Short Plays

the left, then turns and speaks to Sarah very persuasively. Let you not take the can from the sack, Sarah Casey; for the people is coming above would be making game of you, and pointing their fingers if they seen you do the like of that. Let you leave it safe in the bag, I’m saying, Sarah darling. It’s that way will be best. She goes towards left, and pauses for a moment, looking about her with embarrassment. Michael In a low voice. What ails her at all? Sarah Anxiously. It’s real wicked she does be when you hear her speaking as easy as that. Mary To herself. I’d be safer in the chapel, I’m thinking; for if she caught me after on the road, maybe she would kill me then. She comes hobbling back towards the right. Sarah Where is it you’re going? It isn’t that way we’ll be walking to the fair. Mary I’m going up into the chapel to give you my blessing and hear the priest saying his prayers. It’s a lonesome road is running below to Grianan, and a woman would never know the things might happen her and she walking single in a lonesome place. As she reaches the chapel-gate, the Priest comes to it in his surplice. Priest Crying out. Come along now. Is it the whole day you’d keep me here saying my prayers, and I getting my death with not a bit in my stomach, and my breakfast in ruins, and the Lord Bishop maybe driving on the road today? Sarah We’re coming now, holy father. Priest Give me the bit of gold into my hand. Sarah It’s here, holy father. She gives it to him. Michael takes the bundle from the ditch and brings it over, standing a little behind Sarah. He feels the bundle, and looks at Mary with a meaning look. Priest Looking at the gold. It’s a good one, I’m thinking, wherever you got it. And where is the can? Sarah Taking the bundle. We have it here in a bit of clean sack, your reverence. We tied it up in the inside of that to keep it from rusting in the dews of night, and let you not open it now or you’ll have the people making game of us and telling the story on us, east and west to the butt of the hills. Priest Taking the bundle. Give it here into my hand, Sarah Casey. What is it any person would think of a tinker making a can. He begins opening the bundle. Sarah It’s a fine can, your reverence, for if it’s poor simple people we are, it’s fine cans we can make, and himself, God help him, is a great man surely at the trade. Priest opens the bundle; the three empty bottles fall out. Sarah Glory to the saints of joy! Priest Did ever any man see the like of that? To think you’d be putting deceit on me, and telling lies to me, and I going to marry you for a little sum wouldn’t marry a child. Sarah Crestfallen and astonished. It’s the divil did it, your reverence, and I wouldn’t tell you a lie. Raising her hands. May the Lord Almighty strike me dead if the divil isn’t after hooshing the tin can from the bag. Priest Vehemently. Go along now, and don’t be swearing your lies. Go along now, and let you not be thinking I’m big fool enough to believe the like of that when it’s after selling it you are, or making a swap for drink of it, maybe, in the darkness of the night. Mary In a peacemaking voice, putting her hand on the Priest’s left arm. She wouldn’t do the like of that, your reverence, when she hasn’t a decent standing drouth on her at all; and she setting great store on her marriage the way you’d have a right to be taking her easy, and not minding the can. What differ would an empty can make with a fine, rich, hardy man the like of you? Sarah Imploringly. Marry us, your reverence, for the ten shillings in gold, and we’ll make you a grand can in the evening⁠—a can would be fit to carry water for the holy man of God. Marry us now and I’ll be saying fine prayers for you, morning and night, if it’d be raining itself, and it’d be in two black pools I’d be setting my knees. Priest Loudly. It’s a wicked, thieving, lying, scheming lot you are, the pack of you. Let you walk off now and take every stinking rag you have there from the ditch. Mary Putting her shawl over her head. Marry her, your reverence, for the love of God, for there’ll be queer doings below if you send her off the like of that and she swearing crazy on the road. Sarah Angrily. It’s the truth she’s saying; for it’s herself, I’m thinking, is after swapping the tin can for a pint, the time she was raging mad with the drouth, and ourselves above walking the hill. Mary Crying out with indignation. Have you no shame, Sarah Casey, to tell lies unto a holy man? Sarah To Mary, working herself into a rage. It’s making game of me you’d be, and putting a fool’s head on me in the face of the world; but if you were thinking to be mighty cute walking off, or going up to hide in the church, I’ve got you this time, and you’ll not run from me now. She seizes up one of the bottles. Mary Hiding behind the Priest. Keep her off, your reverence, keep her off for the love of the Almighty God. What at all would the Lord Bishop say if he found me here lying with my head broken across, or the two of yous maybe digging a bloody grave for me at the door of the church? Priest Waving Sarah