Leaving Home

David French

• Publisher: House of Anansi Press
• Year: 2002
• eBook ISBN: 9780887849060
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Canadian Drama
• Index: Literature

David French's first play is a classic in Canadian drama. The first part of what has come to be known as the Mercer Series, Leaving Home tells the story of a Newfoundland family that has emigrated and lost all sense of its place in the world.

Leaving Home was named one of the 100 Most Influential Canadian Books by the Literary Review of Canada.

SCENE

The play is set in Toronto on an early November day in the late fifties.

ACT ONE

The lights come up on a working-class house in Toronto. The stage is divided into three playing areas: kitchen, dining room, and living room. In addition there is a hallway leading into the living room. Two bedroom doors lead off the hallway, as well as the front door which is offstage.

The kitchen contains a fridge, a stove, cupboards over the sink for everyday dishes, and a small drop-leaf table with two wooden chairs, one at either end. A plastic garbage receptacle stands beside the stove. A hockey calendar hangs on a wall, and a kitchen prayer.

The dining room is furnished simply with an oak table and chairs. There is an oak cabinet containing the good dishes and silverware. Perhaps a family portrait hangs on the wall—a photo taken when the sons were much younger.

The living room contains a chesterfield and an armchair, a T.V., a record player and a fireplace. On the mantle rests a photo album and a silver-framed photo of the two sons—then small boys—astride a pinto pony. On one wall hangs a mirror. On another, a seascape. There is also a small table with a telephone on it.

It is around five-thirty on a Friday afternoon, and MARY MERCER, aged fifty, stands before the mirror in the living room, admiring her brand new dress and fixed hair. As she preens, the front door opens and in walk her two sons, BEN, eighteen, and BILL, seventeen. Each carries a box from a formal rental shop and schoolbooks.

MARY
Did you bump into your father?

BEN
No, we just missed him, Mom. He’s already picked up his tux. He’s probably at the Oakwood. (He opens the fridge and helps himself to a beer.)

MARY
Get your big nose out of the fridge. And put down that beer. You’ll spoil your appetite.

BEN
No, I won’t. (He searches for a bottle opener in a drawer.)

MARY
And don’t contradict me. What other bad habits you learned lately?

BEN
(teasing) Don’t be such a grouch. You sound like Dad.
(He sits at the table and opens his beer.)

MARY
Yes, well just because you’re in university now, don’t t’ink you can raid the fridge any time you likes.

BILL crosses the kitchen and throws his black binder and books in the garbage receptacle.

MARY
What’s that for? (BILL exits into his bedroom and she calls after him.) It’s not the end of the world, my son. (pause) Tell you the truth, Ben. We always figured you’d be the one to land in trouble, if anyone did. I don’t mean that as an insult. You’re more… I don’t know… like your father.

BEN
I am?

Music from BILL’s room.

MARY
(calling, exasperated) Billy, do you have to have that so loud?
(BILL turns down his record player. To BEN) I’m glad your graduation went okay last night. How was Billy? Was he glad he went?

BEN
Well, he wasn’t upset, if that’s what you mean.

MARY
(slight pause) Ben, how come you not to ask your father?

BEN
What do you mean?

BILL
(off) Mom, will you pack my suitcase? I can’t get everything in.

MARY
(calling) I can’t now, Billy. Later.

BEN
I want to talk to you, Mom. It’s important.

MARY
I want to talk to you, too.

BILL
(Comes out of bedroom, crosses to kitchen.) Mom, here’s the deposit on my locker. I cleaned it out and threw away all my old gym clothes. (He helps himself to an apple from the fridge.)

MARY
Didn’t you just hear me tell your brother to stay out of there? I might as well talk to the sink. Well, you can t’row away your old school clothes—that’s your affair—but take those books out of the garbage. Go on. You never knows. They might come in handy sometime.

BILL
How? (He takes the books out, then sits at the table with BEN.)

MARY
Well, you can always go to night school and get your senior matric, once the baby arrives and Kathy’s back to work…. Poor child. I talked to her on the phone this morning. She’s still upset, and I don’t blame her. I’d be hurt myself if my own mother was too drunk to show up to my shower.

BILL
(a slight ray of hope) Maybe she won’t show up tonight.

MARY
(Glances anxiously at the kitchen clock and turns to check
the fish and potatoes.) Look at the time. I just wish to goodness he had more t’ought, your father. The supper’ll dry up if he don’t hurry. He might pick up a phone and mention when he’ll be home. Not a grain of t’ought in his head. And I wouldn’t put it past him to forget his tux in the beer parlour. (Finally she turns and looks at her two sons, disappointed.) And look at the two of you. Too busy with your mouths to give your mother a second glance. I could stand here till my legs dropped off before either of you would notice my dress.

BEN
It’s beautiful, Mom.

MARY
That the truth?

BILL
Would we lie to you, Mom?

MARY
Just so long as I don’t look foolish next to Minnie. She can afford to dress up—Willard left her well off when he died.

BEN
Don’t worry about the money. Dad won’t mind.

MARY
Well, it’s not every day your own son gets married, is it? (to BILL as she puts on large apron) It’s just that I don’t want Minnie Jackson looking all decked out like the Queen Mary and me the tug that dragged her in. You understands, don’t you, Ben?

BEN
Sure.

BILL
I understand too, Mom.

MARY
I know you do, Billy. I know you do. (She opens a tin of peaches and fills five dessert dishes.) Minnie used to go with your father. Did you know that, Billy? Years and years ago.

BILL
No kidding?

BEN
(at the same time) Really?

MARY
True as God is in Heaven. Minnie was awful sweet on Dad, too. She t’ought the world of him.

BILL
(incredulously) Dad?

MARY
Don’t act so surprised. Your father was quite a one with the girls.

BEN
No kidding?

MARY
He could have had his pick of any number of girls. (to BILL) You ask Minnie sometime. Of course, in those days I was going with Jerome McKenzie, who later became a Queen’s Counsel in St. John’s. I must have mentioned him.

The boys exchange smiles.

BEN
I think you have, Mom.

BILL
A hundred times.

MARY
(gently indignant–to BILL) And that I haven’t!

BILL
She has too. Hasn’t she, Ben?

MARY
Never you mind, Ben. (to BILL) And instead of sitting around gabbing so much you’d better go change your clothes. Kathy’ll soon be here. (as BILL crosses to his bedroom) Is the rehearsal still at eight?

BILL
We’re supposed to meet Father Douglas at the church at five to. I just hope Dad’s not too drunk. (He exits.)

MARY
(Studies BEN a moment.) Look at yourself. A cigarette in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other, at your age! You didn’t learn any of your bad habits from me, I can tell you. (pause) Ben, don’t be in such a hurry to grow up. (She sits across from him.) Whatever you do, don’t be in such a hurry. Look at your poor young brother. His whole life ruined. Oh, I could weep a bellyful when I t’inks of it. Just seventeen, not old enough to sprout whiskers on his chin, and already the burdens of a man on his t’in little shoulders. Your poor father hasn’t slept a full night since this happened. Did you know that? He had such high hopes for Billy. He wanted you both to go to college and not have to work as hard as he’s had to all his life. And now look. You have more sense than that, Ben. Don’t let life trap you.

BILL enters. He has changed his pants and is buttoning a clean white shirt. MARY goes into the dining room and begins to remove the tablecloth from the dining room table.

BILL
Mom, what about Dad? He won’t start picking on the priest, will he? You know how he likes to argue.

MARY
He won’t say a word, my son. You needn’t worry. Worry more about Minnie showing up.

BILL
What if he’s drunk?

MARY
He ...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Introduction
• Dedication
• Acknowledgement
• Scene
• Blackout