Brownbread & War

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Act One

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  Act Two

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  War

  Act One

  Act Two

  FOR THE BEST IN PAPERBACKS, LOOK FOR THE

  PENGUIN PLAYS

  BROWNBREAD and WAR

  Roddy Doyle is the author of The Commitments, The Snapper, and The Van, which are available from Penguin in one volume as The Barrytown Trilogy. The latter two are also published individually by Penguin. The Van was short-listed for the 1991 Booker Prize. Roddy Doyle’s bestselling fourth novel, Paddy Clarke, Ha Ha Ha, won the 1993 Booker Prize, and was followed by The Woman Who Walked Into Doors (both Penguin). His latest novel is A Star Called Henry. Doyle cowrote the screenplay for the film version of The Commitments and has also written two plays, the screenplays for The Snapper and The Van, and a critically acclaimed four-part television series, Family, for the BBC. He lives in Dublin.

  PENGUIN BOOKS

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  Brownbread first published in Great Britian by

  Martin Seeker & Warburg Limited 1992

  War first published in Great Britian by Passion Machine Limited 1989

  This volume first published in Great Britain by

  Martin Seeker & Warburg Limited 1992

  First published in the United States of America in Penguin Books 1994

  Brownbread copyright © Roddy Doyle, 1992

  War copyright © Roddy Doyle, 1989

  Introduction copyright © Roddy Doyle, 1992

  All rights reserved

  CAUTION: All professional and amateur rights in these

  plays are strictly reserved and applications for permission

  to perform them must be made in advance to

  John Sutton, 66 Abbeyfield, Killester, Dublin 5, Ireland.

  eISBN : 978-0-140-23115-1

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This book is dedicated to Paul Mercier

  Introduction

  In November 1985 a friend of mine, Paul Mercier, invited me to watch a rehearsal of his new play, Wasters. Rehearsals took place in a smelly old hall behind Cranby Row. It was a horrible Monday night. I’d just discovered that one of my boots was leaking. My glasses were wet and foggy and I’d no tissues to wipe them. I sat steaming and half-blind on a chair with a wobble and waited, and tried to make my face look like it was happy to be there.

  Then it started.

  It was fast and funny and wonderful but that wasn’t it: for the first time in my life I saw characters I recognised, people I met every day, the language I heard every day. It was like watching an old cine-film; I could point out people I knew and remember them saying what they said. The way they dressed, walked, held their cans of lager-it was all very familiar. I’ll never forget it.

  I don’t remember if it was still raining when I was going home.

  Studs, Paul Mercier’s next play, was even better. I saw it five times in its three-week run. It was the story of a Sunday morning soccer team. Eleven players in black body-stockings and too-long shorts danced, ran and slow-motioned their way through the rounds of the Cup into the final, and lost. They were eleven men I knew. And the manager, I knew him as well. I was upset when they lost although I knew they would. Studs was perfect. It’s my favourite play.

  These two plays were produced by the Passion Machine, a company founded by Paul Mercier, John Sutton—another friend — and John Dunne. They were performed in the SFX Centre (the renamed St Francis Xavier Hall-it was blessed by the Pope in 1957, by telegram). It wasn’t a theatre. It was used for heavy-metal gigs, bingo, martial arts competitions, talent shows, civil service exams, auctions, Irish dancing. It had none of the things we expect to see in a good theatre — clean toilets, spacious bars, young men and women dressed in black talking meaningful shite during the intermission.—It’s quite good but is it theatre?

  —Well, it’s pure music hall really, isn’t it?

  —Exactly.

  It was a dump. I loved it. I saw The Clash there, Madness, The Pretenders, Echo and the Bunnymen. I saw Whitesnake fans from Cork getting sick outside it. Two police motorbikes were set on fire outside—I didn’t see that. A punk poet, onstage, tried to open a fire extinguisher with a sledge-hammer—I didn’t see that either. I saw enough though. Things happened at the SFX. Most of all, I went to the plays. The Passion Machine made a theatre out of it; no frills or messing—a good stage and bad seats. I loved going there. I hadn’t been to many plays. I’d been to none more than once. I went to Wasters four times, Studs five, and the next one, Spacers, four times. I’d never seen anything like them. They were brilliant; all written and directed by Paul Mercier.

  After four plays by Paul, the Passion Machine wanted to produce the work of other new writers. They asked me to write a play. I’d just finished writing The Commitments; it was June 1986. I was about to start The Snapper. I’d never thought about writing a play. It had never been an ambition. If I hadn’t been asked—if I’d been asked by anyone other than Paul Mercier and John Sutton—I’d never have written one. I was very proud of my friends. I admired what they were doing—the plays themselves, their efforts to bring a new audience to the theatre, even their policy of serving intermission wine in plastic cups—without a licence. I was given the chance to be involved, and it was hard to stay calm. I was going to write a play; Paul Mercier was going to direct it. I was scared as well. I didn’t think I could write anything remotely as solid as Studs. I was right; I couldn’t. But I loved writing Brownbread and, later, War. I loved the whole thing—the rehearsals, everything.

  I don’t remember where I got the idea for Brownbread, three lads kidnapping a bishop. I felt that I needed a good excuse to keep all the characters in the one room onstage for two hours, and then I was writing dialogue for the lads and the bishop holed up in an upstairs bedroom. It made sense. War was inspired by a pile of pub quizzes I took part in, always on Monday night, in the Foxhound Inn, in Kilbarrack, and the Cedar Lounge, in Raheny. For about a year I read the papers and watched The News only with next Monday in mind. There was a volcano in Columbia; I didn’t give a shite about the dead, I just wanted to remember the name of the mountain. I had a list of African presidents, emperors and prime ministers. Ouagadougou was the capital of Burkina Faso; Ruby shot Oswald; Bolton won the FA Cup in 1958. I never made the big time—Anne Brontë wrote Agnes Grey—I never won a trophy, cash or even a kettle-jug. I wasn’t hopeless, though; I did win two tins of biscuits, a pocket calculator and a piece of paper that entitled me to one free visit to a fitness centre. Father Damien’s leper colony was called Molokai.

  Dublin, March 1992.

  CHARACTERS

  Brownbread was first staged at the SFX Centre, Dublin, in September 1987.

  Act One

  PART ONE

  Bo Diddley sings ‘You Can’t Judge A Book By Its Cover’. As the lights go up the music fades.

  A front upstairs bedroom in a terraced corporation house, in Barrytown, a
suburb of north Dublin. The room is on a platform some feet above stage level. Characters on the stage are on the street outside the house. Characters on the platform are in the bedroom. The bedroom is on stage-right. The back wall and right wing-side wall have ‘bedroom’ wallpaper. A window looking onto the street is in the left wing-side wall. The front wall is missing, allowing the audience to see into the bedroom. The bedroom door is in the back wall. It is Donkey’s parents’ bedroom. There should be a double bed, perhaps a dressing-table or wardrobe, at least one chair, and things that immediately mark it as a married couple’s bedroom—a picture of a child with big sad eyes, a Dunne’s nylon dressing-gown, a radio etc. The street outside the room can be indicated by a bollard, a wall etc.

  Enter Donkey, a young man of about eighteen who could be mistaken for a thick but definitely isn’t. He hurries into the room, looks around to see that everything is in order. He runs over and closes the wardrobe: he doesn’t want the lads to see his ma’s clothes. The inspection over, he goes back to the door and looks out.

  Donkey Will yis hurry up!

  Donkey rushes over to the window and looks out. He speaks to himself.

  Donkey What’re you lookin’ at, yeh nosey bitch? That’s righ’. Get back in there an’ polish your fuckin’ ornaments.

  Donkey dashes back to the door and looks out. He sees that the lads are on the stairs.

  Donkey Hurry up, will yis. —Kick his hand there, go on. We hear a screech of episcopal pain offstage. Donkey sniggers, shocked and delighted. He sees the lads and the Bishop are getting close to the door. He takes one last look around. Enter Ao and John, bursting in; hauling the Bishop. Ao and John are the same age as Donkey. The Bishop is in his late forties, and is dressed in full regalia. He is resisting, but not very convincingly. He carries one hand as if it is very sore.

  Ao This way, eh —Your Bishop.

  John Wipe your feet.

  The Bishop is shoved onto a chair and Ao starts to tie him with washing-line cord.

  Donkey Missis Moloney saw us.

  Ao Fuck her, so wha’. She’ll only be jealous.

  The Bishop is struggling to get out of the chair. Ao draws back to punch him.

  Ao Go on.

  The Bishop stops struggling. Donkey sniggers.

  John (to the Bishop) Go on. See wha’ happens.

  Bishop I —I really must protest.

  Donkey (after a short pause) Fuck off.

  Donkey is obviously delighted that he can say this and get away with it. The other two lads laugh as well, a bit shocked.

  Bishop (scared) This is outrageous.

  Ao (agreeing) It is alrigh’.

  Ao starts to blindfold the Bishop.

  John What’re yeh doing’ tha’ for?

  Ao So he won’t be able to recognise us.

  John Wha’!?

  Ao thinks about this very quickly.

  Ao Fuck it. I knew we’d do somethin’ wrong. I fuckin’ knew it. —We’ll just have to kill him.

  The Bishop yelps. Donkey points at the Bishop; a way of asking the others if they heard it too. They laugh. Ao continues blindfolding the

  Bishop.

  Ao May as well do it anyway. —Is tha’ too tight for yeh, Your Bishop?

  Bishop —No.

  Donkey It will be if yeh mess, righ’.

  A siren is heard offstage, left.

  John Jaysis! Already?

  The three lads rush to the window and look out. Donkey puts his back very dramatically to the window wall; something he’s seen done loads of times on ‘Miami Vice’.

  Ao I didn’t think they’d be this quick. —Here they come; look it.

  John Yeow! Look at them. Culchies Anonymous.

  Ao (counting) One, two, three —fuckin’ hell.

  Donkey moves away from the wall and looks out.

  Donkey Rapid! —We’re on the map now lads, wha’—Jaysis! Missis Dixon’s flowers! She’ll go spare when she sees tha’.

  More sirens are heard.

  Donkey They’re all wearin’anoraks, look.

  Ao They’re bullet-proof vests.

  All three dive for the floor, John letting go of a quick roar.

  John We’re brownbread now.

  Bishop Hello?

  Ao (from the floor) Howyeh.

  Bishop Em —if you release me now, I’m sure I can —

  Donkey No way.

  Ao No.

  Donkey has a gun. This is the first time the audience sees it. He points it at the Bishop.

  Donkey D’yeh see this?

  Bishop (scared) No.

  Donkey Well, it’s a gun. A real one, righ’ An’ if yeh shout or scream or ann‘thin’ I’ll shoot the face off yeh.

  The three lads are still lying on the floor. Donkey finds it all very thrilling.

  Donkey This is the business, wha’.

  Ao creeps to the window and peeps out.

  John Mind your forehead.

  Ao They know we’re in here.

  John (matter-of-factly) Brownbread, I’m tellin’ yis.

  Donkey Fuck up you, will yeh.

  John and Donkey face each other on the floor.

  John Are you talkin’ to me?

  Donkey Yeah.

  They start pushing each other on the chest, as if getting ready to fight.

  Donkey Come on!

  Ao Here! Stop tha’, will yis.

  Donkey and John stare each other out of it for a while.

  Ao Get the Bishop down there in case they shoot him.

  Donkey Let them.

  Donkey and John put the chair down sideways on the floor, with the Bishop still tied to it.

  John Pass the saw please, Donkey.

  The Bishop is terrified.

  Donkey (copping on) Certainly. Which one d’you want? The chainsaw or the hacksaw?

  John Oh, the hack. The hack. It’s better crack with the hack.

  Enter from left, very carefully, the two Guards; both wearing bullet-proof jackets. The Uniformed Guard has a megaphone. The Plainclothes Guard has a walkie-talkie. Both men move slowly, crouched. Uniform keeps looking behind him, as if making sure that the rest of the force is still there. He’s nervous but he sniffs promotion. He’s there because the house is on his ‘manor’. Plain-clothes looks as if he’s done this sort of thing before; he creeps forward very smoothly. He studies the house in front of him. Both men are from places far from Dublin.

  Plain-clothes (into the walkie-talkie) What’s the beef on the house? The walkie-talkie crackles back briefly.

  Plain-clothes (annoyed) I know it’s a corporation house.

  Donkey Have another look.

  Ao Fuck off.

  Donkey Chicken.

  Ao Fuck off.

  John makes hacksaw noises into the Bishop’s ear.

  John You won’t say annythin’, sure yeh won’t?

  Bishop (squeaks; then coughs) No.

  The walkie-talkie crackles.

  Plain-clothes (into the walkie-talkie) Try the roof. (To Uniform.) The middle of the terrace. They couldn’t have picked a worse place.

  Uniform (unsure) Yes (Then more confidently.) Stupid; stupid.

  Plain-clothes You’d better establish contact.

  Uniform doesn’t really know what he’s just been told to do. Plain-clothes points to the megaphone.

  Plain-clothes Talk to them, okay.

  Uniform Oh, right.

  John What’s happenin’?

  Donkey Missis Dixon’s beatin’ the shite out o’ them.

  Uniform turns on the megaphone; not sure how to operate it.

  Uniform (into the megaphone) Hello. —Hey, you lads there in number thirty-seven. Over.

  The lads look at each other. Ao nods. He opens the window and yells, without showing his face to the Guards outside.

  Ao We have a television licence.

  The lads laugh, delighted.

  Donkey Fuckin’ great.

  John Television licence. Fair play to yeh.

  Uniform (in
to the megaphone) Okay. —Now. —Do you by any chance have Bishop Treacy in there with you? —Over.

  Ao Yeah. Over.

  Uniform (to Plain-clothes) They have him. I knew it. (To left wing; shouts) They have him alright.

  He feels very important and successful.

  Uniform (into megaphone) Right, lads. I think you’d better bring him down quick before you get into trouble.

  Ao Yeah, sure. No problem.

  Donkey Go home, you, and milk your cows!

  The walkie-talkie crackles.

  Plain-clothes (into the walkie-talkie) Only the upstairs front. Good. (To Uniform.) Find out if they’ve harmed him.

  Uniform Okay; right. —Roger. (Into the megaphone.) Is the Bishop alright?

  Ao Yeah. He’s not too bad.

  Donkey makes hacksaw noises and saws the Bishop’s leg with his hand.

  Uniform (into the megaphone) Have you harmed him in any way?

  Ao Not yet.

  Uniform (to Plain-clothes) He’s okay. Thank God for that. Plain-clothes See if they’re armed.

  Uniform doesn’t know what to do.

  Plain-clothes (exasperated) Ask them.

  Uniform Roger.

  (Into the megaphone.) Are you toting any hardware, lads?

  (Turns off the megaphone.) Eh —over.

  (Turns the megaphone back on.) Over.

  Ao Wha’!?

  Donkey Hardware!?

  Plain-clothes Just ask them are they armed, okay.

  Uniform (into the megaphone) Are you armed?

  Ao Yeah.

  John (in a Harlem accent) We sure are, motherfucker. Plain-clothes (to Uniform) What with.

  Uniform (into the megaphone) With what?