JOHN CLARE: [To THOMAS BECKET.] No, thank you for your offer, but I think I shall stay here awhile. I am not sure these two are finished their debate, and am yet hopeful there shall be some poetry to its conclusion. Though not very hopeful. I am after all by nature a realistic man, at least in my descriptions, for all that they say I am romantic or am otherwise a fool. The pair of you enjoy your evening, now, and leave me to enjoy my own. Good luck to you, especially to you, Saint Thomas, and congratulations on avoiding the decomposition.
THOMAS BECKET: Hm. Yes, well, thank you … though I cannot think in all humility that it was through some effort on my own part.
BECKETT: Aye, good luck to you as well. Remember that John Clare was a much better poet than Lord Byron. That should keep you straight. Farewell, now. [SAMUEL BECKETT and THOMAS BECKET stroll away towards STAGE RIGHT, talking as they go.] So, the being canonised and all of that. Had you no inkling of miraculous abilities prior to the business of not rotting?
THOMAS BECKET: Not that I recall. I had a certain fluency of penmanship, but I myself did not think it miraculous. And for your own part, you are still acquainted with the Holy Church?
BECKETT: Well, I’ll not lie. We’ve had our ups and downs … [They EXIT RIGHT. JOHN CLARE stands in place and follows them with his eyes, first tracking away to STAGE RIGHT, then turning his head slowly until he is peering out over the audience. There is a long pause as he waits to be sure they are too far off to hear.]
JOHN CLARE: I still say that I had your lady friend. The lexicon came out my ears as though it were a sperm of language. It was an encounter I found bracing, and I don’t regret it. [CLARE stands where he is a moment or two longer, idly gazing at the unresponsive HUSBAND and WIFE. When they do not move or speak, he sadly and resignedly turns to shuffle back towards his alcove at the CENTRE/RIGHT REAR of the STAGE, where he sits down, staring mournfully at the motionless couple in the foreground. After a few moments more there is the SOUND from OFF of the CHURCH CLOCK ST
RIKING ONCE. Sitting on their step, the WIFE looks up at this as if appalled, while the HUSBAND does not react.]
WIFE: It’s still one o’clock. How can it still be one o’clock? Why is it always one o’clock?
HUSBAND: [Unsympathetically.] You said yourself, it’s too late from now on. It’s always half past nothing to be done.
WIFE: But that was you. You were the one who brought this down upon us. Why is it still one o’clock for me?
HUSBAND: Because you were as much a part of them as I was, all the goings on. And that’s the thing I’ve learned with goings on. They go on. They continue. Nothing’s ever done with.
WIFE: [After a horrified pause, as she reflects on this.] Is this hell? Johnny, have we gone to hell?
HUSBAND: [Wearily, not looking at her.] Celia, I don’t know.
JOHN CLARE: We talked about that earlier, and we thought purgatory to be the greater likelihood. Not that I’m claiming any great authority upon the subject. [A pause.] You can’t hear me. What’s the point of any of it? [Along with the HUSBAND and WIFE, CLARE lapses into a gloomy silence. After a few moments a HALF-CASTE WOMAN ENTERS STAGE LEFT beneath the portico. After a few steps she stops and appraises the scene, looking first at the couple on the steps and then at JOHN CLARE sitting in his alcove.]
WOMAN: You’re the poet, ain’t yer? You’re John Clare.
JOHN CLARE: [Surprised.] I am? You’re sure of it? Not Byron or King William?
WOMAN: [Kindly and sympathetically.] No, love. You’re John Clare. From what I heard, it’s just you get a bit mixed up from time to time.
JOHN CLARE: That’s true. I do. And you don’t find it off-putting?
WOMAN: No. To be honest, darling, when I heard about you, I thought that you sounded like a laugh. And some of what you wrote, it’s lovely. Is that true, about you walking eighty miles back here after you’d legged it from a nut house down in Essex?
JOHN CLARE: Nut house?
WOMAN: Yeah, you know. The funny farm. Napoleon factory. Laughing academy. The loony bin.
JOHN CLARE: [Laughing, amused and delighted.] Oh, you mean the coney hatch. You should have said. Yes, that was where I was. You seem to know a lot about me.
WOMAN: Oh, I know about all sorts of things. You know, it’s really nice to meet you, Mr. Clare. I’m well pleased.
JOHN CLARE: Well, it’s mutual. What’s your name, lass?
WOMAN: Everybody calls me Kaph.
JOHN CLARE: Kath?
WOMAN: Kaph. K-A-P-H. It’s got a P in it.
JOHN CLARE: That’s an unusual name, all right. And which parts of Northampton and eternity would you be from?
WOMAN: Spring Boroughs, 1988 to 2060. Mostly I worked down at the Saint Peter’s annexe, next door to the church, trying to sort out all the refugees come from the east.
JOHN CLARE: The east of India?