Flight of the Maybug (Script)

ACT 2

ACT 2

Scene 1

1946.

A light bulb, haphazardly hung from the ceiling, flicks on.

Wilhelm, half-conscious, bruised and bloody, wearing nothing but a white t-shirt and underwear, sits tied to a crude, wooden chair centre-stage.

The room has a seemingly unnatural chill to it. The stone walls, with their crude bleakness, are more appropriately suited to keeping the minority in, than the majority out. And in accordance with the room's inhospitality, it is furnished with nothing more than a small, wooden desk and chair down-stage right, with a disorderedly box of tools beside it.

Lieutenant Hartley, a broad man in his mid-40's, with a thick, West-Country accent, enters the room stage-left through a heavy, wooden door. He is carrying a newspaper with one hand, and a crumpet, delicately placed upon a small, porcelain plate, in the other. His sunny disposition fills the room with an uncanny warmth.

HARTLEY: (Chipper) Mornin' Willie.

WILHELM: (Barely able to speak) Morning Lieutenant Hartley Sir...

As if it were a lazy Sunday morning, Lieutenant Hartley sits down at the desk and begins perusing the paper as he enjoys his breakfast.

HARTLEY: Well would you look at that, says 'ere Hitler died a year ago yesterday!

WILHELM: Does it?

HARTLEY: Aye, that it does lad. Funny how time flies isn't it? One moment you're there, next moment the anniversary of your death's being read over a crumpet. It's all very fleetin'.

Pause.

HARTLEY: Did you hear me lad? I said it's all very fleetin'.

WILHELM: Yes it is Sir.

HARTLEY: Aye, that it is.

Lieutenant Hartley returns to reading his paper.

HARTLEY: Sleep well?

WILHELM: Okay, hand hurts a bit.

HARTLEY: Ah you'll be alright. I'll get you some warm water tonight I will. Let 'em soak a bit, should help with the swellin' and the bruisin' and the what-not.

WILHELM: Thank you.

HARTLEY: Oh don't you be thankin' me now lad, you be thankin' the Lord that you be made of stronger stuff. Last young fella I was workin' on, brittle as a sea biscuit he was, hand shattered like a wee babber's rattle.

Pause.

HARTLEY: Get you a cup of tea? Got a new boy by the name of Toby we have, he's a bit slow and his face is kinda funny, but makes a crackin' pot he does.

WILHELM: I'm fine, thank you.

HARTLEY: Oh go on!

Pause.

WILHELM: Okay then...

HARTLEY: There we go! And what's more I don't have to feel guilty 'bout gettin' one meself! (Shouting) Toby!

Toby, a small, Irish man in his early 20's, opens the door and sticks his head into the room.

TOBY: You called Lieutenant Hartley Sir?