AFTER LUNCH.

[dadio]

After lunch Paul and Mary were sitting on the outer deckchairs in silence. Peter was walking along the edge of the pier, facing the horizon, deep in thought. Mary was looking at Peter’s back. Paul was looking up at the sky, taking in the pattern of the clouds.

Paul said, If I could paint like you, Peter, I’d paint this sky. Only I’d paint it green with pink clouds and a black sun.

Mary sighed and then said, That meal was too greasy. I can still taste the fat on my tongue.

Skies are boring things to paint whatever colour you paint them, said Peter, not looking around, but looking at the gulls on the beach.

Paul looked at Mary. Who’s that Russian painter you like, Mary?

Mary unaware of Paul’s words said, I can feel it churning around my stomach as if I were a washing machine and it was a load of filthy clothes going round and round.

Peter looked away way from the gulls and looked at Paul and said, Landscapes are for amateurs and those who are hard up for a subject. One should paint what one feels. One should express things; not just copy what’s already there and can be photographed better.

Mary looked at Paul. Russian?

Painter, Paul repeated to Mary. One you like and are always on about.

Peter looked at his hands and said, Real art is expressive, not dabbing down what’s familiar to a child.

Chagall, said Mary, staring at Peter. Is that who you mean?

Paul nodded. Yes, that’s the one. Nothing boring about his art.

Mary said, A friend sent me a postcard from Amsterdam with a Chagall print on it. I fell in love with it so much, I pinned it to the door of my room.

In fact, said Peter, children paint better in most regards. Innocent and not spoilt by so-called teachers of art. You can’t be taught real art. You can both paint and express yourself or you can’t and are fit for nothing but birthday cards and chocolate boxes.

Paul looks out at the horizon and said, I think that’s a new liner out there. Just out on the horizon.

Mary stared at the sky. My father didn’t like the print and told me to take it down because he said it was degenerative and poor art.

Peter said, That liner would make an interesting painting I suppose. Providing one could capture it and express what one had captured.

Paul said, I wonder if it’s going anywhere interesting.

I hid the postcard under my pillow and gazed at it before sleep, Mary said.

Peter looked around at Paul. Where’s interesting, then, Paul? Off on a voyage to unknown lands or continents? There is none. All is known and explored and exploited.

Paul said, It would have been nice to have sailed with Columbus.

Mary looked in her handbag and said, I used to carry it around with me in my bag.

Peter looked at Mary. Carry what?

Paul said, To be able to discover something untouched, unspoilt and unexplored.

The postcard, Mary said as she looked up at Peter. I’ve still got it somewhere. She looked in her handbag again. It’s like a lucky charm.

My elder brother, Simon, said Peter, carried a rosary around with him for years.

Paul said, The sea air in one’s lungs.

Mary still searching in her handbag said, Where is it?

Had it blessed by some old Benedictine monk, Peter said, thought it brought him luck. Or something like luck.

Paul said, Remember Bickens?

Peter frowned. Brian Bickens?

Paul nodded. Yes. He was always going on about how he was going to be monk.

Mary closed her handbag and stared out at the sea. Can’t find it. It was here I’m sure.

Peter said, He had a natural tonsure. Started going bald at nineteen.

Paul smiled in thought. Went to Germany, I think, after Cambridge. Was that to the Benedictines?

Peter said, Cistercians. He said he wanted to be a real monk.

Perhaps I should have been a nun, said Mary.

Paul said, I couldn’t see him as a monk. More of a missionary. More active.

You as a nun, Mary? Peter laughed. You’d have jumped over the wall after a few weeks without your weed and a good dose of sex.

Mary drifted off in deep thought. An angel said I was to…She paused and looked at her hands. My mother said to say nothing of it. To keep quiet.

Paul said, A life of denial. A life enclosed like a corpse.

Parents, said Peter, What a terrible breed they can be.

Mary said, Say nothing of it, Mother said. People will think you quite mad if you go around talking of angels and messages.

Dead to the world and those dear to them, said Paul. No. It wouldn’t be a life for me. I’d not be a monk for all the girls in Paris.

My younger brother, Drew, belonged to some religious group, said Peter, carried a bible around the house with him and stopped us and quoted things to us.

Mary said, Was I wrong to have kept quiet?

Paul said, There’s a time to keep silent and a time to speak.

A time to embrace and a time to cease from embracing. Peter smiled and turned back to look at the sea. They locked him away for a few months after he accosted a prostitute with his bible.

Mary said, I had a bible. A small black one.

Peter said, This was a huge one with gold lettering. He knocked out her front teeth. Poor boy. He never meant any harm. Took bible bashing literally.

I used to kiss it before bedtime and pray on it, Mary said. When I used to pray and had a faith to move mountains. Now I have nothing except my guitar.

I wonder what became of Austen James? said Paul.

Peter smiled. Oh, Austen James. Yes. The libertine of Cambridge.

Mary sighed. I will sing again. She strummed an imaginary guitar. Just like I used to before my breakdown.

Peter said, I think he joined the Marines. I could be wrong. It may have been somebody else. Austen James. Remember that night we carried back to his room and found his roommate in bed with that girl Florence?

Mary strummed softly on her imaginary guitar. I think my father would have abandoned me at the hospital forever, but my mother came everyday with grapes and oranges and told me all the news at home and how my sister Elizabeth was doing.

Paul said, Oh, yes. I’ve never seen a girl jump from a bed so fast and dress with the speed of an actor between scenes in some pantomime.

Peter said, And Austen shouts at her like some lay preacher with all the abuse of a merchant seaman with a sore head. Both men laughed. Mary stopped strumming and folded her arms across her breast.

Mary said, They wired me up and gave me electrical shocks. I forget what they called it. I felt like a prisoner under torture in a banana republic. Only it wasn’t. How my head ached. My limbo between a Hell and a sought for Paradise. She stared out to sea.

Take me to Paradise on an open ship and set the sails towards the sun, said Peter.

Paul said, Whatever became of Austen James?

Give me my rum, my port of call and a girl to sleep beside me. Peter smiled and walked to his deckchair and sat down. Paul looked at the horizon. Mary began to strum again and looked at her hands as they move.

[judih]

wonderful one-act play, dadio

[dadio]

Thank you, judih.