Treacherous Snares or The Plumbers Wife by Kim Jackson

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This Play is the copyright of the Author and may not be performed, copied or sold without the Author's prior consent

A field in Suffolk. Night, October 1799.

Sarah runs on to the stage, she struggles with household items,
dropping them and gathering them up. She is sobbing while she speaks
and shouts the following repeatedly.

Sound of rain and thunder.

SARAH: Dragoons! Dragoons! They made me. It were the dragoons, sir.
Dragoons! They made me. They made me take the things. I never wanted
to, it were the dragoons.

Her voice fades to be replaced by Capel Loft reading a poem. He is in
his study in a large country house. He is initially very theatrical in
his reading of the poem but becomes increasingly impatient and
irritated by it.

At the desk centre stage is Capel Loft. He is portly, about 46. The
desk has many papers - they are mostly letters, some of his own, half
written, and some responses from his many correspondences. He
searches, but is distracted often. He is dressed in a full frock coat,
a style just going out of fashion when the play opens - 1800. Behind
him in the half darkness are Mr. Deck and Rev. Drummond.

He launches into the poem in a highly theatrical way. Perhaps getting
onto the table, even though the poem is fairly bland.

LOFT: Fled now the sullen murmurs of the North,
The splendid raliment of the Spring peeps forth;
Her universal green, and the clear sky,
Delight 'still more and more the gazing eye.
Wide o'er the fields, in rising moisture strong,
Shoots up the simple flower, or creeps along
The mellowed soil; imbibing fairer hues,
Or sweets from frequent showers and evening dews;
That summon from their sheds the slumb'ring ploughs,

and - blah, blah (mumbles through rest until)

From ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides;
His heels deep sinking every step he goes,
Till dirt adhesive loads his clouted shoes
Till dirt adhesive loads his clouted shoes!

That line is bollocks - loads his clouted shoes ... clouted shoes,
bollocks, bollocks. Clumsy, meaningless bollocks. But for the rest.
There is something of merit. Something. This young man has come to me
clutching an idyll, a parody of real life that bears as much
resemblance to the rigours and humiliations of rural servitude as I do
to a tidy man. Yet he is young, he may learn, he may gain experience
perhaps has not yet seen enough of the world. It deserves publication
does it not? Does it not, Mr. Deck?

No response from others in room.

No. no, it does not. You are undoubtedly correct in your estimation.
It is naive. It is a simplistic portrait of the horrors of routine
country toil. But we should encourage young poets, should we not? If
not us then who? Who, in this town, especially this town - full of
impotent fuck -beggars as it is - who is to bring on raw, fresh
talent? Who! Who else but the blustering, shabby magistrate who cares
not for his reputation and the courageous, fearless publisher and
bookseller who alone in the town maintains and protects the ever
vulnerable gateway to truth and freedom.

No response.

Not even flattery, Deck? Yes, yes, I know. Your silence is most
forceful. I shall remain calm. I will avoid hyperbole. But what of
this? holding another poem.

Vagar mi tai co'miei pensier su I'orme che vanno al milis eterno,
e intanto fugge questo reo tempo,
e van collui le tonne delle cure onde meco egi si strugge
e mentre io guardo la tua pace dorme quello spirto guerrier ch'entro
mi rugge

Where my warrior spirit lies sleeping! Who in face of this passion
would not flee the dead hand of understatement. You, evidently.

God! This is where I want to die. Here. Here. (refers to paper)
Italy! Fuck those that feel the pull of birth place at their fading.
Flee, flee when the time approaches. Avanti! I tell you this. Are you
there? Place me in carriage as I leave this place, place me in a
carriage and race me south. South! From North to South. From grey to
clear azure. From tight-arses to singing spirits. I would no more want
to die in this land of decrepit history and stifling tradition then I
would want to drink piss.

He gets another drink

Letters. Letters. (Going through them) These I need to send. This is
a copy of a letter, (sarcastically) kindly given to me by the sender,
sent to his Grace The Duke of Portland. “When the conduct of an
individual however private his situation, becomes liable to
misrepresentation in newspapers from his earnestness to check
impropriety, or silence a harangue, which probably would have tended
to inflaming the minds of the populace ... blah, blah, blah ... pause
Imbecile.

suddenly For God's sake help - give me some sign, a clue as to what I
seek!

He finds a speech

reads ” ... and the terror has ceased. Terror? Citoyens, voulez-vous
un Revolution sans revolution? The movement has regained its
integrity. Those visionaries of the early years have been restored.
Restored to a greater vision, by a greater visionary - a soldier, a
poet. A man who has given dignity to those who had none. A man whose
strength of purpose has restored the great revolution. There is much
need of such visionaries in our own country.
We have been shown a beacon. De I'audace, encore I'audace, toujours
de l'audace.”

Yes, indeed. The populace no doubt would have been inflamed. But not
perhaps in the direction I had intended. You were right, Deck. Deck!
You were right to advise caution. You were right - as you so often are
- in your caution. But dull. Dull, dull, dull.

He is coming across pamphlets

'A History of the Corporation and Test Act', 'Remarks on Burke's
Letter on the French Revolution', 'On the Revival of the Cause of
Reform in the Representation of the Commons in Parliament' I have been
prolific, it is the minimum that can be said of me. In the Times
obituary, if such a thing were allowed to progress to print. 'View of
the Several Scholars with Respect to America', 'Thoughts on the
Construction and Policy of Prisons' Ah! My translations of Patrarch,
of Virgil. Humph! Better to have left it in Latin.

He finds what he searches for.

Ah, hah!

They freeze.

Cross fade lights to Sarah.

Sarah is sitting in the cell. Behind her in the shadows are Drummond
and Deck. She begins a long speech in which she goes over the events
of the fateful night and describes her relationship with Joseph and
what she had told him about being pregnant. The speech is difficult
and she struggles to tell the story accurately and with detail - this
she has been told to do. The testimony is therefore slow and tortuous
and should contrast with Lofts very strongly. Throughout Drummond
scribbles notes.

SARAH: Yes. I will tell you again. I want to. I look forward to
telling it again, to getting it right. Because sometimes I forget the
small parts and this helps me to get it exactly right. I must try harder.
I must try to remember everything. I must remember to say what I mean,
to get the words ... right.

I let Joseph in. How far do I go back? No. No. I remember. As far as
I need to, is that what you said? I let Joseph in, as I had done on
many occasions. He had tapped on the door as usual. It was a quarter
after ten in the evening. He had been drinking, but that was not
unusual. 'We must be quiet,' I said, 'the mistress has only just gone
to bed.' Mrs Syer had been late going up - she had been writing
letters, I think. 'Quiet, aren't we ever quiet? Don't we creep around
the house like mice, little quiet mice, listening for stirrings,
sniffing the air, sneaking into corners and hidden places?'

Pause. She is remembering the contact. The kiss that followed the
above.

No. You wanted detail and I was not going to say that part. It's this
that is hard. To think that there are some shameful moments that I can
leave out. But that's wrong, isn't it? He kissed me. Yes, he kissed
me. Here. (neck) Here. (lips) Here. (breast)
I pushed him away, playful. 'You've been drinking', I said, 'I can
smell your breath. You won't be wanting any more. 'What,' he said,
'not partake of the mistress's hospitality, her fine wine, her good
bread?' He went to the door to listen. He wouldn't have heard
anything. Once Mrs Syer's head hits the pillow she's out like a light.
It's on account of her being so vigorous during waking hours. Writing
and visiting and that. Having people in to discuss the latest gossip
in the village. I'm listening sometimes as I fetch and carry. Tea. Tea
and sometimes cake. They talk of things I don't understand. Of people
I don't know. No. No. This is not the detail you want. I'm sorry, you
must grow very impatient with me.

There is no sign of this

Joseph wanted to know how I had been treated that day, what tasks I
had been burdened with. It is not so much of a burden. The work is
very light and Mrs Syer does not make excessive demands. I had more to
do at home. Oh! This is what I told him, that night. It is part of the
detail, not idle ... observation.

He listened to my prattling. I think he was hurt. He said that he
would make a better life for me. I thought he was talking of marriage.
We would have to get married, wouldn't we, because of what we'd done.
I told him that I would work until the end of Michaelmas, it was when
my employment was due to end anyway, and it would have given us time
to arrange things, to find somewhere to live. If the mistress had been
happy with me - I'm sure she had - she indicated so often, then
perhaps she would make a small settlement. She is better than most
employers, and whatever else happens we may as well wait.

Joseph was asleep. I wasn't offended. I had been talking of the
future, selfishly, for my own satisfaction. It had made me excited and
I had ignored him. I had so much wanted to tell him the news, my news,
and I had gabbled on. He woke suddenly, excitedly, and I thought he
had felt my need to have him awake, as if lying on my stomach, feeling
his child, had disturbed his sleep all at once, making him jump up.
But it was for something else that he grew agitated.

'I nearly forgot.' he said, 'I have something important to tell you,
something momentous! Sarah, today I became a member of the Worshipful
Company of Plumbers. I am legally entitled to practice the art and
mystery of plumbing. I am a Plumber!'

Are you still there? I remember more - more of what I said. I told
him to stop because I had something to say. Something that would make
him happy, happier. I'd forgotten. I'd forgotten I'd told him. It was
over so soon. I was late with my monthly and I was usually so regular.

I have had help with this part. For at the time I understood little
of what he was saying to me. I had tried to remember by myself but the
words did not form in my head. Just pieces, sounds, that I gave to
you. You are there Mr. Deck? He it was who had heard of…plumbers and
knew what they were. Mr. Deck you know, keeps books. He brings them to
me. You know I can read? I had not read of plumbers or worshipful
companies.

Joseph was upset that I didn't know, because I couldn't be happy for
him. But he understood and was gentle with me. He told me a story
which I remember clearly. It is recorded that in 1300 a London Lady
designed her own plumbing, connecting her privy to the outflow of the
rainwater gutter. Unfortunately in dry weather the pipe would block
and the resulting smell was so bad that angry neighbours would pour
their sewage on her when she came out of her house. (she laughs)

He said I should be very happy - the promise of marriage to a
plumber. The towns and cities will have much need of plumbers. There
will always be work. In rich people's houses. Even poor people's
houses will one day have pipes to carry away foul water and even bring
clean in! All this was too much for me to take in. I felt dizzy. I
hadn't drunk anything, but I felt dizzy. He was talking to me, holding
me, talking of marriage ... I could feel this ... joy ... welling up
inside me. The more he spoke of this plumbing, our marriage, the more
excited I became. He was kissing me and talking, kissing and talking,
his hand was on my breast, lifting my skirts.

No. No. I'm going too far. You wanted details, more care over
details. I've gone too far. He was talking kissing. I stopped him and
said,' Joseph, I think I am with child.'
I thought he would be happy. I started the day after. I was already
in here. It was heavier than usual. They had nothing for me. That was
a long time ago now. I forgot.

He stared at me for a long time. He looked lost. 'Is it mine?' I felt
cold at such a question. Nor hurt, not then, just cold. A sort of
shiver. There was a long silence. I thought even then that he would
suddenly laugh, express great happiness, caress me, kiss me, love me,
say I had given him the greatest joy, completed the most perfect day.
There was just a long silence. Then he staggered back, he seemed drunk
again. 'You have ruined everything,' he said, 'You have ruined
everything.'

He staggered around the room. He was shouting, 'You have ruined
everything. What are we to do? We have done wrong. This will do us no
good.' I was pleading for him to be quiet, to stop. He had only to
think of our marriage.

What happened then? I need help! I am confused. He stopped. He was
thinking. He moved slowly and then again, fast. 'Sarah, we shall get
married. I am resolved. You must leave here now. Now. Now is the best
time. I have promised it. There is no reason to wait. You love me, do
you not? We must make plans, we must see how we can manage. There is a
way. I am resolved.' He was talking, repeating this and moving from
room to room. Sometimes he would come back in and talk again of
marriage, again he would appear

She looks to where he was standing

'The English aristocracy,' he said, 'still consider the plumbed water

closet a frivolous luxury. The Duke of Bedford, however, has
installed four at Woburn Abbey, at least one within the house. Many
consider him eccentric.' And then we were in another room and then
again back 'The Roman plumbers worked on a large scale. Their public
baths were fed from a supply which provided 300 gallons per day for
each citizen in Rome.' Each time he appeared now he carried things
from the rooms, Mrs. Syer's things. I thought he was insane. I dared
not move. He got angry.

'Take these, take them up!' When I couldn't move he placed them on my
arms, he wrapped my arms around them. He took fire from the hearth and
moved again into the other rooms. He ran back in. 'Run,' he said,'
Run.' He dragged and pushed me out of the kitchen, into the field.
'Say the Dragoons made you do it, say dragoons'. I kept hold of Mrs
Syer's valuables. I thought I was keeping them safe. I held on and ran
as fast as I could, away from the house. Joseph had gone. I ran into
the arms of the constable.

Do want to hear it again? (silence) No. But I have spoken too much of
my feelings. You wanted facts. You said facts, not feelings. You
wanted me to be clear. I should remember clearly. I don't blame
Joseph. I don't blame Joseph.

Cross fade back to Loft's study.

Rev. Drummond and Mr Deck. Drummond is the Rector of Hadleigh, a
large village in Suffolk. He is reticent and well-meaning. The
youngest son of an aristocratic family. A serial people-pleaser but
with flashes of anger for which he feels guilty and apologetic. Mr
Deck is a publisher and book shop owner in Bury St Edmunds. He is
close to Loft but does not share his views although he is passionate
about freedom of speech and justice. He is liberal rather then
radical.

Deck is casually surveying Loft's desk while he talks. Drummond
stands in much the same position as the first scene.

DECK (noticing that Drummond is ill-at-ease) I no longer apologise
for Loft's behaviour,
Drummond. The effort drains me and it does no good. He has a
pathological need to be indiscreet, thoughtless and insulting ... and
angry, always angry. Whether from his genuine frustration at his lack
of success in alleviating the burdensome conditions of the disaffected
and unrepresented poor or from something deeper and more ... personal,
I know not. He has a number of ... burdens, Mr. Drummond. His wife is
bed-ridden since the death of a child during a difficult confinement.
He feels it deeply, I know, but he chooses to cover all with bluster.
He is estranged from his son, who fled to America, America, Mr.
Drummond, obstensibly to help build a new order, a republic, but I
suspect it was rather to escape his father.

Pause

I have tried to console, to counsel. I have tried to restrain his
excesses. I have warned him that there may come a time when he will
need to be more ... judicious in his political outbursts and his
democratic leanings, I have warned him often that perhaps now is not
the time for excessively 'free' debate. It may be time, I have
advised, to spend more time attending to the needs of your family. I
have warned him. The effect on those who meet him for the first time
remains the same, and your demeanour suggests you are no different in
this, he intimidates and shocks. However, he will help, of that there
is no doubt. He will champion the case of your parishioner and if
there is anyone of his standing and position more capable of gaining
her mercy then I have not met the man and I meet, and tolerate many.

Loft re-enters, he is wiping his hands on a cloth. He carries on a
debate as if there had been
no break.

LOFT: Mr Deck, are we to argue? To (mocking) negotiate! Surely I can
prevail upon your good judgment. You know how much I value your good
judgment. You know how much I cherish you opinion. I'm sure that you
will see that there is a reputation here to be made.

DECK: Loft, Loft, enough! Not for the first time I feel duty bound
to remind you to keep hold of some sense of proportion. Truth and
freedom! This poem! This poet! (He takes it from Loft). I suppose it
would cure me of insomnia. It is not seditious. Yes, yes, let it
gather dust on my shelves. Like all the rest. I must apologise, Mr
Drummond. Mr Loft has found a new poet.

DRUMMOND: A poet. Mr Loft is a devotee of poetry?

DECK: He is indeed Mr Drummond. Poetry, Politics, Astrology, Botany,
Music, Literature, The Law, The Underdog, Letter writing, In all he
has not a little knowledge, and much passion. But his choice of
fledgling poets to patronise ...

LOFT: What do you think, Mr Drummond?

DRUMMOND: Of ... ?

LOFT: The poem, man, the poem.

DRUMMOND: I'm sure I'm not qualified to give any opinion.

LOFT: Nonsense, surely you are supposed to be more qualified. Its
subject is your parishioners, your flock. I know sympathy and
understanding with their fellow man's plight does not sit easily with
those that occupy lofty positions within the hierarchy of the church
but I live in hope to find it in the priesthood - notwithstanding
their own family connections, of course.

He looks for a response

God help them, when the only respite from their daily toil is the
solace that you provide.

DECK: Loft!

LOFT: Dignity, Mr Drummond, dignity. There is much that speaks of
that simple dignity which we see in our fellows that you must see in
your parishioners, which so many choose to vilify. There is a demand
that must be made of the best poetry, Drummond. It stirs, it arouses
the emotions, but it must also speak to the common man, it must be
immersed in the reality of their existence. They must feel the two,
the emotional and the tangible and then fuse them into action. Poetry
can do this.

DRUMMOND: Perhaps, as I have said, I am not qualified to judge, but
I concur with Mr. Deck; does this poem do it?

pause

LOFT: NO ... no, not yet, but this poet might- with proper
nurturing, with a publisher!

DECK: Loft, I think you are besotted by this poet.

LOFT: Besotted, no, I have some experience of poetry, as you well
know, I know when a poet is about to blossom. While I will readily
concede that this is not the poem to make a reputation, it has within
it the seed, the beginnings of some ... merit.

DECK: Well, it will take more than 'some merit' to get me to publish
it. Am I to add another of his poets to my shelves, that are already
bowing beneath the weight of obscure English poets, obscure
continental poets, translations of obscure continental poets?

LOFT: England, Mr Deck, England. The War. Parochial Suffolk taste.
Are these to stifle literature and political thought?

DECK: Bah!

pause

What news from Hadleigh, Mr Drummond. I visit the town so rarely now,
my acquaintances having left.

DRUMMOND: The town still stands, sir. I fear I carry very little
news. The business of the town goes on.

LOFT: The business of the town goes on. At the end of a tumultuous
decade in Europe, with the peasants of France scaling the walls of
tyranny, the business of Hadleigh goes on. There is a movement
sweeping Europe ...

DECK: There is a terror. ..

LOFT: No. No. The terror has ceased - the movement has regained it's
integrity. Those visionaries of the early years have been saved. But
then I begin to repeat myself. .. and appear glib. Yes well, I'm glad
the business of Hadleigh goes on. regaining fervour Are you not
suffocated, man.

DRUMMOND: I keep busy with the physical and spiritual well-being of
my parishioners.

DECK: Of course. You must forgive Mr. Loft, Drummond. His attempts
at conversation can often resemble one of his unsellable pamphlets.

LOFT: I make no apologies, Mr Deck for my passionate beliefs, and it
concerns me little whether they get to hear of them in Hadleigh,
however disturbed those good people of the town may become by them.
But I see you are impatient to begin our talk.

Places his hand on relevant papers immediately

We have here an account of a case that gives great testimony to the
inequities of English law.

DECK: I'm sure Mr Drummond is less concerned with the inequities of
the law and more with the saving of a life.

DRUMMOND: I am. We have little time for procrastination, I fear.

LOFT: I am fully aware of the urgency of the situation. But we are
concerned also, are we not, with the well-being of many such as this
poor girl. the powerless, the victims of an inhuman and unbeloved law.

DRUMMOND: I am not an expert in law.

LOFT: You are an expert in humanity.

DRUMMOND: No. No expert sir. But I have observed much and I know
well the wretched situation of the girl and understand her route to
it, although I cannot condone it.

LOFT: Then you are cognizant of the circumstances that force upon
the poor such ignominy. You have observed much in Hadleigh, sir, I am
sure. But I have observed life in our growing towns where many such as
this girl live in squalor and desperation. Progress has done this,
sir, and profit, and a law that does little to protect the weakest.

DECK: Yes. Yes. But let us move to the particular. Mr Drummond has
joined us for advice and action. The girl is to hang tomorrow and your
rantings on poetry and politics will not save her. The rector has come
for advice, to you, god help him, in this desperate hour. Please
listen.

LOFT: Well, we are here to listen. Carry on Mr Drummond.

DRUMMOND: I am grateful. I do come for advice, as for action, I know
not what can be done. I have just come from the gaol where I have
listened to another confession. As you know I have visited her on many
occasions since the time of her arrest. I felt it my duty as rector of
Hadleigh, being credibly informed that this poor uninstructed young
woman could divine no benefit or comfort from the chaplain to the
gaol, to exert of my feeble power to prepare her for her awful change.
For this purpose I have sat with her. I have listened to her
confessions. I have tried to give her solace. Much of the confession I
found abominable but it was my duty to listen and to give comfort. I
now seek guidance to save this child - for she is no more than that -
from death. She must be punished, she herself is resigned to that, and
although she is guilty of admitting her seducer into the dwelling
house of her mistress and becoming the instrument in his hands of the
crimes of robbery and house-burning yet she is living testimony to the
fall of unguarded youth, the allurements of vice and the treacherous
snares of seduction and as such death is too great a punishment
however great an example it would surely be.

Loft is laughing hysterically.

[end of extract]

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