S.B. O’Donnell (Screwballs) Character Analysis

Public: Whether he says good-bye to me or not, or whether he slips me a few miserable quid or not, it’s a matter of total indifference to me, Madge.

Madge: Aye, so. Your tea’s on the table—but that’s a matter of total indifference to me.

Public: Give me time to wash, will you?

Madge: And another thing: just because he doesn’t say much doesn’t mean that he hasn’t feelings like the rest of us.

Public: Say much? He’s said nothing!

Madge: He said nothing either when your mother died.

Private: Yeah. You mentioned that your father was a businessman. What’s his line?

Public: Well, Sir, he has—what you would call—his finger in many pies—retail mostly—general dry goods—assorted patent drugs—hardware—ah—ah—dehydrated fish—men’s king-size hose—snuffs from the exotic East . . . of Donegal—a confection for gourmets, known as Peggy’s Leg—weedkiller—(Suddenly breaking off: in his normal accent: rolling on the bed.) Yahoooooo! It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles—

Private: Let’s git packin’, boy.

Screwballs, we’ve eaten together like this for the past twenty-odd years, and never once in all that time have you made as much as one unpredictable remark. Now, even though you refuse to acknowledge the fact, Screwballs, I’m leaving you for ever. I’m going to Philadelphia, to work in an hotel. And you know why I’m going. Screwballs, don’t you. Because I’m twenty-five, and you treat me as if I were five—I can’t order even a dozen loaves without getting your permission. Because you pay me less than you pay Madge. But worse, far worse than that Screwballs, because—we embarrass one another. If one of us were to say, ‘You’re looking tired’ or ‘That’s a bad cough you have’, the other would fall over backways with embarrassment.

So tonight d’you know what I want you to do? I want you to make one unpredictable remark, and even though I’ll still be on that plane tomorrow morning, I’ll have doubts: Maybe I should have stuck it out; maybe the old codger did have feelings; maybe I have maligned the old bastard.

Listen, if someone were to come along to me tonight and say, ‘Ballybeg’s yours—lock, stock, and barrel,’ it wouldn’t make that (cracks his fingers) much difference to me. If you’re not happy and content in a place— then—then—then you’re not happy and content in a place! It’s as simple as that. I’ve stuck around this hole far too long. I’m telling you: it’s a bloody quagmire, a backwater, a dead-end! And everybody in it goes crazy sooner or later! Everybody!

And you had the rod in your left hand—I can see the cork nibbled away from the butt of the rod—and maybe we had been chatting—I don’t remember—it doesn’t matter—but between us at that moment there was this great happiness, this great joy—you must have felt it too—it was so much richer than a content—it was a great, great happiness, and active, bubbling joy—although nothing was being said—just the two of us fishing on a lake on a showery day —and young as I was I felt, I knew, that this was precious, and your hat was soft on the top of my ears—I can feel it—and I shrank down into your coat—and then, then for no reason at all except that you were happy too, you began to sing […].

[…] there’s an affinity between Screwballs and me that no one, literally, no one could understand—except you, Canon (deadly serious), because you’re warm and kind and soft and sympathetic—all things to all men—because you could translate all this loneliness, this groping, this dreadful bloody buffoonery into Christian terms that will make life bearable for us all. And yet you don’t say a word.

S.B.: (justly, reasonably) There was a brown one belonging to the doctor, and before that there was a wee flat-bottom—but it was green—or was it white? I’ll tell you, you wouldn’t be thinking of a punt—it could have been blue—one that the curate had down at the pier last summer—

Private’s mocking laughter increases. Public rushes quickly into the shop. Private, still mocking, follows.

—a fine sturdy wee punt it was, too, and it could well have been the…

He sees that he is alone and tails off.

I can see him, with his shoulders back, and the wee head up straight, and the mouth, aw, man, as set, and says he this morning, I can hear him saying it, says he, ‘I’m not going to school. I’m going into my daddy’s business’—you know—all important—and, d’you mind, you tried to coax him to go to school, and not a move you could get out of him, and him as manly looking, and this wee sailor suit as smart looking on him, and—and—and at the heel of the hunt I had to go with him myself, the two of us, hand in hand, as happy as larks—we were that happy, Madge—and him dancing and chatting beside me—mind?—you couldn’t get a word in edge-ways with all the chatting he used to go through…

Public: Whether he says good-bye to me or not, or whether he slips me a few miserable quid or not, it’s a matter of total indifference to me, Madge.

Madge: Aye, so. Your tea’s on the table—but that’s a matter of total indifference to me.

Public: Give me time to wash, will you?

Madge: And another thing: just because he doesn’t say much doesn’t mean that he hasn’t feelings like the rest of us.

Public: Say much? He’s said nothing!

Madge: He said nothing either when your mother died.

Private: Yeah. You mentioned that your father was a businessman. What’s his line?

Public: Well, Sir, he has—what you would call—his finger in many pies—retail mostly—general dry goods—assorted patent drugs—hardware—ah—ah—dehydrated fish—men’s king-size hose—snuffs from the exotic East . . . of Donegal—a confection for gourmets, known as Peggy’s Leg—weedkiller—(Suddenly breaking off: in his normal accent: rolling on the bed.) Yahoooooo! It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles—

Private: Let’s git packin’, boy.

Screwballs, we’ve eaten together like this for the past twenty-odd years, and never once in all that time have you made as much as one unpredictable remark. Now, even though you refuse to acknowledge the fact, Screwballs, I’m leaving you for ever. I’m going to Philadelphia, to work in an hotel. And you know why I’m going. Screwballs, don’t you. Because I’m twenty-five, and you treat me as if I were five—I can’t order even a dozen loaves without getting your permission. Because you pay me less than you pay Madge. But worse, far worse than that Screwballs, because—we embarrass one another. If one of us were to say, ‘You’re looking tired’ or ‘That’s a bad cough you have’, the other would fall over backways with embarrassment.

So tonight d’you know what I want you to do? I want you to make one unpredictable remark, and even though I’ll still be on that plane tomorrow morning, I’ll have doubts: Maybe I should have stuck it out; maybe the old codger did have feelings; maybe I have maligned the old bastard.

Listen, if someone were to come along to me tonight and say, ‘Ballybeg’s yours—lock, stock, and barrel,’ it wouldn’t make that (cracks his fingers) much difference to me. If you’re not happy and content in a place— then—then—then you’re not happy and content in a place! It’s as simple as that. I’ve stuck around this hole far too long. I’m telling you: it’s a bloody quagmire, a backwater, a dead-end! And everybody in it goes crazy sooner or later! Everybody!

And you had the rod in your left hand—I can see the cork nibbled away from the butt of the rod—and maybe we had been chatting—I don’t remember—it doesn’t matter—but between us at that moment there was this great happiness, this great joy—you must have felt it too—it was so much richer than a content—it was a great, great happiness, and active, bubbling joy—although nothing was being said—just the two of us fishing on a lake on a showery day —and young as I was I felt, I knew, that this was precious, and your hat was soft on the top of my ears—I can feel it—and I shrank down into your coat—and then, then for no reason at all except that you were happy too, you began to sing […].

[…] there’s an affinity between Screwballs and me that no one, literally, no one could understand—except you, Canon (deadly serious), because you’re warm and kind and soft and sympathetic—all things to all men—because you could translate all this loneliness, this groping, this dreadful bloody buffoonery into Christian terms that will make life bearable for us all. And yet you don’t say a word.

S.B.: (justly, reasonably) There was a brown one belonging to the doctor, and before that there was a wee flat-bottom—but it was green—or was it white? I’ll tell you, you wouldn’t be thinking of a punt—it could have been blue—one that the curate had down at the pier last summer—

Private’s mocking laughter increases. Public rushes quickly into the shop. Private, still mocking, follows.

—a fine sturdy wee punt it was, too, and it could well have been the…

He sees that he is alone and tails off.

I can see him, with his shoulders back, and the wee head up straight, and the mouth, aw, man, as set, and says he this morning, I can hear him saying it, says he, ‘I’m not going to school. I’m going into my daddy’s business’—you know—all important—and, d’you mind, you tried to coax him to go to school, and not a move you could get out of him, and him as manly looking, and this wee sailor suit as smart looking on him, and—and—and at the heel of the hunt I had to go with him myself, the two of us, hand in hand, as happy as larks—we were that happy, Madge—and him dancing and chatting beside me—mind?—you couldn’t get a word in edge-ways with all the chatting he used to go through…