The Play's the thing

I said I would illustrate my diversity in my writing at the time we were in Norfolk, running a bookshop & art gallery. So here goes:

A play that I wrote for a local theatre production company. It is set in the Norfolk landscape, amongst the reed beds of Cley-Next-the-Sea. I called it: 'FLIP and it's ...' but I'm not happy with that title and would sooner call it 'Marshland War'. Whatever it is/was called, the production never went ahead as the production company folded.

So, I'm still waiting for the world premiere, if anyone is interested. Meanwhile, here's a taster:

Setting: Seabank with reeds on lower side

Time: All within the same day

Characters: Reedman; dressed in waders, jeans and old tartan shirt

Two tourists, dressed as such, or as twitchers

Woman; not seen, only heard, singing lamentably, from off-stage


Woman singing: Cutting on the banks of life
(off stage) as they fall the cries of strife.
Here they come and make their mark
in the passages of dark.
You will see and so will I
that this is not the way to die.
Watch with me and cut to quick
the way we learn to see their trick.

Lights-up

Reedman: Oh no, here they come again. (bends down as though ducking from missiles). Over the hill. Here they come. It's always the same. Whether (amongst reeds) they come or go. It's always the same.

I'm here, among the reeds, but I might just as well not be here.

1st tourist: Hang on a minute - look there's a man over there (pointing) cutting the reeds.
(on seabank)

2nd tourist: How d'you know he's cutting the reeds - he could just be hiding?

1st tourist: But you can see the reeds move as he cuts them. Anyway, why else would he be there?

2nd tourist: That could just be the swathe as he walks through the reeds.

1st tourist: But why would he be down there walking through the reeds?

2nd tourist: (excitedly) I reckon he's murdered someone and this is his way of escaping. He's on the run!

1st tourist: Don't be so bloody stupid. There are times when I think you have too much imagination for your own good.

Lights black-out. Shaft of blue light, horizontally. Long note on a flute.

Woman singing: What you see and what you know
doesn't always tell or show.
In the same enduring light
as a passage of the night.
Clowns may come and clowns may go
even in a simple show.
But I will share with you
there is more than just these few.

Lights-up. Reedman on top of the seabank with a bundle of reeds.

Reedman: (in a low voice) What was that? I thought I heard something, what was it. Were they coming again? No. Nothing! It was nothing. That was all it was. Just me. And this.

That's why (pause).

That's why ... (anxiously) I sometimes get so fed-up with this, I could kill the next person that comes along.

Same black-out sequence.

Woman singing: You heard it then, you'll hear it now
the visions that will sap their power.
Each finds a statue at the door
without which there'll be no more.
But as they find their place alone
the journey is for them a tome.

Lights up. Set as at beginning. With just the tourists on the bank.

2nd: You may be right. I've always had too much imagination, but what's wrong with that? I've sometimes had to have more imagination. You wouldn't know. You just wouldn't know. There're times you need it, there're times you don't. (looking around) Apart from which, I see things differently to you. For instance, look at these reeds (points) they have a hypnotic quality. It's the way they move in the wind, gently swaying, noiseless and timeless.

Like fingers (demonstrates) beckoning you forward: "Come here. Come here." It's pure poetry. (pause) And anyway, if you had just gone mad and killed somebody, you might fill like running amok among the reeds. Lashing out and all sorts. Knowing you were seen but hoping nobody would notice. Understanding enough about the area to know that there (points) would be the last place anyone would deliberately look. It's a sacred place. An historic place (points again in an erect, almost a salute, position). HIS PLACE!


I could go on, but I think you've got the flavour of the piece.The place was getting to me - but in a positive way? Well we'll see, because, at the same time, I was writing Pound's Oysters and that was going to turn out to be very important.

Plus Gilbert & George turned-up in our lives. all of that next time.