Setting: A grand, empty hall in an old English government building. The polished floor gleams faintly in the moonlight streaming through tall windows. A portrait of the Queen hangs prominently on one wall. A lone janitor, wearing a worn uniform and wielding a mop, stands halfway through his nightly task.
(Lights up. The janitor, leaning heavily on his mop, mutters to himself as he works. His accent is rough, his tone jumping between anger, bitterness, and pained longing.)
JANITOR (voice trembling with resentment and weariness):
Bloody monarchy. Bunch o’ posh loafers livin’ off my taxes, innit? Here I am, moppin’ floors at midnight while they sit on golden thrones, eatin’ their fancy puddings, wearin’ crowns worth more than I’ll see in me whole bloody life! (He grips the mop handle tighter, knuckles whitening.) King and country? Bah—what a joke.
(He begins to mop vigorously, almost as if in combat with the floor.)
JANITOR (continuing, voice rising with frustration):
And how do they reward me? With scraps! A mop, a bucket, and me pride on the line every night. They’ve got their fine silks an’ medals, and I’ve got … (He lifts the mop handle) … this. Just wood and string, to scrub away scuffs and filth. Scuffs and filth—like me own anger that’s never seen the light o’ day ‘cept in these halls when no one’s watchin’.
(He slaps the mop into the bucket, wringing it out with force, his breath shaky.)
JANITOR:
Me old man fought in the war for England, lost half his hearing—and for what? For me to stand here, doin’ menial tasks in a grand hall, invisible to the lot of ‘em. And me dear mother—God rest her soul—always told me, “Hold your head high, Albert. Pride in your work.” (He sniffles, anger dissolving into the faint edges of sorrow.) Is this what she meant?
(He hunches over the mop, trying to catch his breath. After a tense pause, he shuffles to a new section of the floor. His anger flares again, hot and immediate.)
JANITOR (almost snarling):
I’d like to see ‘em do what I do—just one night! These royals, these blue-blooded aristocrats—scrub ‘til their backs scream, their knees turn to jelly. Maybe then they’d spare a thought for a poor sod like me. But no. They grin behind glass carriages, wave their lily-white hands, and pretend everyone’s happy.
(He mutters curses under his breath, mopping with renewed intensity. Then, as he glances up at the portrait of the Queen, a surprising tremor of remorse crosses his face. His shoulders slump.)
JANITOR (voice softer, more vulnerable):
It ain’t right to blame her, though, is it? She was born to that life, and I… (He runs a hand through his hair.) I was born to this one. But… (His eyes flicker with lingering resentment.) Shouldn’t she do more for the likes o’ me? Could she? Does she even know I exist?
(He notices how the newly mopped floor shines in the moonlight and draws in a deep, uneven breath. Anger and pride swirl in his chest, fighting for dominance.)
JANITOR:
Look at that sheen. (He steps back, the corners of his mouth curving almost unwillingly into a half-smile.) You can practically see the moonlight dance on it. Albert, you mad fool, you’ve done it again—just like you always do. Clean and gleamin’, like the diamond in the Crown Jewels.
(He sets the mop down carefully, rubbing the small of his back with a grimace—an old ache that never quite goes away.)
JANITOR (voice trembling with conflicted pride):
Why do I feel… a bit proud ‘bout this? It’s just a floor, innit? But it’s my floor. (He turns, gestures broadly across the empty expanse.) My work. No one else’s. I might be knackered, but… there’s a beauty here that I made with these two hands.
(He stares again at the portrait, frown deepening—but this time there’s uncertainty instead of fury.)
JANITOR:
I grumble, I curse, I rail against the monarchy… but part of me—(he taps his chest)—part of me still wants to do a job well done… for her, for them, for all of us. Ain’t that daft? After all the bitterness, all these years, I still can’t help but feel… loyal. A loyal old dog barkin’ at the shadows.
(His gaze flickers between the portrait and the immaculate floor, tears threatening to brim in his eyes as he fights between anger and unexpected admiration.)
JANITOR (resigned, but calmer now):
Guess I can’t shake it. King and country—maybe it’s not the royals themselves, maybe it’s somethin’ bigger. The spirit of it all. All the struggle, the sacrifice, the centuries of grit and endurance. (He chuckles lightly, tears in his eyes.) I suppose that’s what me old man fought for—so his son could stand here free to scowl at the monarchy… and still mop this floor as proud as any knight might wield a sword.
(He squares his shoulders, cricking his neck, and gives a final sweep of the mop across the glistening floor—deliberate, ceremonial.)
JANITOR (softly, but with steady resolve):
There you are, ma’am. Fit for a queen… and for England. (He looks up at the portrait one last time, a mix of lingering anger and blooming contentment.) You might not know my name, but this? This is me gift to the Crown—and to meself.
(He salutes the portrait with an air of cheekiness yet heartfelt respect. Then, grabbing his bucket and mop, he walks toward the exit. His voice echoes, rich with both lingering bitterness and a new flicker of fulfillment.)
(Lights dim. A faint glimmer of moonlight lingers on the spotless floor as the stage goes dark.)
