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- 96 pages
- English
- ePUB (mobile friendly)
- Available on iOS & Android
eBook - ePub
On Bear Ridge
Book details
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Table of contents
Citations
About This Book
One minute we had customers, the next minute there was no-one. In a lost village, blurred by redrawn borders, hidden under a crumb on the map, Bear Ridge Stores still stands.
After a hundred years, the family butchers and grocers – a place for odds and ends, contraband goods, and the last petrol pump for 30 miles – is now silent. But owners John Daniel and Noni are not leaving. They are defiantly drinking the remaining whiskey and remembering good times, when everyone was on the same side and the old language shone. Outside in the dark, a figure is making their way towards them. A semi-autobiographical story about the places we leave behind, the indelible marks they make on us, and the unreliable memories we hold onto.
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Information
Dark.
Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, lights up on the ghostly outline of a solitary, classic, rusted petrol pump. It stands alone in a mountain wilderness.
Spindly winter branches dance on a fading sign on the side of a building:
BEAR RIDGE STORES
FAMILY BUTCHER
ANIMAL FEED
LAST PETROL FOR 30 MILES.
Now the light reveals we’re in an old abandoned farm/butcher’s shop. Greaseproof paper held by hooks cover the windows. Fading handwritten chalk prices for beef, lamb and pork are visible on the wall. A marble meat counter lies cold and empty. Knives, sharpening steel, saws, scoring blades and meat cleavers hang like an abandoned battle. Ancient bluebottles cling to death on sticky brown fly catching strips. Victorian shelves stand bleak and empty. A white coat, a faded brown coat and a torn and bloodstained butcher’s apron hang silently on hooks. Old scales, old weights and old tills lie amidst sawdust and ledgers.
And amongst all this, sitting asleep in a tattered broken armchair in a corner next to the till is John Daniel.
A tin mug dangles from his fingers, which hang limp over the edge of the chair next to an empty bottle of whisky. Wellingtons cover his ragged pyjama bottoms while layers of vests, shirts and an ancient gilet cover his torso. The only thing that suggests he’s alive is the growing animation of his face as he reacts to whispers, barely audible at first, overlapping, slowly becoming voices, in a language not English.
John Daniel (mumbling, still asleep) Gfn ... dd ... fe
Beat.
Gw ... on ...
Beat.
Mm... gfn ... dd ... fe ...
Beat.
Dy ... cu...
He begins to chuckle and gesture in his sleep with ever increasing glee as the sounds he hears bring a memory alive, a tolling bell and the distant strange and trance-like chanting of Canu’r Pwnc.
John Daniel Ie ... dycu ... le ma... DY ... CU ...
Beat.
He laughs, as another layer is added – a shop coming alive with customers,a ringing till and laughter – a crowing cockerel, braying cattle, bleating lambs, all competing with John Daniel as he very animatedly bellows the noise of the words his mouth is trying to shape which all builds to a rousing ecstatic climax.
C... ch CH CHHH ... D... DD ... F... FF ... G... NGH ... NGH NNNGGGHHH W NNGGGHHH! GW ... ON ... GW ... ON GGGWWWWOOOON BACHAN!!
Suddenly the sound cuts out and John Daniel wakes up in messy joy and his tin mug falls to the floor with a crack. He watches it rolling around as he tries to get his bearings. Is he on the floor? On his chair? Nobody knows – not even John Daniel.
He looks around, the silence in which he now finds himself – disorientating, and, compared to the joy of his dream, a little desolate.
Bugger it.
Beat.
Bugger it bugger it bugger it.
He gets up and looks out at the darkness.
Nobody here.
Beat.
All gone.
Beat.
Nothing moving. Nothing growing. Snowing heavy.
Beat.
Long. Cold. Endless. Winter.
Beat.
In Bear Ridge Stores. On Bear Ridge Mountain.
Beat.
Greaseproof on the windows. Counter empty. Shelves empty. Big fridge quiet. Door bolted shut. Shop shut. Farm shut.
Beat.
And me.
Beat.
Waiting. Remembering. All that is. All that was. All that will be. Standing in the window. Looking out at the snow.
Beat.
He can see something in the distance, and smiles.
I can see a face.
Beat.
A familiar face. Outside looking in. Spitting image of me he is.
Beat.
My boy.
Beat.
Born in this house. In the bed. Big baby, nearly ten pounds. Didn’t want to leave his mother, afraid of coming into the world he was.
Beat.
Towels and hot water and bleeding and shouting. Maga...
Table of contents
- Cover Page
- On Bear Ridge
- Contents
- The nation of Wales is our stage
- Team
- Staff
- The Royal Court Theatre
- Royal Court Supporters
- Characters
- Dark
- Bm
- eCopyright