Murray Christopher - The Plough and the Stars

The home of the Clitheroes. It consists of the front and back drawing-rooms in a fine old Georgian house, struggling for its life against the assaults of time, and the more savage assaults of the tenants. The room shown is the back drawing-room, wide, spacious, and lofty. At back is the entrance to the front drawing-room. The space, originally occupied by folding doors, is now draped with casement cloth of a dark purple, decorated with a design in reddish-purple and cream. One of the curtains is pulled aside, giving a glimpse of front drawing-room, at the end of which can be seen the wide, lofty windows looking out into the street. The room directly in front of the audience is furnished in a way that suggests an attempt towards a finer expression of domestic life. The large fireplace on right is of wood, painted to look like marble (the original has been taken away by the landlord). On the mantelshelf are two candlesticks of dark carved wood. Between them is a small clock. Over the clock is hanging a calendar which displays a picture of The Sleeping Venus. In the centre of the breast of the chimney hangs a picture of Robert Emmet. On the right of the entrance to the front drawing-room is a copy of The Gleaners, on the opposite side a copy of The Angelus. Underneath The Gleaners is a chest of drawers on which stands a green bowl filled with scarlet dahlias and white chrysanthemums. Near to the fireplace is a settee which at night forms a double bed for Clitheroe and Nora. Underneath The Angelus are a number of shelves containing saucepans and a frying-pan. Under these is a table on which are variousarticles of delftware. Near the end of the room, opposite to the fireplace, is a gate-legged table, covered with a cloth. On top of the table a huge cavalry sword is lying. To the right is a door which leads to a lobby from which the staircase leads to the hall. The floor is covered with a dark green linoleum. The room is dim except where it is illuminated from the glow of the fire. Through the window of the room at back can be seen the flaring of the flame of a gasolene lamp giving light to workmen repairing the street. Occasionally can be heard the clang of crowbars striking the setts. Fluther Good is repairing the lock of door, right. A claw-hammer is on a chair beside him, and he has a screwdriver in his hand. He is a man of forty years of age, rarely surrendering to thoughts of anxiety, fond of his oil but determined to conquer the habit before he dies. He is square-jawed and harshly featured, under the left eye is a scar, and his nose is bent from a smashing blow received in a fistic battle long ago. He is bald, save for a few peeping tufts of reddish hair around his ears; and his upper lip is hidden by a scrubby red moustache, embroidered here and there with a grey hair. He is dressed in a seedy black suit, cotton shirt with a soft collar, and wears a very respectable little black bow. On his head is a faded jerry hat, which, when he is excited, he has a habit of knocking farther back on his head, in a series of taps. In an argument he usually fills with sound and fury generally signifying a row. He is in his shirt-sleeves at present, and wears a soiled white apron, from a pocket in which sticks a carpenters two-foot rule. He has just finished the job of putting on a new lock, and, filled with satisfaction, he is opening and shutting the door, enjoying the completion of a work well done. Sitting at the fire, airing a white shirt, is Peter Flynn. He is a little, thin bit of a man, with a face shaped like a lozenge; on his cheeks and under his chin is a straggling wiry beardof a dirty-white and lemon hue. His face invariably wears a look of animated anguish, mixed with irritated defiance, as if everybody was at war with him, and he at war with everybody. He is cocking his head in a way that suggests resentment at the presence of Fluther, who pays no attention to him, apparently, but is really furtively watching him. Peter is clad in a singlet, white whipcord knee-breeches, and is in his stocking-feet. A voice is heard speaking outside of door, left (it is that of Mrs Gogan).

Mrs Gogan (outside) Who are you lookin for, sir? Who? Mrs Clitheroe? Oh, excuse me. Oh ay, up this way. Shes out, I think: I seen her goin. Oh, youve somethin for her; oh, excuse me. Youre from Arnotts I see Youve a parcel for her Righto Ill take it give it to her the minute she comes in Itll be quite safe Oh, sign that Excuse me Where? Here? No, there; righto. Am I to put Maggie or Mrs? What is it? You dunno? Oh, excuse me.

Mrs Gogan opens the door and comes in. She is a doleful-looking little woman of forty, insinuating manner and sallow complexion. She is fidgety and nervous, terribly talkative, has a habit of taking up things that may be near her and fiddling with them while she is speaking. Her heart is aflame with curiosity, and a fly could not come into nor go out of the house without her knowing. She has a drapers parcel in her hand, the knot of the twine tying it is untied. Peter, more resentful of this intrusion than of Fluthers presence, gets up from the chair, and without looking around, his head carried at an angry cock, marches into the room at back.

(Removing the paper and opening the cardboard box it contains) I wondher whats that now? A hat! (She takesout a hat, black, with decorations in red and gold.) God, shes goin to th divil lately for style! That hat, now, cost more than a penny. Such notions of upperosity shes gettin. (Putting the hat on her head) Oh, swank, what! (She replaces it in parcel.)

Fluther Shes a pretty little Judy, all the same.

Mrs Gogan Ah, she is, an she isnt. Theres prettiness an prettiness in it. Im always sayin that her skirts are a little too short for a married woman. An to see her, sometimes of an evenin, in her glad-neck gown would make a bodys blood run cold. I do be ashamed of me life before her husband. An th way she thries to be polite, with her Good mornin, Mrs Gogan, when shes goin down, an her Good evenin, Mrs Gogan, when shes comin up. But theres politeness an politeness in it.

Fluther They seem to get on well together, all th same.

Mrs Gogan Ah, they do, an they dont. The pair o them used to be like two turtle doves always billin an cooin. You couldnt come into th room but youd feel, instinctive like, that theyd just been afther kissin an cuddlin each other It often made me shiver, for, afther all, theres kissin an cuddlin in it. But Im thinkin hes beginnin to take things more quietly; the mysthery of havin a womans a mysthery no longer She dhresses herself to keep him with her, but its no use afther a month or two, th wondher of a woman wears off.

Fluther I dunno, I dunno. Not wishin to say anything derogatory, I think its all a question of location: when a man finds th wondher of one woman beginnin to die, its usually beginnin to live in another.