I wonder what kind of spit mine will be. Long and globulus. Like a stalagmite melting out of deep sleep. Or phlegmy and bronchial and green. Like the sputum of a tubercular warthog.
Sister Ina Marsh of Ballymun, Dublin, has died. Frances Shea decides to catch a plane from London Heathrow in order to spit on Ina’s grave. It is an act of revenge long overdue. Sister Ina Marsh, after all, is the woman who left Frances’ then teenaged grandmother high, dry and without so much as a friend in Jesus. And Frances’ grandmother, after all, has curious and inconvenient ways of making her presence felt.
This darkly humorous piece tracks one woman’s saliva-fuelled odyssey to rectify the wrongs of history, whilst bringing both Franceses, young and old, to life. It is a work which deals with family, thwarted journeys, and whether doing the right thing is ever as right as intended.