One
Darkness. Local fenland radio. A farm auction. A church fĆŖte. Rising seas. A poetry competition for short verse, organised by Cambridge University. The first prize is Ā£2,000. The closing date is in two weeks. Wind. Gull and tern cry out. A manās VOICE on a tape.
VOICE. And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden. And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.
A penny whistle plays.
A cabin, built from ship timber a hundred years ago. Strip plastic hangs in a doorway downstage right. A door upstage left, to an offstage lean-to bedroom. Dominating the cabin is a giant frieze depicting Christ and the Saints. Photocopied onto many sheets of paper, it is pinned together with drawing pins.
A coal-burning stove. Church pews for chairs. A tallboy. On a table, a large, silver ghetto blaster.
And the Lord God took the man, and put him into the Garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it. And the Lord God commanded the man, saying: Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat. But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.
Sudden banging, off. Shouts. Barking. The shatter of glass. It fades. The voice continues on the tape. Enter WATTMORE. He appears from the back room in housecoat and striped pyjamas. He has been beaten. He drinks from the galley tap, and spits and coughs, as if coughing teeth and blood. The tape continues. He lights a lantern, then sits at the table, and presses play and record. He speaks low, from memory.
WATTMORE. And the Lord said unto Adam: Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, and hast eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it: cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life; in the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.
He removes a penny whistle from his housecoat pocket and plays a short refrain.
And the Lord God sent him forth from the Garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken. So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keepā¦ to keepā¦ to keep the way of the tree of life.
Refrain.
He presses stop. It starts to rain. He turns the radio on ā Gardenersā Question Time ā and starts rooting through the tallboy drawers. He finds what he is looking for: a rope. The rain falls harder as he pulls up a chair in the centre of the cabin. He stands on it. He slings the rope over a low beam. He ties it around his neck, and stands there, sweating, willing himself to take the step. Offstage, a lock turns. Someone taking his boots off in the porch.
VOICE (off). Wattmore! Thereās a competition. For poetry at the university. Itās open to all-comers. Thereās a prize. (Stops.) Dear oh dear. Dear oh dear oh dear. Wattmore? Thereās broken glass out here. Someoneās had an accident. Dear oh dear oh dear.
WATTMORE takes his neck out of the noose, and gets off the stool. He just manages to throw his housecoat over the ghetto blaster, before GRIFFIN enters, soaking, with two bags of chips.
GRIFFIN. I say thereās glass all over. The porch is knackered. Why donāt you put the clicker on after you? The wind canāt get round it, whip it open smash it to buggery. Itās freezing in here Wattmore. Itās colder than a witchās tit.
He takes off his hat.
Letās see. Thatās ten pound for the pane, never you mind about labour. Congratulations. Thatās twenty, thirty pound, down the sink.
GRIFFIN makes straight for the stove and opens it, working the flame.
Thereās nothing out there. Right up the church back to the road, nothing. Not one. I thought I had one, in the reed beds, Iāve got the torch on him. But heās twiced me. So I thought stuff this. Went into town got chips.
He drops a portion on the table in front of WATTMORE, switches off the wireless, takes his coat off, sits down, closes his eyes. A whisper:
For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful. For Jesus Christās sake. Amen.
Eats.
Bugleās still on about that bird. Itās front-page news. Theyāre offering a hundred pound for a photograph. A hundred pound. I thought I saw him, though. Thought I had him, in the reed beds. Heās soared right over, low mind, low enough to touch. But it werenāt him. It was a seagull. Or a crow.
Eats.
Thereās a story in the Bugle too, one of them, the newcomers, birdwatcher it was, heās out last night on the marsh, heās lost the path. Heās fallen in a suckpit, heās kicked and kicked and itās dragged him under. Heād be dead, but he was with another had a mobile phone. Heās in the hospital. Honestly, if that bird knew half the trouble heās causing.
Eats.
Did I say? Thereās a competition. You write a poem, and if you win they give you a prize. Wait for it. Itās two thousand pound. Two thousand pound for one poem. Open to all-comers. What do you think to that eh? What do you think to that?
WATTMORE. He came here.
GRIFFIN. What? Who? Who came here?
Beat.
When?
WATTMORE. He was banging. And swearing. He smashed the porch.
Beat.
GRIFFIN. Swearing?
WATTMORE. Shouting. Shouting and swearing. He had a hound.
GRIFFIN. Right. See thatās not him. Barking you say? See thatās not him. See he doesnāt have a hound. He doesnāt keep one. Point of fact he canāt stand āem.
WATTMORE. How do you know?
GRIFFIN. Because.
WATTMORE. Because what?
GRIFFIN. Just Because.
WATTMORE. Because what?
GRIFFIN. Because he killed Black Bobās dogs.
Beat.
When Black Bob owed him that fifty pound.
WATTMORE. What?
GRIFFIN. The long version, see, if you want it, Black Bobās bitch has just had a litter and Black Bobās in the garden at The Plough selling the pups. He wants two pound a pup see. Anyway he starts drinking starts betting Floyd at boules. Now Floydās bloody good at boules. Ten minutes Bl...