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HE and SHE sit on chairs. They are either side of an imaginary partition wall, at the top of a tower block.
Unless a beat or pause is indicated, the text comes in very promptly on cue at a pace, almost overlapping.
HE. Small. Spiky. A tomboy.
SHE. Grey. Shrivelled. Like a prune
HE. Got a mouth on her
SHE. Like an old baked potato that’s been left in the oven too long
HE. Some of the words!
SHE. Crusty. Like he’s, like he’s, ah… what is it?
HE. ‘F this’, ‘F that’, ‘little F-ing C’
SHE. Decaying!
HE. Acid tongue.
SHE. Smelling of piss and Germolene.
HE. Acid tongue. Potty mouth.
SHE. A hundred and fucking two.
HE. No more than eighteen. A pup.
SHE. Nearly dead.
Beat.
HE. She came a year ago. Was pleased at first. Good to have some life up here. I’ve been here thirty years.
SHE. He’s been here since time began!
HE. Thirty years in the sky!
SHE. Sad. Old. Sad. Git.
HE. First it was Marie and Bob. Pretty lady. Barren. Something wrong with her fallopian tubes or what not. And a decent chappie. Although I think he left her in the end. I lose track.
SHE (calling to her baby). Jayden!
HE. Then Derek. The bachelor. With his flashy waistcoats and his record player and his loose ladies.
SHE (shouting). Jayden!
HE (chuckling to himself). I liked Derek.
SHE (shouting). DO NOT PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH!
HE. There she goes!
SHE. THAT IS DIRTY!
HE. There she blows!
SHE (louder). I’m gonna count to three! ONE.
HE (hushed – mockingly). Run and hide, Jayden!
SHE. TWO.
HE. Dive for cover, old man!
SHE. THREE.
There is a suspended pause.
Good boy.
He crosses his chest in mock-relief.
HE. Jayden. (Snorts and shakes his head.)
Beat.
Then for twelve years it was Sandra and Paul. Good English names. Round white faces. When England was all about roast beef and funfairs, Christmas and long summers and chips and football, women ...
