Photograph by Chandrika Narayanan-Mohan On Sunday 24th June 2018, Fishamble and Irish Rail partnered to create a day-long playwriting workshop between Dublin and Bray called #PlaysonaTrain, taking place on train carriages and in Bray itself. 9 playwrights were chosen from a social media competition, and by the end of the day these playwrights had each written a short play based on trains.
Strangers on a Dart by Maureen Penrose Bea sits on the Bray train, staring out the window. Leo gets on and sits opposite. Both are in and around their sixties. Bea has three or four bags with her. Leo carries the morning paper. Bea: (sings) Bray trains, Bray trains Going so fast Bray trains, Bray trains Going so fast Leo: What’s that yer singing? Bea: It’s a real old song. Me Ma used to sing it when I was a kid. I never heard who sang it? Leo: Jeez, ye have me there. Never knew there was a song about the Bray train. Good to know. I must google it and learn it. I like a good Irish song. Bea: Any good song’ll do me. I don’t care what nationality they are. Bea looks back out the window. Leo looks at the front page. Leo: What do ye think of yer man coming to Ireland? Pope Francis? Do ye think ye’ll go to see him? There’s not so much excitement this time, is there? Anyway, they say ye shouldn’t discuss religion or politics. Opens his Daily Mail and takes out his pen to do the crossword. Silence for half a minute. Bea: Well it won’t suit me to have him coming. No offence to the man, but my hotel will be putting me out to make way for “real” guests. I don’t know where I’ll be staying. I’m sick of moving around and not knowing where I’ll be tomorrow night. I’m too bleedin’ old for this. Ye can tell your Pope I won’t be on his welcoming committee………..Mind you……….I remember when Pope John Paul came. I went up to the Phoenix Park to see him. Me and me Ma had little Pope stools, so we could sit down. It was a great day. My cousin was selling tea and sandwiches. She made a fortune. Leo: (nostalgic smile) Ah now! I was there too. I think the whole of Dublin was there. That was a great celebration. Like Italia 90! Great times. Jeez, we were a different country back then. A more innocent country. We didn’t know about Bishop Casey, or Father Michael Cleary. And they were just seeing women. Worse was to come. A lot of very sick priests and a very sick church. “God” bless our innocence. Rotten to the core! Yes, and not one black face in the Phoenix Park. We were a poor country and nobody wanted to immigrate. Bea: We had houses. It was a poor country, but the County Council was building houses. Blanchardstown, Clondalkin, Tallaght. Thousands of houses. I had a house in Blanch. I had it lovely. Never done cleaning, polishing and washing. Ha! My fella used to be afraid to put his butt in the ashtray! I think I had OCD. I got rid of the OCD when I went on the Prozac. Mother’s little helper. Do ye remember that song? The Beatles sang it. Back in the 60’s. The swinging 60’s. I was told the 60’s were great, but my 60’s are not great. They are shite! Leo: I’ll be 60 next month. I’m looking forward to my 60’s, retiring and taking it easy. Are ye not living in Blanchardstown anymore? Did you say you live in a hotel? Sounds like the lap of luxury. I might win the Lotto and retire to the Shelbourne, or the Gresham. Bea: Do ye know nothing? Do ye know nothing? Do ye know nothing? Leo: (hands raised in surrender) Okay! Okay! Okay! Tell me, and then I’ll know… Bea: Ye don’t want to know. Nobody wants to know. Do ye not read the papers? Put your nose back in your crossword there. Leave me alone. I’m sick of ye! Leo puts the head down and focuses on his crossword. Leo thinks: Mind your own business Leo. That’s what the missus always says: Mind your own business Leo. Leo: (mutters) GEGS (9,4) What’s that? 9 letters and four letters? What sort of a clue is that? Bea: My bastard of a husband used to pulverise me. It’s how he kept fit. None of yer gyms for my Tony. Oh no! I was his sparring partner. I was his punchbag. I had to run for me life, after thirty years. I knew it was my time to die. He was getting worse and worse, the more lines of white he shovelled up his nose. I got to live in hotels, after I left the refuge. He got my lovely house. Oh, I took him to court, but the Judge wasn’t impressed that I was taking Prozac. Tony made me out to be mad. The Judge thought I was of unsound mind, I think. Maybe I am? I am the result of an unsound life. Ha ha! Did ye ever hear this one? Who’s the nicest guy in the hospital? Leo: I don’t know. Who is this paragon? Bea: The Ultrasound guy! Get it? The ultra-sound guy? Ha ha! Bea giggles, maybe a little manic Leo thinks: Don’t ask about her children Bea: I’m a granny, and a great granny. Would you believe that? I do drop out to see the family, but I wont live with any of them. I’m not putting that on them, no matter what they say. Anyway, they don’t like the way I sing all the time, in public or in private. Does that mean I am of unsound mind? It can’t really, can it? I hear the sound of music in my mind. I have a surround sound mind. Everything reminds me of a song. I’m sitting here and thinking of TRAIN songs. Can you think of any? What’s your name anyway? (holds out her hand to shake) I’m Bea. Queen Bea that was ha ha! Leo: I’m Leo. Very pleased to make your acquaintance. Bea: Folsom prison blues, (sings) I hear that train a-coming, rolling round the bend…. (sings) Pardon me miss, is this the Chattanooga Choo Choo Gospel songs do ye like them? I love black peoples gospel songs. They sound right to people who have been sad. (sings) This train is bound for glory, this train…. And yer man Chris De Burgh: Do ye remember The Spanish Train? I used to have that LP. It was brilliant! Probably worth a few bob now, that old LP. Leo: The Monkees. The Last Train to Clarksville Bea: Yeah! Brilliant! Did you watch the Monkees on telly? Peter Tork was my favourite. All me friends loved Davy Jones. But I liked Peter Tork. The quiet one. My ex looked a bit like Peter Tork. Blond, blue eyed, lanky, shy looking. See where that got me! Stupid girl that I was! They were right. It’s the quiet ones ye have to watch. So now I’m homeless and anxious and living inside my sound-ful mind ha ha! Off to Bray to smell the sea. To see something beautiful. At least I have my bus pass. I love my bus pass. I can get on the train and go anywhere. I can step out of my life and be someone else, somewhere else, for a few hours. Leo: I was a Blondie fan. She was beautiful. I am a lucky man. I get to live in Bray, beside the sea. I’m glad to meet your good self and have a nice chat. That’s the thing about the train. If you’re not stuck into your mobile phone, you get to meet people. Good people. People with stories to share. Bea: You look a little bit like Peter Tork. Did anybody ever tell you that? END. Maureen Penrose lives in Blanchardstown and is a community activist and great-grandmother. She loves drama and the arts. They can help change the world! The world needs some tweaking.... Photograph by Chandrika Narayanan-Mohan On Sunday 24th June 2018, Fishamble and Irish Rail partnered to create a day-long playwriting workshop between Dublin and Bray called #PlaysonaTrain, taking place on train carriages and in Bray itself. 9 playwrights were chosen from a social media competition, and by the end of the day these playwrights had each written a short play based on trains.
Play on a Train by Saoirse Anton Characters: Áine – An older woman. Dressed in earthy, ethereal clothes. Síofra – A younger woman. Dressed with hints of the ethereal, but with more concession to conventional fashion. *** Early morning, between moonlight and sunlight. A train carriage, two seats facing each other with a table in between. Áine pre-set in one sat. Some time before Síofra enters. Síofra enters, a black box clutched tightly in her arms. She is nervous but determined. She has the air of someone who was once strong but has been worn down. She is a woman escaping something. Áine notices Síofra, she knows something that we (and maybe Síofra) don’t know yet. Síofra notices Áine and there is a moment of strong connection, verging on recognition between them. Síofra sits opposite Áine, the box still clutched in her arms. Silence. Áine (A): Morning Síofra reacts. More silence. A:You know there is a luggage rack. Indicating to the box. Síofra shakes her head. A: Or the table? Síofra refuses again. A: Right, can I ask what it is that you won’t put it down? Pause. A: Ah, ok, I should have guessed the answer to that one. Where are you off to anyway? Síofra (S): Wherever I get off. A: That’s the best place to go. I’ve been there myself, a good few years ago now. And I’d imaging you, like me, came from wherever you got on at? Síofra reacts, a little nervous or confused, definitely not comfortable. A: Well, we can’t help but keep going where we’re going. Have you had your breakfast yet? S: Not yet. A: Want some? Offers some food she has just taken out of her bag. S: No, thanks, you’re grand. A: Ah sure, yer one with the trolley will be round soon. Silence for a while. Not uncomfortable. After a bit Síofra slowly places the box on the table, not being comfortable holding it on her knee. Áine acknowledges it. A: I wonder where that trolley’s gotten to. The train’s not the only thing that needs fuel! Síofra laughs, the first really open, comfortable response she has given. Suddenly the train stops. An announcement apologises for the delay. Síofra sighs. A: Looks like we’ll be here a while. Should have brought some tea. S: Yeah, hope it gets moving again quickly. A: Ah sure, we’ll get there eventually. No rush, is there? S: No, I suppose not. They both look out the window again. Síofra fidgets a bit. A: You haven’t told me your name. S: You haven’t told me yours. A: Áine. S: Síofra. A: Well Síofra, who are you? S: What sort of a question...? How am I meant to answer that? A: Well surely you, of all people, should know the answer to that one? Siofra snorts and looks out the window, unnerved or unsettled. A crow flies past the window. A: Morrigan. There’s a battle to be lost or won today. Síofra is becoming more unsettled. A pause as they look out the window. A: So Síofra (reaching for the clasp on the box) who are you? She flicks the clasp open with click. At the sound Síofra whips around to look at her. S: Leave that alone! She tries to shut the box but it is already too late. The contents have been revealed. It is a model box of Síofra’s home. A: Home? She clearly already knew what was in the box. Síofra is angry. Looks back out the window. S: Yes. A: Why did... S: Don’t ask. A: Síofra S: I said don’t ask. Silence Áine watches Síofra surreptitiously as Síofra begins to play with and rearrange items in the box. S: I didn’t have a choice. A: Who made you leave? S: Well, no one, I decided to go. A: You decided but you didn’t have a choice? S: I just had to, alright? A: Alright. Silence. S: I wasn’t right for it. It’s my home, god, I know it like the back of my hand, been there all my life, but I shouldn’t be there, have been there. Wasn’t right, not welcome. A: Or maybe it wasn’t right for you? S: No. Looks out the window. Begins to speak slowly as Áine begins to move items around in the model box. S: It’s me. I never fitted. I suppose I belonged elsewhere. The girl who was sick so often they didn’t think she’d survive, but then when she did was too strong, too alive for them to accept. I remember one day in junior infants, I was the youngest in the class, only just turned four when we started, and the teacher was standing over my desk, with the disappointed look she reserved just for me. I can’t remember what I had done that time, there was always something, coloured a white horse that should have been brown, sang the wrong song that no-one else knew, mentioned a memory she didn’t believe, noticed something more than I should have. I don’t know. But that look followed me everywhere, on different faces, in different guises – at home, at school, at mass, at work. A: Followed? S: Follows. She moves the Síofra figurine to the edge of the box, the others to the far side. S: Follows. Changed, changes. Took on a new tone. Confusion and disappointment to, disappointment and...something else... I walked too tall, talked too surely, knew too much. Everywhere I turned, every face I knew wore this disappointment and... oh I don’t know. Why am I telling you this? She tries to shut the box, but I won’t close. Áine looks on, knowingly. We get the sense that she is stopping the box from closing. Síofra gives up, confused and frustrated, and looks out the window again. A: Fear. S: What? A: Fear, disappointment and fear. S: Don’t be stupid. Fear? Who would be afraid of me? The sickly girl who can’t quite get things right, and the strange woman who sort of gave up trying? Yeah, right, so scary. Áine just watches her. S: Fear? No it’s more like, oh I don’t know, it’s like, disappointment and... She gradually realises that Áine is right. A: People fear what they don’t know, what they can’t know. S: What do you mean? I’ve lived there forever, they know me, I know them. The train begins to move again at some point during this piece. A: Do they? Do you? You know that Catherine Keane had a baby last week, that Paulie Mahony is cheating on his wife, that Maura Casey is going to go out of business soon if she doesn’t stop giving everyone everything on credit. They know you just finished your leaving cert, that you’ve worked in Brady’s two years and five months next week... S: Hold on, how do you...? A: You know about them, they know about you. But you don’t know them and they don’t know you. The understanding isn’t there because you haven’t found your tribe yet, your people, the ones who know you as well as you know yourself when you stand with your feet on the ground and feel the energy of yourself, your past, your future, your place flowing through you. We fear what we don’t know, it holds a power we can’t contain. Síofra has been listening intently, a change coming over her that has been brewing since she first saw Áine. Silence “The Changeling’s Lullaby” begins playing softly as an instrumental. The train stops. After a moment Síofra slowly stands, looks at the box. She leaves it on the table, turns and leaves the train with the walk of a queen. Áine softly sings “The Changeling’s Lullaby” as the lights draw inwards to her, then just the light on/in the box as she finishes the song. Blackout END. Saoirse is a theatremaker & critic, writer, poet, feminist, enthusiast, optimist, opinionated scamp & human being. She’s trying her best to make the world a better place. Photograph by Chandrika Narayanan-Mohan On Sunday 24th June 2018, Fishamble and Irish Rail partnered to create a day-long playwriting workshop between Dublin and Bray called #PlaysonaTrain, taking place on train carriages and in Bray itself. 9 playwrights were chosen from a social media competition, and by the end of the day these playwrights had each written a short play based on trains.
LOVE ON A DART? by Eamonnn O'Shiel A quite full Dart Carriage at Pearse Station, the station piano is playing the ‘Marino Waltz’. A man carrying a large bunch of flowers enters the carriage. He stands near centre stage and holds onto the strap above his head. V.O.: This train is for Bray, Bre. The tune changes to 'Something Stupid', a woman enters. The carriage is now packed She struggles through the ‘crowd to stand facing the man, close but not touching. She carries a handbag. She reaches up to hold the strap above her. She takes a step backwards, he takes a step forwards as the train starts to move. The flowers touch her face and as they return to original positions she sneezes. Together they say: HIM: Bless you. HER: Excuse me. She looks at the flowers. HER: Oh, I'm sorry I think I dead headed your tulip. Although their eyes never meet except when actually talking they are constantly looking at each other then away. HIM: It's alright I can afford to lose a tulip or two. HER: They're really beautiful. Again we hear ‘Something stupid’ being played on a piano as the woman closes her eyes and waltzes around the carriage holding her handbag as if it were her dance partner. She returns to where she started from. HIM: I'm glad you think so,.......serious brownie points needed. HER: Ah, I see. HIM: No, it's not what you think, they're for my sister. HER: Really!!? HIM: Yes, for Mother’s Day. HER: UhHu.....that was last Sunday week. HIM: Yes, I've been away. Sarah, my sister minded the twins for me. She's a hero. HER: Ah, I see. HIM: She's been great really ever since...... HER: Ever since?.....Oh I'm sorry I didn't mean to.... HIM: Pry? No I'm sure you didn't. She steps closer to him as the train stops. They are very close, touching. HER: God I'm sorry, this train is so damn packed HIM: It was. HER: What? HIM: It was packed. It's loosened out quite a bit now. He takes a step backwards. We hear ‘Marino Waltz’ on the piano again and this time he waltzes about her, dancing with the flowers. He dances back to where he started from. HIM: See? HER: OH,....yes. He steps back in to her as the train starts again. She doesn't retreat. Neither move. They are looking into each other’s eyes. HER: The twins? HIM: Hmm? HER: You said your sister minded the twins for you? He takes a half step backwards. HIM: Oh, yeah, she's great. Loves them like they were her own, and those boys can be a handful sometimes. HER: Twin boys? Really? What age are they? HIM: Four…….and three quarters! V.O. Next station, Sidney Parade. HER: Oh shit I’ve missed my stop. HIM: Oh, don’t worry, so have I. ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off you’ plays as they drop the flowers and handbag to the floor and waltz together around the carriage. END Eamonn O’Shiel has been involved in Amateur drama in Dublin, Wicklow and Wexford for over 30 years. A retired Garda and graduate of Bray Institute of Further Education (Performing Arts) he is now trying his hand at writing for the stage and looks forward to developing this craft further. Photograph by Chandrika Narayanan-Mohan On Sunday 24th June 2018, Fishamble and Irish Rail partnered to create a day-long playwriting workshop between Dublin and Bray called #PlaysonaTrain, taking place on train carriages and in Bray itself. 9 playwrights were chosen from a social media competition, and by the end of the day these playwrights had each written a short play based on trains.
A SHORT PLAY by Linda Butler A young woman, mid-twenties, sits on the DART, alone. She is crocheting. We can't see what she's making as she has just recently begun. The wool is white. Her eyes are red and swollen. Two small boys under five years old are running up and down the carriage, screaming and playing. Their mother is standing at the connecting door between carriages, shouting at someone in the next carriage. There is a child's buggy beside her. MOTHER: “And where were you while I was raising your boys? (a pause, indistinct shouting from next carriage) You were not working – you haven't done a tap of work in your life. I want to know where you were for three years!” ANNOUNCEMENT: “The next station is Shankill. Sean Chill” The train stops and the doors open. An elderly man gets on and sits opposite the crocheting woman as the train pulls off again. The indistinct shouting continues as the man takes a bottle of sunscreen out of a backpack, removes his cap and glasses, lathers his face with sunscreen, and replaces his glasses. MOTHER: “You can go to fuck! I'm keeping it, and you'll never find us, you bleedin' lazy shite!” The mother slams the connecting door, barricading it with her buggy. The others on the train have frozen with shock, but go back to what they were doing after a second. Then, in a Kerry accent: OLD MAN: (awkwardly, to crocheting woman) “'Tis a beautiful day.” The woman feigns a brief smile and continues crocheting. OLD MAN: “I'm off to the seaside for a bit of icecream. And a bit of a tan I suppose. Haha!” WOMAN: (reluctantly) “Yeah, it's a lovely day all right.” OLD MAN: “Bit warm for a scarf. Or what is it you're knitting?” WOMAN: (stops crocheting, doesn't look up) “Em...it's a blanket” OLD MAN: “Ah, very good. My wife did a bit of knitting herself, Lord rest her. Was very good at the baby stuff. Did all the Communion cardigans, Christening robes. Baby blankets for all the grandchildren. Is it for a boy or a girl?” WOMAN: (pause) “...a girl” OLD MAN: “Oh very nice. Very nice. (The two boys run past. The first one screams as his brother chases him with a foam sword.) I suppose you're happy not to be having a boy! Haha!” WOMAN: (stops crocheting and looks up at the two boys) “I wouldn't mind either way.” MOTHER: (to boys) “Wha? No, I've no more bleedin' crisps. You'll have to wait till we get to McDonalds. (boys start to cry) “Shurrup! Or the man will throw ye off the train!” OLD MAN: “So, have you made a lot of blankets?” WOMAN: “No, actually this is my first one. (does the wrong stitch) Shit! Sorry, I've lost count.” OLD MAN: “Oh God, sorry, that was my fault distracting you! Sure, we're coming into Bray now. Take care now. Congratulations again! Take care.” The old man gets up, grabs his backpack and walks to the door. ANNOUNCEMENT: “This train terminates at the next station, which is Bray. Bré” The crocheting woman unravels her work and throws the crochet hook and wool back into her bag. The train doors open. The old man gets out, followed by the boys and their mother. MOTHER: (leaving, ushering the boys outside) “Gerroff the train!” The crocheting woman sits, staring out the window, leaning on her hand. She sniffs, but struggles not to cry. She's alone. A train worker enters the carriage by the connecting door. He picks up crisp packets left by the boys, and checks the remaining seats. He sees the woman still sitting. WORKER: “Sorry love, did you not hear the announcement? We're terminating in Bray. If you're going any further, you have to get off here.” WOMAN: (looks up at the train worker, on the verge of tears) “Terminating?” WORKER: “Yep. You have to get off and wait for the next one.” WOMAN: (gathers her stuff together and stands up.) “Yeah....I'll wait for the next one.” She leaves the train. Fade to black. END. Linda Butler is a mother of two who enjoys crochet, science fiction and thinking about writing. She keeps meaning to write that mini-series, and already has her IFTA dress picked out. |