The Welkin (NHB Modern Plays)

Lucy Kirkwood

• Editore: Nick Hern Books
• Anno: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781788503105
• Argomento: Literature
• Categoria: British Drama

Rural Suffolk, 1759. As the country waits for Halley's Comet, Sally Poppy is sentenced to hang for a heinous murder. When she claims to be pregnant, a jury of twelve matrons are taken from their housework to decide whether she's telling the truth, or simply trying to escape the noose.

With only midwife Lizzy Luke prepared to defend the girl, and a mob baying for blood outside, the matrons wrestle with their new authority, and the devil in their midst.

Lucy Kirkwood's play The Welkin premiered at the National Theatre, London, in 2020, directed by James Macdonald and featuring Maxine Peake and Ria Zmitrowicz.

ACT ONE

1. HOUSEWORK

CHARLOTTE CARY is polishing pewter

EMMA JENKINS is soaping her husband’s collars

HANNAH RUSTED is carrying pails of water on a yoke

HELEN LUDLOW is mending a dress by candlelight

ANN LAVENDER is changing a screaming baby

KITTY GIVENS is scrubbing a floor with sand and brushes

PEG CARTER is sweeping the floor and ceiling with a besom

JUDITH BREWER is using a smoothing stone to force creases from linen

SARAH HOLLIS is beating a rug

MARY MIDDLETON is kneading bread as she rocks a crib with her foot

SARAH SMITH is plucking a pheasant

ELIZABETH LUKE is drying washing at a wringing post

The baby cries, the brush scrapes, the water slops, flour rises, feathers fall, silver squeaks, the broom and the carpet send up clouds of dust.

2. THE NIGHT IN QUESTION

The middle of the night. A labourer’s house. SALLY POPPY, in the dark, and FREDERICK POPPY with a single candle. SALLY has been searching for something. We cannot see her properly yet.

FRED. Home then.

SALLY. Thought you’d be sleeping.

FRED. Four months.

SALLY. I had ten shillings and a nice piece of lace in that tin, where’s that gone?

FRED. Four months and not one word.

SALLY. Only four was it? Felt like more. Where’s my money Fred?

FRED. I spent that.

SALLY. That’s not yours, I put that by.

FRED. You put that by from bilking me on butter, where you been?

SALLY. That’s got like a midden in here, don’t you know where the broom lives?

FRED. Sally.

SALLY. Thought I’d been away years. Thought I’d walk in here to find it all different and you with a long grey beard but everything’s just the same but dirtier.

FRED. Wife, / where have you

SALLY. Disappointing.

FRED. where the fuck have you been?

,

SALLY. I wanted to see the comet when it came.

FRED. Comet?

SALLY. It has been predicted by Mr Halley, / don’t you read the newspaper?

FRED. [don’t] talk to me of comets wife, November you left this house on the back of another man’s / horse

SALLY. Right, no

FRED. no, do not deny it, you were seen, so do not give me fucking sludder about comets Sally, though I don’t doubt you were gazing at stars, flat on your back in a / ditch

SALLY. May I

FRED. I am speaking

SALLY. Oh.

FRED. at church I had to make out you’d gone to mind a sick cousin in Stowmarket. A lie, I told, in the house of God.

SALLY. Going to church is like housework, people judge you by how well you do it, it makes your back ache, and after you have done it, it needs doing all over again a week later.

FRED. That’s a dry bob. But you cannot wash a soul as easily as you wash a floor.

SALLY. You are right Fred. Washing a floor is much harder, particularly when you have a dog as we do. Where is Poppet?

FRED. Tied up, out back.

SALLY. Fed?

He puts the candle down and takes his belt off.

SALLY picks up the candle and uses it to light three more.

FRED. No, not fed. She’s lucky I have not broke her neck, feeding’s too good for her, lift your skirts. Put your hands on the wall.

SALLY. Pick one. I can’t do both.

She turns. We see her illuminated for the first time. Covered head to toe in blood.

FRED. my God.

He drops his belt.

Are you hurt?

FRED begins a frantic but tender examination, trying to locate the source of bleeding.

Who has done this? Who has harmed you?

SALLY. No one has harmed me.

FRED. I cannot find a wound… where is / the?

SALLY. There is no wound. It is not my blood.

FRED. But… how / then

SALLY. You stink, by the way.

FRED. I… I have been shovelling out the earth closet…

SALLY. This parish is full of secrets and yet we spread our shit on the fields for all to see and eat the grain that grows in it.

FRED. Whose blood is it? Whose – my god – my god Sal, what was it, an accident?

SALLY takes a hammer out of her pocket.

SALLY. It was not an accident.

FRED. Whose blood is it? Sally whose blood? Speak maw!

SALLY. I’m having a baby. It ent yours.

He slaps her.

FRED. You liar

SALLY. I want my ten shillings. I need / to go away

FRED. you old drab

SALLY. and I must have something to pay the Midnight Woman when / the time comes

FRED. dirty, wicked bunter

SALLY. having a baby isn’t / dirty

FRED. hedge-whore

SALLY. or maybe it is, it probably depends on who puts it in and who takes it out again – no.

He has grabbed the hammer, she shoves him away with force.

No. No more of that.

FRED falls to his knees and looks up to Heaven.

FRED. May God forgive you.

SALLY yawns.

SALLY. [’Scuse me] God isn’t up there, Fred. He’s inside us. In our bodies. In your body and mine and Poppet’s too. He is in your blood and your flesh and your brain, which by the way looks like a dirty sponge that’s been used to clean windows. A filthy grey thing. I’ll say it one more time. I want my ten shillings. You can keep the lace.

FRED sobs, fearful and wretched.

FRED. What’s happened gal? What you done?

From her other pocket SALLY takes a long golden plait tied with a sky-blue ribbon. She uses one of the candles to set fire to it.

Sally Poppy, you tell me right now where the Hell you’ve been!

SALLY. I’ve been to look at God.

Sudden black. In the dark the hard and continuous banging of a butter churn.

3. EXECUTION DAY

It is wash day, there are linens hung.

ELIZABETH LUKE is churning butter.

COOMBES enters. A bunch of daffodils. One arm in a sling.

COOMBES. Good day Mrs Luke.

ELIZABETH. Afternoon, Mr Coombes.

He watches her. She is conscious of his eyes on her.

You’ll forgive me, I cannot stop to talk, this butter will not come.

He continues to watch her. Quietly:

Not now, Billy.

COOMBES. You did not come Thursday / last

ELIZABETH. Shhh.

COOMBES. I waited for you for an hour and a quarter.

ELIZABETH. I have told you I am done with it.

COOMBES. I cannot stop thinking about your commodity.

She sighs. Shifts her grip on the churn. Wipes sweat from her brow.

Where is the wrong in it? We are both widowed.

ELIZABETH. I am widowed Billy, you...