Ken Purdham
Bachelor of Arts History & Politics
Diploma of Professional Writing & Editing
There's an excitement or a tension about live drama that links the performer to the audience. It's the anticipation that anything can happen.
Unlike film or television, no performance is the same, affected by the mood of the actors and audience. How fascinating it is to see a play script being so dynamic, different interpretations, always changing at the time of production and performance.
Stage drama is like jumping off a cliff without knowing whether or not you can fly.
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In my writers group, last month’s challenge was to write something from the prompt; ‘Buried Treasure’.
Although this is fictional, it is based on real accounts. The logic of the intent
is hard to believe now yet it was real back then. It was surprising how after the
first read of this sketch the conversation within my writers’ group took off and
real stories spilled out for some time . -
An old woman sits at a table writing. There’s an hourglass on the table and the sand is flowing. Suddenly a young girl appears.
Tracy: Writing again Gran?
Gran: No, I’m building a bomb.
Tracy: Interesting.
Gran: It’ll explode when the sand runs out and wipe out the whole street.
Tracy: Cool! How old do you reckon that egg timer is?
Gran: I don’t reckon, I know. It’s twice my age.
Tracy: You’re ninety that means it’s one-
Gran: I’m pleased to see your expensive education has paid off. I’ll make a pot of tea.
Tracy: I wonder if I’ll make a pot of tea when I’m your age?
Gran: Your computer will make it for you.
Gran gets up and puts the jug on and sets a tea pot and cups on a tray.
Tracy: Don’t be silly Gran.
Gran: That’s how it will be. You’ll raise your eyes to the ceiling and say, computer make us a pot of tea. Then a voice from what seems like nowhere will say, please state your preferred blend and you’ll say, I’ll have English Breakfast just like Gran used to make.
Tracy: But I’ll still write my journal by hand, I promise.
Gran: That pleases me. Your scribbles on the page will say so much more than a computer-
Gran pours water into the tea pot and carries it back to the table.
Tracy: Gran, can I ask you something – sensitive?
Gran pours tea in a clearly refined ritual. Then in unison they pick up their cups to take their first sips.
Gran: You’ve never held back before so I guess you’re going to ask it anyway.
Tracy studies her Gran as if looking for the right moment to ask her question.
Gran: Go on, then?
Tracy: Why you and my mum don’t speak these days.
Gran: Ask your mother.
Tracy: I did.
Gran: And she said?
Tracy: Ask your Gran.
Gran: That’s that then.
Tracy: No, it’s not, Gran.
Gran: There’s nothing to tell.
Tracy: Of course not! Why would a mother and daughter want to talk to each other. What a ridiculous thought.
Gran: I agree with that.
Tracy: No, you don’t. At some point, when I visit, you find a way to ask about mum without actually asking.
Gran: Oh, do I?
Tracy: Yes, you do and she’s fine, thanks for not asking.
Gran: It’s nice to know.
Tracy: Mum’s no different when she knows I’ve been to see you.
Gran: And do you tell her, I’m fine, thanks for not asking?
Tracy: I never thought being a daughter-
Gran: I’ll get the biscuits.
Gran gets up from the table and comes back with a biscuit barrel then take a big swig of tea.
Tracy: Are you going to write about it in your journal.
Gran: Write about what?
Tracy gives a melodramatic sigh of frustration.
Tracy: You know what I’m asking.
Gran: Best you let it go.
Tracy: I think it has something to do with you losing a baby before my mum was born.
Gran: (snappy) What’s she been saying?
Tracy: Nothing. I’m guessing. She’s as frosty as you when I ask.
Gran: I don’t want to talk about it.
Tracy: Gran, since I was tiny, we’ve always been able to talk about anything bothering us, no matter how tough or sensitive. It’s something precious that you gave to me – exclusive to us. I thought it was both ways.
Gran: Have a biscuit.
Tracy: Is it both ways, Gran?
Gran pulls the lid off the biscuit barrel and thrusts it towards her. Tracy fills Gran’s cup with more tea.
Gran: (with hesitation) It – is about the baby I lost – in a way.
Tracy: And?
Gran: And nothing. That’s all you’re getting.
Tracy takes a biscuit out of the barrel, bights on it and looks expectantly at her gran.
Gran: There were two.
Tracy: Two?
Gran: Yes.
Tracy: Two babies that died?
Gran: No.
Tracy: I don’t understand.
Gran: The second baby was taken from me at birth. I wasn’t allowed to see it.
Tracy: Gran!
Gran: They said it was for the best before I could get attached to it.
Tracy: How old were you?
Gran: Sixteen.
Tracy: And Mum was upset that you didn’t confide in her?
Gran: My second baby was never a secret between us.
Tracy: Now, I’m even more confused.
Gran: Can you let this go?
Tracy: No.
Gran: DNA.
Tracy: DNA?
Gran: My baby that survived, and now an old woman, discovered she had a DNA match – with your mother and contacted her. In her excitement your mum tried to arrange a meeting.
Tracy: What’s wrong with that?
Gran: I can’t cope with the shame and said no.
Tracy: Why should you be ashamed?
Gran: Because my baby was somewhere out there all these years, and I didn’t care.
Tracy: Well, that’s not true!
Gran: Isn’t it?
Tracy: If you didn’t care we wouldn’t be having this conversation?
Gran: I didn’t even know its gender.
Tracy: Oh, Gran!
Gran: I just couldn’t cope with coming face to face with my baby and having her look at this old woman who abandoned her. And now I’ve done it all over again.
Tracy: What do you mean?
Gran: I’ve abandoned her again and then blamed your mother. So, now you know.
Tracy: Gran, I’m sorry.
Gran: Oh Tracy, don’t be. It’s just something I’ve got to deal with.
Tracy: But if your baby hears your story…
Gran: (interrupting) No!
Tracy: As painful as it might be, don’t you think she has a right to know?
Gran: That was your mother’s reaction.
Tracy: Of course!
Gran: You couldn’t possibly understand how I feel.
Tracy: I’m sure nobody can but…
Gran: (interrupting) There are no buts.
Tracy: But you no longer have to face it alone. Mum knows and I know. Let us wrap our arms around you and cry with you.
Gran: Crying is self-
Tracy: Then what about the pain of others?
Gran: Others?
Tracy: Your newfound daughter. Maybe she didn’t have pain, but she sure will have now if you don’t want anything to do with her. And then there’s the pain my mum is feeling!
Gran: Stop being so damn logical.
Tracy: Then let me take you to see mum and...
Gran: (interrupting) No.
Tracy goes over and picks up her gran’s coat.
Tracy: How many times have you said to me we should learn from the past and face the future head on. You didn’t get to ninety by running away.
Gran: Don’t hold back, will you.
Tracy holds out Gran’s coat for her to slip into it. Gran turns away but Tracy waits patiently.
Tracy: Ease my mum’s pain. And if your newfound daughter can’t understand, at least you’ll know; but what if she does understand? What if instead of two of us wrapping our arms around you, there’s three?
Gran: I can’t do it.
Tracy: You’re not doing it, we are.
Gran: I don’t like being ambushed like this.
Tracy: It’s affirmative action. You taught me that too. Come on Gran, before the sand runs out and you blow up the whole street.
Gran turns back to her granddaughter and looks at her with tears in her eyes. She slips her arms into her coat, and they leave.
Buried Treasure
