Flann O'Brien: Plays and Teleplays

  TRAMP: You again? Don’t you start now, because begob I won’t have the pair of yez roarin’ out of yez at me.

  DUCKLING: (In a low voice to herself.) Perfectly impossible person really.

  TRAMP: (Meditatively.) I don’t know . . . I don’t know. It’s haird . . . it’s haird, but it’s very interesstin’. It’s haird but it’s very interesstin’. Your man the bird works the feathers off his back to feed this dirty heap of yellow muck inside in the nest. That’s nature for you, of course. And I suppose the people that owns this zoo does be layin’ out good hard earned money to feed the hen. And then there’s this bastard in the shell lettin’ roars out of him every minute. Everybody’s well looked after bar meself. It’s haird. It’s very haird but it’s very interesstin’.

  (Enter MR. BEETLE.)

  MR. BEETLE: (Calling.) Where are you Maggie? Where the hell are you? Ay, where’s me ball? Where’s me wife?

  TRAMP: Yer wife? Don’t tell me that that big fat bags that was here a minute ago is yer wife? You don’t mean to stand there and tell me you get into bed with that. If you do, keep far away from me, me boy.

  MR. BEETLE: That’s her alright—where is she? Do you hear me? And where’s me pile? WHERE’S ME PILE?

  TRAMP: She’s humped off lookin’ for you.

  MR. BEETLE: But me pile, me ball of capital! Where is it? Do you hear me, where’s me bloody capital?

  TRAMP: That muck with the bad smell offit? Sure some chancer came along and rolled it off with him. Yer oul wan wasn’t here at the time.

  MR. BEETLE: WHAT! What are you sayin’ man?

  TRAMP: The stuff is gone and that’s all.

  MR. BEETLE: It’s gone? Great God! O great God! Gone! Stolen! Me capital, me savins I’m ruined, I’m destroyed! (Cries out hysterically.) They’ve stolen me savins, me capital, they’ve stolen me investments, me pile! I’m ruined, ruined, where was that bloody bitch of a wife of mine? I’m ruined, ruined. Thief, thief, stop him. Stop him! Murder! Murder! (Exit moaning.)

  TRAMP: I see. As I said before, it’s all very haird but it’s very interesstin’. It’s very interesstin’. Your man kills himself gatherin’ up a ball of muck. Then when he has rolled it up nice and big and smelly, along comes your other man and nabs it. And your man, of course, gets nothing for all his trouble and his bloody exertions. It’s haird, it’s haird.

  (Enter MR. and MRS. CRICKET. Both speak with the rawest of all possible Cork accents.)

  MR. CRICKET: Mind oorself now.

  MRS. CRICKET: Yerra sure I’m all right.

  MR. CRICKET: But oo know the way oo are now, sure didn’t the doctor tell you to be careful.

  MRS. CRICKET: Well do oo know, I’m worn out with the travellin’.

  MR. CRICKET: But why wouldn’t oo be after comin’ all de way from Cork? Sure ‘tis a hoor of a journey. Let you sit down now.

  MRS. CRICKET: Do oo know, if I’d known this is the way I’d be, not a bit of me would let you do it.

  MR. CRICKET: Yerra, gwan out of that wid oo.

  MRS. CRICKET: I’m as tired as a corpse.

  MR. CRICKET: Oo poor little wife, let oo sit down there now and be aisy. Sure won’t it be grand altogether when we have the youngster, chirping and crowin’ and laughin’ out of him on the floor.

  MRS. CRICKET: Yerra but won’t it be the fine father you’ll make, yourself and your youngster.

  MR. CRICKET: And look at the fine . . . grand . . . impartant job he’ll get in the civil service.

  MRS. CRICKET: Yerra I’m tired—doan’t be annoyin’ me. Is dis our new home?

  MR. CRICKET: It is faith. And a grand fine little home it is.

  MRS. CRICKET: But is it sound, is it dry?

  MR. CRICKET: As dry as a bone, girl.

  MRS. CRICKET: I hope it is—oo know I doan’t like damp.

  MR. CRICKET: Yerra doan’t be talkin’, sure didn’t another cricket live here, a cricket from Cork.

  MRS. CRICKET: (Moaning.) O, O, the pains is at me—hard. And phwat happened him. The cricket from Cork. Did he get a fine job in the service and move to a bigger house?

  MR. CRICKET: (Laughing.) Ha ha! No, he didn’t get e’er a jab in de service at all. Do oo know phwat happened him. Could oo guess?

  MRS. CRICKET: Ah doan’t be annoyin’ me. Phwat happened him?

  MR. CRICKET: I’ll tell oo. A bird took a fancy to him and et him up. Et him up, every bit and bitteen of him. Ha-ha-ha! And wasn’t it lucky for oo and me? (He makes chewing noise and laughs.)

  MRS. CRICKET: Phwat? Et him up . . . alive?

  MR. CRICKET: Sure twas a shtroke of providence, girl. Only for de bird eatin’ him we’d have ne’er a house over our heads at all.

  MRS. CRICKET: But Lord save us, eaten up alive! Sure that’s terrible altogether, dat’s a fright. OO! Phwat’s dat. Oooooo!

  MR. CRICKET: (Alarmed.) What’s wrong, girl? What’s de matter?

  MRS. CRICKET: O no, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be yet. The pains is at me again—hard. Do oo know, I’m frightened.

  MR. CRICKET: Don’t worry now, oo’ll be allright. Every woman, oo know, has to go through all dat class of ting sooner or later. Sure ‘tis only nature, girl.

  MRS. CRICKET: O, oo can talk, ‘tis easy for oo to blather out of oo like dat. Did he chew him or did he swally him in one lump?

  MR. CRICKET: (Gloatingly munching.) He chewed him well.

  MRS. CRICKET: Do oo know, dat’s funny. (Laughs hysterically.)

  MR. CRICKET: Easy now, girl. We’ll be very comfortable here now, when we put up nice curtains and furnishins’. Do oo know what I’d like?

  MRS. CRICKET: Phwat?

  MR. CRICKET: I’ll tell oo. A nice . . . big . . . juicy kiss.

  MRS. CRICKET: Yerra go away and doan’t be such an ownshuck.

  MR. CRICKET: (In an artful whisper.) Do oo know what I have here, inside in me pocket?

  MRS. CRICKET: I woan’t listen to any bold talk and me dis way, you mind phwat you’re sayin’ now boy.

  MR. CRICKET: Guess now. Oo woan’t? A rattle!

  (He takes out a rattle.)

  MRS. CRICKET: A rattle! A little rattle! Give it here to me.

  (MR. CRICKET prances round the stage in comic attitudes, humming and making outlandish noises. MRS. CRICKET sits and laughs in a somewhat unbalanced fashion.)

  MRS. CRICKET: Wait till de baby comes till he sees de rattle we have. Give it here to me?

  MR. CRICKET: (Merrily.) Wait till HE sees it? Sure ‘tis a little girl I do be praying for iviry night.

  MRS. CRICKET: Give it here to me.

  (He gives it and she starts rattling it and humming in a broken voice.)

  MR. CRICKET: Well do oo know, I must be off now to look around and look up some of de old Cork crowd in de service. They’ll tip me off, oo know, about dis place, and bring me around till I get de hang of it. ‘Tis impartant to start right away and get in with de right crowd. ‘Tis a terrible sin to waste time, oo know.

  MRS. CRICKET: Phwat, leave me here—alone?

  MR. CRICKET: Yerra girl sure I’ll be only round de corner.

  MRS. CRICKET: Sure you’re no father at all to leave me here and me in a certain condition. ‘Tis very unfair entirely.

  MR. CRICKET: Doan’t be mad girl, oo wouldn’t like me to miss dem all and dem coming out at five o’clock. Sure dat wouldn’t do at all at all. I’ll be back nearly before I’m gone.

  MRS. CRICKET: Well oo must hurry back to Mama.

  MR. CRICKET: And if oo wants me badly oo can rattle.

  MRS. CRICKET: (She rattles and hums ‘Husha-bye-baby.’) Oo’r a bad father, that’s what oo are.

  MR. CRICKET: (Hurrying off.) Mind oorself now, girl, I’ll be back very soon with all de news.

  TRAMP: Ye’ll be game ball there ma’am, ye’ll be . . . absolutely . . . O.K. Just stop where you are till yer man comes back and you’ll be O.K.

  MRS. CRICKET: Who are oo? A beetle?

  TRAMP: Indeed and begob and I am not a beetle ma’am, I’m ce
rtainly not a bloody beetle and I’ve been called manny a thing in me time.

  MRS. CRICKET: Do oo eat people up or bite?

  TRAMP: I don’t, and I don’t spend me time shovin’ round balls of dirt either.

  MRS. CRICKET: (Rattling.) How many children have oo?

  TRAMP: (In mock indignation.) I beg yer pardin?

  MRS. CRICKET: Have oo many young wans in de house?

  TRAMP: Sure I never had ne’er a kid nor annything like one, I was never a man for that class of thing at all. I always barred that game.

  MRS. CRICKET: Oo never got married?

  TRAMP: Married? Not at all.

  MRS. CRICKET: ‘Tis very sad not to be married.

  (She rattles and sings idly as if attaching no importance to the conversation.)

  TRAMP: (Very meditatively.) Of course marriage is a very interestin’ thing . . . but it’s very haird, it’s very haird. There does be very heavy responsibilities on the married men. They do have to give over takin’ a jar when they’re married.

  MRS. CRICKET: You’re a very funny beetle. Men are very selfish. Would oo look at my man now, went away and left me and me in a certain condition.

  TRAMP: Him? Sure he’s only hopped round the corner for a jar to steady his nerves.

  EGG: (Shouting.) The whole future is boiling up inside me! Terrible and vast undertakings are about to be launched forth. The golden hour is about to dawn. I’m coming! I approach!

  TRAMP: Do you hear your man?

  (Enter MRS. BEETLE.)

  MRS. BEETLE: Where’s me oul fella? Do you hear me? Where’s me oul fella? WHERE’S ME PILE?

  MRS. CRICKET: Oor pile? Phwat pile now?

  MRS. BEETLE: Me pile, me capital, me own and me husband’s life savins, our little all. Where is it? Where’s me oul fella?

  MRS. CRICKET: I’m a stranger here, I didn’t see him at all.

  MRS. BEETLE: The bloody oul eejit must have gone off with it. Have you e’er an oul fella yourself, ma’am?

  MRS. CRICKET: I have o’ course. He’s gone away on very impartant business, do oo know.

  MRS. BEETLE: Is he now. Listen, deary, I know it’s none of me business, I know you’ll think I’m very cheeky but tell me, ma’am are ye . . . expectin’?

  MRS. CRICKET: O! De pains is terrible.

  MRS. BEETLE: Ah there now, love didn’t I know, sure many’s the time I was in the same boat meself and I’d be in it this minute if I let his nibs have his way. But not me, I’ve learnt me lesson.

  MRS. CRICKET: Well do oo know, tis nice, but tis a terrible price altogether to pay for the grand times you do have when you get married.

  MRS. BEETLE: Ah the poor girl . . . and you so young. Sure ‘tis only a mug’s game. Sure look at my figure.

  MRS. CRICKET: ‘Tis too late for me to change me mind.

  MRS. BEETLE: Where’s yer pile?

  MRS. CRICKET: A pile. Phwat do I want a pile for?

  MRS. BEETLE: What do you want it for? A PILE? Sure everybody has to have a pile. Yer capital, nest egg, for yourself and yer oul man. Yer life savins, something for the rainy day. You don’t mean to say yer oul man hasn’t a pile?

  MRS. CRICKET: If he has he never showed it to me.

  MRS. BEETLE: Sure you can’t have a proper home without a pile. Nor you can’t have happiness nor a future. A pile is what keeps a home together, woman dear.

  MRS. CRICKET: Ah yerra sure there’s nothing like a grand nice little houseen for keepin’ a home together, and a nice job in the service for the man with a grand pinshin at the end of it.

  MRS. BEETLE: Ah musha but you’ve got the queer ideas, God bless you. I’d no more . . . I’d no more be without a pile than I’d be without me dinner on a Sunda.

  MRS. CRICKET: Ah there’s nothing like the clean bright little houseen to make a man love ye and stay with ye.

  MRS. BEETLE: Lord love you, I hope you’re right, but I want me pile.

  Where is it? Where’s that oul man o’mine? (Shouts.) Ay, where are you. Ooo-oo! (Exit.)

  MRS. CRICKET: Well, do oo know, isn’t that the cantankerous oul sow, I wouldn’t blame her husband for skippin off with himself. (She rattles and sings to herself tunelessly.) I feel queer. I feel very queer in meself.

  (Enter DUCK.)

  DUCK: Ao, what have we here? Tally-ho, tally-ho!

  (He kills MRS. CRICKET and starts to drag her body up to the nest with his leg.)

  TRAMP: Ay, luckit here, what are you doing? You’ve killed her!

  DUCK: Oh-ho, chickabiddy! Chick chick chick! Wake up darling, Daddy’s brought something nice.

  TRAMP: Well begob can you beat that! He done her in in front of me eyes and me sittin’ here lookin’ at him. And I didn’t move a hand to save her. Begob I’m worse than he is. I’m worse than he is. It’s a bloody shame.

  (Enter PARASITE, who is a frightful-looking sight and the last word in mealy-mouthed joxers.)

  PARASITE: You took the words outa me mouth. Them’s me own sentiments sir.

  TRAMP: To be whipped off like that and her goin’ to have a baby—sure that’s not right at all.

  PARASITE: It’s not right, it never was right, and it never will be right. I understand how you feel. You’re a man after me own heart.

  TRAMP: And who might you be?

  PARASITE: I’m a poor . . . unassumin’ . . . labourin’ man, I ask no favours and I mind me own business. I’m a poor orphan into the bargain. They do call me a parasite.

  TRAMP: I see. Well do you know what I’m goin’ to tell you, I never in me born days seen a dirtier stroke than your man done, killin’ the young wan off like that.

  PARASITE: I’m with you there, sir, it aggravated and consternated me feelins’, sir. And answer me this, sir. Did he have to do it? Was he starvin’ with the hunger like meself that hasn’t had bite to eat or sup to drink for four days? Indeed and begob and he wasn’t, not bloody likely, he has his place inside there packed to the roof with stuff smoked and hung up to dry, any God’s amount of it man. Don’t be talkin’ to me, sure don’t I know. And it’s a right bloody shame, that’s what it is. Look at me. I’m half as strong as a bantam and twice as light from all me hardships and hunger and here is this bastard with more stuff than could feed a hundred for a week. Sure don’t be talkin’ to me man.

  TRAMP: You’re right there—it’s a shame certainly.

  PARASITE: Luckit. Here am I. I’m poor. I’m starvin’. What can I do? Just go on starvin’. But what does your man do? He just sticks his claw into the first unfortunate poor whore he meets and off with him then to have a feed he’s not able for. One law for me, a different law for his nibs. Sure don’t be talkin’ to me man.

  TRAMP: You wouldn’t believe all the murder and robbery and rascality that’s goin’ on here for the last half hour, I’ll be as gray as a badger before I’m much older.

  PARASITE: Sure luckit. You took the words out of me mouth. What goes on here day in and day out is a terrible crime against the people, mark my words now. That bugger above there in that hole’ll have to be put a stop to, I’m tellin’ you. Somebody’ll have to kill that bugger. Because do you know what I’m goin to tell you, he has half the food in the country cornered and hoarded and stored away there, he has bags and pucks of stuff there inside in the nest, lashins of grub goin’ bad there while meself and me likes is starvin’ with the hunger. Sure don’t be talkin’ to me man.

  TRAMP: I didn’t know he had all that tucked away.

  PARASITE: Well, I’m tellin’ you he has. To hell with him! To bloody hell with him!

  (The DUCK re-appears from the nest.)

  DUCK: That’s right, little pet, eat it all up. Good little fluffy chick!

  PARASITE: Good evenin’, yer honour.

  DUCK: Ao, what have we here? Who is this frightful person? Don’t move, I’m only smelling you.

  PARASITE: Ah now, mister, you’re only coddin me. Nobody would ever ate me, mister.

  DUCK: D’you knaow, there’s a most frightful beastly smell from
you. I do think you’re pretty average filthy. Be off with you!

  PARASITE: Certainly, sir, yer honour, no offence, mister. (He cowers.)

  DUCK: (To TRAMP.) I trust you saw my little exploit, old man. Not bad, you know. Frightfully difficult thing sometimes. Calls for skill, you knaow, coolness, iron nerve and all that sort of thing. One has to be in training and so on.

  PARASITE: You’re right, yer honour, you’re right there.

  DUCK: Frightful lot of patience called for too, you knaow. Fellow has to watch his chance and keep his head and all the sort of thing . . . I do it rather well, if I do say so myself.

  PARASITE: You took the words right out of me mouth, your majesty, it’s a very haird exacerbatin’ occupation.

  DUCK: I say, do shut up, you filthy creature. I’m not talking to you.

  PARASITE: No offence, yer royal highness. I sincerely beg yer pardin.

  DUCK: It calls for qualities one doesn’t find in the working classes. I mean, breeding and good form and love of sport and so on. I mean, one is that sort of person or one isn’t, you knaow. I do think it is all frightfully fascinating. Well, sir, I think I’ll say cheerio. Must get a little something more before dark. No rest for me, you knaow. Pip pip, old boy. (Exit.)

  PARASITE: The dirty mouldy oul bags. For wan minute there I thought I was goin’ to let fly at him, I was never so boilin’ mad in me life.

  TRAMP: O begob he was lucky to escape with his life.

  PARASITE: Sure don’t be talkin’ to me man, another couple of seconds and I’d lost control. Your man was blowin’ about all the work he does to get grub. Well, who’s afraid of work anyway? I’d work me fingers to the bone meself and welcome if there was anny need to. But why should I when he and his like has a thousand times what I’ve got? Why should I kill meself to preserve . . . and per-petuate . . . a dirty rich man’s world where the poor is ground down . . . and persecuted . . . and starved be the boss class. Do you know what I’m goin’ to tell you? I’m a communist. I take me stand on communism. And I’m starvin’ with the bloody hunger. Sure don’t be talkin’ to me.

  TRAMP: I suppose you wouldn’t say no to a nice steak and chips . . . and a few fried onions . . . and plenty of pepper and salt . . . and a bottle of stout?