Ann-Marie MacDonald - Belle Moral - A Natural History

FLORA. Wherever did you obtain such a blasphemy?

PEARL. Dr Reid …

FLORA. Dr Reid?

PEARL. Yes. He very kindly loaned it me when I admired it on the shelf of his laboratory. Dr Reid was quite the budding Darwin in his day, did you know that, Auntie? A pity, he abandoned his research. And what a shame, a specimen like this gathering dust.

FLORA. Dr Reid’s got no business lending you that ear.

PEARL. Why ever not?

A beat .

FLORA. It’s … rhuadh. [pron: roo-ah]

PEARL. It’s what? Speak English, Auntie.

FLORA. It’s red.

PEARL. So?

FLORA. That’s Faery hair.

PEARL. Auntie, I’m a redhead, Father was a redhead, are we fairies?

FLORA. No, no, dear, but …

PEARL. But what?

FLORA. You might have a gift.

PEARL. And what’s wrong with that?

FLORA. The gifts of the Faery can be … queer.

PEARL. Well this ear is certainly a gift, if not of “the Faery”, then of Nature.

FLORA. Nature makes mistakes. And tisna’ wise to gaze too long upon them. You might look at something and find you can never look away again.

PEARL peers at the jar through her magnifying glass .

The evil eye dwells in that which is unnatural. Just say a little prayer and put it down, there’s a good lass.

PEARL. Make up your mind, Auntie, are you Pagan or Protestant, you can’t be both you know. Or rather you can, in which case you’re Catholic.

FLORA [scandalized] . I’m no’ Catholic —!

PEARL. I shall contemplate this ear to my heart’s content, for it is an aberration; one of Nature’s exceptions by which we divine Her rules.

FLORA. Look to your own ears, my dear. Thank God He shaped you in His image and do not dwell upon the margin He left to the divil.

PEARL. Auntie Flora, the “divil’s margin” is merely a necessary factor of chance by which all life on Earth has evolved.

FLORA. There’s that evil word again.

PEARL. There’s nothing evil about evolution, Auntie; it’s just a lot of hit and miss in the struggle for reproductive success.

FLORA. Pearl … isn’t there any young man you think of more than another?

PEARL. In what sense?

FLORA. Have you heard from Mr Abbott lately?

PEARL. I should think Mr Abbott is waiting to hear from us. He can’t very well read Father’s will with half the family still off gallivanting.

FLORA. I meant, have you heard from him … socially?

PEARL [suddenly] . Auntie. I dreamt I was wearing Mother’s wedding gown.

FLORA [delighted] . Ach, did you, lass, and were you by chance able to glimpse the groom?

PEARL. Auntie Flora, I’m going to buy a dog.

FLORA. What? Oh no, pet, now don’t you go buyin’ a dog.

PEARL. Why not?

FLORA. Why … your father could never abide a slaverin’ cur.

PEARL. I shall select a non-slavering breed. Besides. Father is dead. And the dog is for Victor. Why are you dressed?

FLORA. I was waiting up … [prevaricating] in case your brother should arrive. His letter said today.

PEARL. And the letter before that said last week. I’d not lose sleep over Victor, Auntie, he’ll turn up when he pleases, in three days or three months. Depending on who’s standing him drinks.

FLORA. Don’t worry, pet.

PEARL. I’m not worried, I’m vexed.

FLORA. You’re hungry.

PEARL. Peckish.

FLORA. What about a nice pickled egg? Or, Young Farleigh’s fixed a lovely finan haddie.

PEARL. Any herring?

FLORA. There’s bloater paste. And a dollop of marmite on toast.

PEARL. Mmmm.

FLORA. I’ll go heap a plate. Now you get back to your stones and snails and puppy-dog tails and … forget about that ear. Especially at this hour.

PEARL. What hour is that, Auntie? “The hour of the Faery”?

FLORA. The hour of the wolf.

Sound of carriage wheels on gravel .

PEARL. Ha! The prodigal returns [rising, delighted in spite of herself] . Let’s have a right midnight feast with silly old Victor, shall we Auntie?

FLORA [urgent] . Stay, Pearl! [covering] It mightn’t be him.

PEARL. Well who might it be “at this hour”?

FLORA [thinking quickly] . Young Farleigh.

PEARL. Young Farleigh? What’s he doing out about?

FLORA. I sent him down to the shore for winkles.

PEARL. Ugh, I can’t abide winkles.

FLORA. Your brother loves them.

PEARL. He can have them [sitting]. Along with everything else.

FLORA. Hush now, this will a’ways be your haim. Our haim.

PEARL. Don’t console me, Auntie, I am quite steeled to my fate. In fact I relish the prospect of Victor inheriting Belle Moral with all its cash and chattels, and squandering the lot within a year. I shall then be forced to earn my living. Book a passage to Egypt. Cross the desert on a camel. Publish my findings anonymously. Return in glory.

FLORA [going to exit] . I’ll fetch some cocoa too.

PEARL. Auntie Flora … was Father proud of me?

FLORA. Ach, you know he was. Look at you. Educated. Modern. And not a bit dried out.

PEARL. I’ve had the oddest feeling lately. Ever since Father’s funeral. As if there was someone missing. But I can’t say who. I suppose you’d say my ancestors are trying to tell me something.

A beat .

FLORA. You miss your father. That’s all it is.

PEARL. Poor Victor always wanted a puppy.

A clock strikes three . FLORA exits . PEARL resumes her work .

Scene 3 The Driveway

FLORA stands outside Belle Moral, holding a lantern, peering into the darkness toward the sound of a horse exhaling, pawing the gravel. A carriage door opens. A footfall . FLORA sees the new arrival. She makes the sign of the cross .

Scene 4 The Drawing Room

Next morning. Over the mantelpiece hangs a family portrait. It is painted in the impressionist style with the prettiness of Monet and the fogginess of Turner. The figures are distinguishable as a bearded red-haired man, a dark-haired woman cradling an infant in a tartan shawl, and PEARL as a young child. There is a sense of the portrait being compositionally off-balance: a gap between PEARL and the infant. On the opposite wall is mounted a set of bagpipes of the same tartan . PEARL is huddled under the hood of a camera . FLORA stands posed, draped in a white bedsheet .

FLORA. Is it to be a religious theme this time, pet?

PEARL. In a manner of speaking. Classical mythology.

FLORA. I’ll no’ be a pagan, Pearl.

PEARL. It’s purely symbolic, Auntie [handing her scissors and a ball of yarn] . You’re one of the Fates.

FLORA. What am I knitting?

PEARL. You’re capriciously toying with the life of some poor sod.

FLORA. Aren’t there any nice myth women?

PEARL. No. None of any importance.

FLORA strikes a pose, scissors poised to cut a length of yarn .

Don’t smile, Auntie.

FLORA. Well how do you want me?

PEARL. Dispassionate. This is a scientific journal. Hold still, now.

PEARL goes to the take the picture but FLORA cocks an ear .

What is it?

FLORA. Nowt. Thought I heard something.

PEARL [about to take the picture again] . Ready? And –

FLORA cocks an ear again .

You’re not going dafty on me now, are you, Auntie?

FLORA. No, dear, I’m a touch forfochen this morning is all.

PEARL [matter-of-fact] . Up half the night worrying about Victor, damn him, you look dreadful. Ready now? one, two, three –

VICTOR enters, wearing a kilt, causing FLORA to smile the instant PEARL takes the picture with a poof and a flash .