How Love Is Spelt E-Book

Chloë Moss

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

Seitenzahl: 112

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

'She wanted spontaneity, adventure… I said I can be spontaneous… I just need a little bit of time to plan.' Peta is new in town and ready for whatever London has to throw at her. She's looking for romance, for friendship, for exciting people to lead her on big adventures. But being an independent woman in the new millennium isn't easy, especially when there's a constant reminder of the life you're trying to escape. With each new encounter, Peta flirts with what might have been, but has the journey to London put enough distance between her and her past? Chloë Moss's play How Love Is Spelt is a fascinating and funny play, which premiered at the Bush Theatre, London, in 2004. It was revived by Brickdust and Project One at Southwark Playhouse in 2019.

Leseprobe

Chloë Moss

HOW LOVEIS SPELT

NICK HERN BOOKSLondonwww.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Title Page

Original Production

Dedication and Thanks

Characters

How Love Is Spelt

About the Author

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

How Love Is Spelt received its world premiere at the Bush Theatre, London, on 29 September 2004. The cast was as follows:

PETA

Kay Lyon

JOE

Joe Armstrong

STEVEN

Roger Evans

CHANTELLE

Petra Letang

MARION

Joanne Pearce

COLIN

Colin Tierney

Director

Julie Anne Robinson

Designer

Nathalie Gibbs

Lighting Designer

Johanna Town

Sound Designer

Mike Walker

Voice Coach

Majella Hurley

Fight Director

Richard Ryan

How Love Is Spelt received its first revival at Southwark Playhouse, London, on 4 September 2019 with the following cast:

PETA

Larner Wallace-Taylor

JOE

Benjamin O’Mahony

STEVEN

Duncan Moore

CHANTELLE

Yana Penrose

MARION

Michelle Collins

COLIN

Nigel Boyle

Director

Charlotte Peters

Designer

Georgia de Grey

Lighting Designer

Rory Beaton

Sound Designer

Jon McLeod

Producers

Brickdust and Project One

Production Manager

Zara Janmohamed

Stage Manager

Verena Prandstaetter

For

Patricia, Ken and Nick Moss

Nick B – At the very beginning . . .

Love to my friends and a big thank you to the following, for their help with How Love Is Spelt

All at The Bush, Tom Whitemore for the Sheila LemonBursary, Mel Kenyon, Simon Stephens, Colette Kane,John Tiffany, Michelle Morgan, The Peggy RamsayFoundation, Chris McGill at milktwosugars, Mark Monero, Phillip Bosworth, Katherine Parkinson, Jem Wall and Rebecca Palmer

Characters

PETA, twentyJOE, thirty-twoSTEVEN, thirtyCHANTELLE, twenty-twoMARION, forty-nineCOLIN, forty-two

Scene One

PETA’s bedsit. Small and sparse. A door leads to the bathroom. An arch leads through to a tiny kitchen area. In the middle of the living area there is a sofa bed which is never used as a sofa. Along one wall is a small tatty armchair and a chest of drawers with a TV on and a large black-and-white photo of a man in his thirties.

JOE is lying sprawled out on the bed, hands behind his head. After a few moments he gets up and starts looking about the room. He picks the photo up and studies it, then opens the top drawer of the chest slowly so as not to make any noise. He stares into the drawer for a few seconds then carefully slides it shut. After a quick nose through the kitchen he resumes his place on the bed.

JOE. You alright in there?

Pause. No reply.

Petra . . . You OK in there, darlin’?

No reply.

Petra, you OK?

No reply.

You want anything, sweetheart?

A few more moments then the door opens and PETA appears, dressed in an oversize T-shirt; JOE’s. She walks over to the armchair and sits down on it, pulling her chest up to her knees.

You alright?

PETA. Yeah. Thanks.

JOE. Thought you’d legged it . . . shot out the bathroom window or something.

PETA. I live here.

JOE. Yeah.

PETA. I washed your shirt. Sorry about that.

JOE. S’alright . . . happens to the best of us.

PETA. Sorry.

JOE. Don’t . . . don’t you worry about it. (Beat.) Didn’t think you were that gone, though, to tell the truth. Didn’t seem that . . . pissed.

PETA. No. I can’t take –

JOE. You’re little. Petite . . . don’t take much on a little frame. I could drink a fucking . . . brewery and make it home upright. Fuckin’ . . . beer monster.

Pause.

PETA. You want anything? Cup of tea? toast?

JOE. You got anything to go on it?

PETA. On what?

JOE. Toast . . . jam or anything . . . Marmite.

PETA. No. Sorry.

JOE. Just a cuppa tea’d be nice then, sweetheart.

She gets up and goes into the kitchen.

I don’t like plain toast . . . like a bit of flavour. Don’t really taste of much . . . bread, does it? On its own.

Pause.

S’nice this place, innit? Little but nice.

PETA. S’alright.

JOE. They sting you for rent?

PETA. Not too bad.

JOE. What’s ‘not too bad’ . . . if you don’t mind me being nosey. Just wondering cos, you know, nice little place like this. Zone what . . . Two, is it?

PETA. Yeah –

JOE. Thought, you know. Do you get stung?

PETA. It’s an old student place. Sixty-five quid a week.

JOE. Sixty-five quid a week?

PETA. Yeah.

JOE. Yeah? Bloody hell, you landed on your feet there, didn’t yer?

Pause.

PETA. There’s no teabags.

JOE. Coffee?

Pause.

PETA. No. Sorry, just milk . . . or water.

JOE. Is it alright?

PETA. Is what?

JOE. The milk. I got nothing against milk but if it’s off, like a day or so out . . . makes me fucking heave.

PETA. No, it’s alright. I got it yesterday.

JOE. Full-fat or semi-skimmed? . . . Or skimmed? I hate fucking . . . hate skimmed milk . . . s’like white water. I don’t see the point in skimmed milk.

PETA. It’s just normal. Full fat.

JOE. Go on then, yeah. I’ll have a glass of milk. I haven’t had milk since I was . . .

PETA. I love milk.

Pause.

JOE. I had a good time last night, Petra. Enjoyed meself.

No reply.

At that place, yer know, and then . . . back here. Back at yours. Did you?

No reply.

Petra?

She enters with the tea, hands it to him and sits back down in the armchair.

PETA. It’s Peta.

JOE. Sorry?

PETA. It’s Peta, not Petra . . . you keep saying Petra and it’s Peta.

JOE. Peta? Fuckin’ hell, sorry darlin’ . . . why didn’t you say?

PETA. I did.

JOE. Last night. Why didn’t you say something last night?

PETA. I did.

JOE. Fuckin’ . . . Sorry babe. I must ’ave been well gone . . . I didn’t think I was but I fuckin’ must ’ave been, eh? I’m sorry about that, sweetheart. That’s like fuckin’ . . . disrespectful . . . that is. Getting a woman’s name wrong. Peta. (Pause.) Peta. Ain’t that a bloke’s name though?

PETA. If you’re a bloke.

JOE. Yeah ’course. Sorry, I didn’t mean –

PETA. It’s spelt with an ‘a’ instead of ‘e-r’. P-e-t-a.

JOE. Right . . . pretty that. Peta. Pretty name. Pretty girl . . . Pretty Peta.

Long pause.

I was just saying . . . Peta . . . I enjoyed meself last night.

PETA. Right.

JOE. Did you?

PETA. It was alright. I didn’t like that place much –

JOE. No . . . yeah, I know what you mean, it’s a fuckin’ dive that place . . . dunno why I keep going back . . . but afterwards, back here –

PETA. Like a cattle market. I don’t like it when it’s like that somewhere.

JOE. I know what you mean –

PETA. Don’t know where some people get off –

JOE. But I enjoyed meself with you . . . s’all I’m saying. Back here rather than . . . in there. In the place.

PETA. Right.

JOE. Cheap ale though.

PETA. What?

JOE. In the . . . in that place . . . ale’s cheap. I’m just thinking, ‘Why do I keep going back?’ and I just thought then. Cheap ale. You can get tanked up and fuck off somewhere else. Somewhere better. Or you get tanked up and just fucking stay cos you can’t be arsed going anywhere else . . . which is what I usually do. When I go there. Which isn’t all the time. I don’t go every fucking week . . . just sometimes. I go sometimes (Beat.) Glad I went last night.

Pause. JOE starts to drum his leg self-consciously and whistle through his teeth. PETA stares ahead.

You ain’t got a fella, have you?

PETA. No.

JOE. Right . . . no, sorry, it’s just you seem a bit . . . seems like you’re a bit edgy. On edge.

PETA. No . . . I’m just a bit –

JOE. Sure . . . yeah, sorry . . . take no notice, I’m just being . . . it wasn’t nothing really. You just seemed a bit –

PETA. On edge.

JOE. A bit.

PETA. No. I’m fine –

JOE. If you want me to go –

PETA. You’re fine –

JOE. Just say, you know . . . don’t feel –

PETA. You’re fine.

JOE. I don’t wanna outstay me welcome, s’all.

Pause.

PETA. It’s fine.

JOE (gesturing to photo on top of TV). That your old man?

PETA. Yeah.

JOE. I knew that.

PETA. Did you?

JOE. Yeah. Has he . . . Is he dead?

Pause.

PETA. Yeah.

JOE. Fuck . . . is he?

PETA. Yeah. Why’d you say it?

JOE. I didn’t think. I just knew. Instinct. S’mad that, isn’t it? (Beat.) I dunno . . . You can sort of tell. Head and shoulders, black-and-white . . . top of the telly. Makes you think that they’re dead. Dunno quite why. It’s like . . . that size as well. Big . . . like . . . a tribute. To someone who’s dead. (Beat.) Jesus . . . get in there, Joe, stick your fuckin’ boot in. Fuckin’ ’ell . . . I do that when I get –

PETA. S’alright –

JOE. – Nervous . . . well, not nervous but . . . fucking . . . when I start down a road that I really shouldn’t be going down. I don’t know you. I shouldn’t be talking about . . . your dad and if he’s dead or –

PETA. I don’t mind. It was a long time . . . ages ago.

JOE. Right. Still. He . . . go . . . pass on . . . when you were little?

She nods.

Accident?

PETA. Cancer.

JOE. Yeah . . . thought so, always fuckin’ that, ain’t it? Or the heart. One of the two. How old were you?

PETA. Seven.

JOE. Fuckin’ . . . sad. You close to him?

PETA. Yeah . . . only remember bits and bobs now though. Little flickers.

JOE. I hardly remember my old man. Good thing by all accounts, he was a bit of a bad lot, you know the sort. Dunno why he bothered havin’ us . . . well, he didn’t really, did he? Did the neccessary which don’t take long and then came back every now an’ then when he felt like reminding himself that he’d done something half-decent in his life. Buffer himself up, y’know? He was a cunt an’ half.

PETA. He was there. My dad.

JOE. Was he?

PETA. Yes. He was there. Properly.

JOE. You’re lucky . . . well, you know what I mean. At least you got some nice memories. They go a long way, nice memories.

PETA. I’ve got a few. I remember some bits . . . good ones . . . not loads, but they’re good.

JOE. They go a long way.

PETA. I did shows for him, in the front room. Dancing.

JOE. Dancing. Right.

PETA. On a Saturday. After Grandstand. Have you got kids?

Pause.

JOE. No . . . well, yeah I have, it’s just – I’ve got a little girl.

PETA. Have you?

JOE. Yeah.

PETA. How old is she?

JOE (thinks). Nine. She’ll be nine now . . . just about. Nine in . . . May. Actually. I don’t see her. She’s called Hayley. I don’t see her, not since she was a baby. I didn’t leave her.

PETA. What happened?

JOE. Her mother. Brenda. She was only young – I ain’t blaming her . . . she was . . . a kid herself really. We went out . . . only a few times. I never asked her properly, asked her out, properly, you know. Don’t know why now. I wanted – She was a lovely looking girl. Lived up an estate on the Lee Bridge Road . . . family rough as arseholes but she had other stuff in her head, you know. Bright as a button. Beautiful girl. I thought it was gonna work out alright at first. (Pause.) Her dad . . . the bloke she – her mum, Brenda, married, he’s in the army. Cyprus. Nice place for a kid to be, that, isn’t it? Like being on holiday all the time. Speaking Spanish. (Beat.) I don’t . . . haven’t been out there. It’s confusing, you know. For her. Ain’t fair, that.

PETA. You’re her dad.

JOE. No.

PETA. Don’t you ever just want to get on a plane and see her . . . see what she looks like?

JOE. I know what she looks like . . . in me head. Spitting image of me. But pretty. I got a picture. She’s just a baby in it but you can’t half tell . . . see what she’d be like now. I imagine that a lot. It seems real after a bit . . . I’d get a shock if she was different . . . from in me head. Don’t know how I’d . . . yer know.

Pause.

S’nice in here. Sixty-five quid. S’good that.

PETA. Don’t you miss her?

JOE. Can’t miss something you never had. I love her though. I do love her. Love the idea of her. The thought of her. Nice memories again, you see . . . get you a long way. She looked like . . . I don’t know, I can’t explain it. I ain’t good at all that . . . but she . . . it was like someone coming and ripping your heart out yer chest. It was like . . . five minutes. Like a little dream. They moved now. I haven’t got the address. Gets me a bit mad that sometimes. Gets me fuckin’ . . . She might come round looking for me one day. Give me a piece of her mind. I’ll have to do all that . . . explaining.

PETA. Are you cold?

JOE. No.

Pause.

PETA. Your mate’ll wonder what happened to you. Won’t he? Be wondering why you left. Will he have a go at yer?

JOE. Martin? Let him try. Nah . . . blokes for you, ain’t it? If it’s a bird, it’s allowed . . . you get points. Last week I catch Martin trying a skulk out of Legends – this late place we always go Wednesdays in Streatham – cos he reckons he’s tired . . . fuckin’ queer. Now that ain’t allowed but pulling . . . you can’t get stick for that. Anyway, had to do the gentlemanly thing, didn’t I? Escort you home, damsel in distress . . . on her own and all . . . not that I’m being sexist or anything, that’s one thing I’ve learnt – don’t be sexist in front of birds, they hate it.

Pause.

That was a joke.

PETA (stares at him). I know.

JOE. Wasn’t sure whether to come over . . . you looked a bit . . . lost. Bit sad. But I thought . . . give it a whirl . . . see what happens. My rule number one is . . . you shouldn’t chat to people if they don’t chat back. Something terrible might just have happened or they might just be miserable cunts. Either way, they’re not gonna wanna chat to you, are they?

PETA doesn’t respond.

How come you were on your own, anyway? Not on the game, are yer?

PETA. Fuck off.

JOE. Aah, come on darlin’, that was another one . . . sorry . . . you don’t wanna take no notice of me, I’m a wind-up merchant . . . gets me in trouble most the time. I forget meself.