Pillion1

PILLION

A Play

Paul Copley

Agent Margaret Ramsay Ltd.

01 240 0691.

(now Tom Erhardt at Casarotto Ramsay Assocs. Ltd

020 7287 4450)

The Characters Original Cast

Fenton Marshall 29, Yorkshireman Edward Peel

Celia Marshall 24, Yorkshire girl, his sister Lynne Miller

Mary Waite 15, Yorkshire girl Caroline Embling

Chips 18, Yorkshireman Kevin Moreton

Vincent 22, Scotsman Billy McColl

Roderick 24, Yorkshireman Niall Padden

First produced at the Bush Theatre October 1977

Directed by Chris Parr

SCENE ONE

An old stable, now used as a motorcycle garage and workshop.

A Friday evening in September, 1976.

It is a stone built shed, the whitewash has almost all flaked away. Against the wall stage left is a long, old, heavy workbench, with strong shelving beneath and a vice at the downstage end. In the back wall stage left is a high window, and in the corner stage left is an old sink with a cold tap above it. The wide door to the garden is in the stage right wall, and downstage of it is another window, set at the normal height. Beneath this window is a smaller but sturdy workbench, with shelves and drawers. The floor is of stone flags which are encrusted with oil and sawdust.

There are three electric sockets, one on each wall.

The large workbench stage left is untidy, strewn with tools, oilcans, engine parts and ‘work in progress’. On the upstage end of the bench is an old Dansette autochange record player and a box of forty-five records.

The smaller workbench stage right is very neat and orderly. Near the window is a well ordered tool rack. Near the door, on the bench, is an old wireless set with a ‘light—up’ dial. Above the bench near the window, is an exploded view diagram of the engine and cycle parts of a 1947 Triumph Speed Twin motorbike.

Near the bench, on the floor, is a large tin sluice bath full of dirty paraffin or solvent. The 5TA (Speed Twin) primary chaincase is immersed in it. Underneath the bench is a new 6 volt battery.

Around the shed are ageing pictures and posters of race meetings and stars — Hailwood, Minter, Read, Vincent, and their machines.

By the sink is a collection of cracked mugs and cups, an electric kettle and a can of Swarfega. On both benches are motorbike magazines and newspapers.

Hanging on nails and stacked on shelves at the back of the shed are pieces of old horse harness and buckled motorbike parts and equipment — mudgards, number plates, handlebars, wheels, etc.

Along the back of the shed are stacked a number of large cardboard packing cases, marked -

‘Sulpholine Powder and Chemical Co.

Two Dales Works’

Directly in front of these is a wooden plinth, a raised workbench/rostrum, two foot high, built from old, strong timbers. On the rostrum is a 1947 Triumph Speed Twin motorbike in the process of being rebuilt. The tank, headlamp, silencers, front wheel, and the primary chaincase are all missing.

It is dark outside. The shed is lit by three bare bulbs, one over each bench, and a large inspection lamp which is fitted with a half reflector. It is fed from the power socket near the door next to the light switch, the electric lead trails across the floor to the lamp, which is clipped to the handlebars of the bike..

The door of the shed is closed.

FENTON is fitting the sparking plug to the LH cylinder of the bike. He is 29, an ageing rocker. He wears his hair Elvis style. He wears dirty, tight, pale-blue jeans, well-worn motorcycle boots, torn jersey under an old black leather jacket with some studs, and fringing down the sleeve seams. His blue full-face helmet has ‘Bonneville’ expertly painted on each side. It is on his bench stage right.

RODERICK is busy at the workbench stage left. In front of the bench is a 1966 Triumph Twenty-One bike. He is working on the gearbox from it. He works away steadily through much of the scene, often automatically returning to it. He is 24, tall, heavily built. He wears a thick jumper, corduroy trousers, and wellington boots turned over at the top. His flying jacket and plain white ‘jet’ type helmet are laid on the back of the bench.

FENTON connects the high tension lead to the spark plug and tickles the carburettor to ensure that there is petrol in the float chamber.

RODERICK watches him, still working.

FENTON boots the kickstart. Nothing happens.

FENTON: (under his breath) Come on.

He kicks the bike again. Nothing.

FENTON: (musing) Wonder if they sent me the right jets for this carburettor.

RODERICK: Where’d yer get ‘em?

FENTON: Bloke at Allerton Bywater. I sent for ‘em. Second ‘and. Couldn’t get ‘em in the town.

Pause

FENTON adjusts the carburettor settings very meticulously.

RODERICK: What about the chap from Castleford? ‘Eard that?

FENTON: (absently) No.

RODERICK (deadpan) A young lad called Nick from Cass

Laid a good thing down in the grass

With a finger so slim

He tickled ‘er quim

Till it foamed like a bottle of Bass.

Neither has stopped working. FENTON kicks the engine over again. Nothing.

FENTON: Wasn’t Cass.

RODERICK : Eh?

FENTON : It were Madras. A young man from Madras.

Pause

FENTON adjusts the carburettor. RODERICK hits his finger with the hammer.

RODERICK Shit. Cass I heard.

Pause.

FENTON: There was a young lady from Horton, ‘Ad one long tit and a short’un,

RODERICK : (cuts him off) Dee-da dee-da, Dee-da dee-da, And a fart like a five ‘undred Norton.

FENTON swings the kickstart. This time there is a large flashback through the air intake on the carburettor. They both whoop.

FENTON: Heh hey Bastard. (to the bike) Thankyou. That’s all I wanted to know.

RODERICK: Old bugger’s still alive an’ kickin’ then, literally.

FENTON: Course she is.

FENTON climbs down from the bike and walks over to the paraffin bath. During the following he carefully removes the chaincase and wipes it down with rags from under the bench.

RODERICK : What meks ‘em kick like that?

FENTON : Just the timin’. Soon sort that out. (demonstrates with his fist) It’s firin’ too early. Bit too far advanced. The spark.

RODERICK : Advanced ‘e sez. Three months ago it were a pile o’ scrap.

FENTON : (fondly) Never. Wait till I’ve breathed on that ignition laddie. She’ll be the fastest five ‘undred this side o’ Daytona beach.

RODERICK : Gerroutovit, who are you tryin’ to.....

FENTON: Sssssh (points with his thumb at the bike) Might hear your

RODERICK puts down his work and wanders over to watch FENTON, busy with the chaincase.

RODERICK: God. That’s goin’a tek some elbow grease. Mek it look owt like.

FENTON: Solvol Autosol Roderick lad.

RODERICK : Aye. An’ a lot o’ bloody elbow grease.

Pause. RODERICK watches.

RODERICK: Does tha know Gordon Thingy, our tractor driver?

FENTON: Yeh, well A know who yer mean like.

RODERICK: Him an’ t’ boss went on a long weekend to Amsterdam. Fo’tnit sin’.

FENTON: Yeh?

RODERICK: Ah. They ‘ad a reight time bi t’sound on it. Pegasus Winter Break it wor. (Slight pause.) Shoulda heard some o’t tales Gordon come back wi’.

FENTON: Yeh?

RODERICK: They saw all these films lad. Thanows, like blew films. Screwin’. An’blokes, actually… thaknows.

FENTON: What? Comin’ their cocoa?

RODERICK: Ah! An’ they actually saw this bloody live show, lad. A couple, havin’ it away. Live, thaknows. Shaggin’. Can tha credit it?

FENTON: They must have some flamin’ bottle.

Pause.

RODERICK: Gordon reckoned it weren’t all that expensive like.

FENTON: What?

RODERICK: Well yersee, it’s a package do. All-in job.

FENTON: Bloody sounds like it. (grins) Look, if yer after some’dy to go to Amsterdam wi’, don’t look at me.

RODERICK: (turns upstage towards the bike) No, I din’t really mean.......

FENTON: If I go to Holland, which I can’t afford anyroad, it’ll be to t’T.T. at Assen. (Slight pause.) Might call in at Amsterdam on the way back like. Just to blimp the canals. (He grins.)

RODERICK: Yer’ll nivver afford anything ever again, you, money you’ve spent on this. (He walks along, examining the bike.) Havin’ t’ wheels rebuilt musta cost a fortune. Why didn’t yer just let it fade away?

FENTON grins to himself.

RODERICK: Eh? Brass you’ve gone through yer coulda bought a bran’ new Yammy. One o’ them big five ‘undred singles. (He idly twists the twistgrip and watches the needle lifting in the carburettor. He notices something in the chain area.) Ey Fent. Where’d. you get this?

FENTON: Eh?

RODERICK: Where’d you get this primary sprocket? I thought it were knackered.

FENTON: I ‘ad it cut in town. Nathan Tool and Gauge.

RODERICK : (disbelief) ‘Ow much did that rush yer?

FENTON: We ‘ad some other work to send ‘em. Up. at the garage. I shoved it in wi’ that. (winks) You can do that yersee, when yer t’ foreman!

RODERICK: Jammy sod. (He moves round the bike.) Is it worth it though? Thirty year owd bike. An’ t’ design must be..... how old’s t’ design?

FENTON: Oh, forty years.

RODERICK: (exasperated) Christ man.....

FENTON: (quietly) Course it’s worth it.

RODERICK: (matter of fact) I dun’t know why you bother. If tha gets it to go over eighty it’ll shake itsself -to bits.

FENTON: (not to be drawn) Gerrout wi’ thi.

RODERICK: Gerra Four-‘Undred-Four man. Smooth as silk. What’s this got, to save itssen from t’ scrap ‘eap?

FENTON: I’ll tell yer Roderick - it’s got some history, an’ it’s got some character. (he grins) It’s not quiet, an’ leakproof an’ civilised. (he nods to the door) It’s like me Bonneville out there. It’s got some bollocks.

RODERICK picks up the Triumph handbook from the bike. He waves it.

RODERICK: Yeh, why ‘ave two o’ the buggers? One bloody Triumph’s plenty.

FENTON: ‘Cos I want a bike I ‘ave to master. I’ve got to know, inside out. It’ll not go accordin’ to that book. Tek my Bonneville on to just seven thousand revs in third, an’ it nearly changes up itsself. That’s near enough a hundred an’ five - in third yernow! Meks mincemeat of the Honda fer acceleration. (He laughs.) Don’t look like that. Yours is alright innit? Reliable. Vibration free. Disc brake. Helmet lock. An’ it’s fast. Right?

RODERICK: An’ it’s Jap Crap, eh?

FENTON: (laughs) It’s a good bike yer twit. I know they’re good bikes. But, er, this one, (Yank accent) we—ell, she gat soooul, man!

They laugh.

RODERICK: Daft bugger. (FENTON moves the chaincase over to the bike, and starts to clean it with Solvol AutosoI paste.) Yer’ll ‘ave “World Abaat Uz” on to yer. Ancient British Remains!

FENTON: Alive an’ kickin’ lad. Tried an’ tested.

RODERICK: Yer bloody nuts. (Pause. He turns his attention to the packing cases, walking along, looking at the labels.) I say, what is all this gear in ‘ere? (He knocks idly on one of the boxes.) Eh? (he reads) ‘Sulpholine Powder an’ Chemical Co.’ Eh? Whorrisit Fent?

FENTON: Me father’s.

RODERICK: Whorrisit though? Gunpowder?

FENTON: Neow is it ‘ell.

RODERICK: Talcum Powder?

FENTON: No sorta powder in particular.

Slight pause.

RODERICK: Eh?

FENTON: It’s chemicals an’ that. Yer know, Potassium Permanganate, all that.

RODERICK: What, for t’ garden?

FENTON: No.

RODERICK: What for then? What’s this? Fullers Earth. Kaolin Powder?

FENTON: Mi grandad used to be a… er, well, like an animal doctor. He used ter...

RODERICK: I never knew thi grandad were a vet.

FENTON: ‘E wasn’t a vet. ‘E used to mek up medecines an’ that. Pills, ointments. Poultices. Sorta natural stuff. Remedies, some of’em.

RODERICK: (impressed) Is that what thy grandad did?

FENTON: Yeh. ‘E used. to peddle ‘em round the farms. Not just round ‘ere. Took ‘em all over. Used to go into Cheshire. Up as far as Kendal an’ that. All through t’ Wolds, an up to Pickerin’, Malton an’ theer.

RODERICK: Well, I’ll go to bloody ‘ell. “Cattle- Spice man”, eh?

FENTON: Yeh. Had all ‘is own recipes. Well, formulas like. Clever feller, lad.

RODERICK: (remembers) Oooooh bloody ‘ell fire! “Marshalls Colic Drench For Cattle”.

FENTON: What?

RODERICK: (laughing) There’s a big, mucky, brown bottle, on t’ winder sill in t’ hay loft above t’ cow byre. Up at the farm. That’s whorrit sez, on t’ label. “Marshalls Colic Stuff”. Wor that thi grandad?

FENTON: Yeh.

RODERICK: Eee! Yer wouldn’t credit it, would yer?

Pause.

FENTON: S’where I get me name from, yersee? From me grandad. If you look on that bottle, bottom of t’ label, it’ll say ‘Fenton Marshall P,C.S.’. That were ‘im.

Slight pause.

RODERICK: I think that’s great, that. Yer don’t expect it so near ‘ome, some road.

FENTON: What?

RODERICK: Eh? Famous folk like.

FENTON: (grins) Oh well, ‘e were well known reight enough. On t’ farms. From Derbyshire right to the tip of the North Ridin’, an into County Durham. (Slight pause.) ‘E made some brass an’ all. That’s ‘ow come we’ve got this place.

RODERICK: What? Thi grandad’s money?

FENTON: Yeh, me. dad could never ‘ave bought this place. Highways Department wages don’t buy big ‘ouses wi’ gardens, do they? (RODERICK shrugs non-comniittally.) Me grandad lad. “Three Ridings Aids to Good Husbandry”. S’what it said on ‘is handbills.

RODERICK: Great.

FENTON: Right character ‘e wor an’ all. Used to tell me about these fantastic summers ‘e had, ridin’ round peddlin’ his gear… well, preparations. On horseback yersee, with big saddlebags. Sometimes he took me gran’ma, she used to ride pillion. They used to put up at local inns an’ pubs. Aye lad, everybody knew ‘em.

RODERICK: Goin’ round on a horse!

FENTON Yep, then ‘e got a pony an’ trap. Then me granny died an’ ‘e got a van. New ‘un. Jowett. 1932. Used to tek me dad round with ‘im then.

Pause.

RODERICK: When did ‘e get this spot then?

FENTON: Dun’t know, Before t’war sometime. It were t’owd vicarage. Plenty o’ room fer ‘is horse, an’ bikes an’ van an’ that.

RODERICK: I can’t remember him at all.

FENTON: Died in 1960.

Pause. RODERICK moves back to his work at the bench.

RODERICK : What’s thi father want wi’ that lot then Fent?

FENTON: Er.....we got a letter from that Sulpholine gang in Derby. They said they were givin’ up, an’ if we wanted owt we’d better order it, sharp.

RODERICK puzzles on this.

RODERICK: What’s ‘e goin’ to do with it?

FENTON: Me dads goin’ to mek ‘em up. He went through all me grandad’s old books, an’ found out what the most successful formulas were. T’ best preparations. An ‘e ordered the chemicals to mek ‘em up.

RODERICK: Thi grandad’s med’cines?

FENTON: Yep. (Pause) Well, ‘e’s gettin.’ too old fer’t tarmaccin’ game, diggin’ an’ doin’. An’ ‘e reckons most farmers will jump at the chance o’ gettin’ hold o’ some of ‘Marshall’s Aids’, like.’

RODERICK: Eh?

FENTON: Aye. ‘E’ll sell ‘em round the farms. In his car boot.

Pause.

RODERICK: E’ll get a bloody shock.

FENTON: How do you mean?

RODERICK: ‘E will. Nobody’ll buy that stuff. Our boss’ll not touch it fer a start off.

Slight pause.

FENTON: You’re t’ cow man now, aren’t you?

RODERICK Well, I won’t touch it either. Them days are gone man.

FENTON: What bloody days?

RODERICK: Hit an’ miss med’cine. We’ve got controls now Fent. Milk Marketin’ board, tuberculin testin’, all that. If a beast has a bad foot, vet comes an’ fits a properly designed dressin’. A waterproof dressin’. We don’t start rippin’ owd shirts up, an’ stuffin’ Kaolin Poultice up its hoof. It do as much harm as good. All t’ shit an’ that.

FENTON: Yeh, OK. Me father’s not daft yer know.

Pause.

RODERICK: What I’m on about is.......

FENTON: Look, he’ll only sell what’s effective, keep what’s still good. (Slight pause.) He’ll sell what’ll sell, right?

RODERICK: Nivver mek a bloody livin’, that’s fer sure.

Pause. They work on.

FENTON: Some o’t owd ways are still t’best yer know.

RODERICK: (quietly) Huh.

FENTON: Proves it anyway.

RODERICK: What does?

FENTON: That new ‘ealth shop down the village. ‘Everything Organically grown’ an’ that. Allus full o’ folk.

RODERICK: That proves nowt. (Slight pause.) That’s jus’ the novelty.

FENTON: Novelty me arse. Tried an’ tested Roderick lad.

They look at each other and finally grin.

RODERICK: Aye well. Same as me auntie sez. We’ll agree to differ.

FENTON: Gaaa!! How are yer differin’ wi’ that gearbox?

RODERICK: Slow but sure. Gerrit all put back together bi next week. Try an’ sell it then.

FENTON: I thought that were yer brother’s bike.

RODERICK: Shurrup man. ‘E dun’t need it, e’s never ‘ere. An’ ‘e doesn’t need the brass neether. They’ve put ‘im on international runs now. ‘E get’s all over t’shop in a bloody gret Volvo. Sleeper cab, stereo, power steerin’. We nivver see ‘im. (Pause. They continue to work.) Don’t you ever get fed up wi’ all the lads in the village usin’ this place? Pickin’ yer brains like? Usin yer gear an’ tools an’ that?

FENTON: No.

Slight pause.

RODERICK: Does tha want a fag?

FENTON: Good idea.

RODERICK puts down his work and produces 20 Embassy tipped from his pocket. Neither cleans his hands, so oil transfers itsself liberally to the cigarettes. Roderick squats beside FENTON who continues working between smoking.

RODERICK : There y’re are.

RODERICK lights them with dirty matches.

FENTON: Ta.

They smoke.

RODERICK : What are we goin’ to do when t’ shed goes?

FENTON: I dunno.

RODERICK: Shed will go, will it?

FENTON: Yep. I’ll ‘ave ter build another I suppose. Further up the garden, nearer the house.

RODERICK: (looking round) Yer can’t imagine this not bein’ ‘ere, can yer?

FENTON looks round too.

FENTON: No, yer can’t really.

RODERICK: Will yer get compensation?

FENTON: Yerwhat?

RODERICK: Does... er… council compensate yer? Like fer the shed as well? As well as a lump off yer garden?

FENTON: Dunno. S’pect they will do.

RODERICK: They bloody well ought to do when yer think about it. It’s a National Institution, this place.

They laugh.

FENTON: Time is it?

RODERICK: (checks watch) Nearly eight o’clock. Chippy comin’?

FENTON: Should be.

FENTON starts to fit the chaincase. RODERICK automatically holds the case whilst FENTON fits the bolts.

FENTON: Ye - eh. That’s looking better. (He starts to screw in the bolts with an

Allen key.) I got a new battery for it today. It’s there under t’ bench.

RODERICK throws it a glance.

FENTON: Must remember to bring some distilled water from the garage.

RODERICK: Use. tap water man.

FENTON: It’s a bran’ new.battery, yer bugger.,

Slight pause.

RODERICK: Stone trough then. (He lets go the chaincase, holding it is no longer necessary.) In t’ field. Back o’ t’ shed. (He points with his thumb.)

FENTON: Bloody Wazokl It’s a new battery. I’m not puttin’ owd trough water in it. It wants pure stuff.

RODERICK: That’s pure, in that trough.

FENTON: Eh?

RODERICK: Distilled water.

FENTON: Distilled weasel-watter!

RODERICK: Rain water’s pure. S’only if it touches metal that it’s impure. When yer distil water, all you do is boil it, an’ get steam. An’ then condense the steam.

FENTON: (tetchy) A know that.

RODERICK: (seriously) Well. The process of rain bein’ made, an’ fallin’, is just the same. The wind evaporates the water from the rivers, an er... t’sea an’ lakes an’ that. So, the water goes up an’ up into the atmosphere, as water vapour, yersee?

FENTON: Ooooh.

RODERICK: And forms clouds. Like steam. Right? Right, that’s evaporation. An’ then er....cold air comes an’.....

FENTON: ‘Ell fire. Brain like yours lad, yer should be in a bigger town. Somewhere like ‘Eckmondwike.

RODERICK: (not to put off) Cold air comes, like a cold front, and the water vapour turns back to water. Condensation. The water falls back to earth as rain. Pure water. Into that trough for one thing. Right? Evaporation and condensation equals distillation, alright? Rain is distilled water. An’ that trough’s full of it. (Slight pause.) Get some o’ that; fill yer battery. Perfect. (Slight pause.) Only mek sure there’s nowt organic in it. Same as cow shit, owt like that. (FENTON guffaws with laughter.) What’re you laughin’ at now?

FENTON: Nowt. Ey up, who’s this?

A van can be heard turning into the drive. Its progress towards the shed is smooth at first, then we hear it mount the grass and bump at speed across the lawn. We see the headlights through the window stage right. The van stops very near the shed. RODERICK and FENTON have moved nearer to the window.

FENTON: Vincent, the mad sod.

The engine is switched off followed by the lights. Slamming doors, running feet.

RODERICK: I’m capped that van’s still runnin’.

The shed door slams open. Enter VINCENT. He is 22, medium height, stocky and Scottish. He is wearing jeans and plimsolls, polo neck sweater and capacious donkey jacket. He is followed closely by CHIPS, who is small, 18 years old, wears specs and is generally quite naive. He wears a PVC motorbike jacket, conventional Belstaff type, over his jumper and cord jeans. He is carrying a full-face white crash helmet and a large newspaper parcel of fish and chips. VINCENT whoops loudly, claps everyone on the back in excitement.

VINCENT: (shouting) Are we all here?

RODERICK: (entering into it) Yeh, we’re all here.

VINCENT: Right. Friday night crease. (In a flurry of movement, he herds everyone centre stage, in front of the bike. He intones as a military command…) Friday Nigh-eeeet… Friday night INSTAAAANT… Wait for it…! INSTAAAAANT....CREASE!!

They all simultaneously howl with manic laughter. Real laughter takes over, and they all laugh, loud and long. VINCENT orchestrates it, and as the laughter reaches another crescendo, he signals for them all to stop. There is silence for an instant, then they all explode into the aftermath of individual giggles, which gradually subside.

FENTON: Who told thi to park thi van on t’ lawn?

VINCENT is lighting a cigarette with a flashy lighter.

VINCENT: (derisive) Lawn! You’re bloody jokin’ are ye no? (he exhales the smoke) I’ve got Chippy’s moped in the back.

FENTON: Oh What’s up with it, Chips?

CHIPS: I don’t know, jus stopped. Will yer ‘ave a look at it Fent?

FENTON: Yes. Don’t look so sad man. (He laughs, shakes his head at CHIPS) Are you goin’ to hand that parcel round or what?

CHIPS: Course.

CHIPS opens the parcel and hands out a packet of chips to everyone.

VINCENT: Hey, ther’s no bloody fish. What’s th good of a fish supper wi’out the fish?

CHIPS: (embarrassed) ‘E only let me have one fish.

He eats a small piece.

RODERICK: Who thi uncle?

VINCENT: Stingy old bastard.

RODERICK: Give us a bit o’ fish Chippy.

FENTON: Let ‘im eat it. Looks like he needs it.

VINCENT: Do we owe you anything Chips?

CHIPS: No, ‘e gave ‘em me fer nowt this week.