On the Dark Side of the Moon (sample) by Jack Harte
Characters
Night Watchman
Day Watchman
Old Driver
Young Driver
Farmer
Girl
Setting: The Midlands of Ireland in the early 1980's
Moon Symbolism
The moon has always been one of the most mysterious and complex of figures in ancient religious practice and in occult study. It was more closely associated with the measurement of time, with the cycle of the seasons, with growth and decay, than even the sun. Because of its association with the physiological cycle of women, it is regarded as dominating fertility while at the same time inspiring chastity. Manifesting the feminine principle, in contrast to the sun’s masculine principle, the moon is passive but in a constant state of change, even disappearing for three days, only to be re-born on the fourth. The constant dismemberment of the moon and the existence of its dark sections filled mankind with awe and inspired speculation that the dark sections were the land of the dead. Hence the moon is associated with dark infernal forces as well as bright celestial ones, with Hecate as well as with Diana, with the crone as well as the maiden.
Act One
The setting is a watchman's hut in the yard of a service depot attached to an extensive industrial peat development. It is grimy with peat dust throughout. There is a stove against the wall stage right, a long table against the same wall with a breakfast cooker, cooking utensils, with some mugs, plates, cutlery. Along the back wall is a crude bunk with a grey blanket thrown on it. The door and window are set in the wall stage left. Downstage centre is a rectangular table, one of its short sides towards the audience. There are five assorted old and dirty kitchen chairs around this table, a carver at the upstage end and two ordinary chairs on either side to the left and to the right of the carver. On a coat rack are some raincoats and a donkey jacket. Over the bunk is a large cuckoo clock with the time set permanently at eight o'clock.
The DAY WATCHMAN is doing a cursory tidying of the hut at the end of his shift, and packing his personal belongings into a lunch bag. There is lightness to his movement and he has a pleasant expression. He is in his fifties.
Enter the NIGHT WATCHMAN, also in his fifties, who is taking over for his shift. His presence is heavier than that of his work-mate. His bearing and deliberate movement indicate that he is assuming control of this realm. He leaves his lunch bag on the side table and hangs his coat on a hook side-by-side with the coat belonging to the DAY WATCHMAN. The Watchmen exchange nods in a familiar knowing way, as they go through the routine of transferring responsibility.
Enter the GIRL. She is about sixteen years old, a waifish tomboy, hardened by experience, so that in her manner and expression she combines qualities of both the adult and the child. She is wearing a creased and filthy anorak which she takes off and throws on the bunk. The jeans and jumper she is wearing are similarly creased and dirty. Her movements are quick and decisive.
Are the rest of them not here yet?
The Watchmen do not respond, but continue with their leisurely routine.
What time are you changing over at?
You know very well. Eight o'clock. The same time we change over at every night. Why?
Just wondering. I thought it might be different tonight.
Why would it be different tonight? It has always been eight o'clock. Who would go changing it?
Them. You know. The Company. The people who employ you. They could have decided to change it to seven o'clock or to nine o'clock.
Why would they go doing that?
To confuse you. To make you uncomfortable. To show you that they have the power to mess about with your lives.
Ah, they wouldn't bother doing that.
Goes over to the cuckoo clock hanging over the bunk. She reaches up and gives it a flick with her finger and thumb.
It's near eight o'clock.
You don't say.
Keep your maulers off that clock. It's temperamental enough without you interfering with it.
Giving it another flick.
Are you sure it's working?
Of course it's working. It tells us as much as we need to know.
After a pause.
Does the cuckoo come out only at eight?
Only at eight. It gives us the chirp when we're changing over, eight in the evening and eight in the morning.
Like the cock-crow.
The cock crows in the morning, but not in the evening.
Why not?
I don't know why not. He might be on a twenty four hour shift. He might be knackered at night after his hard day’s work satisfying the hens. How am I supposed to know?
After a pause.
You'd think the rest of them would be here by now.
They always come at eight.
Yeah, but it's near eight now. You'd think they'd be here.
Why would they be here at near eight when they always come at eight?
If it was me, I'd be here.
You are.
Yeah, but I'm not a player.
Some day you might be.
Wearily.
Yeah, some day. If someone doesn't turn up, I'll get a game.
That's the way.
Yeah, but they all turn up, don't they, always.
Your hard luck.
I know I'd be good, if I got a chance.
Wearily.
I've been looking on long enough.
Well, keep looking.
But for how long? Until one of you drops dead?
Maybe.
I could kill one of you.
You could, but then you might be topped yourself. So a place at the card table wouldn't be much good to you, would it?
After a pause.
Brightly. Do you think someone won't turn up tonight?
If I knew that, I'd also know who was going to get what cards, and who was going to win. Then there would be no point in playing, would there?
Yeah, I suppose.
The cuckoo gives eight 'cuckoos'. The three stand silently, respectfully, listening to it and looking at it, as if it were the Angelus. When it stops the NIGHT WATCHMAN goes to the carver at the top of the table and sits down. The DAY WATCHMAN sits down on the chair beside him to his right. The GIRL sits on the chair beside him to his left.
To the Night Watchman
Are you never caught playing cards when you're supposed to be working?
I am working.
They pay you for playing cards?
I'm a watchman. They pay me for watching.
They pay one of you to watch all day, and the other to watch all night.
That's right.
But why? Nothing ever happens around here.
Of course nothing happens. That's because we're watching.
But if you weren't watching, do you think things would happen?
No, nothing could happen. It would be impossible. You see, if something happened and no one was watching, how would anyone know? Who would be able to tell whether it happened or not? And if no one could tell that something happened, it would be just the same as if it didn't happen at all.
That's shite. If I burned the place down some night, and you weren't watching, the place would still be in ashes the next morning, wouldn't it?
Yes, but then you'd have been watching, wouldn't you?
And we'd know who to go hunting for. And we'd hang you by the ear from a meat hook until we got every last detail out of you.
The NIGHT WATCHMAN takes out a small metal box from his inside pocket, opens it, takes out a deck of cards, closes the box, and puts it back in his pocket. He places the deck of cards in the centre of the table.
Enter the OLD DRIVER. He is in his sixties. His slow and easy movements and his manner suggest someone who has a more relaxed attitude to life or who has mellowed with age.
Not a bad night.
He takes off his coat and lays it on the bunk. He then goes over to the stove and stands with his backside to it for a few moments.
Observing the table.
I see you haven't given around the counters yet.
No.
The OLD DRIVER goes over to the side table where there is a cardboard shoe-box. Out of this he takes five small cardboard boxes which he sets down in the five places at the table. It is clear he knows to whom each box belongs. He then sits into his place which is beside the DAY WATCHMAN.
Taking up one of the counters from the box in front of her, and holding it aloft to examine it. It is a circular disk, about an inch in diameter, of discoloured stainless steel.
Who made these anyway?
One of the fitters in the Workshop. I saw some scrap metal he was leaving behind from a job one day. I persuaded him to run off a hundred of these disks from the scraps.
We divided them out, twenty each, and we've been playing with them ever since. And would you believe, there are still exactly a hundred counters altogether.
How would you lose any if they never left the hut? How long have you been playing for the counters?
A long long time.
And the counters don't stand for anything? You can't cash them in, even if you won the whole hundred?
No.
Did anyone ever win the hundred outright?
No one ever had that kind of run.
But it could be done, couldn't it?
In theory, I suppose it could.
Then that must be what everyone is aiming at, is it not?
Aiming at?
Laughs
I wouldn't think so. I wouldn't imagine any of us has aimed at anything like that. We just follow the cards.
Wouldn't money do instead of the counters at that rate?
We don't gamble.
Wearily.
I know. That's the rules. But why not? Why not play for ten cent coins instead of the counters?
Because playing cards is what we do and what is important to us. If we started playing for money we might get distracted by the growing pile of money or the dwindling pile of money in front of us.
But it would be so much easier. If you had a bad run, you could bring in a fresh supply. If you had a good run, you could go to the shop and treat yourself.
But don't you see, that's the point. That would take from the simplicity and the purity of the card playing. With the counters, your stock is limited. If you run out you have to borrow on the strength of an IOU, and you have to break your backside trying to retrieve your situation. You can retrieve it only from someone around the table. That's a lot more interesting than going home and coming back with a pocketful of small change.
I suppose it is, up to a point. But I would have thought there was more to the counters. That they would mean something at the end of the day, or that there was a goal for everyone, maybe of taking the hundred counters.
I'm afraid not.
Still, who's to say? Who knows what meaning there is to anything?
There's meaning alright ...
Pauses
... except that most of it is bullshit.
...back to Drama
