harvest

This is an experiment in dialogue, hence the lack of descriptive text.

A cottage at the outskirts of a village, tidily kept, smoke rising from the chimney. There is a garden with rows of vegetables, fenced in. Rolling hills spread out green around it, seamed by a dark forest. The sun is shining, birds are singing, there are a few clouds in the sky.

Scene 1

‘Oi!’
‘Huh?’
‘You there! What’s that? What do you think you’re doing young man?’
‘Um.’
‘What? Lost your tongue? You do know that was my cabbage you were attacking, don’t you?’
‘It looked like a –’
‘A what?’
‘A boar, sir.’
‘A boar. Boy, do you think I’m daft?’
‘Sorry, sir, but we were just coming down and – it really did. Sir. I swear. Cally Boison can swear it too.’
‘Yeah, and I’m wearing my knickers on my head.’
‘Um.’
‘What?’
‘In fact… at least… is that a hat?’
‘It’s very fashionable these days. Talk of the town.’
‘Oh. Sorry. Missed that. Very nice. Very… modern.’
‘You think so?’
‘Oh, quite, quite.’
‘Wonderful. Got it half price. Well. Where was I. Yes. My cabbage. What were you poking into it for? Perfectly healthy cabbage, no need to murder it in broad daylight. And you really think it’s modern?’
‘The cabbage?’
‘The hat.’
‘Oh, that. Yes. Very. Modern, I mean.’
‘Wonderful, wonderful. It was my cabbage, you know. Very fine stock. Don’t always get them this good. And then you come around poking into it as if it were some marshmallow. Don’t you have any decency man? Imagine I was digging up weeds and you’d poked my head instead – !’
‘I checked, sir, you were in the kitchen, so no danger there.’
‘Ah, I see. Mischief by Design and Destruction of Personal Property. Well, I must say – do you really think it’s modern? In the New Fashion Weekly kind of way?’
‘The New Fashion – ?’
‘Weekly. The Bible of Fashion as I am told. Is it that?’
‘I don’t know –’
‘You don’t know? After what you did to my cabbage?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, slipped my mind. Just read it yesterday. Yes, very fashionable in the fashionable-weekly- fashion-bible way, sir.’
‘Ah, good, good. Glad to hear it. Cally Boison, you say? How’s his father doing?’
‘Um. Good, sir.’
‘Still on the drink?’
‘Not so much, sir.’
‘A boar, you say? Wild or domestic?’
‘Well. It was kind of… pointy, sir.’
‘Pointy.’
‘Like a… a… fox, sir.’
‘A fox.’
‘Or a cat.’
‘A pointy boar fox cat?
‘Well, we were chasing it, sir.’
‘The pointy boar fox cat.’
‘- Yes.’
‘Into my garden.’
‘Well -’
‘You’re Ham Felsher’s lad, aren’t you? When’s the last time you had a decent meal?’
‘Well, Cally and I -’
‘Where is he actually?’
‘Up there.’
‘Where. The tree? – You there! Stop eating my apples! Get down here right now! Cally Boison! I know where you live!’
‘Speaking of, sir, would you mind not telling -’
‘Who, Ham? Still got that temper, has he?’
‘Well -’
‘Tell your friend to stop digesting my produce and I’ll see what I can – Cally Boison, I can see you! Get your hands off my carrots!’
‘Sir, please, it’s just a couple -’
‘And then what? Do you even have a pot, or are you going to just boil it on a stone?’
‘Seamus!’
‘Mother of God. Yes, Ethel!’
‘What’s going on out there?’
‘You better get inside before she starts asking questions. Just negotiating terms, Ethel! Now, I’ll have none of that nonsense you lads get up to. You keep a civil tongue in your mouth, and I’ll count all the pots and spoons after you leave, you understand?’
‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’
‘Guests, Ethel! Boison and Felsher’s lads! They’ll be helping us out till the harvest! Aren’t you lads?’
‘Um. Well. Yeah? I mean, yes, sir.’
‘What about you, Cally?’
‘The whole harvest?’
‘Cally-!’
‘What? Seth, that’s the whole summer -!’
‘With three full meals and a bed to sleep in, if you want it, lad. You too, Seth. Now what do you say? Should the Missus come out and see the two of you and that carrot you’ve got in your pocket Cally Boison, or is it dinner?’