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Part One
IT’S A BIG BROAD FINE SUNNY DAY
It’s a big broad fine sunny day
The black clouds are gonna blow away
It’s true that the rockets are aimed in their pits
But they won’t be fired, not this time
This time there ain’t gonna be any crime
This time we’re gonna say no
This time we’re gonna be wise guys
And tell the bastards where to go
It’s a big broad fine sunny day
It’s getting more sunny all the time
It’s true that the bombs are stacked in their racks
But we won’t load them up, not this time
This time there ain’t gonna be no more war
This time we’re gonna say no
This time we’re gonna be wise guys
And tell the bastards where to go
It’s a big broad fine sunny day
It’s getting better all the time
And this time the soldiers will not march away
So they won’t be shot at, not this time
This time they ain’t gonna die for the sods
This time they’re gonna say no
This time they’re staying here to play
And tell the bastards where to go
It’s a big broad fine sunny day
And the sky gets bluer all the time
From now on we’ll live in the way that we say
And we won’t be told, not this time
This is our world and it’s staying that way
This time we’re gonna say no
Today we’ll live till tomorrow
And tell the bastards where to go
Scene One
London, the park of Lord Are’s house.
Are and Frank. Frank is in livery.
Are Lean me against that great thing.
Frank The oak sir?
Are Hold your tongue. No no! D’ye want me to appear drunk? Nonchalant. As if I often spent the day leaning against an oak or supine in the grass.
Frank Your lordship comfortable?
Are No scab I am not, if that gives ye joy. Hang my scarf over the twig. Delicately! – as if some discriminating wind had cast it there. Stand off. How do I look?
Frank Well sir . . . how would yer like to look?
Are Pox! Ye city vermin can’t tell the difference between a haystack and a chimney stack. Wha-ha! I must not laugh, it’ll spoil my pose. Damn! The sketch shows a flower. ’Tis too late for the shops, I must have one from the ground.
Frank What kind sir?
Are Rip up that pesky little thing on the path. That’ll teach it to grow where gentlemen walk.
Frank offers the flower.
Are Smell it! If it smells too reprehensible throw it aside. I hate the gross odours the country gives off. ’Tis always in a sweat! Compare me to the sketch.
Frank (checks sketch) Leg a bit more out.
Are Lawd I shall be crippled. Do they stand about the country so? When I pass the boundaries of the town I lower the blinds in mourning and never go out on my estate for fear of the beasts.
Frank Cows aren’t beasts sir.
Are The peasants sirrah. Don’t mar the sketch with your great thumbs. I had it drew up by a man renowned for his landscapes to show me how a gentleman drapes himself across his fields. That I call a proper use for art. The book oaf! Well sirrah open it! Must I gaze on the cover as if I wondered what manner of thing I held in my hand?
Frank Any page sir?
Are The blanker the better. (Looks at the page.) Turn sir. The poet spilt his ink and scribbled to use it up before it dried. A poem should be well cut and fit the page neatly as if it were written by your tailor. The secret of literary style lies in the margins. Now that sir could only have been written by Lord Lester’s tailor, whose favourite colour is woad. Turn me to something short. Your master is a man of epigrammatic wit. About your business. I must pine.
Frank goes.
Are What a poor gentleman I am! Town house and park, country house and land as far as the eye can see – they tell me – debts to honour a duke, and broke. So: a rich bride. Yonder, about to rise over the horizon like a pillar of smoke, is Mr Hardache, iron founder, shipbuilder, mine owner and meddler and merchant in men and much else that hath money in it. With his daughter, who must have a title and country estate to go with her fortune. So here I am set, imitating the wild man of the woods. An extravagant gesture, but I would have the gal love me at sight and be spared the tedium of courting an ironmaster’s daughter. Faith boys what would one do: rattle a spoon in a tin mug and call it a serenade? Peace good soul! You have but to glance up from this bundle of tasteless moralising – the relief itself will bring rapture to thy face – and the slut’s fate is sealed. I hope I am not to wait for a change in the season? I shall put out branches or turn white in a hoar frost.
Bob enters.
Are A swain wanders o’er the landscape.
Bob Well London here I am! What strange sights I hev seen!
Are Why does the fool gawp so impertinently? Lawd it grins!
Bob Mornin’ my lord.
Are Gad it addresseth me! Oaf be off!
Bob Ay sir where to?
Are Where to? What care I where to? To hell! Wha-ha! (Aside.) Dear heart do not discommode thy complexion. A raw face is a countrified look but I would not have one even to gaze the blazing of the bankruptcy court! Dear gad my foot is misplaced!
Bob (aside) Doo a London gentleman complain when his foot move? However do they git into bed – or out of it?
Are (aside) I am dealing with a harmless lunatic. The iron people have turned into the avenue. Soon we shall hear them clank. – Good fellow, take the run of my grounds. Go and play.
Bob (aside) This is a test Bob. Don’t git caught out. (Idea.) Drat what a fool I am! That owd rag round your neck hev hitched yoo ...
