For All I Care

Alan Harris

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9781848428805
• eBook ISBN: 9781788502481
• Topic: Littérature
• Subtopic: Théâtre britannique

Clara and Nyri. Two very different women. Two complicated lives. Both having a very bad day.

Mental health nurse Nyri's woken up hungover with a younger man. Meanwhile, Clara has developed a compulsive wink and can't remember if she's taken her meds.

Nyri needs to get to Ebbw Vale Hospital via Greggs, and Clara's got to get cracking with her shoplifting list for The Devil.

Lives interweave and unexpectedly connect in Alan Harris's fast-moving, touchingly funny play. Originally performed by one actor, as part of National Theatre Wales' celebration of the NHS in 2018, the play subsequently transferred to the 2019 Edinburgh Festival Fringe.

Clara

It started with winking. I’m lying in bed, listening to Jay-Z on the radio, trying not to think. Then… wink. Never been a winker. More of a blinker. If I try to close one eye the other is destined to follow. You see? I’ve always thought winking is for people with a swagger and what have I got to swagger about? Nowt.

Now and again my body gives me little messages, in different ways, and this time it happens to be winking.

A Thursday and I’m not thinking but winking. Sweating. It’s 7.58 a.m. and I’m dripping. Thirty degrees in Blaenau Gwent in a flat where all the windows are nailed or painted shut. Roasting. Believe me, it’s not a home, it’s a tomb.

The heat has built up for days and days, something my nan would have called ‘too hot for dogs’. Too hot to sleep, too hot for my head, in bed, in a corner of the globe called Green Meadows. Opposite the Flying Start Hub in Sirhowy, you knows? Who ever named it Green Meadows must have been on crack and I’m feeling strange cos of the heat and, on my back, in bed, my naked body stretched out, Despicable Me duvet flung long ago onto the brown-and-white Home Bargains rug, I can see the Artex swirls where they should be and my left eye… winks.

Every few seconds my left eye closes and opens without command. Shit. My brain is overheating.

But what can you do or say? Who do you say it to? Put on your sunglasses, have a bowl of Cheerios and prepare for the day.

Today’s going to be sticky, tricky, cos of the heat. Look up and out the skylight in the kitchenette, blue canvas in a picture frame. I ponder the challenges of that blue yonder, today, as the kettle struggles to catch up with the heat. I consider some toast but the toaster is broken.

I’m a shoplifter. And hot weather is the pits for shoplifting.

I steal to order for a girl called Diane. Diane scares the shit out of me. You know those types, not big but scary – her calmness makes me wary. Diane is The Devil and she must be obeyed or else she will burn me. Got orders from The Devil for three pairs of leggings, two spangly tops, a mohair jumper and a puffa jacket. In July. Only in Tredegar, I tell you. Dare not come back with anything less than the list. Diane hosts a get-together every week at her red-brick semi – sort of an Ann Summers party for shoplifted goods. She even puts on a golden spread of food stolen from M&S in Friar’s Walk.

I look out on to the back, and through my sunglasses I can see the world is melting. A blue-and-white van with high-backed sides scours the street for any old iron – a skinny lad jumps out and picks up a discarded radiator. Hot metal.

Today is definitely a day for stealing swimwear.

But no one wants swimwear in Tredegar, I tell you.

Say what you will about me but I do not shit on my own doorstep. I goes to Newport or Merthyr or Aberdare or anywhere to pinch, to source Diane’s list I’ll go that extra inch, yard, mile.

I met someone once who said they ‘believed’ in shoplifting because it’s a form of redistribution. Direct action against the corporations. Do me a favour. There speaks someone who is not truly skint.

I don’t believe in anything because I can’t afford to. Not God or any sort of religion or people or kindness or Santa Claus or most of our laws or the power of face cream or that eating more vegetables is good for you.

Believing in stuff is pointless.

Before I leave the house I spy my tablets on the table – have I taken them today? I think so…

I walk to the bus stop – down Chartist Way – and step onto the X4 to Ebbw Vale in the shadow of Lidl. Two girls at the back start to giggle and I ignore, taking off my sunglasses cos I think it’s rude not to see people’s eyes when you speak to them. But that’s a mistake as the driver asks:

Why you winking at me?

I’m not.

You just did.

Look, just give me a single to Ebbw Vale, yeah? Any chance I can have half?

How old are you?

Eighteen but I’m saving up to buy a Lamborghini.

Driver gives me half single.

As soon as I sit I know the day is far too bright for me; no way can it be this hot for so long in Tredegar. It’s like someone’s turned up the contrast on the telly and the remote is lost down the back of the settee.

As we trundle through Rhyd y Blew one minute I’m thinking about KFC – advertising really works on me – and the next moment I get a sign.

I’d almost forgotten about the signs, hadn’t had one in four months but there it is.

The sign, basically, says:

Today, Clara, you should kill yourself.

I know. Charming.

Every once in a while I’d like to get a good sign, like: ‘Nice shoes Clara’ but no, they’re always telling me stuff I know I shouldn’t do.

10.07 a.m. Changing room. Peacocks. Ebbw Vale. There’s no Loss Prevention Officer (can you believe that’s what they call security nowadays?) and the woman who looks after the changing rooms couldn’t give a toss about loss so I take in ten items.

I’m struggling to get all the clothes on and now she’s taking an interest, this woman who looks after the changing r...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title page
• Contents
• Original Production
• Characters
• For All I Care
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information