A. SLATTERY: Alice makes me move more than I would naturally, if that makes sense? She forces me to act fast and do things that, given the chance to think about, I probably wouldn’t dare. Shouldn’t dare. She is adventurous. She organises our holidays so they are jam-packed, fun from start to finish. Travelling is our luxury, our extravagance. I think my favourite trip was Greece, the scenery, the relaxed way of life, the food, the retsina, and the sandy beaches. No one bothering us, it was like pressing pause on the world. My least favourite trip was India, India, of all places. I really didn’t like it. I don’t understand why anyone would go on holidays to the third world. I needed a holiday to recover from my holiday.
A. KINSELLA: Alice fell off a camel years ago in Rajasthan, India. She wanted to go to Bali, but I wanted adventure. So it was kind of my fault. That day she wanted to see some palace but I wanted to do the camel ride across the sand dunes, I was having a Lawrence of Arabia moment. I had bought a blue scarf and one of the guides had tied it for me… Alice tied her scarf herself and she looked like a pirate. It was one of the funniest things I have ever seen. Anyway, we were given brief camel riding instructions and then we were off. Something must have spooked Alice’s camel because he took off like a shot, the saddle yoke came undone and she started to slide down the side of the camel, it looked like she was sitting horizontally. She landed with a thump and a billow of sand. The poor thing. There were about ten Americans sniggering into their sleeves… I’m embarrassed to admit that I laughed too. It was the look on her face that was funniest, total panic and absolute mortification. She laughed it off and got straight back on, I was so proud of her. She had to sit on a cushion for the next two weeks. We only went to palaces after that.
A. SLATTERY: I worked in the bank.
A. KINSELLA: I was a clerk in the National Gallery.
A. SLATTERY/KINSELLA: Both retired.
A. SLATTERY: I could tell that Alice was quietly intrigued by the girl from the shopping centre. I was less convinced. She didn’t say much about it but it was obviously on her mind. I can read her like a book. I kept catching her watching me doing mundane things. I finally cracked while doing dishes…
‘Stop staring at me Alice.’
A. KINSELLA: One of us will die,
A. SLATTERY: she said.
A. KINSELLA: …and then where will we be? When we’re gone we’re gone, that’s it. What will we have actually achieved?
A. SLATTERY: I’ve never really wanted to bang drums, cause a scene or draw attention. I just wanted to live in peace, quietly. I thought that’s what Al wanted too.
Fine, ring the girl; see what she has to say.
A. KINSELLA: She said.
A. KINSELLA: (Stands.) Pros
Fun.
Exciting.
Challenging.
Insightful.
Triumphant.
Beautiful.
A testimonial, we will be seen. (Sits.)
A. SLATTERY: (Stands.) Cons
Damaging.
Boring.
Indulgent.
Frightening.
Invasive.
Insidious.
Dangerous, we will be seen. (Sits.)
A. KINSELLA: I rang her and she invited us to lunch. Alice sulked.
A. SLATTERY: She went all out, very posh.
A. KINSELLA: She made antipasti of mozzarella, chilli and lemon crostini, aubergine and mint bruschette and a cous cous salad.
A. SLATTERY: I was impressed.
A. KINSELLA: We knew she meant business, we were expecting a ham sandwich.
A. SLATTERY: For afters we had lemon drizzle cake and espresso (Mispronounced ‘expresso’). I love cake, any cake.
A. KINSELLA: She explained what she wanted to do; she wanted to make a show. She was a little unsure about the whole thing herself, she was only discovering it, but she wanted to make it with us.
There was a lot of fun, flattery and attention. By the end of lunch I felt important, like our story mattered.
We didn’t commit to anything but discussing it and that we’d ring her in a day or two.
A. SLATTERY: She proposed that we should meet every week, sometimes together, sometimes separately, and she would ask us a series of questions. She was interested in memories, opinions and stories. A ‘getting to know you’ kind of a thing. She promised that there would be no judgement, and that if we didn’t want to discuss something then we wouldn’t have to.
A. KINSELLA: ‘The more mundane the better’…
A. SLATTERY: …she said.
Well, why in God’s name would we want to do that? I’d be mortified. Making myself vulnerable, ridiculous, God, the embarrassment? What would people say?
I’ve always cherished what Alice and I have, talking about it would feel cheap. Like we’re belittling it or giving it away. Who in their right minds would want to know about this?
Anonymity. I used to crave it.
She stands and moves to her mark downstage right.
When Alice and I first started seeing each other, the anonymity and illicitness was delicious, it was our private world, our utopia. Unfortunately that can’t be sustained, eventually you have to start letting people in, that’s life. Then come the questions. Are you gay now? But you were married? Are you sure, maybe you’re just lonely? Aren’t you two just best friends?
A. KINSELLA: ‘Isn’t it nice for them to have each other,’ ‘You’d never think it by looking at them.’
A. SLATTERY: With every person I meet I have to decide, will I remain invisible or will I tell them? How do I tell them? Do I need to tell them? I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve lied about us regularly over the years. It’s a horrible guilt, denying the person you love, denying the life you’ve built together.
We don’t fly the rainbow flag; we’ve never publicly danced or kissed…well, not until that day in Tesco’s.
We seem to blend.
I decided not to be a part of the show, the interviews or the process. If Alice wanted to do it she had to do it without me.
A. KINSELLA: (Stands.) I was really disappointed in Alice when she said no, but it was her choice.
So I began without her. Coffees, meetings, tape recorders and cameras, ‘what have I gotten myself into?’
I wanted to back out, but I didn’t want to give Alice the soot of it.
She kept asking me what we were talking about, afraid we were talking about her. Well of course we were, we were talking about me, my life, my past and she’s a big part of that.
I wouldn’t give her any details. If you’re in you’re in, if you’re not you’re not, simple as that. I knew that would drive her mad. (Sits.)
A. SLATTERY: The secrecy of it, I think Alice thought she was changing the world. I was annoyed at her, for doing this, for wanting to do it. We didn’t talk properly for about a week, it was the elephant in the room. I finally gave in about a month into it and got involved, primarily to keep an eye on what she was saying. I’m still not sure that it was the right choice.
A. KINSELLA: She left the process three times. Once over the title.
A. SLATTERY: It was almost called, Old People Don’t Smell. That’s just insulting.
A. KINSELLA: It was a joke, t’was never going to be called that. Being called ‘old’ didn’t sit well with me though. I never really feel old. Sometimes I give myself a fright. When I see me accidentally, like in the window of a passing car, or in a mirror in a shop, one of those mirrors at a funny angle…where you look into one and look for yourself in another. And it takes my breath away. Is that me? Is that what people see? An old lady? An older lady?
A. SLATTERY: People don’t see the life I’ve lived. They don’t know that I’ve breathed in the misty air overlooking Niagara Falls. They don’t know that I’ve been kissed in a hot air balloon, the type of kiss that made me blush. They don’t see the ‘me’ that buried my husband. They just see an unassuming older lady. Well, I don’t like scones, and I don’t drink tea. I wonder would that s
hock them?
A. KINSELLA: (Stands and moves to her mark downstage left.) I am two years older than my sister, Mary, and we are polar opposites. I adore her and her family, we’re very close. But when we were young it was a different story. She was always around, annoying me. I think that is a prerequisite for younger sisters.
A. SLATTERY un-pins an old photo from the set and passes it to the audience.
She and her little friend used to follow me everywhere. I remember making them laugh, especially Mary’s friend, she was a quiet yet giddy girl…but once she started laughing that was the end if it, she was off, Mary was off and sure then I was off…
She was a small, skinny girl with big eyes. She was quick to flush, her hands were always pink and she was prone to cold sores.
She lived one street over, and was a constant in our house, part of the family. Her name was Alice Connolly, now Alice Slattery. I have known her all my life and, in some way, shape, or form I have loved her all my life.
A. SLATTERY: No. 44, The Kinsella’s. A home away from home.
Music fades in, The Kinks, ‘Sunny Afternoon’. A. KINSELLA acknowledges the music.
A. KINSELLA: I left Ireland for London when I was twenty. I was running away really.
Running away from myself. The funny thing about running away is that you bring yourself with you. I had done a secretarial course here and I had dreams of becoming a journalist. I wanted to write, I wanted excitement, I wanted to live. I really believed that I was going to pen ‘the great novel of our times’. Not really something I’d easily confess to.
A. SLATTERY: She was tall, cheeky and funny.
A. KINSELLA: I moved into horrible digs in Kilburn, into a house that smelled of boiled cabbage and damp sofa.
A. SLATTERY: Bossy, I remember her being very bossy.
A. KINSELLA: I always remember Dublin seeming black and white and London was in Technicolor. I started as a receptionist in a doctor’s office and after a few months I saw an advertisement for a secretarial position in a prominent London newspaper.
A. SLATTERY: When Alice was in London she worked for The Times. She won’t tell you that.
A. KINSELLA: It paid the bills, but really it could have been in any office, anywhere…
A. SLATTERY: The Times.
A. KINSELLA: …At the time I believed that it was my big break. I submitted an idea or two over my years there, but they really weren’t having any of me. It makes me feel a bit foolish or naive now when I think about it.
A. SLATTERY: ‘But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.’
She had her spirit crushed a little, or bruised maybe. She still writes though.
A. KINSELLA: It was there that I met Louise. She was a secretary too. She was one of the funniest people I had ever encountered. For some bizarre reason she ‘adopted’ me, so to speak. Maybe she recognised herself in me, I can’t see any other reason. If there was a party or a shindig happening anywhere in London, she and her pals knew about it, and we were there.
A. SLATTERY: (Making herself busy. Self-conscious.) Coffee?
A. KINSELLA: Please. Decaff. Thanks.
They were kind of an arty, eccentric crowd, and I adored them. Mrs. Murphy, my landlady, detested them; she said they were ‘dirty pagans’ and that I should ‘stay well clear of them.’ Of course Louise was delighted when I told her this, and it was her idea for us to take a flat together. Louise, Jen, another friend of hers, and I shared a two-bedroom flat, a disgusting communal loo, and all our clothes.
Louise was different, she wore her skirts too short, she smoked too much, she never really ate, she drank vodka neat…and she went to bed with women.
I was shocked, amazed by this. I had never heard anybody say this; admit to it, like it was a real thing. No pretending or denying, she was a free spirit.
You see, I was always on the outside, looking in at life, trying to figure out how to be a part of it. Frantically grabbing at every new thought or idea, thinking that it must hold the answer, but never really understanding the question. I think of it as a ‘wanting’, I wanted something but I had no idea what that ‘something’ was.
One wet and thundery Friday night, Louise and I straggled home from the pub. We had drunk too much vodka on empty stomachs. We listened to ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’ over and over, and I finally figured it out. I figured out the question and the answer in one fell swoop.
Louise and I went to bed together that night. It felt natural, it felt right.
A. SLATTERY: Cake?
A. KINSELLA: Thanks.
It sounds idyllic, but believe me, it wasn’t. It was a bloody soap opera.
Visibly gathering herself, drawing a big breath.
Louise and I were lovers, but Jen and Louise used to be lovers and were still occasional lovers. Jen had a boyfriend who loved her, she loved Louise, and she liked me. Louise had other lovers; I was unaware of this and believed we were exclusive. Jen and I, in a bid to hurt Louise became lovers. Louise was hurt. Then Jen and I actually started to have feelings for each other, but she still had a boyfriend who loved her. He was hurt. Louise slept with him. Jen was hurt. Jen and Louise were sleeping together. I was hurt. This went on for the best part of two years, and in that time there were other lovers. Eventually Jen and I agreed to make a go of it, Jen broke up with the boy, I broke up with Louise, Jen broke up with Louise. Louise was…fine actually. She began seeing Fran. Fran used to go out with Jen’s ex-boyfriend. It was all very incestuous really.
I only agreed to keep this section in the show if I could say it really fast and not have to elaborate on it.
A. SLATTERY: I only agreed to keep that section in the show if she said it really fast and did not elaborate on it. (She passes cake to audience.)
A. KINSELLA: I still hear from Louise occasionally, (A. SLAT-TERY rolls her eyes.) but I have no idea where Jen is. Last I remember hearing she had moved to the States. We lived together for two years, fought incessantly and never managed to trust each other. I think she was still sleeping with Louise. So was I.
(Sits relieved at table).
A. SLATTERY: (Moves to her downstage right mark.)
In 1974 Alice came home from London to nurse her mother, she was too thin (A. KINSELLA, still eating her biscuit laughs an ‘if you can believe it’ laugh). It looked like London had worn her down, but she swore that she was having a ball. She didn’t look like she was having a ball, she looked sick. Liam and I were married for four years at that stage, we were happy but complacent. She regaled us with stories of her life, parties and people in England; we were avid letter writers so I felt I knew the people she was talking about from her letters over the years.
She moved in with her Mother and threw herself into caring for her. I think she felt guilty for not being there over the years, she also took a part-time job in a shop. I know now that she was punishing herself, making herself too tired to think.
The day we buried her Mam was awful, Alice took care of everyone, Mary, Declan and Jack, her brothers, and all their young families. Teas, coffees, sandwiches…porter and whiskeys later.
When everyone had left I looked for her to say goodbye, she was smoking down the garden, a habit she picked up in London. I walked down to her and found her sobbing. She looked like a child; she looked like the Alice I remembered from years ago. I threw my arms around her and held her, for ages. It felt like I was the only thing holding her up.
A. KINSELLA: Some time after my mother died, I told Alice about Louise and Jen…well about me really. I told her and didn’t really give her an option to be shocked or appalled. I was in bad shape at the time, and it seemed trivial to me, incidental. Alice didn’t bat an eyelid.
A. SLATTERY: I knew about Alice. I knew before she told me, Mary said it one night we were out. It wasn’t something often spoken about in our circle, so Mary was kind of sheepish admitting it, worried more like. The
re was a fella’ I’d see at mass said to be ‘light on his feet’. People would snigger, roll their eyes behind his back, but they were nice to his face. It’s easy to laugh when you don’t really know the person, but I knew Alice, she was my friend, and there was nothing to laugh at.
(Sits down at the table).
A. KINSELLA: (The Angelus bells ring softly, to prompt the women. Places a religious statue on the table)
I refused to receive communion at a wedding, years ago. We didn’t speak for about a week. I wasn’t trying to upset her, I just… I just couldn’t do it any more. I couldn’t pretend to go along with something that offends me for posterity’s sake. I had just had enough.
Alice prays. I don’t understand why. Over the years I’ve seen enough to make me realize what a futile act it is. I’ll do midnight mass at Christmas… I love the singing. People singing together moves me more than any ‘miracle’. But that’s it. I know it bothers her, deep down inside, I think she feels I need to come back to God so we can be together in heaven. I’m not so sure about that. Over recent years I’ve come to think that when you die you die. That’s it. The end. This upsets Al, so we don’t talk about it anymore; there are few things we don’t talk about…
A. SLATTERY: ‘There are no atheists in foxholes.’
A. KINSELLA: …But this is a big thing.
She calls me an ‘atheist’, joking…but only kind of.
I try to tell her it’s not God, but the church that I have a problem with, but I think somewhere along the way they both got mixed up, intermingled in her eyes.
She goes to mass on Sunday mornings and always complains about getting up, especially when it’s raining! Anyway, that’s not the point.
While she’s at mass I buy newspapers and breakfast bits. I always rush the shopping, I have about twenty minutes to get it done, so I can be back in bed when she gets in the door. She crawls back into bed and we have a ‘re-morning’, that’s what we like to call it; I ask her if she’s been ‘saved’. I suppose it sounds silly. We never discuss it…but this reclaims us, if you know what I mean, like the religion is a divide and this ritual brings us back together, you know? (Sits.)
The Oberon Anthology of Contemporary Irish Plays Page 15
