Brownbread & War

by Roddy Doyle

  The lads try to laugh properly.

  Donkey What’s goin’ on, Ao?

  Ao doesn’t answer.

  Charlie Bird Here’s a young man who seems to be enjoying himself. What is your name?

  Boy I’m not tellin’ yeh.

  Charlie Bird Why not?

  Boy Cos I’m mitchin’.

  The lads laugh.

  Charlie Bird And you wish to remain anonymous?

  Boy Yeah.

  Charlie Bird What’s that you have with you?

  Boy A grenade.

  Charlie Bird Where did you get that?

  Boy Over there.

  Charlie Bird You stole it!

  Boy I did not! —It’s mine.

  Charlie Bird And what are you going to do with it?

  Boy Kill me da.

  Charlie Bird Well, I can only advise parents to frisk their children when they come home from school this afternoon. —So. Bull Island is a very different place indeed this morning. — Half an hour ago I asked a young Marine Corps sergeant what he thought his superiors’ next move would be. And he said, ‘We’ll see after we’ve had our breakfast’. And I couldn’t help thinking that, like another wave of invaders before them, the US Marines are becoming more Irish than the Irish themselves.

  John I smell a rat, d‘yis know tha’?

  Ao It’s the Bishop.

  This comment marks the return of Ao’s good humour, and John and Donkey laugh. On the radio, Pat Kenny is holding the fort back in the studio.

  Pat Kenny That was Charlie Bird reporting from Marine Corps Camp Navaho on Bull Island. And that softening of attitude so evident in Charlie’s report seems to extend to Washington itself. At a specially covened press conference in the early hours of this morning President Reagan had this to say:

  Donkey Who cares wha’ —?

  Ao, John and Bishop SHHH!

  Reagan And --on behalf of the American people, I would — like to apologise —to the members of the Royal Dublin ---Golf Club —for the surface damage our —boys did to the fifteenth green. —And to Christy O‘Connor, that great —golfer, democrat and Irishman. —Christy, —from one old timer —to another: Give ’em hell, Christy.

  Ao Good Jesus! He’s a fuckin’ looper.

  Pat Kenny Mister Reagan was no longer referring to the ‘Three Dublin Libyans’ or ’The Trinity of Terror’. He was now talking about ’those misguided young men’.

  Donkey I’ll misguide him.

  Pat Kenny He pleaded directly to ‘The Barrytown Three’.

  Ao Fuckin’ hell! He’s talkin’ to us.

  John (joking) Jesus, I’m scarleh!

  Reagan To those three —

  Donkey Bollixes.

  Reagan — misguided young men I say —this:

  Ao (contemptuous) Young men!

  Reagan Let Bishop Treacy go home —to his flock. Please, let the Bishop go.

  Donkey (to the Bishop) Does he know you or somethin’?

  Bishop No, —no.

  Pat Kenny The President concluded the conference stating that, if necessary, he was prepared to talk to The Barrytown Three himself. —I’m joined on the phone now by George Llewellyn, Professor of American Studies at the University of Scunthorpe. Doctor Llewellyn, is this a climb-down by President Reagan?

  Enter Mr and Mrs Farrell while Pat. Kenny is speaking. Mr Farrell is ‘looking after’ Mrs Farrell, although Mrs Farrell doesn’t need to be looked after. Mr Farrell likes to think that his wife is helpless and hopeless, but she isn’t: she couldn’t be: she’s been married to Mr Farrell for twenty-two years.

  Farrell Aidan! Aidan!!

  Ao (turning off the radio) Da!?

  (Looking out the window.) Da.

  Farrell I have your mammy here with me.

  Ao Ma!

  Mrs Farrell Hello, Aidan, love.

  Ao Are yeh alrigh’?

  Farrell (his arm around Mrs Farrell’s shoulders; sounding like a Samaritan) She’ll be grand. —Give her time.

  Mrs Farrell I’m grand, love. —I’m a little tired, that’s all. Farrell Fatigue. —Shock, maybe as well.

  Ao Did they hurt yeh, Ma?

  Mrs Farrell Ah, no. —

  Farrell It’s a bit early to say as yet.

  Mrs Farrell (to Mr Farrell) They didn’t hurt me.

  Farrell Just cos you’re not gushin’ blood doesn’t mean they didn’t hurt yeh. It mightn’t show from the outside.

  Mrs Farrell I don’t know wha’ you’re talkin’ about, Edward.

  Farrell (whispering; hissing: looking around to make sure no one’s listening) The fuckin’ compensation! That’s wha’ I’m talkin’ abou’.

  Mrs Farrell I never thought of that.

  Farrell That’s why you stay at home an’ I go ou’ —

  Mrs Farrell An’ deliver vegetables to shops in your van.

  Farrell Fuck off.

  Mr Farrell grins. Mr and Mrs Farrell understand each other.

  Mrs Farrell (to Ao) I’m sure I’ll recover. —With the help o’ God.

  Farrell (quietly) Good girl.

  Mrs Farrell (to Ao) Is the Bishop there with yeh?

  Ao Yeah, he is.

  Mrs Farrell Hello, Your Grace.

  Bishop Good—

  Donkey Shut up, yeh thick! They’ll know I’m not you.

  Mrs Farrell Aidan’s a terrible boy for kidnappin’ you. I don’t know where he got the idea from but he certainly didn’t get it from his mammy or his daddy.

  Farrell (agreeing) No way.

  Donkey Me back’s sweatin’ again.

  Ao Sorry, Ma. Jaysis, if I’d known they were goin’ to interrogate yeh I prob’ly wouldn’t’ve done it.

  Mrs Farrell Ah, they didn’t really interr-

  Farrell Shhh!

  Mrs Farrell (joking) Sure, I hadn’t been in Dollymount in years. John (dirtily) I wonder wha’ she did the last time she —

  Ao Don’t fuckin’ start, you, righ’!

  Donkey Ask them are the Yanks still after us.

  Ao What’s happenin’ an’annyway?

  Farrell That’s why we’re here. The Yanks sent us. Their main fella. I forget his name. Ski somethin’. He’s hidin’ behind the chipper. He told us to tell yis there’s been a bit of a backlash in America. The Irish over there are goin’ spare. The city o’ Boston is givin’ us a new Community Centre. (Sarcastically.) A bigger one, o’ course. The State o’ New Jersey is givin’ us a new Community Centre as well. Twenty-seven Community Centres we’re gettin’. They’ll have to knock down half the fuckin’ houses!

  Mrs Farrell Don’t listen to him, lads. He’s messin’. We’re only gettin’ the two.

  Farrell Annyway. —Your man says they now know they, eh, went for the wrong strategic option. I think that’s American for sayin’‘ they made fuchin’ eejits ou’ o’ themselves.

  The lads grin at each other: this sounds good.

  Farrell So annyway; he says they can’t just pack up an’ go home just like tha’ cos they’re the world’s greatest democracy, d‘yeh see, an’ it wouldn’t look good. An’, to be honest with yis, I can see his point.

  Mrs Farrell (sardonically) Can yeh?

  Farrell Don’t start. —Yeh see, they can’t have it lookin’ like they’ve been beaten by three snotty-nosed gets from Dublin.

  Bishop (annoyed) My well-being no longer seems to be of paramount importance.

  Ao Ah now, Your Bishop. We hope yeh get ou’ okay, don’t we, lads?

  Donkey (sweetly) Ah, yeah.

  Farrell So—.

  (Chuckling.) Now, yis needn’t believe this if yis don’t want to. —Are yis listenin’?

  Mrs Farrell Of course they’re listenin’, Eddie.

  Farrell Annyway: this is the plan. Yis aren’t goin’ to believe this; it’s fuckin’ gas. They’ve rigged up one o’ their satellites an’ what’s goin’ to happen is: Ronnie Reagan’s goin’ to talk to yis.

  Mr Farrell laughs.

  Donkey Jaysis, wha’!

  John Deadly!
r />   Ao Hang on. Go on, Da.

  Farrell Well, like —He talks to yis. I don’t know whav abou’. Exactly. He asks yis to let the Bishop go. You let the Bishop go. An’ then you’re let go. —An’ then I beat the shite ou’ o’ yeh when I get yeh home.

  Mrs Farrell He won’t touch yeh, Aidan. He’s messin’ again. You’ll do it, won’t yeh?

  Farrell It’s very clever really. Youse go free, the Bishop goes free, an’ Ronnie Reagan only looks like a regular gobshite instead of a king-size one. —Will yis talk to him? Yeh may as well, wha’. They’re puttin’ the best bits on the telly.

  Ao (to the lads) Okay?

  John (imitating Plain-clothes) Okay.

  Donkey Ah, def‘ny.

  Ao (out the window) Righ’. Okay.

  Farrell Good man.

  Mrs Farrell Good boy, Aidan.

  Exit Mr and Mrs Farrell.

  Farrell (roaring to the wing as he exits) They’ll do it!

  Ao (to the lads; worrying) Come here but; we’re still in trouble. We have to be. —The Yanks might let us off but our cops won’t. No way. Not after all tha’.

  The lads look despondent.

  John (inspired; only realises it as he speaks) We’d be alrigh’ if the Bishop said we never kidnapped him.

  Donkey (after a pause; impressed) Brilliant.

  Ao Wha’ d’yeh say, Your Bishop?

  Bishop (coldly) As you would quite succinctly put it yourself: No way.

  Ao Ah; Your Bishop.

  John (to Donkey) Fergus is bein’ sarcastic.

  Donkey (getting down off the chair) He’ll be dead in a minute if he doesn’t change his mind.

  Ao Go on, Your Bishop. It won’t kill yeh.

  Bishop (furious) Won’t kill me! For the past two days you have done little else but threaten to kill me.

  Ao Ah now, Your Bishop, don’t exagger —

  Bishop Shut up! You beat me; you humiliated me —

  (Beginning to sense that he’s in charge.) Or attempted to humiliate me. You shot at me and you — you think this is all some sort of a game! —Well, let me tell you —

  Donkey No!

  (Pushing the Bishop before him, and onto the bed.) You shut your mouth! —You’re wastin’ your time givin’ us your sermon. We don’t want to hear it. —You just do wha’ Ao says or I’ll kick the livin’ crap ou’ of yeh. (Stepping back.) Ask him again, Ao.

  Ao Will yeh tell them we didn’t kidnap yeh, please, Your Bishop? Bishop (after glancing at Donkey) Oh, what difference does it make! Alright, alright; I’ll tell them.

  Donkey Good.

  Ao Thanks.

  Bishop At least I have one reason to be grateful to you: I now realise just what a sick society it is I live in!

  John (to the Bishop) Good man. Get it out o’ your system.

  Donkey pretends to puke; his answer to the Bishop’s insult. He climbs onto the chair.

  Ao What’ll I say to Ronnie, lads?

  John (joking) Tell him we’re very sorry an’ we’ll never do it again. Ao and John look out the window, into the wing, at the preparations being made for the broadcast.

  Enter Mr and Mrs Farrell, dressed up for the broadcast. They have a picnic and pope chairs with them. Mrs Farrell is doing most of the carrying. They are followed by Lieutenant Bukowski.

  Bukowski Thank you, Mister Farrell. Missis Farrell.

  Mrs Farrell Ah, hello.

  Bukowski Hello again, Missis Farrell.

  Farrell Can we stay an’ watch?

  Bukowski I guess that would be alright, Mister Farrell.

  Farrell Thanks very much.

  John (looking out) There’s a camera, look.

  Ao Oh, yeah.

  Donkey (turning on the chair) Let’s see.

  Ao No; better not.

  Donkey (disappointed) Aaah.

  Ao Come here. Will we do a mooner at them?

  The lads laugh. They’re getting excited. The Bishop pours himself a bowl of cornflakes. He sits on the bed, slowly chewing them, looking miserable.

  John Look it; they’re puttin’ up speakers, look.

  Ao They’re very quick. They weren’t there a minute ago. An’ look it. There’s a fella with one o’ them furry yokes.

  John Wha’!? —That’s a microphone, yeh spoon.

  Ao (laughing) I was wonderin’ wha’ it was.

  Donkey Ah, let’s see, will yis.

  Ao (strict) No.

  Enter Private Crabacre, holding the field phone receiver.

  Crabacre Lieutenant Bukowski. Sir, I got General Mahoney here. But it ain’t me he’s lookin’ to communicate with.

  Bukowski Thank you, Private. (into the phone.) General Mahoney. How are you, Sir?

  Farrell (earwigging) Jaysis! A general!

  Mrs Farrell (to Crabacre) Oh, hello, John Wesley.

  Bukowski (into the phone) Yes, General. We have completed disengagement and evacuation is ongoing, Sir.

  Crabacre Mornin’, Mam.

  Bukowski Yes, Sir. The fifteenth green is being reinstated, Sir.

  Mrs Farrell Eddie, this is John Wesley I was tellin’ yeh about.

  Bukowski (into the phone) I’ll do that now, Sir.

  Farrell (shaking hands) Eddie Farrell. Howyeh.

  Crabacre Honoured, Sir.

  Bukowski (into the phone) Yes, Sir.

  Farrell (to Mrs Farrell; sticking out his chest and strutting) ‘Sir’, wha’.

  Mrs Farrell (laughing) Sir Eddie Farrell.

  Farrell An’ Lady Veronica.

  Crabacre takes the phone from Bukowski.

  Bukowski Excuse me, Mister Farrell.

  Farrell Yes, son?

  Bukowski Would you introduce me to your son, please?

  Farrell Introduce yeh? —Ah, I’m no good at tha’ sort o’ thing. Veronica here’ll do it for yeh.

  Bukowski You would, Missis Farrell?

  Mrs Farrell Ah, yeah.

  Bukowski Thank you.

  Mrs Farrell (after clearing her throat) Aidan?

  Ao Ma.

  Mrs Farrell Aidan, I’d like you to meet Lieutenant — Bukowski?

  Farrell That’s righ’, yeah.

  Mrs Farrell And, Lieutenant Bukowski, this is my son, Aidan Farrell.

  Ao Howyeh.

  Bukowski How are you?

  Ao Not too bad. An’ yourself?

  Bukowski I’m fine, I guess. —I want to go up there and talk with you. Is that alright with you, Aidan?

  John Aidan!?

  Ao Shut up, Jon-athan.

  John Fuck off.

  Ao Wha’ d’yeh want to talk abou’?

  Bukowski Well, I want to run through the broadcast procedure with you and, eh, that’s it, I guess.

  Ao (to the lads) Okay?

  John (imitating Plain-clothes) Okay.

  Donkey May as well.

  Ao (to Bukowski) Okay. —No guns, righ’.

  Bukowski Absolutely not.

  Ao Righ’. Come on up.

  Bukowski Private.

  Crabacre (roars) Sir!?

  Mr and Mrs Farrell jump.

  Bukowski (exiting) This way.

  Private (following; not too enthusiastically) Shoot.

  Exit Bukowski and Crabacre.

  Mrs Farrell Aidan.

  Ao Howyeh, Ma.

  Mrs Farrell Your hair, Aidan.

  Ao (leaving the window) Ah, it’s alrigh’, Ma.

  The Bishop is still eating slowly, and looking miserable; sulking. Ao rushes to the door with the gun, to meet the Marines.

  Ao (as he goes) Yeh righ’, John?

  John follows Ao. Donkey stays on the chair. Ao and John stand against the wall, hidden by the door as it opens in, braced.

  Bukowski (from the landing) Hi?

  Enter Bukowski. Ao is behind him and pushes him to the wall beside the window and Donkey.

  Ao Righ’. Hands on the wall. Come on. Legs apart. Come on. Bukowski obeys Ao, and Ao frisks him.

  Enter Crabacre. John puts him to the wall and frisks him.

&nb
sp; John (as he frisks) Book him, Danno! Hands against the wall, motherfucker.

  John puts the phone receiver to the back of Crabacre’s neck and kicks his feet wide apart.

  Bukowski I’m Lieut —

  John (like a Nazi) Silence!

  The Bishop is still eating.

  John (having a ball; into Crabacre’s ear as he frisks him) Go ahead, asshole. Make my day.

  (Into the phone; sings.) Car 54, where are youuu?

  (Into the phone.) Ten four, Rubber Duck.

  Ao puts the gun to the back of Bukowski’s neck.

  Bukowski (nicely) Hey, this isn’t necessary, you know.

  Ao Righ’; turn slowly.

  The first thing Bukowski sees as he turns is Donkey.

  Donkey Ha ha! You thought I was the Bishop, an’ I’m not.

  John He isn’t even a priest.

  Bukowski (to Donkey) How are you?

  Donkey Who’s askin’?

  Bukowski is bemused: was he just asked a question?

  Bukowski Bishop Treacy?

  Bishop (looking up from his cornflakes; surly) Good morning.

  The Bishop closes the dressing-gown over so the American soldiers won’t be able to see his legs.

  Bukowski (to the Bishop) How are you, Sir?

  Ao He’s grand.

  Bukowski (to the Bishop) It’s good to see that you’re still able for a hearty breakfast, Sir.

  Bishop (looking at the cornflakes, and hating them) It’s hardly what you would call a hearty breakfast.

  John (to Bukowski) Yeah don’t have half a grapefruit on yeh, do yeh?

  Donkey roars laughing.

  Bukowski I guess not.

  Donkey gets down off the chair and goes to shake hands with Bukowski.

  Donkey Howyeh.

  When Bukowski puts his hand out to grip Donkey’s, Donkey takes his hand away and scratches his head, and walks past Bukowski. Donkey (into Crabacre’s ear; shouts) Howyeh!

  Crabacre Honoured!

  Ao sits on the bed beside the Bishop and casually aims the gun at him. John takes a Twix from Athe grocery box and hands it to the Bishop. The Bishop eats, and enjoys the Twix; and reads the wrapper, paying no attention to what is going on.