Drama

Friday Tea Time, Sunday Dinner
(With apologies to Ripping Yarns)

Characters:
REG, BERT and FRED (resentful proletarians). VERA (REG's wife)

SCENE ONE

REG and BERT walk slowly side by side and stop.
REG: …they grind you down, chew you up and spit you out.
BERT: Tha' gets spat out.
REG: Then they sling you on the sodding scrapheap and expect you to be grateful for their pigging hand-outs.
BERT: The scrapheap, eh Reg?
REG and BERT start to walk again.
REG: They'll not consign me to the scrapheap, Bert.
BERT: They won't… I can see that.
REG: You'll not find me languishing on no scrapheap.
EXIT REG and BERT.
CURTAIN

SCENE TWO

REG is sitting on top of a tall pair of wooden stepladders; behind him a large painted sheet depicts an enormous heap of scrap, piled high with bits of metal sticking out at various angles and a sign reading BILLETS NON-FERROUS METALS.
BERT is walking along aimlessly, looking down at his feet, his hands in his pockets.
BERT: (looks up) Reg? Reg!
REG: Bert!
BERT: Reg! What happened brother?
REG: I only got thrown on the scrapheap, that's what.
BERT: But I thought… I mean how?
REG: A bloke came round with a clipboard Friday tea time and told me to get me cards.
BERT: A clipboard eh?
REG: Next thing I know, they've gone and thrown me on the sodding scrapheap.
BERT: After all you said as well.
REG: I know.
BERT: What will you do?
REG: Wait here, 'til someone comes and rescues me.
BERT: Good thinking, Reg.
BERT starts to walk off.
REG: Bert!
BERT: What?
REG: Aren't you going to rescue me?
BERT: Oh yeah… of course, brother.
REG: Well hurry up will you.
BERT: I'll go and get help.
REG: It's bloody murder is this, languishing on the scrapheap.
BERT sets off at a dash. He re-appears a moment later with FRED.
BERT: (pointing at REG) Look Fred, its Reg.
FRED: By the Christ, Reg. What happened?
REG: Can you not see what happened?
BERT: He's only gone and got himself thrown on the scrapheap, Fred.
FRED: Christ, that's bad.
REG: Are you going to get me down?
FRED and BERT help REG down. REG dusts himself off.
FRED: Are you alright, Reg?
REG: Course I'm not pigging alright. I've just been thrown on the scrapheap haven't I?
FRED: What will you do now Reg?
REG: Get even with the bastards, that's what.
FRED: I see.
REG: Scrapheap or no scrapheap. They'll not grind me down.
REG dusts himself down again.
REG: The bloody indignity of it.
REG EXITS. BERT and FRED follow him.
CURTAIN DOWN

SCENE THREE

REG, BERT and FRED are in a pub, each with a pint. They sit at a small round table, with six or seven empty bottles of beer on it. They are in sombre, reflective mood. There is a tense silence. Nothing is said. The men sip their pints.
BERT consults his watch.
BERT: Blimey, it's gone 2pm.
REG: You what?
BERT: We've missed last orders.
REG: We've bloody missed last orders? Pigging hell, how did that happen?
BERT: Sorry Reg. It was my round as well.
REG: Can this day get any worse?
BERT: Not for you Reg, no.
REG, BERT and FRED all take a drink of their pint and put it down on the table at the same time. There is silence again.
BERT: Still… we've got 10 minutes drinking up time.
FRED: And a further 10 minutes to vacate the premises…
REG: Should the landlord choose to exercise his discretion in that regard.
They all take a drink of beer again in unison. There is silence.
BERT: Where did it all go wrong, eh?
FRED: You what?
BERT: Where did it all go wrong — that's what I want to know?
REG: I'll tell you where it all went bloody wrong.
BERT: Thanks Reg… I was hoping you might know.
REG: It was when we started getting fancy ideas, way above our station.
FRED: How do you mean?
REG: That was when it started to go wrong. Folk should have been happy with free prescriptions and Council housing, but no, they went and got all aspirational.
BERT: Aspiration's not for the likes of us.
REG: Over my dead body will I become aspirational.
BERT: Careful, Reg. Remember what happened when you said you wouldn't get thrown on the scrapheap?
REG: (gets to his feet, angry) Do you think I need pigging reminding, eh? Eh?
BERT: I were only thinking of your welfare.
REG: Well don't. Welfare's a dirty word round here.
REG sits down. The three of them each take a drink. There is silence.
BERT: You know who I blame?
Silence. No-one answers.
BERT: I said, do you know who I blame?
FRED: Go on, who?
BERT: The Tories.
FRED: The Tories?
BERT: Correct, the Tories.
REG: Don't talk to me about the bloody Tories.
FRED: How long have they been in power now?
BERT: Hmm… 35 years is it?
REG: (bitterly) 35 years eh? How the pigging hell did that happen?
FRED: We should never have got rid of Jim Callaghan.
REG: Don't talk to me about Jim Callaghan.
BERT: What's the matter with you Reg?
REG: Nothing's up with me, why?
BERT: We can't talk to you about the Tories. We can't talk to you about Jim Callaghan. We can't talk about the scrapheap…
REG having taken a drink of his beer, spurts some out. Wipes his mouth.
He gets to his feet, seething, and storms out.
FRED: Come on Bert sup up, you'll be late for your dinner.
BERT and FRED EXIT.
CURTAIN

SCENE FOUR

REG's wife VERA is at a stove with a frying pan. She wears a pinafore and headscarf and smokes an untipped cigarette. REG walks in, hangs his coat up, says nothing and sits down at the table.
VERA: You're home then?
REG: I am that.
VERA: And where have you been?
REG: I got thrown on the scrapheap if you really must know.
VERA: Ee, lovey.
VERA goes over to him, stands behind, puts her arm around his chest, goes to give him a kiss, but stands back before she does, noticing the smell of beer.
VERA: Funny sort of scrapheap was it?
REG: No. What do you mean? It was just a normal one.
VERA: I mean a scrapheap where they serve drink.
REG: It wasn't like that.
VERA: Weren't it?
REG: No. It were piggin' murder until Bert and Fred came and rescued me and took me to the pub.
VERA: Well yer dinner's ruined.
REG: He's a good mate is Bert, rescuing me like that.
VERA: Dinner's in the oven.
REG: I could still be languishing. Languishing on the scrapheap, if it wasn't for him.
VERA: Are you going to eat?
REG: Get it out for us would you love. I'm starving.
VERA goes over to the stove, dollops the burnt contents in frying pan on a plate.
She goes over to the table carrying the plate with a few very badly burnt small items on it.
She puts it down in front of him.
REG: It's burned.
VERA: I know.
REG: What the pigging hell is that?
VERA: Vol au vent and petit pois.
REG: What's wrong with pie and peas like we normally have?
VERA: It IS pie and peas, but in the French style.
REG: They're out of order them pigging French.
VERA: I'll chuck it in the bin then, you ungrateful sod.
REG: I'm expected to eat that for me Sunday dinner?
VERA: It were a decent enough size when it went in the oven.
VERA sits down at the table, opposite REG. He looks at his plate, moving the burnt pieces of food around with a fork.
VERA: Anyway, I've got some news.
REG: What have I said about aspiration? I might as well talk to me'self.
VERA: I'm going to have a baby.
REG: You wouldn't wish the scrapheap on… news?
VERA: Yes.
REG: What news?
VERA: I'm going to have a baby.
REG: You what?
VERA: Yes. A baby.
REG: No. NO!
VERA: Yes.
REG: (resigned) We'll bring him up proper.
VERA: Does it matter that it's not yours?
REG: How do you mean, not mine?
VERA: You're not the father.
REG gets to his feet, pushing the chair over behind him as he does.
REG: Well who in pigging hell's name is the father then?
VERA :It's Bert.
REG: What?
VERA: Bert, Bert, it's Bert's.
REG: Bert?
VERA: Yes
REG: The… the two-faced get. Going behind my back like that. I'll bloody brain him for this.
VERA: Sorry Reg.
REG: First that business with him not warning me it was last orders. And now this.
VERA: It won't happen again.
REG: Too right it won't happen again, I'll not trust him to give advance warning of last orders again. Ever. He can forget it.
VERA: He rescued you from the scrapheap Reg, you told me yourself he did that.
REG: Can we not leave the scrapheap out of it?
REG grabs his coat and goes out of the door. VERA goes to the door, shouting after him.
VERA: Reg. Reg! How about we call the baby Bert, if it's a boy, I mean?
CURTAIN.
ENDS

Greg Challis