Authors: Joseph O'Connor
Ghost Light (18 page)
A cart trundles down Foley Street, drawn by a shabby quarter horse piebald whose lugubrious clop draws children from the yards. His sticks of ramshackle furniture roped on the back – unwanted lampstands, a wrecked armchair, a hatstand with no pegs – like the cargo of the ragman arriving outside your mother’s shop having scavenged the ruins of a mansion. Dusty old paintings recently de-lofted. The coffin of an oaken wardrobe with its backboards missing. A potted geranium like a kidnapped contessa. A single mattress smirched with cloudlike stains.
The horse shakes its halter and looks up at the sky. The children approach it tentatively, silent. There is a boy with him – you assume a servant but actually his sister’s child. From a velvetgloved hand he feeds an apple core to the horse. Its munching teeth, skeletal; the gyration of its jaw.
The carter hefts the bits of lumber down to the pavement with the aid of two men of the slums who have approached the little street drama in search of a sixpence. One of them has only one hand but he is willing to work, his companion says.
He’d do as much as a three-handed man, sir. No word of a lie.
You come forward attempting to help them and the healthy man looks relieved; it is the maimed one who says he resents the pity of a woman. He served with the Dublin Fusiliers, received his wound at Pretoria. He wants none of your assistance, never will.
He’d do as much as a three-handed man, sir. No word of a lie.
You come forward attempting to help them and the healthy man looks relieved; it is the maimed one who says he resents the pity of a woman. He served with the Dublin Fusiliers, received his wound at Pretoria. He wants none of your assistance, never will.
The narrow, bare staircase smells of mildew and stale piss. The wallpaper over the fireplace is peeling. He is standing in the window embrasure, rubbing at the glass with his glove.
A canework chair. A broken ottoman. Two sundering cardboard suitcases.
Mouse droppings in the empty cupboards; spiderweb in the chamber pot, a pyramid of empty porter bottles in the corner nearest the door. It occurs to you that it must have taken someone much effort to construct and you feel bad as you take it down. A sheaf of brochures and handbills about emigration to America, their pages rotted together by time and sticky mould. An illustration of Abraham Lincoln regards you from a frontispiece. Someone had altered it obscenely.
The boy is jumping on the mattress but it doesn’t have much bounce. The carter produces a hammer; his mouth is full of nails. You go about the two rooms hanging the couple of paintings over the burgundy-coloured rectangles left on the wallpaper.
A mangle. His typewriter. A bockety hatstand. A rug his older brother brought back from China, its colours too vivid for their mother to find it acceptable. Another rug, much smaller, rolled and bound like a scroll, tautened by a man’s belt and two threadbare Trinity College neckties.
It is already growing dark. He fills and lights a lamp. The beautiful amber glow on his face.
—Things always look better in lamplight. Don’t you find?
—Yes, John.
—I can offer you nothing to eat. I am sorry.
From your carpetbag you produce the little packets your mother has prepared: sandwiches, a couple of apples, three bottles of porter.
—Oh how kind you are, Molly. What a supper of delights. Shall we picnic on the floor like Frenchmen in a picture?
He lolls lengthwise on the Chinese rug, slipping off his walking boots. There are holes in his stockings and his toenails are long. The night is coming colder. There is nothing to burn. He rummages in a tea chest and finds a sod of black turf he once picked up in Connemara.
He is kissing you tenderly, sometimes whispering your name. He lies back and looks at the ceiling as though regarding a starlit
sky. The flames refracted on the overpainted plaster cornucopias; the writhing, happy putti and harps-twined-in-shamrock.
sky. The flames refracted on the overpainted plaster cornucopias; the writhing, happy putti and harps-twined-in-shamrock.
Someone in a room above you is scraping on a fiddle, a slow air of Thomas Moore’s, ‘Forget Not the Field’, but the player is not skilled and so the higher notes come shriekingly. There is a public house on the corner. You hear the dockers on the street, the whistles and shouts, the blasphemous greetings and summonings.
—We should go out and find you a hackney. Are you ready, Molly? Your hat?
—It is late now, John. And very wet.
—Nevertheless, it would not be proper for you to stay with me here.
You try to speak gently. It is hard to find the words.
—We are engaged, after all. And no one would know.
—Word has a way of going around the town.
—But when we were in Wicklow – on our holiday – you remember what I mean …
—It was different in Wicklow, love. I don’t know why. Things are always different in Wicklow.
—As you wish. Of course. You will be all right on your own?
—I have been in worse places on my own. I shall be fine. I shall miss you.
—I shall miss you too, John. I shall think of you all night.
He touches your face, caresses your cheek with his thumb.
—What joy when we will be married. We shall never be without each other again. It will be a place of our own. No invaders or nuisances.
—We can make it pretty and neat. I will ask Mother about a dresser. And curtains.
—There is no need to do that.
—She would like to help us, John. She would be offended if I didn’t ask.
—You deserve so much better, my love. What I would give you if I could. A good house, pretty furnishings, some little place with a garden. I often think of it. I picture it. You rehearsing your lines in a garden. Walking a little orchard with a script in your hand. And a table near a rose bush where I could work when it was fine. And yet you tolerate
your old tramper and he little better than a tinker. How did I ever deserve my changeling?
your old tramper and he little better than a tinker. How did I ever deserve my changeling?
—I shall be very content being here with you. There will be no happier girl in Ireland …
You awaken in the picture house, muttering, thirsty. The film is over – you don’t know when it ended. The house lights are excruciatingly bright and there is no sound at all. It is difficult to move. For a moment, you wonder if you are dead. After-images pulsing and fading.
Fuddled, shaken, you sit there a long time. Is the afterlife a deserted cinema and a bottle in a bag? Is London outside, its October streets and storefronts, its hurryings and worryings and appointments to be kept? Or has everything vanished into whiteout and mist? Is Wicklow outside? Your mother? Your playboy? A room in lower Foley Street you used to imagine, that you never once saw, except in your fantasies? A strange morning indeed. Another sip of the brandy. And the queerest sensation of the many besetting you now is that someone else is composing the day and everything in it. A faraway sentiency has been shaping and sifting, trying somehow to atone and to put matters right. For you. For itself. To edit away its failures. Does everyone feel this sometimes, an opening into space? As a character in a life whose author is invisible but nevertheless laying out our fate.
You stand painfully, unsteadily, and gather closed your coat. Your mouth is viciously hot and tastes sour. To lie down a long while in some dark, deep room. To hear women singing quietly. To feel nothing. But if God feeds the birds, Moll, they have to dig the worms. And eternity does not begin today.
‘Quiet morning for you now,’ you remark to the ticket girl in the foyer.
‘Beg pardon, Miss?’ she smiles amiably, glancing up from her
True Romance
.
True Romance
.
‘I say myself and that man, dear. Your only two customers. A wonder your employer can keep going. But it is a marvellous picture. I enjoyed it very much. Many thanks.’
‘There wasn’t any gentleman, Miss. You were the only ticket I sold.’
‘But – I distinctly saw a gentleman behind me. He was carrying an umbrella.’
‘No, Miss. There was only yourself.’
SCENE FROM A HALF-IMAGINED STAGE PLAY
Curtain-up on a humble room in a tenement house in Mary Street, Dublin, 1908. Shabby furniture and fittings, probably leftover stock from the junkshop. In a corner near a sideboard is a day-bed covered in rags. A dog at its foot, a shabby, bedraggled wolfhound. A ruined middle-aged woman uneasily arranging a table; her son in his twenties, in British Army uniform, drinking porter and playing cards with his shadow.
MOLLY
[
entering, nervous
]: Mother … Georgie … This is my friend, Mr Synge.
[
entering, nervous
]: Mother … Georgie … This is my friend, Mr Synge.
[
He follows her into the room in a miasma of painful optimism, right hand outstretched, hat crushed beneath his elbow, in his left hand a bouquet of wildflowers in a fold of old newspaper, in his right hand a bottle of wine. Her mother comes away from fussing at the table and smiles at him fretfully, accepting the offerings; her eyes lividly wild with the particular anxiety of those being visited by perceived superiors.
]
He follows her into the room in a miasma of painful optimism, right hand outstretched, hat crushed beneath his elbow, in his left hand a bouquet of wildflowers in a fold of old newspaper, in his right hand a bottle of wine. Her mother comes away from fussing at the table and smiles at him fretfully, accepting the offerings; her eyes lividly wild with the particular anxiety of those being visited by perceived superiors.
]
MOTHER
: You shouldn’t have bothered yourself, Misther Synge. Those are lovely. You shouldn’t have.
: You shouldn’t have bothered yourself, Misther Synge. Those are lovely. You shouldn’t have.
[
The lilies might wilt in the wither of her blush.
]
The lilies might wilt in the wither of her blush.
]
SYNGE
[
extremely apprehensive
]: I am pleased to meet you, Mrs Allgood. Thank you for inviting me to your home.
[
extremely apprehensive
]: I am pleased to meet you, Mrs Allgood. Thank you for inviting me to your home.
MOTHER
[
equally on edge
]: I’m sure you’re welcome, Misther Synge. Will you not stand in to the fire there? There’s a terrible catchin’ cold goin’ the town so I believe. Georgie, quit your gawkin’ and take Misther Synge’s coat. That’s a beautiful coat, Misther Synge.
[
equally on edge
]: I’m sure you’re welcome, Misther Synge. Will you not stand in to the fire there? There’s a terrible catchin’ cold goin’ the town so I believe. Georgie, quit your gawkin’ and take Misther Synge’s coat. That’s a beautiful coat, Misther Synge.
[
Her brother, with kiss-curl and dirty smirk, accepts the hat and heavy cloak of the interloper while never looking away from his eyes.
]
Her brother, with kiss-curl and dirty smirk, accepts the hat and heavy cloak of the interloper while never looking away from his eyes.
]
MOTHER
: There we are now. There we are now. That bit of sunshine the last few weeks was the making of us, wasn’t it, Misther Synge? Shure we didn’t know where we were at all.
: There we are now. There we are now. That bit of sunshine the last few weeks was the making of us, wasn’t it, Misther Synge? Shure we didn’t know where we were at all.
SYNGE
: Most agreeable, yes.
: Most agreeable, yes.
MOTHER
: And had you a good travel itself out from Kingstown?
: And had you a good travel itself out from Kingstown?
SYNGE
: Yes, thank you. I bicycled. The evening is pleasant.
: Yes, thank you. I bicycled. The evening is pleasant.
MOTHER
: But you’re not after layvin’ it unlocked? Your bicycle? Outside?
: But you’re not after layvin’ it unlocked? Your bicycle? Outside?
SYNGE
: I … ?
: I … ?
MOTHER
: You wouldn’t leave anythin’ unlocked in this quarter, Misther Synge. They’d rob the spit of an orphan’s mouth and sell it back to him.
: You wouldn’t leave anythin’ unlocked in this quarter, Misther Synge. They’d rob the spit of an orphan’s mouth and sell it back to him.
MOLLY
[
mortified
]: Mother, for the love of God – it’s in the hall below.
[
mortified
]: Mother, for the love of God – it’s in the hall below.
MOTHER
: I’m only sayin’, with the gougers and gutties does be goin’ the street –
: I’m only sayin’, with the gougers and gutties does be goin’ the street –
MOLLY
: Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Mister Synge doesn’t want to
know
about that!
: Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Mister Synge doesn’t want to
know
about that!
[
Mother is duly admonished. Things settle painfully. We’re all in our Sunday best.
]
Mother is duly admonished. Things settle painfully. We’re all in our Sunday best.
]
MOTHER
: Kingstown is lovely.
: Kingstown is lovely.
SYNGE
: Indeed. So it is.
: Indeed. So it is.
MOTHER
: Yes, Kingstown is only lovely. Daddy and myself had our honeymoon out beyond at Kingstown.
: Yes, Kingstown is only lovely. Daddy and myself had our honeymoon out beyond at Kingstown.
SYNGE
: I see.
: I see.
MOTHER
: That was neither today not yesterday, the dear knows. Lord, I haven’t set eyes on Kingstown this donkey’s years now. Not since Adam was a boy. God be with the days. Of course it’s healthful to have the sea. I always think that. Even and it raining, what matter?
: That was neither today not yesterday, the dear knows. Lord, I haven’t set eyes on Kingstown this donkey’s years now. Not since Adam was a boy. God be with the days. Of course it’s healthful to have the sea. I always think that. Even and it raining, what matter?
SYNGE
: Quite.
: Quite.
MOTHER
: Yes, even and it raining … what matter?
: Yes, even and it raining … what matter?
SYNGE
: Indeed.
: Indeed.
[
Silence settles like a dust. The fire crackles quietly. From offstage, the muffled ruction of a couple having an argument in a neighbouring flat.
]
Silence settles like a dust. The fire crackles quietly. From offstage, the muffled ruction of a couple having an argument in a neighbouring flat.
]
MOTHER
[
to mask the din
]: I say ‘Kingstown’ but really I mean Glasthule. At Muggivan’s Boarding House. Do you mind where I mean, Misther Synge? On the sea-front near the bandstand, oh a beautiful place now. Two shillings, it was, and the breakfast a farthing. And you’d want to see the breakfast; you wouldn’t eat for a fortnight again you’d be finished. We were there three days. It was a good clean place. Mrs Muggivan and her husband was Protestants from Moate.
[
to mask the din
]: I say ‘Kingstown’ but really I mean Glasthule. At Muggivan’s Boarding House. Do you mind where I mean, Misther Synge? On the sea-front near the bandstand, oh a beautiful place now. Two shillings, it was, and the breakfast a farthing. And you’d want to see the breakfast; you wouldn’t eat for a fortnight again you’d be finished. We were there three days. It was a good clean place. Mrs Muggivan and her husband was Protestants from Moate.
SYNGE
: From?
: From?
MOTHER
: Moate. The town. In the County Westmeath?
: Moate. The town. In the County Westmeath?
SYNGE
[
is this leading somewhere?
]: Ah.
[
is this leading somewhere?
]: Ah.
MOTHER
: She’d a son in America, I mind her saying now. In Red Hook, Brooklyn. And he married with a German. What’s this was his name?
: She’d a son in America, I mind her saying now. In Red Hook, Brooklyn. And he married with a German. What’s this was his name?
SYNGE
: … I … ?
: … I … ?
MOTHER
: Bartley, I think. And he married with a German. Imagine being married with a German. And yourself from Glasthule. Did you ever hear of anything queerer in your natural life, Misther Synge? You’d wonder how they knock it out at all.
: Bartley, I think. And he married with a German. Imagine being married with a German. And yourself from Glasthule. Did you ever hear of anything queerer in your natural life, Misther Synge? You’d wonder how they knock it out at all.
MOLLY
[
interrupting forcefully
]: Where is Sally after going, Mother, and the supper nearly cold?
[
interrupting forcefully
]: Where is Sally after going, Mother, and the supper nearly cold?
MOTHER
: I told her seven, child of God, but your sister won’t be said. You know my Sally, Misther Synge. She speaks terrible highly of you so she does.
: I told her seven, child of God, but your sister won’t be said. You know my Sally, Misther Synge. She speaks terrible highly of you so she does.
SYNGE
: I saw her this morning at the theatre. She will join us later, perhaps?
: I saw her this morning at the theatre. She will join us later, perhaps?
GEORGIE
: She’s away to the bazaar at Beggars Bush with some fellow.
: She’s away to the bazaar at Beggars Bush with some fellow.
MOTHER
: You’d want to be up early in the morning for the same girl, Misther Synge. God be with the youth of us but she’d have you near demented so she would, and she courting half the town. Isn’t it desperate?
: You’d want to be up early in the morning for the same girl, Misther Synge. God be with the youth of us but she’d have you near demented so she would, and she courting half the town. Isn’t it desperate?
MOLLY
: Well we can’t be twiddling thumbs on Her Royal Majesty all night. Is Grannie above in the bed or where?
: Well we can’t be twiddling thumbs on Her Royal Majesty all night. Is Grannie above in the bed or where?
[
As though on cue, the rags on the day-bed suddenly disturb themselves. An astonishingly elderly woman awakens beneath them. We watch as she rises and expectorates copiously in a spittoon; shuffles painfully towards the table, takes a generous snort of snuff.
]
As though on cue, the rags on the day-bed suddenly disturb themselves. An astonishingly elderly woman awakens beneath them. We watch as she rises and expectorates copiously in a spittoon; shuffles painfully towards the table, takes a generous snort of snuff.
]
MOTHER
: Mammy … Er, Mammy … This now is Molly’s … Misther Synge.
: Mammy … Er, Mammy … This now is Molly’s … Misther Synge.
GRANNIE
[
dismissive
]: Delirious, I’m sure. Is there e’er a bite to be had in a Christian house? I’d ate the leg o’ the Lamb of God.
[
dismissive
]: Delirious, I’m sure. Is there e’er a bite to be had in a Christian house? I’d ate the leg o’ the Lamb of God.
MOTHER
: I suppose we might do worse than sit in. Don’t be standing on ceremony there, Misther Synge. [
They promptly do as ordered
.
A pig’s head and trimmings are unlidded.
] God above, where is that Sally? Who will say grace?
: I suppose we might do worse than sit in. Don’t be standing on ceremony there, Misther Synge. [
They promptly do as ordered
.
A pig’s head and trimmings are unlidded.
] God above, where is that Sally? Who will say grace?
MOLLY
: Mother … Mister Synge is of the other persuasion.
: Mother … Mister Synge is of the other persuasion.
GRANNIE
[
sternly
]: There’ll be the grace of the Catholic Church said in this house every night I’m alive, no matter there’s a black Jewman in it.
[
sternly
]: There’ll be the grace of the Catholic Church said in this house every night I’m alive, no matter there’s a black Jewman in it.
[
Georgie leads the prayer in a quiet, strained voice, the old hatchet
enunciating every word with grim intentness, her face like a plateful of mortal sins.
]
Georgie leads the prayer in a quiet, strained voice, the old hatchet
enunciating every word with grim intentness, her face like a plateful of mortal sins.
]
MOTHER
: Grannie, do you mind where’s the corkscrew? Misther Synge is after bringin’ us a bottle of cherry wine.
: Grannie, do you mind where’s the corkscrew? Misther Synge is after bringin’ us a bottle of cherry wine.
GRANNIE
: It isn’t wanted here. Far from wine you were rared.
: It isn’t wanted here. Far from wine you were rared.
MOTHER
: But the visitor, surely – so as not to show coolness …
: But the visitor, surely – so as not to show coolness …
GRANNIE
:
Be damn but I’ll be taken as I’m found in my own nest, Miss!
:
Be damn but I’ll be taken as I’m found in my own nest, Miss!
[
We begin to eat. The silence is unbearable. A few beats, and the intruder makes an effort.
]
We begin to eat. The silence is unbearable. A few beats, and the intruder makes an effort.
]
SYNGE
: May I ask what do you think of the political situation at present, Mrs Harold?
: May I ask what do you think of the political situation at present, Mrs Harold?
GRANNIE
[
bleakly
]: I don’t.
[
bleakly
]: I don’t.
SYNGE
: Yes. Well, indeed. Well, that is quite understandable. What with the numerous crises besetting us at present. One can only wonder as to the future. So much emigration and so on. I myself attend meetings of a society that has an outlook of socialism –
: Yes. Well, indeed. Well, that is quite understandable. What with the numerous crises besetting us at present. One can only wonder as to the future. So much emigration and so on. I myself attend meetings of a society that has an outlook of socialism –
GEORGIE
: What’s this is that now again? I do hear the boys talk of it.
: What’s this is that now again? I do hear the boys talk of it.
SYNGE
: There are … various interpretations, Georgie. It is a sort of nexus of beliefs, but the
crux rei
of the matter is simple enough. It is –
: There are … various interpretations, Georgie. It is a sort of nexus of beliefs, but the
crux rei
of the matter is simple enough. It is –
GRANNIE
[
interrupting
]: Speak plain for the love of God or don’t be speakin’ at all. A shut mouth catches no flies.
[
interrupting
]: Speak plain for the love of God or don’t be speakin’ at all. A shut mouth catches no flies.
MOLLY
: It means he’s up for the working man, Georgie.
: It means he’s up for the working man, Georgie.
GRANNIE
: Hup hurrah. Pass us a sup of that tripe. I’d ate a scabby child.
: Hup hurrah. Pass us a sup of that tripe. I’d ate a scabby child.
MOTHER
: I was only after sayin’ to Misther Synge, Mammy, that Daddy and I had our honeymoon beyond at Kingstown. Thirty good years ago if it was a day, Misther Synge. But he was taken and we only married ten.
: I was only after sayin’ to Misther Synge, Mammy, that Daddy and I had our honeymoon beyond at Kingstown. Thirty good years ago if it was a day, Misther Synge. But he was taken and we only married ten.
GRANNIE
: And a merciful release. Youd’a served less for murder.
: And a merciful release. Youd’a served less for murder.
[
Georgie chuckles into his dinner. A tennis game of glances ensues around the table.
]
Georgie chuckles into his dinner. A tennis game of glances ensues around the table.
]
MOTHER
: And Molly is after tellin’ us a griddle about you, Misther Synge. Molly and Sally, the both.
: And Molly is after tellin’ us a griddle about you, Misther Synge. Molly and Sally, the both.
SYNGE
: … A griddle?
: … A griddle?
MOLLY:
It means ‘a great deal’, John. It’s a Dublin way of talking.
It means ‘a great deal’, John. It’s a Dublin way of talking.
SYNGE
: But how quaint. Do you mind if I make a note of it, Mrs Allgood?
: But how quaint. Do you mind if I make a note of it, Mrs Allgood?
GEORGIE
[
laughing
]: You’ll be put in a play, Muddy. You’ll be famous entirely.
[
laughing
]: You’ll be put in a play, Muddy. You’ll be famous entirely.
GRANNIE
[
coolly
]: And these
plays
of yours, Gentleman. What do they be about?
[
coolly
]: And these
plays
of yours, Gentleman. What do they be about?
SYNGE
: Oh, I … It is hard to explain, Mrs Harold. Scenes from life, I expect.
: Oh, I … It is hard to explain, Mrs Harold. Scenes from life, I expect.
GRANNIE
: Who in the name of the Immaculate Jesus would want to see that in a playhouse?
: Who in the name of the Immaculate Jesus would want to see that in a playhouse?
SYNGE:
… ?
… ?
GRANNIE
: In a playhouse who would want to see life? Don’t we not get enough of it? Bad enough havin’ to endure it without payin’ for to see it.
: In a playhouse who would want to see life? Don’t we not get enough of it? Bad enough havin’ to endure it without payin’ for to see it.
GEORGIE
: Would there be a laugh in them, Misther Synge? I do like a laugh in a play.
: Would there be a laugh in them, Misther Synge? I do like a laugh in a play.
SYNGE
: One hopes so, yes, Georgie. It rather depends on one’s audience. It is often a somewhat underestimated factor: the power of the audience, I mean. They can decide, in a way, if the drama is amusing.
: One hopes so, yes, Georgie. It rather depends on one’s audience. It is often a somewhat underestimated factor: the power of the audience, I mean. They can decide, in a way, if the drama is amusing.
GEORGIE
: Is it yourself does be getting the money from the tickets and that?
: Is it yourself does be getting the money from the tickets and that?
SYNGE
[
attempting levity
]: Not quite enough of it, I am sorry to say. But one is motivated by other, as it were, considerations.
[
attempting levity
]: Not quite enough of it, I am sorry to say. But one is motivated by other, as it were, considerations.
GEORGIE
[
genuinely curious
]: Like what?
[
genuinely curious
]: Like what?
SYNGE
: I suppose the love of beauty. Beauty for its own sake. And then some of us are of the view that beauty can be a servant. To the Irish people, I mean. Their conception of themselves. One feels they need a higher vision in these difficult times.
: I suppose the love of beauty. Beauty for its own sake. And then some of us are of the view that beauty can be a servant. To the Irish people, I mean. Their conception of themselves. One feels they need a higher vision in these difficult times.
GRANNIE
: Do you know what it is they need? The fine Irish people. A good kick in a place wouldn’t blind them.
: Do you know what it is they need? The fine Irish people. A good kick in a place wouldn’t blind them.
MOLLY
: Grannie, for the love of Jesus …
: Grannie, for the love of Jesus …
GRANNIE
: A root up their holes for them and God send they get another.
Ah me dear dark Erin and the bould Fenian men.
I’d rain bombs on every cur and bitch of them for a pack of huer’s melts. Prognosticatin’, craw-thumpin’ scruff-hounds.
: A root up their holes for them and God send they get another.
Ah me dear dark Erin and the bould Fenian men.
I’d rain bombs on every cur and bitch of them for a pack of huer’s melts. Prognosticatin’, craw-thumpin’ scruff-hounds.
GEORGIE
[
laughing
]: Me soul on you, Grannie, but you never lost it so you didn’t.
[
laughing
]: Me soul on you, Grannie, but you never lost it so you didn’t.
GRANNIE
[
coldly
]: And
you
never had it to lose, you idle halfthick. It’s a civil wonder to Christ you’re able to find your own arse.
[
coldly
]: And
you
never had it to lose, you idle halfthick. It’s a civil wonder to Christ you’re able to find your own arse.
[
Strained silence as the meal is continued. Now Mother tries again.
]
Strained silence as the meal is continued. Now Mother tries again.
]
MOTHER
: And our Molly’s a holy terror for the books, Misther Synge. She’s that many o’ them read, I don’t know where to look. If she isn’t a scholar, she met them on the road. Isn’t that the way, alannah? A quare one for the books.
: And our Molly’s a holy terror for the books, Misther Synge. She’s that many o’ them read, I don’t know where to look. If she isn’t a scholar, she met them on the road. Isn’t that the way, alannah? A quare one for the books.
SYNGE
: One can always tell when a young person has known a home in which reading has been encouraged. It is an activity greatly valued by our people, of course.
: One can always tell when a young person has known a home in which reading has been encouraged. It is an activity greatly valued by our people, of course.
GRANNIE
: An’ who would those be, now? According to Trinity College.
: An’ who would those be, now? According to Trinity College.
[
He looks at her.
]
He looks at her.
]
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