s ailing her?
PEARL. She’s cranky.
VICTOR. She’s grieving, her brother died.
PEARL. Why ask, if you know? Auntie and I have been slaving here in a legal limbo with one foot in the poor house, waiting for you so Father’s estate can be settled. Belle Moral doesn’t run itself, you know. She’s getting on.
VICTOR. Nay, she’s spry; and she’s got the full abacus upstairs, I can hear the beads rattling back and forth.
PEARL. Time does not stand still in your absence, Victor. You may manage to avoid growing up, but others do not. People age, fathers die.
A beat. He drinks.
VICTOR. What are you working on these days?
PEARL. I’m searching the coast for fossil evidence of transitional species.
VICTOR. Why not search the family plot?
PEARL. What have you done with yourself since the funeral? Apart from “roamin’ in the gloamin’”?
VICTOR. I’ve been working.
PEARL. Really and truly? Victor Maclsaac, if only Father could hear you say that. So you’re finally taking your accountancy articles at MacVicar, MacVie, and MacVanish.
VICTOR. No. I’m writing.
PEARL. Writing what? A treatise?
VICTOR. A novel.
PEARL. In your spare time.
VICTOR. It takes up all my time.
PEARL. Father hated fiction.
VICTOR. I’ve dedicated it to Mother’s memory.
PEARL. What’s it about?
VICTOR. It’s about an alienated young man who recognizes the meaninglessness of life.
PEARL. What’s the plot?
VICTOR. The plot’s not the point.
PEARL. You must have a plot or there’s no point.
VICTOR. That’s the point.
PEARL. Well something must happen.
VICTOR. He shoots a stranger on the beach for no reason.
PEARL. For no reason?
VICTOR. An Arab.
PEARL. Why an Arab?
VICTOR. Pure chance.
PEARL. That’s absurd.
VICTOR. Precisely.
PEARL. Is he apprehended?
VICTOR. He wakes the next morning to find he’s turned into a gigantic insect.
PEARL. Have you finished it?
VICTOR. I haven’t started it.
PEARL. Well get on with it!
VICTOR. I can’t. To write it would be an act of faith, thus undermining the integrity of the work.
PEARL. Yer a wastrel.
VICTOR. I’m the last honest man.
PEARL. A lazy loafer.
VICTOR. I am not.
PEARL. You’ve never finished a thing in your life.
VICTOR. Finishing is highly over-rated.
PEARL. You couldn’t even finish with Father’s death duties.
VICTOR. I’m here now, am I not?
PEARL. On your own sweet time.
VICTOR. I almost didn’t come back at all!
PEARL. You may fool yourself, Victor, but you don’t fool me [grabbing paper and pen from an escritoire, writing]. I’ll send for Mr Abbott. He’ll bring Father’s will tomorrow. No one will stand in your way again, you’ll have no one to blame – you certainly won’t have Father – [sealing the note] and we’ll see what you accomplish with your new-found freedom.
VICTOR. Pearl –
PEARL [yanking a bell cord, calling off]. Young Farleigh!
VICTOR. Pearl! I really did want to stay away.
PEARL. Why?
VICTOR. Because … As long as I don’t come home, I nee
dn’t feel … [Tears threaten, he forces a smile.] You see, Pearl, I only ever get homesick. When I come home.
PEARL. What’s the matter, Victor? Don’t you want Belle Moral?
VICTOR [shaking his head]. Yes [nodding]. And no. And yes. And no. And –
PEARL. Well which is it?
VICTOR. Both.
PEARL. You can’t have both [to off]. Young Farleigh!
VICTOR. Why not?
PEARL. Because two opposite things cannot be true at the same time.
VICTOR. Yes they can.
PEARL. They cannot.
VICTOR. Indeed they can.
PEARL. Canna.
VICTOR. Can.
PEARL. Then why did you come back?!
VICTOR. I had a dream.
PEARL [exasperated]. Oh, Victor.
VICTOR. I dreamt of Mother. At least, her voice was there. What did she look like, Pearl?
PEARL. You know as well as I. She looked like that [the portrait]. More or less.
VICTOR. No, Pearl. Tell it the right way.
PEARL … [starting to yield]. She was beautiful. Like a queen. That’s why she was called Régine.
VICTOR. What did she sound like?
PEARL. She used to sing.
VICTOR. Sing the song, Pearl.
PEARL. Not now, Victor.
Soft music: Au Claire de la Lune.
VICTOR. In my dream, I was wrapped up snug in that old tartan shawl [the painting]. It was warm like her voice. And soft, not rough as you’d expect of a woolen blanket, but smooth against my face. Like fur. I could smell it. And I felt … [overcome] so well. And I woke up thinking, Mother would have let me have a puppy. [weeping] I know she would.
PEARL. Victor. Please don’t cry, Victor, I’m sorry. Damnit. [singing] “Au claire de la lune, mon ami, Pierrot. Prete moi ta plume, pour écrire un mot. Ma chandelle est morte, je n’ai plus de feu. ouvre moi ta porte, pour l’amour de Dieu.”
VICTOR has been listening, rapt. PEARL makes a move: is she about to hug him? But FLORA enters with a tray of shortbreads and he transforms, ultra cheerful once more, leaving
PEARL a little stung.