Brian Friel Plays 1 (53 page)

   And as I watched him and listened to him and felt the darts of his spittle on my face, I had an impulse – and I thank God I resisted it – a calm, momentary impulse to do an ugly, shameful thing: I wanted to curse him – no, not curse him – assault and defile him with obscenities and to articulate them slowly and distinctly and brutally into his patrician face; words he never used; a language he didn’t speak; a language never heard in that house. But even in his confusion he’d understand it and recognize it as the final rejection of his tall straight poplars and the family profession and his formal Japanese gardens. But more
important, much, much more important, recognize it as my proud testament to my mountebank and the van and the wet timber and the primus stove and the dirty halls and everything he’d call squalor. But thank God I didn’t do that. Instead – and he was still sentencing me – I just walked away. And I never saw him again. And he died before the year was over. And the next night I was back in the Norfolk byre, back on the damp mattress and kissing Frank’s face and shoulders and chest and telling him how sorry I was; and he’s drunk and giving me his sly smile and saying little. And then I was pregnant again and this time I held on to it for the full time. And that was the black-faced, macerated baby that’s buried in a field in Kinlochbervie in Sutherland in the north of Scotland –

(
At
banner
)
Faith healer – faith healing – I never understood it, never. I tried to. In the beginning I tried diligently – as the doctor might say I brought all my mental rigour to bear on it. But I couldn’t even begin to apprehend it – this gift, this craft, this talent, this art, this magic – whatever it was he possessed, that defined him, that was, I suppose, essentially him. And because it was his essence and because it eluded me I suppose I
was
wary of it. Yes, of course I was. And he knew it. Indeed, if by some miracle Frank could have been the same Frank without it, I would happily have robbed him of it. And he knew that, too – how well he knew that; and in his twisted way read into it the ultimate treachery on my part. So what I did was, I schooled myself – I tried to school myself – to leave it to him and him with it and be content to be outside them. And for a time that seemed to work for both of us: we observed the neutrality of the ground between us. But as time went on and particularly in the last few years when he became more frantic and more truculent, he began to interpret my remove as resentment, even as hostility, or he pretended he
did – you could never be sure with him – and he insisted on dragging me into feud between himself and his talent. And then we would snarl and lunge and grapple at one another and things were said that should never have been said and that lay afterwards on our lives like slow poison. When his talent was working for him, the aggression wasn’t quite so bitter – after he’d cured someone he’d be satisfied just to flaunt himself, to taunt me: ‘And what does the legal mind make of all that? Just a con, isn’t it? Just an illusion, isn’t it?’ And I’d busy myself putting away the chairs or taking down the banner. But when he couldn’t perform – and in those last two years that became more and more frequent, the more desperate he became – then he’d go for me with bared teeth as if I were responsible and he’d scream at me, ‘You were at your very best tonight, Miss O’Dwyer, weren’t you? A great night for the law, wasn’t it? You vengeful, spiteful bitch.’ And I’d defend myself. And we’d tear one another apart.

   As soon as we’d open the doors, that’s where I’d take my seat, at a table if there was one, or if there wasn’t, with a tray on my knee; because sometimes they’d pay on their way in, now and again far more than they could afford, I suppose in the hope that somehow it would sweeten Frank to them. And that’s where I’d sit all through the performance and collect whatever they’d leave on the way out.

   And when they’d all be seated – ‘all’! Many a time we were lucky to have half-a-dozen – then Teddy’d put on the record, a worn-out hissing version of a song called ‘The Way You Look Tonight’. I begged Frank to get something else, anything else. But he wouldn’t. It had to be that. ‘I like it,’ he’d say, ‘and it confuses them.’

   Then Teddy’d come out and make his announcement.

   And then Frank would appear.

   I wish you could have seen him. It wasn’t that he was a handsome man. He wasn’t really. But when he came out before those people and moved among them and touched them – even though he was often half-drunk – he had a
special … magnificence. And I’d sit there and watch him and I’d often find myself saying to myself, ‘Oh you lucky woman.’ Oh‚ yes, oh, indeed, yes.

   (
Sits
and
pours
a
drink
)
I didn’t want to come back to Ireland. Neither did Teddy. But he insisted. He had been in bad shape for months and although he didn’t say it – he would never have said it – I knew he had some sense that Ireland might somehow recharge him, maybe even restore him. Because in that last year he seemed to have lost touch with his gift. And of course he was drinking too much and missing performances and picking fights with strangers – cornering someone in a pub and boasting that he could perform miracles and having people laugh at him; or else lying in the back of the van – we lived in it most of the time now – lying in the van and not speaking or eating for days.

   But the real trouble was the faith healing. It wasn’t that he didn’t try – I suppose trying hadn’t much to do with it anyway – but he tried too hard, he tried desperately, and usually nothing happened, nothing at all. I remember, just a few weeks before we came back, he met an old woman in an off-licence in Kilmarnock and he told her he could cure her arthritis. And he tried. And he failed. In the old days he wouldn’t have given her another thought; but he became obsessed with that old woman, found out where she lived, went to her house again and again until finally her
son-in-law
threw him out and threatened to get the police for him.

   So on the last day of August we crossed from Stranraer to Larne and drove through the night to County Donegal. And there we got lodgings in a pub, a lounge bar, really, outside a village called Ballybeg, not far from Donegal Town. (
She
moves
again
.)
And the strange thing was that night began so well. I remember watching him and thinking: Yes, his sense was true, he
is
going to be restored here – he was so easy and so relaxed and so charming, and there was nobody more charming than him when he wanted to be. I could tell even by the way he was drinking – not gulping down the first three or four drinks as if they were
only preliminaries. And he chatted to the landlord and they talked about the harvest and about fishing and about the tourist trade. He even introduced me as his wife – God, I suppose that ought to have alerted me.

   And there was a group of young men in the lounge, five of them, local men on their way home from their friend’s wedding; and one of them, the youngest of them, was in a wheelchair. And they were sitting in a corner by themselves and you could tell they wanted to be left alone. And when I saw him go over to them I had a second of unease. But whatever it was he said to them, they smiled and shook hands with him and moved into the centre of the lounge and he called me over and we all sat round in a big circle and one of them ordered a drink and the landlord joined us and we just sat there and chatted and laughed and told stories and sang songs. Where was Teddy? (
Remembering
) Yes, he was there, too, just outside the circle, slightly drunk and looking a bit bewildered. And it began as such a happy night – yes, happy, happy, happy! The young men were happy. I was happy. And Frank – yes, yes, I know he was happy too. And then out of the blue – we were talking about gambling – Frank suddenly leaned across to one of the wedding guests, a young man called Donal, and said, ‘I can cure that finger of yours.’ And it was dropped as lightly, as casually, as naturally into the conversation as if he had said ‘This is my round.’ So naturally that the others didn’t even hear it and went on talking. And he caught the twisted finger between his palms and massaged it gently and then released it and the finger was straight and he turned immediately to me and gave me an icy, exultant, theatrical smile and said, ‘That’s the curtain-raiser.’

   And I knew at once – I knew it instinctively – that before the night was out he was going to measure himself against the cripple in the wheelchair.

   And he did. Yes. Outside in the yard. I watched from an upstairs window. But that was hours later, just after
daybreak
. And throughout the night the others had become crazed with drink and he had gone very still and sat with
his eyes half-closed but never for a second taking them off the invalid.

   Before they all went out to the yard – it was almost dawn then – I gripped him by the elbow. ‘For Christ’s sake, Frank, please, for my sake‚’ and he looked at me, no, not at me, not at me, past me, beyond me, out of those damn benign eyes of his; and I wasn’t there for him …

   Invergordon, Kinlochbervie … in Sutherland, in the north of Scotland …

(
By
rote
)
But I
am
getting stronger. I
am
becoming more controlled. I can measure my progress by the number of hours I sleep and the amount I drink and – and –

   O my God I’m in such a mess – I’m really in such a mess – how I want that door to open – how I want that man to come across that floor and put his white hands on my face and still this tumult inside me – O my God I’m one of his fictions too, but I need him to sustain me in that existence – O my God I don’t know if I can go on without his sustenance.

(
Fade
to
black
.)

‘Some day when I’m awf’ly low

When the world is cold,

I will feel a glow just thinking of you

And the way you look tonight …’

‘Lovely, never, never change,

Keep that breathless charm,

Won’t you please arrange it

’Cause I love you

Just the way you look tonight.

Mm, mm, mm, mm,

Just the way you look tonight.’

TEDDY:
What about that then, eh? Fred Astaire. Fantastic, isn’t  it? One of the greats, Freddy. Just fantastic. I could listen  to that all day – (
Sings
) ‘Just the way you look …’ It was  Gracie insisted on that for our theme music. And do you  know why, dear heart? She wouldn’t admit it to him but  she told me. Because that was the big hit the year she and  Frank was married. Can you imagine! But of course as time  goes by she forgets that. And of course he never knows why  it’s our theme – probably thinks I’ve got some sort of a  twisted mind. So that the two of them end up blaming
me
 for picking it! But by that time I really like the tune, you  know; and anyway it’s the only record we have. So I keep
it. And old Teddy he’s the only one of the three of us that knows its romantic significance. I’ll tell you something, dear heart: spend your life in showbusiness and you become a philosopher.

   But it is a fantastic tune, isn’t it? Did you ever look back over all the great artists – old Freddy here, Lillie Langtry, Sir Laurence Olivier, Houdini, Charlie Chaplin, Gracie Fields – and did you ever ask yourself what makes them all top-liners, what have they all got in common? Okay, I’ll tell you. Three things. Number one: they’ve got ambition this size. Okay? Number two: they’ve got a talent that is sensational and unique – there’s only one Sir Laurence – right? Number three: not one of them has two brains to rub together. You think I’m Joking? I promise you. They know they have something fantastic, sure, they’re not that stupid. But what it is they have, how they do it, how it works, what that sensational talent is, what it all means – believe me, they don’t know and they don’t care and even if they did care they haven’t the brains to analyse it.

   Let me tell you about two dogs I had once. Okay? One was a white poodle and she was so brilliant – I mean, that dog she knew what you were thinking about before you even thought about it yourself. Before I’d come home at night, d’you know what that dog would do? She’d switch on the electric fire, pull the curtains, and leave my slippers and a bottle of beer sitting there beside my chair. But put her in front of an audience – fell apart – couldn’t do nothing. Right. Now the other dog he was a whippet. Maybe you remember him, Rob Roy, The Piping Dog? (
Brief
pause
.) Well, it was quite a few years ago. Anyway, you see that whippet, he was fantastic. I mean to say, just tell me how many times in your life has it been your privilege to hear a three-year-old male whippet dog play ‘Come Into The Garden, Maud’ on the bagpipes
and
follow for his encore with ‘Plaisir d’Amour’. Okay? Agreed. Sensational talent. Ambition? I couldn’t stop him rehearsing. Morning, noon and night he’d sit there blowing the bloody thing and
working them bellows with his back leg – all night long if I’d let him. That’s all he lived for, being on top of the heap. And brains? Had he brains, that whippet? Let me tell you. I had that dog four and a half years, until he expired from pulmonary exhaustion. And in all that time that whippet couldn’t even learn his name! I mean it. I mean apart from his musical genius that whippet in human terms was educationally subnormal. A retarded whippet, in fact. I’d stub my toe against something, and I’d say ‘God!’‚ and who’d come running to me, wagging his tail? I tell you: a philosopher – that’s what you become.

   I’ll give you another example. One of the best acts I ever handled – Miss Mulatto and Her Pigeons. You see that kid? D’you know what that kid could do? I swear to God this is no lie, that kid talked pigeon! I swear. Fluent. That kid could plant her pigeons all over the house – some here, some there, some down there; and then she’d stand in the centre of the stage and she’d speak to them in a great flood of pigeon, you know – I can’t do it, I can’t even speak English – but this flood of pigeon would come out of her. And suddenly all those birds – a hundred and twenty of them, I should know, six to a box, twenty boxes, that’s when I had to buy the van – all those birds would rise up from all over the house and come flying in like a bloody massive snowstorm and smother her on the stage. Fantastic. Can you imagine it? Her being able to talk to every one of them hundred and twenty birds and for all I know maybe them all speaking different languages! I said to her once, ‘Mary Brigid,’ I said, that was her name, Mary Brigid O’Donnell, I said, ‘What do you say to them?’ And she tossed her head and she said, ‘Say to them? How would I know what I say to them, Teddy? I just make sounds at them.’ See? (
He
touches
his
head
.) Nothing. Empty. But what a talent! What an artist! And another thing, when those birds all died that winter of ’47 – all of them, just like that, within twenty-four hours, we were in Crewe at the time, the vet said it was galloping shingles – after those birds died, Mary Brigid never worked again. I suppose it’d
be like as if … as if someone sat on Yehudi Menuhin’s fiddle and smashed it. God! Bloody artists!

(
TEDDY
disposes
of
the
empty
bottle
and
sings
as
he
does
.)

I’ll tell you something: if you’re thinking of going into the promotion business, let me tell you something – I’ll give you this for nothing – it’s the best advice you’ll ever get – and it has been the one ruling principle in all my years as a professional man: if you’re going to handle great artists, you must handle them – believe me, I know what I’m talking about – you must handle them on the basis of a relationship that is strictly business only. Personally, in the privacy of your heart, you may love them or you may hate them. But that has nothing to do with it. Your client he has his job to do. You have your job to do. On that basis you complement each other. But let that relationship between you spill over into friendship or affection and believe me, dear heart, the coupon’s torn. The one rule I’ve always lived by: friends is friends and work is work, and as the poet says, never the twain shall meet. Okay? Okay. (
Indicating
poster
) Him? No, he was no great artist. Course he was no great artist. Never anything more than a mediocre artist. At best. Believe me. I should know, shouldn’t I? Sure he had talent. Talent? He had more talent – listen to me – he had more talent than – and brains? – brains! – that’s all the stupid bastard had was brains! For Christ’s sake, brains! And what did they do for him, I ask you, all those bloody brains? They bloody castrated him – that’s what they done for him – bloody knackered him! So what do you end up handling? A bloody fantastic talent that hasn’t one ounce of ambition because his bloody brains has him bloody castrated! Tell me – go ahead – you tell me – you tell me – I genuinely want to know – what sort of act is that to work with, to spend your life with? How do you handle an act like that? You tell
me
. I never knew! I never learned! Oh, 
for God’s sake, no wonder I have ulcers!

   (
Pause.
Then
softly
) But when his brain left him alone. When he was in form.

   There was one night in particular. Wales it was. Village called Llanblethian. An old Methodist church that I get for ten bob. A week before Christmas.

   And we’re flat broke. And Frank, he’s on two bottles of whiskey a day at this stage. And Gracie and him they’ve been fighting something terrible and she’s disappeared off somewhere. And I’ve a pocketful of bills to pay.

   Okay. Eight o’clock. I open the doors. I’m not exactly knocked down in the stampede. As a matter of fact, dear heart – nobody. God. And now it’s snowing. I close the doors. Frank he’s looking like he’s about to die, and his hands and his shoulders they’re shaking like this. ‘Get me a drink,’ he says. I pretend I don’t hear him. The door’s flung open. The stampede? (
He
shakes
his
head
.)
Gracie. ‘Where’s the genius?’ she shouts. ‘I came to see the great Irish genius. Where is he?’ And he hears her and he screams, ‘Get that bitch out! Get rid of that bitch!’ ‘Oh, he’s here, is he?’ she says. ‘Physician, heal thyself!’ she says with this great, mad, mocking voice. ‘Out! Out!’ he shouts. ‘The genius!’ she screams. ‘Out! Out!’ ‘Genius!’ And their voices they’re echoing up through those dirty big oak rafters of the church so that it goes on and on and on … Oh, God, I mean to say, dear heart …

   Finally – it must be near nine o’clock now – we’re about to pack up and the door opens and in come ten people. I don’t remember all the details now. There’s two kids, I know; one of them has this great big lump on his cheek. And there’s a woman with crutches. And there’s another young woman with a crying baby in her arms. And there’s a young man with dark glasses and one of those white sticks for blind people. Five or six others – I can’t remember – I mean I didn’t know then the kind of night it was going to be, did I? Oh, yes, and an old man, a farmer – he’s lame – he’s helped in by his daughter. And they all sit down. And I goes through my paces: Ladies and Gentlemen and et cetera
and so on. And then I goes to Frank and I says, ‘Okay, Frank?’ And very slowly he straightens up and when I see his face I’m sure he’s going to be sick and he doesn’t answer me at all but sort of – you know – drifts past me and down to them and among them.

(
He
slowly
pours
the
remains
of
a
bottle
into
his
glass.
Then
takes
a
drink
.)

   All I can say now is that it was … I mean I don’t ask you to believe what happened. Quite honestly – and I don’t say this with no belligerence – it makes no difference to me whether you believe me or not. But what happened that night in that old Methodist hall in
the village of Llanbethian in
Glamorganshire in Wales is that every single person in that church was cured. Ten people. All made right again. I’d seen him do fantastic things before but I’d never seen him do anything on that scale. Never. And I’ll tell you a funny thing: there was no shouting or cheering or dancing with joy, nothing at all like that. Hardly a word was spoken. It was like as if not only had he taken away whatever it was was wrong with them, but like he had given them some great content in themselves as well. That sounds silly, doesn’t it? But that’s the way it seemed.

   And when he had finished, they all got to their feet and shook his hand, one after the other, very formal like. And the old farmer, the one who’d been lame and had been helped in by his daughter, he made a little speech. He said, in that lilting Welsh accent – I can’t do that neither – he said, ‘Mr Hardy, as long as men live in Glamorganshire, you’ll be remembered here.’ And whatever way he said it, you knew it was true; and whatever way he said
Glamorganshire
, it sounded like the whole world. And then he took out his wallet and placed it on the table and he said, ‘I hope I’m not insulting you, sir.’ And they all went out.

   (
Short
pause
) That was one of the big nights, that was. I mean we were stunned – Gracie – me – Frank himself; we just stood looking at one another. I mean to say – ten people – all in a few minutes. And then he suddenly went crazy with delight. And he threw his arms around me and
kissed me on both cheeks. And then he ran down to Gracie and caught her in his arms and lifted her up into the air and danced her up and down the aisle of that old church and the two of them sang at the top of their voices, ‘Lovely, never never change’, trying to sing and dance and at the same time breaking their sides laughing. And then he flung the doors open and they ran outside and sang and danced in the snow. What a pair! Oh my dear, what a pair! Like kids they were. Just like kids. Then I heard the van starting up. But by the time I got out they were gone. Just like that. Didn’t see them again for four days – what happened was they went off to some posh hotel in Cardiff and lived it up until the wallet was empty. Just like kids, you know. Thoughtless; no thought for tomorrow. And no cruelty intended – oh no, no cruelty. But at a time like that a bit thoughtless. And that’s understandable, too, after a night like that, isn’t it? Just a little bit thoughtless – that’s all.

   (
He
goes
to
the
locker
for
another
bottle.
As
he
goes
)
What a funny couple they were, though. Oh dear, what a funny couple. I mean to spend the greater part of their lives together, fighting as they did; and when I say fighting, I mean really sticking the old knife in and turning it as hard as they could. I never understood it – job for the head-shrink, isn’t it? – why two people should burn themselves out in that way. Sure they could have split. Why didn’t they then? Don’t ask me. For God’s sake why didn’t I leave them and get myself something nice and simple and easy like – like – like a whistling dolphin? And what was the fighting all about in the end? All right you could say it was because the only thing that finally mattered to him was his work – and that would be true. Or you could say it was because the only thing that finally mattered to her was him – and I suppose that would be true, too. But when you put the two propositions together like that – I don’t know – somehow they both become only half-truths, you know.

   Or maybe you could say that no artist should ever be married. I’ve heard that theory, too; and after a lifetime in
the profession I would incline to the conclusion that that theory has quite a bit of validity in it. I mean look at Rob Roy, The Piping Dog. Just consider for one minute the fortune I could have made in stud fees when that dog was a household name. Queuing up with their bitches they were; queuing bloody up. Twenty nicker a throw they were offering me. I thought I was sitting on a gold-mine. Do you know what I did in anticipation of the fortune that was going to come pouring in? I got a fifteen-foot black Carrara marble headstone with gold lettering put up over my mother’s grave. Set me back £214, that did. Okay – and what happened? – what happened every single time? I’ll tell you. I come into the room here with a very beautiful and very sexy whippet bitch. He’s just been rehearsing and he’s lying there in that basket, gasping for breath. I say to him, ‘Look at this then, old Rob. Who’s good to you then, eh?’ But he’s temperamental – he won’t look up. And the bitch, she’s rolling her eyes and waggling all over and laughing like a bloody gypsy. ‘Come on, boy,’ I say, ‘come on, come on. You’ve got a nice friend here.’ And what does he do every time, every single time? He gets to his feet. He gives this great yawn. And then suddenly – just like that – goes for her throat! For her bloody
throat
for God’s sake! Tries to tear her limb from bloody limb! Course he’s stupid but he’s not that stupid! I mean he knows what it’s all about! My God he knows! My God, there’s days he’s so randy, that whippet, there’s days I daren’t strap the bloody bagpipes to him! And yet look what he does when it’s bloody handed to him on a plate – some of the most beautiful whippet bitches in the country and every one of them crying out for it! Goes for her throat and tries to desecrate my mother’s memory at the same time! Oh my God – artists! I ask you!