A father waits for the son who is coming home today — as he does every day. A mother, alone, remembers. And the boy never comes.
A quiet, devastating one-act play about love, memory, and the stories we tell ourselves to survive.
Fred sits in his chair and waits. Today is the day — his son John is coming home at last. He'll arrive by train, walk up from the station with his suitcase, strong and smart as ever. Fred will have the tea ready. He has John's things kept safe in a trunk, just as he likes them. He waits, as he does every day.
On the other side of the stage sits Edith — John's mother, Fred's wife — now entirely alone. She remembers the mornings the two of them made tea together, the holiday at the sea, the dancing. She remembers everything. And she carries a guilt she cannot set down.
The two never speak to one another, never even look across. Yet their words drift and echo and braid together until the same memories rise from both sides of the stage at once — and the audience slowly understands the shape of what has been lost. Waiting for John is a study of grief and devotion that earns its tears honestly, and lands its final moment like a held breath finally let go.
Two chairs. A shelf divides the stage. Fred is lit; Edith sits in shadow, then slowly into light. They never acknowledge one another.
An extract — the full text is available to read and perform
Waiting for John is available to read and to license for performance. Theatre groups, drama festivals, schools, and producers are warmly invited to get in touch — Spencer replies personally to every enquiry, and is glad to talk through the play with directors.
Enquire about licensing