The White Bike

Tamara von Werthern

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2017
• Print ISBN:
  9781848426832
• eBook ISBN:
  9781780019697
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

Millions of people cycle to work every day. And every week, some of them don't make it home.

One Tuesday morning, Isabelle packs her lunch box into her pannier, kisses her young daughter goodbye, and sets off on her bike through Hackney. What happens along the way is at once shocking, inconceivable, and terrifyingly ordinary.

Based on a true story, The White Bike is an affecting play about what happens when our world is turned upside down. It was premiered in 2017 at The Space, London, in a production directed by Lily McLeish.

Tamara von Werthern is the founder and producer ofFizzy Sherbet, a new-writing initiative for women writers from across the world. This edition also includes her short plays Baby Dolls and The Village Church.

6.30 a.m. Tuesday 21st October 2008.

It’s dark. An alarm bell rings. And rings. And rings.

ISABELLE. Henry.

HENRY!

Turn it off.

HENRY. Hmmm?

ISABELLE. Turn. It. Off.

HENRY. Hmmm?

The light flicks on and ISABELLE stretches over HENRY’s prostrate body to turn off the alarm.

ISABELLE. Jesus Christ.

She sits up in bed but is in no way awake, her hair is a mess and she can barely open her eyes.

For fuck’s sake.

Why is it so loud?

Henry? Why do you –

There’s no point – he’s asleep.

I need some coffee.

A young child starts crying in the other room.

Ah, no! See what you’ve done?

I’m here, I’m coming, darling!

I could have done with a shower, I’ll get you back for this…

6.55 a.m. Tuesday 21st October 2008. ISABELLE enters fully dressed in office clothes, with a steaming cafetière, two mugs, and carrying LILY – also dressed, with a fresh nappy etc. – a muslin cloth slung over her shoulder.

Are you still asleep?

She pours the coffees. HENRY sits up in bed.

I had to change the sheets. The nappy leaked again. Can you try and get some new covers? You could go over to Clissold Park if you’re going to Stoke Newington anyway?

ISABELLE sits next to him in bed, sips coffee and cuddles with LILY.

(To LILY.) You smell so good. Just here. Yes you do. Now that you’re clean. (To HENRY.) I’ve fed her as well. (To LILY.) Does that tickle?

HENRY. You’re Wonder Woman.

ISABELLE. I know. (To LILY.) Are you going to the park with Daddy? On the massive big slide? Yep. Yes, you are. (To HENRY.) Get the ones with the poppers, okay? They’re better.

7.35 a.m. Tuesday 21st October 2008.

The toaster pops out two pieces of toast. ISABELLE and HENRY sit next to each other with the Guardian Weekend spread all over the table. They spread butter and marmalade on the toast and eat, while reading. Radio 4 in the background. LILY is now asleep in a sling on HENRY, who is dressed casually in dad-at-home clothes. Companionable silence.

She asleep?

HENRY. Think so.

ISABELLE. I’m jealous.

HENRY. Yeah.

ISABELLE. I was up twice. Just keep nodding off while she drinks.

HENRY. I’m sorry. I tried to, you know, let you have some sleep, but there’s only so much walking up and down a corridor one man can do.

ISABELLE. I know. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.

HENRY. Coffee saves lives.

ISABELLE. Exactly.

ISABELLE folds the paper and gets up.

Okay, I’m off then.

HENRY. Have a good day.

ISABELLE. You too. And don’t forget the covers, okay?

HENRY. Yeah, sure.

ISABELLE. Ah, the romance.

HENRY. Come here, I’ll give you romance.

They kiss.

ISABELLE. Bye, you.

And you.

She kisses the swaddled top of LILY’s head through the cover of the sling and leaves.

7.52 a.m. Tuesday 21st October 2008. ISABELLE cycles. There’s a blue sky and sun, but it is cold.

(Direct address/thought.) Shame she’s asleep, I love her waving at the window. Little fat hands. Love those hands.

Brrr, winter soon, hate having to cycle back in the dark. Summer’s so much better.

The sound of a motorcycle going past, the image of broken double yellow lines as she’s cycling along.

Summer smells of leather and petrol. Sand everywhere, in your socks, between your teeth, in all the sandwiches… My dad with full hair and how broad his back was! I hold on tight, lean into the turnings, same as him. Anna is in the side-car – the yellow helmet catching the sun. ‘Do you want to fly?’ He turns the corner and the side-car flies up in the air like a carousel pod.

Squeals of delight.

She stops at a pedestrian crossing. A woman with a pushchair is crossing. It’s HANNAH from NCT.

HANNAH. You back at work already?

ISABELLE. Yes, nearly three weeks now…

HANNAH. That’s flown by, hasn’t it?

ISABELLE. Tell me about it – whoosh and it’s gone. I miss spending my mornings in the café. How long have you got left?

HANNAH. Until January. I took the whole year in the end.

ISABELLE. Oh, lucky you!

HANNAH. I’ll have forgotten everything when I get back! Anyway, best get on. You have a good day.

ISABELLE. Thanks! Let’s grab a coffee soon, okay?

HANNAH. Great. Let’s catch up properly. With the kids. I’ll text you.

7.58 a.m. Tuesday 21st October 2008. ISABELLE cycles on, up a little hill, along a busy road with heavy traffic. She turns right, the road is flat now, and quieter. She gets faster, gets into rhythm of cycling, breathes.

ISABELLE (direct address/thought). My fingers are freezing, maybe Primark is open already? They’re evil though, child labour, ah well, they’re cheap, cheap gloves.

The beeping and clanking of a refuse-collection vehicle, as she overtakes it. It smells. A lot.

Hope Henry put the bin out. We need to get more bin bags. And recycling bags… Washing-up liquid. Even my ears are getting cold now. Red. I can feel the red creeping up.

8.09 a.m. Tuesday 21st October 2008. ISABELLE is now going along Dalston Lane, other cyclists have joined her and they are negotiating the traffic and each other. A car honks its horn.

What’s the hurry? You’re too fast anyway. There’s a school over there. That’s probably it, actually – Chelsea-tractor brat drop-off.

Snatches of radio hang in the air – the cyclists are faster than the cars. A lot of tailback. A car is parked in the cyclist’s advance box. The cyclists queue on the left-hand side next to the traffic, as the box is blocked.

Of course he’ll nudge into the advance box. I knew it. Every bloody time.

8.13 a.m. Tuesday 21st October 2008. The lights change, ISABELLE turns left into Kingsland Road. The Tesco Metro has started putting up Christmas decorations.

Christmas lights in the trees already! Pretty. Mums with buggies – that’s me now as well… I’ve joined the buggy parade. December soon. Lily’s first Christmas. Must make an advent calendar.

Breath.

That’ll be fun. Little things. Crayons. Bath toys.

Breath.

We’ll hang it up over her bed, on a washing line.

8.20 a.m. Tuesday 21st October 2008. ISABELLE is waiting at another set of lights. A GUY leans out of the passenger seat of a van.

GUY. Nice titties!

ISABELLE stares straight ahead, pretending not to have heard him.

ISABELLE (direct address/thought). Fuck you.

GUY. Oi! Didn’t ya hear me? I said ‘nice tits!’

ISABELLE (direct address/thought). What do you think, you asshole? If I could, I’d kick you so hard in the balls that you couldn’t sit for weeks.

8.22 a.m. Tuesday 21st October 2008. ISABELLE cycles on. GUY honks the horn of the van appreciatively while driving off.

What gives you the right to talk to me like that? Do you think it turns women on? You small-pricked excuse for a man. Stupid… stupid… As soon as I’m online you go straight onto Everyday Sexism, you prick. Stupid little… ah, I’m not even going to waste my breath on you. F...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• Original Production
• Author’s Note
• Production Note
• Eilidh Cairns
• See Me Save Me
• Acknowledgements
• Dedication
• Characters
• The White Bike
• The Village Church
• Baby Dolls
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information