Yer Granny

Douglas Maxwell

• Publisher: Oberon Books
• Year: 2015
• Print ISBN: 9781783199211
• eBook ISBN: 9781783199228
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

Based on La Nona by Roberto Cossa Yer Granny is a riotous new comedy about a diabolical 100-year-old granny who's literally eating her family out of house and home. She's already eaten their fish and chip shop into bankruptcy and now she's working her way through their kitchen cupboards, pushing the Russo family to desperate measures just to survive beyond 1977. As proud head of the family, Cammy is determined that The Minerva Fish Bar will rise again and that family honour will be restored – and all in time for the Queen's upcoming Jubilee visit. But before Cammy's dream can come true and before Her Maj can pop in for a chat, a single sausage and a royal seal of approval, the family members must ask themselves how far they will go to solve a problem like Yer Granny.

Act One

1.

MARIE is under pressure in the kitchen. She’s making some kind of stew. She’s chopping vegetables and adding bits and bobs to a big pot, all at incredible speed, as if under the clock. Every now and then she casts a glance over her shoulder at NANA who sits at the table finishing a huge packet of crisps. NANA is the deadline. Get the lid on the pot before NANA finishes those crisps.

ANGELA is making a cup of tea and getting in the road. The tea is for CHARLIE, who is sprawled on the couch fast asleep, mouth agape, a couple of empty cans of lager and an accordion on the carpet beside him. ANGELA gazes at him, stirring the tea, enraptured…

ANGELA: Ach. Just look at him there.

MARIE: No thank you.

ANGELA: It must be a great burden for him to have his grandfather’s ears.

She goes to an old portrait on the back wall.

MARIE: (Slamming the lid on the pot.) Right, that needs another fifteen minutes.

ANGELA: It is he alone who inherited Papa’s innate gift for music. And he must carry that responsibility for the rest of his life. Song literally flows out of him. Sure it does?

MARIE: Something flows out of him.

ANGELA: He alone must keep the family’s artistic flame a-burning.

MARIE: Guard that pot will you Angela? I’m going to sneak in the you-know-what from the you-know-where.

They flash a look at NANA, who has now finished the crisps and has ripped open the packet, licking the foil methodically. She stops dead on MARIE’s last line though. What was that they were saying?

ANGELA: But I’m stirring Charlie’s tea. 100 stirs one way, 100 stirs the other. He likes to wake gracefully from his reveries and for his tea to be just so. It’s a great aid to his creative process.

MARIE: Oh if it’s a great aid to his creative process I’d very much like to contribute. May I?

ANGELA smiles and nods eagerly – at last MARIE is warming to CHARLIE. She hands MARIE the cup and spoon. MARIE stirs it twice…

MARIE: Ninety nine, a hundred…

MARIE places the metal spoon on the side of CHARLIE’s forehead, scalding him. He screams in agony and rockets from the couch.

CHARLIE: AAAAHHH!!!

MARIE: Oh look who’s woken gracefully from his reveries. Tea in fifteen minutes. Tidy your debris and set the table please. (She hands him his tea.) Angela. Keep edgy.

MARIE heads off to the bedrooms.

CHARLIE: (After gingerly touching his head and drawing the exiting MARIE a dark look, he eventually remembers himself.) My, my. I must’ve lost myself in the depths of composition and drifted off for a couple of…hours.

ANGELA: Anything new today?

CHARLIE: Always. Always working. Nothing on paper of course, it’s all in… (He taps his head, right on the scald mark.) …AH! Sake. I wasn’t going to mention anything but seeing as you won’t stop going on about it…my new piece is a Requiem For the Accordion.

ANGELA: Oh Charlie. That sounds wonderful. Could you play a little, I wonder?

CHARLIE: Well. It’s not finished.

ANGELA: Nothing would make me happier.

CHARLIE: It’s a Requiem, Aunt Angela, it’s not meant to make you happy.

ANGELA: Then nothing would make me sadder. Please?

Charlie reluctantly picks up the accordion and straps it on. He doesn’t look particularly au fait with the instrument.

During the following, NANA makes sure the coast is clear and sneaks over to the kitchen. She gets to the pot and silently removes the lid. She gets a ladle and helps herself to the stew. She slurps away with stealth and dedication, throughout…

ANGELA: Oh I do so adore the accordion. It binds both sides of our family in melody: The Scots and the Italians. Of course the Scots have always had a penchant for shrill, hard-to-carry instruments.

CHARLIE: (Clears his throat‥) Ready? Prepare yourself. (He hits a harsh chord and sings in a really high voice.) “OH… OH… OH… MY… GOD” That’s all I’ve got so far. (Petulantly.) Oh I know, it’s rubbish! It’s clichéd, it’s caricatured, it’s keech, I’m chucking it!

CHARLIE dumps the accordion on the couch and slurps his tea in the huff.

ANGELA: Oh no Charlie it’s wonderful. You’re too hard on yourself.

CHARLIE: I know. I live my life to incredibly high standards. (He’s slittered some tea on his top. He sooks it up.) I’m like Mozart in that sense. We’re very similar Mozart and me. We both have… (He taps himself on the burn again.) …ahya! God sake.

ANGELA: No, you mustn’t give in! I was reading an article in the hairdressers last week about a new type of music that’s going to sweep away all we hold dear. I didn’t get to finish the article so I don’t know what music they were referring to specifically. We were evacuated because someone’s perm ignited. But I think there’s a very good chance they were talking about accordion requiems. You mustn’t betray your heart. Do you hear me Charlie? Do you though Charlie? Do you hear me Charlie? Do you hear me? Do you though Charlie? Do you hear me Charlie? Do you? Do you hear me?

CHARLIE: Yes. I hear you.

ANGELA: (Getting worked up now.) You’re not like normal people. You’re better than them. Better than everyone in this flat, in this street, in this town…

CHARLIE: That is true actually.

ANGELA: (Cont.) You shouldn’t be trapped in a pokey room above a bankrupt chip...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half-title Page
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Act One
• Act Two
• Act Three