The Night Heron

Jez Butterworth

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN:
  9781854596994
• eBook ISBN:
  9781780012759
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

A dark, funny, spellbinding play about a group of outcasts and eccentrics gathered in the Cambridgeshire fens, from the author of Jerusalem and The Ferryman.

The sighting of a rare bird attracts attention to a remote part of the fens. The visiting birdwatchers cannot know what dangers lie in the freezing darkness of the marshes. In an isolated cabin, Wattmore, bruised and bleeding, is recording the Old Testament onto cassette. Griffin arrives with fish and chips. Salvation is at hand - a cash prize for winning the university poetry competition, plus the arrival of a potential lodger. Meanwhile, the local townsfolk are stirring...

Jez Butterworth's play The Night Heron was first performed at the Royal Court Theatre, London, in April 2002.

One

Darkness. Local fenland radio. A farm auction. A church fête. Rising seas. A poetry competition for short verse, organised by Cambridge University. The first prize is £2,000. The closing date is in two weeks. Wind. Gull and tern cry out. A man’s VOICE on a tape.

VOICE. And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden. And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.

A penny whistle plays.

A cabin, built from ship timber a hundred years ago. Strip plastic hangs in a doorway downstage right. A door upstage left, to an offstage lean-to bedroom. Dominating the cabin is a giant frieze depicting Christ and the Saints. Photocopied onto many sheets of paper, it is pinned together with drawing pins.

A coal-burning stove. Church pews for chairs. A tallboy. On a table, a large, silver ghetto blaster.

And the Lord God took the man, and put him into the Garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it. And the Lord God commanded the man, saying: Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat. But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.

Sudden banging, off. Shouts. Barking. The shatter of glass. It fades. The voice continues on the tape. Enter WATTMORE. He appears from the back room in housecoat and striped pyjamas. He has been beaten. He drinks from the galley tap, and spits and coughs, as if coughing teeth and blood. The tape continues. He lights a lantern, then sits at the table, and presses play and record. He speaks low, from memory.

WATTMORE. And the Lord said unto Adam: Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, and hast eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it: cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life; in the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.

He removes a penny whistle from his housecoat pocket and plays a short refrain.

And the Lord God sent him forth from the Garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken. So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep… to keep… to keep the way of the tree of life.

Refrain.

He presses stop. It starts to rain. He turns the radio on – Gardeners’ Question Time – and starts rooting through the tallboy drawers. He finds what he is looking for: a rope. The rain falls harder as he pulls up a chair in the centre of the cabin. He stands on it. He slings the rope over a low beam. He ties it around his neck, and stands there, sweating, willing himself to take the step. Offstage, a lock turns. Someone taking his boots off in the porch.

VOICE (off). Wattmore! There’s a competition. For poetry at the university. It’s open to all-comers. There’s a prize. (Stops.) Dear oh dear. Dear oh dear oh dear. Wattmore? There’s broken glass out here. Someone’s had an accident. Dear oh dear oh dear.

WATTMORE takes his neck out of the noose, and gets off the stool. He just manages to throw his housecoat over the ghetto blaster, before GRIFFIN enters, soaking, with two bags of chips.

GRIFFIN. I say there’s glass all over. The porch is knackered. Why don’t you put the clicker on after you? The wind can’t get round it, whip it open smash it to buggery. It’s freezing in here Wattmore. It’s colder than a witch’s tit.

He takes off his hat.

Let’s see. That’s ten pound for the pane, never you mind about labour. Congratulations. That’s twenty, thirty pound, down the sink.

GRIFFIN makes straight for the stove and opens it, working the flame.

There’s nothing out there. Right up the church back to the road, nothing. Not one. I thought I had one, in the reed beds, I’ve got the torch on him. But he’s twiced me. So I thought stuff this. Went into town got chips.

He drops a portion on the table in front of WATTMORE, switches off the wireless, takes his coat off, sits down, closes his eyes. A whisper:

For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful. For Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.

Eats.

Bugle’s still on about that bird. It’s front-page news. They’re offering a hundred pound for a photograph. A hundred pound. I thought I saw him, though. Thought I had him, in the reed beds. He’s soared right over, low mind, low enough to touch. But it weren’t him. It was a seagull. Or a crow.

Eats.

There’s a story in the Bugle too, one of them, the newcomers, birdwatcher it was, he’s out last night on the marsh, he’s lost the path. He’s fallen in a suckpit, he’s kicked and kicked and it’s dragged him under. He’d be dead, but he was with another had a mobile phone. He’s in the hospital. Honestly, if that bird knew half the trouble he’s causing.

Eats.

Did I say? There’s a competition. You write a poem, and if you win they give you a prize. Wait for it. It’s two thousand pound. Two thousand pound for one poem. Open to all-comers. What do you think to that eh? What do you think to that?

WATTMORE. He came here.

GRIFFIN. What? Who? Who came here?

Beat.

When?

WATTMORE. He was banging. And swearing. He smashed the porch.

Beat.

GRIFFIN. Swearing?

WATTMORE. Shouting. Shouting and swearing. He had a hound.

GRIFFIN. Right. See that’s not him. Barking you say? See that’s not him. See he doesn’t have a hound. He doesn’t keep one. Point of fact he can’t stand ’em.

WATTMORE. How do you know?

GRIFFIN. Because.

WATTMORE. Because what?

GRIFFIN. Just Because.

WATTMORE. Because what?

GRIFFIN. Because he killed Black Bob’s dogs.

Beat.

When Black Bob owed him that fifty pound.

WATTMORE. What?

GRIFFIN. The long version, see, if you want it, Black Bob’s bitch has just had a litter and Black Bob’s in the garden at The Plough selling the pups. He wants two pound a pup see. Anyway he starts drinking starts betting Floyd at boules. Now Floyd’s bloody good at boules. Ten minutes Bl...

Table of contents

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