[One distant bell-note, faintly reverberating]
FIRST VOICE
Stand on this hill. This is Llaregyb Hill, old as the hills,
high, cool, and green, and from this small circle, of stones,
made not by druids but by Mrs Beynon's Billy, you can see all
the town below you sleeping in the first of the dawn.
You can hear the love-sick woodpigeons mooning in bed. A dog
barks in his sleep, farmyards away. The town ripples like a
lake in the waking haze.
VOICE OF A GUIDE-BOOK
Less than five hundred souls inhabit the three quaint streets
and the few narrow by-lanes and scattered farmsteads that
constitute this small, decaying watering-place which may,
indeed, be called a 'backwater of life' without disrespect
to its natives who possess, to this day, a salty individuality
of their own. The main street, Coronation Street, consists,
for the most part, of humble, two-storied houses many of which
attempt to achieve some measure of gaiety by prinking
themselves out in crude colours and by the liberal use of
pinkwash, though there are remaining a few eighteenth-century
houses of more pretension, if, on the whole, in a sad state
of disrepair. Though there is little to attract the hillclimber,
the healthseeker, the sportsman, or the weekending motorist,
the contemplative may, if sufficiently attracted to spare
it some leisurely hours, find, in its cobbled streets and
its little fishing harbour, in its several curious customs,
and in the conversation of its local 'characters,' some of
that picturesque sense of the past so frequently lacking in
towns and villages which have kept more abreast of the times.
The River Dewi is said to abound in trout, but is much poached.
The one place of worship, with its neglected graveyard, is of
no architectural interest.
[A c*** crows]
FIRST VOICE
The principality of the sky lightens now, over our green
hill, into spring morning larked and crowed and belling.
[Slow bell notes]
FIRST VOICE
Who pulls the townhall bellrope but blind Captain Cat? One
by one, the sleepers are rung out of sleep this one morning
as every morning. And soon you shall see the chimneys' slow
upflying snow as Captain Cat, in sailor's cap and seaboots,
announces to-day with his loud get-out-of-bed bell.
SECOND VOICE
The Reverend Eli Jenkins, in Bethesda House, gropes out of
bed into his preacher's black, combs back his bard's white
hair, forgets to wash, pads barefoot downstairs, opens the
front door, stands in the doorway and, looking out at the
day and up at the eternal hill, and hearing the sea break
and the gab of birds, remembers his own verses and tells
them softly to empty Coronation Street that is rising and
raising its blinds.
REV. ELI JENKINS
Dear Gwalia! I know there are
Towns lovelier than ours,
And fairer hills and loftier far,
And groves more full of flowers,
And boskier woods more blithe with spring
And bright with birds' adorning,
And sweeter bards than I to sing
Their praise this beauteous morning.
By Cader Idris, tempest-torn,
Or Moel yr Wyddfa's glory,
Carnedd Llewelyn beauty born,
Plinlimmon old in story,
By mountains where King Arthur dreams,
By Penmaenmawr defiant,
Llaregyb Hill a molehill seems,
A pygmy to a giant.
By Sawdde, Senny, Dovey, Dee,
Edw, Eden, Aled, all,
Taff and Towy broad and free,
Llyfnant with its waterfall,
Claerwen, Cleddau, Dulais, Daw,
Ely, Gwili, Ogwr, Nedd,
Small is our River Dewi, Lord,
A baby on a rushy bed.
By Carreg Cennen, King of time,
Our Heron Head is only
A bit of stone with seaweed spread
Where gulls come to be lonely.
A tiny dingle is Milk Wood
By Golden Grove 'neath Grongar,
But let me choose and oh! I should
Love all my life and longer
To stroll among our trees and stray
In Goosegog Lane, on Donkey Down,
And hear the Dewi sing all day,
And never, never leave the town.
SECOND VOICE
The Reverend Jenkins closes the front door. His morning
service is over.
[Slow bell notes]
FIRST VOICE
Now, woken at last by the out-of-bed-sleepy-head-Polly-put-
the-kettle-on townhall bell, Lily Smalls, Mrs Beynon's
treasure, comes downstairs from a dream of royalty who all
night long went larking with her full of sauce in the Milk
Wood dark, and puts the kettle on the primus ring in Mrs
Beynon's kitchen, and looks at herself in Mr Beynon's
shaving-glass over the sink, and sees:
LILY SMALLS
Oh there's a face!
Where you get that hair from?
Got it from a old tom cat.
Give it back then, love.
Oh there's a perm!
Where you get that nose from, Lily?
Got it from my father, silly.
You've got it on upside down!
Oh there's a conk!
Look at your complexion!
Oh no, you look.
Needs a bit of make-up.
Needs a veil.
Oh there's glamour!
Where you get that smile,
Lil? Never you mind, girl.
Nobody loves you.
That's what you think.
Who is it loves you?
Shan't tell.
Come on, Lily.
Cross your heart then?
Cross my heart.
FIRST VOICE
And very softly, her lips almost touching her reflection,
she breathes the name and clouds the shaving-glass.
MRS BEYNON (Loudly, from above)
Lily!
LILY SMALLS (Loudly)
Yes, mum.
MRS BEYNON
Where's my tea, girl?
LILY SMALLS
(Softly) Where d'you think? In the cat-box?
(Loudly) Coming up, mum.
FIRST VOICE
Mr Pugh, in the School House opposite, takes up the morning
tea to Mrs Pugh, and whispers on the stairs
MR. PUGH
Here's your a***nic, dear.
And your weedkiller biscuit.
I've throttled your parakeet.
I've spat in the vases.
I've put cheese in the mouseholes.
Here's your... [Door creaks open]
...nice tea, dear.
MRS PUGH
Too much sugar.
MR PUGH
You haven't tasted it yet, dear.
MRS PUGH
Too much milk, then. Has Mr Jenkins said his poetry?
MR PUGH
Yes, dear.
MRS PUGH
Then it's time to get up. Give me my glasses.
No, not my reading glasses, I want to look out.
I want to see
SECOND VOICE
Lily Smalls the treasure down on her red knees washing the
front step.
MRS PUGH
She's tucked her dress in her bloomers--oh, the baggage!
SECOND VOICE
P.C. Attila Rees, ox-broad, barge-booted, stamping out of
Handcuff House in a heavy beef-red huff, black browed under
his damp helmet...
MRS PUGH
He's going to arrest Polly Garter, mark my words,
MR PUGH
What for, dear?
MRS PUGH
For having babies.
SECOND VOICE
...and lumbering down towards the strand to see that the
sea is still there.
FIRST VOICE
Mary Ann Sailors, opening her bedroom window above the
taproom and calling out to the heavens
MARY ANN SAILORS
I'm eighty-five years three months and a day!
MRS PUGH
I will say this for her, she never makes a mistake.
FIRST VOICE
Organ Morgan at his bedroom window playing chords on the
sill to the morning fishwife gulls who, heckling over Donkey
Street, observe
DAI BREAD
Me, Dai Bread, hurrying to the bakery, pushing in my
shirt-tails, b***oning my waistcoat, ping goes a b***on,
why can't they sew them, no time for breakfast, nothing for
breakfast, there's wives for you.
MRS DAI BREAD ONE
Me, Mrs Dai Bread One, capped and shawled and no old corset,
nice to be comfy, nice to be nice, clogging on the cobbles
to stir up a neighbour. Oh, Mrs Sarah, can you spare a loaf,
love? Dai Bread forgot the bread. There's a lovely morning!
How's your boils this morning? Isn't that good news now,
it's a change to sit down. Ta, Mrs Sarah.
MRS DAI BREAD TWO
Me, Mrs Dai Bread Two, gypsied to kill in a silky scarlet
petticoat above my knees, dirty pretty knees, see my body
through my petticoat brown as a berry, high-heel shoes with
one heel missing, tortoiseshell comb in my bright black
slinky hair, nothing else at all but a dab of scent, lolling
gaudy at the doorway, tell your fortune in the tea-leaves,
scowling at the sunshine, lighting up my pipe.
LORD CUT-GLASS
Me, Lord Cut-Glass, in an old frock-coat belonged to Eli
Jenkins and a pair of postman's trousers from Bethesda
Jumble, running out of doors to empty slops--mind there,
Rover!--and then running in again, tick tock.
NOGOOD BO YO
Me, Nogood Boyo, up to no good in the wash-house
MISS PRICE
Me, Miss Price, in my pretty print housecoat, deft at the
clothesline, natty as a jenny-wren, then pit-pat back to my
egg in its cosy, my crisp toast-fingers, my home-made plum
and b***erpat.
POLLY GARTER
Me, Polly Garter, under the washing line, giving the breast
in the garden to my bonny new baby. Nothing grows in our
garden, only washing. And babies. And where's their fathers
live, my love? Over the hills and far away. You're looking
up at me now. I know what you're thinking, you poor little
milky creature. You're thinking, you're no better than you
should be, Polly, and that's good enough for me. Oh, isn't
life a terrible thing, thank God?
FIRST VOICE
Stand on this hill. This is Llaregyb Hill, old as the hills,
high, cool, and green, and from this small circle, of stones,
made not by druids but by Mrs Beynon's Billy, you can see all
the town below you sleeping in the first of the dawn.
You can hear the love-sick woodpigeons mooning in bed. A dog
barks in his sleep, farmyards away. The town ripples like a
lake in the waking haze.
VOICE OF A GUIDE-BOOK
Less than five hundred souls inhabit the three quaint streets
and the few narrow by-lanes and scattered farmsteads that
constitute this small, decaying watering-place which may,
indeed, be called a 'backwater of life' without disrespect
to its natives who possess, to this day, a salty individuality
of their own. The main street, Coronation Street, consists,
for the most part, of humble, two-storied houses many of which
attempt to achieve some measure of gaiety by prinking
themselves out in crude colours and by the liberal use of
pinkwash, though there are remaining a few eighteenth-century
houses of more pretension, if, on the whole, in a sad state
of disrepair. Though there is little to attract the hillclimber,
the healthseeker, the sportsman, or the weekending motorist,
the contemplative may, if sufficiently attracted to spare
it some leisurely hours, find, in its cobbled streets and
its little fishing harbour, in its several curious customs,
and in the conversation of its local 'characters,' some of
that picturesque sense of the past so frequently lacking in
towns and villages which have kept more abreast of the times.
The River Dewi is said to abound in trout, but is much poached.
The one place of worship, with its neglected graveyard, is of
no architectural interest.
[A c*** crows]
FIRST VOICE
The principality of the sky lightens now, over our green
hill, into spring morning larked and crowed and belling.
[Slow bell notes]
FIRST VOICE
Who pulls the townhall bellrope but blind Captain Cat? One
by one, the sleepers are rung out of sleep this one morning
as every morning. And soon you shall see the chimneys' slow
upflying snow as Captain Cat, in sailor's cap and seaboots,
announces to-day with his loud get-out-of-bed bell.
SECOND VOICE
The Reverend Eli Jenkins, in Bethesda House, gropes out of
bed into his preacher's black, combs back his bard's white
hair, forgets to wash, pads barefoot downstairs, opens the
front door, stands in the doorway and, looking out at the
day and up at the eternal hill, and hearing the sea break
and the gab of birds, remembers his own verses and tells
them softly to empty Coronation Street that is rising and
raising its blinds.
REV. ELI JENKINS
Dear Gwalia! I know there are
Towns lovelier than ours,
And fairer hills and loftier far,
And groves more full of flowers,
And boskier woods more blithe with spring
And bright with birds' adorning,
And sweeter bards than I to sing
Their praise this beauteous morning.
By Cader Idris, tempest-torn,
Or Moel yr Wyddfa's glory,
Carnedd Llewelyn beauty born,
Plinlimmon old in story,
By mountains where King Arthur dreams,
By Penmaenmawr defiant,
Llaregyb Hill a molehill seems,
A pygmy to a giant.
By Sawdde, Senny, Dovey, Dee,
Edw, Eden, Aled, all,
Taff and Towy broad and free,
Llyfnant with its waterfall,
Claerwen, Cleddau, Dulais, Daw,
Ely, Gwili, Ogwr, Nedd,
Small is our River Dewi, Lord,
A baby on a rushy bed.
By Carreg Cennen, King of time,
Our Heron Head is only
A bit of stone with seaweed spread
Where gulls come to be lonely.
A tiny dingle is Milk Wood
By Golden Grove 'neath Grongar,
But let me choose and oh! I should
Love all my life and longer
To stroll among our trees and stray
In Goosegog Lane, on Donkey Down,
And hear the Dewi sing all day,
And never, never leave the town.
SECOND VOICE
The Reverend Jenkins closes the front door. His morning
service is over.
[Slow bell notes]
FIRST VOICE
Now, woken at last by the out-of-bed-sleepy-head-Polly-put-
the-kettle-on townhall bell, Lily Smalls, Mrs Beynon's
treasure, comes downstairs from a dream of royalty who all
night long went larking with her full of sauce in the Milk
Wood dark, and puts the kettle on the primus ring in Mrs
Beynon's kitchen, and looks at herself in Mr Beynon's
shaving-glass over the sink, and sees:
LILY SMALLS
Oh there's a face!
Where you get that hair from?
Got it from a old tom cat.
Give it back then, love.
Oh there's a perm!
Where you get that nose from, Lily?
Got it from my father, silly.
You've got it on upside down!
Oh there's a conk!
Look at your complexion!
Oh no, you look.
Needs a bit of make-up.
Needs a veil.
Oh there's glamour!
Where you get that smile,
Lil? Never you mind, girl.
Nobody loves you.
That's what you think.
Who is it loves you?
Shan't tell.
Come on, Lily.
Cross your heart then?
Cross my heart.
FIRST VOICE
And very softly, her lips almost touching her reflection,
she breathes the name and clouds the shaving-glass.
MRS BEYNON (Loudly, from above)
Lily!
LILY SMALLS (Loudly)
Yes, mum.
MRS BEYNON
Where's my tea, girl?
LILY SMALLS
(Softly) Where d'you think? In the cat-box?
(Loudly) Coming up, mum.
FIRST VOICE
Mr Pugh, in the School House opposite, takes up the morning
tea to Mrs Pugh, and whispers on the stairs
MR. PUGH
Here's your a***nic, dear.
And your weedkiller biscuit.
I've throttled your parakeet.
I've spat in the vases.
I've put cheese in the mouseholes.
Here's your... [Door creaks open]
...nice tea, dear.
MRS PUGH
Too much sugar.
MR PUGH
You haven't tasted it yet, dear.
MRS PUGH
Too much milk, then. Has Mr Jenkins said his poetry?
MR PUGH
Yes, dear.
MRS PUGH
Then it's time to get up. Give me my glasses.
No, not my reading glasses, I want to look out.
I want to see
SECOND VOICE
Lily Smalls the treasure down on her red knees washing the
front step.
MRS PUGH
She's tucked her dress in her bloomers--oh, the baggage!
SECOND VOICE
P.C. Attila Rees, ox-broad, barge-booted, stamping out of
Handcuff House in a heavy beef-red huff, black browed under
his damp helmet...
MRS PUGH
He's going to arrest Polly Garter, mark my words,
MR PUGH
What for, dear?
MRS PUGH
For having babies.
SECOND VOICE
...and lumbering down towards the strand to see that the
sea is still there.
FIRST VOICE
Mary Ann Sailors, opening her bedroom window above the
taproom and calling out to the heavens
MARY ANN SAILORS
I'm eighty-five years three months and a day!
MRS PUGH
I will say this for her, she never makes a mistake.
FIRST VOICE
Organ Morgan at his bedroom window playing chords on the
sill to the morning fishwife gulls who, heckling over Donkey
Street, observe
DAI BREAD
Me, Dai Bread, hurrying to the bakery, pushing in my
shirt-tails, b***oning my waistcoat, ping goes a b***on,
why can't they sew them, no time for breakfast, nothing for
breakfast, there's wives for you.
MRS DAI BREAD ONE
Me, Mrs Dai Bread One, capped and shawled and no old corset,
nice to be comfy, nice to be nice, clogging on the cobbles
to stir up a neighbour. Oh, Mrs Sarah, can you spare a loaf,
love? Dai Bread forgot the bread. There's a lovely morning!
How's your boils this morning? Isn't that good news now,
it's a change to sit down. Ta, Mrs Sarah.
MRS DAI BREAD TWO
Me, Mrs Dai Bread Two, gypsied to kill in a silky scarlet
petticoat above my knees, dirty pretty knees, see my body
through my petticoat brown as a berry, high-heel shoes with
one heel missing, tortoiseshell comb in my bright black
slinky hair, nothing else at all but a dab of scent, lolling
gaudy at the doorway, tell your fortune in the tea-leaves,
scowling at the sunshine, lighting up my pipe.
LORD CUT-GLASS
Me, Lord Cut-Glass, in an old frock-coat belonged to Eli
Jenkins and a pair of postman's trousers from Bethesda
Jumble, running out of doors to empty slops--mind there,
Rover!--and then running in again, tick tock.
NOGOOD BO YO
Me, Nogood Boyo, up to no good in the wash-house
MISS PRICE
Me, Miss Price, in my pretty print housecoat, deft at the
clothesline, natty as a jenny-wren, then pit-pat back to my
egg in its cosy, my crisp toast-fingers, my home-made plum
and b***erpat.
POLLY GARTER
Me, Polly Garter, under the washing line, giving the breast
in the garden to my bonny new baby. Nothing grows in our
garden, only washing. And babies. And where's their fathers
live, my love? Over the hills and far away. You're looking
up at me now. I know what you're thinking, you poor little
milky creature. You're thinking, you're no better than you
should be, Polly, and that's good enough for me. Oh, isn't
life a terrible thing, thank God?