Sydney & the Old Girl

Eugene O'Hare

• Publisher: Methuen Drama
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9781350129986
• eBook ISBN: 9781350130005
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Media & Performing Arts
• Subtopic: British Drama

London is becoming an alien landscape to Sydney Stock; a man who has lived for over fifty years cooped with his mother Nell in her grubby East End home. Theirs is a relationship of mutually assured destruction where the ghosts of the past continue to stalk and accuse. As the twisted game around family inheritance reaches breaking point, Irish care worker Marion Fee finds herself an unwitting pawn being played from both sides. At the centre of Eugene O'Hare's second full-length black comedy is a family's obsession with versions of the past and a paranoia about a future in a city which no longer feels like home. This edition was published to coincide with the world premiere at Park Theatre, London in November 2019.

Act One

East London. Late autumn. Around noon. Rain. Sydney is mending a television set. Nell observes from her wheelchair.

Sydney Shut up.

Nell What you shutting me up for? I ain’t said nothing!

Sydney You’re banging on about that bloody spin dryer. You blind? Can’t see I’m buried up to my elbows in your stinking set?

Nell You’ve been at it for over an hour.

Sydney You’ve been at me for over an hour, now give it up will you?

Nell Got nothing to dry my garments with. What am I supposed to do if I ain’t got nothing to dry me smalls even?

Sydney You got plenty of hot air at your disposal. Hang ’em on the back of that wheelie bin of yours – can’t be doing much else with your fat arse stuck in it all day. Pin your dirty drawers to the spokes of those wheels – give the bloody things something to do.

Nell Handy man the like of it I ain’t heard. Been sat like that for days – the spinner not tumbling. What use is a spinner that don’t tumble?

Sydney Didn’t I just say, you deaf old snatch, I’m buried up to me elbows in your box! I’ll tumble you out of that chair in a minute. Spin dryers, TV sets . . . It’s a child labourer you want for a son – that’s what you want.

Nell It’s the spring, you mong. Spring goes pop, you go taking the whole thing apart. Anyway, it’s no use now I’ve missed me programme. I’ve missed me Country Ramble.

Sydney I’ll ramble you by the neck if you ain’t careful. I’m warning you, Mum – call me a mong, I’ll launch this bloody thing right in your face I will. Ramble. Ramble your way over a cliff if I’d any hand in it. Skulking about in that efffing chariot barking orders and me up to me neck. I’ve had a good mind to ram you in the gut all morning, I have.

Nell Every day’s the bloody same – mouthing off to a tired old woman on her last legs –

Sydney Oh dry up –

Nell Haven’t slept a wink in days what with me spinner clapped out – and now me telly’s gone down the tube.

Sydney Ain’t you got a couple of knitting needles or something?

Nell What do I want with knitting needles? You know I don’t knit.

Sydney I know you don’t knit. What I meant was you could stick the bloody things up your nose and do us all an effing favour. Wink of sleep – you’ve had winks alright – plenty of them as a matter of fact. I heard you last night. Sounded like a Black & Decker. You think I got a wink of sleep with you snoring your snout off – drowning the dawn chorus? Just about drove me up the wall. I were walking the floors at half past four this morning. Tell you what, Mum, if you didn’t have yourself barricaded in that room of yours I’d have been in there at you with a pair of leather gloves and a bread knife. Cut your bloody nose off, you great lump.

Nell It’s me oesophagus.

Sydney Then stick a peg on the end of it.

Nell Only reason you can’t sleep is because you went and got yourself that tinnitus in the left ear. Tinnitus in that lousy left ear of yours and you go blaming it on the bastard world.

Sydney My tinnitus in the left ear ain’t nothing to do with it. I strap a ticking clock to me left ear to distract it till the rest of me body goes to sleep. Works a treat when I ain’t got your snoring to contend with. Where’s that bloody spring gone now?

Nell Lucky I don’t choke to death I’m that bunged up. What about the radio or something then?

Sydney What for?

Nell To have myself a bit of company that’s what for.

Sydney Well, it’s broke.

Nell It’s all broke. Everything’s broke. Nothing in this place ain’t had your fist through it that’s why.

Sydney You don’t treat things proper they get broke. It’s a fact –

Nell Bugger all worth nothing if you ain’t even got a bloody radio to tune –

Sydney Tell you what, Mum, I’ll buy you one for your birthday.

Nell Ha!

Sydney I’m serious – nice big radio, decent brand, couple of speakers, easy tuning, all the channels.

Nell A wind-up.

Sydney No. Electric. With a long lead – so you can take it in the bath with you.

Nell Little creep.

Sydney Where’s that bloody spring gone now?

Nell What spring you talking about . . .

Sydney The spring goes behind the button. The off button. The bloody spring for behind it.

Nell Oh, the off-spring. Yes, there’s definitely something wrong with that.

He looks at her. Raises the screwdriver.

Sydney Do you know what a pum-pum is, Mum?

Nell You what?

Sydney Or what about a poon? Or a cooze, or a snicket, or a chuff?

Nell What’s he blathering about?

Sydney The slice, the nock, the nick, the crinkum-crankum.

Nell What in Christ’s name are you –

Sydney The placket, the trot, the shake-bag, the snatch!

Nell Get out of it, you dirty bugger!

He grins. He returns to the television. A slight pause.

I was a girl on the town once. I was known. I was known in the Docklands. I weren’t shy neither.

A few beats as she fiddles with her blouse button.

What was all them words supposed to be just now, eh? Some sort of riddle? Something filthy. Smut. Hardly surprising. It’s in your head. You’re all pent-up like that bloody priest – every second thought’s a working-up of some piece of filth or other. Christ knows what goes on in that bloody head of yours. Sometimes I look at you I barely recognise you. That yellow look you got in your eyes like some sort of reptile. Git. It didn’t come from me. Didn’t come from your father – oh no. When your father looked at me he bloody well looked at me. You . . . you look at me – you look at me like I’m the shit on your shoe. Eh? Working up s...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• A Note from the Director
• Cast Biographies
• Creative Team Biographies
• About Park Theatre
• Shining A Spotlight On Our Producers’ Circle
• Thank You
• For Park Theatre
• Dedication
• Contents
• Characters
• Act One
• Act Two
• eCopyright