by Brian Friel
LILY: Whatever that means. Sure they’d know that wouldn’t be me.
SKINNER: ‘Décor could be improved with brass ducks and pink gloss.’
LILY: Haaa. He’s not going to let me forget that.
MICHAEL: Lily, please.
LILY: Hold on now – hold on a minute … I have it! ‘Looking forward to a return visit,’ That’s it – you know – nice and ladylike.
SKINNER: Perfect. Mr Hegarty?
MICHAEL: They won’t wait any longer.
SKINNER: You’re really the one should sign.
LILY: There! Not a bad fist now, is it?
SKINNER: Beautiful.
LILY: They’ll think I have a quare cheek on me, won’t they? What are you putting down?
SKINNER: My name.
LILY: But over at the side?
SKINNER: ‘Freeman of the city’.
LILY: Sure that means nothing.
SKINNER: I suppose you’re right, Lily.
MICHAEL: Can we go now?
LILY: God, would you give me one second, young fella? I’ve got to –
(She dashes into the dressing-room.)
MICHAEL: Will you for God’s sake –!
LILY: (Off) One second, young fella. One second.
MICHAEL: He said five minutes. What’s the point in crossing them?
SKINNER: Do You trust them?
MICHAEL: Do You not?
SKINNER: No.
MICHAEL: Do you trust anybody?
SKINNER: I don’t trust them.
MICHAEL: Do you think they’ll beat you up, Skinner?
SKINNER: Maybe.
MICHAEL: Or shoot you?
SKINNER: Maybe.
MICHAEL: You really think they’d shoot you! You really do!
SKINNER: Yes. They’re stupid enough. But as long as they’ve only got people like you to handle, they can afford to be.
(LILY returns.)
LILY: That’s better. Are we all ready?
MICHAEL: Come on.
LILY: You know where I live, young fella. Don’t forget to bring Norah over to see us.
MICHAEL: Promise.
LILY: And you’ll call in any time you want a bite to eat.
SKINNER: I’ll be there on the stroke of one every day.
LILY: You needn’t bother your head. Just when you’re stuck. (To Sir Joshua) Good-bye, Mister.
MICHAEL: I’ll go in front.
LILY: Good-bye, young fella.
MICHAEL: Good luck, Lily.
SKINNER: Shouldn’t we go out singing ‘We shall overcome?’
MICHAEL: I’m warning you, Skinner!
SKINNER: Do you not trust them?
(MICHAEL leaves the parlour; his hands are above his head.)
LILY: Lord, I enjoyed that. The crack was good. Wasn’t the crack good, Skinner?
(SKINNER nods. )
LILY: Good luck, son.
SKINNER: Good luck, Lily.
(Pause. They are about to shake hands. Then SKINNER leans forward and kisses her on the forehead.)
LILY: Jesus, not since the chairman was courting me, have I …
(Pause. Then to shatter the moment SKINNER puts his hands above his head and sings and dances:)
SKINNER: ‘As I walk along the Bois de Boulogne with an independent air –’
MICHAEL: For Christ’s sake!
LILY: Come on! Come on! Get to hell out of this damned place! I hated it from the first moment I clapped eyes on it!
(LILY leaves the parlour, her hands above her head. SKINNER switches off the light, closes the door, and joins them in the passageway. All three have their hands above their heads. They begin to move very slowly downstage in ritualistic procession. The moment SKINNER closes the door, the auditorium is filled with thundering, triumphant organ music on open diapason. It is sustained for about fifteen seconds and then fades to background as LIAM O’KELLY of Telefis Eireann enters left with microphone in hand. He talks into the microphone in soft, reverential tones.)
O’KELLY: I am standing just outside the Long Tower church. And now the solemn requiem Mass, concelebrated by the four Northern bishops is at an end, and the organ is playing Bach’s most beautiful, most triumphant and in a curious way most appropriate Prelude and Fugue No. 552. And the clouds that have overcast this bitterly cold and windswept city of Derry this February morning can contain themselves no longer, and an icy rain is spilling down on all those thousands of mourners who couldn’t get into the church and who have been waiting here in silent tribute along these narrow ghetto streets. But despite the rain, no one is moving. They still stand, as they have stood for the past two hours, their patient, drawn faces towards the church door; and as one watches them, one wonders will this enormous grief ever pass, so deeply has it furrowed the mind of this ancient, noble, suffering city of St Colmcille. And now the church doors are open and the first of the cortège emerges. This is surely the most impressive gathering of church and state dignitaries that this humble parish of the Long Tower has ever seen. There is the Cardinal Primate, his head stooped, looking grave and weary; and indeed he must be weary because he flew in from Rome only this morning in order to be here today. And beside him I see Colonel Foley who is representing the President. And immediately behind them are the members of the hierarchy and the spiritual leaders of every order and community in the country. And now the Taoiseach, bare-headed, gently refusing an umbrella being offered by one of the stewards; and flanking him are the leaders of the two main opposition parties. Indeed I understand that the entire Dáil and Senate are here today. And if one were to search for a word that would best describe the atmosphere here today, the tenor of the proceedings, the attitude of the ordinary people, I think the word would be dignified. And now the first of the coffins. And all around me the men are removing their caps and some are kneeling on the wet pavements. This is the remains of Michael Joseph Hegarty. And immediately behind it the coffin of Elizabeth Doherty, mother of eleven children. And lastly the remains of Adrian Fitzmaurice – I beg your pardon – Adrian Fitzgerald, and this coffin is being carried by the Knights of Malta. And as the cortège passes me, the thousands on the footpaths move gently forward on to the road and take their place quietly among the mourners. I now hand you over to our unit in the cemetery.
(He goes off. The music stops suddenly. MICHAEL, LILY and SKINNER now stand across the front of the stage, looking straight out. The JUDGE appears on the battlements.)
JUDGE: In summary my conclusions are as follows:
1. There would have been no deaths in Londonderry on February 10 had the ban on the march and the meeting been respected, and had the speakers on the platform not incited the mob to such a fever that a clash between the security forces and the demonstrators was almost inevitable.
2. There is no evidence to support the accusation that the security forces acted without restraint or that their arrest force behaved punitively.
3. There is no reason to suppose that the soldiers would have opened fire if they had not been fired on first.
4. I must accept the evidence of eye-witnesses and various technical experts that the three deceased were armed when they emerged from the Guildhall, and that two of them at least – Hegarty and the woman Doherty – used their arms. Consequently it was impossible to effect an arrest operation. The detailed findings of this tribunal I will now pass on to the appropriate authorities.
(The entire stage is now black, except for a battery of spotlights beaming on the faces of the three. Pause. Then the air is filled with a fifteen-second burst of automatic fire. It stops. The three stand as before, staring out, their hands above their heads.)
Black-out
LIVING QUARTERS
after Hippolytus
for Seamus Deane
CHARACTERS
SIR
COMMANDANT FRANK BUTLER
HELEN KELLY
MIRIAM DONNELLY
BEN
TINA
FATHER TOM CARTY
CHARLIE DONNELLY
; ANNA
Living Quarters was first produced by the Abbey Theatre, Dublin, on 24 March 1977. The cast was as follows:
SIR Clive Geraghty
COMMANDANT FRANK BUTLER Ray McAnally
HELEN KELLY Fedelma Cullen
MIRIAM DONNELLY Maire Hastings
BEN Stephen Brennan
TINA Bernadette Shortt
FATHER TOM CARTY Michael O’hAonghusa
CHARLIE DONNELLY Niall O’Brien
ANNA Dearbhla Molloy
Direction Joe Dowling
Set
Commandant Frank Butler’s living quarters – a detached house close to a small military barracks in a remote part of County Donegal, Ireland.
The action takes place in the living-room and garden on a warm May evening and night. The living-room and garden have acting areas of almost equal size (left and right from the point of view of the audience).
The furnishings of the living-room are old and worn. Fireplace in the centre; an armchair on each side. The armchair left of the fireplace is of wicker. Small table, television set, sideboard on which are drinks. Some family photographs on the walls. On the mantelpiece a distinctive glass ornament with pendulous glass lobes. Door left of the fireplace leads to the kitchen off. Door right of the fireplace (used once in Act Two). A third door right leads to the hallway, which we see. Hallstand, small table, etc. A stairway rises from the hall. Another door (invisible and approximately opposite the fireplace) in the fourth, invisible, wall separating the living-room from the garden.
The garden begins at the front door and runs the full length of the side of the house, i.e. right across the front of the stage. In the garden a summer seat and some old deck chairs.
Down left, tucked into the corner, is a small, low footstool used only by Sir.
SIR: Middle-aged. Always in full control of the situation, of the other characters, of himself. His calm is never ruffled. He is endlessly patient and tolerant, but never superior. Always carries his ledger with him. Dressed in a dark lounge suit, dark tie, white shirt, black, highly polished shoes.
COMMANDANT FRANK BUTLER: Tall, lean, military man in his early fifties. Grey hair, military moustache. Has been in the Irish army all his life.
Four children by his first marriage:
HELEN KELLY: Twenty-seven, divorced; has been living in London for six years. An attractive woman with style and apparent self-assurance.
MIRIAM DONNELLY: Twenty-five, married to Charlie Donnelly; mother of three children. Plump, practical. Chain-smokes.
BEN: Twenty-four, hesitant, nervous, with a volatile face. Miriam describes him as a ‘mother’s boy’.
TINA: Eighteen, the youngest, ‘the pet of the family’, fresh, warm, eager.
FATHER TOM CARTY: Sixty-four, chaplain to the camp, with the rank of commandant. A self-aware man with a professional, breezy manner. (Preferably overweight.)
CHARLIE DONNELLY: Early thirties; Miriam’s husband; court clerk; cautious and proper; always with a raincoat across his arm. Views the Butler family with smiling caution.
ANNA: Early twenties; Frank’s second wife; mature, intelligent, passionate, direct in speech and manner.
Time: the present – in Ireland.
ACT ONE
SIR sits on his stool down left, his ledger closed on his knee. Nobody else on stage.
SIR: The home, the house, the living-quarters of Commandant Frank Butler, OC of B Company of the 37th Battalion of the Permanent Defence Forces. It is here on May 24th some years ago that our story is set, as they say – as if it were a feast laid out for consumption or a trap waiting to spring. And the people who were involved in the events of that day, although they’re now scattered all over the world, every so often in sudden moments of privacy, of isolation, of panic, they remember that day, and in their imagination they reconvene here to reconstruct it – what was said, what was not said, what was done, what was not done, what might have been said, what might have been done; endlessly raking over those dead episodes that can’t be left at peace.
(He rises and moves to centre stage.)
But reverie alone isn’t adequate for them. And in their imagination, out of some deep psychic necessity, they have conceived this (ledger) – a complete and detailed record of everything that was said and done that day, as if its very existence must afford them their justification, as if in some tiny, forgotten detail buried here – a smile, a hesitation, a tentative gesture – if only it could be found and recalled – in it must lie the key to an understanding of all that happened. And in their imagination, out of some deep psychic necessity, they have conceived me – the ultimate arbiter, the powerful and impartial referee, the final adjudicator, a kind of human Hansard who knows those tiny little details and interprets them accurately. And yet no sooner do they conceive me with my authority and my knowledge than they begin flirting with the idea of circumventing me, of foxing me, of outwitting me. Curious, isn’t it? But to get back to that day.
(He moves into the living-room, which now lights up.)
May 24th; Commandant Frank Butler’s home just outside the village of Ballybeg; a remote and run-down army camp in the wilds of County Donegal; and a day of celebration because Commandant Butler and his company have returned in triumph after five months service with the United Nations in the Middle East. And their return is triumphant because in their last week of duty, at an outpost called Hari, (Reads) ‘while under siege and heavily outnumbered by guerillas they responded gallantly, Commandant Butler behaving with outstanding courage and selflessness, personally exposing himself to heavy and persistent fire to carry nine of his wounded men to safety.’ And this evening top army brass and politicians and local dignitaries have gathered here to celebrate the triumphant return and to honour the triumphant Commandant. So much for the occasion. And hovering in the wings, once more reconvened in recollection to take yet another look at the events of that day, is the Butler family.
(He now moves around the living-room and addresses the family off.)
Are we all set? Good. Now – you’ve all been over this hundreds, thousands of times before. So on this occasion – with your co-operation, of course – what I would like to do is organize those recollections for you, impose a structure on them, just to give them a form of sorts. Agreed? Excellent! Naturally we’ll only get through a tiny portion of all that was said and done that day; but I think we should attempt some kind of chronological order; and I promise you that the selection I make will be as fair and as representative as possible. So I’ll call you as I require you and introduce you then. Agreed? Fine! (Opens ledger.) Let’s see. ‘Helen arrives’ – we’ll not go back as far as that. ‘Anna takes up her dress skirt. Tina prepares lunch’ – we can skip all that. Yes – let’s begin here: ‘It is late afternoon. Anna is in bed. Tina is sponging her father’s dress suit. In the camp Frank Butler is greeting his distinguished guests. Helen is out for a walk. Miriam has gone to the mess for a carton of ice cream. Ben is washing a shirt in his caravan in the sand dunes.’ So. We require only Tina at the moment. And remember – it’s all here, every single syllable of it. But if you wish to speak your thoughts as well – by all means. Thank you. Thank you.
(SIR looks around the set and goes to adjust the position of the garden seat. TOM enters.)
TOM: Sir.
SIR: (Busy) What is it, Father?
TOM: I don’t suppose it would be a breach of secrecy or etiquette if I – if you were to let me know how I’m described there, would it? You know – something to hang the cap on – ‘good guy’, ‘funny guy’, ‘bit of a gossip’. Which of my many fascinating personas should I portray?
SIR: (Still busy) You’ll be yourself, Father.
TOM: Of course. Naturally. But you’ve a description there, haven’t you? And an objective view would be a help.
SIR: I don’t think so.
TOM: As chaplain I’ve a right to – (Pleasant again) Please.
SIR: I think you shouldn’t.
SIR: Plea
se.
(SIR regards him calmly.)
SIR: Very well.
TOM: (Breezily) Soldier – man of God – friend of the boys – you name it.
SIR: ‘Father Thomas Carty, sixty-four years of age, chaplain, Commandant, close friend of the Butler family.’
TOM: (Saluting) Yours truly.
(ANNA enters in her dressing-gown. She stands at a distance and watches this scene.)
SIR: ‘Married Frank and Louise –’
TOM: May the Lord have mercy on her.
SIR: ‘– baptized their children and grandchildren: and six months ago married Frank again – to Anna.’
TOM: Indeed. A happy day.
SIR: ‘The children used to call him Uncle – Uncle Tom –’
TOM: (Delighted) Tina still does – occasionally.
SIR: ‘“Is Uncle Tom coming with us?” they’d say. And he did. Always. Everywhere. Himself and the batman – in attendance.’
TOM: That’s one way of –
SIR: ‘– and that pathetic dependence on the Butler family, together with his excessive drinking make him a cliché, a stereotype. He knows this himself –’
TOM: Cliché? For God’s sake –!
SIR: ‘– but he is not a fool. He recognizes that this definition allows him to be witness to their pain but absolves him from experiencing it; appoints him confidant but acquits him of the responsibility of conscience –’
TOM: That’s not how –! O my God …
SIR: ‘As the tale unfolds they may go to him for advice, not because they respect him, consider him wise –’
TOM: (Sudden revolt) Because they love me, that’s why! They love me!
SIR: ‘– but because he is the outsider who represents the society they’ll begin to feel alienated from, slipping away from them.’
TOM: (Beaten) Outsider?
(ANNA goes to TOM and puts her arm around him.)
SIR: ‘And what he says won’t make the slightest difference because at that point – the point of no return – they’ll be past listening to anybody. At that point all they’ll hear is their own persistent inner voices –’ And so on and so forth.
