And Then Come The Nightjars

Bea Roberts

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2015
• Print ISBN: 9781848425118
• eBook ISBN: 9781780016580
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

A tender, frank and funny play about a West Country farm struggling to survive the Foot and Mouth pandemic.

South Devon, 2001. Disease ravages the countryside, pyres are lit on the horizon, and dairy herdsman Michael is trapped as his farm becomes a battleground for his business, his heritage, and his friendship with local vet Jeff. Ten years on and the battle scars are as evident on their relationship as they are on the landscape.

Bea Roberts' play And Then Come The Nightjars charts the struggle of one farm amidst a crisis that saw the slaughter of four million animals and the postponement of a General Election.

The play was joint winner of the inaugural Theatre503 Playwriting Award, and premiered at Theatre503, London, in September 2015, before transferring to Bristol Old Vic.

ACT ONE

Scene One

2001, Thursday 1st March. Early hours of the morning.

A farm in the heart of the South Devon countryside. A barn; the only point of light and activity in the stillness and quiet of a crisp spring night. We can hear the rustle of straw from a restless cow and, outside, snatches of birdsong. The barn is calm, contented, if a little sleepy.

Sitting in the straw is MICHAEL, dressed in a muddy navy boiler suit and wellies.

Sitting by his side is JEFF, dressed in a wax jacket, cord trousers and wellies.

MICHAEL is rolling himself a fag from the tobacco tin and papers on his lap.

JEFF is a little drunk and examining his hands. He tries wiggling them and making a fist. His hands are almost numb with cold. He bites the end of one finger to see if it’s numb then scrunches up his face at the bitter taste of antiseptic handwash.

MICHAEL looks at him; JEFF continues pulling a face.

JEFF. Bleuuugh.

MICHAEL hands JEFF a hip flask, which he instantly swigs from.

MICHAEL. Don’t put ’em in your mouth then.

—

JEFF. What is known –

MICHAEL. Oh fuck off.

JEFF. – what is known as the ‘Old Lady of Threadneedle Street’?

—

MICHAEL. You?

JEFF. Capital of Norway.

MICHAEL. Helsinki.

JEFF. Nope. Who / sang –

MICHAEL looks at his watch.

MICHAEL. Half two it’s gone now –

JEFF. – ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’?

MICHAEL. – and you’re still whinnying on with this stupid fucking quiz.

JEFF. I’m keeping you awake.

MICHAEL. Aren’t you just.

JEFF. Come on: ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’.

MICHAEL. It’s like being trapped with Michael fucking Aspels.

JEFF. It’s fine if you don’t know.

—

MICHAEL. Abba.

JEFF. Abba?!

—

MICHAEL. I’m gonna put your head through that wall if you’re not careful.

JEFF sings the first line of ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ by Procol Harum.

Chuck you in the slurry pit.

JEFF sings the next line.

No one would miss you, you know.

JEFF. Doesn’t sound a bit like Abba. (Sings the title of the song.)

MICHAEL. Such a bender.

Suddenly, the sound of a cow in pain. They stop and stare intently at the cow in front of them.

—

Ah she’s grand.

JEFF. Yep.

—

Which author / wrote –

MICHAEL. Jesus fucking wept, Jeffrey.

JEFF. Alright, alright.

MICHAEL. Here’s a question – why are you here?

JEFF. You’re a miserable sod, you know that?

MICHAEL. Yes.

Come on.

JEFF. What?

MICHAEL. You got a proper tasty bit waiting for you back home in a nice warm bed and yet you been sat here, best part of two hours, boring the arse off me.

JEFF. I have not.

MICHAEL. We had half an hour of who said what at the pub quiz, another half an hour on Mrs Kelly’s rabbit’s intestines –

JEFF. That was actually fascinating.

MICHAEL. – Holly’s grade-three cello, what worktops Helen wants for your new kitchen, I’m surprised you got breath left in you. You better not be fucking billing me.

JEFF. No, your gracious company is thanks enough.

MICHAEL. Tell you, I had your missus waiting in bed I’d be home like a fucking shot, ay?

—

What have you done, Herriot?

JEFF. I haven’t – what d’you, why do you assume – don’t do a face. No, that’s, uncalled for.

MICHAEL. Awwww did I hurt you on your feelings?

JEFF. Yes, I’m going to go and write a poem.

—

Thought you might like a hand.

MICHAEL. Jeffrey, how many cattle do you think I’ve calved in my time?

JEFF. How many?

MICHAEL. I don’t fucking know, do I?! Loads. Go home.

—

JEFF. Got a name yet?

—

Arabella? No? Gladys?

MICHAEL. Who’d call a fucking cow Gladys?

JEFF. I would.

MICHAEL. You would.

Victoria.

JEFF. Victoria.

MICHAEL. These is the last Sheila named so we got Elizabeth and Anne, Diana, Margaret, Zara, Beatrice, Mary. We lost Camilla to the bloat in February. Who’s missing? Ah – Eugenie’s with her newborn in the south shed. I’m running out of Royals.

JEFF. Fergie?

MICHAEL lets out a derisive grunt. Then notices JEFF is looking at him and smiling.

MICHAEL. What’s wrong with you?

—

Pardon?

JEFF. It’s nice that’s all.

MICHAEL. What the bloody hell you supposed to call ’em? Cow One, Cow Two?

JEFF. Alright, alright. If you say so… what about Jeffrey.

MICHAEL. Jesus, can’t call a cow Jeffrey. They shouldn’t let bloody humans be called Jeffrey.

—

Ever tell you ’bout the time we let Trev name the newborns? He musta been about eight or nine. Sheila’s idea o’course, bloody disaster. Tell you, one morning got up and the little buggers’d found an hole in the hedge and there I was, out down them fields in nothin’ but boots and ’jamas calling ‘Ay, Sheila, I found Bagpuss but there’s no sign o’ Professor Yaffle.’ Well o’course Sam Ellacott across the way hears, so’s I walks in to Tavvi market next week, they’re all there – / singing the bloody theme tune.

JEFF (joining in). – singing the bloody theme tune.

How is Trev?

—

I heard he did all the… arrangements, for the service? Sorted all the flowers and… food –

MICHAEL. Up his street, innit.

MICHAEL goes to the door and begins to smoke out of the doorway, being careful to fan the smoke so it goes outside.

The soft purr of a nightjar.

Here’s one for you.

—

JEFF. Nightingale?

MICHAEL. Are you special? Nightjar.

JEFF. It’s strange.

MICHAEL. You hardly ever see ’em, only hear them. They fly silent. It’s bad luck is nightjars. It’s a bird o’death.

JEFF (spooky). Wooooooooo.

—

MICHAEL. Ellacott’s full a shit, in’he? Reckons it’s coming down this way. That’s not why you’re ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title page
• Contents
• Original Production
• Acknowledgements
• Dedication
• Characters
• Note on the Text
• And Then Come the Nightjars
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information