“We’re going to do Eugene Ionesco’s play ‘The Lesson’,” Martha announced to the assembled members of Port Tennant Amateur Dramatics Society.
“What’s it about?” Dan Throwtrup is a small, balding, and paunchy man with a capacity for attitude that doesn’t so much prove the adage about small men as spell it out in bold type.
“Dan, Dan, Dan.” Martha sighed heavily and turned her back on the players. She marched to the rear of the stage, threw one arm in the air, and span on her heel. “Ionescu’s plays aren’t ABOUT things, unless of course you count the human condition as a thing. They’re about the expression of the spirit. In this case, the dangers inherent in indoctrination.”
“Not exactly a Christmas play, then?” Dan observed. “Couldn’t we do Snow White?”
“Aye,” murmured Pete Collingwood, “you’d make a bloody good dwarf.”
“At least I have my own teeth,” snarled Dan.
“So do I.”
“Not for much longer.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Martha pasted on her Am-Dram exasperated face, “I firmly believe the residents of Port Tennant are ready for this wonderful comedic parable.”
“Who is going to sponsor it?” Ali Hussein shuffled away from the two glaring men as they stood facing off with clenched fists. “I can’t see the Golden Paradise Chinese Takeaway paying good money to put on a play about the Baroque violence of Naziism.”
“We won’t need a sponsor, Ali,” Martha was confident of this. “We’ll need a bigger venue. This kind of exploratory drama is an entirely new thing for East Swansea. You might find it in the posh places like Sketty, or at the Taliesin, but since the Bay Campus opened, this part of Swansea has been a veritable cultural desert. The students will love it.”
“Martha,” Alice Littlebottom put her hand up, “won’t the students all be away at Christmas? Besides, they’re mostly engineering around here, and about as cultural as Friday night in Wind Street.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Martha threw her hand palm outwards at her forehead.
“Besides,” said Ali, “it’s not as good as ‘The Chairs’. Now that’s a proper play. This is a bit of a one-joke diatribe.”
“Think of the chemistry, Ali. Me as the ill-fated pupil, you as the enraged professor, Alice as the sardonic maid.”
“What about us,” piped up Dan, “me and this streak of piss?”
“Someone has to be front of house,” Martha replied.
“Sorry Martha, but I think you’re being a bit overambitious,” Pete said.
“Yeah, let’s put it to a vote,” Alice chimed in.
“Very well,” Martha conceded, “all in favour of putting on Ionescu’s ‘La Leçon’ raise your hands.”
No-one moved.
“I see.” Martha sat down and hung her head. Throwing back her hair, she looked around at the ensemble. “No ambition.”
“What are we going to do, then?” Alice wondered.
“How about Snow White and the Dwarf?” Pete replied.
Dan dived at him.
