Brian Friel Plays 1 (61 page)
Read Brian Friel Plays 1 Online
Authors: Brian Friel
OWEN:
Go ahead, Father. (
Hands
up
for
quiet.
)
Please – please.
HUGH:
And we, gentlemen, we in turn are happy to offer you our friendship, our hospitality, and every assistance that
you may require. Gentlemen – welcome!
(
A
few
desultory
claps.
The
formalities
are
over.
General
conversation.
The
soldiers
meet
the
locals.
MANUS
and
OWEN
meet
down
stage.
)
OWEN:
Lancey’s a bloody ramrod but George’s all right. How are you anyway?
MANUS:
What sort of a translation was that, Owen?
OWEN:
Did I make a mess of it?
MANUS:
You weren’t saying what Lancey was saying!
OWEN:
‘Uncertainty in meaning is incipient poetry’ – who said that?
MANUS:
There was nothing uncertain about what Lancey said: it’s a bloody military operation, Owen! And what’s Yolland’s function? What’s ‘incorrect’ about the place-names we have here?
OWEN:
Nothing at all. They’re just going to be standardized.
MANUS:
You mean changed into English?
OWEN:
Where there’s ambiguity, they’ll be Anglicized.
MANUS:
And they call you Roland! They both call you Roland!
OWEN:
Shhhhh. Isn’t it ridiculous? They seemed to get it wrong from the very beginning – or else they can’t pronounce Owen. I was afraid some of you bastards would laugh.
MANUS:
Aren’t you going to tell them?
OWEN:
Yes – yes – soon – soon.
MANUS:
But they …
OWEN:
Easy, man, easy. Owen – Roland – what the hell. It’s only a name. It’s the same me, isn’t it? Well, isn’t it?
MANUS:
Indeed it is. It’s the same Owen.
OWEN:
And the same Manus. And in a way we complement each other. (
He
punches
MANUS
lightly,
playfully
and
turns
to
join
the
others.
As
he
goes
.)
All right – who has met whom? Isn’t this a job for the go-between?
(
MANUS
watches
OWEN
move
confidently
across
the floor
,
taking
MAIRE
by
the
hand
and
introducing
her
to
YOLLAND.
HUGH
is
trying
to
negotiate
the
steps.
JIMMY
is
lost
in
a
text.
DOALTY
and
B
RIDGET
are
reliving
their
giggling.
SARAH
is
staring
at
MANUS
.)
CENE I
The
sappers
have
already
mapped
most
of
the
area.
YOLLAND
’s
official
task,
which
OWEN
is
now
doing,
is
to
take
each
of
the
Gaelic
names – every
hill,
stream,
rock,
even
every
patch
of
ground
which
possessed
its
own
distinctive
Irish
name – and
Anglicize
it,
either
by
changing
it
into
its
approximate
English
sound
or
by
translating
it
into
English
words.
For
example,
a
Gaelic
name
like
Cnoc
Ban
could
become
Knockban
or – directly
translated – Fair
Hill.
These
new
standardized
names
were
entered
into
the
Name-Book,
and
when
the
new
maps
appeared
they
contained
all
these
new
Anglicized
names.
OWEN
’
s
official
function
as
translator
is
to
pronounce
each
name
in
Irish
and
then
provide
the
English
translation.
The
hot
weather
continues.
It
is
late
afternoon
some
days
later.
Stage
right:
an
improvised
clothes-line
strung
between
the
shafts
of
the
cart
and
a
nail
in
the
wall;
on
it
are
some
shirts
and
socks.
A
large
map – one
of
the
new
blank
maps – is
spread
out
on
the
floor.
OWEN
is o
n
his
hands
and
knees,
consulting
it.
He
is
totally
engrossed
in
his
task
which
he
pursues
with
great
energy
and
efficiency.
YOLLAND’S
hesitancy
has
vanished – he
is
at
home
here
now.
He
is
sitting
on
the
floor,
his
long
legs
stretched
out
before
him,
his
back
resting
against
a
creel,
his
eyes
closed.
His
mind
is
elsewhere.
One
of
the
reference
books – a
church
registry –
lies
open
on
his
lap.
Around
them
are
various
reference
books,
the
Name-Book,
a
bottle
of
poteen,
some
cups,
etc.
OWEN
completes
an
entry
in
the
Name-Book
and
returns
to
the
map
on
the
floor.
OWEN:
Now. Where have we got to? Yes – the point where that stream enters the sea – that tiny little beach there. George!
YOLLAND:
Yes. I’m listening. What do you call it? Say the Irish name again?
OWEN:
Bun na hAbhann.
YOLLAND:
Again.
OWEN:
Bun
na hAbhann.
YOLLAND:
Bun na hAbhann.
OWEN:
That’s terrible, George.
YOLLAND:
I know. I’m sorry. Say it again.
OWEN:
Bun na hAbbann.
YOLLAND:
Bun na hAbbann.
OWEN:
That’s better. Bun is the Irish word for bottom. And Abha means river. So it’s literally the mouth of the river.
YOLLAND:
Let’s leave it alone. There’s no English equivalent for a sound like that.
OWEN:
What is it called in the church registry?
(
Only
now
does
YOLLAND
open
his
eyes
.)
YOLLAND:
Let’s see … Banowen.
OWEN:
That’s wrong. (
Consults
text
.) The list of freeholders calls it Owenmore – that’s completely wrong: Owenmore’s the big river at the west end of the parish. (
Another
text
.) And in the grand jury lists it’s called – God! – Binhone! – wherever they got that. I suppose we could Anglicize it to Bunowen; but somehow that’s neither fish nor flesh.
(
YOLLAND
closes
his
eyes
again
.)
YOLLAND:
I give up.
OWEN:
(
At
map
)
Back to first principles. What are we trying to do?
YOLLAND:
Good question.
OWEN:
We are trying to denominate and at the same time describe that tiny area of soggy, rocky, sandy ground where that little stream enters the sea, an area known locally as Bun na hAbhann … Burnfoot! What about Burnfoot?
YOLLAND:
(
Indifferently
)
Good, Roland, Burnfoot’s good.
OWEN:
George, my name isn’t …
YOLLAND:
B-u-r-n-f-o-o-t?
OWEN:
Are you happy with that?
YOLLAND:
Yes.
OWEN:
Burnfoot it is then. (
He
makes
the
entry
into
the
Name-Book
.)
Bun na hAbhann – B-u-r-n-
YOLLAND:
You’re becoming very skilled at this.
OWEN:
We’re not moving fast enough.
YOLLAND:
(
Opens
eyes
again
)
Lancey lectured me again last night.
OWEN:
When does he finish here?
YOLLAND:
The sappers are pulling out at the end of the week. The trouble is, the maps they’ve completed can’t be printed without these names. So London screams at Lancey and Lancey screams at me. But I wasn’t intimidated.
(
MANUS
emerges
from
upstairs
and
descends
.)
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, ‘But certain tasks demand their own tempo. You cannot rename a whole country overnight.’ Your Irish air has made me bold. (
To
MANUS
) Do you want us to leave?
MANUS:
Time enough. Class won’t begin for another half-hour.
YOLLAND:
Sorry – sorry?
OWEN:
Can’t you speak English?
(
MANUS
gathers
the
things
off
the
clothes-line.
OWEN
returns
to
the
map
.)
OWEN:
We now come across that beach …
YOLLAND:
Tra – that’s the Irish for beach. (
To
MANUS
) I’m picking up the odd word, Manus.
MANUS:
So.
OWEN:
… on past Burnfoot; and there’s nothing around here that has any name that I know of until we come down here to the south end, just about here … and there should be a ridge of rocks there … Have the sappers marked it? They have. Look, George.
YOLLAND:
Where are we?
OWEN:
There.
YOLLAND:
I’m lost.
OWEN:
Here. And the name of that ridge is Druim Dubh. Put English on that, Lieutenant.
YOLLAND:
Say it again.
OWEN:
Druim Dubh.
YOLLAND:
Dubh means black.
OWEN:
Yes.
YOLLAND:
And Druim means … what? a fort?
OWEN:
We met it yesterday in Druim Luachra.
YOLLAND:
A ridge! The Black Ridge! (
To
MANUS
) You see, Manus?
OWEN:
We’ll have you fluent at the Irish before the summer’s over.
YOLLAND:
Oh, I wish I were. (
To
MANUS
as
he
crosses
to
go
back
upstairs
)
We got a crate of oranges from Dublin today. I’ll send some up to you.
MANUS:
Thanks. (
To
OWEN
) Better hide that bottle. Father’s just up and he’d be better without it.
OWEN:
Can’t you speak English before your man?
MANUS:
Why?
OWEN:
Out of courtesy.
MANUS:
Doesn’t he want to learn Irish? (
To
YOLLAND
) Don’t you want to learn Irish?
YOLLAND:
Sorry – sorry? I – I –
MANUS:
I understand the Lanceys perfectly but people like you puzzle me.
OWEN:
Manus, for God’s sake!
MANUS:
(
Still
to
YOLLAND
) How’s the work going?
YOLLAND:
The work? – the work? Oh, it’s – it’s staggering along – I think – (
To
OWEN
) – isn’t it? But we’d be lost without Roland.
MANUS:
(
Leaving
)
I’m sure. But there are always the Rolands, aren’t there?
(
He
goes
upstairs
and
exits
.)
YOLLAND:
What was that he said? – something about Lancey, was it?
OWEN:
He said we should hide that bottle before Father gets his hands on it.
YOLLAND:
Ah.
OWEN:
He’s always trying to protect him.
YOLLAND:
Was he lame from birth?
OWEN:
An accident when he was a baby: Father fell across his cradle. That’s why Manus feels so responsible for him.
YOLLAND:
Why doesn’t he marry?
OWEN:
Can’t afford to, I suppose.
YOLLAND:
Hasn’t he a salary?
OWEN:
What salary? All he gets is the odd shilling Father throws
him – and that’s seldom enough. I got out in time, didn’t I?
(
YOLLAND
is
pouring
a
drink.
)
Easy with that stuff – it’ll hit you suddenly.
YOLLAND:
I like it.
OWEN:
Let’s get back to the job. Druim Dubh – what’s it called in the jury lists? (
Consults
texts.
)
YOLLAND:
Some people here resent us.
OWEN:
Dramduff – wrong as usual.
YOLLAND:
I was passing a little girl yesterday and she spat at me.
OWEN:
And it’s Drimdoo here. What’s it called in the registry?
YOLLAND:
Do you know the Donnelly twins?
OWEN:
Who?
YOLLAND:
The Donnelly twins.
OWEN:
Yes. Best fishermen about here. What about them?
YOLLAND:
Lancey’s looking for them.
OWEN:
What for?
YOLLAND:
He wants them for questioning.
OWEN:
Probably stolen somebody’s nets. Dramduffy! Nobody ever called it Dramduffy. Take your pick of those three.
YOLLAND:
My head’s addled. Let’s take a rest. Do you want a drink?
OWEN:
Thanks. Now, every Dubh we’ve come across we’ve changed to Duff. So if we’re to be consistent, I suppose Druim Dubh has to become Dromduff.
(
YOLLAND
is
now
looking
out
the
window.
)
You can see the end of the ridge from where you’re standing. But D-r-u-m- or D-r-o-m-? (
Name-Book
)
Do you remember – which did we agree on for Druim Luachra?
YOLLAND:
That house immediately above where we’re camped –
OWEN:
Mm?
YOLLAND:
The house where Maire lives.
OWEN:
Maire? Oh, Maire Chatach.
YOLLAND:
What does that mean?
OWEN:
Curly-haired; the whole family are called the Catachs. What about it?
YOLLAND:
I hear music coming from that house almost every night.
OWEN:
Why don’t you drop in?
YOLLAND:
Could I?
OWEN:
Why not? We used D-r-o-m then. So we’ve got to call it D-r-o-m-d-u-f-f – all right?
YOLLAND:
Go back up to where the new school is being built and just say the names again for me, would you?
OWEN:
That’s a good idea. Poolkerry, Ballybeg –
YOLLAND:
No, no; as they still are – in your own language.
OWEN:
Poll na gCaorach,
(
YOLLAND
repeats
the
names
silently
after
him.
)
Baile Beag, Ceann Balor, Lis Maol, Machaire Buidhe, Baile na gGall, Carraig na Ri, Mullach Dearg –
YOLLAND:
Do you think I could live here?
OWEN:
What are you talking about?
YOLLAND:
Settle down here – live here.
OWEN:
Come on, George.
YOLLAND:
I mean it.
OWEN:
Live on what? Potatoes? Buttermilk?
YOLLAND:
It’s really heavenly.
OWEN:
For God’s sake! The first hot summer in fifty years and you think it’s Eden. Don’t be such a bloody romantic. You wouldn’t survive a mild winter here.
YOLLAND:
Do you think not? Maybe you’re right.
(
DOALTY
enters
in
a
rush.
)
DOALTY:
Hi, boys, is Manus about?
OWEN:
He’s upstairs. Give him a shout.
DOALTY:
Manus! The cattle’s going mad in that heat – Cripes, running wild all over the place. (
To
YOLLAND
) How are you doing, skipper?
(
MANUS
appears.
)
YOLLAND:
Thank you for – I – I’m very grateful to you for –
DOALTY:
Wasting your time. I don’t know a word you’re saying. Hi, Manus, there’s two bucks down the road there asking for you.
MANUS:
(
Descending
)
Who are they?
DOALTY:
Never clapped eyes on them. They want to talk to you.
MANUS:
What about?
DOALTY:
They wouldn’t say. Come on. The bloody beasts’ll end up in Loch an Iubhair if they’re not capped. Good luck, boys!
(
DOALTY
rushes
off.
MANUS
follows
him.
)
OWEN:
Good luck! What were you thanking Doalty for?
YOLLAND:
I was washing outside my tent this morning and he was passing with a scythe across his shoulder and he came up to me and pointed to the long grass and then cut a pathway round my tent and from the tent down to the road – so that my feet won’t get wet with the dew. Wasn’t that kind of him? And I have no words to thank him … I suppose you’re right: I suppose I couldn’t live here … Just before Doalty came up to me this morning, I was thinking that at that moment I might have been in Bombay instead of Ballybeg. You see, my father was at his wits end with me and finally he got me a job with the East India Company – some kind of a clerkship. This was ten, eleven months ago. So I set off for London. Unfortunately I – I – I missed the boat. Literally. And since I couldn’t face Father and hadn’t enough money to hang about until the next sailing, I joined the army. And they stuck me into the Engineers and posted me to Dublin. And Dublin sent me here. And while I was washing this morning and looking across the Tra Bhan, I was thinking how very, very lucky I am to be here and not in Bombay.