Almost a Dynasty

PLAYWRIGHTS NOTES

Historians such as Manning Clark, Geoffrey Blainey and Russell Ward argue that the Australian character evolved through the days of the convict era, followed by the mythology of the bushranger period and then the diggers of the Great War. Those who came from Britain brought with them their cultural baggage and the Australian ethos was developed and refined from their struggle to assimilate themselves, their customs and conventions into the strange environment of the Australian bush rather than the urban environment. This is a story that explores that development.

It is told in three monologues where each of the characters makes a sacrifice, in some way, for the sake of future generations of his dynasty. The story demonstrates the sometimes extraordinary lengths people will go to in the struggle to survive what is often a cruel world.

The first character is the grandfather of the second, who is the grandfather of the third. It is their perspective of life’s struggle and the politics of class structure of their eras.

Throughout these three monologues there are the rats. The way the rats survive subtextually reflects how these three characters may see themselves and the way, by circumstance, they have been forced to behave.

Characters:

William Smith (alias): Born in England of lower class origins he is a convict with convictions. His only focus is on survival and his outlook on life is selfish because of the cruel way in which he has been treated by those who have controlled his life. Even so, he has not forgotten the lessons he learnt from those he did have respect for and those lessons still have a primary influence on his thinking.

Jim Smith: Jim Smith is a second generation Australian who feels that he has been persecuted by those who are better off in life than him. He has a mixed set of values that he has lived by, those exampled by his father and those, often in contrast, professed by his grandfather.

Digger Smith: A fourth generation Australian who has just returned from the Great War. Still a young man he is now struggling with the effects of his experiences on the front line battlefields of France. Whilst he recognizes the close relationship between himself and his father he has a desire for it to be a more open relationship. It comes natural to him to confide in his grandfather even though this the first time they have ever spent time together.

Even the Rats are Dead

Born in England of lower class origins he is a convict with convictions. His only focus is on survival and his outlook on life is selfish because of the cruel way in which he has been treated by those who have controlled his life. Even so, he has not forgotten the lessons he learnt from those he did have respect for and those lessons still have a primary influence on his thinking.

Scene: 1 A shipwreck somewhere on the south coast of mainland Australia.

On a calm, clear day, somewhere on the southern coast of mainland Australia, waves lap the lumpy shape of a body against the wooden hull of a small, three mast barque. Large sheets of canvas sail hang limply among ropes that were once rigging. A man lies trapped somewhere in the blackness of the bowels of the ship and is covered in debris. He drags in a lung full of putrid air and assesses his predicament. He tries to move but finds himself trapped by a large beam pinning his arm. He yells for assistance.

Convict: Help! Someone give us a hand here! (Silence) Help! (Silence)

Too busy getting into the rum, I’ll bet. Come on you bastards, I’m pinned down here. I can’t move!

The hull creaks. A gust of wind fills the canvas and the ship lurches against the rocks on the starboard side. Debris slides across the deck and a hatch cover dislodges. Fresh air swamps the trapped man, a shaft of light pierces the blackness below and the glare rips into his eyes. Filled with elation he calls out.

Here! I’m down here! (He squints but can only see painful white light.)

Who is it? Who’s there?

His eyes adjust. He kicks and throws off what debris he can and as he does he exposes a dead rat sprawled across the beam that pins his arm.

What are you looking at?

(Squinting through an open hatch) A blue sky. I can’t remember the last time I saw a blue sky.

(He listens to the silence) There’s no-one on board. It’s just

you and me.

Scene 2:

He twists and tries to free his arm but the beam is too heavy. Among the debris he finds a hatchet and uses it unsuccessfully to lever the beam from his arm. He glances at the rat watching him.

Convict: Have you ever noticed it’s always the rats that are left? No

matter what the disaster there’s always the likes of you and me among the rubble. (He listens) Huh! Just you and me ¾ and what use are you? Things must be bleak; even the rats are dead.

He tries again to move the beam but his efforts are futile.

Yet another predicament we find ourselves in. Do you think there’s a

God? He’s got a miserable sense of humour if there is; sitting up there on his cloud amusing himself with our demise. Oh, God in heaven, go to Hell! At least I know there is such a place.

I escaped from Hell once. The sea rushes into that harbour with

a ferocity you wouldn’t believe. Hell’s Gates they call it. Four years I spent there, chopping and rafting pine logs; a bit of solitary confinement, I didn’t mind that; and three hundred and seventeen lashes for whatever took their fancy. It was an experience no man should be without. Builds character. Strengthens resolve. In my mind, every cut of the lash I survived was one up for me. For every grimace of pain I had a smile of victory.

Bolters! That’s what they called us. Couldn’t catch us though. We sailed that little boat right through Hell’s Gates and out to sea. They just weren’t good enough. We went ashore somewhere up the coast and made our way into the scrub. They followed us; soldiers in red coats; like stumbling lobsters, we could see ‘em with our eyes shut.

We’d have still been free had it not been for the informer.

He leans across and stares the rat in the face.

I ate a bloke once, so don’t you sit there looking so smug.

That’s what you do with informers. He was foul tasting, but he kept me alive.

Different Forks in the Road

Jim Smith is a second generation Australian who feels that he has been persecuted by those who are better off in life than he. He has a mixed set of values that he has lived by, those exampled by his father and those, often in contrast, professed by his grandfather.

Scene 1: A hollow in the thick scrub of the Australian bush.

Early one morning, deep in the Australian bush, a man is shot and falls into a hollow in the thick scrub. His gun lands at his feet and the leafy fingers of the bush close around him as if in protection.

Jim: Oh! ¾ Oh, God it hurts!

(Shouting back into the scrub) You got me a good’n Taffy; ¾

question is, do you have it in ye’ to finish me?

The wounded man shifts painfully into a position to where he can peer into the scrub. He is hurting but is alert.

Come on Taffy, show yourself. You can be a big name if you

carry back the carcass of Jim Smith.

You know, you’re the only one who could’ve found me. We think the same you and me. But don’t forget it works both ways. If you know my next move you can bet your right boot I’ll know yours.

Why did ye’ do it, Taffy? Why did you come after me? You

knew shots would be fired.

Scene 2:

He opens his long, thick coat to reveal his shirt soaked in blood. His shoulder feels warm and wet while his hands and feet are cold and stiff. The air he breaths is fresh and clean and the ground cover he lays in is damp from the morning dew. Steam rises up the shafts of light where the sun pierces through the trees. He tries to reach his gun but can’t move his right arm.

Jim: Strange isn’t it. We steal a horse, you go on to be a policeman,

and me, well... Why d’you reckon we took different forks in the road, Taffy?

I knew it was you tracking me. I recognised your methods like the blind recognise footsteps. I know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking of how we used to shoot bottles off the fence post. You’re remembering how you were the better shot.

But remember this Taffy; you could never hit a moving target. It was always me who shot the rabbits.

While talking to Taffy and watching for any movement in the bush, he grabs a forked stick and uses it to drag his gun to within reach of his good arm.

Do you remember when we stole that horse from rich Old Ma Carter? How old were we, fourteen, fifteen? I still remember the belting I got; not so much for stealing the horse, but for not implicating you. My father wouldn’t accept me taking all the blame. He had an almighty row over it with my grandfather.

Dad said it didn’t matter that it was only for a lark. He said it would give me a reputation that’d be a noose around my neck.

Grandfather argued that an informer was lower than a rat.

By now he has the gun in his hand but it’s tangled in a sprig of greenery which he can’t shake off. He knows that Taffy is his equal in bush skills and hunting strategies. Out-witting and out-manoeuvring his foe will not be easy.

Rich old Ma Carter never forgot that incident. I reckon that’s

why she was so sure I was cattle duffing with the Frazer’s. She certainly convinced that new police officer in charge, what was his name, Sir Sydney Smollitt?

Jim: An English baronet! Now, there’s a qualification to be in charge of law enforcement. And what a fine team he’s gathered round him; the rich old Ma Carters’ pointing the finger, a ratbag sergeant giving the orders and you firing the bullets. Are you allowed an opinion, Taffy?

Knowing Taffy will not move without giving away his position he puts his gun in his lap and begins to pick out the greenery from the mechanism.

Long Arms Pulling at my Tunic

A fourth generation Australian soldier who has just returned from the Great War. Still a young man he is now struggling with the effects of his experiences on the front line battlefields of France. Whilst he recognizes the close relationship between himself and his father has a desire for it to be a more open relationship.

S

cene 1: A hollow somewhere in the thick scrub of the Australian bush.

A soldier pushes his way through the dense undergrowth of the Australian bush. The leaves of the plants drag across his face like fingers of strangers in a crowd as he fossicks about looking for landmarks. It’s evening; the sun has set but the heat of the day still radiates from the ground and into the soles of his feet.

Digger: It all looks the same.

It's all changed.

Nothing’s recognisable.

Maybe it’s all a waste of time.

I’ve got to be close.

He slips and falls into a hollow. As he gets up he kicks something in the grass, finds a gun covered in dirt and becomes excited. He reaches back into the thick stuff and feels something else. When he pulls it out he sees it’s a scull and drops it as if they were a hot brick.

Bloody hell! If I was a Catholic I’d cross myself!

I will anyhow.

He prods himself top and bottom, left and right and then gathers his composure. He gingerly picks up the scull and stands it upright on a rock then sits and stares at it. The deep, shadowy eye sockets stare back at him.

You don’t look well.

Are you who I want you to be?

I must say I can’t see any family resemblance.

Are you my grandfather?

He leans over to where he found the scull but can’t bring himself to look further.

Digger: I’ve been trying to find you ever since my grandmother told me

the story. She said you were infamous, ¾ for a few weeks

anyway; the infamous Jim Smith. I even found the bloke who

shot you. Old Taffy Evans. Fifty years he kept you a secret. He

said you grew up together.

He picks up the gun feeling its weight and balance at the end of his arm. Pointing it into the bush as if aiming at someone across the front line, he pulls the trigger, and his body tightens on the click it makes.

Scene 2:

Digger: I’ve just come back from the war. I’m blowed if I know what it

was all about though. Some Kaiser a world away, causing aggravation and we had to help sort it. Sent me to a place called The Somme.

I joined up with a mate, Eddy Edwards, but he wasn’t a front line soldier. He reckoned they’d lead us into battle from the rear and get the medals while we got shot. It was a comfort though, going through the business with someone I’d grown up with.

He takes a pen knife from his pocket and begins to clean away the dirt from the gun.

Taffy Evans sees your face every night before he sleeps. I know

what he means. He says he never goes into the bush because he sees you in every shadow; and he never said where you were because he reckons they would have trussed you up like a trophy.

Digger: Gran and I always went bush. She reckoned it brought her close

to you. She said your reputation grew and grew the longer you were on the run. Stories of shoot outs and elaborate escapes while most of the time you were home with her. She said a folk law built up around you. Oh yes! The original shooting was never properly investigated? There was lack of real evidence, so once you were dead the police dropped the case. Officially you’re an innocent man. You can come out of hiding now.

Scene 3:

He makes an attempt to look at where the rest of the body lies. He can’t do it.

Digger: I can see your coat ¾ and the bones of your fingers.

I spent two years in the trenches, the distortion of the dead sitting around me in motionless groups. Why is it that I can’t face looking at you lying there?

How do I make sense of it all?

It was a bit nervy at first. Every time a shell came over you were sure it was going to land in the dugout; and pretty soon you learned not to look over the parapet. Fritz was no mug with his shot, as many a poor bloke found out. And then the rats. You should have seen the rats; crawling over you all night. It was usual that if you dosed off you’d wake up to find one chewing at your nose. Needless to say they feasted on the dead.

Dad says the only thing he can remember about you are your

hands. He says I have the same fat thumbs. That’s how he describes ‘em anyhow. He says he often gets images of your hands, and they always give him a sense of security. Funny that, don’t you think?

Digger: Gran told me the night before you were shot you all got sick with food poisoning. She said you were up most of the night walking the floor with my dad in your arms. She reckons you always walked the floor with him when he was sick and that if you hadn’t carried him that two miles to the local doctor he would have died. Dad says he can’t remember any of it. Gran said it was the doctor who told the police where you were.

We were told it was for the glory of the Country; but really we didn’t have a bloody clue why we were there. Only that the Germans were trying to kill us and we were trying to kill them. Some glory, eh?

And it does some strange things to a man.

There was a time, just after we liberated a small village and took

a post outside Poziers, that our sergeant suddenly began to roll about uncontrollable. Then he broke into a frantic rush towards the Germans, unarmed, and cursing and swearing.

They pushed blokes to the point of mutiny and then shot ‘em for desertion.

Do you reckon you were a better man for having killed someone?

I thought it’d be a sense of victory; a feeling of superiority.