Flann O'Brien: Plays and Teleplays

  FREDDIE: Certainly not. I would put it up myself.

  NORA: And install the heating?

  FREDDIE: Yes. I’m pretty handy and I’ve got decent tools. Maggie will tell you.

  MAGGIE: I’m sick, sore and tired talking to you about putting up an extra upper shelf in the hot press.

  FREDDIE: I haven’t forgotten that, Maggie. I’m waiting for Larrie to get me the timber.

  NORA: Are you very fond of grapes?

  FREDDIE: Not particularly. But there’s nothing like a decent bottle of wine.

  JOE: Good heavens, Freddie! Irish wine? Mean to say you’re going to make wine from your grapes?

  FREDDIE: Certainly. Why not?

  JOE: Well bedad you’re going to change the whole country.

  FREDDIE: I’ll keep myself occupied anyhow.

  NORA: Well, so much for amusing yourself, Freddie. How about this work you’re going to do? What work?

  FREDDIE: Ah well that would be mostly for the evening time. When there’s a bit of peace and quiet.

  JOE: Yes, but what sort of work?

  FREDDIE: Well, for a start, I’ve got to get down to my book.

  MAGGIE: (Startled.) God save us! (She gazes around.) Don’t tell me the man is going to start betting and bookmaking? That would be the last.

  NORA: Your book, Freddie?

  FREDDIE: Yes, my book. That’s what I said.

  JOE: Do you mean . . . writing a book?

  FREDDIE: Of course I do.

  NORA: Well, what will you be up to next.

  MAGGIE: Do you remember that for your holidays in 1949 you said you were going to climb the Alps. Instead you spent a fortnight in Skerries.

  JOE: For Pete’s sake, Freddie, a book about what? Will it be a novel or a thriller, or what?

  FREDDIE: No, no. Something important and substantial. It will be in part autobiographical. There will be plain speaking on certain political matters. There are some things that require to be said. And said very bluntly.

  JOE: You mean—you’re going to tell all?

  FREDDIE: I suppose that’s about the size of it. Unmask all our political and business chancers, denounce humbug . . . cheating . . . immoral films . . . suggestive books . . . contempt for marriage in high places.

  MAGGIE: (Sourly.) Yes. If you go about that in the right way, you’ll lose your pension and I suppose I’ll have to go out and get work scrubbing floors.

  NORA: Ah now, Maggie, don’ be discouraging Freddie like that. He might also win the Nobel Prize and then be able to afford holidays climbing in the Alps every year.

  JOE: (Genially.) Yes faith. And maybe sell the film rights of this book.

  MAGGIE: We don’t even own this house.

  FREDDIE: I’ve enough money in the bank to clear off what’s owing here but it doesn’t suit me to do so because, Maggie, we’ll be moving to a better and a bigger house soon. I want a proper garden where I can grow strawberries and raspberries.

  JOE: Faith, you’re going to be the busy man, Freddie.

  FREDDIE: Creative writing can only be done at night. I’ll have the days to put in in some useful and interesting way. Waste not, want not.

  NORA: Anything else on the programme.

  FREDDIE: Well, not much, Nora. I have a notion that I would like to learn to play the violin. It’s a beautiful instrument. Of course, I’d hardly develop into another Menuhin or Kreisler at my age but I could be as good as a lot of chaps I’ve heard.

  MAGGIE: (Sternly and loudly.) Well is that so now? Let me tell you this, Fred. You’ll not start any of that nonsense in this house so long as I’m here. Sawing and screeching and howling to drive a person batty.

  NORA: Haven’t you a piano there that would be simpler to learn?

  MAGGIE: (Sharply.) The piano is locked and locked it is going to stay.

  JOE: Your best plan, Freddie, would be to learn to play the organ. You could practice only in churches.

  FREDDIE: (Smiling.) Ah, we’ll forget about music for the moment. One thing at a time.

  JOE: Good for you. Use your retirement wisely. Look at me. I’ve no pension to look forward to. People like me have to work till they drop. Isn’t that so, Nora?

  NORA: So you say anyway. The question is . . . will you be LET work till you drop? You could damn well get the sack any day.

  MAGGIE: (Piously.) God forbid.

  FREDDIE: They wouldn’ be so mad as to do anything like that. A man of Joe’s experience isn’t to be found in every hole and corner.

  NORA: He was warned twice about drink.

  JOE: Now stop talking nonsense, EVERYBODY. (He begins to beam, and struggles to feet with glass outstretched.) I want to propose a toast to Freddie Matthews. . . .

  (The two ladies rise; FREDDIE remains seated.)

  JOE: Here’s to Freddie Matthews . . . may the years ahead of him be many and long . . . and may the many great enterprises, upon which he is intent, flourish!

  (They drink, and sit down again.)

  FREDDIE: Thanks, Joe. Thanks everybody. I know you mean that. It is very nice of you.

  CURTAIN

  ACT II

  The scene is the same but it is a forenoon, six weeks later. There is a dull flicker of a fire (if any) in the grate. FREDDIE MATTHEWS is lolling in an armchair sideways, his legs hanging down over the arm. One slipper has fallen off his foot. He is wearing pyjamas under a nondescript dressing gown. He is smoking and reading a newspaper. After a moment, MAGGIE barges in wearing an apron carrying a dust-pan and a stiff hand-brush. Her movements are noisy and fussy, and her voice is bad-tempered, loud.

  MAGGIE: It’s after twelve. When are you going to shave or am I supposed to keep the hot water switched on all day?

  FREDDIE: I don’t think I’ll shave at all today.

  MAGGIE: Is that the way? You have no objection to going about looking like a tramp or a tinker?

  FREDDIE: Plenty of men I know shave only every second day.

  MAGGIE: Yes, and skip washing themselves too.

  (She stoops and sweeps something off the carpet into her pan. As the talk proceeds, she continues doing this in various parts of the floor.)

  FREDDIE: Look, Maggie, I’m reading the paper. It’s part of my business now to know what’s going on in the world.

  MAGGIE: Your business? Your business is loafing and lazing about this house, getting in people’s way and making a mess everywhere you go.

  FREDDIE: Getting in people’s way? All I’m doing is sitting in my own armchair.

  MAGGIE: You call that sitting. Sprawling would be a better word. If I saw a young fellow carrying on like that, I’d take a stick to him. . . .

  FREDDIE: What in God’s name do you expect from me? Sugar and spice and all that’s nice? I’m entitled to take it easy if the humour is on me. I’ve worked hard enough and I deserve it.

  MAGGIE: I honestly don’t believe you know what real work is. Look at the job I have on my hands—looking after you, and cleaning up after you.

  FREDDIE: Now Maggie, be fair. You know very well that I’m no bother to you.

  MAGGIE: (Voice rising in anger.) Why have I got to break my back bending down day after day sweeping up cigarette ash off the carpet? You have the carpet destroyed.

  FREDDIE: Oh, that’s just an accident.

  MAGGIE: Because you’re too lazy to use an ash-tray.

  FREDDIE: Nonsense, Maggie.

  MAGGIE: Nonsense, is it? Where is the ash-tray you’re using now?

  FREDDIE: Well, I’ve only just lit this cigarette.

  (She snatches up an ash-tray from the mantelpiece and rudely dumps it on the edge of his chair.)

  FREDDIE: Oh thanks.

  MAGGIE: I suppose that’s another of my duties—chasing after you with ash-trays. You have the blankets in the bed ruined too, yourself and your cigarettes.

  FREDDIE: An odd little scorch is no harm, for goodness sake.

  MAGGIE: An odd little scorch? Some night you’ll set the bed on fire and have the pair of us roasted alive
.

  FREDDIE: (Giving a small forced laugh.) Well, what about it? I have both of us well insured. That son of ours below in Cork will get enough to set him up in his own business.

  MAGGIE: (Now moving about dusting various objects.) Very, very funny. Do you remember several weeks ago, when you had the Hartigans from next door in for your little party the night after you retired?

  FREDDIE: I do indeed.

  MAGGIE: Do you remember all the grand things you were going to do. You had a list the length of your arm.

  FREDDIE: Yes, and I stand by that list.

  MAGGIE: Do you remember me saying that I was sick sore and tired talking to you about fixing up an extra shelf in the hot press?

  FREDDIE: I haven’t forgotten or overlooked that little matter. Just now this attack of rheumatism I have will make any hard physical work out of the question for some days.

  MAGGIE: (Sneering.) Musha, the poor man!

  FREDDIE: You may remember that one thing I planned to do was to reduce my golf handicap by real practising.

  MAGGIE: That itself would get you out of my way here.

  FREDDIE: Well, there you are. I can’t even play golf just now.

  MAGGIE: You mean your small pension prevents you from going up to that golf club to do what you always did up there . . . and I needn’t say what that is.

  FREDDIE: I just have to keep quiet, Maggie, until this rheumatism business clears up. You know that past attacks always lasted a few weeks.

  MAGGIE: Are you as crippled as all that?

  FREDDIE: I am. This morning I knew I’d have to move around a bit before I could hope to be able to pull my trousers on.

  MAGGIE: Well, for goodness sake! Johnny was at the door this morning with his fresh eggs. He said he thought you were looking very well. He seen you last night in Cullen’s.

  FREDDIE: In Cullen’s? Ah yes, I dropped in there for cigarettes.

  MAGGIE: Is that so? Well, bad as your rheumatism may be, it seems there was very little wrong with your right arm.

  FREDDIE: What do you mean?

  MAGGIE: You were strong enough to order pints of stout. And your right arm was good enough to raise those big heavy glasses. . . .

  FREDDIE: Oh, now, now . . .

  MAGGIE: And you were well enough in yourself to SCOFF the porter. Not one pint, but several.

  FREDDIE: When a man finds himself in a public house, he has to stand his round, even if he doesn’t particularly want any more drink for himself.

  MAGGIE: That’s a grand phrase of yours – “when a man finds himself in a public house.” You’d imagine you were swept in there by some fierce, diabolical gale, and that you couldn’t help yourself. . . .

  (Freddie has stubbed his cigarette and lit another.)

  FREDDIE: My dear Maggie, when one lives in a civilised community, one must participate in the social organism. One cannot stand aloof without being in danger of getting the name of being eccentric, or queer in the head, or downright mad. I pride myself on being normal. Do you understand me? NORMAL. I try to regard everybody as my friend. It is the only way to go through life. You don’t have to fall over everybody but good manners and courtesy never hurt anybody.

  MAGGIE: And all that’s true of the golf club too, I suppose?

  FREDDIE: Certainly.

  MAGGIE: Do you remember one evening about this time two years ago when you left the house with fifteen pounds in your pocket and went up to that club?

  FREDDIE: I do indeed.

  MAGGIE: And you came home late that night with NOTHING in your pocket!

  FREDDIE: Yes, and I told you what had happened. I just had a unique run of incredible bad luck. It was completely contrary to any law of averages. Nothing like it was ever seen before.

  MAGGIE: What you mean is that you started playing cards and lost all your week’s wages.

  FREDDIE: It was just lousy, lousy luck.

  MAGGIE: Playing cards with louts, cheats and con-men, people you were no match for.

  FREDDIE: Now, now, have a heart. The members are all respectable citizens of this town. An honest game of poker now and again is no sin.

  MAGGIE: And, as I said at the time, they took care to ply you with whiskey. Very likely hot whiskey, until you could hardly tell one card from another.

  FREDDIE: Oh, rubbish. I’m known to be a good poker player. And a good loser, I hope. But no man can win during a night if he doesn’t get the cards. Anybody will tell you that.

  MAGGIE: Wouldn’t it be a simple thing to keep completely away from card-sharks?

  FREDDIE: It would. Like cigarettes or drink, I can take it or leave it. But we live in a community. I can’t give everybody the back of my hand. I don’t want myself to be sticking out in this town like a sore thumb.

  MAGGIE: Very likely you’re well known at present for all your trickery, boasting and boozing.

  FREDDIE: Don’t be ridiculous, Maggie. I drink very little. I could almost be called an abstemious man.

  MAGGIE: I once overheard a certain party make mention of Mad Matthews.

  FREDDIE: Is that so? Well, that was a joke, or somebody else of the same name.

  MAGGIE: Did you take a bath last night?

  FREDDIE: I did.

  MAGGIE: Two days ago I gave the bathroom a proper cleaning up, scrubbed and polished the floor, did the taps, and put in three new towels.

  FREDDIE: Yes, I noticed that.

  MAGGIE: This morning I found the floor soaking with water and slops. . . .

  FREDDIE: Ah now, listen—

  MAGGIE: Two of the towels pitched on the floor wringing wet, mud on one of them from dirty shoes, and a lump of soap half under the bath.

  FREDDIE: Well, you can’t take a bath without using towels.

  MAGGIE: The place was a shambles.

  FREDDIE: Well, maybe I was a bit careless in the bathroom.

  MAGGIE: (Voice rising.) Do you think it’s my job to keep on cleaning up after you?

  FREDDIE: Not at all, no.

  MAGGIE: And have all my housework go for nothing?

  FREDDIE: No, no. It’s this rheumatism. I can’t stoop to pick things up.

  MAGGIE: I don’t believe there’s a damn thing wrong with you.

  FREDDIE: Who, me? You know very well I’m a martyr to rheumatism.

  MAGGIE: You’re a martyr to laziness since you left that job, and you’re making MY life a misery by loafing about here and messing up the house.

  FREDDIE: Ah now, that’s not fair.

  MAGGIE: You told the Hartigans you were going to practice your snooker. . . .

  FREDDIE: And so I am.

  MAGGIE: God knows, bad and all as that business is, and low as the louts are who go into that hall, it would be a mercy to me if it got you out of this house.

  FREDDIE: I couldn’t hold a cue in my present condition.

  MAGGIE: Is that so? Couldn’t you stagger down to the hall, sit down and watch others?

  FREDDIE: Maybe I could, but how about putting on my collar and tie? I don’t like to say it, but——

  MAGGIE: You don’t like to say what?

  FREDDIE: I don’t like to say it, but I’m a helpless invalid.

  MAGGIE: (Snorting.) Ah, well, well . . . a helpless invalid. I must remember to buy some babyfood.

  FREDDIE: I’ll be all right after a good rest.

  MAGGIE: I’ll tell you one thing, martyr and all as you are. Starting tomorrow, you are going to make your own bed.

  FREDDIE: (Smiling weakly.) Oh well, I suppose that won’t kill me. I was once a Boy Scout, remember.

  MAGGIE: And talking about a good rest, I’m going out now to visit my sister. If you want anything to eat at half past one, you can make it yourself.

  FREDDIE: Oh dear . . .

  MAGGIE: (Going out.) You know where the sugar and tea is. And yesterday’s stale loaf.

  ACT III

  The scene is the same, and the time is the afternoon. FREDDIE, fully dressed, is sitting smoking as MAGGIE comes in, rather formally dress
ed. She is in a relaxed mood; the attitude of scold is muted.

  MAGGIE: Digesting your lunch, I see?

  FREDDIE: Yes. That was a nice bit of corned beef.

  MAGGIE: And the rheumatism is nearly gone?

  FREDDIE: Ah, very much improved, thank God.

  MAGGIE: And you’ll soon be able to go out?

  FREDDIE: I hope so.

  MAGGIE: You’d better be. We’re having a visitor this afternoon. (Looks at clock.) In fact, any time now.

  FREDDIE: A visitor? What visitor? Who, Maggie?

  MAGGIE: Nobody that you know. His name is Hackett. Mr. Cyril Hackett. He’s . . . a scientist.

  FREDDIE: A scientist? Well, well. That’s a big surprise. As you know, Maggie, I have a profound interest in science. A much neglected subject in this country, I must say.

  MAGGIE: Maybe so. But perhaps we’ll have an opportunity to mend that.

  FREDDIE: Which branch of science does he deal in, Maggie? I mean, is it chemistry . . . or astronomy?

  MAGGIE: Neither. I suppose the answer would be Nature and Wild Life. He deals with animals.

  FREDDIE: Ah-ha? Animals? A fascinating subject. The dumb animals have much to teach us. Man himself, I’m afraid, is the dumbest of the animals.

  MAGGIE: Yes. Even the lowliest animal can look after himself, keep himself clean, and leave no mess behind.

  FREDDIE: True, I suppose. Look at the way cats wash themselves.

  MAGGIE: Yes. And they haven’t even a bathroom to muck up.

  FREDDIE: Tell me, is this man a vet, and what is he coming here for?

  MAGGIE: No, he is not a vet. (A ring is heard.) Ah, here he is now, I’m sure. You’d better offer him a drop of sherry. (Goes out.)

  FREDDIE: (To himself.) Animals? Begors, now? Maybe he runs a school for horse-riding. Or could he be a lion-tamer. Heavens, am I to be invited to go on safari?

  (He smokes. MAGGIE re-enters with a short-sighted middle-aged man who is neatly and primly dressed, carrying a bowler.)

  MAGGIE: This is my husband, Fred Matthews, Mr. Hackett.

  (HACKETT’S voice is precise and neat.)

  HACKETT: Ah, delighted, Mr. Matthews.

  FREDDIE: Do sit down, Mr. Hackett.

  HACKETT: (Seating himself fastidiously.) Rather heavy sort of weather, don’t you think?

  MAGGIE: Yes, indeed. Some rain would do us good.