Coolatully E-Book

Fiona Doyle

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

Seitenzahl: 93

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Lyrical and urgent, Fiona Doyle's play Coolatully is a compassionate insight into the links between the economy, masculinity and society in the modern world. Kilian was once Coolatully's pride and joy, its champion on the hurling field. Now the village can't muster a team, the country's shutting down, and Eilish wants to leave for a new life across the ocean. As Irish history repeats itself, Kilian must confront the demons of the past and decide whether to stay or go forever. Coolatully was the winner of the 2014 Papatango New Writing Prize in association with the Finborough Theatre, London, where it premiered in 2014.

Leseprobe

Fiona Doyle

COOLATULLY

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Original Production

Characters

Coolatully

About the Author

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

Huge thanks to Papatango Theatre and David Mercatali for all their support during the development of this play.

And my mother; lifelong enthusiast for the fastest field sport on earth.

Coolatully was first performed at the Finborough Theatre, London, on 28 October 2014, with the following cast:

KILIAN

Kerr Logan

EILISH

Yolanda Kettle

JIMMY

Eric Richard

PAUDIE

Charlie de Bromhead

Director

David Mercatali

Designer

Max Dorey

Lighting Designer

Christopher Nairne

Sound Designer

Max Pappenheim

Dramaturg

George Turvey

Producer

Chris Foxon

Casting Director

Emily Jones

Assistant Director

Joshua McTaggart

Production Manager

William Newman

Stage Manager

Roisin Symes

Design Assistant

Holly Hooper

Production Assistant

Justine Malone

The play won the 2014 Papatango New Writing Competition, and was produced by the company.

Characters

KILIAN DEMPSEY, twenty-seven

PADRAIG (PAUDIE) O’SULLIVAN, twenty-eight

EILISH O’CONNOR, twenty-five

JIMMY BARRETT, seventies

Note on Text

The play is set in the fictional village of Coolatully, somewhere on the southwest coast of Ireland.

Hurling is Ireland’s national sport. It involves two teams of fifteen players each, a stick called a hurley and a small leather ball known as a sliotar. The game is said to be the fastest field sport on earth and has been traced as far back as the fifth century AD.

Cúchulainn is a mythological Irish hero. He once killed Culann’s vicious hound in self-defence by hurling a sliotar into the beast’s gaping mouth. Afterwards, he offered to guard Culann’s fort himself until a replacement hound could be reared. From that day on, he was known as Cú Chulainn – ‘the Hound of Culann’.

Sometimes Jimmy refers to Kilian as ‘Kilian Óg’ – ‘Óg’ is the Gaelic word for ‘young’. It simply means, ‘Young Kilian’.

A forward slash ( / ) marks the point where the immediately following dialogue or action interrupts.

This ebook was created before the end of rehearsals and so may differ slightly from the play as performed.

Early December

A cold afternoon. KILIAN is smoking by a grave.

KILIAN. Cold out.

He smokes.

Like fuckin’ Siberia.

He smokes.

You were never one for the cold. (Pause.) St Pat’s won on Sunday. 2-12 to 1-14. What’shisname. O’Donovan. Centre half-forward. Few seconds to go ’cept then he scores this point out’ve nowhere. Coolatully nearly had it. They should’ve had it. Better side by far. Least they used be. (Pause.) Nights are drawin’ in now. Gets dark early.

He smokes.

Tom Moriarty’s off to New Zealand after Christmas. Construction’s good out there. Fuckin’ earthquakes every five seconds though. Imagine goin’ to bed every night worrying ’bout the fuckin’ building fallin’ on your head. Nah, man. Fuck that. Not for me.

He zips up his jacket and pulls his hood over his head.

So Tom makes six. Six off the hurling team. Won’t be any left to line out soon. Mark Drennan, Ron O’Callaghan, Michael Hayes, Liam Hayes, Dominic Joyce and now Tom. Disaster like. (Beat.) Don’t mind so much ’bout Ron though. He’s a prick. (Pause.) Good crowd in after. Even though we lost. Mam was pleased. But it’s quiet the rest’ve the week. Don’t open till the evening now. No one to serve. Jesus’ sake, it’s fuckin’ freezin’!

Silence.

Time ticks by, hah?

He stubs out end of the fag and lights another. EILISH enters.

EILISH. Kilian.

KILIAN. Eilish.

She joins him at the grave.

EILISH. Cold today.

KILIAN. Fuckin’ Siberian.

Pause.

EILISH. Used think it was hot there.

KILIAN. Hah?

EILISH. Siberia. When I was small. So I never understood what people meant when they said the weather was Siberian. ’Cause I always thought Siberia was like, this really hot place.

KILIAN. Their lakes freeze over.

Pause.

EILISH. Thought you’d be here. (Pause.) Did you cross the street?

KILIAN. Wha?

EILISH. When you saw me. Earlier on. Did you cross the street?

KILIAN. Course not.

EILISH. Liar. (Pause.) Can I’ve a drag?

KILIAN. You’re a nurse.

She just looks at him.

Bad fer ya.

She raises one eyebrow. He gives her the cigarette. She takes a drag and hands it back. Silence.

EILISH. I’ve an interview up in Dublin next week. Hospital in Sydney. They’ll help with all the visa stuff. I should just do it. Stupid not to. You can drive to Bondi Beach from there.

KILIAN smokes.

KILIAN. D’you hear ’bout Tom Moriarty?

EILISH. Yeah. New Zealand. After Christmas. (Beat.) I hate Christmas.

KILIAN. That’s half the team now.

EILISH. Well there’s nothin’ here for ’em.

Pause.

KILIAN. Never gonna happen.

EILISH. Should get out while you can.

KILIAN. Can’t leave the mam on her own with the pub.

EILISH. It’s your life.

KILIAN. Barely breaking / even.

EILISH. It’s your life.

Silence.

KILIAN. The heat’ll be good, hah? Fer a change. Mind the earthquakes though. And the fires. I hear the fires out there are ferocious.

He smokes.

Silence.

She exits.

He stubs out his cigarette.

Jesus. Eight months. (Pause.) Fuckin’ hell, Seamus. (Places his hand on the grave.)

Later that day. JIMMY’s front room in a remote cottage, about two miles outside Coolatully. JIMMY is asleep in his chair by the fire. A hurley stick leans up against a wall near the fireplace. A radio is on low in the background. Someone knocks on the door. JIMMY doesn’t stir. Someone knocks again. JIMMY opens one eye and grunts.

KILIAN. Jimmy? You in?

JIMMY curses, gets to his feet.

JIMMY. D’you not have yer key?

KILIAN. I do, yeah.

JIMMY. Then feckin’ use it!

Key turns and KILIAN enters with a shopping bag.

KILIAN. Ah, no need to get up, Jim, I’m in now.

He starts unpacking the few groceries.

JIMMY. What good’ll you be to me if I have a fall some day, hah?

KILIAN. Shit. Forgot / the biscuits.

JIMMY. Stretched out on that cold hard floor with blood all down my face from the gaping crack in the back’ve my skull, and what’ll you be doin’? Waitin’ outside. Knockin’ politely. Wondering if you can come in.

KILIAN. Your usual sparkly self I see. S’fuckin’ cold out there today.

JIMMY. What d’you want?

KILIAN. Well now that you mention it I wouldn’t mind a cup’ve tea.

JIMMY. You look like shit.

KILIAN (ignoring this). Taken your medicine today?

JIMMY. Aye, fer all the good it’s doin’. An’ see this here – (Shows him his right hand. The fingers are bent slightly.) They won’t go back. That’s a new thing that is. Just like the father.

KILIAN. Ya look like Captain Hook’s cousin.

JIMMY. I’ll Captain Hook you in a minute.

KILIAN (exits to kitchen). D’you’ve a basin?

JIMMY. What for?

KILIAN (calling). Lukewarm water. Might soften the joints a bit.

JIMMY. Under the sink. Not the green one though, there’s a hole in that. Old age. It’s a feckin’ curse!

KILIAN. Had fun gettin’ there though, didn’t ya? Jimmy Barrett, yer kitchen’s a fuckin’ disgrace!

JIMMY. ’Tis grand! Leave it now an’ don’t go upsettin’ things!

KILIAN. I wanted a cup’ve tea!

JIMMY. Well go on an’ make one then!

KILIAN (entering with a towel and basin, places basin on a side table). I would if I could find a cup.

JIMMY (putting his hand into the water). Can put my hands on anything I need in there.

KILIAN. Sherlock Holmes couldn’t find a fuckin’ cup in there.

JIMMY. Anything! Including your neck. An’ I’ve a system, so leave it alone.

KILIAN. What system’s that now? The leave-yer-crap-all-over-the-place system?

JIMMY. Cheeky pup.

KILIAN. An’ where’s yer stick?

JIMMY. In the bedroom.

KILIAN. Why’s it out there?

JIMMY. ’Cause I don’t need it in here.

KILIAN. Yes you do. You’ve had a hip replacement, for Christ’s sake.

JIMMY. Are you the boss’ve me now, are ya?

KILIAN. Yer an awful stubborn old git sometimes, d’you know / that?

JIMMY. An’ did you know, that if you corner a badger he’ll grip on to an arm or a leg an’ he won’t let go fer love nor money? An’ the only way to free yerself is to look fer a twig or a bit’ve a branch an’ snap it in two. ’Cause then the badger thinks he’s broken a bone see, an’ off he goes.

KILIAN (beat). What?!

JIMMY. Don’t say I never taught ya nothin’. (Closes his eyes and enjoys the sensation of the water for a few moments.) So. We were robbed on Sunday. Shame. They’re still missing you out on that pitch, boy. It’s a bloody waste.

KILIAN. D’you’ve any biscuits? (Goes out to kitchen again.)

JIMMY. Fastest field sport on earth y’know. The mighty Cúchulainn himself used play it. Sure didn’t he kill the vicious hound with the stick and sliotar.

KILIAN (re-enters eating a biscuit). So the story goes.

JIMMY. Bit’ve truth in all stories, boy.

KILIAN. Did ya know these are stale?

JIMMY. A man lived here once. Distant relative they used say. You’d see him early in the morning high up on the clifftops practising his swing. Half-naked he’d be. Big giant of a man see. The clothes wouldn’t fit him right. One time, we saw him there in the dead of winter. The cliffs all white with snow an’ he barefoot with the stick. Steam comin’ off him. Striking from the hand again and again. An’ every time he struck he’d let out this almighty roar, an’ the land would shake beneath him, an’ the birds would go screeching and scattering over the waves.

KILIAN (beat). Right. (Opens a newspaper.)

JIMMY. ‘Do not, henceforth, use the plays which men call horlings, with great sticks and a ball upon the ground, from which many evils and maims have arisen.’ Who was that?

KILIAN. Ah Jesus, Jimmy, I dunno.

JIMMY. Think, boy, think!

KILIAN (reluctantly). Fuckin’… Edward the fourth?

JIMMY. Third! Tried to ban it so he did. The fool. Sure isn’t there graves up there in Donegal from the fifteenth century with the stick and sliotar carved into rock like the Holy / Cross itself.

KILIAN. D’you hear Tom Moriarty’s off to New Zealand by the way?

JIMMY. What?

KILIAN. After Christmas.

JIMMY. Sure that’s half the flippin’ team gone then! Tom’s a fine player.

KILIAN. Ah he’s alright. Bit overrated if you ask me.

JIMMY. You are a fine player an’ you should be playing still, fit an’ young like you are. But you won’t be fit an’ young / for ever, boy!

KILIAN. Never thought he’d leave. Bit of a mammy’s boy Tom is.

JIMMY. They used call you Cúchulainn. It’s not right that you don’t play / no more.

KILIAN. An’ d’you hear about the post office?

JIMMY. What about the post office?

KILIAN. They’re closing.

JIMMY. Ah fer… sure nearest one now’ll be twenty mile off. Where’ll I draw me pension?

KILIAN. I’ll take you to the town if ya want.

JIMMY. On that yoke of a bike? You will not.

KILIAN. I’ll drive ya.

JIMMY. Sure you don’t have a car.