One on One by Rebecca Dunn Jaroff

Author:Rebecca Dunn Jaroff [Jaroff, Rebecca Dunn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781476849522
Publisher: Applause Theatre & Cinema Books
Published: 2013-12-06T05:00:00+00:00

SCENE

The Lustforth home, below stairs

TIME

1751, during the forty days known in the Christian calendar as Lent, which ends with the Spring Solstice

BLUNT: No. No, I mustn’t. Mustn’t mustn’t mustn’t. Pick a card, any card. I’ll tell you what you got. The Queen of Misery, that’s what. Who was the stupid pillock first thought love brings happiness? Love is scenes and screams and jealousy and acting like a cunt. I’ll tell you a secret: No one has the first idea what makes ‘em truly happy. “If only I was rich and tall and had a smaller bum.” “If I had nicer clothes and whiter teeth and people laughed at all my jokes and wanted to have sex with me.” If only if only if only. No. Seamus—that’s the only bloke I ever knew was truly happy. Dear wee Seamus down the pub who, standing up, was all of four foot eight. Used to be a chimney sweep. Not much job fulfillment covered in soot, coughing up black phlegm and—to add insult to injury—one day he fell in love. Yeh. Down the lane and round the bend there lived the Widow Thwacker. Big as a bloody Amazon, she was. Breasts like cannons and a face out of the Book of Revelations. Tortured him, she did. I tell you, it was nothing short of torture. And Seamus moping, pining, cursing his fate: criminal. Finally, poor bleeder couldn’t take it anymore. Got properly pissed as a Dutchman and, with a fist packed full o’ daisies, he comes knocking at her door. She thinks he’s havin’ her on, so she cuffs him twice about the head and slams the door shut on his hand. Now, friends, a sensible bloke might, when faced with this, give up. But not our Seamus. No. Each Sunday for three months he comes and stands there at her door. And each Sunday for three months, she growls and hits him on the head. “Why do you mock me, chimney sweep?” she says to him at last. Know what he says? “I do not mock you, beauty. You are the goddess of my dreams, my every waking hope’s desire. You are truth made flesh and bliss incarnate. Widow Thwacker, I’m in love.” I mean, for God’s sake! And that’s not the end of it, ’cos then and there he kisses her! On the lips! (Though considering his height, it may not have been the ones on her face.) And what did he feel at that moment? Pleasure? Arousal? Happiness? I’ll tell you what he felt, he felt the marble bust of Mister Thwacker come crashing down on his head. And she brought it down with such enormous force that his wee brain became unstuck and rattled round inside his skull. Now he still sits at his same corner down the local pub, but oh the grin he shines is one the like of which you’ve never seen. ’Course, he drools into his beer and wets himself when he forgets to go,

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