The Winterling

Jez Butterworth

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2014
• eBook ISBN: 9781780012773
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

'I like London. I like the pavements. I like to walk out my door and not sink up to my tits in primordial sludge.'

A comedy thriller from the author of the Olivier Award-winning Jerusalem.

West waits in a burnt-out farmhouse, on Dartmoor, in the depths of winter, for two associates from the city. The wine has been poured and the revolver loaded. But who is waiting upstairs?

Jez Butterworth's play The Winterling was first performed at the Royal Court Theatre, London, in 2006.

ACT ONE

Darkness. Distant shelling. Small-arms fire. Closer. All at once, overhead, the deafening cacophony of war. Just when it can’t get any louder it fades into

Light.

Dartmoor. The heart of the frozen forest, on clenched, sideways land. Sheep. Far off, a dog barking.

A deserted, half-derelict farmhouse. Doors off. Stairs up.

A rat-gnawed armchair. Small table, with no chairs. A large axe waits by a giant inglenook fireplace. The fireback is a red-rusty circular saw. Dark windows look onto an area beyond; a concrete-floor utility room, in which stands a mangle, a piece of red canvas protruding from its jaws like a lapping tongue.

From an overhead drier hangs a black woollen suit, waiting.

Suddenly, warplanes burst over, looming, shuddering. The full blaring cacophony of... It passes, back to a rumble in the distance.

Blackout.

Lights.

WEST stands wearing the woollen suit.

A brace of duck hangs in the kitchen, where the suit was.

WEST takes a bottle of wine and pulls the cork. He places it on the table, with three glasses.

WEST. Dolly. Din Dins. Dolly. Din Dins. (Goes to the cupboard. Opens a tin of dog food.) Din Dins, Dolly. Dolly! DOLLY!! DIN DINS.

Puts it in a bowl, carries it to the door.

DOLLY. DIN DINS. DIN DINS. DIN DINS.

Nothing. He cocks his head. The planes approach. As they scream over, he opens his mouth wide, as if to...

Blackout.

Lights.

WEST. Opposite him, DRAYCOTT.

DRAYCOTT. Sorry to bother you. (Pause.) I was just passing. I heard a din. A man it was. Top of his lungs. Yelling his bonce off. Did you hear it?

WEST. The dog’s gone off.

Pause.

DRAYCOTT. The little fella. I seen him. Oftentimes, I’m up this way, early morn. He’s gone off, you say?

WEST. She.

DRAYCOTT. I see. Bitch, is it? You had her done? You’ve got to watch ’em, bitches. If she’s ripe. Out there looking for it, no doubt. You want to watch that one. She’ll come home got.

WEST. What do you want?

DRAYCOTT. I was on my way over Okement Foot. They’re gassing the badgers. It was on the radio. There’s a mighty sett down Okement Foot. Been taking hens. Pheasants. All the way from here to Dolton. They got coughs too. Hacking coughs. The Government’s had enough. They’re sending a team in. Experts. What do you say? Eh? You want in? He’s not far. Three, four mile, across the fields. He’s a mighty sett. An underground city. Might be worth it. Might be something. Can I tempt you? What do you say?

WEST. I’m busy.

Pause.

DRAYCOTT. Oh. Well, that’s that. If you’re busy. Say no more. If a man’s busy... (Beat.) I had a fight with a badger once. Wphew! It’s a long story. Don’t go there. Lost three pints of blood to it. And a nipple. By the way, you haven’t got any Dettol, have you?

WEST. What?

DRAYCOTT. I fell yesterday. In the dark. I’ve chipped my hip. He’s tightening. The skin’s broke. There’s a flap of sorts. I was thinking of staunching the pain. Dettol’s my best bet. Itches. Stitches, palsies or gout, Dettol’s the boy. You wouldn’t keep a supply, would you? Any linament? Oinment, what have you...?

WEST. No.

DRAYCOTT. Sprays? Unguents?

WEST. I’ve got no ointments. I’ve got no sprays. I can’t help you.

DRAYCOTT. No harm asking. I’ll just have to keep him mobile.

WEST. Why don’t you do that?

DRAYCOTT. Exactly. I will.

WEST. Better not stop too long. He might seize up.

DRAYCOTT. You’re not wrong.

WEST. Get infected. Gangrenous. Then where would you be?

DRAYCOTT. Don’t. They’ll lop me to pieces. Butchers they are, with the likes of me. Before I know it I’ll be in three bin bags and down the chute. By the way, is it still convenient?

WEST. Is what convenient?

DRAYCOTT. The arrangement.

WEST. What arrangement?

DRAYCOTT. Have I got this wrong? About... about the porch. I don’t want to be a pain. I won’t make a mess or a smell. I’ll be gone at first light. Like I was never there.

WEST. Yes.

DRAYCOTT. That’s awful kind. There won’t be a trace. Above all, there won’t be no mess nor smell. You’ll never even know I was –

WEST. No. I mean Yes. Yes I do mind.

Pause.

DRAYCOTT. Oh.

WEST. It’s not convenient. It’s not convenient at all.

DRAYCOTT. Oh dear. I’ve got this wrong.

WEST. Come back tomorrow.

DRAYCOTT. I see. You’re busy. Say no more. You’re expecting someone. Is that a drop of brandy wine I see? I bet he’s a vintage. Is he a nice drop? French, is he?

WEST. It’s none of your business. (Beat.) Just stay back for one day. You come back tomorrow, I’ll have something for you.

DRAYCOTT (of the brace of duck). I noticed them. They’re beauties, they are. Full in the breast. Say no more. I’ll stay back. You won’t hear a peep. In fact, I’ll start right now.

WEST. Why don’t you do that?

DRAYCOTT. It’s a juicy piece that. I know a recipe. I’m a good cook, me. I’ve cooked all over. I once cooked for fifty-six turf accountants. (Beat.) Well that’s that. I’m off. And if I see that bitch of yours, I’ll send her up the track. It’s Okement Foot, if you change your mind. Those badgers don’t know what they got coming. All warm in their holes. Bedding down. They don’t know what’s next.

Pause. He leaves. WEST looks at his watch. He picks up the dog bowl.

WEST. Dolly. Din Dins. Din Dins.

A plane screams over. He goes out the side door.

After some time, from the door out at the back, through the utility room, enter WALLY in suit and winter coat. He is soaking, caked in mud from the knee down. He looks around. He looks at the wine.

Enter PATSY, in leather jacket. He is also caked in mud from the knee down. While PATSY speaks, WALLY regards the three chairs. The wine glasses. He goes over. Pours himself a glass. Sniffs it. Looks at it...

PATSY. Just for the record, did I say, ‘Don’t rev it. (Beat.) Wally, don’t spin the wheels. Just let her off, slowly. Let it bite.’ (Beat.) Or. Did I say, ‘Whatever you do, Wally, fuckin’ floor it. Do a donut. In this boggy, soggy field. Dig me, Wally, a lovely big hole. Halfway to China.’ (Beat.) That car’s finished, mate. It’s a landmark. In fifty thousand years, they will come in their hordes, gaze upon it and say, ‘That was Wally done that. He must have revved it.’ (Beat.) Don’t worry. I found my way up here. Half a mile. No torch. Could have sworn I brung one. Oh, there is it. In your hand. It’s not like it’s pitch black out there. It’s not like I completely lost the path after fifty yards, ended up bumbling through brambles. Fucking stingers up to here. It’s not like I had to swim a considerable part of the way. Quick question Wally. Do you know who Ozwald Boateng is?

WALLY (sips the wine. Pause). This coffee is cold.

PATSY. I’m not talking to you.

WALLY. This coffee is cold. (Beat.) This muffin is stale.

PATSY. I said. I’m not talk –

WALLY. This muffin’s stale. It’s dry.

PATSY. Did you taste it? It was like rock. Like a rock someone sprayed brown. What do you want me to say? ‘Ooh this is lovely, Wally. Thank you for this poo muffin. Thank you for this shit service-stat...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title page
• Contents
• Dedication
• Original Production
• Characters
• Act One
• Act Two
• Act Three
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information