PETER: God look down on us.
HUGHIE: (Going towards door.) I’m happy as Larry for wanst in me life.
FADE OUT.
ACT II
The scene is the same with, perhaps, a few trifling changes as to the disposal of furniture, decorations. At least fifteen years have passed.
PETER and ANNIE are present at the fire, he peering at a paper, she knitting in a desultory way. Both have aged startlingly. Her hair is white and Peter is mostly bald. It is winter and the lamp is alight. The remains of a meal are still on the table.
PETER: Boys but this Kyzer is a fierce divil, Annie.
ANNIE: Some people is nivver happy without waar. Waar, waar, waar.
PETER: I suppose that’s true. Sure history is nothing but waar.
ANNIE: (Sententiously, lifting her head.) To have waar, ye don’t need all them grand big battalions of armies . . . an’ gorillas . . . an’ lan’ mines . . . an’ deevastation. Ye can have waar in a wee town. There’s many a wee town in Ireland with waar goin’ on in it . . . for centuries, Pether.
PETER: Feth, Annie, I think ye’re right.
ANNIE: Ye can have waar . . . on wan farm.
PETER: Aye, indeed. In wan house. Wan brother killin’ another to get the land.
ANNIE: Or slaughterin’ his own faather.
PETER: God look down on us.
ANNIE: As I tould ye many a time, Pether, I don’t like that man of ours Mick Rourke.
PETER: Well what can we do? Shure I’m hardly fit to take the top off an egg. Lord save us, I can hardly move a leg in the mornin’.
ANNIE: All the same, that Mick fella is . . . very sley. You couldn’t tell what he’s thinkin’ about.
PETER: He does a day’s work all the same.
ANNIE: With over twenty hens out there, how is it they can only manage six eggs between them!
PETER: D’ye think Mick is puttin’ eggs by and sellin’ them?
ANNIE: He might be up to more than yon. I’m goin’ to count those hens tomorra.
PETER: Ah no, Annie, he’s too fley to do a thing like that. Far too fley.
ANNIE: God I don’t know. Manys the thing he’d do an’ not let on. Ah, heigh-ho. . . .
PETER: They say a waar gives the people work, but. Factories everywhere makin’ all classes of bums an’ boollets.
ANNIE: Aye . . . an’ coffins.
PETER: No, Annie, they don’t bo’er about coffins in a waar.
ANNIE: I suppose they don’t, Pether. Just shovel them all into wan big hole.
PETER: This Frinch crowd I wouldn’t trust very far. They done wurselves no good in ‘98. (Mutters.)
The Frinch are in the bay,
Says the Shan Van Vocht,
They’ll be here without delay,
Says the Shan Van Vocht,
They’ll come in from the say,
They’ll anchor at the kay,
And we’ll have them here for tay,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
ANNIE: Dear-O. They’re great men to fight, all the see-em.
(Suddenly there is a noise as the door is flung noisily open. Framed in it is a youngish man—a much older HUGHIE. He is gaudily overdressed and has a bowler in his hand. A gold watch-chain spans his waistcoat. He stares in, smiling.)
ANNIE: Hughie! (She jumps up.)
PETER: Well God Almighty! Well, well. (He struggles to his feet, wincing from the pain.)
HUGHIE: Lord bliss us! The old folks at home!
(He advances into the kitchen and shakes hands with his parents. His air is jaunty and though he has by no means lost his northern accent, it is overlaid by a drawling American tone. They all sit down again. ANNIE is anxious, PETER just astonished.)
ANNIE: Well Hughie, God bliss ye and welcome back. . . . How are ye gettin’ on?
HUGHIE: Aw, just graund.
PETER: Be the sufferin’ saints, Hughie . . . ye’re . . . a new man. Lord I’d hardly know ye!
HUGHIE: (Laughing.) Ah now, I’ve not changed that much.
ANNIE: Ye’re gettin’ brave an’ fat.
HUGHIE: Well thanks bit a God I’ve had plenty to eat. Not a bo’er on me.
PETER: Why didn’t ye write, Hughie?
HUGHIE: Well, I did write.
ANNIE: Just two wee letters . . . years an’ years ago.
HUGHIE: Well, I was movin’ round, d’ye see. I’d no address for a long time, ye might say.
PETER: A rollin’ stone, ye might say. Well, this country of ours here may be a fine country but it’s a wee Country. An’ the States is brave an’ large.
HUGHIE: Ye could put Ireland ten times into Texas. Aye, an’ fifteen times. Texas is where they have the oil. Pitrol an’ all that sort of thing.
PETER: Aye indeed. An’ cowboys an’ prairies.
ANNIE: Hughie, will ye have a wee cup of tea, an’ a couple of rashers. An’ we have any God’s amount of eggs.
HUGHIE: No, ma. Not just now. I had a bit of a dinner about an hour ago in the town. Ye want to keep yerself in right shape when ye’re drivin’ a car.
PETER: A car, Hughie? Ye don’t mean to say ye have a motor?
HUGHIE: (Smiling.) Aye indeed. A graund Ford. I haven’t been lettin’ the grass grow under me feet.
ANNIE: Pether, have ye a wee bottle in the house at all?
PETER: Well, maybe there might be wan in the house somewhere. In this damp part of the world we have to be on guard against heavy colds, d’ye onderstaund. (Rises.)
ANNIE: Well away an’ get it. We all deserve a wee toast when Hughie comes home. (PETER, nodding, leaves room.)
ANNIE: Hughie, what trade are ye in across in America?
HUGHIE: Trade? I’m in no trade, woman dear.
ANNIE: Well, yer Ford motor . . .
(PETER re-appears with bottle of colourless content. ANNIE rises to get glasses from kitchen press.)
HUGHIE: (Laughing easily.) There’s more ways than bein’ in a trade for makin’ the dollars.
PETER: Lord, Hughie, I’m proud that a son o’mine should be able to meet the Yankees face to face. Were ye in the cattle business?
HUGHIE: Not at all, man. Oil. Pitrol. This is a new age. The motor is the great thing now . . . for today . . . en’ tomorra . . . an’ for centuries.
(ANNIE has placed the glasses on the table, and PETER has measured out three generous doses of poteen. They all re-seat themselves, glass in hand. They silently raise the glasses as the camera quickly but minutely examines the grimace on each face as the liquor is encountered.)
HUGHIE: I’m home for two months. An’ then I’m off again to make the second half of me fortune.
ANNIE: Well, may God watch over ye, Hughie.
PETER: An’ bring ye back safe.
HUGHIE: Here’s luck to us all.
(There is a noise as the door is put in to reveal the disreputable person of PACKY the Tramp. He is cheerful and jaunty, and calls out as he closes the door——)
PACKY: God save all here for goodness sake!
ANNIE: Hello, Packy.
PACKY: Lord bliss us, that’s not watter ye have.
PETER: Get yerself a cup, Packy.
(PACKY does so, from the dresser.)
PACKY: Well, ‘clare to God I didn’t notice it first but I see ye have company here.
(HUGHIE looks at him idly.)
PACKY: I hope I’m not intrudin’, Pether, d’ye onderstaund.
PETER: Ye’re welcome Packy. Here, have a wee drop of this stuff.
(PACKY holds out cup.)
PACKY: With the motor outsidd I thought maybe it was the doctor or somebody.
HUGHIE: Ye don’t know yer own friends, Packy.
(PACKY, close-up, staring.)
PACKY: Lord save us! It’s Hughie!
ANNIE: Of course it’s Hughie.
PACKY: ‘Clare to God it is! Well, my-O!
HUGHIE: Ye’d think I was a ghost or something.
PACKY: Well, I never heard tell of ye after ye went away, Hughie. Ye might as
well have been in Kingdom Come.
HUGHIE: I was in a better place, Packy. I was in the States. God’s own country.
PETER: Well, ye were away a brave wee while.
PACKY: Ye’re a sight for sore eyes an’ that’s a fact. Wait till I tell the people about this. . . .
ANNIE: What time will ye have yer tea, Hughie?
HUGHIE: Aw, not for a few hours. I’m off for a walk.
PACKY: Maybe I’ll be a bit of the way with ye, Hughie.
HUGHIE: Ye needn’t bo’er yourself, Packy. I’m goin’ for to make a call. Just to drop in on an ould friend an’ give her the surprise of her life.
ANNIE: (Startled.) Is it Shiela, Hughie?
HUGHIE: Aye, indeed.
PETER: Ah man dear, Hughie . . . ye can’t do that.
HUGHIE: Can’t do that? Who says I can’t do that?
ANNIE: Hughie . . . yon poor girl Shiela . . . she’s not there.
HUGHIE: She’s not there? And where is she? Don’t tell me she’s gone away . . . or—Lord!—don’ tell me she’s married.
PACKY: Ah Hughie, me poor man.
ANNIE: (Softly.) Hughie, Shiela’s in heaven.
HUGHIE: (Aghast.) What? Where?
ANNIE: The poor girl died five years ago.
PETER: (Gently.) Aye, Hughie, she’s dead.
HUGHIE: Oh my God!
(Elbows on his knees, he buries his face in his hands. PACKY retrieves HUGHIE’S glass and replenishes it from PETER’S bottle.)
HUGHIE: Ah, the poor girl. Dead. Dear O. . . .
PETER: But she never forgot ye, Hughie. The whole country knows that.
ANNIE: I know it’s a hard blow for ye, Hughie. God pity ye. Things like that happen in this world. It would break yer heart.
PETER: But as you know, Hughie . . . ye’ll meet her again. Thank God there’ll be an end to all our troubles wan day.
HUGHIE: (Still stooped and near tears.) And to think I came all this way to meet her . . . and marry her . . . and take her away with me. . . .
ANNIE: Have another wee drink, Hughie.
HUGHIE: An’ to find she’s in her grave.
PACKY: A wee drink will help ye to bear up, Hughie.
HUGHIE: Yes, Packy. (Raises his head and takes glass.) An’ now I’ve no business here at all. I’ve no call to be here. Shiela’s gone from here. It’s time I was gone meself.
PETER: Ah now, Hughie, try to keep yer heart up. . . . This farm, I needn’t tell ye, will be yours. Ye’ll get another nice girl yet.
ANNIE: Aye surely.
HUGHIE: There’s nothing or nobody here for me now.
PACKY: Ah Hughie, man, cheer up. It’s not the end of the world yet.
HUGHIE: Nobody and nothing. I’ll go away.
ANNIE: Now, Hughie. . . .
HUGHIE: This time for good. For good an’ all.
PETER: Ye’ll stay here the night, Hughie. Sure ye’re only after walkin’ into the house after fifteen years. Ye must think of me an’ yer mo’er.
HUGHIE: Here’s me last drink to ye. I wish ye the best of luck. (He drinks deeply.) An’ I hope ye wish me luck too, for I’m thinkin’ I’ll need it.
ANNIE: For God’s sake ye’re not goin’ to walk out that door now, Hughie?
HUGHIE: I am, faith.
PETER: For pity’s sake, Hughie, don’t be daft.
ANNIE: Is the drink affectin’ him, Pether?
HUGHIE: (Going to the door.) No, it’s not the drink. Ye know why I must go.
PACKY: Hughie . . . !
HUGHIE: (Raising his hand in the doorway.) May God bliss ye all an’ keep ye.
(He is gone. The three characters maintain their positions, motionless. VOICE is heard again:)
VOICE:
He won home to Ballytearim, an’ the two were livin’ yet, When he heard where she was lyin’ now the eyes of him were wet;
“Faith, here’s me two fists full o’ gold, an’ little good to me When I’ll never meet an’ kiss her,” sure he says, says he.
Then the boy from Ballytearim set his face another road, An’ whatever luck has followed him was never rightly knowed; But still it’s truth I’m tellin’ ye—or may I never sin!—All the gold in Ballytearim is what’s stickin’ to the whin.
THE END
THE TIME
FREDDIE RETIRED:
A TELEVISION PLAY IN
THREE EPISODES
Players
FREDDIE MATTHEWS
A civil servant just retired,
stout, jovial, elderly, bald
MAGGIE
His wife, rather plain
JOE HARTIGAN
A neighbour, similar age
NORA
His wife
MR. HACKETT
A visitor
This is a comedy but in no circumstances should a part be assigned to a known comic. The piece must be played straight.
The scene, which is the same for the three acts, is the Matthews’ sittingroom. It is comfortably furnished and there is a sideboard. It is winter, with a good fire burning. The Hartigans are visiting, and the atmosphere is bright and jolly. Each of the four has a drink, and there is a bottle of whiskey and some stouts on view. The disposal of the characters is left to the producer.
ACT I
JOE HARTIGAN: (Cordially, raising glass with whiskey.) Well, it’s well for your Freddie. A good pension for life and not a bother on you.
NORA: You’ll be bored, Freddie, with nothing to do.
MAGGIE: (Who has glass of stout.) Nothing to do? I’ve been at him for the last nine months to paint the front gate.
FREDDIE: (Beaming.) Ah Maggie, don’t mind the front gate. Don’t let a thing like that worry you. I’ll take down that gate, re-hang it, oil it, give it two undercoats and a top coat of waterproof vermilion paint that I’ll get specially from Germany.
MAGGIE: (Snorting.) Faith and I hope so.
JOE: Oh, there’s plenty of odd jobs to be done around any house.
FREDDIE: Joe, Nora’s remark about me having nothing to do is just a bit funny. Were you codding me, Nora? The truth is that at last I’ll have an opportunity to tackle a hundred and one things I’ve been thinking about all my life.
JOE: Well, more luck to you, Freddie.
MAGGIE: What sort of things, Fred?
NORA: Gardening, I suppose, Maggie.
FREDDIE: What sort of things? Well, that would take some answering. First of all, I’ll have to do some planning.
NORA: Planning what, Freddie?
FREDDIE: I mean, I’ll have to plan each day, divide it up into sections. Hole and corner dabbling at this and that would get me nowhere.
JOE: But lord, Freddie, isn’t that the very sort of thing you’ve just been released from? I mean, signing the attendance book before half-nine, a strict hour and a quarter for lunch, sending the letters up for signature at half-four, and all that. Slavery!
MAGGIE: You can call it slavery, Joe, but it was a good, decent job.
FREDDIE: Planning one’s life day by day, Joe, needn’t mean a system of wooden routine.
NORA: But what are you going to DO, Freddie? I mean, how are you going to put in the day? I feel somehow that a man who’s been used to regular work all his life will feel lost without it.
MAGGIE: Well now, Nora, I don’t think my bold Freddie will be too easily lost. He’s as lazy a man as the best of them.
JOE: Ah now, Maggie. We’re here tonight celebrating Freddie’s liberation.
MAGGIE: Yes, I know. First thing, he won’t get up till about twelve in the day. . . .
FREDDIE: Your granny!
MAGGIE: He’ll want breakfast in bed, and then lie there for hours, smoking and reading the paper.
JOE: (Laughing.) Maggie, I think he managed to do a bit of that in the office – AND GOT PAID FOR IT.
FREDDIE: All you people have bad, suspicious minds. I am going to have two broad branches of activity.
JOE: Well, what are they?
FREDDIE: What I would call pursui
ts of leisure, and WORK. Yes, I said work. Real work. Not a lot of futile form-filling and totting up figures.
NORA: Pursuits of leisure, and work? It sounds promising, I’ll say that. I never hear you talking like that, Joe.
JOE: Me dear Nora, there’s many a thing I do without talking about it.
FREDDIE: (Briskly.) Here now, let’s have another drink. Maggie, will you do the honours like a good girl.
(MAGGIE rises and replenishes all glasses. The ladies are drinking stout, the gentlemen whiskey. The talk continues as she does so.)
JOE: That’s a very nice drop of malt, Freddie. But come here. Tell us what those two categories mean. What do you mean by leisure and what do you mean by work?
NORA: Joe here represents the Gestapo.
FREDDIE: Oh indeed there’s nothing secret or confidential about the things that are going to occupy my time. Take leisure first. My golf handicap is 20, which is disgraceful. That’ll have to come down. And I’ll get plenty of God’s fresh air getting it down.
MAGGIE: Yes, Freddie. That seems to mean that on most of your trips to that club, it wasn’t to play golf you went there.
FREDDIE: Oh for goodness sake, Maggie. A club is a club.
JOE: Well, fair enough, Freddie. What else?
FREDDIE: Well, I’m going to attend properly to my St. Vincent de Paul conference. That’s leisure. I enjoy that.
NORA: Bravo! That Society does a lot of good.
JOE: Anything else?
FREDDIE: Oh yes. I want to get my eye in again at snooker. I used to be fairly good but I’m out of practice.
MAGGIE: When I was a girl no respectable person would be seen at games like that. Only cornerboys would go into those low clubs.
JOE: Ah now, I don’t know about that, Maggie.
NORA: All I know is my own father played billiards.
FREDDIE: Of course. It’s a game of skill. It’s training for the hand and eye that comes in handy in other things.
JOE: Well, is that the lot, Freddie?
FREDDIE: Ah, I don’t know. Grapes. I’ve always had an idea about growing grapes.
MAGGIE: What? In this country?
FREDDIE: Yes, Maggie. I’d need a heated glasshouse, of course.
JOE: But heavens, Freddie, that would cost a fortune.