and I walk out.
[
Cello
]
And I come back here. I mean, what does she mean, LISTEN ? I’m always listening to him. I wish he’d talk to me, that’s all, instead of sawing away at that big hollow box from dawn till dusk. They ask every time down at Grief HQ, “Have you talked to David yet? Have you cried yet? If you cry, John, perhaps you can both move forward.” And I say, [
he knows he’s been wrong about this now, though
] “For the last time, David’s all right, he don’t need to talk to me, if he did, he would.”
[
Cello
]
I’m worn out with it. It wears you out, loving people and losing them, and trying to judge what’s best for the survivors. I mean, I’m just a bloke, how am I supposed to know how to comfort a kid who’s lost his mum? He didn’t sleep, you know, all the time she was in that hospice. He didn’t eat. He clung to her at the end; poor Kaff, it must of been heart-breaking to see him like that, [
it’s getting to him
] like his whole little life was being snuffed out.
[
The cello swells
]
I’m doing my best, Kaff. I been trying so hard not to push him. And all this time – I’m so stupid. [
Overwhelmed, starts to weep
] All this time he’s been telling me how he feels, hasn’t he? In the music. He’s been telling me how he feels and I wasn’t even listening!
[
He opens the door and calls, in distress
] David!
[
The cello stops
]
[
Softly
] Oh, David, David, I’m so sorry.
The Daughter
JUDY is clever, sharp, deeply defensive.
Scene One: afternoon TV in background
Dad keeps asking, “So who was it? Who was it, Judykins? Have you got a secret admirer?” So thank you, God, as Basil Fawlty used to say. Thank you SO much. I had just got back from my daily excursion to Mac Fisheries. I mean, I’m well aware it’s a Tesco Metro; I do know that. It’s just Daddy likes the old names – or perhaps he thinks I like the old names – anyway, it’s nobody’s business if we prefer to talk about James Walker’s and Lilly and Skinner’s. “Popping in to Timothy White’s for some more of your fly-away hair shampoo?” Daddy says. “You’ve got a boyfriend in there you’re not telling me about.” It’s nice to remember Timothy White’s. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. We don’t lead our lives for other people.
So, I’d just got back from Mac Fisheries, you see, and I’d put the bags on the breakfast bar ready to make the usual Wednesday lunch – frozen beefburgers, mash, baked beans; we eat very sensibly, Daddy and I – when the telephone rang. I hate the phone, myself. We only keep it on because when I last inquired about disconnection – when I got that last nasty phone call from Roger – the GPO said they would be “obliged” to take away our smart Trimphone and couldn’t guarantee we’d get the same model again if we ever wanted to reconnect. “You won’t get one of these again, sweetheart, these went out with the ark,” the man joked, so I told him as far as I was concerned he could go out with the ark himself, and we’d keep the phone. Daddy wanted to keep it, I remember – not that he has anyone to call. We did his eightieth last month, and it was just us two. But he declared he’d pay the bill himself, and has done ever since. It comes in his name; I don’t even see it. It’s amazing the stubbornness of the old.
And now it was ringing. Trilling. You might say warbling. We both looked at it, and looked at each other, but in the end I answered. “Hello, this is St Margaret’s 2622.” “Judith!” said the person at the other end. I knew I shouldn’t have said yes. But I was so relieved it wasn’t him that I didn’t think. “Jude, it’s me!” this familiar voice said. “It’s Beverley! Remember? From Richmond High!”
I sat down. “It’s me! Bev!” she said again. Daddy was signalling at me, and I didn’t know what to do, so I put my head down and let my hair swing forward like a curtain right around me and the receiver
[
Cello
]
And I come back here. I mean, what does she mean, LISTEN ? I’m always listening to him. I wish he’d talk to me, that’s all, instead of sawing away at that big hollow box from dawn till dusk. They ask every time down at Grief HQ, “Have you talked to David yet? Have you cried yet? If you cry, John, perhaps you can both move forward.” And I say, [
he knows he’s been wrong about this now, though
] “For the last time, David’s all right, he don’t need to talk to me, if he did, he would.”
[
Cello
]
I’m worn out with it. It wears you out, loving people and losing them, and trying to judge what’s best for the survivors. I mean, I’m just a bloke, how am I supposed to know how to comfort a kid who’s lost his mum? He didn’t sleep, you know, all the time she was in that hospice. He didn’t eat. He clung to her at the end; poor Kaff, it must of been heart-breaking to see him like that, [
it’s getting to him
] like his whole little life was being snuffed out.
[
The cello swells
]
I’m doing my best, Kaff. I been trying so hard not to push him. And all this time – I’m so stupid. [
Overwhelmed, starts to weep
] All this time he’s been telling me how he feels, hasn’t he? In the music. He’s been telling me how he feels and I wasn’t even listening!
[
He opens the door and calls, in distress
] David!
[
The cello stops
]
[
Softly
] Oh, David, David, I’m so sorry.
The Daughter
JUDY is clever, sharp, deeply defensive.
Scene One: afternoon TV in background
Dad keeps asking, “So who was it? Who was it, Judykins? Have you got a secret admirer?” So thank you, God, as Basil Fawlty used to say. Thank you SO much. I had just got back from my daily excursion to Mac Fisheries. I mean, I’m well aware it’s a Tesco Metro; I do know that. It’s just Daddy likes the old names – or perhaps he thinks I like the old names – anyway, it’s nobody’s business if we prefer to talk about James Walker’s and Lilly and Skinner’s. “Popping in to Timothy White’s for some more of your fly-away hair shampoo?” Daddy says. “You’ve got a boyfriend in there you’re not telling me about.” It’s nice to remember Timothy White’s. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. We don’t lead our lives for other people.
So, I’d just got back from Mac Fisheries, you see, and I’d put the bags on the breakfast bar ready to make the usual Wednesday lunch – frozen beefburgers, mash, baked beans; we eat very sensibly, Daddy and I – when the telephone rang. I hate the phone, myself. We only keep it on because when I last inquired about disconnection – when I got that last nasty phone call from Roger – the GPO said they would be “obliged” to take away our smart Trimphone and couldn’t guarantee we’d get the same model again if we ever wanted to reconnect. “You won’t get one of these again, sweetheart, these went out with the ark,” the man joked, so I told him as far as I was concerned he could go out with the ark himself, and we’d keep the phone. Daddy wanted to keep it, I remember – not that he has anyone to call. We did his eightieth last month, and it was just us two. But he declared he’d pay the bill himself, and has done ever since. It comes in his name; I don’t even see it. It’s amazing the stubbornness of the old.
And now it was ringing. Trilling. You might say warbling. We both looked at it, and looked at each other, but in the end I answered. “Hello, this is St Margaret’s 2622.” “Judith!” said the person at the other end. I knew I shouldn’t have said yes. But I was so relieved it wasn’t him that I didn’t think. “Jude, it’s me!” this familiar voice said. “It’s Beverley! Remember? From Richmond High!”
I sat down. “It’s me! Bev!” she said again. Daddy was signalling at me, and I didn’t know what to do, so I put my head down and let my hair swing forward like a curtain right around me and the receiver
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