The Engagement Ring

The Engagement Ring

A Play based on “The Monkey’s Paw” by W. W. Jacobs/ Louis N. Parker

Adapted by Selina De Luca 2008

Performed on stage at St. Clement School in 2008

Characters:  

Mr. Charles Wood   

Mrs. Mary Wood    

Henry Wood    

Dame Beckett    

Marguerite Beckett (young Dame)

The Fakir    

Mr. Thompson    

The Postman    

Setting:  a small cottage home 

SCENE 1   (begins in the home of the Wood family.  A cozy fire is burning, which Mrs. Wood is tending to while Mr. Wood and his son Henry play chess/ cards.  Outside is horribly strong windy storm.)

Mr. Wood:  Hah!  Got you now, my boy!

Henry:  No, you haven’t, Father— look!

(Mrs. Wood peeks over to see.  Mr. Wood frowns and examines his cards/ contemplates his next move, etc. while Henry grins mischievously)

 Mr. Wood:  Darn it!  My own son…  He’s got me now, he has, Mary.

Mrs. Wood:  Has he?  

Mr. Wood:  Ay, but he hasn’t won yet!

(he grimaces while Henry still triumphantly grins.  Mr. Wood plays, and a loud shriek of wind is heard from outside.  Mrs. Wood shudders.)

Mrs. Wood:  Would you just listen to that wind!  Loud enough to wake the dead.

Henry:  Hah.  Nothing could ever wake up the dead.

(wind replies to this by howling louder. Mrs. Wood gives the door/window a concerned look)

Mrs. Wood:  I don’t expect old Dame Beckett will be visiting for supper tonight.  

Henry:  She’ll probably drown in all that rain first!

Mr. Wood: Oh, that old woman’s a right tough old witch.  I wouldn’t be in the least bit 

       surprised if she turned up after all!

Mrs. Wood:  But in this weather?  I don’t know how you’re going to get to work tonight,  Henry.  Boy, do I ever hate these night shifts of yours!

Henry:  I’ll manage, Mother.  I’ll swim to work.

Mrs. Wood:  If you don’t get stuck in all that mud first.

Mr. Wood: (shaking his head) What an awful place to live!  The roads are bad, the house is old, we’re way far out from town…  

Mrs. Wood:  Oh, Charles, it’s not that bad.  This is a nice, cozy little home, and we have plenty of  friendly neighbours.  And we’ve always got each other.  That’s an important thing we mustn’t forget.  What I would do without my sturdy husband and son, I do not know.

Mr. Wood:  Huh.  Well, I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if the roads were better, and if I didn’t owe two hundred pounds on this here cottage.

Mrs. Wood: (sighing) Yes.

Henry:  Aw, don’t worry about that—I’ll have it worked off in no time.

(There is a tapping at the door.)

Mrs. Wood: (looking up towards the door) That must be Dame Beckett, coming to see us after all.

Henry: (putting away chessboard/cards) I wonder what silly old wives’ tale she’ll spin for us tonight?

Mr. Wood: (heading towards door)  Shush!  Have some respect.  Dame Beckett is a very wise old woman.

(He opens the door and in comes a bent, cloaked figure.  Sound of storm should increase as door is open)

Mr. Wood:  Good evening, Dame Beckett.

Dame:  The same to you, and what an evening it is!

Mrs. Wood:  Do come and join us, Dame Beckett.

Dame:  Yes, yes, I shall.  Oh, what a welcoming fire! (sits in designated chair by fire) That storm out there’s pretty bad, mind you.  And a mile up by the graveyard it’s somewhat worse. (to Henry:) Got ye a night shift tonight, boy? 

Henry: Yes, ‘m.

Dame:  Not safe, travel in this weather.  But you’re a strong, fine young man.

Mrs. Wood:  Would you like some tea, Dame Beckett?

Dame: Oh, I would, thank you dear.  (Mrs. Wood pours tea and Dame Beckett serves herself from what is on the table as needed (i.e. sugar, cream)) 

Dame: (takes tea and carefully sips.  Wind shrieks)  Hear the there wind?  There hasn’t been a night like this for a long, long time.  (she shudders.) And what an awful night that one was!

Henry: What one?

Dame:  The last stormy day like this… in fact, the only other day like this I have ever seen in my life—and I’ve been alive for a long, long time.

Mr. Wood: Tell us about it.

Dame:  Well… (hesitates) No, I really shouldn’t.  It’s of no consequence.

Henry: Oh, please tell us!

Mrs. Wood: (sitting down with them) Yes, do; you’ve got us all curious now.

(Dame hesitates, considering.  Then she pulls out from her cloak a ring and holds it up so that everyone can see.  The lights dim slightly and the Woods gather closer as the dame’s voice lowers.)

Dame:  It was a day much like this, long, long ago, when I was young and beautiful…

(The lights go out completely.  The Woods and Dame Beckett remain very, very still.  On front stage, the lights turn on and as soon as they do, Marguerite flounces on, the fakir right behind her, a beseeching look on his face.  Before he begins, he falls on his knees, his arms outstretched.)

Fakir:  Marguerite!  Look at me, Marguerite!  I’ll die without you!  Please, what did I ever do to you but love you?  

(Young) Dame:  I am sorry.

Fakir:  You refuse me…because I am a fakir?

(Young) Dame: (Coldly, not looking at him)  It is not the only reason.

Fakir:  (visibly trying to keep his composure, but he is trembling and his voice shakes.)  I cannot understand.

Dame:  You do not have to.  (She approaches him and puts in his hand a ring that looks exactly the same as the one the old dame had.)  Here.  Take your ring back.  I have no need for it now.

Fakir: (painfully) Marguerite!!

Dame:  Farewell.  (She turns to go, but as fakir begins to speak, she hesitates, slowly turning to see what he is doing.  Her face becomes shocked and frightened, but it is as if she is glued to the spot.  At one point maybe she can cry, “no!  don’t!”)

Fakir:  (holding engagement ring up above his face, where he and audience can see it) 

Curse you!  Curse you, damn thing!  Curses of curses!   (he is staring at it wildly)  

(Beginning softly and slowly and growing louder and angrier until he is shouting:) 

                   Cold wind and dried corpses dead in the snow,

            Snakes, spiders, rats, and a one-eyed black crow,

    Dead, dried up, cracking and savouring Hate,

    Everything must and will give in to Fate.

            Happy to sad, sad to devastation

    Death to all things since the start of Creation

    This ring holds three wishes to all those who dare

    Take this small ring on their finger to wear

    Every good wish comes bad, and every bad worse

        So this be my vengeful and hate-haunted Curse!

(he turns slowly and deliberately back to Marguerite and approaches her.  She looks terrified.  He walks up to her, his face contorted in rage, and taking her hand, he puts the ring on her finger.)

Fakir:  (chokingly, staring aghast) Oh, what have I done?  I love you, Marguerite.  (He turns and runs away, and she slowly follows.)

(Blackout.  The lights in Woods’ home turn on again.)

(Old) Dame: (distantly)  I never saw him again.  I pretend to believe he didn’t go off somewhere and kill himself.

(longish, stunned silence)

Henry: (eagerly, after long pause) Three wishes?  (He reaches for ring.  Dame quickly snatches it away.)

Dame:  This is no fairy tale, lad.  This is an angry and heart-broken fakir’s curse!  (Sighs) He always was one to lose his temper quickly and do foolish things before thinking.  Aye, but it’s my own fault for being so proud.  Let that be a lesson to you folks—be humble, and kind, and think before you act, and you’ll get into a whole lot less trouble.  You never know when you might regret what you have done.

Mr. Wood: (after small pause)  May I see the ring?  (Dame reluctantly hands it over)  Looks like an ordinary ring to me… (examining it)

Dame: Well, it isn’t.

Henry:  Did you get three wishes?

Dame:  (not looking at him) I did.

Mrs. Wood: Were they granted?

Dame: (looking away) They were.

Henry:  That’s cool!  I think we could use that!  Put it on, Father!

(Mr. Wood looks as if he is really going to when Dame snatches it back.)

Dame:  Be careful!  You do not understand the extent of the wrath of a fakir!

Henry: (scornfully) I do not believe it can cause harm just to try it out.

Dame:  Harm, boy?  Did I not make it clear that this was a curse, and that once the wish came true the wisher would have cause to wish it had never come true?

Mr. Wood:  But, Dame Beckett—if you have had your three wishes, why do you keep the ring?  It is of no use to you now… 

Dame:  (looking distantly into fire)  I guess I am afraid of what might happen to it.  What it might do to people.

Mr. Wood:  If you had a chance to have another three wishes, would you take it?

Dame: (considering, slowly) I don’t know—I don’t know—(Suddenly she jumps up and throws the ring into the fire and her expression becomes almost angry) NO!  I would not!

(Everyone jumps up in surprise and Henry snatches the ring out of the fire.)

Dame:  Let it burn!  Let the infernal thing burn!

Henry:  I won’t.

Mr. Wood: The ring wouldn’t burn in there, anyhow.  

Dame:  Give it back!  It is mine!

Henry:  You threw it in the fire!  You don’t want it!  We need it!  It’s ours now!

Dame: (sinisterly)  Keep it if you want to, fool!  My hands are clear of this.

Henry:  I want to keep it!  What d’you say, Father?

Mr. Wood: (shrugging)  Keep it if you want to.  Three wishes may come in handy.

Dame:  Be careful!  Be very careful!

Mr. Wood:  Give the ring to me, son.  I will hold onto it until we think of something good enough to wish for.  (He puts it on his finger.  Dame backs away, shaking her head.)

Dame:  You have just put it on your finger.  The wishes are yours now, Charles Wood.  (ominously)

(Mr. Wood stares at his hand in horror.)

Henry:  Aw, Dad!  Those were mine!

Mrs. Wood:  Hush, boy!  

Dame:  All the better. You, young man, wouldn’t know what to wish for!

Henry:  Sure I would!  Wish now, Father! 

Mrs. Wood:  Yes, why don’t you?  Wish for the storm to let up.

Henry:  Wish to rule the world!

Mrs. Wood:  Wish for a better paying job!

Henry:  Wish for wealth!

Mrs. Wood: Wish for peace and prosperity!

Henry: (jokingly, after glancing over at the dame who all the while has been creeping closer to the door)  Wish for Dame Beckett to stop frowning!

Dame:  (glaring at Henry) Wish for some sense!  Or better yet, don’t wish at all!  Good evening.  (begins to leave)

Mrs. Wood:  What!  Leaving already, good Dame?

Dame:  I do not want to be here when the man wishes!  I have seen enough of this cursed ring already.  I wash my hands of this!  (leaves)

Mrs. Wood:  Well!  It seems as though this really is some bad luck, after all.

Mr. Wood:  Nonsense!  That old witch never tells a story straight.  Always some tale here, another exaggeration there, a few lies all over the place…

Mrs. Wood:  Perhaps we should get rid of the ring, Charles.

Henry:  What!  Not now, now that we’re going to be rich and famous and happy.

Mr. Wood:  I don’t need to be rich or famous, and I already am happy enough. (sighs)  It seems as though I have everything I could possibly want already.

Mrs. Wood:  That is true!  If it weren’t for that two hundred pounds you owe on this house, you’d be perfectly happy.

Henry:  That’s it!  Wish for two hundred pounds, Father.

Mr. Wood: (pensively)  Alright, I will!  (holds up hand to view ring) I wish for two hundred pounds!  (hollers and doubles over hand, gripping at finger)

Mrs. Wood and Henry: (staggered)  What happened!?

Mr. Wood:  (gasping and staring at ring)  It squeezed my finger!  It really squeezed it tight!  And—and now I can’t get it off!

Mrs. Wood:  Let me see… my goodness!  It does seem to be tight.  It will cut off your circulation.

Henry:  That’s ridiculous!  You must have imagined it.  Your fingers are just too fat, that’s all.  (looks around)  And so where’s the money?  Ha!  See?  Nothing!

Mr. Wood:  I swear to you, it’s squeezing my finger.  Really it is!

Henry:  I’m sure.  Why don’t you and Mother go get some sleep?  I’m off to work now.

Mrs. Wood:  Do be careful in that storm!  And be back to join us for breakfast.

Henry:  I will.  Goodnight.  (Normally I think a son would kiss his mother here, but I will not make you actors kiss if you don’t want to… ha ha ha)  (Mother leaves and Henry is left with his father, who is staring pensively into the fire.)

Henry:  Well, goodnight, Father!  You’ll find your money waiting for you in your bed.

Mr. Wood:  It’s hurting my finger, son.

Henry:  And the ghost of the fakir will be standing over you, watching you count the golden sovereigns.

Mr. Wood:  (shuddering) I wish you wouldn’t joke, Henry.

Henry:  All right.  (opens door, at which point the sound of storm must increase.) Wow!  What a colossal storm!  See ya later, Dad!

(Mr. Wood shakes his head, closes the door behind his son, locks it, and tries to put the bar back but has some trouble.)

Mr. Wood:  Darn it!  That bolt’s stiff again.  I’ll have to get Henry to check it tomorrow.  (Goes back to sit by fire.)

Mrs. Wood:  (appearing again)  Aren’t you coming to bed, dear?

Mr. Wood:  Presently… oh!  (Fakir’s face appears in fire; it might be good to make it obvious by having a spotlight or something on it…yeah, and where the heck am I going to get a spotlight?)  Oh, Mary!  (A frightened look comes across his face and he backs away from the fire nervously.)

Mrs. Wood:  What is it?  (Face disappears)

Mr. Wood:  I… ha! Ha! I thought I saw faces in the fire…

Mrs. Wood:  (Firmly) Your imagination is getting the better of you.  Come along.

CURTAIN

(Optional extra little scene:  The night, with the Woods in bed.  Wind.  (The ghost of) Fakir enters and walks around bed, looking at Mr. Wood’s hand, leaves.

SCENE 2: Bright sunshiny day.  Breakfast table set, Mr and Mrs. Wood waiting for Henry.

Mr.  Wood:  Good mornin’!  And what a lovely morning it is, too.  Henry’ll enjoy his walk home!

Mrs. Wood:  Yes, he should be home soon.  Ten minutes, at the latest.

Mr. Wood:  (coming towards table) What’s for breakfast?

Mrs. Wood:  Eggs and sausages.

Mr. Wood:  Any toast?

Mrs. Wood:  Of course!

Mr. Wood: And coffee?

Mrs. Wood: If you want some.

Mr. Wood:  I do.  (He unconsciously begins to finger his ring and pulls it right off.)  Hey!  Lookit, Mary!  I just pulled that blasted ring off!  

Mrs. Wood: (extending hand) Let’s see?  (Takes ring and examines it.  Laughs scornfully, and puts it aside.) As if we listened to that woman’s old yarns.  All the ladies in this town are like that—gossip, legend, and fantasy.

Mr. Wood:  I could have sworn that darn thing had a vice grip on me all night, but you never know… last night anything could have happened.

Mrs. Wood:  Let’s start eating—Henry hates us to wait for him.  (They sit down, bow their heads for blessing and eat.)

Mrs. Wood:  I was thinking during the night about how wishes could be granted, if not by a cursed ring.

Mr. Wood:  So you were awake too, eh?

Mrs. Wood:  You kept me awake with your restlessness.

Mr. Wood:  It was a pretty bad night.

Mrs Wood:  It must have been the storm.

Mr. Wood:  And that silly story!  I believe we must be the most gullible couple in the whole world!

Mrs. Wood:  And even if it did come true, how could getting two hundred pounds hurt?

Mr. Wood:  (jokingly) Maybe it will fall on my head and knock me out?  Though, Dame Beckett said it would happen so naturally you could take it as a coincidence.

Mrs. Wood:  Well, it hasn’t happened yet, and I don’t expect it will.  It would be nice though, don’t you think?

(sharp knock on door.)

Why, that couldn’t be Henry already!

Mr. Wood:  No, it is the postman.

Mrs. Wood:  (peeking out window) He has a letter, Charles!

Mr. Wood:  Really, you don’t say!  I thought he’d bring us a hippopotamus.

Mrs. Wood: Oh, Charles, you don’t have to be sarcastic!  (Peeks out window)  But suppose it’s—suppose—suppose—

Mr. Wood:  Suppose what? For goodness sake, woman, spit it out!

Mrs. Wood:  Suppose it’s about the two hundred pounds!

Mr. Wood:  What?  Don’t be ridiculous, Mary.  (he answers door, having some trouble with the bolt.) Blasted door… ah, there we go. (opens to reveal postman)

Postman:  Good day to you, sir.  

Mr. Wood:  Indeed it is.  (Takes letter.) Thanks very much.  (Shuts door. Difficulty with bolt.  Sits back at table.)

Mrs. Wood:  Oh, who’s it for, Charles?  Whose it for?

Mr. Wood:  For me.

Mrs. Wood:  Open it!  Open it!

Mr. Wood: (As excited as his wife) Calm down!  You are too superstitious!  Watch.  It will be nothing.  Where are my glasses?

Mrs. Wood:  Here, let me open it.

Mr. Wood: (Excitedly) Don’t you touch it.  Where are my glasses?

Mrs. Wood:  Right here, dear.  Oh, hurry!  Oh!  Careful!  Don’t tear it!

Mr. Wood:  Tear what?

Mrs. Wood: If it was banknotes—

Mr. Wood: (opens envelope and takes out a formal document) Stop that, you’re making me nervous.  (Reads) “Sir, Enclosed please find receipt for interest on the mortgage of £ 200 on your house, duly received.”

(They look at each other.  Mr. Wood begins to quietly finish his breakfast.  Mrs. Wood goes over to the window.)

Mrs. Wood:  That’s what comes of listening to crazy old women.

Mr. Wood:  What does?

Mrs. Wood: You thought there were banknotes in it.

Mr. Wood:  I didn’t!

Mrs. Wood:  And Henry will laugh, when I tell him.

Mr. Wood:  But you won’t tell him.

Mrs. Wood:  Why not?  You like his teasing.  See how he joked last night when you said the ring tightened.

Mr. Wood:  It did!  It squeezed my finger! That I will swear to.

Mrs. Wood: (distracted as she seems to be watching something) So you thought.

Mr. Wood: So I knew. I felt it.  And you saw how tight it was, and how upset I was last night, didn’t you?

(No answer.)

Didn’t you?—Why don’t you answer me?  What’s the matter?

Mrs. Wood:  Nothing.

Mr. Wood:  What’s out there?  Is it Henry coming?

Mrs. Wood:  No.

Mr. Wood: He should be home any time now.  What is it then?

Mrs. Wood:  Nothing.  Just a man.  A gentleman, with a black coat and a top-hat on.

Mr. Wood: (uninterested) What about him?

Mrs. Wood:  He stopped at the end of our walkway as if he was about to come in, but he can’t seem to make up his mind.

Mr. Wood: Oh, come on and finish your breakfast!  Your full of fancies.

Mrs. Wood:  No, wait!  He’s coming back.

Mr. Wood:  Don’t let him see you spyin’ on him.

Mrs. Wood: (with increasing excitement) He’s looking at the house.  He’s coming—no, he’s turning away again.  Why does he hesitate?

Mr. Wood:  Maybe he isn’t sure he has the right address.

Mrs. Wood:  Charles!  He looks like a lawyer!

Mr. Wood:  So?

Mrs. Wood:  Oh, you’ll only laugh again.  But—what if—do you suppose—

Mr. Wood:  Don’t say it.  Don’t even think it.  Oh, you women are so foolish.  Come and eat your breakfast.  (But he is obviously as excited as she is.) Where is he now?

Mrs. Wood:  On the road.  No, he’s coming back.  He’s coming up the walkway!  Oh, here’s here, he’s here!  (looks down at self.) Oh, and me looking like this.  (begins to smooth hair (and apron) as a knock is heard at the door.  Mr. Wood opens it to reveal Mr. Thompson, who is dressed in black with a top-hat on.)

Mr. Thompson:  Is this the home of the Woods?

Mr. Wood:  It is, sir.  Please step inside.  (Mr. Thompson looks awkward and nervous.)

Mrs. Wood:  You must excuse our being so untidy and all.  You must understand we weren’t expecting anyone this morning.

Mr. Thompson:  (nods.)  My name is Thompson.

Mrs. Wood:  Perhaps you would like to sit down? (offers chair.)

Mr. Thompson:  Ah—no, thanks—I, ah—thank you but—I think not…

Mr. Wood:  (awkwardly, trying to help him feel more comfortable) Fine weather we’re having for this time of year, isn’t it?  ‘Specially after last night!

Mr. Thompson: What? Oh, ah, yes—yes, yes, of course— (he pauses, takes a deep breath, and tries again)  My name is, ah, Thompson, and I’m here—I’ve come…

Mr. Wood:  Perhaps you are here to see our son Henry?  I’m afraid he is not here at the present, but he should be along shortly.

Mr. Thompson:  No, no!  I just came from the electrical works—

Mrs. Wood: Why, you might have come with him, then.

(Mr. Wood realizes something is wrong and he puts his arm gently on Mrs. Wood’s shoulder.)

Mr. Thompson: Oh, no, Ma’am—you don’t understand.  No, I—I just came from there— I came alone.

Mrs. Wood: (looks worriedly from Thompson’s nervous face to Mr. Wood’s) Is something the matter?

Mr. Thompson: I was asked to call—

Mrs. Wood:  Henry!  Oh, has something happened to Henry?  Is he hurt?  Is he hurt?

Mr. Wood:  Hush, dear, and let the gentleman continue.

Thompson:  I’m so sorry—

Mrs. Wood:  Is he hurt?

(Mr. Thompson nods and looks away.)

Mrs. Wood:  Badly?

Thompson: Very badly.

Mrs. Wood:  Oh, Charles!  (She clutches at her husband)

Mr. Wood:  Is he in pain?

Thompson:  He is not in pain.

Mrs. Wood:  He isn’t? He isn’t in pain? Oh, thank God!  Thank God for that !  Thank God— (stops as she realizes what he means.  She looks at Mr. Wood and then at Thompson.  Both are looking away.)  What—you don’t mean—

Thompson:  I am so sorry, madam.

Mrs. Wood: Charles!  (Mr. Wood takes her and leads her to a chair to sit down.)

Mr. Wood: (hoarsely) Please go on, sir.

Thompson:  He—he was talking to his mates, laughing about something to do with a ring and a curse, and he—he wasn’t watching, and—the-the machinery caught him, and—

(cry from Mrs. Wood  She buries her face in her hands..  Mr. Wood goes over to window)

Mr. Wood: The machinery caught him, eh?  He was laughing…laughing at the fakir…

Mrs. Wood:  (head in hands) Oh, Charles!  I just can’t bear it! 

Mr. Wood:  He was our only child… You must understand how very hard this is for us, sir.

Thompson: Yes, yes, of course.  The, ah, Company wished me to, ah, convey their sincere sympathy with you in your great loss—

Mr. Wood: (blankly, still at window) Our—great—loss—!

Thompson: I was to say further—but I am only obeying orders, sir—I was to say—

Mr. Wood: Great—loss—

Thompson: (laying envelope on table and starting to leave) I was sent to say, the, ah,  company disclaims all responsibility, but—ah, but in their consideration for your son’s services they would like to, um, present you with a certain, ah, sum in compensation—

Mr. Wood: Our—great—loss— (suddenly turns and abruptly cries with horror:) Compensation!  How—how much?

Thompson: Two hundred pounds.(places envelope on table and bows) Good day, sir and madam.  I am very sorry about your loss.  (leaves.)

(Silence.)

Mr. Wood: Two hundred pounds, eh? Two hundred pounds!  D’ya hear that, Mary?  Two hundred pounds!  Two—hundred—pounds—!

(Mrs. Wood moans into her hands while Mr. Wood collapses into another chair, staring into space.)

CURTAIN

SCENE 3 Night time in Wood’s home.  Mr. Wood is sleeping in armchair by neglected fireplace. Mrs. Wood is looking out the window.  The only light is the candle on the table.  Mr. Wood awakes and looks about fretfully.)

Mr. Wood:  Mary,—Mary.

Mrs. Wood:  I’m here, Charles.

Mr. Wood:  Where?

Mrs. Wood:  By the window.

Mr. Wood:  What are you doing?

Mrs. Wood:  Just looking up the road.

Mr. Wood: (Falling back into chair.) Why? What’s the use?

Mrs. Wood: That’s where the cemetery is—it’s where we’ve laid him.

Mr. Wood:  Aye, a week today— what’s the time?

Mrs. Wood:  I don’t know.

Mr. Wood:  We don’t keep much track of time now, do we?

Mrs. Wood: What’s the use?  He isn’t coming home.  He’ll never come home again.  There’s nothing to think about now.

Mr. Wood: Or talk about.  Come away from the window.  It’s so cold.

Mrs. Wood: It’s colder where he is.

Mr. Wood: (sighs) Yes, he’s gone forever—

Mrs. Wood:  He’s taken all our hopes—

Mr. Wood: And all our wishes—

Mrs. Wood: Yes, all our wishes—(gasps) Charles!  Our wishes!

Mr. Wood: (Sitting up suddenly) What?  What’s the matter?

Mrs. Wood:  The ring!  Where’d you put it, Charles?

Mr. Wood:  What ring?  What on earth, Mary—

Mrs. Wood: (eagerly, almost desperately) The ring!  The fakir’s ring!  Dame Beckett’s ring!  Where is it?

Mr. Wood:  I don’t know, I haven’t seen it since—why, what do you want it for?

Mrs. Wood:  Find it!  Find it!

Mr. Wood: (gropes on mantelpiece) Here it is!  It’s right here.  What do you want it for?

Mrs. Wood:  Why didn’t I think about it before?  Why didn’t you think of it before?

Mr. Wood: Think of what?

Mrs. Wood:  The other two wishes!  We’ve only had one!

Mr. Wood: (With horror) Wasn’t one enough?

Mrs. Wood:  No! We’ll have another.  Take the ring, and wish.

Mr. Wood:  Wish for what?

Mrs. Wood:  Why, wish for our boy back alive again!  Oh, do it, Charles!  Do it!  Wish for him back!

Mr. Wood:  Good grief, woman, are you mad?

Mrs. Wood:  Do it!  Take it and wish!  Oh, my poor boy!  Wish for him back, Charles!

Mr. Wood:  Go to bed.  Go to sleep.  Forget about this ring.

Mrs. Wood:  Do it!

Mr. Wood: You do not know what you are saying.

Mrs. Wood:  I do so know what I am saying!  I am asking for my son back!  I know perfectly well—

Mr. Wood:  No! I will not do it.

Mrs. Wood:  It will be granted—why wouldn’t it be?

Mr. Wood:  Mary!  Listen to me.  He’s been dead ten days!  Ten days, Mary!  I only    knew him by his clothing… and if they wouldn’t let you see him then, how could you possibly bear to see him now?

Mrs. Wood:  I don’t care.  Bring him back.

Mr. Wood:  I won’t even touch it!

Mrs. Wood: (Grabs ring from mantle and thrusts it into Wood’s hand.)  Wish!  Wish!  (She goes on frantically whispering “wish, wish, wish…”)

Mr. Wood:  I can’t do it—oh—I wish my son alive again!  (cries out and clutches hand.  Looks at it in horror, then glances around fearfully.  Mrs. Wood rushes to window.  Silence.)

Mrs. Wood: (After a pause) Nothing.

Mr. Wood:  Oh, thank God!  Thank God!  Oh, Mary, you do not want him back!  The wish is too impossible for the ring to grant.  Why, it hardly even squeezed my finger this time.  At least, not like last time…  and look, I can take it right off!  (he drops it carelessly onto the floor)

Mrs. Wood:  Nothing.  Nobody.  Oh where is my son?  Not a living thing in sight, the whole way up the road.  (leaves window.) There’s nothing left for us now, Charles.  We’re left with nothing.

Mr. Wood:  Nothing—except each other, Mary.  And memories.

Mrs. Wood: (shaking head)  We were only alive in him.  There’s nothing left for us now.

Mr. Wood: Don’t talk so… oh, I cannot bear this darkness!  Where’s the candle?  Where are the matches?  (He looks around for them.) We shouldn’t sit in the dark.  (looks at Mrs. Wood who is clutching herself, rocking and moaning.) Oh, Mary.  Don’t.

Mrs. Wood: (covers face with hands.)  Nothing, Charles.  Nothing.

Mr. Wood:  Where are those blasted matches?  

Mrs. Wood:  Nothing…

Mr. Wood: Why don’t you go on to bed, Mary?

Mrs. Wood:  It makes no difference if I’m here or in my bed.  There’s nothing left for us now, with my boy dead and gone…

(a low single knock is heard.)

Mrs. Wood: (jumping up) What was that?

Mr. Wood:  (horrified.) Just a rat, I’m sure.

(Another single knock.  Mrs. Wood starts towards door.) 

Mr. Wood: (catches her arm) Stop!  What are you going to do?

Mrs. Wood: (wildly) It’s Henry!  It’s my boy!  Of course it would take him a few minutes to walk from the graveyard to here.  Why are you holding me?  I must let him in!

(The knocking continues at irregular intervals, getting louder and more insistent each time.)

Mrs. Wood: (struggling) Let me go!

Mr. Wood:  Don’t open the door!  (He drags her away from door.)

Mrs. Wood:  Let me go!

Mr. Wood:  Think of what you might see!

Mrs. Wood:  Do you think I’m afraid of the child I bore!  Let me go!  (She tears herself loose and rushes over to the door.  Mr. Wood cowers in corner.)

Mr. Wood: (screaming) Don’t do it!  Don’t open it!

(Mrs. Wood is struggling with stiff bolt.)

Mrs. Wood:  I can’t move the bolt!

Mr. Wood:  Don’t open the door!  (Suddenly)  Where is the ring?  Where is it?

Mrs. Wood:  Charles!  The bolt’s stuck!  I can’t move it.  Come and help me!

Mr. Wood: (wildly groping) Where is it?  There’s still a wish left!

  (The knocking is now very loud and insistent)

Mrs. Wood:  Do you hear him, Charles?  Your son is knocking!

Mr. Wood:  Where is it?  Where did it fall?

Mrs. Wood:  Come help me, Charles!  Will you keep your boy out in the cold?

Mr. Wood:  Where did it fall?  I can’t find it!

(The knocking has become loud constant blows as if a body is beating against it.  Sound is very intense)

Mrs. Wood:  Hold on, Henry!  I’m coming!  Your mother’s coming to let you in!  Wait!  It’s moving!  It’s moving!

Mr. Wood: (desperately) God forbid! Ah! Here it is!

Mrs. Wood: (slips bolt) Henry!

Mr. Wood: (Has raised himself to his knees and holds his now ringed finger high.)  I wish him dead.  (The knocking stops abruptly.) I wish him dead and at peace!

Mrs. Wood: (Flinging the door open simultaneously) Henry—

(A flood of moonlight.  Emptiness.  Mr. Wood sways in his kneeling position on the floor.  Mrs. Wood leans, half swooning, half wailing, against the door post.)

CURTAIN

THE END

Photo by Fezbot2000 on Unsplash