There are newspaper men knocking on your digs’ door in London and offers coming in for sponsorship and endorsements. You have the wonderful realisation that you might never need to be a typist again. If you keep a smart head on your shoulders, you can probably be a professional swimmer for as long as your body holds up, but that might only be a decade at most, so you will have to take your opportunities where you find them.
But then, just a few days after your swim, the newspapers print that a woman named Dorothy Logan has made a successful Channel crossing too. She claims to have broken Ederle’s record, and for some reason that you can’t quite fathom, this news makes you feel sick to your stomach. (I go to the ladder as if about to lift it but instead take the cloth from where it lies folded on the top rung and hold it to me.) You’ve never met Logan, though you have heard her name mentioned a few times, but never in connection with a Channel attempt. You didn’t think anybody else would try making a crossing this late in the year. None of the fishermen at Folkestone spoke of another swimmer wanting to rent a boat or a guide…
Sure enough, a few days later she reveals herself a hoax. And then doubts are cast on the truth of your swim, made worse by the fact that the only witnesses are Mr Allan and the fisherman who, it is argued, could both be seen to have a vested interest. Or might have been paid off.
Now the knocks on your digs’ door are getting louder and more insistent: ‘Miss Gleitze would you care to comment on the truth of the rumours?’ ‘Miss Gleitze how do you intend to answer your critics?’ ‘Miss Gleitze are you going to do it again?’
I turn up the music and keep the curtains closed. I already know what I have to do, but I want to delay the inevitable for a few more hours. My body knows I am about to sell it out, and my muscles seem to ache more on purpose. I have a sweet cup of tea and a frustrated cry, pull myself together, pick up one of the cards that has been shoved under the front door, telephone the number on it and say, ‘All right, I’ll do it again.’
I pick up the ladder and move it centre stage. I address Mercedes as if she is at the top of the ladder.
A date is set for what they are calling your Vindication Swim. It will take place on October 21st 1927. There are things I need to ask. You were stubborn and you felt slighted and wanted to be vindicated. But you weren’t stupid. You must have realised that already the temperatures had significantly dropped to the low fifties. Surely you knew that the risk of hypothermia was greatly increased? Were you spurred on by your success and did that cloud your judgement, making you feel invincible? Or was it what I want to believe: that you knew there was a significant chance you wouldn’t make it but you still wanted to at least try?
(The sound of the sea, building) We set out at 4.21 a.m., later than I would have liked, but it’s not just my decision anymore. There are hundreds of people here; officials and journalists and spectators. People who are willing me to succeed and people who are sure I will give up. It makes me nervous. I am grateful for the interest and the enthusiasm and for all the good luck wishes I receive, but as I stand here about to go in again, I wish for the quiet and the solitude of that previous morning.
It’s cold. It must be some of the coldest water I have ever swum in. The pain is almost unbearable at times and then it gets to a point where I can’t really feel much of anything at all. Far from welcoming this, I know that it’s a bad sign. ‘Sprint girl, sprint to get your temperature back up.’ And I do for a while, but as soon as I return to a regular pace my stroke rate drops until sometimes it is as low as ten strokes per minute. And of course the slower I get the colder I get, and the colder I get the slower I get, and the colder I am the more my mind is affected.
Is being an athlete like being a performer? Did you have your little routines, your mantras and superstitions; a way you liked to do things? Were they an attempt to maintain the illusion of control?
I try praying. ‘Gregusest seist du Maria…’ I vary my strokes – breast stroke to over arm – but then I can’t stand putting my face in water this cold because it makes me want to gasp, so I change back again.
Did you look up and catch the worried looks on the faces of your family and supporters? You were an experienced long distance swimmer who had failed to make this crossing many times before. Did you know somewhere inside that you had set yourself an impossible task, or is it really true that people like you possess some sort of strange ability to ignore reality and persuade your body into compliance? Were you afraid?
There are well wishers travelling in boats alongside me, playing music and singing songs. At first I listen to them and it’s a welcome distraction, but then it gets to a point where I just want them to be quiet. I just want it to be me and the sea. I want to be able to be inside my own head and to be inside my body and to swim and be left alone. I have been swimming for over ten hours now and I can feel myself slipping away. Great waves of tiredness are passing over me and it feels like the music is lulling me to sleep. So I muster up as much strength as I can and I shout to the guide boat, ‘For Pete’s sake, tell them to play something lively.’
Not that it makes any difference. At various times it is suggested that I should get out of the water, but I won’t let them persuade me. ‘No, I am not going to give up willingly.’ I have made a deal with Mr Allan that he is only allowed to pull me out if he feels that it’s no longer safe. I know that he will keep his word.
‘Stop thinking about failure. You’ve gone this far and now you know what success feels like. Think about that.’ I push and my body tries to respond. My legs want to keep kicking, and my arms want to keep pulling, but my heart is beating much, much too slowly.
I begin to slip into unconsciousness and I feel myself being hoisted on board the boat.
At 2.45 p.m. you were reluctantly pulled out of the water, seven miles short of your goal. You failed. The reporters, doctors and experts on hand were amazed at your ability to withstand the cold, at your endurance and at your fitness and decreed that you must have been telling the truth first time around. According to all, it was a victory in defeat. What was it to you? Were you crushed by your collapse and did you have to muster up courage to get back into the water? Or had you perhaps thought this might happen? Were you angry that it was only now, only when you had put your life at risk, that you were believed? Maybe you were heartened by the public’s willingness to take your word for your previous swim?
I let go of the cloth, placing it with the other objects.
There are things I don’t know, but there are things that have been recorded. Just as news of your vindication swim hit the papers, a chap by the name of Hans Wildorf, co-founder of Rolex, had just patented the first waterproof wristwatch and he wrote asking if you would wear it on your person as you swam. It was a good deal and you agreed. The Rolex Oyster was marketed as The Wonder Watch that defies the elements, with your endorsement of course:
‘You will like to hear that the Rolex Oyster watch I carried on my Channel swim proved itself a reliable and accurate timekeeping companion even though it was subjected to complete immersion in hours of sea water at a temperature of not more than fifty-eight and often as low as fifty-one degrees. The newspaper man was astonished and I of course am delighted with it.’
It kept going, though you could not.
You proved yourself well and truly by swimming the Straits of Gibraltar the following year, with a detailed log and over fifteen signatories who all testified that you did it unaided. You were vindicated. You did go down in history as the first British woman to swim the English Channel.
I sit on the ladder.
For me a long distance swimmer is someone remote; detached from everyday life. I’m a terrible swimmer. I didn’t properly learn until adulthood. Chlorine makes me sneeze. Years of playing a wind instrument made my lungs big enough to swim a width without taking a breath, and so I never learned how. I will never swim the English Channel. But it was the solitude and the faded limelight that attracted me to your story. And since I began
trying to track you down, it is that same solitude that has presented the biggest challenge.
Having lived a life of endurance, fame and remoteness you became a recluse. You had travelled the world, swimming in many of its oceans and lakes. You had performed endurance feats in swimming pools and exhibitions of scientific swimming in the circus, but when your body finally did have its revenge, you chose to retreat inwards once more. You portioned up this part of your life and packed it away within yourself. And when you died, you took most of your memories with you.
All that remains are the logs of your swims, programmes and photographs found boxed up in your attic. They have shown me a glimpse of the space around a person who can never really be known or recreated.
I found her in Cork City Library in the summer of 2005, but when I returned in 2006, the book of old photographs from which she smiled demurely at me could not be found. It felt like Mercedes was courting celebrity all over again.
Imagine that I’m the closest thing to a celebrity that you have ever seen.
Now imagine that this carries me to a diving platform high above you.
I climb to the top of the ladder.
I take up position.
I say:
(The sounds of breathing and the sea, building and then retreating) Imagine smearing your body in a mixture of lard and Vaseline to keep out the cold.
Imagine the exhilarating bite of the sea on a winter’s morning.
Imagine cold, relentless sheets of rain pounding down while the sea churns around you.
Imagine fighting a rising tide.
Imagine being dragged off course and having to swim harder, and faster, for longer.
Imagine maintaining your resolve through repeated failures.
Imagine not seeing them as failures.
Imagine wading in from empty beach on a moonless night, and knowing that you will swim through that night, and all of the following day.
Imagine the clock which never has bad days, which never gets tired, constantly ticking.
Imagine your aching muscles which you must ignore and control.
Speak to your lungs and say, ‘You are bigger than this.’
Speak to your heart and say, ‘Don’t beat faster, slow down.’
Speak to your spine and say, ‘Keep rotating.’
Speak to your legs and say, ‘Keep kicking.’
Speak to your arms and say, ‘Keep pulling.’
Speak to your joints and say, ‘Look, you can have your revenge when I’m old.’
Imagine crawling up a beach so completely spent that your body shuts down into unconsciousness.
Imagine the release of realising that you have succeeded at last.
Imagine accomplishing your greatest ambition and then having it doubted because of the actions of a charlatan.
Imagine having to do it all over again.
Imagine what it’s like to go from being a shorthand typist to a world record breaker.
Imagine knowing you could hold fifteen hours of swimming in your lungs.
Imagine holding fifteen hours of swimming in your lungs.
Imagine travelling around the world, making your money through elaborate performances of feats of endurance.
Imagine what it is like to go from being a vaudeville star to a mother and a wife.
Imagine turning your back on a talent that inspired awe in others.
Imagine sinking into solitude.
Imagine slipping into old age and obscurity.
Imagine watching your fame fade away, as you keep the curtain closed and the music turned up.
Imagine the deep sleep of satisfaction as you remember it all.
I climb down.
Imagine finding this life in a library on an ordinary Thursday afternoon. And saying to yourself: ‘Remember to breathe.’
Lights Fade.
PINEAPPLE
BY
PHILLIP MCMAHON
For Mam, Jen, and Dad who will always be with us.
All rights whatsoever in this play are strictly reserved and application for performance etc. should be made before commencement of rehearsal to MacFarlane Chard Associates, 7 Adelaide Street, Dun Laoghaire, Co Dublin T: 00 353 1 663 8646 F: 00 353 1 663 8649 www.macfarlane-chard.ie. No performance may be given unless a licence has been obtained, and no alterations may be made in the title or the text of the play without the author’s prior written consent.
Commissioned and produced by Calipo Theatre and Picture Company.
Pineapple premiered at the Droichead Arts Centre on 29 April 2011 in a production by Calipo Theatre Company in association with the Drogheda Arts Festival
Written by Phillip McMahon
Directed by David Horan
Cast:
PAULA: Caoilfhionn Dunne
DAN: Nick Lee
ANTOINETTE: Janet Moran
ROXANNA: Jill Murphy
STEPH: Niamh Glynn
Production Design by Paul O’Mahony
Lighting Design by Sinead McKenna
Sound Design by Ivan Birthistle & Vincent Doherty
Costume Design by Emma Fraser
Produced by Collette Farrell & Lara Hickey
Characters
Off-Stage Voices
Paula, 26
Olivia / Paula’s Neighbour
Roxanna, 16 / Paula’s sister
Jean / Paula’s Neighbour
Dan, 28-30
Nicola / Paula’s Neighbour
Antoinette, 32 / Paula’s best friend
Patsy / Antoinette’s Father
Steph, 16 / Roxanna’s best friend
The main action takes place in Paula’s kitchen. A tumbledown room littered with toys and piles of laundry. The rest of the action takes place in a mucky area between places; a no-man’s-land.
ACT ONE
SCENE ONE
A mucky field. ROxANNA and STEPH hang around nothing in particular, sipping on Bacardi Breezers.
ROXANNA: I can’t stand fuckin’ Pineapple. I says to your man; I says – You Paki cunt, pay your Bacardi bills and get some ‘lemon lime’ or some ‘watermelon’ or somethin’.
STEPH: Makes your spunk taste good.
ROXANNA: What?
STEPH: Pineapple.
ROXANNA: What?
STEPH: Makes a fella’s spunk taste…sweeter like. ROXANNA: Says who?
STEPH: Read it somewhere.
ROXANNA: That’s disgustin’!
STEPH: Just sayin’.
ROXANNA: Well shut up sayin’…me stomach is turnin’!
The girls swig their Breezers.
It’s fuckin’ borin’ round here.
STEPH: Is right.
ROXANNA: We’ll fuckin’ die here.
STEPH: Breslin says that from the minute we’re born, we’re dyin’ – just depends how long it takes each of us.
ROXANNA: Dope.
STEPH: Then Charlene O’Neill pushes her glasses up ’er snout – asks Breslin if he clocks himself as an optimist?
ROXANNA: Scarlet for her…
STEPH: Is right! Then Breslin gets into a serious deep and meaningful; spouting some shite about the ability to be an optimist while still accepting the facts of life. It was bore-fuckin’-central. That chat’d put you to sleep quicker than a Venn Diagram; but sure be the time they’d finished the bell was bangin’ so it wasn’t all bad.
ROXANNA: Fitzy been knockin’ about?
STEPH: What?
ROXANNA: Fitzy?
STEPH: I was in town Friday and Saturday, wasn’t I?
ROXANNA: Right.
STEPH: Stayed out all weekend nearly. Said I was in yours…
ROXANNA: Your Ma not know I was away?
STEPH: Talkin’ to the wall, you do be.
ROXANNA: Right.
Pause.
STEPH: What’s it like over there?
ROXANNA: Brilliant.
STEPH: Is it yeah?
ROXANNA: Just bigger. Better like.
STEPH: And the fellas?
ROXANNA: Massive.
Pause.
STEPH: Was you out much?
ROXANNA: Nah.
STEPH: At all?
ROXANNA: Me aunty is real strict; fuckin’ weapon she is...but she’d to stay out one night, ’cos some auld one she minds was sick, or dyin’ or somethin’.
So it was just me in the gaff with Simon; me cousin. He works in Tesco or somethin’.
And we’re sat in front of fuckin’ Family Fortunes. All ready for bed I was, in me pyjamas, and Simon pulls on me pony tail.
He’s a bit of a sap, but he’s sound like.
So I reefed him back. Like reefed him.
And I musta hurt him, ’cos he was all…bruised pride or… you shoulda seen the face on ’im…and he clatters me/
STEPH: /Fuck.
ROXANNA: Not like…anyway (Points at her ring.) I send a sovereign his way, but he catches me.
Grabs me real rough.
Pins me down; elbow on me chest and the breath all caught in me throat…and he…kisses me Steph.
Me cousin.
Works his tongue through me teeth; all spit and hot air…
STEPH: –
ROXANNA: So I kiss him back; ’cos it doesn’t mean anything, ye know?
And he’s all gentle now; the soft couch and the TV.
And he’s shakin’; his hand and his top lip.
And he draws his fingers across me stomach; like he’s writin’ his name or…
The stretch of elastic then; cold hands, and me no knickers…his face on fire…eyes burnin…
STEPH: Paedophile eyes. Tell me you stopped him.
ROXANNA: Course I did.
Get your fuckin’ fingers outta me lunch box!
Fucker gets all flustered then. Simple fuck.
’Cos the horn is wearin’ off or maybe ’cos it clicks in his tiny mind that he was about to finger his sixteen-year-old cousin; and he catches me by the throat like a dog – chokin’ me.
The Oberon Anthology of Contemporary Irish Plays Page 8
