The Beacon

Nancy Harris

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9781848428829
• eBook ISBN: 9781788502658
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

A mysterious accident. A dead husband. People are talking. Secrets are resurfacing from the depths. Is the past ever truly dead?

Beiv, a celebrated artist, has moved from suburban Dublin to her holiday cottage on an island off the coast of West Cork. But a dark shadow from the past hangs over her. When her estranged son and his new young wife arrive to stay, she is faced with some difficult questions.

Nancy Harris's play The Beacon was premiered at the Town Hall Theatre, Galway, in September 2019 before transferring to the Gate Theatre, Dublin, as part of the 2019 Dublin Theatre Festival, in a co-production between Druid and the Gate, directed by Garry Hynes.

ACT ONE

Scene One

BEIV, COLM and BONNIE.

BEIV sits in an armchair on one side of the room.

BONNIE and COLM are on the other on the sofa – suitcases by their feet.

A huge canvas covered in predominantly red, pink and purple paint stands on an easel between them.

BONNIE is looking at the canvas.

BONNIE. You can really see the female rage. Like I’m instantly getting menstrual blood, the blood of childbirth, genital mutilation, haemorrhaging – pretty much all female suffering. Abortion is in there obviously… and repression and shame. But there’s also something really – tender too. Like there, in those softer shades, I see the vulva. And the clitoris, and this really female desire for pleasure, for sexual intimacy but also for like a really fucking explosive orgasm, you know…

She laughs.

COLM shifts, uncomfortable.

But yeah. No, it’s powerful. And brutal. And sad too.

BEIV nods, then looks at the canvas, taking in BONNIE’s assessment.

BEIV. It’s a blood orange.

BONNIE looks at her, confused.

BONNIE. A blood –

BEIV. Orange. Still a work-in-progress obviously and the colours are magnified and exaggerated. /

BONNIE. Oh /

BEIV. But yeah. It’s an orange.

Beat.

BONNIE. Wow.

BONNIE looks at the canvas again.

I see so much more.

COLM. Well that’s art for you.

COLM gets up to look around.

Bonnie loves all that bullshit. (To BEIV.) Show her the prints of your womb series. (To BONNIE.) She did them around the Repeal the 8th. They’re blobs basically but people saw all sorts, tears, fetuses, surgical implements. You wouldn’t fucking believe the shit people will read into blobs.

BEIV (dry). He has a poet’s touch, doesn’t he, Bonnie?

COLM. Well I’m just not into beating around the – bush, or whatever. Pardon the… show her… (To BONNIE.) You’ll love them.

BEIV. I don’t have them with me.

COLM. Thought you took everything?

BEIV. I’m not dragging every feckin canvas I ever painted down here, am I? Don’t have the room for a start. Not till I have a proper studio.

COLM. So where are they?

BEIV. In Dublin. In storage. A gallery in New York is interested so.

BONNIE. Wow. That’s great.

BEIV (weary). I dunno.

BONNIE. It’s not a good one?

BEIV. Oh it’s a good gallery alright. I’m just getting a bit old for all this… traipsing round the world with my wares.

COLM. She’s scared of planes.

BEIV. No –

COLM. Developed a fear of flying in recent years.

BEIV. That’s not true.

COLM. Were you not taking those herbs?

BEIV. Ah feck /

COLM. Rescue Remedy or whatever?

BEIV. That stuff’s a cod.

BONNIE. Works for me.

BEIV. Not for me. Not for the kind of thing I was suffering.

BONNIE (concerned). You were suffering?

BEIV. I’m grand now, don’t worry about it. I just don’t have the energy for all the schlepping round any more.

COLM. You didn’t mind it when Dad was here.

BEIV. No.

COLM. Very fucking happy to schlep all over the world then, being lauded. Ireland’s great feminist artist.

BEIV (wry). Do you think he’s bitter about his childhood, Bonnie?

COLM. Just stating fact.

BEIV. I’m not Ireland’s great feminist artist.

COLM. Who is then?

BEIV. Fuck knows, I don’t keep up with this stuff. Will anyone have more tea?

BONNIE. Yes please.

BONNIE holds out her mug.

BEIV starts to pour it from a teapot.

COLM looks around.

COLM. Like what you’ve done with the place.

BEIV. What have I done with it?

COLM (to BONNIE). That was a wall the last time I was here and every other fecking time.

He takes in the room.

Are you going for the Scandi look or what?

BEIV. Just wanted a bit more light.

COLM. Think the neighbours can get enough of a look-in?

BEIV. I don’t care.

COLM. At night when the lights are on, you’ll see straight in from the road.

BEIV. So?

COLM. Well is that what you’re going for?

BEIV. I’ve nothing to hide.

COLM. Jesus.

COLM shakes his head.

He walks around looking at things.

BONNIE. Everyone’s bitter about their childhood. My mom is so neurotic, she like totally fucked us all up.

COLM peers behind the beaded curtain.

COLM. Jesus! What’s going on here?

BEIV looks up.

Where’s the kitchen? And the bedroom? And the back wall?

BEIV. Oh.

She takes a calm sip of tea.

I knocked them down.

COLM. You what?

BEIV. I’m building an extension.

COLM. An extension?

BEIV. What else am I going to do with the money from the house?

COLM stares in.

COLM. But where are you sleeping?

BEIV. That couch is a fold-up.

COLM. And where are we going to sleep?

BEIV. There’s a couple of mattresses out in the shed.

COLM. Mattresses!

BEIV. We’ll drag them in here. Be nice and cosy.

COLM looks at her incredulous.

COLM. And you didn’t think to mention this in the email, did you not?

BEIV. There were a few things you didn’t think to mention either.

She glances at BONNIE.

COLM. … I told you Bonnie was coming.

BEIV. You didn’t tell me she ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title page
• Contents
• Original Production
• Acknowledgements
• Dedication
• Characters
• Note on Text
• The Beacon
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information