A picture of rural Ireland in 600 words
George and Phonsie are seated on milking stools and back to back, just a yard of space between them.
They are in a darkened milking parlour. We see their hands stretching out in front of them as they hand-milk a cow each. We do not see any representation of the animal.
The electricity has broken down, and the two men are returned to times past.
There are dusty high up windows through which some light is visible, but in general they are in twilight. Each man has a tin bucket for the milk between his knees.
PHONSIE When did the stand-by generator break down?
GEORGE Same time as the electric.
PHONSIE Isn’t that the way! Get one flat tyre, get two.
The last time . . .
GEORGE What’s that, Phonsie?
PHONSIE The last time we milked by hand. I’d say . . . I’d say 68.
GEORGE Earlier.
PHONSIE Earlier?
GEORGE 66.
PHONSIE 66?
GEORGE Still it’s like – anything. You never forget.
PHONSIE What?
GEORGE The milking. Wasn’t it grand the chats we used to have.
Milk a cow, have a fag, milk a cow, have a chat, finish the milking . . . .
PHONSIE In for the tay.
GEORGE The easy going way. We were working away, and still . . .
PHONSIE And still.
GEORGE What?
PHONSIE What?
GEORGE You said “still” like you were thinking of something.
PHONSIE Yeah. I was. I was thinking of Mary Maguire.
GEORGE (Stops.) Mary? Oh, yes. Mary Maguire.
PHONSIE Whatever put Mary into my head . . .
GEORGE The long ago conversation I suppose. The dark. The things you see in your head in the dark.
Like Mary Maguire.
(Recommences.) She was some . . .
(Milking.)
PHONSIE Dame.
GEORGE She was some looking . . .
PHONSIE She was some looking woman, George.
GEORGE She was and all, Phonsie. She was some looking woman.
The lovely dark tresses of her . . .
PHONSIE And her face. A true face. Not a scowl, not a smirk. A beautiful . . .
GEORGE A beautiful . . .
PHONSIE Beautiful face.
(Pause.)
GEORGE And her figure.
PHONSIE She had some figure.
GEORGE She had some beautiful . . .
PHONSIE Beautiful figure . . . I used to imagine what it must have been like to have my arm around Mary Maguire and I sailing around the ballroom with Brendan Bowyer lashing out the music.
GEORGE (Stops.) But sure . . .
PHONSIE What?
GEORGE Nothing.
(George recommences milking.)
PHONSIE I do miss it, George. The way we were before.
GEORGE Before?
PHONSIE Before we all stopped smokin’ and goin’ to the pub . . .
GEORGE . . . having a bit of a life.
PHONSIE A bit of a life.
What was so bad that they banned them all on us? Were they so terrible that they couldn’t leave us a couple of simple little things?
GEORGE And I wouldn’t mind but all the time that crowd . . .
PHONSIE . . . that lousy crowd . . .
GEORGE . . . were all-in-all with every banker in the country . . .
(Silence. George stops.)
GEORGE (Stops.) Phonsie?
PHONSIE (Stops.) Yeah?
GEORGE She was your girl, you know? She was for you, Phonsie.
PHONSIE No. No, George. She was yours. I’d see the way she looked at you. She never looked at me that way.
GEORGE (Stands.) No. But it was you she wanted. She said it to me.
She said she preferred you.
PHONSIE (Stands.) Me? But why would she want me? I didn’t have an acre.
I had nothing going for me, George.
GEORGE I’m only telling you what she said.
Phonsie is especially shocked by the news. Glumly they return to work.
PHONSIE When will the ESB be back?
GEORGE They said tomorrow.
PHONSIE Tomorrow.
GEORGE Tomorrow, Phonsie.
PHONSIE About Mary Maguire . . .
George stops milking, look up to where Phonsie is standing.
GEORGE We made an awful balls of that, Phonsie.
Silence, then sadly . . .
PHONSIE Yes, George. I suppose we did.
Lights down.
To coincide with the staging of Tiny Plays for Ireland in the Project Arts Centre in Dublin by Fishamble, The Irish Times is publishing some of the scripts that made the grade
