Echoes (NHB Modern Plays)

Henry Naylor

• Editorial: Nick Hern Books
• Año: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781780019109
• Categoría: Littérature
• Categoría: Théâtre britannique

Two British women, 175 years apart. One is a bright, Islamist schoolgirl; the other a Victorian colonial pioneer. The former would build a caliphate; the latter an Empire. Both are idealists; intelligent adventurers, with strong religious beliefs. Both are frustrated by societies which offer them few opportunities. And both would travel to the East, to impose their ideals upon unwilling peoples…

Echoes is a bloody tale of colonialism – ancient and modern – and the rhyme of history. It is part of the Arabian Nightmares trilogy. It was first performed at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in 2015, transferring to the Arcola Theatre, London, later that year.

'Henry Naylor might be a bit of a genius... [He] uses language in an exquisite way, which always feels natural in the character's mouth. Some feat. The writing is evocative and full of imagery, yet sparse enough not to overload us and give us enough time to comprehend the storylines... This is a clever and subtly nuanced piece that examines the plight of women across time, through the lenses of sexual inequality, religious duty and betrayal.' - Broadway Baby

'A dark and daring look at colonial cruelty... hugely impressive' - Guardian

'Superbly written … a must see' - Sunday Times

The story of Echoes is told by two different storytellers.

They each deliver their monologues directly to the audience, through the ‘fourth wall’.

Fade up on a young, Victorian pioneer woman, TILLIE. She’s strong, smart – seventeen years old.

TILLIEThree months at sea. The lump sugar is gone.

The eggs are rotten, and thrown overboard. India cannot come too soon.

At dinner a handsome Lieutenant approaches.

Winks conspiratorially. And presents me with a fig.

‘Slipped the storemaster a few coins.’

I smile gratitude.

Then bite the flesh. There’s a smell of rot, and the fizz of ferment.

A maggot inside. Wrestling with its own being.

‘Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry,’ blushes the appalled Lieutenant.

He would crush it. But I stay his hand.

‘It is one of God’s creatures!… Insects. Hobby of mine – and this one performs the most spectacular transformation in nature. More wondrous than the caterpillar… Blind, now, hopeless. But soon to grow wings, legs. Thousands of eyes.’

The Lieutenant snatches the fig, maggot and all, and crushes it in a puffed fist. Red juice running through his fingers.

‘Flies are not suitable discourse for a lady.’

Fade up on a young, beautiful Muslim, SAMIRA. She’s strong, smart – seventeen years old.

SAMIRAI know what you’re thinking:

‘Why would a Grade-A student suddenly upsticks to become a housewife in a Syrian basement?’

Ha. You kuffar don’t understand Faith, do you?

This is my choice: Paradise… or Ipswich.

The first: the shadow of God’s kingdom on earth.

The second: a land of chip papers and dogshit.

You choose.

Wasn’t always religious. Used to be shy, quiet.

A good student.

Until the day I sold Beegum a mousemat in WHSmith’s…

My Saturday job is manning the till, stacking the shelves, in the News and Magazines section.

…Embarrassing to have to serve my devout schoolfriend.

‘Man, how can you sell this shit?’ She waves her hand over the newsracks.

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Kuffar press is full of lies. Only times Muslims get mentioned is when they’re beheading people.

Never anything about the Syrian refugees, or drone strikes killing babies.’

She may have a point;

the front pages are often about Kim Kardashian’s bottom.

‘So how come you know about refugees, and baby-seeking missiles?’

‘Internet.’

‘The internet!?! There’s people on the internet says that dress is blue/black rather than white/gold.’

‘It is.’

‘How can you say that?? It’s white/gold.’

‘Blue/black.’

…‘White/Gold.’

Lunchtime, I look up ‘Syrian refugees’ on my smartphone. There are three-point-eight million of them.

I pretend to tidy the shelves. Flick through a tabloid. Mostly the Election and Nigel Farage.

…The refugees only appear on page eleven. After an advert asking whether I’m Beach Body Ready.

In another, there are no refugees.

Instead, there’s a whole page of Katie Hopkins.

Flapping her mouth like a bag lady.

As the customers come and lay their papers on the counter, I want to grab them and shout: ‘Are we not human to you?’

But what I actually say is: ‘…do you want the vouchers?’

TILLIEI must confess.

I was a maggot, once, writhing on a dungheap called Ipswich.

Blind, wingless, directionless.

Thrashing around, trying to find a man. For my Christian desire is to produce children for the Empire.

But there are no men in Ipswich. Only a succession of squinting dullards…

My latest suitor is Francis, the pasty son of a leather manufacturer.

A ninny, who has taken exception to the railways.

‘Heed my words, these “railways” are but a fad.

Some of these vehicles travel in excess of twenty-five miles per hour.’

‘Why is that so objectionable, sir?’ I say.

He baulks. ‘What lady is going to want to travel at such ferocious speeds? Think of the damage to their hairstyles.’

‘Ah, nullum bonum valebat perdere lapsas.’

‘Er, quite,’ he says.

I smirk. ‘It means: “Never let an adventure get in the way of a good hairstyle”.’

My father’s jaw tense, as he bids Francis farewell.

‘A capital woman,’ says Francis, ‘Capital. If only she hadn’t floored me with her Greek.’

My father shuts the door, his rage, palpable. ‘You are too spirited. How many men of means do you think there are in Ipswich?’

I look out on to the square. See the governesses wrapped in their threadbare gloves and carpet bags.

Spinsters at twenty-five.

My destiny.

SAMIRAAsk me who groomed me for jihad, I’d reply Nigel Farage. I say this partly hoping that they’ll arrest him and put him in a cell with a sex-starved simpleton called Bubba. But partly because he pushed me to the Caliphate…

Morning of the General Election – we had a class debate. Normally, I didn’t really take part. But then a boy called Piers said he’d vote for Farage.

‘Farage????’

‘We’re about to enter the job market; we need to limit immigration.’

‘Farage said Muslims are a “fifth column”?’

‘…Well, you can’t dispute this, but the odd

Muslim has been known to blow shit up.’

‘Well, the odd Christian has been known to fiddle with children and sing “Two Little Boys” – but that doesn’t make them ALL Rolf Harri...