My Own Monologue

The style model I used was the Keately monologue we looked at in class.

Allison Gilbert is a working mother whose husband is having an affair. She sits alone in the playground of the school where she works, waiting to be picked up by her daughter.

ALLISON: We met at nursing school, he and I. (Pause.) We were both based in Southampton, within the same block of tiny, red brick flats. They were naff, those flats. The ceilings oozed black treacle and the carpets where lumpy and worn: the play areas of hidden rodents...I suppose we didn't really care at the time. We were students; free of our parents for the first time. (Pause. Subtle smile.) When I met him I thought he was gay, you know. He wore these tight leather trousers that left almost nothing to the imagination, and his hands - they moved in this ethereal, flowing way that reminded me of a ballet dancer. Imagine that! (Long pause. Smile Fades.) A year later we were engaged. He took me to Bath for the day and we walked through the city until we found a sweet little café that sold afternoon tea...Betty's Teapot, I think it was. (Thinking.) He went to fetch us some scones – a mountain of them – and came back balancing a little velvet box in the crook of his arm. (Pause. Looks down at feet.) I'm Mrs Gilbert now. (Quiet.) We were happy. He loved me. (Looks up. Weak smile.) I know that he still does – believe me, I know it...I don't think that you can bring three children into the world with someone and feel nothing for them. (Pause.) They're all grown up now. Our eldest, Dylan, is at university studying for his final year. He's training to become a paramedic, and we're all very proud of him. 'We're proud of you,' we say. And we are. (Pause.) It's quieter in the house now that the kids are starting to live their own separate lives. I remember when my husband and I would beg for silence...and now the absence of noise is what keeps me awake at night. (Thoughtful.) It's hard to converse with someone you've been talking to to for twenty five years, but we make it work. Find things to say. 'Nice weather, hey, Ally?' 'Beach weather I'd say, Nick.' 'Anything good for dinner?' 'Haven't got that far yet.' 'Oh right.' 'How was work?' 'The usual. Anything good on TV tonight?' (Long pause. Deep breath.) We've always been open with each other. Always. Truly, we have. It's just that nowadays it's much harder. And all the secrets...just seem so much easier. (Sighs.) He works shifts now, sometimes even nights. Goes out early, comes home late. But he comes home. That's the point, isn't it? He comes back to me, sleeps in my bed, kisses my damp cheek, tells me he loves me. He's there. (Pause. Honest smile.) Before the jobs, the kids, the mortgage – before the big white wedding that made our parents so happy – my husband would sing to me each morning. His voice was terrible. He couldn't hold a note to save his life, but nonetheless we would dance to his songs and he would hold me tight to him, caressing my back as though he'd never felt a silk so fine as my skin. (Silent.) I used to think that he would sing to me utnil the day that one of us died. (Struggling now.) But he doesn't sing any more; not to me. The silk of my skin has turned to coarse Hessian beneath his fingers. The silly nicknames that we came up with the day we moved in together...hang limply in the thin air between our smiles. (Long pause.) I loved him. I married him. I trusted him. I still do. Isn't that what I tell him everyday? I do, I do, I do...