The Thrill of Love E-Book

Amanda Whittington

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

Seitenzahl: 81

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

A gripping drama about Ruth Ellis, the last woman to be hanged in Britain. A divorcee with a young child to care for, Ruth works in the kind of nightclubs where there's more than just a drink on offer. The girls work hard, play hard and dream of a movie-star life. Then she meets the wealthy, womanising David, a racing driver with whom she becomes obsessed. Fame comes - but not in the way she imagines. Why does their relationship end in murder? Why does she plead not guilty but offer no defence? Why does she show no remorse? And who is she trying to protect? Amanda Whittington's play The Thrill of Love dramatises the true story of Ruth Ellis, the last woman to be hanged in Britain, and takes a fresh look at the woman behind the headlines. The Thrill of Love was first staged at the New Vic Theatre, Newcastle-under-Lyme, in 2013.

Leseprobe

Amanda Whittington

THE THRILL OFLOVE

NICK HERN BOOKS

Londonwww.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Original Production

Characters

Act One

Act Two

About the Author

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

The Thrill of Love was first performed at the New Vic Theatre, Newcastle-under-Lyme, on 22 February 2013, with the following cast:

RUTH ELLIS

Faye Castelow

JACK GALE

Mark Meadows

SYLVIA SHAW

Hilary Tones

VICKIE MARTIN

Maya Wasowicz

DORIS JUDD

Katie West

Director

James Dacre

Designer

Jonathan Fensom

Lighting Designer

Daniella Beattie

Sound Designer

James Earls-Davis

The production transferred to the St James Theatre, London, on 27 March 2013, with the following change to the cast:

JACK GALE

Robert Gwilym

Characters

RUTH ELLIS, a nightclub hostess

JACK GALE, a detective inspector

SYLVIA SHAW, a nightclub manageress

VICKIE MARTIN, a model and actress

DORIS JUDD, a charwoman

Staging should be fluid and filmic, with the changing locations imaginatively revealed.

The recordings suggested in the play are by Billie Holiday, subject to the rights being available.

The Thrill of Love is based on a true story. Some scenes, characters and events have been included or altered for dramatic purposes.

ACT ONE

Scene One

From the scratch and hiss of a gramophone comes Billie Holiday singing ‘T’ain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do’.

RUTH ELLIS appears in a hazy bedroom light. She wears her undergarments and spike heels. She puts on a skirt and blouse.

As she dresses, the record begins to jump. RUTH doesn’t allow it to distract her.

RUTH puts on her coat, ties on a headscarf and puts her handbag over her arm.

RUTH looks in the mirror, her gaze unflinching. We see the archetypal blonde bombshell, the femme fatale.

RUTH puts on her spectacles, reaches into her handbag and pulls out a gun. She feels the unfamiliar weight of it in her hand.

A figure (JACK GALE) emerges behind her.

The record hits a scratch and begins to repeat the same phrase. RUTH takes the gun in both hands and extends her arms, holding it before her.

RUTH. David?

RUTH turns to the figure and fires the gun.

Six gunshots sound in an irregular pattern. They bring a cacophony of cries in the street, police bells and flashing blue lights.

Scene Two

GALE takes off his overcoat and trilby hat. As the chaos subsides, he addresses the audience. He is military-sharp, with a hint of the streets.

GALE. Hampstead Station, 5th Division, eleventh of April, 1955. I’m at home with my girls: Ella, Billie, Sarah Vaughan. Whisky and lemon, bit of a cold coming on. Curtains closed, rain on the window, telephone rings at a quarter-to-ten. ‘You need to get down here, sir. Now.’

RUTH sits in a chair in the centre of the floor.

Midnight, Easter Sunday. But if Christ really rose from the dead, He’s not in the city tonight.

GALE turns his attention to RUTH.

Mrs Ellis? I’ve just seen the dead body of David Blakely at Hampstead Mortuary. I understand you know something about it?

RUTH doesn’t respond.

Mrs Ellis, I’ve just –

RUTH. I am guilty. I’m rather confused.

GALE looks to the audience.

GALE. She’s given a statement. Clear voice, cool as ice. But it’s my job to turn up the heat.

GALE opens the file and reads from the statement.

‘I understand what’s been said. I am guilty. I’m rather confused.’

RUTH. Yes.

GALE. ‘About two years ago, I met David Blakely when I was manageress of The Little Club, Knightsbridge. My flat was above that. I had known him for about a fortnight when I started to live with him and – ’

RUTH. That’s not quite… He lived with me.

GALE amends the statement and continues to read, monitoring RUTH’s responses as he does.

GALE. ‘He lived with me… and has done so until last year, when he went away to Le Mans for about three weeks, motor racing. He came back to me and remained living with me until Good Friday morning. He left about ten o’clock a.m. and promised to be back by eight p.m. to take me out. I waited until half-past nine and he had not phoned, although he always had done in the past.’

RUTH. Yes.

GALE. ‘I was rather worried, as he’d had trouble with his racing car and had been drinking. I rang some friends of his named Findlater at Hampstead but they told me he was not there.’

RUTH sneezes.

RUTH. Excuse me.

GALE hands RUTH a white handkerchief from his pocket.

GALE. It’s clean.

RUTH. I’m sure.

GALE. ‘I took a taxi to Hampstead, where I saw David’s car outside Findlater’s flat on 28 Tanza Road. I telephoned from nearby, and when my voice was recognised they hung up on me. I went to the flat and continually rang the doorbell. I became very furious and went to David’s car and pushed in three of the side windows.’

RUTH. Correct.

GALE. ‘David did not come home on Saturday, and at nine o’clock this morning – Sunday – I phoned again, and Mr Findlater answered. I said to him – ’

RUTH. ‘I hope you are having an enjoyable holiday.’

GALE. ‘And was about to say – ’

RUTH. ‘Because you have ruined mine.’

GALE. ‘And he banged the receiver down.’

RUTH. Hard.

GALE. Shall I add…?

RUTH. No.

GALE. ‘I waited all day today for David to phone but he did not do so. About eight o’clock this evening, I put my son Andréa to bed.’

RUTH. Yes.

GALE. ‘I then took a gun which was given to me about three years ago in a club by a man whose name I do not remember.’

RUTH. No.

RUTH picks at the stitching of the handkerchief.

GALE. The club or the man, Mrs Ellis?

RUTH. J.

GALE. J?

RUTH. Your initial.

RUTH nods to an embroidered letter.

GALE. John. But I’m known here as Jack.

RUTH. Jack…

GALE. Gale. Detective Inspector.

RUTH. Jack Gale.

GALE. You say the gun was security for money but you accepted it as a curiosity?

RUTH. Yes.

GALE. You didn’t know it was loaded when it was given to you but you knew the next morning when you looked at it.

RUTH. Yes.

GALE glances at the statement.

GALE. ‘When I put the gun in my bag, I intended to find David and shoot him.’

RUTH. Yes.

GALE. You know what that comment implies?

RUTH. It doesn’t imply anything, sir. It’s a statement of fact.

RUTH begins to fold the handkerchief as if it’s a napkin.

GALE. ‘I took a taxi to Tanza Road, and as I arrived, David’s car drove away. I dismissed the taxi and walked back down the road to the nearest pub, where I saw David’s car. I waited outside until he came out. David went to his door to open it. I was a little way away from him. He turned and saw me and then turned away from me. And I took the gun from my bag and I shot him.’

RUTH quietly admires the folded handkerchief.

RUTH. Yes.

GALE. And then?

RUTH. I’ve explained.

GALE. Not to me.

RUTH looks up.

RUTH. David turned and ran around the car. I thought I’d missed him, so I fired again. He was still running and I fired a third time. I don’t remember firing any more but I must have done.

GALE. There were six shots. One ricocheted off the footway.

RUTH. Oh, really?

GALE. Hit a passer-by in the hand.

RUTH. I remember…

GALE. Go on.

RUTH. He was lying face down. Bleeding badly. It seemed ages before an ambulance came…

GALE. Mrs Ellis?

RUTH. A man came up. I said: ‘Will you call the police and an ambulance?’ He said: ‘I am a policeman.’ I said: ‘Please take this gun and arrest me.’

GALE. Do you wish to say anything more?

RUTH. No, sir.

GALE. Are you sure, Mrs Ellis?

RUTH. Quite sure.

GALE takes a long look at RUTH, who holds his gaze.

GALE. ‘This statement has been read over to me, and it is true.’

RUTH takes off her spectacles.

RUTH. Yes.

The cold white flashbulb of a police camera explodes at RUTH: two into her face, two each side, in the pattern of the gunshots.

Scene Three

GALE crosses into the warm glow of The Court Club.

GALE. The truth: rarely pure, never simple. Well, not on her side of town. She might see it winking in gas lamps or scurrying under the tracks. She may catch its eye in a shopfront then turn up her collar, walk on. Cos this is a girl ‘on the up’. No more the Depression and one ragged dress, no more the Luftwaffe’s reign. Tonight, she’s in W1, sir. Spike heels heading down to The Court Club, Duke Street.

SYLVIA SHAW, a doyenne of the London club scene, crosses the floor with a bag of loose change. GALE turns his attention to her.

She came here in…?

SYLVIA. Don’t know, exactly.

GALE. Two, three, four years ago?

SYLVIA. Maybe more.

GALE. And she left for The Little?

SYLVIA. Few months back.

GALE. Workmates?

SYLVIA. She had ’em, yes.

GALE. Names?

SYLVIA empties the change onto a table to count.

SYLVIA. Peggy, Margaret, Vickie, Dora, Anne –

GALE. Surnames.

SYLVIA. You forget.

GALE. You’re the manageress.

SYLVIA. Girls come and go. Ten-a-penny.

GALE. Cash-in-hand, is it? Back-pocket stuff?

SYLVIA. What are you asking, Inspector?

GALE. Just what you’re running, that’s all.

SYLVIA. This is a gentleman’s club.

GALE. And nothing deceives like an obvious fact. You of all people know that.

SYLVIA. Do I?

GALE. When did you meet her, Miss Shaw?

SYLVIA. ’48? ’50, perhaps?

GALE. Before she married?

SYLVIA. Of course.

GALE. To one of your members, I’m told.

SYLVIA. Occupational hazard.

GALE. A dentist.

SYLVIA. Allegedly.

GALE. Oh?

SYLVIA. Let’s just say you’d rather have toothache.

GALE picks up the eponymously named LP, ‘Billie Holiday’, and reads the sleeve.

GALE. Lady Day.

SYLVIA. Nothing gets past you, does it?