LEAVING HOME

by

Conan Lawrence

University of LincolnSchool of Performing ArtsBrayford PoolLincoln. LN6 7TS.

clawrence@lincoln.ac.uk

01522 837608

ANNOUNCER: Leaving Home, by Conan Lawrence. Based on a

true story.

THE SOUND OF A FRONT DOOR OPENING,

FOOTSTEPS LEAVING A HALLWAY,

THE DOOR CLOSING AND BEING LOCKED.

FOOTSTEPS WALK AWAY AND FADE

EDIE: (V/O) April the 9th, 1918: my mother Amy Beechey leaves home

to meet the King and Queen wearing a hat I helped her choose. In spite of the

occasion she’s restless because they’ll talk about Amy’s sons who left to fight

in this…great war. Eight sons, eight names: my brave, silly, wilful brothers

who lived ordinary lives and left home for something extraordinary.

AMY: Edie.

EDIE: Yes, Mother.

AMY: Promise me something?

EDIE: Yes.

AMY: Promise you won’t forget.

EDIE: What?

AMY: That whatever I say today, to them: I did not give them willingly,

my boys.

A CHURCH BELL RINGS THIRTEEN TIMES

SOUNDS OF A RURAL HAMLET: FRIESTHORPE

(BIRDSONG, CATTLE AND PLOUGH UNTIL END OF PAGE 6)

1

EDIE: (V/O) In 1890 my Father, Prince William Thomas Beechey,

became Rector of the parish of Friesthorpe and Snarford, nine miles and a

world away from Lincoln. Friesthorpe: St Peters Church, a few houses and

farms on thin, winding lanes; home of Wilson, Otter, Kirk and Lowe. And the

Rectory, our home. Mother’d already had eight children in twelve years: Bar,

Charles, Maud and Len; Christopher, Frances, Eric and Frank. Maud died a

few days short of her sixth birthday, before I was born.

YOUNG BAR: Mum, where’s Maud gone?

AMY: Oh Bar -she’s with the children we can’t look after anymore.

YOUNG BAR: Even you and Dad?

AMY: Even us. Now we’ve got to look after your other sisters and

brothers.

YOUNG BAR: I’ll look after them Mum, I promise.

EDIE: Mother, how did you cope?

AMY: Edie would you mind -I’m very busy. There’s so much to do, not

least remembering all your names!

SOUND OF CHILDREN AT PLAY (UNTIL END OF PAGE)

EDIE: (V/O) My parents, six brothers and Frances moved to

Friesthorpe in 1890. A year later Harold was born, then my sisters Katherine,

Margaret and Winnie. Then me and finally Sam, twenty-two years younger

than Bar, the eldest.

AMY: Thirteen children in a large house and grounds. But rural

parishes don’t pay much, so I cleaned, cooked and washed for all of us.

2

EDIE: Once, when I was ten or eleven, I slipped and fell in a dyke that

runs outside the Rectory. No bigger than a small trench the water was only

knee-deep. I climbed out a bit then lay flat on the steep bank. Bar, my oldest

brother, had come to visit and we’d gone for a walk. He saw me fall in but

didn’t make a fuss.

A PLOUGH AT WORK: CLINKING AND SLOW HORSE FOOTFALLS

BAR: (V/O) Come on Edie. Beechey girls have got to be stronger than

that. Up you get.

YOUNG EDIE: I can get out on my own, thank you very much. Bar, come

and look.

BAR: What is it?

EDIE: He climbed down next to me, eyes level with the road.

YOUNG EDIE: Can you see the farmer in that field?

BAR: Yes -he’s ploughing. Looks like hard work too -what about it?

YOUNG EDIE: What would happen if you called him?

BAR: I expect he’d answer. Don’t you want to change those clothes -

you’re wet through.

YOUNG EDIE: Oh I’m alright, it’s warm enough. Please call him Bar.

BAR: If you like. What should I say?

YOUNG EDIE: Surprise me.

BAR: Alright. (Shouts, OFF) I say, those lines aren’t very straight.

YOUNG EDIE: Giggles.

3

EDIE: The farmer turned to look, but couldn’t see us and went back to

ploughing the field. I nudged Bar and he shouted again. The farmer shook his

head, mumbling angrily under his breath.

YOUNG EDIE: Once more, Bar.

BAR: He doesn’t look very happy Sis -it’s a bit mean.

YOUNG EDIE: Come on Bar, Beechey boys have got to be stronger than

that. Are you scared?

BAR: Course not.

EDIE: So he shouted again

BAR: (OFF) I say, those lines still aren’t very straight

END OF SOUND OF PLOUGH

EDIE: The farmer stopped in his tracks reined the horse in and rolled

up his sleeves, stomping over the field towards us

MALE READER: (OFF) Alright let’s see what you can do.

EDIE: We ducked beneath the top of the dyke and Bar whispered

BAR: (LOW) We can't see him, so he can’t see us. All we have to do

is wait.

EDIE: We must have waited for a long time because the next thing I

knew Bar was waking me up.

BAR: Come on Sis, it’s time to go.

EDIE: And he picked me up and took us home. His jacket smelt of

tobacco and the bank we’d laid on, the smell of one day in Friesthorpe: all my

brothers had it.

4

AMY: Even when the boys began to leave there was still no shortage

of cuts to dress, stories to read and hand-me-downs to alter. With thirteen

children I’ve always been used to doing.

EDIE: Bar went to Cambridge then became a teacher, but he came

back as often as he could.

AMY: Charles was next -to Cambridge, like Bar. He built the

summerhouse in the grounds of the Rectory, big enough for all thirteen of you!

EDIE: Len and Chris went to London and stayed there after leaving

school. Len would dance for us girls when he visited Friesthorpe and we

dreamt of going back with him. Chris was the gentleman of the family, always

rescuing Winnie from trees. He didn't know she climbed too high on purpose.

AMY: Just like Winnie!

EDIE: He’d shin up to her, smiling gallantly. When he left for Australia

in 1910 we didn’t know if we’d ever see him again.

AMY: Frank was next, the third of my boys to become a teacher. He

was a devil for motorbikes. I’d never seen anything like it! All goggles and

gloves, leaning into his ride like a jockey.

EDIE: Dashing and carefree, tearing off his cape, running up to hug

me. I felt quite the lady.

AMY: Why were you so upset when he got engaged?

EDIE: Well how did I know she’d be good enough?

AMY: I think he guessed:

MALE READER 2: Don’t worry, Edie

EDIE: He said

MALE READER 2: You won’t get rid of me that easily.

5

AMY: Eric spoilt you all rotten.

EDIE: He’d stroll up the path burst through the door and throw armfuls

of sweets in the air. We’d rush to pick them up then he’d chase us round the

house till we shrieked with laughter.

AMY: Next was Harold and what can we say about him!

EDIE: His first day at school and he nearly drowned.

AMY: Then crying all day over a bird he’d killed, poor boy.

EDIE: The bottle of beer Bar told him was ginger ale. He was sick for

hours!

AMY: Typical of Bar! But when the roof leaked or a bull got into the

garden Harold would make it right. And then you came along -my youngest

daughter, my Friesthorpe Queen. I thought you’d be the last but your Father

was…insistent

EDIE: Mother!

AMY: And that was Sam in 1899, your father’s favourite.

EDIE: And we knew it! Whenever you weren’t looking we’d kick him in

the shins to bring him down a peg or two.

AMY: I always wondered where those bruises came from. Sam would

hide Father’s spectacles at the Rectory and miraculously ‘find’ them after he

offered a reward. Remember?

EDIE: Not really

AMY: I know you were in on it Edie.

EDIE: I’m sorry.

6

AMY: Laughs. I hope you split the takings. The Rectory seemed to get

bigger as my sons moved on. Its halls got emptier, the lanes outside quieter.

And your Father grew older, more forgetful.

SOUND OF A HORSE TROTTING ON A COUNTRY LANE

EDIE: (V/O) I rode with him once to a distant church for a winter

sermon. Seven miles there and back wrapped in blankets, his face smarting

from the cold. He didn't say a word. I wish I had.

AMY: All of a sudden he complained of pains, politely, as was his way.

It was cancer, too much of it to stop. It all happened so quickly then: my

beloved leaving us -bravely at first, then crying, ashamed to let me see it. It

shrank him from inside, curled him up, black vestments loose on his thin

frame. The last time he preached at St Peters I saw the pain lift for an instant

as he raised his head in praise: a moment of being held up. Then he slumped,

barely able to speak through the pain. He couldn’t even stand up to bid his

parishioners farewell and I took him home as quickly as I could.

EDIE: He didn’t want to go, but as soon as he stopped preaching they

made us leave the Rectory. Home wasn’t home anymore: we were in a rush,

packing and moving to Lincoln. Avondale Street.

AMY: Number 14: a reminder of the children I’d borne. Not eight

bedrooms but two, and Father was dying in one of them. I couldn't bear to

watch. I had to get away. I let him down. His last words to me:

MALE READER: I wish I’d been younger for you Amy.

7

EDIE: Bar rushed back, and he and I kept watch. Reading, from the

Bible mostly, Father’s few words to us crackling like embers in a grate. Bar

was so gentle, lifting Father’s head from the pillow to drink. The morning he

died I brought him a glass of water. He slowly raised his arm and pointed at

me, croaking my name over and over. I dropped the glass and fled, sobbing

for Bar, for you.

AMY: The man I’d loved for forty years was dead.

EDIE: And we buried him behind the chancel of St Peters.

AMY: He lay there: warmth all gone, while I burned through a fever of

loss, my tears falling on his cold, cold body.

EDIE: Mother, we can stop if you want

AMY: No, go on Edie. They need to know.

SOUND OF A HORSE’S FUNEREAL FOOTFALL

EDIE: The funeral procession left Avondale Street for Friesthorpe, this

home that wasn’t yet a home, plumes in the horses’ manes like black leaves

in a breeze. Nine miles this time, nine last miles with my father.

AMY: The next few months are a blur lit up with flashes of summer in

the Arboretum near the house. Once, in the murmurs of a crowd, I heard a

voice like your Father’s and it stopped me in my tracks. Grief.

EDIE: Every room I went in seemed packed with father’s shadows. I

cried alone -I didn’t want you to see.

AMY: I knew. Mothers always know. We get signals from our children,

surges of complete…knowing.

8

EDIE: Then, little by little, the shadows lifted and those rooms got

brighter, till one day I remembered him and smiled. Eight of us’d been in a

pillowfight in a bedroom at the Rectory, feathers drifting down like we were

playing in a snowglobe. Father walked into the room looking quizzical, and

just stopped. And the biggest grin I’ve ever seen spread across his face.

BAND PLAYING AMAZING GRACE

A SMALL CROWD POLITELY APPLAUDS

THEN BEGINS MURMURING CONVERSATIONS

AMY: (V/O) Avondale Street grew on me -I didn't miss cooking and

cleaning for so many, and the roof was in a better state than the Rectory. I

could stroll in the Arboretum among the flowers and young couples. Bands

played on Sundays so I’d hire a deckchair for the afternoon and let the notes

sweep me away. Christmas came round as quickly as ever and I made sure

Father’s place was kept at the table. Chris was in Perth in all that heat and

scrub, digging the land for a pittance, hoping to buy a farm one day. I missed

him, the charmer, but with so many children you don’t have long to dwell on

things.

EDIE: On Boxing Day I found Harold in the room where father died,

deep in thought. He dropped a few hints about leaving, but nothing definite.

AMY: And then he was gone too, off to Australia to be with Chris. The

age of letters began. Letters that bridge distance and remind you of it. It starts

with the postmark

EDIE: Dowerin, Western Australia

9

AMY: And the date

EDIE: Weeks old by the time you get it, an exotic stamp or two

AMY: Your name and address in writing so spidery you wonder how it

ever got here, then how glad it has. You hold it for a moment

EDIE: As if holding the hand that wrote it

AMY: Then lift it to your nose

EDIE: Though you know it can’t still smell of them.

SOUND OF AN ENVELOPE BEING OPENED

BY A PAPERKNIFE

AMY: (V/O) You picture them round a campfire under the stars

thinking of you. Then you reach for the paperknife and ever so gently search

for that tiny gap in the sealed lip of the envelope, and lever the knife up:

slowly, carefully, till the envelope’s cut.

EDIE: Run a finger along its edge, open it and look: how many pages?

AMY: Push the corners of the envelope towards each other so it bows

out, like lips about to talk

EDIE: Or blow you a kiss

SOUND OF A LETTER TAKEN FROM AN ENVELOPE

AMY: (V/O) Then lift out the pages, open them up

EDIE: And you read

10

AMY: And they come back, over seas and fields, travelling on the ink

they wrote with, outlines of journey and thought. You hold their essence:

paper they put their hands to.

EDIE: In 1913 Bar came back, to Lincoln.

BAR: Hello: Mother, Edie.

EDIE: Bar!

AMY: And how is my eldest?

BAR: Very well, thanks.

AMY: Where are you…working now?

BAR: I’m…looking for a suitable post Mother.

AMY: Another School?

BAR: Perhaps. I don’t care much for teaching anymore but I do miss

training the cadets.

AMY: I was so proud of you at Dorchester. What were you?

BAR: First Assistant Master, Ma’am! At Dorchester I commanded the

Officer Training Corps, leading the boys on manoeuvres, charging ‘em up hills

in an officer’s uniform I couldn't pay the Army back for, though they rather

chased me for it. Teaching wasn’t for me. I got bored. I shouted. Then I drank.

AMY: Why did you leave Bar?

BAR: You said you wouldn’t bring that up again. I left because I saw a

vision of myself in the same classroom for the rest of my life. Back in Lincoln I

got a job with the Education Board, which cheered mother up at least. Thirty-

six years old, in a humdrum house and a humdrum job, only myself to blame.

AMY: We used to call him the genius of the family. I worry about him.

11

EDIE: But I was glad he was back. Avondale Street, 1914. Home to

Mother, my sisters, Sam and I. Harold and Chris in Australia, Bar and Eric in

Lincoln, Frank at school, Len in London and Char in Stamford. Teachers,

clerks, men of the land: ordinary men as all men are, except to those who love

them.

AMY: My children were branching out into the world, and growing up

fast. They’d already had many homes: a mother’s body; at home outdoors -

taught to look and name, roam and find. Then school and university -homes

of thought. And love: one hand at home in another

EDIE: Without thinking of war and what it makes us leave.

AMY: War rolled in like distant thunder, too far off to see the lightning.

Reports of a murdered archduke and his wife drifted away on the breeze. And

everyday choices -what to make for dinner, whether to go to evensong, who

to write to next- were still the most you thought about, if you wanted. When

the real storm came we weren’t ready.

BAR: One evening I found myself in my uniform again. Tighter round

the waist but otherwise not a bad fit. I fancied myself commanding a real

platoon: pips on my sleeve, revolver on my hip and a woman on my arm. No

more teaching! Then, I remembered the Army’s age limit: thirty. I put the

uniform back on its peg, my glorious military career confined to a wardrobe.

EDIE: Strange warlike words appeared in the papers and I’d pass

groups of men using them knowingly, like they were talking about football.

Words like ‘reserves’, ‘divisions’ and ‘mobilisation’ as a whole continent

prepared to leave home. But it wasn’t menacing at first: it was just…exciting.

12

ROYAL ANGLIAN REGIMENT PLAY COATES’

THE GRENADIER THROUGHOUT THE FOLLOWING

AMY: (V/O) One day in the Arboretum I saw a Regimental Band in

their red tunics and they looked so…peaceful, surrounded by a polite

audience who applauded them, not an enemy that fired. It was unthinkable

that these men, so intent on playing for our pleasure, could ever march to war

or turn their instruments in for rifles.

EDIE: I knew nothing of war then -it all took place…somewhere else.

Brave men on a dusty plain standing their ground with indifference and pluck:

a story in one of Sam’s comics. The band looked very dashing, their chests

were puffed out with more than just the breath they needed to play with.

AMY: I wanted things to stay the way they were, to go home and put

my feet up for a bit, carry on watching my children grow up. But the puffed-out

chests of governments were leading us to war.

SOUND OF A BANK HOLIDAY CROWD: TRAINS, PIERS, LAUGHTER

BAR: (V/O) Monday the 3rd of August, 1914. A bank holiday. I saw

Works outings fill trains to Skegness -a whole factory off to paddle, ride

donkeys, go to the pub, together. An army of laughter having a field day. I

went and saw my brother Frank: if war was coming we wanted to get on with

it. But I was too old! So I drank, which didn’t help. And I drank a lot, which

really didn’t help.

13

AMY: The next day Frank and Bar came round to Avondale Street and

brought the paper. Hello boys!

BAR: Ugh, not so loud, please.

AMY: You enjoyed the Bank Holiday then?

BAR: Oh yes. It was...great.

MALE READER: Owing to the rejection by the German Government

that the neutrality of Belgium will be respected, His Majesty’s Government

declared that a state of war exists between Great Britain and Germany from

11 p.m. on August 4th, 1914. German troops have invaded Belgium.

EDIE: Bar and Frank go outside, more serious than I’ve ever seen

them, heads down, talking. Bar’s right foot traces a line in the back yard. They

look up, Frank nods at Bar and they shake hands, coming back into the

kitchen where I’ve been watching them, clutching an empty glass. Frank

squeezes my left shoulder then smiles and leaves the room. Bar looks at the

glass, gently takes it from me and puts it down.

A GLASS BEING PLACED ON A TABLE

BAR: “We’re going, Sis”.

EDIE: He walks off, and I don’t know what to say because I don’t know

what it really means, this “We’re going”. So I pick up the glass and hold it

tightly, with both hands.

AMY: They turn to wave and I wave back. A Mother’s wave: pride in

what I’ve nurtured and a dull reminder of the space between us. They turn

away, into a marching world.

14

A ROOM OF EXCITED MALE VOICES

BAR: (V/O) The Recruiting Office was a jostling, eager scrum. A

Sergeant bellowed

MALE READER: Stop talking lads. Form straight lines.

BAR: That’s more like it! There were boys no older than my cadets,

factory lads and apprentices; and old men -this was the closest they’d get to

war. Now: what chance would I have? I don’t quite know how war takes an

Army by surprise but it had, so it all hinged on what a Regiment needed.

BAR: And the Lincolnshires needed experience. I lied about my age,

of course; they questioned me about the OTC, signed my papers and I was in!

EDIE: Over the next four years all my brothers followed.

BAR: Training’s hard, Sis. I’m twenty years older than most of the lads

but I earned my Sergeant’s stripes when they saw how well I turned the

platoon out. They call me ‘granddad’ behind my back but never let me catch

‘em, don’t laugh Edie. I think they’re more afraid of me than the Germans. As

autumn turns to winter all that talk of the war ending by Christmas dries up.

SAUL PLAYED THROUGH THE FOLLOWING

AMY: (V/O) They went, all eight, and each of them has a story, but I

can only tell his. Bar, my firstborn, who I learnt to wash and feed, learnt his

cries and gurgles, gave him words to speak and toys to break, he now leaves

home to fight. The worst of it, as a mother? I can’t protect him, and my blood

runs cold. How can I tell eight of these stories and not shatter?

15

AMY: I can’t, I’m sorry, just one. I go on running the house as before,

but I don’t like the language of war and I don’t like what it brings home. I’m

supposed to show a bold front, attack on the kitchen front: sounds as resolute

as the front page of a paper. But when I leave the front door I pass war

widows in black and the wounded in bandages and I realise that their fragility

is Bar’s too. What use will his intelligence be when he comes up against what

hurt these boys? I want him to kill them. This is how I fight: wanting other

mothers, the enemy, to lose their sons so mine can come home. I remember

Maude’s battle with measles and how Father and I felt when we knew she’d

die, and I’m ashamed.

BAR: The army trains us to withstand boredom by filling our time with

diversions. This makes us despise routine so we’ll take it out on the enemy.

Fiendish. Well -the war’s diverted me from drinking: I’m in my element here.

DISTANT THUNDER

EDIE: (V/O) At home we fight a war of nerves. I know what the other

war means -it’s all around us. I’ve got older friends who become

munitionettes, making bullets and shells to fire at them while the warclouds

get heavier

AMY: I’m haunted at night with thoughts of injury like the wounded

soldiers hobbling through the Arboretum. I meet Belgian refugees who’ve

made it to Lincoln, away from the warmongers who burned them out of house

and home, and it keeps me on the warpath through summer and autumn.

16

KEEP THE HOME FIRES BURNING FROM

‘OH, WHAT A LOVELY WAR’

AMY: (V/O) Then before you know it’s Christmas again and I try to fill

the house with light. We fit round the table with ease -half my sons are away

at war and for once my Beechey girls outnumber the boys. We reminisce

about Friesthorpe of course, and for a while it fills the gaps. Frances reminds

us of Harold jumping ditches, while Kat counts how many he fell in. We sit

there talking as long as possible -not wanting the day, the peace, to end.

BAR: Sorry Mother -we’ve been confined to barracks over Christmas,

and to make it worse they’ve given us nothing to do. But there’s plenty of time

to read, and reading soaks up time. I read anything I can get my hands on -

cheap thrillers, old penny dreadfuls, the papers full of heroes and medals,

though I do skip the casualty lists. More letters from you and Edie please.

EDIE: But each letter brings you closer to danger and I know you hide

things from me. Everything glows with precious, threatened life -the ink you

write with seems darker, the paper more lustrous. Your signature shines with

importance, as though underlining everything this war seems hell-bent on

undoing. But when you write I can see through it all: off comes our warpaint

and in my mind we slip back to Friesthorpe, where the only danger was an

angry farmer. I picture you reading my letters wherever home is now.

SOUNDS OF AN ARMY TRAINING: RIFLE PRACTICE

MARCHING, SINGING, BAYONET PRACTICE

17

BAR: (V/O) I write even when there’s nothing to write home about.

Marching, singing, endless cups of tea. Rifle practice reminds me of the pier

at Skegness: hit a bullseye for a prize -a bag of sweets or a packet of

Woodbines. You can’t quite say the same about bayonet practice: thirty men

screaming at straw dummies, slicing them to bits -can’t see that on a pier.

Many lads are homesick. I say: you’ll be alright once we get at the Hun or, you

wouldn’t want to let the platoon down. One of them gives me a look that says

MALE READER: I don’t care about the platoon, I may be young but I

know where this is going and I’m not ready for it. I thought I was when I joined

up but I was wrong.

BAR: I imagine Sam in his place, and I want to tell him to go home,

right now. But it’s too late for that, and anyway I’m a sergeant and can’t let my

guard down so I carry on bellowing orders and taking names. Winter turns to

spring and the papers report yet more great battles. But a few pages on in

jagged ribbons of print there’s the casualty list -the home front’s barbed wire.

AMY: Those poor shrunken names really bring it home, and whisper:

this might come to your door too.

BAR: I send money to Mother whenever I can -a sovereign here and

there. I never get the chance to spend it anyway. Night attacks, dawn attacks,

skirmishes; digging trenches -back-breaking, sobering work. Then I hear my

brother Chris is badly wounded -a sniper got him at Gallipoli. He’ll never walk

unaided again. I know then what this is all about. Half of me wants to get out

there to even up the score and put an end to this bloody waiting, the other half

doesn’t want training to end, to keep playing soldiers like before. I get a day’s

leave and decide to surprise Mother and Edie in Lincoln.

18

GOODBYE FROM ‘OH, WHAT A LOVELY WAR!’

PLAYS UNDER THE FOLLOWING

EDIE: (V/O) My big, proud brother is back for a few fleeting hours, his

Sergeant’s uniform all gleaming brass and buttons. We go for a walk and his

uniform bristles as I take his arm.

SOUND OF A TRAIN STATION WITH GENTLE

BACKGROUND CONVERSATION

AMY: (V/O) If he’s concerned he doesn’t show it, even passing a

Mother’s inspection for signs that give a child away, however old they are.

There’s no waver in his voice, and he doesn’t look away while he jokes:

BAR: I think I’ll go to France for my holiday -I hear it’s all the rage this

year! It’s alright Mum -I feel quite confident of coming back.

A STEAM TRAIN’S WHISTLE SOUNDS TWICE

THE TRAIN CHUFFS OUT OF THE STATION AND FADES

AMY: (V/O) Then the train pulled out and he was leaving, waving

through the smoke. Smiling.

BAR: Then we were off to France. I was seasick twice in the Channel

-didn’t let the platoon see that- then a troop train to our base in Le Havre. A

couple of old sweats told me it was cushy here.

19

BAR: When I asked them what it was like up front one of them just

tutted a bit and walked off. His mate smiled weakly, patted me on the shoulder

and said

MALE READER: It’s not so bad. Keep your head down.

BAR: More training -sweltering days and bitter nights- then, at the

end of August, we’re on the move. I’m so desperate for something to write on-

AMY: He sent me a postcard with a picture of a graveyard on it.

BAR: Then I’m in the trenches at last. The land is low and flat like

Friesthorpe: water’s never far away and rain turns the trench into a dyke of

treacly mud. It’s a distillery of violence and night rockets light up its very finest

vintage: no man’s land. Craters seem to move towards you, full of stoved-in

ammunition boxes, bits of rifle, a horse’s ribcage, blood-spattered tunics

round dead things. Rotting food and fag ends: the smell’s beyond description.

DISTANT ARTILLERY 1, 2 AND 3

PLAY UNDER THE FOLLOWING

BAR: (V/O) Shellfire’s not too bad in our sector though. It’s odd, but

those that fall furthest away have the strangest hold on me. I don’t hear them

so much as feel them -like giant footsteps miles away, looking for something.

AMY: Why send me a postcard of that? At home the smallest details

are scrutinised for days, and the battles I go into are with myself because I

can do almost nothing to help. I knit socks and bake cakes, send cigarettes

and prayers, but I can’t go and hold him when he’s cold and scared.

20

WE’RE HERE BECAUSE WE’RE HERE EXCERPT

FROM ‘ON THE MARCH’ (SERGEANT DWYER)

FROM ‘O, WHAT A LOVELY WAR’

BAR: (V/O) Mother, we came into the trenches again last night. I was

on duty till one a.m. and up again for ‘stand-to’, when we grab our rifles and

wait before dawn in case of attack. We do the same at dusk. It’ll soon be

winter here and the nights are getting cold already. Outdoor living is…bracing.

We sleep in corners of the trench shrouded in green army capes. We look like

statues about to be unveiled. Can you send me a muffler please?

TRENCH WILDERNESS: DREAMSCAPE SOUND

(DISTANT WHISTLING WIND RESEMBLING

A SHELL COMING INTO EARSHOT FOR THE FIRST TIME)

AMY: (V/O) I walk over battered fields, shells going off nearby. I’m in

no danger. I find his trench and float into it. Bar is asleep, his back turned to

me. I hold his shoulder and gently rock him.

INDISTINCT MUFFLED MALE VOICE: VAGUELY URGENT

In the distance someone shouts. Bar wakes, and his greatcoat falls to the

floor. He turns, surprised, and I see he’s only ten years old, in a man’s

uniform. He’s pleased to see me and I hold out a bag of sweets.

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MALE VOICE SHOUTS IN GERMAN: HARSHLY

AMY: Then the voice I heard is much nearer. We both know it’s

shouting in German and Bar’s face shows great fear. He reaches for his rifle

and clasps it in both hands, but it’s too big for him to lift

MALE VOICE SHOUTS IN GERMAN: BATTLE CRY

and the shouting’s even closer. He looks at me, about to cry, then the

Germans appear, giants of men looming over us. I try to shield him, to put

myself between them, but I can’t move, can’t reach him.

DISTANT ARTILLERY : VERY LOUD

They jump into the trench, great boots shaking the earth, I try to wave my

arms to distract them from him but I can’t move. Bar puts his hands up to

surrender, tears streaming down his face, pleading with me to help.

SLOWED DOWN ARTILLERY BURST RESEMBLING SPEECH

They roar at him then charge, bayonets first, and he’s bawling my name and I

can’t move and he’s bawling and I wake up

EDIE: Mother.

AMY: Bar.

EDIE: What’s wrong?

22

AMY: Oh. Edie.

EDIE: You were shouting for someone.

AMY: It’s alright Edie, I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s alright. The

rain…I…dreamt the roof was leaking. This is my front line. My terror is the

enemy I guard the children against.

I WANT TO GO HOME (EXCERPT) FROM ‘THE ESTAMINET’

ON ‘OH, WHAT A LOVELY WAR!’

BAR: (V/O) We move up, a decoy attack for the big push at Loos

COMPANY MARCHING IN FORMATION ON EARTH: MODERATE

(V/O) marching through fields then communication trenches, other regiments

cursing as we stumble over them in the dark. We arrive at one am, but there’s

no time for rest. I can’t write this down Edie, there isn’t time, but I’m going to

record it somehow.

SQUELCHING THROUGH MUD

(V/O) We crawl out into No Man’s Land, homeless void of this war, inching

towards the German line. Two hundred yards away we halt, still and flat,

waiting for our barrage to begin.

23

EDIE: Bar made a telephone with a couple of empty cans and a piece

of string. I climbed into the treehouse with one of the cans and when I got to

the top Bar talked into his. I could hear him as if he was standing next to me,

whispering in my ear.

BAR: (CLOSE) In a shell hole, so close we hear the enemy’s

conversation. And their laughter, which at least means they don’t know we’re

here. I check my watch, the Captain beside me.

MALE READER 2: (CLOSE) How are your men, Sergeant?

BAR: (CLOSE) Raring to go, Sir.

MALE READER 2: (CLOSE) Good -I’ll see you in their trenches.

EXCERPT FROM 2.37 UNTIL END OF THE ATTACK

FROM ‘OH, WHAT A LOVELY WAR!’

BAR: (V/O) He waits, a whistle in his mouth. Has my watch stopped? I

shake my wrist to get the seconds moving. Think of something else as you

give the thumbs-up to your men. Quickly -remember dammit. I am Barnard

Reeve Beechey, first of eight brothers, all of whom carry our Mother’s maiden

name –Reeve. Edie, I’m (whistle).

CONCENTRATED ARTILLERY FIRE CROSSFADES IN

RIFLE AND MACHINE GUN FIRE: HARSH, SEEMINGLY RANDOM

PLAYS THROUGHOUT THE FOLLOWING UNTIL END OF PAGE 25

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BAR: (V/O) Get up. Run. Come on. Come on. Smith’s down. Keep

going. They’re on the parapet of their trench. Direct hit. Two of them in bits.

Bloody mud. Come on. We’ve surprised them. Halfway there. Fire from the

hip. Charge. Got me in his sights, misses. Stop. Aim. Fire. His throat bursts:

nearly there. Nearly there.

EDIE: I looked down at Bar from the treehouse

BAR: The Captain’s in the trench first, revolver firing. I jump down,

land on a German and his kneecaps shatter.

SOUND OF A BAYONET PENETRATING BONE

(V/O) Charge, my bayonet crunches through his chest. He’s a child, Sam’s

age. Twist and retract, blood pouring down the sluice. Turn and clear the

trench. My boys hacking, Officers shooting, dead everywhere. The barrage

moves on. A few groans, the dying finished off where they lie. Stretcher

bearers move up. We’ve taken their trench. We’d never seen them before

now. They look small, lying there: hardly worth the fight. Don’t think about the

child I’ve just -. For God’s sake don’t let Sam near this, or tell them at home

what you’ve been through and done, as if you could. Six minutes. It’s still

dark.

EDIE: And Bar looked up at me

BAR: What would Mother say?

AMY: Every morning I wake in this no man’s land at home, and get up

early, before the children, to think of him when he was young and only fighting

for my attention. What fights they were! Where is he?

25

ARTILLERY, RIFLE AND MACHINE GUNS

BAR: (V/O) I meet the Captain again -wounded but still giving orders-

when the counter-attack comes:

MALE READER 2: (OFF) Stand fast. Hold this ground.

BAR: Our machine guns mow down the first and second waves, then

their artillery gets the range and shells start landing nearby. The Captain’s

beside me again on the parapet of the trench, facing them as they advance.

EDIE: I put the can to my ear

MALE READER 2: He can’t see us. All we have to do is wait.

BAR: (CLOSE) I know this, from before.

MALE READER: Wait for the command

BAR: Looking down the trench at my cadets the third wave comes

MALE READER 2: (OFF) Wait for my

BULLET HITTING NEARBY BODY

BAR: (V/O) Then there’s a neat red hole bubbling in his forehead and

he falls, looking surprised at how sudden it is. I’m in command now. They get

close before we lay the bastards down like wheat under the plough.

AMY: I’ll finish his muffler today, he’ll need it out there in the open. And

I’ll buy him a pair of gloves with that sovereign he sent. He wants me to have

it but I can go without. I always have.

EDIE: He said “Come on, let’s go in.”

26

BAR: We see off the fourth wave but a few of them get into the trench

and we’ve lost a lot of wounded now. It’s light when I look around and all of us

are slaked in mud, dark brown shapes sloshing about. I wanted to see this.

BAR: I wanted to find out what war’s really like, most of us did. It’s

being wide-eyed with fear one moment, and flushed with killing the next, put

simply.

TWO SHELLS EXPLODE, IN QUICK SUCCESSION

(V/O) Then two shells drop right into the trench and they’re through.

EDIE: So we went in.

BAR: One of them, a short runt, jumps down beside a man from

another platoon who’s reloading. I aim at the runt and am about to fire when

SOUND OF A BODY BEING HIT: CLOSE

BAR: (V/O) I’m hit, hit hard, somewhere below my right armpit. It

knocks the rifle out of my hands and blows me into the opposite wall of the

trench hard enough to break several of my teeth. (CLOSE) It’s a mistake, I

know it’s a mistake.

SOUND OF FRIESTHORPE BEGINS TO CROSSFADE UP

(BATTLE SOUNDS GRADUALLY FADE)

27

YOUNG EDIE: (V/O) He was wounded and he fell in the midst of hoarse

shouting. The tide passed and the waves came and whispered about his

ankles

BAR: (CLOSE) I can’t stand up but there’s no pain, which is a relief. I

tell Austin to take over. (OFF) Stand fast. (CLOSE) He nods then I slump,

quite out of this one then. There’s still no pain but now I can’t speak, and

things are going off the edge.

YOUNG EDIE: Far off he heard a cock crow -children laughing,

rising at dawn to meet the storm of petals shaken from apple-boughs. He

heard them cry and turned again to find the breast of her, and sank confused

with a little sigh

BAR: (CLOSE) I can see Friesthorpe, very clearly. Strange, I thought

this was France. There’s a white line and a…sister at the end of it. Margaret?

Frances? No, Edie. Edie.

YOUNG EDIE: Thereafter water running, and a voice that seemed

to stir and flutter through the trenches, and set dead lips to talking

BAR: (CLOSE) Speaking to me from a…tree. I can’t hear what she’s

saying.

YOUNG EDIE: Wreckage was mingled with the storm of petals

BAR: (CLOSE) If I hold on she’ll know where to find me. She’ll come, I

know.

YOUNG EDIE: He felt her near him, and the weight dropped off,

suddenly*1

BAR: (CLOSE) Strong girl. Strong, girl. Mother.

1 Young Bar’s speech is Fallen by Alice Corbin. From Scars Upon My Heart edited by Catherine Reilly. London: Virago, 1981.

28

SOUND OF KNITTING NEEDLES CLACKING: NOT TOO FAST

AMY: (V/O) I’ve been knitting all day, watching your muffler take

shape, mothering your clothes after so many years as if you were growing up

again. I’m glad you joined the Army and stopped drinking -I’m proud of you

serving and leading others like you did when you were a teacher. I know you

suffer out there, far from home, but this will keep you warm. Oh, the gloves! -

I’ll go and get them now, before the shop closes.

MALE READER: On the 25th of September 1915 the Lincolnshires

withdrew to their jumping off point. Losses were heavy: 60 dead, 36 missing,

229 wounded. The Battle of Loos petered out, names of the dead and

wounded taking time to come home.

EDIE: We hear nothing for weeks. We’re veterans by now, even a

seventeen year old like me, and know that post gets delayed and sometimes

lost. On the 16th of October I hear footsteps stop outside the house. I walk into

the hall and watch a letter, brown as an autumn leaf, drop onto the mat. I take

it to mother in the kitchen. It’s for you.

AMY: Do you recognise the writing?

SOUND OF A PAPERKNIFE OPENING AN ENVELOPE

THE LETTER IS REMOVED FROM THE ENVELOPE

EDIE: (V/O) My mother takes the letterknife and opens the envelope.

She lifts out a single, folded sheet. As she begins to read I remember going

home to the Rectory all those years ago.

29

YOUNG EDIE: Mum, why does Bar come back so often?

AMY: He likes it here. Was that shouting I heard earlier?

YOUNG EDIE: Bar made a farmer angry.

AMY: What did he do?

YOUNG EDIE: I can’t remember all of it. I fell asleep.

AMY: Oh. Were you frightened?

YOUNG EDIE: Not really. Well, a bit.

MILITARY WIVES CHOIR

O LOVE THAT WILL NOT LET ME GO

MALE READER: (V/O) To Mrs A Beechey, 14, Avondale Street, Lincoln.

Army Form B.104-82, No.9521. Infantry Record Office, Lichfield Station.

EDIE: The last time we said goodbye the wool of his tunic left a rash

on my arm, but I didn’t mind.

MALE READER: Madam -it is my painful duty to inform you that a report

has this day been received from the War Office notifying the death of 13773

Sergeant BR Beechey, Lincolnshire Regiment, which occurred at (Place not

stated) on the 25th of September 1915, and I am to express to you the

sympathy and regret of the Army council at your loss.

SOUND OF THE AFTER-EFFECT OF A SHELLBURST:

AS THOUGH TINNITUS AND CONCUSSION

HAVE STRUCK THE LISTENER THROUGH THE FOLLOWING

30

EDIE: I was going to tell him.

MALE READER: The cause of death was: Killed in action.

EDIE: I can’t.

YOUNG EDIE: Bar, can we go and play?

EDIE: Ssh. Not now.

YOUNG EDIE: Where’s mum?

AMY: What shall I do with this muffler, then? I didn’t finish it in time

and he needed it. What if he was cold when he... I wanted a picture of him

wearing it in his trench -I should have finished the muffler Edie, I should have

got it done -what must he think of me? -I let him down Edie -I should’ve got

up earlier and finished it -Why don’t they say where he died? -Why? I know

he’s dead but I want to tend his wounds, brush the mud from his handsome

brow, straighten his collar like I did when he went to school. In my dreams you

turn inside me like you did when I carried you, my son. I turn in my sleep:

sometimes there I forget you’re dead. But when you fell you should’ve had a

mother’s arms to hold you. From this day forward all I can hold is

anniversaries of you.

MILITARY WIVES CHOIR: GOING HOME

EDIE: (V/O) April the 9th, 1918: my mother meets the King and Queen.

At home she takes off the hat I helped her choose and sits in her favourite

chair. She looks at me, defiantly.

AMY: I told them Edie. I told them.

YOUNG EDIE: Mum?

31

AMY: Yes love?

YOUNG EDIE: Where’s Bar gone?

AMY: I don’t know -let’s try and find him.

EDIE: My mother, Amy Beechey, lives to the age of eighty-one. She

dies in 1936, still cherishing a picture taken by a soldier in Bar’s platoon of a

grave they say is his. Topped with a plain wooden cross clumps of weeds

wind thickly round its base. Two flowers reach up to the cross, and the one in

fullest bloom touches it.

SOUNDS OF A RURAL HAMLET: FRIESTHORPE REPRISE

DISTANT THUNDER FADES UP

ANNOUNCER: (V/O) Credits.

END

32

CAST

AMY BEECHEY Susan Freebury

EDIE BEECHEY Lizzy Hayes

BAR BEECHEY Samuel Mant

MALE READER 1 Martyn Horner-Glister

MALE READER 2 Conan Lawrence

YOUNG EDIE Beatrice Hutchinson

YOUNG BAR Christopher Fleming

ANNOUNCER Stephanie Jackson

MUSIC The Royal Anglian Regimental Band

Royal Air Force Cranwell Military Wives Choir

Nick Bruce (Scunthorpe and District Pipe Band)

ENGINEER Adam Keen

DIRECTOR Conan Lawrence

PRODUCER Michael Hortin

33