Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Hello mother
Here is another unfinished play



CONFESSIONS OF AN ALTAR BOY
by
Tom O'Brien
scene one
TERRY is sitting on a chair, playing a guitar, singing. He is wearing a white surplice over his clothes.

I only met you just a couple of days ago
I only met you and I want your loving so
Jeannie come lately…

He breaks off and rubs the fingers of his left hand, which are clearly paining him. He puts the guitar aside, then tugs at the surplice.

TERRY: Why the get-up?
Well, to be honest, I can’t remember which
came first, the Altar Boy or the guitar.
All I know is that learning to play that…
yoke was hard work I only learned three.
chords. The three-chord
trick we called it C, F and G7.
No, I tell a lie – there was a fourth -
for special occasions. E minor, I think.
Not that it mattered a lot – I was crap
anyway. I was always going to be crap
where the guitar was concerned.
Mind you, I wasn’t much better as an
Altar Boy…
lights dim


scene two
After school. A mock-up of the altar rails inside the church. The Master is putting Terry and LIAM through their paces as Altar Boys. Liam is kneeling, receiving the host; Terry holds the ‘silver’ salver under his chin, the Master acting as the priest.
MASTER: Under his chin, Byrne!
Not under his ear
TERRY: Yes, Master.
MASTER: We don’t want the body of Christ
trampled underfoot, do we?
TERRY: No, Master.
MASTER: (putting his ‘chalice’ aside)
Now. Let me hear you again
Kyrie elieson..
LIAM: Kyrie elieson
MASTER: Kyrie elieson
TERRY: Kyrie elieson
MASTER: No, you amadan! Christie elieson
TERRY: Christie elieson.
MASTER: (shaking his head) Now, the blessing…
(he blesses himself)
In nominie patrie..
TERRY: Et…et…
MASTER: ET FI-LE-E…
(he signals to Liam)
LIAM: Et spiritu sanctu, amen
MASTER: Why, oh why did I ever consent to you
being an Altar Boy. You have no
interest, have you? Are you deliberately
obtuse, O’Byrne?
TERRY: No, Master
MASTER: Just naturally stupid, then. Kelly, here,
is word perfect. Why can’t you?
TERRY: I…I forgot.
MASTER: You forgot! Well, you had better unforget
by Sunday. And don’t think that just because
I won’t be there, that I won’t know. I SHALL
KNOW, O’Byrne. And God help you on
Monday, if you haven’t shaped up. Now, get
this place tidied up before you leave… (he exits)

Terry waits until he is sure the Master has gone, then takes out a cigarette butt and lights up.

TERRY: (parodying) Kelly, here, is word-perfect
‘Course he bloody-well is…
Miss goody two-shoes always is.
Why couldn’t you have said Christie Elysion?
Just for once, eh?
LIAM: Then I’d be as stupid as you, wouldn’t I?
TERRY: Obtuse, you mean.
LIAM: I thought that meant…
(he makes the shape of a large belly)
TERRY: That’s obese you…amadan

Terry hands him the butt. They both puff contentedly.

TERRY: Who’s saying Mass Sunday?
LIAM: Fr. Walsh, I think.
TERRY: Won’t be a lot left for us, then..
(he makes drinking motions)
Not after he’s finished
LIAM: Would you say he’s alcoholic?
TERRY: I’ll say!
LIAM: Not as bad as my ould fella, though.
Always singing stupid songs.
And trying to be funny.
(pause)
And hitting people when the notion takes him.
TERRY: Maybe it’s his job.
LIAM: Digging a few graves? Sometimes he doesn’t
have any for weeks.
TERRY: I wouldn’t like burying people
LIAM: He doesn’t bury them. All he does is dig
the grave, then fills it in when…you know.
And he’s drunk for a week afterwards

As they speak, they should be tidying up. Terry takes a magazine from his school bag.

TERRY: Did I show you that one?
LIAM: She’s…she’s….
TERRY: Big, isn’t she?
LIAM: She’s no clothes on!
TERRY: I wonder if Birdie looks like that?
Do you think all girls look like that?
LIAM: My mother doesn’t.
TERRY: She’s not a girl. I’m going to show
it to her. Ask her.
LIAM: Who? Me mother?
TERRY: Birdie!
LIAM: Oh yeah! When?
TERRY: When I…I’m meeting her tomorrow night.
LIAM: Birdie and you! She wouldn’t
be seen dead with you. You haven’t got a
big enough bike. (pause) Where?
Where are you meeting her?
TERRY: In the Temperance Hall.
LIAM: (laughs) You and a dozen others.
Music practice!
TERRY: I’m meeting her afterwards.
LIAM: Does she know? Have you asked her?
TERRY: You’ll see You’ll see who’s laughing

lights dim

Lights come up on Terry again, playing his guitar

TERRY: (sings)
You ain’t nothin,but a hound-dog
Rockin’ all the time
You ain’t nothin’ but a hound-dog
And you aint no friend of mine…
We had this idea of forming our own group.
Birdie, myself and…Liam.
Oh, we needed more, but three was a start.
I’d been going to the Hall for a few years
by then, and the fingers…(he holds them up)
…were hardened. My playing was still
crap, but I could warble a bit.
Liam was a late-comer – I think he thought
he might be missing something – so he purchased
a cheap rig-out from somewhere – one drum and a
cymbal…

Lights now reveal Liam, sitting behind his drum kit

….and started to make like he was Ringo.
Mind you, as it turned out, he wasn’t bad
Quite good, in fact.
(pause)
Birdie was the real star, though…
(he ticks off)
The fiddle, the mandolin, the keyboard…
And she could sing like…
Well, judge for yourselves…

BIRDIE is now revealed behind a keyboard. They strike up and play
ISLAND OF DREAMS (THE SPRINGIELDS), with Birdie on
vocals

BIRDIE: We need a name.
What shall we call ourselves?
TERRY: (fingering the surplices both he and Liam are wearing)
How about The Holy Joes?
LIAM: More like holy shows.

Spotlight back on Terry again.

TERRY: ‘Course this was long after we were
altar boys. By then I’d been…inoculated – is
that the word? - into the humdrum world of
work.. The local tannery to be precise.
As had Liam. Birdie was in a different league -
academically at any rate - and was being groomed
for a life of imparting knowledge at the local
convent. She was going to be a teacher.
At least, that’s what her father had in mind for her.
Mine had slightly different views on education;
rather like those of the bishop who’d once announced
‘education is okay for the few, but when
you educate the masses it can be dangerous’.
Mushrooms, that’s what they wanted us to be –
Keep us in the dark and feed us full of shite
(pause)
It was our love of music that brought – and kept
us – together. Well, our kind of music. Not the
jiggin-and reelin and accordion bashing
as practiced at the Temperance Hall, but something
a bit more up to date.
(pause)
The Holy Joes had a nice…ecclesiastical ring to it.
We thought.
Fr Walsh begged to differ.
LIAM: (as Fr Walsh)
Making game of the church, boys?
Or is it making game of me?
It won’t do
And both of you altar boys, to boot…
TERRY: We hadn’t been altar boys for a long time
And my tenure hadn’t exactly been…uneventful
LIAM: Am I to understand you’re planning to wear those…
abominations for the concert?
TERRY: (fingering his surplice)
They’re our uniforms
LIAM: Over my dead body!
(he turns his fury on Birdie)
And you Margaret Power, what do you
plan to wear? (silence)
Does your father know the carry-on at
these…rehearsals?
Does Sr. Assumpta?
TERRY: Of course they didn’t
We worked on the principle that
what they didn’t know wouldn’t bother them.
(pause)
We’d been given the use of a separate room
at the hall in which to knock our trio into
shape, and we’d planned to reveal ourselves
to an unsuspecting public at the upcoming
concert in the hall. Fr Walshe’s surprise
visit had probably put the kybosh on that.
(pause)
I’ve often thought that the parish priest was
my nemises; Moriarty to my Holmes; Laurel
to my Hardy, bur then, when I look back, I think
the honour belonged to the Master
(pause)
I was about twelve when I first pulled
on long trousers.
Tall and gangly.
So skinny that if I turned sideways you’d hardly see me.
I always sort of...blended in.
I still do.
I was…nebulous…
That’s the word.
The long trousers changed that – for a while.
Just because you wear long trousers now, O’Byrne,
don’t think it makes you any smarter.
That’s what he said to me, the first time he
saw me wearing them – the Master.
I didn’t.
Think I was any smarter.
But I felt different. I felt…grown up.
Until he cut me down to size – finding
some excuse to grab me by the throat-
you know, the fleshy bit under your chin –
then dragging me round the classroom floor
to make some point or other.
You tended to remember such forcibly-made points.
(pause)
I suppose nowadays he would be called a sadistic
bastard…but then…ah way back then…we didn’t
know any better. (pause) Maybe he didn’t
know any better.
He had only one eye; well, he had two but one was glass.
This he liked to take out and hold at arms length –
as if to see us better. He also reckoned he could hear
the grass growing, a phenomena we were prepared to
believe, because he heard the slightest sound in the room,
and could turn unerringly to the culprit
(pause) O’Byrne. Tar amac an seo coomsha.
(pause) Gaelic of course. Do you know what it means?
(laughs) Trouble. Big trouble
O’Byrne, come on up here to me.
Or words to that effect
Then when you did as he bid, he would send
you to the cupboard to fetch his bundle of canes.
Your own executioner, in a manner of speaking.
To us scholars they were just a bunch of sticks
for beating the shit out of us, but to him each
cane had its own characteristic. He sat there,
flexing each one, listening to the sound of the swish it
made, before finally making a choice…

Sounds of caning, then Terry stands with his hands folded under his arms.

You never cried. Never let him see how much it hurt.
BASTARD!
(pause)
He liked the girls. The bigger ones, anyway. There was
Monica Kirwan, Francis Kelly, Birdie…
Monica, she was his favourite…
She was big…
And she was a farmer’s daughter…
A big farmer’s daughter…
Or is it a farmer’s big daughter…?

Spotlight on the Master, who ‘pats’ an imaginary seat beside him.

MASTER: Quiet, you pack of hyenas! Monica is going
to read from the poem I told you all to learn
last week. God help you if you cannot
continue it when I call your name…
BIRDIE: (as Monica)
They are going, shy-eyed cailins
And lads so straight and tall,
From the purple peaks of Kerry,
Form the crags of wild Imall.
From the greening plains of Mayo
And the glens of Donegal…
MASTER: O’BYRNE!
TERRY: They are, they are…
MASTER: You glangeen! You amadan…
They are leaving pleasant places
Shores with snowy sands outspread…
HOLD OUT THAT HAND…(sounds of slapping)
Blue and lonely lakes a-stirring
When – the- wind – stirs overhead..
more sounds of slapping)
OUTSIDE!
Don’t come back until you know it by heart.
And pick some sticks for the fire before you return.
TERRY: Pick some sticks…!
He was the only one who ever benefited from
the fire. His arse was bigger than a hay barn,
and it was usually plonked in front of it…

He walks around, clapping his hands together, trying to keep warm, picking up bits of firewood.

TERRY: Was you ever stung by a dead bee?
That’s what Walter Brennan said to Humphrey
Bogart in one of their films…
Which fillum was it now?…
(laughs)
I don’t know about dead ones, but bejaysus
live ones give you a fair ould dart…
(pause)
The was a swarm of them hanging from the
rafters in one of the outhouses at the back
of Duggan’s pub – as I discovered to my
cost on one of my firewood-seeking expeditions.
Well, it was warmer than the fields…
Besides, nobody went in there…
Certainly not old Mrs Duggan. She sat in
the hob of the open fire in the snug all day,
dressed in black from her shawl to her shoes,
fingering her rosary beads. Everyone said
she had a path worn to the church.
And certainly not her son Mossy, whose
time was divided between uncapping bottles of stout
for the occasional customer, and transporting bales
of hay in the back of his Morris Minor to his herd
of fine Friesians who dwelled in the fields behind
our cottage. His was one of the few cars in the
neighborhood; a sure sign of wealth in my
estimation. The parish priest had one, as had
one or two of the bigger farmers.
Plus, of course, the Master…
(pause)
The bees initially taxed my ingenuity.
And then it came to me…

Liam appears with a large sack. Terry produces a crooked walking-stick and prods and pokes the ‘bees nest’ into the sack.

TERRY: It was beautiful.
You should’a seen them scatter.
The Master most of all.
Well, he was the one nearest the fireplace.
Down the chimney they came next morning.
Like a swarm of…well…bees

Sounds of pandemonium. Children screaming, bees buzzing, etc…

MASTER: OUT THE DOOR NOW. QUICKLY,CHILDREN!
DON’T WORRY ABOUT THAT…AAH!
(sounds of slapping)
GOD BLAST! HERE, MONICA, LET ME…
OOH…AAH! (more sounds of slapping)
end of scene


scene three
The graveyard of the church. JOHN COLLINS is lounging against a gravestone, reading a book, a half-dug grave nearby. Terry approaches.

JOHN: Well now, the man they couldn’t hang
With a string of sausages, hah?

Terry inspects the grave.

TERRY: It’s very small
JOHN: Instructions from the PP. We’re to bury
them standing up from now on. Well,
look at the space you save.
TERRY: You’re joken me!
JOHN: One day it won’t be a joke. You
mark my words
(he holds out the book)
Thanks for this, by the way
Where did you get it?
TERRY: Well…I…found it.
JOHN: It’s amazing what people throw away
these days.

John puts the book aside, takes out his pipe and tobacco, and proceeds to light up.

JOHN: How much have we this week?

For an answer, Terry goes to an overgrown grave, searches briefly, then returns with a bottle. John takes the bottle and holds it up.

JOHN: Only half? (pause) You been at it already?
NAR: No
JOHN: Let me guess…Fr Michael was heavy on it again?
NAR: Yes.
JOHN: He’s gone to the dogs lately. (laughs)
What am I saying? He does go to the dogs –
every Friday night. Maybe that’s why – he’s having
a bad run.

He opens the bottle and tastes the liquid.

JOHN: Hmmm…not bad. A fifty nine, I’d say. From
The vineyards of Tuscany.
(he takes a long swing)
Slainte!

He produces a packet of Craven-A cigarettes and offers one to Terry

JOHN: Craven-A on Sunday, craving butts on Monday
(laughs) What?

Terry has a fit off coughing.

JOHN: Yerra…It’s not the cough that carries you off,
It’s the coffin they carry you off in
(hands him the bottle)
Here...wash it down with that

Terry drinks and he takes the bottle back

JOHN: Hey…Fr Terry…steady on there…

They drink and smoke companionably for a little while. Then John gets to his feet and squints his eyes at something in the distance.

JOHN: What the feck’s going on….?
What’s that little gurrier up to now?
Hey, shit-face! Over here. NOW!

After a short interval, Liam comes into view, clearly terrified.

JOHN: What were you up to over there, boy?
LIAM: Nuthin’
JOHN: (making a swipe at him)
I’ll give you nuthin’!
Come on, hand it over.
LIAM: I haven’t got anything.

John pushes and shoves him, so that he slips into the grave.

JOHN: What-ever-it-was- you shoved under your gansy.
Before I lose my temper, boy.
LIAM: Don’t dada! The grave….
JOHN: Would you like to be buried in it?
Give me the fucking thing!

Liam hands over a magazine, tearfully.

JOHN: Nudes of the World. Well now,
there’s an original name for you.
Where did you get it?
LIAM: I...found it
JOHN: (looks at Terry)
Is it raining books or wha…?
I’ve heard about it raining cats and dogs,
but this beats Bannaher.
(he flicks through it)
Did you have a gander?
(no reply)
Well, did you?
LIAM: I…I…
JOHN: Hoors. All hoors
Did you see anyone there resembling your mother?
WELL?
LIAM: I…no…
JOHN: Your fucking no-good mother.
You remember his mother, don’t you?
Who ran away to Manchester with that bastard, O’Shea?
TERRY: I… don’t think so.
JOHN: One day she was here, the next gone…
Not a by-your-leave..
No ‘for better or worse’ for her…
Just packed up and went…
(drinks some wine)
… And everybody laughing at me…
Sure what did he expect anyway,
and she from Tracy Park?
(pause)
I expected my dinner on the table when I came home.
A clean shirt now and again.
s that too much to ask?
LIAM: You drove her away. Coming home all hours.
Drunk…hitting her…
JOHN: Oh I see…it’s all my fault.
She wanted too good a good time,
that was your mother’s trouble. Other women
had to put up with a lot worse than she did…
LIAM: She says you’re nothing but an animal…
JOHN: She does, does she? And how do you know
what she says – being that she’s in Manchester?

Liam doesn’t reply, so he grabs him by the throat

JOHN: HOW?
LIAM: I...I…she phones
JOHN: Now it’s all coming out. And
what do ye talk about?
LIAM: About…me. She asks how I am.
JOHN: And what about this ould eejit?
Does she ask about me, eh?
he back-stabbing bitch…
a thought occurs to him)
Whose phone does she use?
TERRY: She phones my mother.
JOHN: Well now, there’s a turn-up.
They talk about me, I suppose?
TERRY: I don’t know. I don’t listen to their conversation.
JOHN: You should do. A bit of illicit listening can
be very illuminating. I listened to the PP once – I
was in his garden, and he was in his study and the window
open – and do you know what he was discussing?
The price of a dog in a race at Kilcohan later
that night. (clears his throat and spits)
I put a half-crown on it – it’s still fecking running.
(pause)
Does your mother know where in Manchester?
(Terry shrugs)
I bet she does. They were always as thick
as thieves. Do you think you could ask her?
TERRY: She wouldn’t tell me.
JOHN: No, I suppose not. What about letters? Does
she write? Maybe you could sneak the address
for me? I’d see you alright.
TERRY: When you get your glasses, no doubt.
You haven’t paid us for that…
(he indicates the wine)… yet
JOHN: You’ll get it tomorrow. After Mrs McCarthy
is turfed over.
TERRY: What would you do – if I did?
JOHN: I’d get a Mass said for them – a requiem Mass.
And I’d like to send them the card.
LIAM: My mum never did nothing to you.
You leave her alone. You should be inside…
there…praying for forgiveness.
JOHN: Will you listen to ould Holy Joe here!
What’s she been saying, eh? Got you
praying for my redemption ,has she?
That’s your mother to a tee alright:
Holy, holy holy on Sunday. Hole, hole, hole
the rest of the week. You’d think butter wouldn’t
melt in her mouth, the way she sashayed up to
receive Holy communion. Mind you, most of
them are like that round here…

He parodies the walk to receive communion, his hands joined together and held under his chin.
…so fucken prim and proper you’d think they
had corks up their arses…
Ah Christ, give me dacent a pagan any day
(he waves to someone in the distance)
Grand day, Mossy…(laughs)
Mossy now, he’s the biggest pagan in Ireland. I
don’t think he’s ever seen the inside of a church.
And is he any the worse for it? He’s a lot
dacenter than the God brigade, I can tell you.
(pause)
Not a bit like his ould bitch of a mother.
She has a fucken path worn to the church. I
tell you, fucken path. And what for? Can you
imagine anyone wanting to commit a sin with her?
By Christ, you’d need more than WD40 to oil
her parts! Do you know what she said to me the
other day? I think now, John, you should make
more of an effort to keep the weeds down
It’s a graveyard, for fuck sake, not the botanical
gardens!
(gives Liam a shove)
Are you taking root in there or wha?
Get off home with you – and get the supper ready
(he picks up his shovel)
I have to shape this to Mrs McCarthy’s requirements.
end of scene

scene four
The graveyard. John is slumped against a headstone, clearly drunk.

JOHN: I’m the biggest sex mechanic in the country
LIAM: The biggest prick anyway
JOHN: Aisy now! People might think you were jealous.
TERRY: (picking up a bottle)
Only the best will do.
LIAM: Jameson!
JOHN: Correction. An empty bottle of Jameson (laughs)
No altar wine left-overs for Johnny boy these days.
LIAM: Where did you get money for whiskey?
JOHN: Aah! And there’s plenty more where that came from.
(he pulls out money from his pocket)
Help yourself..
(sings)
Working for the yankee dollar…
I have..clients. Very important…clients.
TERRY: That bunch with the cameras this morning…
mother said they were looking for the graveyard.
JOHN: Tha’s right. Looking for John Collins.
Johnny boy is in demand these days. Big demand.
(tries to drain the whiskey bottle)
Give the woman in the bed more porter, is what I say…
All the way from Massechutus, they were.
Boston, Massechutus
Real gentlemen – and women.
Not afraid to put their hands in their pockets either.
This big fella – he could be John Wayne’s brother –
seemed to be in charge.
‘I’m looking for John Collins, the gravedigger’.
he says, ‘might you be he?’.
I’m leaning on me shovel at the time;
‘Well, I’m not digging the spuds, that’s for sure’.
He had a good laugh at that.
‘Ha, ha, a comedian too. They tell me you know where
all the bodies are buried’.
‘Oh begod I do, I do that’, says I. ‘And not just
the ones in here. What particular body did you
have in mind?
‘A countryman of yours. Red Thomas…ah?. He was
a poet. Lived, I guess ,about two hundred years ago…
‘Red Thomas Keogh? I know him well In a manner
of speaking. He was…’
‘It says here his name was Keane…’ This was one
of the women sticking her oar in. I could tell
she might be trouble, so I shut her up quick..
‘Take no notice of them guides. They’re notorious
for getting names mixed up. Tom-as Rua –
that’s Irish for Red Thomas – is
buried in a paupers grave…oh, back of the
church. No coffin or nothin’, they just dug
a hole and threw him in.
Ah, he was probably done in or somethin’.
A terrible man for the women, he was.
And even worse for the drink
Fare thee well to my youth
And the land of my birth
I am leaving today
This poor famished earth...
Oh yes, I’m yer man for anything ye want
to know about Tom-as Rua…
TERRY: Hold on now! You recited that
piece of…doggerel and passed it off as Thomas’s?
JOHN: What’s wrong with it?
TERRY: (shaking his head)
And who says he’s buried here?
JOHN: Who says he’s not. There’s no records. All
we know is that he disappeared…
TERRY: Disappeared! He was run out of town. No
woman was safe, by all accounts
JOHN: Didn’t I tell them all that.
TERRY: And they believed you?
JOHN: They’re Americans. They lapped it up.
By the time I was finished, I had them
convinced they were his distant cousins…
TERRY: He never set foot in the States!
JOHN: …how he paid his passage from Queenstown, and
began his long poem, MISE EIRE, during the
voyage, completing it some six months later
when he arrived in Boston. Apparently the Boston area
is full of Keoghs and Keanes - which my new-found
friends are going to spend the next year looking into…
(he rubs his hands together)
and when they come back here with their load of useless
information, I’ll be in the money…
TERRY: But it’s all pack of lies..!.
JOHN: And what is history but a pack of lies?
You don’t really believe that St Patrick banished
snakes? Or all that guff about Cuchullian or
Brian Boru? Or even 1916 for that matter? Who
knows what went on there, behind the barricaded
doors? I’m just an…embellisher.
LIAM: You’re just a bollix. Like you always were.
JOHN: Here now! Steady on…
LIAM: What are you going to do about it?
You’re a bit long in the tooth now for that now…da.
I’m not a twelve year old boy any more.
Look at you. The best thing you could do would be
fall into one of your…holes, and have someone
fill it in on top of you.
JOHN: Ah,jaysus, boy, where’s your compassion?
LIAM: What compassion did you ever show me?
Or my mother for that matter.
JOHN: Your mother was a no-good fornicating
bitch. Everybody knows that.
LIAM: And you’re a no-good drunken grave-digger –
everyone knows that.
(shakes his head)
To think that I used to look up to you once
JOHN: By jaysus, and you’ll look up to me again…!
LIAM: What will you be doing…
hanging from a sycamore tree?

Terry and Liam sing ‘Tom Dooley’ at this juncture.

BOTH: Hang down your head Tom Dooley
Hang down your head and cry
Hang down your head Tom Dooley
Poor boy your going to die
Poor boy your going to die…

They rough John up a bit, leaving him sprawled against the headstone. Liam then produces a black crayon and writes the word FUCKER across his forehead.
end of scene

scene five







No bees, that’s for sure anyway
(laughs) Be God, you put the wind
up the Master be all accounts.
Sure, he’s still runnin’.
A bit more of it might put some manners
On him
BOY: It wasn’t me
JOHN: (mimics him) It wasn’t me.
(he picks up the book)
Guess where I found this?
BOY: I don’t know.
JOHN: In there, the out house
BOY: (excitedly) There’s stacks that height…
(his voice trails off)
JOHN: That’s all right. It’s our secret.
BOY: I didn’t go in there to steal things.
JOHN: ‘Course not
BOY: Just to keep warm.
JOHN: And have a nose around
BOY: No! Well, not at first.
JOHN: Aha! Now we’re motoring

Your loving son
Tom