Characters
The Wavering-atte-Stetchley All-Ladies Cricket XI.
Batting Order.
- Nancy Pristine-Awfully:
- Non-playing Captain
- Tilly Uppingham:
- Opener (at the wicket throughout and never appears)
- Smugsy:
- Opener (at the wicket throughout and never appears)
- Flabby Akkers:
- No. 3
- Fanny:
- No. 4
- Saggy:
- No. 5
- Piggy:
- No. 6
- Crockers:
- No. 7
- Mockers:
- No. 8
- Slashers:
- No. 9
- Troggy:
- No. 10
- Chopper:
- No. 11
- Knockers:
- 12th man
- Lady Black
- Three lady spectators
The weather-boarded pavilion of the Wavering-atte-Stetchley All-Ladies Cricket Club - a well-tended construction, painted white. Beneath its wide veranda and in front of it, on the emerald grass, sit the ladies of the Wavering-atte-Stetchley team.
There are three spectators dressed from hat downwards in magnificently laundered white.
They sit on white benches, surrounded by white fencing. From white tubs sporting white flowers.
Players 3 and 4, Flabby Akkers and Fanny, are padded up in immaculately whitened white pads. Players 1 and 2, Tilly Uppingham and Smugsy, are out at the wicket, facing the bowling of the visiting team: the Swanland and District Women's XI.
A scoreboard carries the name of both teams. The runs, and only runs are recorded, are put up in immaculate white lettering by a member of the home team (unless the script directs otherwise, Knockers, the 12th man).
Tilly Uppingham, No 1 for Wavering-atte-Stetchley, knocks only sixes in this particular match. She knocks them at a fairly hectic rate.
The Wavering-atte-Stetchley ladies sit upright, smiling large white smiles, as if being photographed. They wear immaculately pleated white skirts, immaculately ironed white shirts, immaculate white caps and, in every respect, look immaculately immaculate, as cathedral choristers might.
At the centre of this furnace of whiteness sits Lady Black, an old woman dressed in black. Her vision is obscured by a wide brimmed hat.
At first the ladies smile fixedly and without motion, concentrating intensely on the performance of the opening pair.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY [non-playing captain of the Wavering-atte-Stetchley team. Like the rest of the team she has the upperest of upper-crust accents].
- God! They're ope-nin with Satan Satters! [Tuts] Hell fire!
- FLABBY AKKERS.
- Poor Til, out there, 'lone at the crease, facin' Satters. What's Til thinkin', Nance? What's uppermost in Til's mind?
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Til's got guts, Flab - absolute gutters. Anyone I'd chose to face Satan Satters - be Til. Comes from a long line o' facers; mother was a facer - beautiful facer. Bat like a motorway!
- FLABBY AKKERS [pointing at the wicket].
- God what a 'run-in' Sat's got. One - two - three - four - gathering speed - five - six - seven - eight - God! - nine - ten - eleven - twelve - gawd! - thirteen - fourteen - fifteen - sixteen. Sixteen! Fancy facin' sixteen o' Satters! Poor old Til - out there - facing Satters!
[There is the noisy thwack of ball on bat.]
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Til's knocked a six. Keep ya pity for Satters. [She points] A six, Flab girl; six off Satters. [She laughs loudly.]
[The team claps enthusiastically - nearly hysterically. Some go down on their knees. Knockers records the six on the scoreboard.]
- FLABBY AKKERS.
- Satters - shattered!
- FANNY [tunefully].
- "Praise ye the Lord!"
- THE REST OF THE TEAM [down on its knees].
- "The Lord's name be praise-ed." [They rise en masse, as in church.]
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY [in hushed but excited voice].
- Up comes Satters for seconds. [There are trillings of excitement from the team.]. Sh! [She turns round angrily] Sh! [Eyes blazing] Irreverence! Oh Satanic...seven - eight - nine - ten [her head bobs up and down] fifteen - sixteen! She bowls.
[There is a sky-shattering thwack of ball on bat.]
- FLABBY AKKERS.
- Sixteen from Satters.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Six, Flab, six. 'Nother six. Six off Satters. Second ball; second shot...six. Hosanna in the highest.
- FLABBY AKKERS.
- "Praise ye the Lord."
- THE ENTIRE TEAM.
- "Til's name be praised."
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Unholy bowler. It's the Lord's revenge for ope-nin with Satters. [Turning viciously] Sh! Third bolt from Satters. Up she comes.... Sixteen of Satters to be shattered, to be sure, by the force of holiness.
[There is another brutal thwack of ball on bat.]
- FLABBY AKKERS [screaming with excitement].
- Six. Six again. Must be a six. Coming this way over the pav.
[Nancy Pristine-Awfully pulls out white binoculars from a white case and follows the progress of the ball which crosses the sky immediately above them. The group of angelic and proper young lady cricketers reclines slowly backwards showing large amounts of leg, tight, knicker and frill. As they fall back they clap enthusiastically. Nancy's comments on the ball's progress coincide with their slow recline. Her last phrases they repeat.]
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- The force of wickedness is truly shattered. Six, six, six! Three times six. [Suddenly pointing] Thar, thar it is, the ball. Ball to end all balls.
- TEAM.
- Heavenly. But heavenly. Absolutely astral, but astral. Divine, but divine.
[The ladies stay in their horizontal position, clapping: Nancy clapping most excitedly. They suddenly stop. In the orchestral silence there emanates from behind the pavilion the sound of crashing glass, the tumbling of masonry and a single cry of agony. Terrifying as they are, the noises and the cry raise no comment. The ladies return to their upright postures; continue with their photogenic smiling.]
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Oh Gawd, church in the way again! Or was it the abbey, Flab? It's always one or the other. Stained glass martyrs gettin' in the way of sixes. God, we suffer from ecclesiastical piles! [Pulls a long face] Means 'pologies to the Abbot - maybe - if it's the abbey.... To the Vicar, maybe - if it's 'is church.... 'Pologies to the police - maybe - if it's people. Commizzers to the parochial Parochial Council. What a stupid place to put a church, just where Tilly Uppingham drops her sixes. Whoever thought of building a mediaeval abbey a stone's throw from a cricket square? [Scornfully] Gothic idiots. No sense of place - no feelin's.
[The single cry of agony repeats itself.]
- FLABBY AKKERS [with the perspicacity of a brick wall].
- That was 'uman Nance.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Right, Flab, a 'uman cry, a 'uman in aggers. But who? Who'd it be, Flab? Who'd be in church?
- LADY BLACK.
- Carrots - a terrible temptation. Price they are.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY [talking to her as if she was deaf].
- You on the right wavers, Lady B? Horticulture ain't on the agenda.
- LADY BLACK.
- Harvest Fest, Nance. Onions on the altar, spinach in the pews. You've hit a carrot-snatcher, Nance. That was yer cry. The agony of a smitten carrot-lifter.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Don't be so bleedin' fanciful, Lady B. It's Tilly Uppingham done the damage - not me. Great up-and-underer the Uppinmghams. Uncle Uppingham. Remember Uncle Uppingham? Great up-and-underer Uncle Uppingham! Still, you might be right, Lady B.... Stopped a snatcher in the act. Yerv a right to think as ye like. [Shouting at the wicket] Divine shot, Til.... Divine. [To Lady Black] Right through Johnny the Martyr, I bet [she laughs]. Great blarster, Til. Comes from a long line of blarsters. Mother was a blarster. [To Flabby Akkers] Flab, old sock, potter over and recce the churcho. See'f Til got Johnny the Martyr. And dip the old proboscis into the abbey. Til might 'av struck a prayin' monk. An' disentangle the old ball. [Casually] An' see oo made that cry a 'uman aggers. An 'urry. 'Cause we're not that flush a balls.
- FLABBY AKKERS [wearing pads, rises with difficulty, waddles rather than walks].
- Off goes Flab. Safari for Flab. Everyday adventure for Flab. [She wobbles/waddles off.] Off with me ball detector.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Flab's keen. Keeps a lovely wicket. Nothin' gets past Flab. Great stopper, Flab. [Pointing] Til's showing 'em a thing or two.
- LADY BLACK.
- Hussy.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Sixty! Off two overs, Lady B! God what grace, verve power, sweep, style, majesty, divinity, glory, celestiality... [she gasps for breath].
- FANNY.
- A goddess. Til's a goddess.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Inspired, Fan! What a vision, Fan! She is a god-dess! Immortal! See that? Shot of a god!
[There is an accompanying thwack.]
- FANNY.
- Nance. Coming this way - 'nother six over the pav.
[Nancy Pristine-Awfully scans the skies with her binoculars. The ladies, as before, topple backwards clapping wildly and repeat certain of Nancy's phrases.]
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Thar! [They look to the left - all turning their heads simultaneously like a drill squad] No, not thar! Thar! That's a chaffinch.
[Looking up] Heavenly.
- TEAM.
- Heavenly. Absolutely astral, but astral. Orbital, but orbital. Divine Til. Divine divinity. Divini-tee.
[They end with their usual orchestral halt. In this second silence there is, also emanating from behind the pavilion, a second crash of glass, the falling of slates, masonry. But this time there are many cries of agony, not one. There are dozens - far more horrible than the first. The cricketers sit up smiling and unperturbed.]
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- 'Nother martyred saint. 'Nother windowed wonder made holier [laughs]. [Snorting] Saints! Somethin' must be done about that church. Gets in the way a pleasure, the church. In the States they put 'em on rollers. Move 'em around. That's what we oughta do. Move 'em on...like meths drinkers.
[The cries of the dozens are suddenly repeated.]
- FANNY.
- God, Nance - what wazzat? More cries...more cries a 'uman aggers. Oodles of aggers - 'aunts a soul. Can't turn our back on oodles of aggers.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY [looking round].
- Flab's not come back, Fan. Must be Flab Til's got. [Enviously] But what a way ta go. Killed by a six! [She shakes her head.]
- FANNY.
- Flab's not 'undreds. I 'eard 'undreds. 'Undreds a 'uman aggers. There's more than Flab's bin 'it.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Monks praps... prayin' monks. A praying monk ud be an easy target for a six. He wouldn't take shelter. He'd leave his tonsure unprotected. He'd continue to pray to his god. Fan, old angel, flap over yonder and peruse the sitch.... You know, Fan [confidentially] there's Roman blood in Nance. Nancy is an Agrapina. You nevva knew that, did you, Fan? [Gloatingly] Games messin' up churches pleases Nance....
- FANNY.
- Anythin' for Nance. Stick me neck in a noose for Nance....
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- You're all gutters, Fan.... Hundred per cent gutter....
[Fanny leaves.]
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY [shouting to Tilly at the wicket].
- Hey Til. Don't get down in the dumpers. What's a church winder? What's a church? Club'll pay. Damn St John the Martyr. Shampers for Til. Craters a shampers.
- SAGGY.
- You think they'd abolish Satan. Take her off. They're givin' 'er another go..
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- What y'expect from women? Not a lady in the order.
[Another loud thwack is heard. Once again it soars towards the pavilion. Nancy follows it with her glasses.]
- SAGGY.
- Comin' over the pav agin. 'Nother six. Til's TNT today....
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY [pointing].
- Thar! Straight uppers! Sparreer dipped in jam. Aesthetic arc.
- TEAM [falling backwards].
- Aesthetic archers.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Celestial curve.
- TEAM.
- Celestial curvers.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Divine mo.
- TEAM.
- Diviners, diviners.
[Silence, followed by crashing walls, breaking glass, an explosion and the cries of what seem to be thousands.]
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY [moaning].
- More 'pologies! More comizzers! Still - good ol' Til. [To Lady Black] Til's getting down to it, Lady B.
- LADY BLACK.
- Hussy.
[The cries of what seem to be thousands suddenly repeat themselves.]
- SAGGY.
- 'Ear the cries, Nance? The 'eart rendin' cries of tens of 'undreds of 'umans!
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Sag, old sock, shuffle down to churchers an' appraise the old sitch. Looks like Til's got Flab an' Fan.
- SAGGY.
- An' tens of 'undreds of prayin' monks.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Must do somethin' 'bout that church. In the States they put 'em on rollers.
- SAGGY.
- You said, Nance....
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Off ye trot, Sag. No... a possee. Better take a possee. Piggy [who rises with military precision, as do the rest named]. Slasher. Troggy. Off you beetle with Saggy. If Til starts bombardin' - dashers for the crypt. Don't want gore on yer whites. Bloody 'ard to dry clean - an' 'avin' whites white - matters!
- SAGGY, PIGGY, SLASHERS, TROGGY [leaving for the church].
- Lift, right; lift, right....
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Don't forget to duckers. [They give thumbs-up signs as they exit.] Don't go the way a Flab an' Fan. [To Lady Black] God, they're angels. An' if they're not, they soon will be... way Til's slashin' around.
- LADY BLACK.
- Hussy.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Prodij, prodijjers Til. Luscious late-cutters, fabulous footworkers, super snickers....
[Another ball from Tilly makes its way over the pavilion.]
- KNOCKERS.
- 'Nother coming. 'Nother monumental missile. Thank God it's one of ours....
[It passes over; the ladies that remain fall backwards.]
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Oh Biggy Berthas!
- TEAM.
- Biggy B!
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Beauteous bomb!
- TEAM.
- Beauteous b...!
[Then follows silence and a long period of noise and destruction.]
- KNOCKERS.
- End a tha world, Nance. Doomers is nigh. Can't be much lefters.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Chin up, Knockers. Looks as if Til's got the possee - well as Flab an' Fan. Still, what's life an' limb? Game's the thing, bigger 'an all of us. Knockers, sort out a squad a who's left - Crockers, Mockers, Chopper an' the specked-taters an' the very besters. An' make certun you get back, Knock. Don't fail like Flab an' Fan an' the possee. [They leave at the double.] You fail, knockers, an' we got no balls left - firin' will cease.
- KNOCKERS [saluting before she leaves].
- Aye...Cap'n. Message interpreted. Games is war.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY [to Lady Black - her sole companion now].
- No flies on Knockers. [Pointing pitchward] God, Til's legwork.
- LADY BLACK.
- Hussy.
[Lady Black and Nancy Pristine-Awfully sit in silence. Nance rises now and then to put up sixes on the scoreboard. After a while a blood-stained, dishevelled Knockers crawls up to the pavilion.]
- KNOCKERS [hardly able to speak].
- Knock... Knock... Knockers, Cap'n. Mission [she hold up a string bag of cricket balls] accom-plished.... [She faints.]
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY [reviving her].
- What's a sitch, Knockers?
- KNOCKERS [feebly from the floor].
- 'Is church is in ruins - 'is Vicar is dead. 'Is abbey abandoned - 'is Abbott in 'eaven.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- 'S all in the game, Knockers.
- KNOCKERS.
- Johnny the Martyr's a thousand bits of glass. Monks all killed a prayin'. Flab's a corpse. Fan's a stiff. Sag's beyond 'ope. Piggy's gone. Slashers' sunk. The congregation of the 'Arvest Festival lies buried. The Mothers' Union is under rubble. The Fellowship is blarsted dead. All gone, Nancy. Til's killed 'em all. Knocked for an other-worldly six, lucky sods. All gone [smiling beatifically] to play the heavenly game on that great green square up in the sky.... [She falls dead.]
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Poor ol' Knockers - dead! Talking cricket to the end. What a way to go. An' only 12th man - there's loyalty! [To Lady Black] Til's 'ard at it with that new supply a balls.
- LADY BLACK.
- Hussy.
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- Glad we've not lost Til; she makes the side, [looks at empty benches] IS the side. [Shouting] Divine shot, Til.... [She stands by the scoreboard, adding sixes to the total. From time to time there is a crash of a wall, but there are no cries for help.... Shouting, looking over her shoulder] Looks like you've got 'em all, Til.
- LADY BLACK.
- Nance. Team's dead. What'cha gonna do for members, Nance?
- NANCY PRISTINE-AWFULLY.
- No probbers, Lady B. God's church may be gone, 'is abbey a ruin, 'is Vicar an' Abbot kaput - RELIGION'S NOT DEAD. No shortage of members, not while Tilly's knockin' 'em for six. Divinity will always 'ave it's ad'erents - while there's a goddess at tha crease. [Shouting at Til at the crease] Heavenly shotters, Til. Divine... drivers. [She claps ecstatically as the curtain falls.]
END
L. J. Hyde