Wilkinson The Sweet Science of Bruising

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-78850-115-6
Verlag: Nick Hern Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 112 Seiten

Reihe: NHB Modern Plays

'When that bell rings, your life is entirely in your hands.' London, 1869. Four very different Victorian women are drawn into the dark underground world of female boxing by the eccentric Professor Sharp. Controlled by men and constrained by corsets, each finds an unexpected freedom in the boxing ring. As their lives begin to intertwine, their journey takes us through grand drawing rooms, bustling theatres and rowdy Southwark pubs, where the women fight inequality as well as each other. But with the final showdown approaching, only one can become the Lady Boxing Champion of the World... Joy Wilkinson's play The Sweet Science of Bruising is an epic tale of passion, politics and pugilism. It premiered at Southwark Playhouse, London, in October 2018, in a production by Troupe.

Joy Wilkinson is a playwright and screenwriter whose plays include: The Sweet Science of Bruising (Southwark Playhouse, 2018); Acting Leader (part of Women, Power and Politics season at the Tricycle Theatre, London, in 2010); Fair (Finborough Theatre, 2005; Trafalgar Studios, West End, 2006); and Felt Effects (joint winner of the 2004 Verity Bargate Award, staged at Theatre503, London, 2006). She has been a Screen International Star of Tomorrow, a two-time Brit List nominee, one of Den Of Geek's '50 Brilliant Screenwriters To Watch Out For', and she was mentored by Sir Kenneth Branagh on the prestigious BFI/Lighthouse Guiding Lights scheme.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Wilkinson, Joy

Leseproben

ACT ONE

Scene One

1869. An amphitheatre in Islington, London, moments before show time.

In the middle of a boxing ring sits PROFESSOR CHARLIE SHARP. He seems old and sickly, huddled beneath a blanket. When he walks, he needs a cane. When he speaks, he needs to cough. When he wishes it, he needs neither.

When the audience is almost settled, the PROFESSOR clears his throat and speaks, weakly.

PROFESSOR. Ladies and gentlemen. I am very sorry to have to tell you… that I shall not be fighting tonight. (Smiles. A little louder.) A delicate child, I. Never felt a blow from my fretful parents, except to get the air into my lungs. I was schooled in my sickbed, an early observer of the fisticuffs below my window. How I longed to be down in the streets with them. The sweaty stuff of life right outside whilst I tried to memorise my declensions. The only sweat I shed was in fevered dreams. The only muscle I trained to bulging was my brain – (Louder, rising to his feet.) but I have used it since to bring my dreams to life, to put the gutter up onstage and elevate it to an art, a science: The Sweet Science of Bruising! (Moving around now, surprisingly light on his feet.) The theory of evolution wrenched into sweat-drenched reality, with each contender fighting to be the best. The personification of progress! And where could be more progressive than Islington? (Beat.) Tonight at the Angel Amphitheatre, I, Professor Charlie Sharp, bring you, ladies and gentlemen… ladies. Please welcome them, as they do battle to be named the greatest of them all – the very first, the one and only, Lady Boxing Champion of the World – Four women announce themselves.

VIOLET. Violet Hunter.

MATTY. Matilda Blackwell.

ANNA. Anna Lamb.

POLLY. Polly Stokes.

A beat – they look at each other. The PROFESSOR takes VIOLET HUNTER’s hand and brings her to the fore. The others stand down, for now.

PROFESSOR. Violet Hunter, the one and only Lady Boxing Champion of the World.

Or rather, she will be. She’s still only a lady and she’s barely heard of boxing. She’s in a West End theatre at a matinee. A world away…

VIOLET takes a seat beside EMILY and AUNT GEORGE, sisters in suffrage. They are watching a play. The boxing ring has become a stage where a ‘cup-and-saucer drama’ nears its end. At a table laid for tea, two gentlemen, LORD CAVENDISH and CAPTAIN DANBY, tensely eat crumpets. They stand as DR FORSTER enters, grave.

CAVENDISH. What news, doctor?

DANBY. Will she live?

FORSTER. Her heart is weak and cannot stand the strain of choosing between two such worthy suitors. To save her life, it is left to me to diagnose who is truly deserving of her love.

CAVENDISH. Then, good doctor, I submit everything I own for your examination. My name, my estate, my body and soul, every atom of which is devoted to Miss Laura. Upon thorough assessment, there is no doubt about whom you must choose.

FORSTER. Most convincing, Lord Cavendish. And Captain Danby?

DANBY. I, too, love Miss Laura, but I cannot allow her agony to last a moment longer. Certainly not long enough for a thorough assessment of our suitability. All that matters now is that she lives. For that gift alone, would I willingly give her up.

CAVENDISH. Good man!

A triumphant CAVENDISH passes DANBY the plate of crumpets. FORSTER stays his hand.

FORSTER. I have made my diagnosis. The right man is… Captain Danby! For only true love recognises the demand for sacrifice over the compulsion to possess.

DANBY. Then I shall marry Miss Laura!

CAVENDISH. And I shall make my way in the world alone, but with a new understanding of the true nature of love, and a readiness to embrace it afresh!

FORSTER. That’s progress!

Beaming, he takes a hearty bite of a crumpet. Curtain.

As they take their bows and retreat, AUNT GEORGE claps politely. EMILY claps with fervour. VIOLET is oblivious, lost in her thoughts.

AUNT GEORGE. Dear Emily, I sometimes suspect that you come to the theatre to see the plays.

EMILY. How funny! (Dabs eyes.) It’s hard not to get caught up in it all though, isn’t it?

AUNT GEORGE. On the contrary, I find it the perfect opportunity to think of other things. A place for us to gather, safely in public, seditiously alone, and while everyone’s attention is directed elsewhere, we are free to contemplate what really matters and imagine – if it were all swept away, what might we put in its place?

EMILY (enthused). What about a death scene for the heroine? Why should Miss Laura remain offstage during the most dramatic moments?

AUNT GEORGE. I said what really matters, in the real world – the enfranchisement of women!

EMILY. Oh, yes, well, I had an idea for that too. For a petition. For the right of all women to higher education.

AUNT GEORGE. Didn’t we already do that one?

EMILY. No, we did the right of all women to secondary education. And surely we must keep the pressure up? It’s no good to waver in the breeze each week. We must pick an issue and petition, petition, petition until we achieve a result.

AUNT GEORGE. We still haven’t heard the result of the last petition.

EMILY. Ah, well, I have yet to send it… (Sheepishly produces petition from her purse.) Getting the wording right is essential. Mr Disraeli is a writer too. And it would benefit from a few more signatures first.

AUNT GEORGE inspects the petition, unimpressed. She hands it to VIOLET, who takes it, disinterested, then sniffs it, frowning.

For some reason, people seem rather jaded with petitions.

AUNT GEORGE. Perhaps we need a new form of protest?

EMILY. Oh – I had an idea about that, during the play – what if we enlisted the actors?

AUNT GEORGE. What could they possibly achieve?

EMILY. They could act as advocates. I could write a great speech and Mr Swanley could deliver it. He would be so moving!

AUNT GEORGE considers. VIOLET cuts in –

VIOLET. Moving?… Moving people to what? To clap? Cry?

EMILY. Why not? That’s more than a petition ever achieved.

VIOLET. It is men that we have to move. Some scented paper and fragrant wording isn’t going to cow them into giving up half their power. It’s not enough simply to think and write and speak, we need to do something!

A stunned pause, then AUNT GEORGE claps, delighted.

AUNT GEORGE. Bravo, Violet. What exactly had you in mind?

VIOLET. Last night, I was caught in the dissection room. I pretended I was on an errand for Dr Bell, but they saw my notes and had the porters throw me out. One porter confided about another nurse like me, who is studying to be a doctor in Paris. Elisabeth Garrett Anderson – MD. Or she will be soon. Imagine…

EMILY (startled). Imagine!

VIOLET. Imagine if that was me. If she wasn’t dismissible as a one-off, but was the start of something unstoppable. A hurricane instead of a breeze. Everything is changing. Mr Darwin’s book began it, but we need to seize the initiative now. Make men take notice of us instead of monkeys – of where we’re going, not where we’ve been. When I’ve been to Paris, I can stand as an example, scientific evidence of progress, a living petition to change!

AUNT GEORGE. That’s quite an idea, Violet.

VIOLET. So let’s make it real. If I put in all my income, I would only need a little extra funding. How much can we spare?

EMILY. You know what our subscriptions are, and after deductions for theatre tickets –

VIOLET. I don’t mean from subscriptions. I mean donations – how much can we each set aside to sponsor me? (Silence.) Surely we can sacrifice a few new dresses?

EMILY. It’s not that, Violet. It’s just… he’ll know.

VIOLET. It’s your money.

EMILY. It’s not now that I’m married. And besides, any extra funds I have must go towards my research trip. Yes, I know what you think of my novel, but we must each pursue our own paths to achieving change, mustn’t we, sisters?

VIOLET. That’s exactly what we mustn’t do. We won’t get anywhere if we’re not unified. Aunt George? I appreciate that you already pay my way –

AUNT GEORGE. – and the rest will all be yours one day.

VIOLET. But I can’t wait for ‘one day’. Aunt George, please think what this will mean? I’ll be able to take care of you when you’re old.

AUNT GEORGE. I am old.

VIOLET. Don’t be silly.

AUNT GEORGE. I would miss you.

VIOLET. Come with me. You could study too. Make the most of your life instead of…

AUNT GEORGE. What? Wasting it?

VIOLET. Waiting. How long must we just – watch and wait?

Pause.

AUNT GEORGE. I shall see what I can do, my dear.

VIOLET kisses her, thrilled.

It won’t be the full sum. You shall have to find the lion’s share elsewhere.

VIOLET. Of course.

She looks to EMILY, urging.

EMILY. I’ll talk to him. And I’ll rewrite my...