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    Of the Fields, Lately
    Of the Fields, Lately
    Of the Fields, Lately
    Ebook116 pages1 hour

    Of the Fields, Lately

    By David French

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    About this ebook

    A son returns after an absence of two years to find both his mother and family friend Wiff trying to sustain his father, Jacob. A heart attack has forced Jacob out of work, and he can't reconcile himself to his frightening situation. The characters all discover something about themselves under this pressure of imminent death.

    Of the Fields, Lately won the Chalmers Award in 1973.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHouse of Anansi Press
    Release dateMar 1, 1991
    ISBN9780887849077
    Of the Fields, Lately
    Author

    David French

    David French was one of Canada's best-known and critically acclaimed playwrights. He was one of the first inductees into the Newfoundland Arts Hall of Honour, and was an Officer of the Order of Canada. David French died in 2010.

    Read more from David French

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      Book preview

      Of the Fields, Lately - David French

      ACT ONE

      Scene One

      Limbo. Light up on BEN.

      BEN

      (to the audience) It takes many incidents to build a wall between two men, brick by brick. Sometimes you’re not aware of the building of the wall, and sometimes you are, though not always strong enough or willing enough to kick it down. It starts very early, as it did with my father and me, very early. And it becomes a pattern that is hard to break until the wall is made of sound brick and mortar, as strong as any my father ever built. Time would not level it. Only death.

      I don’t know if my father ever remembered one such incident. He never spoke of it to me, but I often thought it was the emotional corner-stone of the wall between us.

      Light up on JACOB.

      JACOB

      It was summer, 1952, and I had just come home from work, later than usual. It was going on nine in the evening, and as I stepped in the door, Mary said to me, Ain’t tonight the night Ben’s team plays for the championship?

      BEN

      He rushed out the door and down to the school-yard, the first game he had ever come to, and my mother put his supper in the oven, for later. . . I hadn’t reminded my father of the game. I was afraid he’d show up and embarrass me. Twelve years old, and ashamed of my old man. Ashamed of his dialect, his dirty overalls, his bruised fingers with the fingernails lined with dirt, his teeth yellow as old ivory. Most of all, his lunchpail, that symbol of the working man. No, I wanted a doctor for a father. A lawyer. At least a fireman. Not a carpenter. That wasn’t good enough. .. And at home my mother sat down to darn his socks and watch the oven. . . I remember stepping up to bat. The game was tied; it was the last of the ninth, with no one on base. Then I saw him sitting on the bench along third base. He grinned and waved, and gestured to the man beside him.

      JACOB (at game)

      That’s my son.

      BEN

      But I pretended not to see him. I turned to face the pitcher. And angry at myself, I swung hard on the first pitch, there was a hollow crack, and the ball shot low over the short-stop’s head for a double. Our next batter bunted and I made third. He was only a few feet away now, my father.

      JACOB

      Ben! Ben! Over here! Ben!

      BEN

      But I still refused to acknowledge him. Instead, I stared hard at the catcher, pretending concentration. And when the next pitch bounced between the catcher’s legs and into home screen, I slid home to win the game.

      JACOB

      His team-mates pounced on him and hefted him up on their shoulders and lugged him around the infield. A hero.

      BEN

      And there he was, jumping up and down, showing his teeth, excited as hell.

      JACOB

      ’Ben!’ I shouted my level best. ’Ben!’ And I seen him look my way . . . and then look off . . . (Light fades slowly on JACOB.)

      BEN

      And as the crowd broke up and our team stampeded out of the school-yard, cleats clicking and scraping blue sparks on the sidewalk, I looked back once through the wire fence and saw my father still sitting on the now-empty bench, alone, slumped over a little, staring at the cinders between his feet, just staring . . . I don’t know how long he stayed there, maybe till dark, but I do know he never again came down to see me play. At home that night he never mentioned the game or being there. He just went to bed unusually early . . .

      A hymn begins: Abide with Me, softly at first as BEN turns and walks into the kitchen, removes his shirt and drops it into the bushel basket beside the ironing board. The light has been slowly fading, and the hymn rising in volume as the light fades to black, then comes up onstage.

      The stage is divided into two rooms: living-room and kitchen. In addition there is a hallway with the front door offstage. A staircase leads up from the hallway to the second floor, to the bedrooms and bathroom, all unseen.

      The kitchen contains an ironing board, a small arborite table and four chairs, a stove, fridge, cupboards over the sink containing dishes, a wall telephone, a calendar and kitchen prayer. There is also a back door leading off the kitchen and a window.

      The living-room contains a bay window, a knick-knack cabinet, chesterfield and arm-chair, T. V. and radio. There are various family photographs around the room.

      It is a few minutes past seven, Sunday evening, January, 1961.

      JACOB sits on the chesterfield in the living-room, listening with a preoccupied look to the hymn which comes from a nearby radio. He wears casual clothes.

      MARY is in the kitchen, ironing. She sings along with the hymn. There is a bushel basket of clothing on the floor beside the ironing board, and now and then she helps herself to a shirt or blouse, irons and folds it. She wears black.

      MARY

      Remember that time Dot and me was crossing Water Street with Ben in the carriage? You and Wiff was behind.

      JACOB looks up and turns down the radio.

      The streetcar had stopped to let us cross, and that old car shot out from behind it and took the carriage right out of our hands.

      JACOB

      Can still hear the t’ump. And you screaming like a tea-kettle.

      MARY

      Poor Dot. She fainted dead away. T’ought

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