The Arbor

I've got loads, I've got loads of childhood memories,

but none of them are really good.

Erm, I don't think you remember the good stuff.

Being in the house,

Mum out in the pub,

or Mum comatosed in bed

and setting fire to the bedroom

to keep my brother and sister warm cos they was cold.

I can remember Lorraine setting the bedroom on fire.

And I were only young then. I were probably only about five.

But still to this day, if you talk about it to me aunties and stuff,

and they'll still say, "We don't know which one of yous it were."

And I'm like, "It weren't me!" Because I can actually remember it, to this day.

She were messing with matches and the mattress caught fire.

Back then you didn't have the double-glazing and stuff

that you get now.

The house was horrible;

no carpets, no central heating, locked in a room with no door handle.

And, erm...

...standing at the window shouting for help.

You know, because the fire had got out of control.

But I think, I think... I don't know, I think it were actually me.

But when we'd shut the bedroom door,

the handle fell off the door on the inside so we couldn't get back out.

So, there were only the handle on the outside.

But I think it were me that actually broke that

because I think I started unscrewing it with a knife or summat.

Just being mad kids.

My mum used to take the door handles off.

She'd check in the bedroom there was no knives or forks

because if you got a knife or fork you could put the handle in

to get out of the door.

And, erm, we never used to get out of the room

until Mum was up and she was ready

to sort of release us from our prison, if you like.

I can actually remember me mum when we lived at Edge End Gardens.

I can always remember her staying up late writing.

Well, now I know what it were,

but when we were kids, we never knew what she were doing.

But she used to stay up late and just write and write and write and write.

She'd have, like, A4 sheets of paper, just loads of them on the bed.

And then, cos I can remember Andrew once pulled 'em off her bed

and she had to re-sort them out and put them back in order.

I can just remember banging and banging and banging on the window,

trying to get out.

There were a woman that lived about two doors down

and she were a bus driver.

Well, it were her husband who got a ladder up to the back window

and got us out of the window.

I can remember me mum... Oh, she were going stir crazy.

It were... It were mad. That were mad, that were.

Mum was never a touchy feely person

and she didn't give us cuddles or tell us she loved us

and she didn't give us kisses.

We got clouts around the head and smacks all the time and shouted at,

that was it.

Erm, and regardless of what all my family seem to think,

the sexual abuse was from somebody they knew.

I don't know whether she didn't believe it

or she just didn't want to believe it,

but she still left me in a position where it got repeated again.

Can I forgive her?

If she was alive today, I'd have a lot to say to her.

One of the reasons I hated her was cos I couldn't tell her

exactly how I felt as a child and the way she brought me up.

Erm, so, no, I can't forgive her.

Andrea Dunbar is 18 years old.

When she was 15

she wrote a play set in Bradford, where she was brought up.

Through friends,

the play was sent to the Royal Court Theatre in London,

where it's now having a successful run in the theatre upstairs.

Max Stafford-Clark is directing the play, Andrea's first,

as part of the Young People's Theatre Festival.

Well, I'd just become Artistic Director of The Royal Court.

So I read the plays submitted to the Young Writers' Festival,

and one outstanding one was in fact

The Arbor, Andrea's first play, which was written in green ink,

on a school exercise book which had been... The pages had been ripped out.

I'm going to bed. I'll see you when I get in.

- Why won't you tell me who it is? - Because I don't want to.

- OK, it's your life. Do what you want. - Don't worry, I will.

But don't run to me when people start calling you.

I'm a big girl now. I can look after myself.

- Do what you want. - I will, don't worry.

So I met Andrea

and it was an extraordinary first interview with a writer,

who at that point was staying in a battered wives home in Keighley.

She'd never been out of Yorkshire before, never been in a theatre.

Nowadays, people want to face up with what's actually happening.

Cos it's actually what's said.

And you write what's said. You don't lie.

If you write about something that's happened, you're not gonna lie

and say, "It didn't happen," when it did all the time.

The Arbor by Andrea Dunbar.

As soon as you earn enough money you can get out.

Fuck off! You're the one that needs kicking out.

Get out of my sight before I kill you.

You hit me and I'll hit you back and you'll get it off David an' all.

He won't be able to hit me.

If you don't shut up you won't be here much longer.

- I'll go now, if you want. - Fuck off then.

No, you get out.

No, you won't, will you?

You know nobody'd have you cos you're no fucking good.

Oh, shut up.

She's more like me than not.

I wrote more or less about my feelings.

I called the play The Arbor

because the street I lived on

is called Brafferton Arbor.

It's always known as the Arbor

and a lot of these things actually happened on the street.

They used to have a pen thing in the middle.

That were full of glass.

There'd be people having bonfires on the field.

They did make you feel welcome though. They were friendly people, but...

It's like me Uncle Tony, he used to be one of the ones

that used to sit round the fire and have a drink

and they'd throw potatoes on it and stuff like that.

It were all mad.

Even I used to sit round fires with them when we were younger.

"Dear Max, I'm sending you the bit of writing I've done."

"It's not much, really."

"That's because I've had to take Lorraine out of the nursery."

"They moved her up to a class with other kids

and it upset her so much I had to take her out."

"Now I don't get much of a chance to write."

"But if I could, I'd like to come down to London so I can get most of it done."

"I could leave Lisa at my mother's

and I could always bring one of my younger sisters to watch Lorraine,

while I write. Let me know what you think."

"I would really like to get it done. Andrea."

The Arbor. Act 1, Scene 6.

Hurry up, it's the police.

Stop the car. I want to get out.

Don't look round at them. Just act normal.

I want to get out. Tell 'em, Billy, to stop.

Do you want them to catch you?

When we get round this corner, jump out.

I'm not, I'm pregnant.

No, she's not. And you'd better not be, either.

Tell him to slow down a bit.

I can't, they're catching us.

Slow down, please.

I'm gonna try to pull up. Get ready to jump.

They pull up and the girl is left in the car, which rolls into a snicket.

The policeman comes up to the girl.

- Right, come on, get out. - Don't talk bloody silly.

How can I get out when the car door is jammed in the lamp-post?

Well, get out this side then. And hurry up, I haven't got all night.

Give me a fucking chance, will you, man?

- What's your name? - Why?

- Because I want to know. - I dunno.

You mean you're not gonna tell me?

Give me a minute, it'll come back to me.

- Are you trying to be funny? - No.

- So what's your name? - I think it's Andrea.

- What do you mean you think? - Alright, alright. It's Andrea Dunbar.

- Right, and where do you live? - Up there.

- Up where? - Up there on the Arbor.

- Right, well, get in that car. - What for?

Because I said so, that's why.

It was notorious.

It was known as the toughest estate in, you know, in Bradford.

Buttershaw, and then the Arbor was the toughest street.

But not any more. Look at it now.

"Dear Max, here are some re-writes and a scene of me and Yousaf."

"Hope you like it."

"I think it's better talking to each other on the way

rather than in the house. Hope it doesn't matter."

"But I like it better. Will send you some more this week."

I wish I could have gone to school. I've never been.

Look at me now, I can't read, I can't write

and I can't get a job because of it.

I've got to work in textiles so I don't do any kind of writing.

People laugh at you when you say you can't read or write.

Ask 'em what they're laughing at.

They don't realise you come from a poor country.

They don't know what poor means over here.

In Pakistan, you can't say you're going on social security

or going to scratch on. They haven't got such places.

Will you carry these bags for me? They're heavy.

Act 2, Scene 2.

The girl's brother, aged 11 years, has just been killed in a car accident.

The father has already got over it

but the rest of the family are still upset.

The father's drunk. They're all sat watching TV.

I can't get over it, Mother. I'll kill that bastard that killed my brother.

Stop going on about it. He's dead, it won't bring him back.

Shut up, Dad. Don't argue with him, you know what'll happen.

David, you're upsetting your mother.

I'll thump that bastard in a minute. His son's dead and he ain't bothered.

What kind of a father is that? Can you tell me?

Take no notice. You know what he's like.

Will you all just shut your fucking mouths now? I've heard enough.

Enough!

Well, he's dead. Dead, do you hear that?

Can't you get it through your bastard head?

You know what'll happen if you talk like this.