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- 64 pages
- English
- ePUB (mobile friendly)
- Available on iOS & Android
eBook - ePub
Hymn
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About This Book
Sometimes it takes a long time to sound like yourself
(Miles Davis) Two men meet at a funeral. Gil knew the deceased. Benny did not. Before long their families are close. Soon they'll be singing the same tune. Benny is a loner anchored by his wife and children. Gil longs to fulfill his potential. They develop a deep bond but as cracks appear in their fragile lives they start to realise that true courage comes in different forms. Featuring music from Gil and Benny's lives, Lolita Chakrabarti's searching, soulful new play asks what it takes to be a good father, brother or son. This edition was published to coincide with the world premiere at London's Almeida Theatre in February 2021.
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Information
On stage is a Bible, a half bottle of whiskey and a piano with a metronome on top.
Two actors, male, 50, black, enter. They both wear black face masks. They start the metronome, regard the audience and consider the objects.
One actor picks up the Bible. He will play Gil.
The other picks up the bottle. He will play Benny.
In silent agreement the two men remove their masks.
It begins.
Benny What the hell . . .! Get off me! Mooove your fuckinâ hands . . .!
The sound of breaking glass, a tussle and the metronome stops.
Benny, very drunk, is thrown out of a pub. A door slams.
A street
January.
Thatâs not nec-ess-ary. NOT NECESSARY! Yâave to ask nicely man! Been a shit day, I jusâ wanna drrrink. People to stanâ next to. You want the custom not the custom-errr. Donât care âbout meee, as long as I Pay My Way, cost you nothinâ. But how long can any of us do that? Yâever done a jigsaw mate? Iâm tellinâ you, youâre missinâ some crucial fuuuckinâ pieces and I should know! And hereâs a gift, if you try a right hook, get your staaance sorted or youâll never connect, and youâll just be ano-ther mug punchinâ air.
You owe me maaan! Iâve invested hard cash in your shit-hole, my moneyâs in your jukebox and Iâve not got what I paid for. Iâm not leavinâ! I wanâ whaâs mine! Iâll stay right here and finn-ish my juiice!
He brings out the bottle of Scotch as someone passes by.
What you lookinâ at? You donât know me. Iâm not what any of us thought. Your burgerâs drippinâ and Iâm tellinâ you, you wonât get that oil outta them jeans. Dinnner and a show. I thank you. Now fuuuck off!
As he takes a bow he stumbles but protects the bottle.
Steady as she goes! What you gonna do tomorrow, Benny? She laid it down. Dâyou pick it up? Thaâ. Is. The. Question.
Gil, at the piano, plays the opening chords of âLean on Meâ (Bill Withers).
There it is! My man! My tuuuune! Music to stanâ next to.
Benny animates his bottle of scotch as if it is singing to him. He sings the chorus . . .
âLean on me, when youâre not strong . . .â
Bet youâre watchinâ me. Always lurkinâ in the shadows out oâreach. I got twelve hours. Do it Benny boy, no-one neeeed know. My headâs spinninâ. No son, the worldâs spinninâ and youâre in the saaame place you aaalways were.
Church
The next morning.
Gil sings the next verse of âLean on Meâ (Bill Withers) with the congregation.
Gil
âPlease swallow your pride . . .â
Gil steps up to the podium with his Bible to speak.
That was Dadâs favourite. He played it for Mum at their golden wedding anniversary and asked her to dance. They were so devoted. You could feel it.
Gil opens his Bible.
This was Dadâs favourite too â âPraise the Lord. Praise God in his sanctuary; praise him in his mighty heavens . . . for his acts of power . . . his surpassing greatness. Praise him with the sounding of the trumpet . . . with the harp and lyre . . . with the strings and pipe, praise him with the clash of . . . resounding cymbalsâ. I can see him now, nodding his head, eyes closed, as though listening to heavenly music.
Gil brings out some handwritten pages and regards the large congregation.
Augustus Clarence Jones was born eighty-six years ago in St Mary, Jamaica. He married our mum just before they came here in 1960 and rented a room in a house on George Road. They saved and saved and eventually bought that house where theyâd have four kids who gave them eight grandchildren. George Road is our family home and Cleo, Diane, Sweetie and me made sure it was well lived in. Dad, a tailor by trade, âa master of clothâ Mum used to say, turned his hand to everything â plastering when I put a hole in the bathroom wall, woodwork when Sweetie broke Mumâs sideboard, metal work when Cleo jammed the front door key in the lock. Diane of course didnât do things like that. He also made my first communion suit by hand. Every cut, every stitch was his. A man of many talents.
He worked alone in the back of his first dry cleaning shop on the High Street. When he came home to the shouting and tears, the records and TV, the shrill conversation and door slams he rarely raised his voice but when he did, all sound stopped. That was Dad. I once asked him how he could stand it. My sisters were driving me mad. It was one of the few man-to-man talks we had. He said all he heard was music. He said âGilbert, music is silence, sound and time. If you listen son, youâll hear it too.â A master of cloth and a bit of a poet then. An impressive figure of a man in his trilby hat and gold tie pin. That was Gus.
Gil puts away his pages to speak from the heart.
Dad called this church the Big House where he was just one of the kids. He loved to sing here. I used to squirm when his voice boomed across these aisles, rarely in tune, sliding in and out of the melody. I was ten, eleven and Mum would cut her eyes at me not to laugh. But he never cared, he just sang louder.
He worked so hard, built everything from the ground up, bought his first business and...
Table of contents
- Cover Page
- Title Page
- Contents
- Act One
- eCopyright