Crestfall

Mark O'Rowe

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2014
• eBook ISBN: 9781780014432
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

A collision of sex, violence and drugs throws the lives of Olive, Alison and Tilly together, bringing them to the precipice of catastrophe. Their stories converge in one place, on one evening, under an unforgiving sky.

Told in Mark O'Rowe's unique rhythmic style, Crestfall is a play about love in a dog-eat-dog world.

CRESTFALL

Crestfall was first performed at the Gate Theatre, Dublin, on 20 May 2003 (previews from 15 May). The cast was as follows:

OLIVE DAY ALISON ELLIS TILLY McQUARRIE

Aisling O’Sullivan Marie Mullen Eileen Walsh

Director Designer Lighting Designer Sound Designer

Garry Hynes Francis O’Connor Rupert Murray Paul Arditti

The play received its UK premiere at Theatre503, London, on 27 November 2007. The cast was as follows:

OLIVE DAY ALISON ELLIS TILLY McQUARRIE

Pauline Hutton Niamh Cusack Orla Fitzgerald

Director Designer Lighting Designer Sound Designer

Róisín McBrinn Paul Wills Philip Gladwell Sarah Weltman

Characters

OLIVE DAY

ALISON ELLIS

TILLY McQUARRIE

ONE

Olive Day

Dressed up,

pressing forward,

feel my body’s workings working

beneath my garb, my Sunday best.

The sun is high,

today we’re blessed.

For once it’s dry,

and I have to confess

it allows my mind to open a bit,

my senses to savour surrounding shit,

the muddy bank, the green,

the water on the river curve,

which curve I follow, trace,

till I’m faced

with certain images unforeseen.

Kiddies’ heads bob about rambunctious,

hear their crazy high-pitched ruckus.

Bank-to-bank racing, some mutual splashing,

a boy dunks a girl, she goes down thrashing.

Others call from the bridge for space,

then dive or cannonball in. The place

is as merry,

although, as always, the feeling is only momentary.

Watch as laughter lilts,

then tilts

toward moans

as a pissing of heavens means

the children have to shoreward flounder,

clamber out and hoof for shelter.

I hoof myself,

my shelter also my destination –

The Burning Bell,

to which I fly post-haste,

though, fucking hell,

by the time I get to the place,

I’m soaked to the skin.

Who cares? I’m in.

All right,

so, who’ve we got?

A couple of frightful-

looking hags at a table, fucked,

a furtive fogey corner-tucked

– there he is –

the Bru at the bar.

I’m surprised he even came this far.

Approach and belly up beside him.

‘We doing this?’ I ask. ‘We riding?’

Course, he says

and kills his whiskey,

heads for the door

and exits. I folly,

keeping my distance up to the Green,

where it’s safe to join him under his brolly.

He’s keen.

He practically drags me through the wasteland

behind the old slaughterhouse, the Boneland,

where bits of cow lie scattered, decaying,

and the odd hound laps at bone in vain

for any remaining

bits of meat

as we exit the Boneland,

cross the street

to The Vanguard, a hotel,

or so called.

Kit Rankin’s the man on the desk.

He’s bald

and pretty fucking thick.

Behind said desk is a hurley stick,

nail-studded to counter minor grief.

For major, it’s what ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• Crestfall
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information