“Poor Cocky”.

A one act, one set play.

Characters.:

George : Aged, local Cocky (farmer).

Gary (Gazza)..Also aged, Another local farmer.

Jamie (Jim)…Youth, around fifteen years old.

Scene..: Inside a shearing shed, empty except for Gary and Jamie positioned at a wool-skirting table…there is the usual paraphernalia of a shearing shed scattered around..the scene is dark and gloomy, save for small shafts of sunlight spotted through nail-holes etc in the roof. Gary has a rifle in parts on a canvas sheet on the table..Jamie sits on the table watching Gary clean and reassemble the rifle.

The door of the shearing shed clatters and grates open..A short, stocky farmer stands framed in the doorway..Gary and Jamie turn to stare at the man in the doorway…

George : “Gazza!”

Gary : “ Ah..it’s you George..come in come in..”

George steps into the shed, nailholes of sunlight glitter the raised dust particles and bead the rough wooden floor..Gary is wiping the rifle down with a soft cloth, Jamie sits, legs dangling on the skirting table…Tufts of belly-wool lay scattered on the floor and woolbags are hanging from a nail in a post in the wall..Blackened stencils with the farm name are hooked on another nail in the wall..

Geo : “What’s the score, Gazz?”

Gary : “This is my grandson…..Jamie..” (You can see Gary has trouble saying the boy’s name).

Geo : “Jay – mee..” (George emphasises the ending deliberately).

Gary : “Yeah righto…” (Gary’s tone is meant to silence any further comment on the boy’s name..but the lad surprises them both by standing from the skirting table and offering his hand to George..)

Jamie : “Call me Jim..” (George makes a pout with his lips and nods his head in respect..Gary smiles gently at this small gesture..”

Gary : “We’re going to get a lesson in gun-handling, so I thought it best to start off with the basic requirements of the skills.”

(Gary speaks as he concentrates first with a toothbrush and cleaning fluid, then with the soft cloth as he cleans and works the trigger mechanism of the rifle. The small metallic clicking sounds seems to drift smoke-like up to the rafters to mix with the lingering, tremulous feelings of the cacophony of shearing machinery and men over the past few weeks…)

Geo : “You gonna teach him to shoot?”

Gary : “Mmm…this arvo.”

Goe : “Where?”

Gary : “Oh…dunno…I thought down on the flats, near Dempsey’s Landing.”

Geo : “Coupla’bunnies?”

(Gary is reassembling the rifle as he speaks and now it is complete, he pushes in the bolt and works it a couple of times with a click! clack!)

Gary : “That..or maybe a couple of those bloody thieving galahs.”

(George shifts his stance perceptibly, he himself does not shoot at all now, although it was once said that he was the best shot in the district).

Gary : “Gonna come along?” (Gary asked, though he knows George would refuse).

Geo : “Nah…nah…give it a miss, Gary.”

(Gary carefully placed the rifle on a cloth on the skirting table and folding his arms whilst leaning against the table, looks George squarely in the eye and says;).

Gary : “George…you used to be the best shot in the district when we were young, but now you don’t even pick up a gun…it’s a puzzle, George, a real puzzle…so c’mon, out with it, what’s the story of all this pacifism, eh?”

(George takes his hands off the table and plunges them into his pockets, they are rough hands, coarse hands with solid callouses and chipped nails, they are hands that have shaped the framework of the family farm, he himself is a nuggety man, old now but still solid with yet firm muscles from an age of hard labour on the farm, from a generation who structured their lives around the necessities rather than the leisure’s, his face wears evidence of struggle against nature…nature was winning!…His shoulders set).

Geo : “Aww…you wouldn’t want to know Gary…Why…you’d just laugh,” (he grimaces a sort of smile).

Gary : “Oh give it a rest George…how long have I known you…?”

Geo : “Yeah…well…but some things that happen to a man might be terribly upsetting to him but still seem funny to others…like, like slipping on a banana skin, or walking into a street sign while looking the other way, for instance.”

Jim and Gary : “Ha, ha.” (Jim and Gary laugh together).

Gary : “No, George, you’re not going to get out of it that easy… Now, if I’m going to teach young… ( he pauses) young Jim…here the correct use of firearms, he’d do well to hear why another man who used to drop a rabbit at a hundred yards running…suddenly gives the game away…you owe it to the young lad’s education, so c’mon,” (he makes little flicking “c’mon” gestures with his fingers and hand) …out with it…” ( he crosses his arms again..They both looked at George impatiently).

Geo : “Well, (George decides) alright, I’ll tell you, but it mightn’t mean much to you and I feel a bit of a fool for the telling of it, so I’ll trust you not to spread it far and wide.”

Gary : “Of course…of course.” (George takes his hands out of his pockets and leans at arms length against the skirting table and gazes at the floor).

Goe : “You know, it’s strange, the things that change a man’s life…and it’s almost always little things that do it too, not the big but the little. (He takes a deep breath, purses his lips and begins)…You remember that Sulphur Crested cocky we had for a pet years ago?”

Gary : “No..no, can’t recollect it …but everyone had a pet magpie or cocky ’round here at some time.” (Gary scratches his head as he answers).

Geo : “Well, we did and you know we got him from old Tedmonson out there on the ‘Bulldog Run.’ He was a cranky old bastard, that Tedmonson, he used to treat that cocky cruel, was there myself one day and the old man swearing and hammering away at a plough-arm, trying to straighten it and that cocky up and mimics him. “‘Bloody bastard of a thing,’ says Tedmonson. “‘Bloody thing! Bloody thing!’ cackled cocky. -“‘Shuddup stupid!’ yells Tedmonson. “‘Stupid bastard, stupid bastard!’ mimics the bird, and old man Tedmonson up and chucks a hammer at the cage, swearing and cursing, picks up a length of water pipe and smacks the side of the cage with it something shocking, so the bird in there has its crest shooting up and is flapping its wings and screeching something awful! “‘Steady on Sandy,” I said to Tedmonson. “‘Bloody bird…I’d wring its neck if I could get close to it.” “‘Wring your neck! Wring you neck!’ cocky mimicked again, so the old man picks up the water hose and sprays the parrot while all the time laughing sort of cruel like ’till I calmed  him down.
Then one day they’re moving interstate and I happened to be over there looking at a generator I was thinking to buy and I asked him what he was going to do with the cocky.

“‘Wait till the wife’s gone and then shoot the bloody thing…then I’ll tell her it got away.’

He grinned menacingly at the parrot who just raised its crest and ducked its head away sideways, always keeping its beady eye on the old man though.

“‘I’ll take him”, I offered. “Be a shame to kill it, I don’t mind birds and the kids’ll be thrilled!’

Tedmonson looked disappointed, but I pressed him on the subject and said I’d ask his wife that night, so he shrugged and said: “Oh well…so be it, but it’ll cost you a dozen bottles of beer.”’ and that’s how we came by the cocky…and we called it “Wudgie” or “Wudge” because when I first brought him home, Louise, who was just three years old then, looked at it and asked: “‘Is that a wudgie?” meaning budgie of course and we all laughed, so we called it “Wudge”…and the kids taught that bird to say all sorts of things and some words it picked up on it’s own, like those birds do.”

“We had that parrot for around eight or so years, ’til one day it escaped, an’ it tells you how clever those birds are : every day we came to feed it, it’d climb up the wire, beak over claw to hold by the door lock with its head cocked and one eye watching us lift that catch. We had one of those gate catches that click up themselves as you shut the gate, and that bird spent eight years every day watching us lift that catch ’til one day I come out to feed it and he was gone and a twig was left pushed through the wire where he’d flicked that latch..

Gary : “Oh bullshit!” (groans Gary, turning away).

Goe : “No…no…listen, “Bandy” Phillips had a cocky that used to undo the valve-caps on his bike with its beak and press the tiny tip in there to let the tires down…and Harry Hocking…”

Gary : “Alright, alright… I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, but go on with your story.”

Goe : “They’re clever birds, those sulphur-crested cockys,”

Gary : “Yeah? (Gary brakes in sarcastically) then maybe they oughta’  put ’em through university and make politicians out of them …or perhaps they already have” (he raises his eyebrows and an indicative finger as he nods his head sagely).

Geo : “Anyway, (George continues with a sigh) it was gone… but I thought I might see it again if’n it came back or someone caught it, and I’d recognise it by the one missing claw on its left foot where, presumably, Tedmanson had hit it with something one day. By and by over the next few years I forgot all about the bloody thing…presumed it was dead…Then one morning the missus says that Uncle Charlie is coming up with his family for the weekend and would I go shoot a couple of wild ducks down by the river so as to have a nice roast come Sunday. They always said that: “George, go shoot a couple of ducks…George, go shoot some bunnies for Christmas… …’cause I was a good shot, you see.”

Gary : “I’ll say, (Gary interupts, then turning to his grandson says eagerly) I seen George here trim the corners off a playing card at twenty-five yards with his .22, then plug the centre with his .410 shotgun.” (Gary finishes off with his arms gesturing).

Jim : “Wow,” (the boy remarks, suitable impressed).

Geo : “Well, I was a reasonable shot then, (George humbly admits)..Any-road, (he continues) I’m down near ‘Westies Billabong’ there at seven in the morning and my breath’s steaming.. I’d spotted a couple of ducks by the reeds there so I got into a crouch… (and here George goes into a pantomime of his actions)…and was working my way bent-backed ’round the billabong real quiet when suddenly all hell breaks loose… (he throws up his arms in a gesture of surprise)…and these two cockies come twisting and screeching in the air above me…must’ve had their nest in a hole in a tree there and saw me as a threat.. Any-road, they were making a hell of a racket so it scared the ducks who flew off , and I was that angry with those bloody birds that when one came swooping and diving then twisted side-on to me… (George uses his hand flat to show the action)…just above, I quickly just swung the shotgun in its’ general direction and let fly…boom! ”

(George stops talking and stares to the air above).

“Well, I hit it and it fell like a folded object to ground over near a red gum and it lay twisting on the grass so I started walking casually over to it all the while pushing another cartridge into the breech of the shotgun. (He goes through the action of loading the gun)…”But as I came nearer, suddenly! (he pauses)… I hear a voice…call out ;

“Poor cocky”

“What’s that!”  I called…again I hear it…

“Poor cocky”.

“Who’s there!” I called…turning 360 degrees to see who it was…I thought someone was having me on.. but there was no-one, nothing but the screeching of that cocky’s mate weaving and diving madly in the air above, around the branches of the gums…Then again, that same voice calling weakly and I turned to the direction of the sound (George turns staring to the empty sheep pens) and there it was, on the ground in front of me, the cocky  I had shot, calling weakly….’poor cocky’ it was saying, ‘poor cocky, poor cocky’ over and over till it’s voice faded, I looked down at the bird..and suddenly I saw that missing claw..Nah! I thought..it couldn’t be.. Wudge…Wudgie? I said unbelievingly as I stood over it, but sure enough, there was the crook foot with the one claw missing…sure, it could have been another pet bird that had escaped and gone back to the wild..after all ,it had been years since I last saw it… I bent down and lay the gun on the grass, then raised the body of the bird close to look at its’ eyes to see if there was still some life left in it..but it was dead, and I just stared and stared, but all I could see in that dark pool of it’s eye was the reflections of passing clouds overhead…and there was something about that…that killing of the bird, it threw me…maybe something to do with it gaining it’s freedom and losing it perhaps, and I couldn’t even let a poor bloody cocky have a bit of life but I go and kill it! So really, in the end I was no better than old man Tedmonson, perhaps worse..’cause even he didn’t kill the bird…(George stares into the empty shed as he speaks)..Killing, killing… George kill this, George kill that and I was so sick of it, sick of  the killing… (he lets his arms fall to his sides wearily)…I dunno…just…sick of the killing…so I went home, threw the gun in a locker in the corner of the shed and I haven’t shot it since…

“It was the killing, I think…I just got sick of the killing….”

End of Play..

It’s true,

And it’s real,

It’s tragic,

And it’s a very sad ideal. . .

That you have destroyed our fantasies,

Betrayed our sweet, imagined, seraphic vulgarities,

And replaced them all with your own confected, so-called reality…

That offers us nothing but desecrated, emotional negativity.

It’s true,

And it’s real,

What you offer for what you steal,

Is of lower value than beggar’s gruel,

What measure of a celestial king’s ransom,

Could replace dreams we create for our heart’s enhancement?

We rue,

And we construe,

Life’s reality which is so raw it hurts to embrace,

And of those experiences so cruel we daydream to replace,

With a more pleasant fantasy, a more delightful entrance,

Of course we know it is but a reverie, a lover’s fanse.

So..

Let it be true,

Let it be real,

Better than your filth,

Better than your misconstrues,

 Those lies you peddle to replace our dreams,

Trash that you manufacture as avatar schemes,

Then try to flog to us as the future ideal,

A nightmare of false, banal life we can neither touch nor feel. . .

It’s now true,

And it’s now real,

It’s also tragic,

And it’s a very, very bad deal!

An Indigenous woomera.

A one act, one set play.

Characters :

Antonio..Male, around sixty five years old.

Bob..A Catholic priest.

Francesco..Older brother of Antino.

Scene : A camp site in the outback. There is a silhouette outline of a four wheel drive car…a camp fire and the trappings of an overnight stay…The two men are to one side of the stage looking at an object that Antonio is showing to Bob.

Antonio : “Come on over here, Bob..I want you to see something against that tree.”

(Antonio steps away to the far left of the stage, he stands with his hands in his pockets but with thumbs outside..Bob moves over to join him and they both stand gazing at a twisted, dead tree.)

Bob : “ So what am I looking for?”

Antonio : “See there?”

Bob : “What?”

Antonio : “There at the base in that small cleft.”

(At first Bob doesn’t see anything unusual, but then a soft focused spotlight illuminates the spot and an object takes shape, a man crafted object of symmetrical design. He moves a few steps closer so he is only a couple of metres from it, in the dusk he makes out clearly the shape.)

Bob : “Why … it’s a woomera..an … an Aboriginal woomera … but it’s old … so old”.

( He speaks in awe, and indeed it was old.)

Antonio : “ We thought at least a hundred years old because of the wearing of the elements on it, it has been sun- baked and sand blasted, the resin and fibres holding the spur onto the body have deteriorated and the patterns cut into the body of the woomera are now obscure.”

( Bob leans forward as if to touch it but Tony grips his wrist fiercely.)

Tony : “No, Bob … don’t touch it, let it lay there. I haven’t touched it ever in all the years I’ve known it’s here, you’re the first person I’ve ever shown it to … it must remain as it is till time takes it back to the earth … as it will take us all … as it will take Francesco.”

(Antonio releases Bob’s arm and straightens up still gazing at the woomera.)

T : “Come, we will camp for the night it will soon be dark.”

(Both men turn and walk back to the camp. A soft fire glows in the centre of a ring of stones, but its light is too frail to penetrate deep into the darkness, unable to wash into the deeper crevasses of their eye sockets and the hollows of their cheeks, so the men’s faces quiver into grotesque shadowy masks.)

Bob : “Who’s Francesco?”

(Antonio squats, one arm on his knee with the other hand prodding a stick into the coals.)

T : “Pass me that piece of branch, Bob..ta…Francesco was my older brother … he died a long time ago … twenty years now … or rather tomorrow.”

( Bob stretches one leg out in the cool sand and makes himself more comfortable.)

Bob : “You never told me you had a brother” ( Bob remarks quietly, in a tone that suggests he is a little bit piqued that this close friend would keep such a secret from him. Antonio doesn’t look away from the flames.)

T : “It’s why I asked you along on this trip actually,” (Tony solemnly speaks.)

B : “Oh?”

T : “You’re a priest, I want you to help me bury him again..”

B : “Who?”

T : “Francesco … my brother!” “…

B : “…You alright Tony? .. I mean; where’s the body?”

(Antonio leans back and feels inside his clothes bag and swings back with a small wooden urn.)

T : “Here …” He said quietly “His ashes!”

( Bob squints at his friend with one eye closed.)

B : “In there?”

T : “In here”.

( There is a pause in the conversation as the fire crackles and hisses, the silence of the desert night crowds in all around them, as if listening.)

B : “So what did they bury all those years ago?”

T : “Ashes … plain wood ashes!” (Antonio smiles and leans back to place the urn into his duffle bag. Bob lets out a slow, low whistle.)

B : “You better enlighten me Tony.”

T : “I’ll get the billy boiled first.”

( Antonio drops a palmful of tea into the boiling water. He slowly stirs the contents with a piece of stick.)

T : “I’ll tell you Bob, not as a confession, but still…maybe for Francesco’s soul!”

B : “How did he die?”

T : “He shot himself.”

B : “Suicide?” (Bob raises his eyebrows Antonio leaps up angrily…)

T : “No! … No … No, a thousand times no …” (he strides two steps away then turns and comes back, the ball of his cupped left hand slapping onto his right fist, he shakes his head empathically as he speaks.) “Not suicide, … no! his was a sacrifice … yes, a sacrifice to the filthy God security!” ( Antonio stops suddenly, hands frozen apart, his heavy breathing noticeable in the still desert night.)

T : “Security,” ( he whispers. His shoulders slumped and he sits back down by the fire, reaches over, takes the billy and fills two mugs with the brew.)

T : “Sugar, Bob?” ( his voice is still tense.)

B : “Please … and milk”.

T : “I take mine black.” (Antonio leans back on his duffle bag and stretches one leg out comfortably, his boot pushes up a little mound of the red sand..)

T : “Dammit Bob, it still upsets me after all these years.” (he guffaws) “Suicide!” (he guffawed again. He takes a sip of his tea and a breathes a deep breath.)

T : “Francesco … was ten years older than me and we were partners in a building company before the recession. We started out as brickies you see, then it just grew from there “Collossus Constructions” we called ourselves and it did get colossal! Ended up flat out just organising the other trades. We did a lot of estate housing projects in those days for those big real-estate companies. We were in it up to our necks when the recession hit and it all went bust! Oh God did it go bust! Overnight, two of our biggest contracts went into receivership and left us holding the bag. Subcontractors to be paid, contracts to finish etcetera, etcetera and it cleaned us out … or nearly …”

B : “Didn’t you see any signs of the impending collapse?”

T : “Nah! they were still signing contracts up till the day before … so someone was pulling a shonky!”

B : “It’s always the way” Bob chipped in.

T : “Anyway we were running around like scalded cats all week, cajoling this one, pacifying the other, putting someone else off till finally on the Friday night Francesco comes ’round in his ute and says to throw in a sleeping bag and the billy and let’s go bush for the weekend. I couldn’t have agreed more. Hey, isn’t it good out here in the desert?..clean, peaceful. It was at this very spot that we camped … right here, the same place I come to every year since then … but this will be my last … this will be my last.”

B : “You look good for a few years yet Tony.”

T : “But I feel tired Bob, so bloody tired.”

B : “You been carrying some of the weight?”

T : “In a way … it could’ve been me … it could have been me that died.” (Antonio sighs)  “He found that woomera, not me, he wandered over there to go to the toilet, after a while he called out to me: ‘Tony … come here, have a look at this!’  No thanks! I called in disgust I got one of my own.. ‘ Nah … not that … it’s interesting.’ He had found something..When I got there he was squatted in front of the woomera staring at it.Hey! I said, that’d look great above my mantelpiece and I reached out for it but he rapped my knuckles with a piece of branch…

F : “Don’t touch!” he barked. “Have respect for the dead.”

“What dead? It’s only a woomera.” I said.

F : “Oh he’s dead alright, after all those years, and it’s still his..it was probably left here by mistake.”

“Finders keepers…” I began, but Francesco wasn’t listening to anything I said, he just stared at that thing.”

F : “He was a hunter … and he rested here … for a camp maybe … maybe he speared a ‘roo, he leant his woomera against the tree … it would have been a sapling then surely …” and Francesco went on in this quiet monotone, building up a picture of this lone Aboriginal hunter and the desert and the need for food that sent him on long journeys …I just stood there listening to him talk and it was enthralling in it’s depth of feeling. I’d never known Frank to think of these things before.” Antonio stopped and stared into the fire, it’s flickering glow so enticingly rich and comforting under the stars. When he finished, Francesco stood up, turned to me and said: “We’re still all hunters, you know,” then turned and walked back to the camp.”

B : “It seemed to have touched a spot in him”.

T : “I’ll say, he went back to look at that woomera again and again over the weekend. But he said no more about it. Then on the Sunday afternoon as we were packing up he said to me:

F : “‘Tony … we’re done for, you know that don’t you?”

“How do you mean … financially? I replied”

F “Yes financially stuffed..but I’ve thought out a way to beat the bastards!”

T : “Like how? I asked.”

F : “You remember those insurance policies we took out on each other two years ago?”

“Yeah, in case one of us kicked off, but they’re not worth a quid yet … unless one of us dies … say! you’re not thinking of faking a death, then disappearing or something?”

F : “Not faking … but a death, yes.”

“What are you talking about, – you lost your marbles or something … what are you talking about …” I was shocked I can tell you. Francesco got angry.”

F : “Grow up Tony” He yelled “Grow up, we’re finished. In less than a month they’ll have our business, our houses, our cars, … our balls … everything .”

“But Frank. . .”

F : “Don’t Frank me … you know what it’s like to live in poverty? Do you? and your wife and your kids … what’re you gonna tell them … “sorry kids, sorry honey but we gotta go live in a shack and eat porridge and potatoes!” hey? you tell them that … listen, you’re too young to remember back home, but I can tell you; I remember and I don’t intend to have my family go through those times,” and he slammed his hand against the side of the ute.

“What … what do you intend to do? I asked.”

F : “Better you don’t know.” But I knew.

“Frank … no … be reasonable … Stefania … the kids …”

F : “It’s them I’m thinking of “ he said softly, then; “Listen Tony, I’m sixty three, been working in building since I was a kid in shorts..what’ve I got; ten, fifteen years left, I’m already bent and aching from the hard yakka..and what of those years? Fifteen years of nothing for me and my family, or else … I’ll never have more than I got now, never, I’ve reached my peak and I don’t want to go down into the depths, it’d kill me anyway.”

“We argued back and forth and I followed him around the ute talking to his back, but he was stubborn.

F : “Listen,’ he said “You wanna go live in a ditch you go live in a ditch. What do you think the old people suffered in their lives for..and how long did they live?…the old man died at sixty eight, mum at around the same age..Why.. So you could have it easy and to hell with your kids? Every comfort has its price, Antonio, what do you want your kids to be? tramps? bums? No, … I don’t want my kids to battle out of a poverty trap like the old people had to. If there’s a price in it I’m prepared to pay, everyone pays sometime … it seems my time is now.”

“But me, Frank, what would you have me do, sit by and see you knock yourself off and then reap the reward .. what sort of man do you consider me?! No, we’re both of us in this together, I won’t let you take it on your own …”

F : “It’s the only way Tony, you’re ten years younger, your family’s younger.”

“Give me a risk on it … toss a coin Frank, you always like to toss a coin for a decision, toss a coin now and we’ll take equal risk!” …

F : “Alright” He relented. “We’ll toss … and the winner loses!” He grimaced at his own joke.

“He pulled a few coins from his pocket and picked out a twenty cent piece.

F : “I’ll call, since it was my idea” he said and he flipped the coin.“Heads!” he cried.

“ Bob..Bob, have you ever been so scared that your stomach was just one big knot wrenching your innards together so they just ached? Well, that’s how mine were. Don’t ask me why I agreed to that madness but I knew the loser wouldn’t back out. The more I think of it, the more I refute it, but strangely, strangely the quick fix of the idea attracted me then and I loved my family enough to kill anyone that would hurt them, so why not kill myself to save them from hurt?! … all those kind of thoughts went through my mind in the split seconds of that toss as that coin flickered in the light. Of course it came down heads and Frank bent down and picked up the coin. He slapped his hand on my shoulder and said.

F : “Now, it’s decided. let’s not talk about it on the way home. Who knows, maybe I won’t have to go through with it after all,” and we packed up and left.

“On the Monday afternoon I was in the office when I got a call from the insurance agent.”

“Mr Gustoni?’ the agent asked.

“Yes” I replied, thinking it was me he was after.

Agent : “Yes..I was right, I inquired into the policy agreement and yes, your accident indemnity does cover accidental death outside the working site and hours.”

“I went weak at the knees … and almost speechless. I could just mutter into the receiver  Oh..right..thanks..thanks and I hung up and raced out of the office and drove to Frank’s place. “Oh mother of God! mother of God!” I prayed as I drove through that endless traffic. I didn’t think it would be now not straight away! Give it a bit more time please! Please!

Stefania, his wife, was there.

Stefania : “He’s gone out Tony he said to give you this contract to look at …’”she handed me a fat manilla envelope, then I knew it was too late. “Is there anything wrong?” women they’re so sharp.

“No more than usual,” I remarked and quickly left in case I betrayed my feelings.

“He didn’t give me a chance to say goodbye, Bob, not a chance, not a chance. “Why?” I asked myself…He made it look like an accident..like the gun went off as he was climbing through the fence…”

“In the envelope there was a goodbye note and a few items he wanted buried with him and – also this …!” ( Tony tosses a coin to Bob’s feet. Bob picks it up examines it and turns it over.)

B : “Why … it’s a double headed twenty cent piece, it’s been cut and another face glued on to make one coin! …”

T : “The cunning bastard … I always wondered how he won all those coin throws, and you see that nick on the edge, that’s how he picked it out amongst others with his fingers.” ( Bob snorts and tosses it back) .

T “Well he did go through with it and in the note he asked that I somehow get his ashes and bury them with the few other personal items next to that woomera up here.”

B : “And did you tell Stefania of it all?”

T “What do you tell the women? : Frank knocked himself off so we can pay our bills? What did that hunter tell his people if he came home without any tucker ‘I lost my woomera’? ..’left it somewhere’ ? No Bob, Frank was right, we’re all hunters and each must guard his secrets. No, I didn’t tell them, but she’d guess, women have their damned intuition.”

B : “Why didn’t you bury him, then?”

T : “I couldn’t bring myself to put an end to it all, I didn’t understand the connection between that hunter’s primitive woomera and our own highly complicated lives, that is till now. Now I know what Frank realised that weekend twenty years ago. That woomera over there is a totem of men’s responsibilities, the women bear the children, the men provide, that is the base line of our cultural life. Some women die in chldbirth some men die in the seeking of provisions. I’ve been on building sites myself where workmen have been either killed or badly injured. They’re taken away and another fills his place. No-one can shirk his responsibilities, we all take our risks. So the hunter’s woomera left here by accident must have wrought danger to that whole family’s existence so was that recession the calamity that befell our family’s existence … The insurance policy was just another means to provide … at a price, everything changes, but nothing is changed. The immortality of all things mortal … ashes to ashes, dust to dust. He lost his fear of death. ( Antonio sighs)..and I believe that when a person no longer fears death, along comes The Master to collect his debt”. And this is where you come in, Bob … would you mind … a simple ceremony …?”

The two men stand before the tree that holds the woomera in its cleft. Tony gives the wooden urn to Bob who lays it in a shallow hole near the woomera. Then he gives Bob a flick-knife with a carved ivory handle.

T : “He bought that in Italy years before, and you see that carving … here, give it to me for a sec … this carving of a woman, he’d sometimes take the knife out amongst a group of us men and he’d rub the ball of his thumb over the tiny breast there and he’d sigh and say, ‘Ah, my Stefania, she once had breasts like this,’ and then he’d press this button here, like so: “

(Swish! the silvered blade of the flick-knife shoots out of the handle so it makes Bob jump.)

T : “And Francesco would sigh sadly again and nodding his head say: ‘And me, my cock once sprung up like that!’..he’d always get a laugh.” ( Tony smiles and folds the blade away and gives the knife to Bob.)

T : “And last of all this” (Antonio flings the double headed coin into the hole. Bob pushes the sand over the urn and knife and coin. He stands up and speaks in a clear concise voice:

B : “Let this site remain sacred to the memory of Francesco Gustoni …”

T : “Could you say the prayer in Latin Bob, he preferred Latin.”

( Bob nods and begins):

B : “In nome il Padre e Filio e Spirito Santo …”

Many of you who have followed this blog and read my stories will see that I have converted some short stories into these, what I call : “One act, one set reading plays”…I have gone back over those older and less read stories to give them this treatment so as to – perhaps…hopefully..-let any small preparatory theatre group use them to allow their actors to develope character experience and interpretation with a presentation of several plays on the one evening…

I did this not just because they made it easier to post a new piece on the blog, but because the conversion to named characters actually “speaking their roles” allows those “personages” to develope their own “personal voice” when and if an actor applies their own personality to the character…perhaps, in some instances actually bring the person to life under the actor’s guidance…

Anyway..I do hope you enjoy the experience and continue to read the blog…thanking you…Joe Carli..

A one act, one set play

Characters:

Narrator.

A Mother..she has no name like all the characters in this play, they are and remain anonymous.

A young son..the mother is trying to get him to go to sleep.

A grown but still young man refugee.

Two security men in uniform.

Scene..(opening) stage is in very low light…a spotlight falls upon the narrator who tells the theme of the story. Then when the narrator finishes talking, one half of the stage lights up to see the mother and child in a bedroom scene in a small room.

(second) on another part of the same stage later, we see the security men sitting at a table interviewing the young male refugee..

Narrator : “What can it be that “anchors” a refugee to their personal situation and can give them the strength to persevere but a cultural / familial reflection back to happier times in their own country with their own family. As to how far back that memory must go would surely have to depend on what their age was when they first had to flee their homeland. I would imagine that those closely-held “pictures and words”, perhaps treasured from way back in childhood, seen and spoken when among the ones that they trusted and loved in a time of greater innocence and now held most dearly to the heart would be the single most precious tools of sanity and survival when things went bad while seeking refuge abroad..and the threat of losing or tainting those treasured memories to either callous abuse or fatalistic hopelessness could, I imagine, be worse than death itself…(The Sheryl Crow version of the song is there at the end for when you finish.)”

Boy : “I flew my kite today!..did you see me mamma?”

Mother : “Yes..I saw you!…I saw you on the paddock with Tessy and the others..”

B : “Yes..it flew good..but then the wind died and it fell down…”

M : “Never mind, there’s always tomorrow…Now it’s time for this little kite-flyer to go bye-byes..”

B : “No..tomorrow I am going to help Daddy and Uncle Donny fix the truck…they said I could help..”

M : “And then so you shall..but tonight you must sleep..now lay back and I’ll sing you a song..”

B : “Can you sing “Beautiful Dreamer” to me mummy? ”

M : “Of course I can..for my little chappy.”

“…Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,

    Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;”

B : “Will Daddy and Uncle Donny fix the truck , mum?”

M : “They better…or they won’t be able to take Mr. Elses load of produce to the city Friday”.

B : “It’s an old truck mummy..Why did they buy an old truck?”

M : “It’s all we could afford, darling..Yes..it’s old..but it’s a good truck.”

B : “Yes mummy..it IS a good truck…a good red truck!”

M : “…Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,

      Lull’d by the moonlight have all passed away!

     Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,

     List while I woo thee with soft melody;”

B : “Mummy..”

M : “haaaaa…yes dear?”

B : “I rode Sammy’s bike today”

M : “I know , dear..I saw you..”

B : “I rode it to the store and back…”

M : “I hope you didn’t go past the store..”

B : “no, mummy..I know not to go past the store….Mummy?”

M : “Yesss dear?”

B : “Do you see everything I do?”

M : “More than you know..now you close those wide awake eyes and go off to dreamland. or I won’t sing you any more songs..patient’s  reward!..if you keep interrupting me…Now where was I..?”

    “Gone are the cares of life’s busy throng,

     Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

     Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!”

B : “Mummy?”

M : “For heaven’s sake..what!?”

B : “Uncle Donny said it was the fuel pump broken in the truck….what’s a fuel pump?”

M : “…a fuel pump..is..a pump!…a..pump that pumps fuel…like a heart”

B : ” A heart, mummy?…”

M : “…yess..I suppose it’s exactly like a heart…but a heart doesn’t pump fuel, it pumps love…now go to sleep you cheeky little want-to-know-it-all..”

B : “O..O..don’t tickle, mummy!…don’t tickle !”

M : “Then go to sleep..go to sleep..! Here..here’s “teki bear” to cuddle…here..I’ll get your pillow straight again..my , you do fiddle and fuss..”

B : “Donny’s not my real uncle is he, mumma?”

M : “Not yet, dear..but we hope he soon will be..when he marries your sister.”

B : “Why does he want to marry Sissy?”

M : “Because he loves her …and she loves him..and so..they will want to get married…have some kiddies of their own…Now..where was I?..”

“…Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea,

     Mermaids are chanting the wild lorelei;

     Over the streamlet vapors are borne,

     Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.”

B : “Will Sissy and Uncle Donny live with us when they get married?”

M : “I don’t think they will have a choice, dear”

B : “Hmm..that’s good..I like Uncle Donny…hmm”

M : “…Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,”

B : “But what about “Trunk” and his cart…will he still stay with us?”

M : “Well…”Trunk” is a donkey, and I don’t know if there is room for a donkey AND a truck in our little yard..”

B : “But “Trunk” has been with us for years and years..”

M : “Yes, well….we’ll see..I’ll speak to Mr, Tully next door..he has a little yard there..we’ll see..now seriously…mummy’s getting a bit tired herself and angry..here..a kiss……for a tired little chap and it’s REALLY time now we went to sleep..”

…Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,

    Even as the morn on the streamlet and sea;

   Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,

   Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

   Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!”

(Stage fades into darkness but we hear a young man scream in despair..)

” Aiya!….Aiya!!…He’s set himself on fire!..he’s set himself on fire!..”

“Don’t just stand there get a hose…get a bucket or something…get the guards…Get security!”………………

(Stage relights to the other half of the stage showing two security guards and a young man sitting across from each other at a bare table..The young man is being interviewed by the security men.)

Security man #1 : ” You shared his room son..you must know something about why he did this.”

Young man : “He did it because you were going to send him back to where he came from.”

Security man #2 :“Firstly..don’t give us lip…Second..It’s not up to us where the department sends anyone..and Third..answer the question as we want you to..we’re trying to get to the bottom of his death.”

YM : “I can’t tell you much at all about him..I was only sharing with him for a couple of weeks.”

S #1 : “Well..you must have talked..at night..unless you got up to “other things”…just kidding, just kidding!….so c’mon..what got him so upset..surely you want to know as well..after all, you were there when he struck the match.”

YM : “Yes..I was there..but only just there..I just came around the corner and ..whoosh!..god..it was horrible..”

S #2 : ” From where you come from, you must have seen worse.”

YM : “Yes..well..not really..this was suddenly there..in my face”.

S #2 : “So right..c’mon..tell us what you know of him”.

YM : “He was depressed that the department was going to send him “back home”..He said he had no home anymore..or family.”

S #2 : “No family?..no-one at all back in his village?”

YM : “He said there was no village anymore..the whole village was burnt to the ground..His mother, father sisters and all the people there were slaughtered..”

S #1 : “Didn’t he come with any relatives?”

YM : “No..oh..hang on…he did say they started out together..he and an Uncle..?”

S #1 : “There!..he does have a relative then”

YM : “No..He said they started out together..but the Uncle..Don, Donny.. I think he called him, drowned with many others  before they were rescued from the sea.”

S #2 : “So..No..Uncle..”

YM : “No…nobody..just some leftover dreams from a long time ago, I’d say.”

S #1 : “How do you know that?”

YM : “How?..He was just like the rest of us..though he did say something different to me last night…He asked me if I ever flew a kite when I was a boy. ”

S #1 : “Every kid flies a kite sometime when they’re young…Did you fly a kite?”

YM : “Of course I flew a kite..everyone flies a kite.”

S #1 : “Some people said he was singing a song before he lit the match..a song he was heard singing at other times..”

YM : “I…I don’t remember..I…don’t want to…….”

S #2 : “You were heard to yell out…”Stop singing, stop singing!”…even after he fell over….”

YM : “yes..well…It’s a song he sang quietly to himself every night before he went to sleep..almost in a whisper…but I could still hear it..every night..every night.”

S #2 : “What was it…the song?”

YM : “I don’t know the name…How would I?”

S #1 : “Well…me and my mate here like to be entertained..how about you sing a couple of bars?”

YM : “uhh..alright..I’ll try…….

     Beautiful dreamer… wake unto me,

     Starlight and dewdrops….are waiting for thee;

     Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,

    Lull’d by the moonlight have all passed away!

….Beautiful Dreamer…awake…unto….me.”

End of play.

(Sheryl Crow..”Beautiful Dreamer”.

https://youtu.be/f_aB1NOqC3Y?list=RDf_aB1NOqC3Y  )

A play of one act, one set.

A Melbourne story.

Characters..:

Peter Haffney..; mid fifties, portly build, congenial nature.

Stephanie..; Peter’s wife…sardonic in an amusing way..more observant than participant.

Scene..Kitchen of a working-class suburban house..minimal decorations..more efficient than cluttered with ornaments.The dialogue in this play is of the main character (Peter) talking calmly and confidingly in a one-on-one relaxed manner to the audience as if they were a trusted friend in the room with him.

(Peter Haffney takes his latch-key from the deadlock and closes the front door behind him. He pauses inside the entrance as one is want to do when first coming home and looks about.  reassuring himself that everything was as when he left it that morning. An air of suburban mustiness pervades the house and the dreary silence echos the polished rustle of his suit. He then proceeds to the kitchen pantry and easing his portly bulk between the ironing board and bench top he places a plastic shopping bag with several regular sized cans of food on the bench nearest the pantry. Taking one of the cans from the bag, he raises it to eye level and reads the label ( using his index finger as guide on the label so the audience can see what he is doing). On satisfactory completion of this task, he shakes his head slowly and sighs. Taking a similar sized can from the pantry, he places it next to the other on the kitchen bench and compares…).

Peter : ( looks at the cans as he speaks) “The brand’s the same, the content’s the same, even the advertising slogan is the same, but they’ve changed the layout of the label! Gone is the old familiar label that has for more years than I can remember, been the hallmark of the company’s product. That label, it could be said, is of greater recognizable value than the product contained within the can! ….that old familiar label must have been the same since before I was born! But now that’s all gone and, heaven forbid, perhaps too they have changed the mix of ingredients in the product…”(he sighs…then turns to confide to the audience..not directly, but rather as if talking to a confident in a relaxed, over-the-shoulder casual way).

 “ And sure..I’m worried, because for many years, because for a goodly part my life, I have suffered from what is called a “obsessive-compulsive disorder”. My peculiar obsession is concerned with the cooking and eating of food..(he throws his arms up) I confess..I confess..I will never eat any food that I have not myself prepared, with the exception of fish and chips…I like fish and chips.. And though this condition may seem humorous to other people, it can single out the victim..ME!..for mischievous mockery. I have been many a time made the butt of poor-taste humour. For instance, although I will never eat any food my wife would prepare, I do bend this rule for a roast dinner..my mother always had the Sunday roast…but I have to guard my portion at the table against mischief…such as : If anyone was to touch my food, never mind with a finger!..heaven forbid that! but with just a clean knife or fork, I can’t help but sweep the corrupted article off my plate with a flick of the fork…so on a really bad day, bits of roast would be hitting the walls or television or whatever till I give a cry of exasperation and the protagonists buckle over in convulsions of laughter! Such is the life of us that suffer this malady. Because of this complaint, my mainstay of nutrition from Mondays to Fridays is canned spaghetti on toast! Saturdays are fish and chip days….Sundays are..well if my wife is cooking one ; roast day otherwise…you guessed it ; canned spaghetti on toast!

But now, all this is thrown into disarray with the discovery that “the company” has changed the label and perhaps, the ingredients! Fortunately (he opens the door to the pantry, displaying a supply of the canned products) I have kept up a supply of cans to allow a week’s ration of meals…in case a family member takes a liking to spaghetti on toast . So all is not lost, I still have a week to sort this nagging doubt out….I shall write to the company seeking reassurance.”

(A gentle beam of afternoon light shines through the lounge window , Peter folds back the top sheet of writing paper and places the pad squarely in front of himself. He then sits and thinks..while he is thinking, he carefully sharpens and examines the point of his pencil..he turns to the audience and explains)..

P  : “You see, I always write with a sharp-tipped, “Staedtler” “Bl” pencil, preferring it to a ball-point as it is not likely to clumsily “slip over” the paper and make for illegible writing.”

(The house, except for himself, is empty. It exudes that unexciting silence that is common to outer suburban houses…nothing extraordinary would ever happen there and was tinged with the stale mustiness of yesterday’s air-freshener. Peter touched the tip of the pencil to the tip of his tongue and begins..speaking the words as he writes)

P : “Dear Sir/ Madam.

I am writing to you to make a small….perhaps a trivial…enquiry. For many years, I have held your product above others on the market as being greatly superior in quality and flavour .Indeed, I have travelled great distances to full-fill my obligation to purchase your product when the local supermarket was not able to supply your particular brand! However, recently, when purchasing my usual supply from the supermarket, I was astonished to be informed that you had changed the layout of the label! Upon inquiry if there had been some sort of mistake, I was reassured by the proprietor that this was indeed so! Though he hastened to add that the ingredients were the same, I was far from reassured! So I am writing to you seeking that reassurance and I don’t think I can exaggerate the importance of this reassurance required to myself!

I , fortunately, have a number of cans of your product (see the accompanying label) to see me through another week. So I would appreciate a swift response to this letter (may I suggest return post?) to reassure me of your continued high standard of ingredients.

I await, in anticipation, for your reply…may it be favorable…

Yours truly… Peter Haffney. “

(Peter gazes at the finished letter with a sense of satisfaction.)

P : “There..it says no more nor no less than I wish to say, written in clear, concise script taught to me by my primary teacher : Mrs Herreen, who enforced a high standard from her star pupil (flutters his eyebrows in a humerous manner) with the aid of a flat, slim,wooden foot-rule that would cut over my knuckles when a grammatical deviation was observed by the attentive Mrs Herreen gazing sternly over my shoulder! Even the underlining of words were encouraged by that same teacher, with the logic that : (he mimics a stern but shrill female teacher’s voice)“It does no harm to the correspondence, Peter, if you draw the reader’s a-ttention to a par-tic-ular point you wish to em-phasise by the use of underlining speh-cific words or phrases in nee-ed of their a-ttention!” and she would invariably finish her homily with a steely gaze over her glasses down the pointed rule.”

( Peter pauses to gaze into the empty lounge area…he cogitates out loud..)

P : “But when you think on it, there’s a mathematical precision in the action of writing, isn’t there? Perhaps this obsessive affliction itself is a result of conflict of reason versus reality…Perhaps the fact that the uncertainties of life do not adhere to my own personal desired situation, has resulted in the withdrawal of my eating habits to a more precise routine…a routine that I have complete control over. ( Peter pauses, sits back in the chair and croses his lower legs in contemplation) A cabinet maker I know is the same type. His obsession is with jokes and satirical humour, he simply cannot stop telling them..heaven knows where he gets them all from…customers, he says.. His over-exuberant laughter rings through the rafters on all occasions and he is known by his laugh, his nickname being ; “The HO! HO! man”…but that does not really disguise his mathematical brilliance…and it becomes most visible in his skills with the chessboard, even at state level competition. That and his swift response to subtle mockery. He too, controls his lifestyle through his obsessions, and with these obsessions, I believe we distract and distance ourselves from too close a familiarity with the unruly chaos of life.”

(Stage darkens to relight with Peter and his wife standing at the kitchen bench..she looks at him with a concerned expression and speaks..)

Stephanie : “You’re not giving up smoking and your football team’s on a winning streak You’re breaking even at cards, though you lost a little at the dogs the other night so I’m buggered if I know what’s eating you….but you’re out of sorts this last couple of days.”

P : “It’s nothing, nothing….I…I’m on a bit of a diet.”

(His wife lets out an explosive guffaw..)

S : “That’ll be the day! ” (she narrows her eyes cunningly) “You haven’t been tucking into your spaghetti on toast the last couple of days..I’ve noticed that….what’s the prob’, love.. can’t find the can opener?…got worms?..”

P : “Look , piss off love!..it’s nothing..leave me be, I’ve just been making a little inquiry…that’s all.”

S : “But you’ve got some cans…”(she moves to the pantry and takes out a can..)”Why, look!” They’ve changed the label…. crikey, after all these years… ” (she gazed pensively at the can. Peter comes and takes it gently from her hand and places it with the others on the shelf.)

P : “So they’ve changed the label?…so what?…it’s their label they can do what they want with their label ”

(His wife watches him closely while he mumbles this little discourse. She suddenly let her jaw drop a little as it all dawned on her..)

S : “Oh, I see…the label!…The label has changed….ok! ok!…but what of the ingredients?….That’s why you’ve not been hoeing into it this week! and I thought you were coming down with something…ha! ha!…you poor bastard!…ha! ha!”

P : “Don’t let it worry you, love..don’t let it worry you….I’ve made inquiries and I expect an answer any day now!”

(But his wife doesn’t look as if she is worried at all… as a matter of fact she has to ease herself into a chair so as not to crumple up with laughter…Peter reflects, wincing at the humiliation he would suffer when this new one got around.)

S : “Oh! you poor suffering dear..” (his wife speaks between gulps of breath, then the look of comical angst on his face set her off onto another round of laughter.)

( Stage darkens to relight on the same domestic scene. Peter walks in through the doorway from work with a bundle of letters in his hand. He is thoughtfully sorting through the mail when his wife asks)

S : “Anything there for me, love? (then in an aside to the audience..) I already know the contents of the mailbox…I had looked before and I saw the brand-name letter amongst the others and I decided to leave them in the box for Peter to find.”.(she winks to the audience).

P : “Yes…yes a couple the usual bills”…(here his eyes widen in anticipation.)

(His wife watches from a sly vantage point in the lounge as he slit the envelope with his pocket-knife. Peter is a study in silence as he reads the letter…then, slowly, his eyes closed with delight and an ecstatic smile spread over his lips.)

S : “Anything else?”.

P : “Oh….yes, one for me.”

S : “Important?”

P : “Well..sort of…just a reply to a trivial inquiry”.

(upon completion of the read, Peter methodically tears the letter into very small pieces and places them into the waste-bin. Next, whistling a little self satisfied tune to himself he goes to the pantry and takes out a now familiar can. His wife spies this little pantomime from her vantage point in the lounge and shakes her head smiling to herself.)

S : “The poor dear” she says to herself.

End of play.