THE LAST ILLUSION
A One Act Play
By Robert Challis
For terms and conditions for performing this play, contact the author on
[email protected] THE LAST ILLUSION
A One Act Play
CHARACTERS
SANDY a married woman of 25 with a baby.
DAVE a drinker at the pub.
PETER a writer of 30 years.
GRAEME Sandy's husband, a man in his late twenties.
THE SET
Stage left is set up as a Bar in a pub. The bar is just left of centre, while stage left a small table with two chairs. Stage right is set up as the living room of a small flat. Just right of centre is a small table with two empty beer bottles and a glass. Above this, near the back of the stage is a standing lamp. Stage left is a baby's cot. Phone on table. There is an exit stage left at the back and just right of centre at the back. This leads into the bedroom. There is a further entrance (front door of flat) at front right.
THE ACTION
The action alternates between the bar and the flat living room. The bar is well lit, while the living room is dimly lit except in the last part which takes place in daytime. Action in the bedroom is not seen, and takes place in complete darkness, the words spoken into microphones backstage. Alternatively, the bedroom action could be presented as filmed sequences, projected onto the bedroom wall back stage, and timed to coincide with action on stage.
Running time: Approx 35 minutes
(Sandy is behind bar, serving Dave. Peter is seated at the one table, watching intently, a half empty glass before him.)
Sandy: 12 o'clock, just about. Bar's closing.
Dave: One last drink, Sandy. Come on, be a sport.
Sandy: You'll get no sport from me.
Dave: You can't kick a man out like that. I've fallen in love with you.
Sandy: It's no use trying to sweet talk me. What would your wife say?
Dave: She's not here, is she? One more drink, do us a favour.
Sandy: The poor lady, she'll be wondering where you are.
Dave: You're right there. I've got to give her time to fall asleep.
Sandy: What sort of husband are you?
Dave: That's what she says. She's always awake, waiting for me, with her... demands.
Sandy: Demands. You're drunk. What are you talking about
Dave: She's a.... healthy woman, is my Sue. Too bloody healthy for me. I can't keep up.
Sandy: I don't want to hear about this.
Dave: Now you, Sandy, you're a different kind of fish.
Sandy: Thanks a million.
Dave: You've got dignity, you've got reserve. You'd wait for your husband to make the first move. You wouldn't be on at him all the time. I tell you, I haven't got the stamina.
Sandy: You want to give up the beer then and take up jogging. And talking of that, it's time you jogged off home.
Dave: Aw, c'mon.
(She ushers him out)
Sandy: Off you go, to your loving wife. (Now to Peter) Clock's on 12. Last drink before the bar closes, or on your way.
Peter: Why do you let him talk to you like that?
Sandy: He's drunk. You just have to kid 'em along. What's it to you?
Peter: You're so much better than he is. You shouldn't put up with that rubbish.
Sandy: Oh, and what makes me so much better than he is, or you for that matter?
Peter: In my case, nothing, except that I'm partly sober. But in your case, there's a world of difference.
Sandy: Yeah, well that's all very well, but if you're not drinking, I'm closing up.
Peter (hastily): Don't do that. A bitters and soda.
Sandy: With lemon and a little umbrella?
Peter: If that would help confirm your image of me.
Sandy (preparing the drink): My image of you sitting there with a half empty glass since I came on duty, eyeing me off and turning up your nose at the other customers. Think you're a class above them.
Peter: If I was looking at them with distaste, it's only the manner I have too much bitters, and too many lemons - a sourness under the nose. I can't help it. And it was only seeing you talking to other men a pure case of jealousy, nothing else. Are you going to have a drink with me?
Sandy: No thanks. I'll clean up the bar, and be off as soon as you've finished. (she serves his drink and busies herself behind bar)
Peter: Please don't hurry. Have you a car? I can drop you off home.
Sandy: I'll be right. Who are you by the way? From around here?
Peter: From here and everywhere. Peter Aldridge. And you are Sandy. Short for Sandra?
Sandy: Sure. What are you then, a salesman, insurance?
Peter: Close. I'm a writer. And you were correct. I was eyeing you off. It's my living. I'm an observer. I observe and read what I see. And then I write it down. And I've been doing it for so long that it's become a skill with me, second nature.
Sandy (interest aroused. She is now wiping down his table): All right, smartarse. What do you see? Let's hear it all.
Peter: But let me buy you a drink.
Sandy: It's all right, I'm not drinking. You're an observer, well I'm a listener. Let's hear it all. (She sits at his table)
Peter: Well how shall I put it, you are a pearl before swine, an exotic tropical fish swimming with tadpoles. You are a lady of sensitivity who somehow finds herself in a situation where her virtues are ignored. Am I right?
Sandy: No, but it's a good line, and I like flattery. Go on.
Peter: But it's not fair. You're different, I can see it. You have sensitive feelings, refined even. Your feelings, your instincts are refined. I can read this in your face and gestures. You've grown up, lived amongst people who couldn't see that perhaps because they were closed to such things in themselves. So you read books you loved romances, stories set in older times, when men were gentlemen, who made their lady feel special. They were courteous to her, and loved her with a love that was both manly and respectful. You aspire to more. Things of the mind attract you. How you'd love to meet a man, refined but strong, who could make love to you with words, with feelings, with his eyes. A Knight in shining armour.
Sandy: Oh yes, and you are this cultured gentleman who'll lead me astray?
Peter: And of course, there's the cynical side to you, that reads between the lines. The experiences of life have made you limit yourself. (He uses her reactions to find out whether he is on the right track) You are married, yes, a man unfeeling, worse, coarse, brutish perhaps not physically, but yes, you were once attracted to the manly macho charisma, and you still relate to it, although now you have seen through it. You married the image that once attracted, and you are somewhat disillusioned. Somewhat is too mild a word. Shitted off? I think so.
Sandy (uneasily): You could be talking about anyone.
Peter: And there would be children. A child? An infant. You work here evenings, I know that. He is unemployed.
Sandy: Short hours at the moment. Some of his mates have been laid off, but he's not unemployed.
Peter: Except when he's at home which is most of the time, or else at the pub. A lazy, sour man, you barely trusted him to look after your baby, while you slave here night after night under a bad tempered boss, serving noisy drunks, almost scared to go home for what you'll find A drunken husband? A dirty crying baby? Unwelcome demands? (Sandy reacts strongly through all this) It strikes a chord. A husband who no longer attracts you physically in fact he puts you off, repels you, you find him repulsive. Night after night he comes on strong, demanding his rights as a husband. You cringe, you use all the excuses, you're tired, you hear the baby, it's your time of the month. You pray he'll be asleep when you get home but he never
is. He's as relentless as a battering ram you don't know what it's like to be a man. It'll endanger his health if he doesn't get it. He'll go elsewhere how you wish he would to get him off your back. You wear him down sometimes he wears you down. He vents his lust that's the only way to describe it no tenderness anymore, just the animal act. You feel dirty, used. Sometimes you feel a little physical pleasure and that only makes it worse, because it dirties you even more.
Sandy: That's enough. You've no right. Go home now. You must have a wife yourself. You do the same to her.
Peter: Alas no longer. She is no longer at home.
Sandy: Separated?
Peter: No, dead, but separated before that. (Pause) It's all right, I didn't kill her. (After thought) Have you ever thought of killing him?
(Lights fade with the two looking at each other.)
(Baby crying. Sandy enters living room in darkness. Switches on lamp. Picks up baby to soothe it)
Sandy: Hush my little one. How long have you been crying? He must be deaf or dead drunk. You've been changed. Barb looked in then. She said she would. Thank God we've got Barb. I wouldn't be able to work I couldn't leave you with him. All quiet and happy now? Momma's come home. (Puts baby back