Christmas is Miles Away E-Book

Chloë Moss

• Herausgeber: Nick Hern Books
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: NHB Modern Plays
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 90

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

A touching play about adolescent friendship. Luke and Christie are typical sixteen-year-old lads from Manchester. They like camping out, drinking lager and talking about girls. But when they leave school and their lives go in different directions, will they still have things in common? Chloë Moss's play Christmas Is Miles Away was first performed at The Studio, Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester, in November 2005.

Leseprobe

Chloë Moss

CHRISTMAS ISMILES AWAY

NICK HERN BOOKSLondonwww.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Title Page

Original Production

Dedication

Characters

Christmas is Miles Away

About the Author

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

Christmas is Miles Away was first performed at The Studio, Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester, on 2 November 2005, with the following cast:

CHRISTIE BENSON

David Judge

LUKE MICHAELS

Paul Stocker

JULIE BRIDGES

Georgia Taylor

Director

Sarah Frankcom

Designer

Jamie Todd

Lighting Designer

Richard Owen

Sound Designer

Pete Rice

Voice Coach

Mark Langley

Company Manager

Katie Vine

Deputy Stage Manager

Lynn Howard

Assistant Stage Manager

Beth Dibble

Chloë Moss would like to thank Sarah Frankcom, Sophie Marshall and everyone at the Royal Exchange, Mel Kenyon, Graham Foulds, Georgia, Fudge and Paul and Nick Bagnall.

For Phoebe-Chi

Characters

CHRISTIE BENSON, sixteen to eighteen

LUKE MICHAELS, sixteen to eighteen

JULIE BRIDGES, sixteen to seventeen

The action takes place in Manchester between February 1989 and October 1991.

– indicates an interruption.

. . . indicates the speaker trailing off or a change of thought.

Scene One

February 1989. Early evening. Boggart’s Clough: a large parkland in Manchester. CHRISTIE and LUKE, both sixteen, are struggling to assemble a small two-man tent in their usual spot; a little patch by the lake, tucked away amongst overgrown bushes and shrubbery. LUKE is wearing a Lacoste knitted hat and a Berghaus jacket, CHRISTIE a black and red lumberjack’s coat that is too big for him and a deerstalker hat. Their rucksacks are on the floor.

LUKE. You stupid?

CHRISTIE. What?

LUKE. It doesn’t go like that . . . you feed it through the top, yer mong.

CHRISTIE. How many times have I done this?

LUKE. Exactly. Should know how to fuckin’ do it by now . . . take yer gloves off’d be a start.

CHRISTIE. Fuck off.

CHRISTIE pulls one glove off and throws it on the floor.

I’ll get frostbite.

LUKE. It’s nearly March, yer big puff.

CHRISTIE. So, it’s freezin’ . . . I can’t concentrate.

LUKE. Stop fuckin’ daydreamin’, be up in a minute if you paid attention.

CHRISTIE. I’m losing consciousness through hypothermia . . . not fuckin’ daydreamin’.

LUKE. Yes yer are. Julie Bridges’ legs wrapped round yer –

CHRISTIE. Shurrup.

LUKE. Through the fuckin’ top . . . wake up, Christie, fuck’s sake.

CHRISTIE. Do it yer fuckin’ yerself then.

CHRISTIE throws the pole down and sits down, head in hands.

LUKE. Fuck’s up wi’ you?

CHRISTIE. Nothin’.

LUKE carries on with the tent.

She didn’t say anythin’?

LUKE. No.

CHRISTIE. Nowt?

LUKE. I’m tellin’ yer –

CHRISTIE. As if.

LUKE. She never –

CHRISTIE. Not a word?

LUKE. Nope. Pegs . . . get up will yer.

CHRISTIE reaches for the bag of tent pegs from the floor, takes a handful, then passes the rest over to LUKE. They place the flysheet over and start securing it with the pegs.

CHRISTIE. Just blanked yer?

LUKE. Yep.

CHRISTIE. What like . . . expression did she have?

LUKE. What d’yer mean?

CHRISTIE. On her face. Did she y’know . . . smirk or anything?

LUKE. I dunno, she was walkin’ away. I couldn’t see.

CHRISTIE. Did you just let her go?

LUKE. Course I fuckin’ did. What did you want me to do, get her in a headlock?

CHRISTIE. She just carried on walkin’ –

LUKE. Like she hadn’t heard me.

CHRISTIE. She might be deaf.

LUKE. I’ve seen her talkin’ to people . . . like normal.

CHRISTIE. She might lip-read.

LUKE. She might, yeah. Next time I see her, I’ll let me airgun off right by her ear. If she doesn’t jump then we can try somethin’ else. Write on a bit of card.

CHRISTIE. It’s not funny.

LUKE. You know she’s not fuckin’ deaf.

CHRISTIE. I wasn’t serious.

LUKE. She might a’ thought I was windin’ her up. I don’t know her. Never fuckin’ spoke to her before. Only seen her ’round. Felt a bit of a dickhead actually, mate. But I did it. Fer you. Didn’t I? Sorry it didn’t come off like you wanted . . . happens sometimes. You’ll get used to it.

The tent is up, they both stand back to look at it.

Couldn’t swing a fuckin’ midget in that, could yer?

Pause.

CHRISTIE. I’m not arsed anyway.

LUKE. Course you’re not.

CHRISTIE. I’m not.

LUKE. S’alright. You’re allowed.

CHRISTIE. I just . . . I don’t believe yer.

LUKE. Yer what?

CHRISTIE. I don’t believe yer but I’m not arsed.

LUKE. She didn’t fuckin’ say nothin’ . . . why would I lie?

CHRISTIE. Protectin’ me feelin’s.

LUKE. Wha’ the fuck would I wanna do that for?

LUKE crawls into the tent. CHRISTIE sits outside for a moment, sulking, until he is aware of a noise – the wind rustling through the trees – and scuttles inside. They both lean on their elbows side by side, half out of the tent. LUKE starts emptyingone of the rucksacks and dividing the contents between himself and CHRISTIE; lager, crisps, chocolate, a flask. He opens it, takes a swig and passes it to CHRISTIE.

Tea.

CHRISTIE holds the flask but doesn’t drink. LUKE takes his hat off, he has a number two skinhead.

CHRISTIE. What’s tha’ about?

LUKE. What?

CHRISTIE. Yer ’ead.

LUKE. What’s it look like?

CHRISTIE. Thought you were growing it.

LUKE. I was . . . Dennis kept saying I looked like a girl. Got the clippers out last night when he wa’ pissed.(Beat.) I like it.

CHRISTIE. Right.

LUKE. Right what?

CHRISTIE.Nothin’ . . . right . . . I’m just sayin’ right.

LUKE. It’ll grow back anyway. If I want.

LUKE puts his hat back on.

CHRISTIE. So. Right. Just go on from the –

LUKE. Oh fer fuck’s sake, Christie.

CHRISTIE. From the beginnin’. One last time. Go ’ead . . . yer by hers an’ she’s walkin’ along . . . an’ you say?

LUKE. . . .

CHRISTIE takes a swig from the flask before spitting it out violently.

CHRISTIE. What the fuck’s in that?

LUKE. Vodka.

CHRISTIE. Yer don’t put vodka in tea, knobhead.

LUKE. D’yer wanna know what I said to her or wha’?

CHRISTIE (still spitting onto the grass). Yeah.

LUKE. Right. Last fuckin’ time. I go, ‘Alright, Julie, how’s it goin’, girl. What yer up to?’ She was with that Shelley, that girl with the weird lip in the year below us, toddlin’ alongside her, like a little fuckin’ . . . mouse or summat . . . and I went, er . . . I went, oh I dunno somethin’ like . . . I can’t remember exactly . . . but it wasn’t nothin’ important, just shit . . . just like leadin’ into it you know like . . . what I was getting at. So it was blah-blah fuckin’ . . . bollocks and then I said, ‘I know someone who fancies you’ and she goes, ‘Who?’ and I said . . . you, obviously like, and . . . she didn’t say nothin’. Just like fucking silence. So I said, ‘Would you go wi’ him like?’ and she didn’t say nothing again. Just walked off. That fuckin’ Shelley kid with her lip, all fuckin’ starin’ . . . squeakin’ after her.

Pause.

CHRISTIE. Wha’ d’yer reckon?

LUKE. ’Bout what?

CHRISTIE. That.

LUKE. Wha’ about it?

CHRISTIE. It’s bad that, innit?

Pause.

LUKE. Well, I don’t think it’s particularly fuckin’ good, do you?

CHRISTIE. What do I do now?

LUKE. Ask her yerself.

CHRISTIE. Yer reckon?

LUKE. Yeah.

CHRISTIE. Honestly?

LUKE. Yeah.

CHRISTIE. Say what like?

LUKE. Fuck’s sake . . . yer like her . . . does she wanna go out wi’ yer?

CHRISTIE. Where to?

LUKE. Anywhere. The pub.

CHRISTIE. Are yer trying to be funny?

LUKE. Put a suit on.

CHRISTIE. I had a suit on last time.

LUKE. Yer dad’s . . . he’s about a foot taller than yer. Yer can borrow mine.

CHRISTIE. It’s too risky . . . imagine that, gettin’ the knock-back with a bird.

LUKE. Pictures.

CHRISTIE. You can’t talk in the pictures.

LUKE. Exactly, yer nugget . . . That’s the ’ole fuckin’ point.

CHRISTIE. I wanna talk to her.

LUKE. Wha’ about?

CHRISTIE. I dunno.

LUKE. Paintin’ . . . art?

CHRISTIE. I might . . . Grow up, will yer.

LUKE. Are you havin’ a laugh? Grow up yourself and stop bleatin’ on about it.You’re borin’ . . . d’yer know that? Borin’. You’d go off her anyway. Soon enough. You’d get fed up.

CHRISTIE. No way.

LUKE. Definitely. Coupla weeks. You’d be bored. I used to be much more serious about things when I was, y’know . . . a bit less experienced. Once yer’ve been round the block a few times – an’ I’m not knocking you ’ere, Christie – I’m just sayin’, yer get a bit more . . . blousey about it.

CHRISTIE. Blasé.

LUKE. It’s not love, mate . . . you don’t love Julie fuckin’ what’s-her-face –

CHRISTIE. Bridges.

LUKE. Yer don’t love Julie Bridges.

LUKE takes the flask and gulps it back.

CHRISTIE. What yer doin’?

LUKE. What’s it look like?

CHRISTIE. We’ll have nothing left, divvy.

LUKE. Yer’ve just spat it out.

CHRISTIE. It was the shock . . . could grow on me, I reckon. Least it’s hot.

LUKE passes it back, CHRISTIE takes the tiniest sip.

LUKE. Don’t go mad.

Pause.

How’syer dick?

CHRISTIE. Itchy.

LUKE. Still? Have yer been the doctor’s?

CHRISTIE. You know I haven’t . . . as if I’d go on me own.

LUKE. I keep sayin’. Make an appointment and I’ll fuckin’ come wi’ yer –

CHRISTIE. The receptionist does aqua aerobics wi’ me mam.

LUKE. There’s nothin’ wrong wi’ yer anyway.

CHRISTIE. How do you fuckin’ know?

LUKE. Cos you can’t get Aids from a wank.

CHRISTIE. She had . . . sores on her hand.

LUKE. Louise Marsh. I told you, didn’t I? You’d only regret it . . . three months this has been goin’ on. S’fuckin’ ridiculous. It’s psycho – what d’yer call it?

CHRISTIE. Somatic. D’yer think so, yeah?

LUKE. I know so, mate.

CHRISTIE. Thanks, Luke. I know I think . . . I get meself anxious. It’s only cos –

LUKE. I know it. Shut it, yer mong.

Pause.

D’yer see that then?

CHRISTIE. What?

LUKE. There. That’s a shootin’ star, that, yer know.

CHRISTIE. S’a helicopter.

Pause.

LUKE. Oh aye yeah. I made a wish n’all.

CHRISTIE. What d’yer wish for?

LUKE. Doesn’t matter now, does it? (Beat.)S’top, innit? Outdoors.

CHRISTIE. Yeah.

LUKE. Massive.

CHRISTIE. I was born outdoors.

LUKE. Cos you’re a tramp.

CHRISTIE. Fuck off –

LUKE. Joke. Tell us again.

CHRISTIE. No.

LUKE. Oh go on. Makes me laugh.

CHRISTIE. Me mum and dad went to a weddin’ and I started to come early . . . it was a knees-up in this hotel, this posh place near Cheshire . . . in the night . . . so me dad just got me mum in the car and Starsky-an’-Hutched-it to the hozzy but it was too late cos me ’ead started to come out –

LUKE. Eeh . . . fuckin’ gross –

CHRISTIE. So they stopped and the car was full of shit, me mum said . . . maps and de-icer an’ Sayers bags. So she got out and laid on the grass at the side of this lane and by the time the ambulance come, I was there. Born. Me mum says she likes it that the first thing I saw was the sky and the stars.

LUKE. I was born in Stockport. General Hozzy. It’s shit there. Stinks of piss.

CHRISTIE. Me mum reckons it’s important what you see first . . . the very first thing in the world that you lay your eyes on; that can be a big influence. She says I’m well lucky.

LUKE. She’s a hippy your ma, isn’t she?

CHRISTIE. No.

LUKE. Hippies are alright. Mods are better though. My dad was a mod.

CHRISTIE. She’s nothin’ . . . she just thinks some things.