The Truth Shall Make Ye Fret - Bonus - The Crone

Episode Date: March 22, 2021

The Truth Shall Make Ye Fret is a podcast in which your hosts, Joanna Hagan and Francine Carrel, usually read and recap every book from Sir Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series in chronological order. Today, a bonus radio play: The Crone.Performed by: Helen Fullerton Written by: Joanna HaganWritten and first performed in 2019, as part of the QuirkHouse 5 series of monologuesFind us on the internet:Twitter: @MakeYeFretPodInstagram: @TheTruthShallMakeYeFretFacebook: @TheTruthShallMakeYeFretEmail: [e-mail] to follow your hosts and their internet doings? Follow Joanna on twitter @joannahagan and follow Francine @francibambi Follow Helen here:https://www.spotlight.com/2258-0190-5675http://www.HelenFullerton.com@HelenFullyActor - Twitter Follow Quirkhouse here:https://www.quirkhousetheatreco.com@QuirkHouseTheat - Twitter Sound effects (Freesound.org): parkersenk; 14Douderova_Adela; F.M. Audio; TOMPARSONS; blwuens; vibe_crcMusic: Chris Collins, indiemusicbox.com

Hello and welcome to The Truth Shall Make You Fret, a podcast in which we usually read and recap each of Terry Pratchett's discworld novels one at a time in chronological order. I'm Francine Carroll and I'll be shutting up very quickly because this bonus episode is a dramatic monologue written by my beloved co-host Joanna Hagan and performed by the remarkable Helen Fullerton. This piece was written and first performed in spring 2019 so a little while before Joanna and I started this podcast I was lucky enough to see it on stage again performed by Helen. I attended in the role of supportive friend of the playwright and left with the renewed conviction that Joanna's writing was something I would

ardently admire even if we'd never met. You'll notice some definite Pratchettian themes through this piece which is something we've discussed in previous episodes but I don't remember which ones. Answers as always on an albatross. And now, dear listeners, without further ado, please enjoy The Crone. Don't mind me. I'm not real. Just having a quick tidy up before the new girl gets in. I miss dancing. There was never as much as you'd think. Never as much as it seemed. There was more bare feet on

cold stone floors than cold slippers or marble. That is damn sure. More storms than sun. More suffering than sweetness. That oh, we did dance. Those days are all gone now, of course. After all that ever, there's just this. Happily, I suppose. Just this. I wonder what she'll be like, the new girl. She won't have any real personality, of course. You can't have that. She'll be blank and pliable, like a silk screen to reject on. Ready to become what's necessary, what's enough. She won't need to be a real person. But it'll be there. It'll show itself eventually.

It always comes. Unwanted and unbidden. But I wonder if she'll start sweet. Or if she'll have some clever hidden spark. I wonder if she'll be sharp or soft. If she'll shatter. Or she'll bend and warp before she breaks. Will it be quick? Like a snapping branch? Or slow like a falling tree? Time will tell. There's no life, you know. Being an archetype. Oh, it seems sparkling and glamorous and fascinating. The maiden. What a joke. Do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is,

having rodents and chattering little birds dress you? And they've got no sense of time. Forget about sleeping in. Crack of dawn. Every stinking morning. I tried putting down traps. I locked the windows. That was quite funny, to be fair. Hearing all those little thuds against the windows. Those little squeaks in the traps. Satisfying in its own way. My own little bit of agency. Never had a lot of that. But there were little ways. Little bits of life I carved for myself. Sewing ratting animals into the corner of tapestries. That was always a good one. I can't believe I've been left with the cleaning again. Always the same way. There's been so many messes, so much to scrub, so much dirt to polish into a shimmer.

There's got to be three of us, you see. These things always come in threes, maiden, mother, and well, the cycle's getting a bit quicker these days. The C-word applies a lot sooner, apparently. Oh, I wasn't expecting it. I mean, do I look like an old woman to you? Do I look past my prime already? I've lived all the stories, you know. Over and over. I've kissed the frogs. Spun with the princess. I've been stripped down to rags and dazzled up to riches again and again and again. Of course, the mother is no use. She said she'd come and pitch in and hope cancelled at the last second teething troubles. Well, we've all been there. I've all had those little struggles. So all this gets left to the...

Now, there's got to be a better name for it. It's crept up on me, to be honest. One moment, you're cleaning up after seven little arseholes and getting harassed by an overdressed step-parent, and the next minute, men are drinking champagne out of your shoes. Rather them than me, to be honest. And it's all that glitz and glamour and tripping over one's own heavy tongue until... Mother. And then this. Then... Then... Nothing. Everything. Again. Do you know how exhausting it is? Not the cleaning. That wears you down in such a clean way.

There's a satisfaction to it, turning filth into something you've never seen before, but the same old stories over and over and happily ever fudging after. Three archetypes in a stupid never-ending cycle. I mean, I'm getting déjà vu here. I've swept these floors before. I've scrubbed this stuff. I've had the dirty nails and torn up knuckles scraped on the same damn brick. I've done this! And I'm tired. I wasn't when it all started. I was such a sweet little maid. Blank as the screens they project us on. You know the ones. Those shining temples to the same old stories. The sticky floors and sticky children. And boy was I projected on. I reflected like that moronic talking mirror. And just as

honest, I showed them everything. I lit up what they wanted, what they needed. Every stupid little detail shone on my placid little face. Oh, but sir, I'm just a poor maiden alone in the woods. Whatever could you want with me? Will this break the spell? Could you really be the humble huntsman? You move the grace of a prince. It's best to check, believe me. Can't be tarrying with the common folk. Hang out with a real huntsman for a bit. Decent bloke. Didn't end well for any one. Poor wolf. Oh, sir, you shock me. Don't you know I'm pathetically poor and weak and helpless? Of course they knew. They always knew. They always know. They always will have known. Tenses are a funny thing, aren't they?

New, known, know. No. Now that is a hard word. No. Oh, if only it were that easy. You don't say no to a prince. You don't say no to the story. You don't say no to a life like this. And why would you want to? There was everything. Anything right there. All laid out in front of me. Like a feast. I've lived a hundred lives and a hundred stories. At least. I've slept for 100 years and laughed and laughed and lived for a hundred more. And I've been laid out like a feast in every life. The maid and one to be adored and rescued and abhorred and eschewed and... Oh. Fuck. Oh. I forgot. I can say that now. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Oh, what fun. It's not maidenly to swear. To screw. To be filthy and human. To be a person. No. I was delicate. Poised.

Fuck. Just doesn't work. Didn't when I was doing the mother thing, either. No personality there. No. I had to fret and worry. There's a hundred babies were ripped from my breast. Blank and placid as a cow. Breeding and losing and grieving. Tiny innocent lives lost to the story. And faithings. And dark machinations. At least that time is done. It feels like only yesterday. Every single one of them. Every babe born. Every babe gone. It's no life being an archetype. It's stifling this box. There's no room to grow or to be. I'm this crushed set of roots in a tiny pot. Desperate for fresh air. This is all there is. Just this.

You know, the worst thing. No one in all my stories. In all my lives. Not a single person has thanked me. Two little words. Thank you. Never. I have danced in a thousand ballrooms. Under a thousand chandeliers. I have been what the damn story needed. Over and over and over again. I have swept a thousand floors. I have kissed a thousand princes. More. And how many times have I been treated as an equal? A person. A fucking human being. Well, I suppose if we're being technical, I'm not entirely human. I'm an archetype. A construct. The personification of an abstract concept. It's complicated and I won't explain it. I can't. But do you know how human that makes me? I am the rickstock of lives and experiences and stories.

The most human thing of all. I have been reduced down again and again to the clearest, purest essence so concentrated you only need a drop to enrich a life. And what am I doing? Sweeping the floor. Getting ready for the new girl. Back to where I started without the glittering future ahead of me. Of course it'll be my turn again. In the fullness of time. I won't remember but it'll come again. It all comes around. The maiden. The mother. And the bloody seaward. How does a cycle of lifetimes come around so quickly? When did it pass me by? And what about you, eh, Princey? I don't see you decreasing in value reduced to cleaning up.

No, you'll be a wise old king somewhere, swarthy and beardy and fawned over for your bestowed favours. I'll be a humble apple seller in the woods while you sit in comfort and riches surrounded by simpering sycophants. Who loves me best? Who loves me? You have a castle. You have these lands. You, not enough. Bargore off. Fool, fool, where is my capering fool? You, pratt about with a pig's bladder, eh, nonny? Dance for me and tell me I am marvellous while I chug this wine with all the grace of a warazaked ship. Oh, wacker. Who loved me for the favours I bestowed? Believe me, I bestowed plenty. It's all part of the gig.

But who loved me for them? Who loved me? Oh, of course I had the true love's kisses. Plenty of them. True love. Just a pretty way to describe a prince who needs to get his rocks off. Do you think any of them truly loved me? That was a blank slate. They scrolled their wants and needs on, until I looked like what they could love. They saw enough of themselves in me to wake me from whichever stupid spell I was under at the time. Actually, I do almost miss those days. Not the waking up thing, but the sleep was always nice. Rest will… I love labourache from the sparkly bullshit. Don't suppose I'll get a lot of that now. The sleep, all the sparkle. Double standards everywhere. A maiden sleeping for a hundred years

is beautiful, with a hint of tragedy. If I take a nap, I'm a lazy old woman. I'm sorry. I'm ranting a bit, aren't I? I don't mean to sound ungrateful, greatly. But my tongue's been stilled and bitten for so long. It's a relief just to speak. I've never been allowed to have a personality before. It's almost… nice. Personality juice. I suppose the benefit of being a… Oh, come on, come on, come on, come on. You can do this. You can say it. You can. A crone. If I can sing and speak and scream as much as I like, I've got no value now anyway. I can't appreciate any further. What am I good for now? Well, sweeping up, clearly.

Maybe I'll become a mad cackling old witch in the woods. Maybe I'll be eaten by wolves. I'm sure I've got some sweet granddaughter lying around to bring me a basket of something. Perhaps the maiden will find time. Oh, she'll be awfully busy, though. There'll be spinning wheels and stories and all those pretty parties. She'll be dancing. She'll be dancing. You'll fall eventually. One by one, like pawns in chess. I've watched them fall to swords or turn slowly to stone. Those are the bad tales. The dark stories. The ones we don't mention. I can remember when I didn't need this.

I remember having a personality of my own. My own little core. Not this mess. I remember fire and rage and indignation and impotence. There was a time when I thought I could control the stories, sway it to suit me, when I could pick up a sword and, with righteous fury, cut a path through the thorns to my own destiny. That time passed, as it all does. I found new weapons, though, in time. I tamped down the flames down to embers and I forged steel there. There were ways. In that slow burning I found ways. Ways to be. Ways to survive. Ways to get to the end. I learned. Shit, the things I learned. I learned to be smaller. Not to fight. Not to shout. Not to

complain. I learned what I was to them. I was not to be celebrated, but tolerated and necessary. I was everything, provided I could be nothing. I was a feast of dreams, of expectations. I was a delicious servant to the story. And those lessons warm the embers. I have swept the floors and I have danced in the ballrooms. I have been ripped apart and sewn together. I have served a thousand stories. I have been loved a thousand times. I have been laid on a banquet to satisfy prince after hero after prince and I have been nothing. Nothing to them but what they need from me. What they rip from me and take and take. What they use and discard and throw away until I am done. Finished. Sucked dry.

I withered crone in the forest alone. And if a feast is all I was to them, then they shall choke on me. Fucking hell. I sound a bit bitter, don't I? I'm not really. I'm fine. Honestly. Good luck to her. That's what I say. She'll need it. I'll set this place up as nice as I can. But after that she's on her own. I wish you're all the best, though. I really do. Really? And I'll be all right. There'll be a little hovel out in the dark woods somewhere. Nice little hovel. Not as nice as this, of course. But it'll be mine. No bloody windows for the birds to thud at. And I'll poison up some nice, shiny red apples.

A trait just to be on the safe side. Who knows? Maybe it'll all be different this time. That's it then. Time for me to go. Time for her. It's funny. My tongue's finally free and I don't know if anyone will listen to me. I don't know if they'll think I've got anything to say. I can speak, though. I can shout. I can scream. Oh, I can cackle. If I'm going to be a bloody crone, I'm going to be a bloody good one.