Who’s that? It’s one of them…….them….vandals!!  I know what I’d do to them, none of this softly, softly treatment like they get today.  Asbo’s? Dumbo’s! A good belt around the ear that’s what they need. I’ve got a good mind to…to….oh, bugger! He could have a knife or something. A few years back, I’d of taken him on, no problems. No need for the coppers, just a quick slap or two that would have frightened him off.

 

 

You alright?

 

What? 

 

You, alright?

 

 Of course I’m alright. (Worried) What do you want, creeping up on me like that?

 

I ain’t creeping no where. Saw this old bloke talking to himself, thought maybe he’s ill or something. Thought, old bloke might need help.

 

 

 

 

I don’t need help, not from someone like you anyway.

 

 Please yourself.

 

I will please myself, and I’m no old bloke.

 

Yes, you are.

 

How dare you speak to me like that!

 

What’s your problem?  I come over here to help, co’s I thought you needed it. What do I get? Earache! I’m off.

 

What were you doing over there, I saw you.

 

And what did you see, eh?

 

You were using those cans, cans of paint, making a mess of everything.

 

No I wasn’t.

 

Do you think I’m stupid? (Youth holds up his hands) There, in your pockets, the cans are in your pockets.

 

 

Oh, these? Yes, these are mine.

 

So you were painting the walls.

 

Yes.

 

Making a mess, of our streets!

 

Not me.

 

What? The cans are in your pocket!

 

The cans are in my pocket, yes. But I don’t make mess on the streets.

 

Yes, you do.

 

No I don’t, I’m an artist, I, make art not mess.

 

Call that art, don’t make me laugh. (Laughs loudly)

 

I just did.

 

Think you’re clever don’t you? Well your not, your nothing but an idle little vandal and if I had my way, you’d be locked away.

 

Thanks! Isn’t past your bedtime?

 

Your Dad should have taken a belt to you! (Exits)

 

Yeh, I like you too! (Takes cans out of pockets and starts to shake them as he goes to return to the ‘walls.’ A small group of Youths come out of the shadows.)

 

Well, look who it is. The pain…..ter.

 

Not the pain….ter, it’s the Arrrstist.

 

Yeh, the Arrrstist.

 

Gone very quite, now why do you think that is? You can talk, we just watched ya. Natter, natter, natter to the old codger.

 

Is he your Granddad?

 

You’re Granddad?

 

No, that wasn’t her Granddad. Mr. Frank, ‘I’m so important’ Fletcher, that’s who it was. So what were you telling him?  

 

She’s not saying.

(Grabbing her) What were you telling?

 

We were talking about art!

 

What would Fletcher know about art, and for that matter what do you know. (Taking cans out of Youths pocket) Want to know what real art is? (Throwing cans to other members of gang) This is art! (As gang members start spraying Scar films with his mobile) 

 

She’s a paint ball.

 

She’s a looser.

 

Yes, a looser. What are you?

 

Looser.

 

Remember that.

 

Song for Chorus?

(Loneliness of the Streets?)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

6.

 

 

Kitchen. Frank is leaning against the back of a chair, his wife Margaret has tea cloth in hand.

Put it out of your mind Frank.

That’s easy for you to say, you didn’t hear how he spoke to me.

 

I do, I know every word; you went on about it all night, and you were still going on about it over breakfast. You know what I think?

 

I’ve never known what you think Margaret, but I’m sure your going to tell me.

 

I think that a perfectly nice kid asked if you wanted help. But Frank Fletcher doesn’t needs help, does he Frank? Frank bottles everything up inside, never lets anyone near.  A young kid, having a bit of harmless fun….

 

Harmless fun? You call that, vandalism, fun. What’s wrong with you woman!

 

 Don’t let’s fall out over this. Let it go, for my sake.

 

It was the old dance hall.

 

What are you talking about now?

 

Where we met.

 

George Hotel, George Street. We met at a Friday dance.

 

You do remember?

 

Of course I remember, but why bring that up now?

 

That’s what the kid was painting. Our memories.

I see.

 

Do you? Do you really? Margaret, why can’t we go back to those days?

 

Don’t be silly, why would you want to go back to those days?

 

Why not? They were good days. The streets were safe, we new all our neighbors, there was a real sense of belonging, being part of a community. What’s out there now? Nothing! I want those nights at the Alhambra back again.