Beckettian

Samuel Beckett

The term "Beckettian" is linked with the work of the Irish playwright Samuel Beckett (1906-1989). He specialised in dramas that are bleakly absurd and existentially comic - plays such as "Waiting for Godot", "Endgame", "Happy Days" and "Krapp's Last Tape". I first encountered his work when I was at university in the mid-seventies. Back then, Beckett enjoyed something of a cult following. There was no other dramatist quite like him but of course he's not everybody's cup of tea because he challenges you, makes you think and makes you wonder what it's all about.

And now for something very Beckettian.

It concerns a visit I made today to the residence of an old friend. He lives there with the wife he left forty years ago and one of his grown up sons who has become a full time carer for his parents.  Let's call the old man Frank, his 86 year old wife Betty and their fifty one year old son Peter. Frank is in his ninetieth year.

They live in a small two-bedroomed terraced house three miles from here. I realised I had not seem them in person since February so it was nigh time that I called in again. 

I took them gifts. A large Melton Mowbray pork pie for Frank, a bunch of flowers for Betty and four cans of lager for Peter.

They were very grateful but from the moment I walked in, the absurdity began. It's quite hard to explain but I will try.

Frank was sitting in the front room watching the BBC 24-hour news service with the volume turned up. Peter was still up in bed even though  it was gone midday. Betty was anxiously fussing about because she had a dental appointment at 2pm and Peter would be driving her there.

When all three were in the front room - all talking to me - it was as if I was a tennis player with not one but three competitors on the other side of the net. It's hard enough to return one ball but three balls at once? Not easy I can tell you.

Frank - Losing his memory and in his slightly demented state, believing that Betty and Peter are just after his  money. He can't much remember the pub we both sat in as regulars, nor any of the other customers  or the landlady. The names have evaporated. And he's obsessed with his hands and feeling occasional pains in his arms. And he realises he's lost weight. And he wonders why Betty just turned the TV volume down. And he hates Donald Trump and besides why does Peter drink cans of beer most nights?

Betty - She once lived in the house on her own but Frank and Peter came to live with her. And she has a cat called Simba that all three of them love. They are at least agreed on that. And she has been constipated with occasional bleeding from her back passage and do I like the blue jumper she is wearing? Peter found it in a skip (American: dumpster). And she has got to go to the medical centre next week and Peter is "a good lad" really. He has a "heart of gold" and she still worries about when he was sexually abused by her step father. He was only nine or ten at the time. And do I like liver?

Peter - Now downstairs and looking bleary-eyed. The appointment isn't until two Mum! We don't have to go yet. And he says, "Do you want this flask?" He is holding up a stainless steel flask he found on a wall. And his laptop has malfunctioned and he has lost lots of photos. Mum and Dad do not drink enough. "I'm always telling them".  And how did you feel when McBurnie scored down at Wembley? And do you want this dashcam? I found it in the middle of the road. And yes Mum! I know we're going to the dentist! It takes five minutes to drive there!

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The home environment is tatty, chaotic, in need of a deep clean. There are photos without frames on the mantelpiece and slid into the side of the wall mirror above is a birthday card I sent to Frank last November. In the other downstairs room - the kitchen diner - there are two bulky old easy chairs in the middle of the floor and another television on the dresser.

It is all a mess. Just like the conversational tennis match.

But they are good people. I have known Frank for thirty six years and remember him when he was in robust health and fully compus mentis. If it wasn't for Betty and Peter, he would definitely be in a residential home for the elderly, gradually slipping into the nether world that The President of the USA is currently heading to as he spouts about the awful UFC event and the crashing  Freedom 250 concert. Nobody of note wants to appear. Just like "Waiting for Godot".

Samuel Beckett would have had a field day with all of this. He really would.