Flann O'Brien: Plays and Teleplays

  B.B: Well, that sounds the very place for My Nabs.

  O’B: My trouble is—how am I going to get him out there?

  B.B: Now listen here, mister-me-friend, you’re not goin to put a finger on that angimal until me expenses has been ped. That beast in there doesn’t live on air. Ya’ll find he’s the best-nourished donkey in all Ireland bar none.

  O’B: What expenses?

  B.B: What expenses? All the grub he’s swallied, man, for weeks and weeks.

  O’B: I see. What does a donkey eat?

  B.B: It’d be better to ask what he doesn’t eat. He ett an oul coat of me own. But hegoes every day for hay, oats and a queer class of a mash I make for him outa maize or Injun meal, cabbage and spuds. And that’s not all.

  O’B: What else?

  B.B: He’s a devil for skim milk. And tell ya what he’s very fond of.

  O’B: What?

  B.B: Apples, man. Matteradamn whether they’re cookin apples or aytin apples, he’ll chaw and swally the lot. An’ bananas.

  O’B: Has he any interest in carrots?

  B.B: He’d give his life for carrots but they’re hard to get. I do give him a few carrots an odd time.

  O’B: Well, he seems to be a very well-fed animal. What does all this expense come to?

  B.B: Eight pounds, sixteen shillings and eightpence.

  O’B: WHAT . . . ?

  B.B: Eight . . . sixteen . . . eight. That’s what the job cost. There’s no profit in it for me.

  O’B: The Lord save us! Well, I suppose it must be paid. Do you mind a cheque?

  B.B: At at all.

  O’B: If I add in another pound, will you undertake to bring him out to my place at Blackrock?

  B.B: Course I will. That’ll be no trouble at all.

  O’B: (Producing cheque book and writing at table.) Well, so be it. The music must be faced. Little did I think how fast the price of that tuppenny ticket would grow. I’ll leave my address with you. Could you bring out the beast to arrive about six on Tuesday evening?

  B.B: Sairtintly I could. That’ll be game ball.

  O’B: All right. Till then I’ll say goodbye.

  B.B: The best of luck sir, now.

  FADE OUT

  END OF PART II

  PART III

  Scene is a comfortable living-room in O’BRIEN’s house, where he is sitting, reading. A window is prominent at the back of the room. There is a knock outside. O’B. rises, leaves room and comes back with B. BARNES.

  O’B: Welcome, Barnes. Sit down.

  B.B: Well . . . thanks, Mister O’Brien.

  O’B: Today I telephoned a vet to come and have a look at that animal. So you succeeded in bringing him out?

  B.B: Well, he’s here all right. But I wouldn’t say it was meself that brought him out.

  O’B: What do you mean? Don’t tell me you got C.I.É. to cart him here and that there’s another bill to pay?

  B.B: At at all. It was HIM that brought ME out.

  O’B: WHAT—you rode the poor animal here? A heavy, able-bodied man like you?

  B.B: At at all. He’s in the field. Come over here to the winda. (They rise and move to it.)

  O’B: Right enough, there he is grazing away. Hey! What are those things sticking up in the air?

  B.B: The shafts of an oul cair.

  O’B: And where on earth did you get that?

  B.B: That thing was lyin in the lane for the last eight weeks or so. Some gurrier left it there. Some damned tinker.

  O’B: And does that give you any right to take possession of it?

  B.B: I know that crowd. When they’re finished with anything they throw it away. They just leave it somewhere. They leave it somewhere where it does be obstructin other people. That crowd’s no use.

  O’B: (Emphatically.) But listen here. How are you going to get it back into town? It’s not yours.

  B.B: Who said an’thin about gettin it back into town? You’re pairfitly right in sayin it’s not mine. I’m making YOU a present of it.

  O’B: ME? Don’t be ridiculous. What use would I have for a tinker’s old cart?

  B.B: Sure this is the summer. Couldn’t you go for a nice drive in it some evening down to Dun Lough Air, an’ maybe have a good swim for yerself?

  O’B: You’re talking absolute nonsense, Barnes. I have no intention of going out to show myself off before the neighbours driving a donkey and cart.

  B.B: (Viciously.) Many a betther man than you done that. It’s a healthier and handier thing than them mothor cairs.

  O’B: (Angrily.) What you’ve done is plant an item of stolen property on my land.

  B.B: That’s a nice way to thank me for makin ya a useful present. You could draw turf in that cair, or carry parcels. A nice plank for a seat across it an’ ya could bring yer mott for a drive.

  O’B: My WHAT?

  B.B: Yer mott.

  O’B: This ridiculous mess gets worse. (Meditatively, looking at carpet.) I’m not sure what to do. (Suddenly.) You, Barnes—get to hell out of here!

  B.B: I beg yer pairdin?

  O’B: You heard what I said. GET OUT!

  B.B: (Shrugging portentously.) Oh well, O.K. Keep yer hair on. (Rising.) An’ don’t ask me to do you anny more favours.

  O’B: (At door, opening it.) Clear out of this house. (Barnes shambles out through the doorway.)

  (Screen A FEW DAYS PASS. Scene is the room as before. It is disclosed empty but immediately O’BRIEN enters with another well-spoken man, who is also well-dressed but wears gum boots.)

  O’B: I needn’t tell you, Hickory, that all this is a great shock to me.

  HICKORY (vet.): Well, an ass in a poke is the same as a pig in a poke. You shouldn’t have had anything to do with that animal in the first place.

  O’B: (Getting pencil and paper.) I’d better take down the list in writing.

  H: Why? Anthrax is enough. You’ll be prosecuted if you’re found with that animal in your possession, no matter where you got it or from whom.

  O’B: Well . . . I suppose you should know.

  H: Anthrax is a terrible disease. There’s external and internal anthrax. The bacteria that cause anthrax are the most vicious in the world, and the bacilli or spores are such as to make the disease very infectious. And let me tell you this. Human beings can get anthrax.

  O’B: Well . . . Lord save us!

  H: During the First World War thousands of British soldiers got anthrax from using infected shaving brushes made in Japan. That was a nice day’s work.

  O’B: You mean the bristles were contaminated because they came from animals which were suffering from anthrax.

  H: Exactly. Very likely from animals who had died from anthrax.

  O’B: Well, well, well. And what other disease did you say the donkey had?

  H: Mange. And he has it bad.

  O’B: Mange. I thought only dogs got that. (Writing.) Is that the lot?

  H: You saw yourself that he can hardly walk. He’s also got what we call laminitis.

  O’B: I see. And just what is laminitis?

  H: It means inflammation of the hoof. The poor beast is completely banjaxed.

  O’B: It certainly looks like it. Is there anything else?

  H: As I told you in the field, I didn’t want to carry out a detailed examination, and the reason is obvious enough, I hope. I don’t want to get anthrax. But that ass is blind or with sight so bad that he’ll very soon be blind. And it looks the blindness of old age.

  O’B: If you ask me, the plan was to fob that animal off on me. I’m just the victim of a conspiracy.

  H: Looks like it. But what you must get down to now, right away, is ACTION.

  O’B: I agree. Precisely what would you advise me to do?

  H: Have you got a gun?

  O’B: Well . . . I have. (Rises and goes to the lower press compartment of bookcase and takes out shotgun.) I haven’t used this for at least three years. Have a look.

  H: Hmmm. Handsome machine, that.

  O?
??B: It is. My father’s. He was a crack shot.

  H: Tomorrow you must shoot that ass at very close quarters in the head. In the head, remember and from the side. But first get a man to dig a grave—and a very deep one. Believe it or not, rats are very partial to dead donkeys, even when the corpse is choked with anthrax.

  O’B: Lord! And then we would have rats running about the place with doses of anthrax of their own?

  H: Exactly. Make your man dig deep. At least six feet, take the day off yourself and see that a proper job is done.

  O’B: Yes. That gravedigger means another quid gone west.

  H: All right, but it’s money well spent.

  O’B: Well, Hickory, that’s agreed. I’ll proceed as directed. And tell me this. (Produces cheque book.) What do I owe your good self?

  H: Oh, whatever you think. Two guineas, we’ll say.

  O’B: That’s fair enough. (Writes.) This is a right mess I’ve got myself into.

  H: (Pleasantly.) Ah well, these things happen.

  (Fade out.)

  (Screen A FEW DAYS LATER. Scene is the same room. O’Brien is again reading and again there is a knock without. He goes out and returns with a bulky, elderly sergeant of the Guards. This man is pleasant of manner and speaks with a pronounced country accent.)

  SERGEANT: And how are you keeping, Mr. O’Brien?

  O’B: Oh, fair enough, I suppose. The health is fine, but there’s always trouble of one kind or another.

  S: Ah but shure what about it? Isn’t it the same with us all, God help us.

  O’B: I suppose it is. It’s a mercy we don’t know what’s in store for us.

  S: Well, well. (He has caught sight of shotgun which has been left leaning against the wall.) I never knew you were a sportsman, Mr. O’Brien. (Breaks gun open and examines it.) Faith now and that’s a nice weapon. The Purdey make, too.

  O’B: Yes. It’s a bit old, but it’s good.

  S: (Head bent.) I suppose, Mr. O’Brien . . . I suppose you have a licence for this?

  O’B: (Startled.) Oh! What? Bedamnit but I haven’t. I haven’t used the gun for three years. I completely forgot all about it.

  S: Ah yes. That happens sometimes. It’s bad luck and nothing else. You know, of course, that whether you use a gun or not has nothing to do with the necessity for having a license?

  O’B: I do indeed, Sergeant. Damned stupid of me.

  S: You understand, Mr. O’Brien, that the trouble with this country is that there’s too many knocking about, and too many wild fellows knocking them off.

  O’B: Oh, true enough, Sergeant. Of course, I keep that under lock and key.

  S: Ah, faith, they’d find it no matter where you had it.

  O’B: Indeed, I suppose so, Sergeant.

  S: I’m sure you’ll understand, Mr. O’Brien, that I must report this. It’ll only mean a fine of between two and five pounds. There’s just one snag.

  O’B: ONE snag? Isn’t a ferocious fine enough?

  S: Well, you see, there’s always the danger that the Justice would order the gun confiscated as well.

  O’B: But Good Lord, that gun’s worth at least thirty pounds.

  S: Faith and I wouldn’t doubt you. It would all depend on who the Justice would be. If you were wise, you’d ask your solicitor to get a barrister on the job.

  O’B: Heavens above! More and more ruinous expense!

  S: It’s another matter I called to see you about, Mr. O’Brien. Another matter entirely.

  O’B: Indeed, Sergeant. What other trouble am I in?

  S: Well, I seen the guts of it out in the field.

  O’B: You mean the donkey?

  S: Ah no. Not the grand little donkey. I mean the cart. It’s stolen property.

  O’B: But I didn’t steal any cart, Sergeant.

  S: Shure don’t we know that. Sure we pulled in that scallywag Barnes yesterday. That man has a record the length of your arm.

  O’B: Well, thank goodness. That lets me out.

  S: You don’t understand, Mr. O’Brien. The charge against you is that you’re a receiver of stolen property, knowing it to have been stolen.

  O’B: (Aghast.) But look here, Sergeant, surely this is utter bosh? I mean to say—

  S: Mr. O’Brien, you may think it’s silly, but these things will have to be gone through with. You may be sure you’ll get bail while the Justice is taking the depositions. And of course, there’ll be a good long delay after you’re sent for trial.

  O’B: May Heaven keep my wits about me! Sent for trial?

  S: The charge is what they call a felony.

  O’B: And suppose I’m convicted? What then?

  S: Well now, it’s hard to say. It would depend a lot on the Judge. It might be just a fine. (Rises and takes up cap.) It might be just a heavy fine and be bound to the peace. I think I’ll slip away now, Mr. O’Brien, and maybe see you again tomorrow. I’m on duty at the station to-night.

  O’B: Sergeant, you say it MIGHT be a heavy fine and be bound to the peace. What else could it be?

  S: (At door.) Ah now, Mr. O’Brien, don’t keep looking all the time at the dark side of things. It COULD mean six months hard labour in Mountjoy but I’m sure it won’t. Good night. (Departs.)

  O’B: (Burying head in hands and then raising it to stare at camera.) I ask you. (Spreads arms.) I bought four legs under a donkey for tuppence. Counting the loss of the gun and the possible fines, I’d be down maybe a hundred quid. And perhaps six months in Mountjoy. AND THE LOSS OF MY JOB!

  THE END

  THE DEAD SPIT

  OF KELLY

  A Play in Four Parts

  The scene of this play is Dublin, though it could be any city or big town. There is only one important character, BURKE. The part naturally calls for a good player but particularly one whose voice and accent are unmistakeable, because some of his utterances (By way of thought.) are heard on the sound track while he proceeds on the screen in dumb show.

  PART 1

  The play opens in a taxidermist’s workshop. There is a door to left outside which occasionally a bell rings to show there is a caller in the outer shop. The workshop contains two large heavy tables as well as shelves, presses, etc. for gear, and here and there are examples of work done, e.g., stuffed birds, dogs, cats, etc. (A practising taxidermist could no doubt advise about the lay-out of this scene and possibly lend suitable objects.)

  BURKE is present, working on what looks like a dog, behind table to right and facing audience. He is talking to a visitor friend PAT, who sits in a raincoat on a chair with three-quarters back to camera.

  BURKE: All the same, Pat, it’s a hard oul station. Any God’s amount of work but not so much pay.

  PAT: Well . . . I suppose we can all say that. Here, have a cigarette. (Rises and offers one.)

  BURKE: Thanks, Pat. The fags keep us going, anyway.

  PAT: Do you like this work? Is it hard?

  BURKE: Is it hard? By gor then and it’s not what a lot of people think it is. In th’oul days they used just to empty an animal out and stuff the skin with straw.

  PAT: (Chuckles.) Well, that wouldn’t take much doing.

  BURKE: With the result was that everything from a cat to an elephant just looked like a burst football. No shape or size to anything.

  PAT: Well, that day is gone. What’s that white stuff in the bucket?

  BURKE: Plaster of Paris. Tell you how the job is done now. First of all we gut the animal and put the insides in that furnace over there. We give the empty skin special treatment. Then we decide what stance that crature is going to have. Take this baste here now.

  PAT: What is that? Is it a young leopard or what?

  BURKE: Not at all. This is a dog, a tarrier. When he’s finished, he’ll be standing alert, with his tail up, just as if he’d seen a rat. Real lifelike.

  PAT: Yes, I know—you’d be afraid he’d bite you.

  BURKE: Ah, don’t be talkin’. We cut the skin down the middle and then we build a sort of a dummy inside it,
made of plaster of Paris, or burlap, or mayber papeer mawshay. D’you see?

  PAT: Yes indeed. Fancy that! I never thought of that.

  BURKE: When the dummy’s perfect and fits right, we use it to make a sort of skeleton, mostly from wire. This goes in and then we sew the skin up. And there you are!

  PAT: Well by dad, ye are the right men. Nobody would think there was all that work in stuffing an oul geezer, say. It’s not everybody could do it, and that’s a certainty.

  BURKE: A taxidermist—that’s the right word—a taxidermist has to be a lot of things. Here, have another cigarette, Pat.

  PAT: Thanks. Must be going soon.

  BURKE: A taxidermist has to be a scientist . . . and a carpenter . . . and a naturalist . . . and an artist . . . and a docthor.

  PAT: You’re quite right. And a surgeon, a mechanic and a sculptor.

  BURKE: Ah, yes. (Drops all tools to emphasize talk.) Now listen here, Pat. I like this class of work. Matter of fact, I wouldn’t know how to do anny other sort of work. But . . . Kelly, the man I work for here! Oh Lord!

  PAT: Yes, I think you told me about him before. I don’t think you’d give him the first prize for good manners, if I remember aright.

  BURKE: I’m telling you, Kelly’s one character I always remember in my prayers. Know what it is? He’s the greatest swine in this whole country.

  PAT: A bit full of himself, I believe.

  BURKE: He has the vanity of Satan himself. I loathe . . . and detest . . . and abominate that awful man.

  PAT: It must be a bit of an extra load on you to have to work in the same room as such a character.

  BURKE: He’s never done whinging and snivelling. Wants to know why I smoke and pollute the atmosphere. Imagine a pig like that giving out about me polluting the atmosphere!

  PAT: Pity you couldn’t get a job in some other firm in the same line of business. Or maybe get a job in some museum looking after this class of stuff.

  BURKE: Ah, there’s no other real firm in this business. And another thing. I get all the lowest sort of work that comes in here—an odd parrot, and dogs and cats. A year ago some mad oul fella sent in a rat to be fixed up. Who would you say got the rat?

  PAT: I wouldn’t say that Mr. Kelly took the job in hand.