Ambient 1 - 4
Act 1
Scene: Interior of an old tennis clubhouse, situated on a hill overlooking the water.
A man and a woman in their forties, in a long-term relationship, are the only occupants in the clubhouse.
The man, A, is standing, holding a container of tennis balls. The woman, B, is sitting at a desk, holding a pencil in front of an empty pad, listening to a weak radio transmission fade in and out.
A:
Removes a single tennis ball from the container of balls.
Do you think, if I threw one of these balls down the hill, towards the road, that it could make it all the way down to the water?
B:
Listens carefully to the static of the radio transmission.
Radio:
A barely distinguishable voice recites a series of numbers.
Fourteen, fifty-three, eighty-nine, seventeen, forty-five, sixty-nine, twenty-nine, sixty-eight, ninety-one, one, thirty-three, forty-nine, seventy-nine, eighty-four, eight, twenty, thirty-nine, sixty-one, ninety-nine, twenty-three.
A:
Hefts the tennis ball, throwing it up and down.
The hill is pretty steep. As long as I threw it at just the right angle so the ball travelled somewhat down the centre of the road, so it doesn't lose traction in the gutter or get stuck behind a can or something, I honestly think it could make it.
B:
Leans in towards the radio, adjusting a dial to try and get clearer reception. She places her pencil on the pad.
Radio:
A slightly more intelligible voice recites the following numbers.
Seven, three, nineteen, forty-four, twelve, fifty-five, one, ninety-nine, twenty, thirty-three, eleven, eighteen, sixty-six, four, seventy-three, eighty-eight, two, forty-one, five, zero.
B:
That's the first zero we've heard in weeks.
What's the date today?
A:
Bounces the ball on the ground and catches it.
They have a fair bounce. I genuinely think with the right launch, the right trajectory, the right attitude, this ball could make it all the way to the water. To be baptised. To float beneath the sun and moon, forever, or thereabouts.
B:
I think it's the first. The first of something.
Radio:
An unintelligible drone of static emits from the radio.
B:
Leans in towards the radio, adjusting a dial to try and get clearer reception.
A:
I'm going to throw one out the window and see if it makes it down to the water. Watch this.
The man throws the ball hard. It hits a closed window and bounces back, nearly hitting the radio on the table.
Radio:
An old song begins to fade in.
It sounds like 'We'll Meet Again' by Vera Lynn.
B:
Sits back and looks at the radio in bemused disbelief.
Just when you think you're onto something.
A:
Here, I'll open the window.
It'll help with the signal.
Walks over to the window and slides it open.
B:
Looks at the open window with concern.
You shouldn't leave it open.
A:
A couple minutes won't hurt, not at this stage.
Here, watch this.
He picks up the tennis ball from earlier and throws it hard out the window. It disappears from view.
Radio:
The radio transmission begins to whoop, bend and volley through some sort of frequency interference.
B:
Leans in and adjusts the dials on the radio.
Close the window.
A:
Leans on the open window, looking out.
You have the road sloping down to the harbour, and then you have a train station at the bottom, and beyond that you have like a little jetty that the balls could roll straight out on and then - 'plop' - into the drink. It's like a reverse pinball machine where the goal is not to avoid the drain but to actually aim for it. Like, imagine tennis but instead of a net it's the ocean.
B:
Looks incredulously at this man, her life partner.
You mean like ten pin bowling?
Radio:
The radio fizzles and then pops. It goes silent.
A:
Ten thin foal wings, five unicorns ready to launch, eighty-seven rockets, twenty balls, twenty-four, thirty-three, sixteen, two, fifty-two, bless you, zero.
Act 2
Scene: Interior of a wooden cabin situated in a remote rural setting. A couple, A and B, in their early twenties, are cuddling together on a sofa.
A table is nearby with a radio broadcasting a bird song. The table is beneath a closed window.
Radio:
Bird song plays on the radio.
B:
It's beautiful.
A:
Do you think it's singing to another bird?
Is all bird song for another bird, or do they ever just sing for their own pleasure? It seems like it would always be in service of mating, but I really don't know. Either way, it's quite stunning.
B:
Mating. Tell me everything you know and don't know about birds. Tell me everything you do and don't know about birds at the end of history. Tell me in your own bird song.
A:
Okay.
B:
Only don't tell me anything about planes.
A:
I won't.
B:
And please don't go into anything about drones dressed up in artificial feathers of flight.
A:
Of course.
B:
Nor anything about people dressed up in bird costumes as part of pantomime or military spy functionality or superhero live-action roleplay.
Radio:
Bird song continues playing on the radio, but a clipping sound makes it sound like the bird song has just looped and restarted from the beginning.
A:
Did you hear that?
B:
What did it sound like to you?
A:
It sounded like the bird song started again.
B:
Like a loop restarting from the beginning.
A:
I thought it was live.
B:
I still think it is. Maybe it was another bird song coming in from the outside.
Stretches arms and neck to look towards the window above the table.
Can you please open the window and check.
A:
Gets up and moves over to the table.
Tries to open the window but can't get it to budge.
B:
That's okay. Come back here and snuggle.
A:
Crashes back on the couch into B’s arms.
Radio:
Bird song continues to play.
B:
If we had a spectrogram -
A:
A what?
B:
A spectrogram, they show what sounds look like.
Imagine your voice fogging up a mirror.
A:
Would an artificial bird song look different to a real bird song? Would one be the ghost of a sound and the other the bones?
Radio:
Bird song continues playing on the radio, but another clipping sound makes it sound like the bird song has just looped and restarted again.
B:
Tell me everything you know about love. Tell me everything you know about love at the end of history. Tell me everything you know about tomorrow.
A:
Okay.
B:
Only don't tell me anything about planes.
I don't want to hear that they extend indefinitely.
Radio:
The bird song clips and cuts to silence.
B:
Can you try the window again, please?
A:
Gets up and moves over to the table.
Tries to open the window. This time it rises.
Cup's ear to listen out the window. Shakes head.
Act 3
Scene: Interior of a small room situated in a lake district. A man, A, and a woman, B, in their sixties, are the only occupants.
The man is standing with his back to a window, looking down at his feet. The woman sits at a desk and reads from a surveyor’s journal.
B:
Thirty-one point four three zero zero three one degrees south. One hundred and fifty-two point nine one nine eight one one degrees east. Elevation two hundred and seventy-three metres.
A:
Mumbles and nods his head.
Shuffles feet.
Mumbles and nods his head again.
B:
Thirty-two point nine two eight three six degrees south. One hundred and fifty-one point one five nine seven two degrees east. Elevation one hundred and ten metres.
A:
Chuckles to himself.
Looks up at the ceiling, shakes his head in disbelief.
Chuckles to himself again.
We saw an angel there once. Standing in a field. Do you remember. It was hovering above the ground.
B:
Thirty-two point four zero five six seven five degrees south. One hundred and fifty-two point two zero five four one zero degrees east. Elevation nine metres.
A:
You bought a sort of toast with mince on it from a shop around the corner from there. Seasoned mince. We stood on the diving board of the pool together and you told me you were pregnant.
B:
Wearily shakes her head.
No.
A:
No. It's where you bought peaches. They were warm from the sun. You said your whole childhood smelled like that.
B:
Looks up to the ceiling and then down.
Wearily shakes her head again.
No.
A:
No. We have never been there.
B:
We have never been there.
A:
Mumbles and nods his head.
Shuffles feet.
Mumbles and nods his head again.
B:
Thirty-four point four zero three two two degrees south. One hundred and fifty point eight one five eight six degrees east. Elevation one hundred and twelve metres.
A:
We saw a mural of a boy with his hands in his pockets. No, a pelican. You said it looked like I used to look when I stood with my hands in my pockets. No, not a mural, a painting on the wall of a service station. A novelty gift in a frame. It opened its mouth when you clicked your fingers near a sensor. It made you laugh.
B:
Looks up to the ceiling and then down.
I never knew you as a boy. Nor saw any photos.
Only a graphite sketch produced in the newspaper.
A:
I was the only one left behind.
B:
They were illustrating caricatures for a fair.
A:
I will be that young again one day.
B:
Thirty-two point nine two two three eight nine degrees south. One hundred and fifty-one point seven four three three nine five degrees east. Elevation sixty-four metres.
A:
Mumbles and shakes his head.
Shuffles feet.
You've read that one before.
B:
Nods.
A:
We're back to the beginning.
B:
No. We're back to where we started.
A:
The bedside lamp flickered like Morse code.
Act 4
Scene: Interior of a small, round room with concrete walls, like a wartime radio transmission bunker. A man, A, is on his back, motionless, on a canvas folding cot. A woman, B, sits at a desk and listens to a weak radio transmission. They are in their eighties and are the only occupants.
Radio:
A steady hiss of static emits without perceptible feature.
B:
It sounds like the sea. Not coastal waters. Not shoreline. Not when I was girl accompanying a friend to the seaside, traveling with his family. My mother said, make sure to not go out too far into the water, you can't swim very well. I had already nearly drowned once at a neighbourhood party when I couldn't get my head above the deep end of the pool. Someone jumped in to save me as I was lashing my arms out of the water, I could see the world above me, those bright suburban skies, those adults unwatching, as ripples. Who saved me. My father or some other father.
Radio:
No alteration in static.
B:
With my friend at the seaside, with his family, we got a paddle boat with large yellow wheels. We drove across the water with his two younger siblings on board. His father said, don't get too far out, but his father was also the sort to encourage human displays of bravado, to champion recklessness as a sign of future economic mastery, like stock brokers performing wild motorbike jumps on a work retreat, so it was difficult to tell whether his father actually cared if we went too far out or not, or what the father's metric for too far even was, if he even had a metric for that, depending on whether his wife, my friend's step-mother, was watching, and whether if her watching would mean he was more or less cavalier about his appetite for risk, like if he thought showing disregard for his kids, for the biological evidence of his former marriage, would make him seem more or less desirable as a new partner, as a father still holding onto the title, more or less, for better or worse.
Radio:
No alteration in static.
B:
So we went too far out. Much too far out. I couldn't swim, we'd already ascertained that. The youngest of my friend's siblings was around four years old. The next eldest was six. We were nine and we were all much too far out. The youngest, the four year old, he started to slip off the edge of the paddle boat, I can still see his little hands trying to get a grip on the wet seat, some texture on the big yellow wheels even, but they turned with him, into the water. My friend and I reached for him, the youngest one, each grabbing a hand and pulling him back onto the boat safely, onto the wet seat where he sat hugging his older brother, the six year old. We looked towards the shore where my friend's father was waving desperately, yelling silently, even across the water his voice didn't carry, we were too far out to hear him, but we knew what he was saying. My friend's step-mother looked like she was holding her hands over her mouth, trying to stop something inside of her from coming out.
Radio:
No alteration in static.
B:
We turned the paddle boat around and made our way back to shore. I can't remember if we were chastised or not, if my friend was chastised or not, if I was chastised or not. It seemed to me at the time that it would have been very impolite if my friend's father had even considered chastising me, since it was not the done thing to discipline a child who is not your own, at that time, in family networks like the ones we were loosely within. However, it is likely that I should have been chastised, for I was the one who encouraged us to go further out. My friend was not a risk taker, he was much too afraid of his father for that. He didn't want to be rejected by his father any more than he thought he perhaps already had been, since he was not a boy of rogue action like his father seemed to value, was too passive for his father's acclaim for boundary pushers. I was the one my friend's father would have preferred as a chip off the old block, temperamentally speaking, if I was a boy and not a girl, although in this instance it is unclear if he would have been pleased with me for being such a risk taker, for putting his children in a position where death was just around the corner, or beneath the surface so to speak, was mere seconds away for the youngest had we not gripped his little hands in time, or whether this would have been seen as risk taken too far, not a display of overcoming nature, of silencing fear in the face of the sort of rewards that capitalism fills you up with if you stare it down and shout I into the heart of its machinery, but the sort of recklessness that is seen as gross and indecent, like staying too long at the roulette table, not knowing when to quit. Although, we had brought everyone back safely, we went up to the brink and faced off against disaster and calmly returned to the placid lapping of water against shale, that pebbly grit which told me we weren't at home, not pressing our soles into the powdery sand of our local beach, no we had to travel how long to get here, to the broken shells that risked cutting your feet if you stepped on them the wrong way. You know what I should have done. I should have looked my friend's father in the eyes when I stepped back onto shore, onto one of those broken shells, hard, pushing it down beneath the grit, not breaking my gaze from my friend's father's eyes, and I should have said, now I am the father. This is my family now. And I should have taken my friend's step-mother by the hand and said, let's go, towards the station wagon, looking back over my shoulder to my friend, shouting to him, are you coming, bring your brothers, and then I would have turned the key in the ignition and said, who wants to listen to the radio, and they all would have said me, me daddy, put on the station that plays all of our family favourites.
Radio:
A brief tremor in the static, like a subtraction of frequencies, a blip, a plop, a drop, emerges.
B:
Leans in.
What is that?
It sounds like something falling.
Dropping into the water. Round like a zero.
There it goes again. Plop. And another.