Bloody Wimmin' (NHB Modern Plays)

Lucy Kirkwood

• Editore: Nick Hern Books
• Anno: 2015
• ISBN:
  9781780015934
• Argomento: Literature
• Categoria: British Drama

The protests at Greenham Common were a political landmark of the eighties. But how much did Greenham impact on the fight for nuclear disarmament, the progress of the women's movement and the culture of protest itself?

From the author of Chimerica, first staged at the Tricycle Theatre in 2010 as part of the Women, Power and Politics season.

'hilarious' - Whatsonstage.com

BLOODY WIMMIN

Lucy Kirkwood

Characters

HELEN

LITTLE GIRL

MARGARET

HANNAH

REPORTER

GRAHAM

LORRAINE

BOB

JACK

LIV

DAN

LOU

JAMES

SOPHIE

LILLIAN

Note on the Text

A forward slash ( / ) in the text indicates the point at which the next speaker interrupts.

A star (*) before a line indicates simultaneous dialogue.

1984

A clock ticking. Might almost be a Geiger counter.

A wire fence. An angry, sturdy thing, three strands of barbed wire across the top. On the other side of it, an RAF base.

HELEN, thirties, enters. Visibly pregnant. Six months, say.

Suddenly, a wall of sound, she looks up as a plane roars over. The missiles are arriving at Greenham.

She clicks on a hand-held Dictaphone.

HELEN. At the hypocenter, everything is vaporised.

A LITTLE GIRL enters. She has with her lengths of glittering yarn. She weaves it into the fence, creating large, sparkling spider’s webs. She sings as she does, quietly, under HELEN, under the ticking:

LITTLE GIRL. * Go to sleep you weary women,

Let the squaddies go shouting by,

Can’t you hear those launchers rumbling,

That’s a peace-camp lullaby.

Don’t you worry ’bout the bailiffs,

Let evictions come and go,

You’re safe tucked up in your nice warm Gore-tex,

Far away from the ice and rain and snow.

HELEN. * Moving outwards, the casualties are caused by burns, by falling debris, by the effects of radiation sickness. The radioactive particles enter the water supply. They are inhaled and ingested. Effects of radiation poisoning include: hair loss, destruction of the thyroid gland, reduction of the blood’s lymphocyte count leading to leukaemia and lymphoma. Nausea, bloody vomiting and diarrhoea. Stillborn children. Malformed children. Sterility.

I am camped close to the perimeter fence tonight, my darlings.

On the other side of this fence, are ninety-six ground-launched US Tomahawk missiles.

Each one has four times the destructive power of the bomb that hit Hiroshima.

HELEN holds up a pair of bolt cutters.

I am now holding a pair of American-made, thirty-six-inch bolt cutters.

They like American things here.

She clicks off the Dictaphone and exits.

The LITTLE GIRL turns, sees us. She smiles.

Blood seeps from her gums.

The clock stops ticking. She laughs and runs off.

The space is filled with sound and bustling activity, chatter, songs, the crackle of campfires. Woman upon woman enters at speed. Some are men dressed as women. They stick or tie various objects to the fence, photos of children, baby clothes, flowers, tampons, peace slogans, feeding bottles, quicker and quicker they come until the fence is covered. A shopping trolley full of domestic necessities: cooking equipment, plastic sheeting, bowls of food are given out, someone gets a fire going, someone is washing up in a plastic tub, someone else drying. A chaotic, grubby ecosystem.

A female REPORTER enters. Mid-thirties, a whole punnet of plums in her mouth. She has a cameraman (GRAHAM) with her who can either be played, or simply addressed by her but remaining invisible to us. She surveys the camp with delighted disgust.

REPORTER. God. Dismal. Perfect. Shot of that tent, please, Graham.

MARGARET enters, firewood in her arms.

MARGARET. The wood’s got damp again. I said, didn’t I? / Am I mad or did I say – (To REPORTER.) You alright there?

The REPORTER smiles cursorily at her, nods, continues. Directing GRAHAM.

REPORTER. That one. The plastic nightmare. / Get a close-up of the mould on the sleeping bag.

MARGARET. Okedoke. Lovely job on the washing up, Helen – * anyone seen Helen?

HANNAH. Sent her for a nap.

REPORTER. *And I think, don’t you, some general establishing shots of the debris, a general sense of squalor would be nice. And faces, we must have faces, Graham, no! Not that one, she’s a bit, don’t you think? Bit urban. What about this lady here? In the chunky-knit?

The REPORTER continues sniffing round. She is regarded suspiciously by the women. She scribbles notes and prepares to address the camera. LORRAINE, seventies, enters, harassed.

LORRAINE. Margaret, sorry, can you play Solomon for a tick?

MARGARET. What’s the problem?

LORRAINE. Well, it’s the age-old whadyoucallit; Sonia’s saying it was decided she’d be chef ce soir, she’s all set on debuting her smoky bean bake, but – crisis – Jan and Jules say they were promised kitchen duties, they’ve spent the whole day foraging and they’re, I’m sorry to say, they’re peeved that Sonia seems to, in their words not mine, Margaret, ‘rule the effing roost’ where the daily operations of Violet-gate are concerned.

MARGARET. Well, there’s an obvious solution here, isn’t there –

LORRAINE. Let me stop you right there, Margaret, because I think I know what you’re about to say –

MARGARET. Why / don’t they all cook together –

LORRAINE. Why don’t they all cook together, exactly, well yes I did present this as an option to the ladies, but Sonia, bless her, reminded me that she’s currently working through the traumatic legacy of Keith’s abusive behaviour, both in an emotional, physical and sexual sense and as such, in her words again, Margaret, being ‘coerced into a threesome’ would stir up rather upsetting memories for her – and Jan and Jules, apparently, have trust issues with Sonia following the Trojan Mushroom debacle so –

MARGARET. Sorry, the / Trojan –

LORRAINE. I can’t get into it right now but I will say it might be worth reiterating to the women that food allergies are not to be trifled with – ha, ha! So to speak, now, matter in hand, how do you suggest we smooth the waters?

MARGARET. For pity’s – just bang their heads together and we’ll all go without dinner.

LORRAINE bursts out in hysterical laughter. Stops.

LORRAINE. No but seriously, Sonia has, to all intents and purposes, taken the only operational ladle hostage, which makes things a smidge more / expedient, what’s this?

MARGARET has brought out a coin from her pocket and handed it to LORRAINE.

MARGARET. Here.

REPORTER. Okay here, Graham? Okay.

Fluffs her hair a little in the (invisible)...