by James Graham
Contents
Introduction
Premiere Cast Information
Characters
Prologue
Act One
Scene One
Scene Two
Scene Three
Scene Four
Scene Five
Act Two
Scene One
Scene Two
Scene Three
Scene Four
Scene Five
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the National Theatre
eCopyright
Introduction
It can feel frightening and intimidating for younger writers to take on big political subjects, write big political plays. You sort of feel like you’re stepping into a well-established club of bigger, brighter, older, more qualified writers, and asking, shyly, to have a pop at it yourself. For me, though, that fear has always sort of been the point. After all, that famous gothic building that stands there on the north side of the Thames, jutting upward with its chest puffed out, giving it the ‘big I am’ – that can seem frightening, and impenetrable. As can politics in general. As can history. Part of the journey of this play was to square up to that stuff. To demystify it. Not in a cynical way, not to bring it down – in fact, quite the opposite. I have a deep admiration for our democracy, an affection for the building that houses it, a belief in what it could be. That’s why I wanted to pull the curtain back and expose its soft underbelly. Its vulnerability. Its potential …
I’d been increasingly obsessed with the hung Parliament of 1974–79 long before the General Election of 2010 gave me a handy modern comparison. Having become a Writer in Residence at the Finborough Theatre, London, in 2005, and with the encouragement of Artistic Director Neil McPherson (who couldn’t give a toss about what’s considered ‘fashionable’ or ‘trendy’ on the new writing circuit – of which political histories certainly weren’t), I’d been tackling subject matters that I was probably considered too young to achieve (I was twenty-two), areas that were too ambitious or big. The atomic bomb, the Suez Canal crisis, Margaret Thatcher (all this in a tiny space above a pub where casting more than five actors can mean that someone’s getting changed in the toilet, and where, in between rewrites, you’re hammering props together and helping to paint the set).
I’d tackled the Winter of Discontent – which features as something of an end point in this story – in a play about family and masculinity called Sons of York; and I had started to get a sense of the fascinating social, political, economic triggers in the years preceding it. In researching Thatcher for a play called Little Madam, I’d also come across the sad tale of Dr Alfred Broughton, the sick Labour MP who played a key role (or perhaps more accurately, didn’t) in Thatcher’s rise to power. This is the kind of stuff that properly excites me about history – those ‘what if’ moments, prompted by a twist of fate or little accident, where seismic changes in the political landscape can be traced back to very personal stories of human frailties, desires, or mistakes. Or, to quote Alan Bennett (something of an inspiration in all this) in The History Boys, those moments when history ‘rattles over the points’.
The research is the fun part for me. The overnight stay in Canterbury as I plundered University archives for a whip’s private papers; the train up to Sheffield to sit and have a pork pie with a former Labour whip, chatting about old times and looking at photographs; and countless, countless, trips to the House of Commons itself, having tea with lords, a drink in the bars, wandering the corridors, poking around. I confess, I thought it might be simpler. I thought, for example, that there might be one, single resource in the House that listed what Members of Parliament died of, when, and how. Perhaps documents that chronicled the exact statistical nature of how the government kept, lost, regained, lost again its majority in parliament, which members were responsible, when, and how. There (to be the best of my knowledge) isn’t. I was a magpie, using the help and wisdom of those who know better, to pool all this information together. But then when I had it – what to do with it? How to tell the story? All a dramatist has are choices. How big, how small? What to show, and how long for? Who to include, who to exclude? What should the style be, the tone? The form?
And then, with works of fiction inspired by fact, there’s the perennial question about ‘truth’, and the responsibility towards it. To what extent can, or should, a playwright adapt real events, reinterpret people’s actions, re-imagine possibilities? I don’t pretend to know the answer except to say that, of course, when it comes to those individuals represented here, I felt a huge responsibility to be fair and accurate where possible.
When I was studying drama at Hull University, I was fortunate enough to be part of a discussion workshop with the late Anthony Minghella – himself a Hull graduate. He described his process of adapting novels for the stage or screen as being the following: he would read the work in question three times over, making copious notes. Then he would go off somewhere to write, leaving the original work behind him. Just taking his scribbles. It’s an important psychological shift – taking with you not the specific details but the essence of that story, the elements that leapt out and inspired you, but then deliberately distancing yourself from the original, taking ownership of it yourself. Your version. Your truth.
I think, in a roundabout way, that’s how I approach dramatising the recent past. I learn as much as I can, but then there has to be a point when I take ownership of it as something separate: ask what the story is I want to tell, and what it should say, and begin assembling it together to meet that end. Of course I’m making the process sound much simpler and more linear that it was. In truth, I kept returning to the facts again and again, even as rehearsals began, to keep topping myself up, taking in more, immersing myself within it.
Why? Because the truth of what happened in the Parliament of 1974–79 is just so incredible. My only fear in that adding the necessary warning – ‘This is a dramatisation inspired by real events’ – might lead an audience to think I had changed more than I have. The whips on the Labour side did experience this intense, unprecedented battle for survival. The Members who either die, or abscond, or desert, did just that. What happened to the building itself, including the famous clock, did happen, when it happened (imagine my pleasure when I discovered that). And in particular, the good relationship between Labour whip Walter Harrison and Conservative whip Jack Weatherill, and the dilemma they face together at the very end, is, if anything, more touching and wonderful even than I have presented here.
The main ‘artistic licence’ I suppose comes with the conflation of characters. The offices of the whips may sometimes contain up to sixteen members, senior and junior, and of course here I am only presenting four or five. This is for focus, and to allow an audience to become invested in our protagonists. So Ann Taylor, I confess, did not join the whips office from the very beginning of the Parliament; Fred Silvester wasn’t there until the end. Which also means there were individuals who served valiantly during this time who are not mentioned here (but who very often, kindly, helped with my research into this play).
I set myself certain goals in the writing of This House from the off. In finding a form, I wanted to try and avoid narration, or audience address – nothing against that convention, I’ve used it myself. But I wanted to see if I could tell the story of an entire five-year parliament through action and interaction alone; showing, never telling. I wanted to avoid including the ‘big names’ of the period, spending time instead with those people behind the scenes, the unsung heroes. I wanted to write something that was realistic, but theatrical – hence the Members’ Chorus, the convention of the Spe
aker announcing characters, the musical interludes, and so on. Finally, even though the drama is specific to a particular period in our recent past, I never wanted it to be a museum piece. Instead I hoped to use the period to create something more timeless than that, something more universal, about parliament and democracy. How well I achieved these targets is up to you to decide.
James Graham
2012
Premiere Cast Information
This House had its world premiere at the Cottesloe Theatre on 25 September 2012. The cast and creative team were as follows:
Labour Whips
Michael Cocks
Vincent Franklin
Walter Harrison
Philip Glenister
Bob Mellish
Phil Daniels
Joe Harper
Richard Ridings
Ann Taylor
Lauren O’Neil
Tory Whips
Humphrey Atkins
Julian Wadham
Jack Weatherill
Charles Edwards
Fred Silvester
Ed Hughes
The Members’ Chorus
Clockmaker/Redditch/Nuneaton/
Peebles/Ensemble
Gunnar Cauthery
Batley/Ensemble
Christopher Godwin
Walsall N/Plymouth Sutton/
Speaker 2/Ensemble
Andrew Havill
Coventry SW/Lady Batley/
Ensemble
Helena Lymbery
Paddington S/Chelmsford/
S Ayrshire/Henley/Ensemble
Matthew Pidgeon
Speaker 1/Liverpool Edgehill/
Ensemble
Giles Taylor
Bromsgrove/Abingdon/Paisley/
Fermanagh/Ensemble
Tony Turner
Esher/Ensemble
Rupert Vansittart
Director Jeremy Herrin
Designer Rae Smith
Lighting Designer Paule Constable
Music Stephen Warbeck
Choreographer Scott Ambler
Sound Designer Ian Dickinson
Characters
Labour Whips
Michael Cocks, forties, Yorkshireman
Walter Harrison, fifties, Yorkshireman
Bob Mellish, fifties, Londoner
Joe Harper, fifties, Yorkshireman
Ann Taylor, twenties, Lancashire
Tory Whips
Humphrey Atkins, fifties, Berkshire
Jack Weatherill, fifties, Worcestershire
Fred Silvester, thirties, London
The roles opposite can be played either by an ensemble of actors, ranging from one extreme (one actor per MP) to the other (a small handful playing all parts). Invention is encouraged.
The Members’ Chorus
Bromsgrove
Paisley
Woolwich West
South Ayrshire
Rochester and Chatham
Henley
Paddington South
Lowestoft
Esher
Stirlingshire West
Belfast West
Liverpool Edge Hill
Belfast North
Welwyn and Hatfield
Armagh
St Helen’s
Fermanagh
Coventry South West
Western Isles
Newham North East
Argyll
West Lothian
Dundee East
Rushcliffe
Merioneth
Ashfield
Caernarfon
Perry Bar
Peebles
Birmingham Stetchford
Walsall North
Nuneaton
Ilford North
Mansfield
Thurrock
Grimsby
Coventry North West
Hamilton
Redditch
Penistone
Chelmsford
Glasgow Garscadden
Plymouth Sutton
Manchester Moss Side
Abingdon
Berweick and East Lothian
Batley
Derbyshire North East
The Strangers’ Gallery
Speaker
Clerk
Clockmaker
Teller
Serjeant at Arms
Lady Batley
Paramedic
Barber
This House is a fictional account which has been inspired by true events. The incidents, characters and time lines have been changed for dramatic purposes. In some cases fictitious characters and incidents have been added to the plot and the words are those imagined by the author. The play should not be understood as biography or any other factual account.
A Note on Staging
The play is set in the Palace of Westminster.
The main locations are the Government Whips’ Office and the Opposition Whips’ Office, located either side of the Members’ Lobby.
The Members’ Chorus sit in the House of Commons Chamber, set to one side or at the back. The Members stand and assume the part of the MP for their particular constituency when called by the Speaker, who sits in the Speaker’s Chair observing the action.
Prologue
The Westminster Clock Tower.
The small anteroom behind the famous Big Ben clock face, looming large and high.
Michael Cocks stands, back to us, staring out through the frosted panels of the clock.
The Division Bell rings.
The Speaker rises from his chair in the Commons Chamber.
Speaker Order. ORDER!
The Members’ Lobby. Members are running around the palace in a panic – announced, as always, by the Speaker as they enter.
Speaker The Member for Bromsgrove! The Member for Woolwich West!
Bromsgrove Oi, Bill. (Whistles.) Bill, what’s the bother?
Woolwich West He’s bloody going, i’nt he?! Off to see the Queen.
Bromsgrove No, bollocks, says who?
Woolwich West Harrison.
Bromsgrove … Walter? Oh no …
Woolwich West Some time today. That’s it, another bastard election. (Goes.)
Bromsgrove Oh, shit-a-fucking-brick, no – (Goes to run.)
Speaker The Member for Rochester and Chatham!
Rochester and Chatham Is it true?
Bromsgrove You should know, he’s your leader, love. (Goes.)
Rochester and Chatham Oh don’t be like that. Terry!
Speaker The Member for Paddington South!
Paddington South enters, holding a red ministerial box.
Rochester and Chatham Well?
Paddington South ARSE!
Rochester and Chatham It’s true, then.
Paddington South Bloody typical, the Labour lot catch wind of it first and we’re in ruddy power. Shows who your friends are. Christ!
Rochester and Chatham Look, the Deputy.
Paddington South Jack!
Jack Weatherill, the Conservative Deputy Whip, enters. He wears an incredible suit.
Weatherill Afternoon.
Paddington South Is it true, he’s calling it today?
Weatherill I understand your concern –
Rochester and Chatham Concern?
Weatherill – and rest assured, both of you, when there’s news, if there’s news, it will be announced through the usual channels. Please excuse me (Goes.)
Paddington South (calling after) The usual channels? Come on, Walter Harrison is already spreading it around like shit on a field! How can a Labour whip be announcing it before the Tories? Jack?
The Government Whips’ Office, to one side of the Members’ Lobby.
One main office with an adjoining door to another, off. Desks, sofas, TV, safe, drinks cabinet.
Atkins sits calmly, listening to classical music.
Weatherill enters.
Weatherill Chief. Bit of a to-do out there. (Begins clearing out his drawers.)
Atki
ns I imagine so, yes. Just enjoying the calm before the storm.
Speaker The Member for Paddington South!
Atkins Enter.
Paddington South knocks on the door. Atkins gets to his feet now and begins to ‘pack away’ with real purpose, emptying his (black) ministerial briefcase, even shredding paper. Throughout this, the lights occasionally dim and flicker, due to power shortages.
Paddington South I don’t believe it, Chief; bloody hell. Finally, I finally get my hands on one of these (his box) even if it is as just a mere underling, it’s still –
Weatherill Please, there’s a good chap, / this really isn’t the –
Paddington South It’s still a foot in the door! But I won’t be coming back, you know, with my majority, I mean it. The seat’ll go red this time, you just watch, you just –
Atkins There’s nothing I can do, old bean. Why and whence and where an election occurs is entirely a Prime Minister’s prerogative, whether or / not individual members –
Paddington South Yes, but some bloody notice wouldn’t have gone amiss, it’s anarchy out there, blue-arsed flies.
Atkins That’s why they call it a snap election, Nicholas. It isn’t a ‘bend slowly until it gives’ election, it isn’t a ‘stir gently over a medium heat, reduce to simmer and then serve’ election. It’s a ‘snap’. Quick and painless, off like a plaster –
The phone rings.
Paddington South Painless?! Hah!
Atkins (answering) Whoever you are, yes, it’s true, clear your desk. (Phone down.) A key component in the element of surprise is the element of surprise.
Paddington South Labour aren’t surprised, there’s been a ruddy party kicking off in the Strangers’ for the past hour, meanwhile up in the Smoking Room we’re none the bloody wiser, head in the sand! I mean why now, the polls so precarious, why? It’s not been five years, it’s not even been four! I needed more time, my constituents barely –
