WINNIE

Our initial shock of seeing the extraordinary predicament of this aging woman is quickly followed by another when she cheerfully clings to the illusion that she 'can't complain … no no … mustn't complain … so much to be thankful for'.

Why is she buried? She never explains. There is nothing she can do about it other than try to remain oblivious of her condition. Ever sinking deeper into the earth, she does what she can and persuades herself that things are always 'no better - no worse - no change'.

Her every day is spent fussing over trivia, seeking distraction with the same old contents of her shopping bag: toothbrush, toothpaste, mirror, spectacles, handkerchief, parasol, medicine bottle, lipstick, hat, magnifying-glass, hairbrush, comb, nail file, musical-box and revolver. She is fixated on elaborate routines to create some tolerable order in her living and occupy the long hours: filing her nails, closely examining her teeth, combing her hair and wondering whether hair is singular or plural.

Her relentless, meandering prattle is much given to repetition, contradiction, banalities, clichés, half-forgotten literary allusions, questioning and questioning her questions. Being endlessly talkative counteracts the ominous silence that ever threatens to engulf:

Winnie: My hair! [Pause.] Did I brush and comb my hair? [Pause.] I may have done. [Pause.] Normally I do. [Pause.] There is so little one can do. [Pause.] One does it all. [Pause.] All one can. [Pause.] 'Tis only human. [Pause.] Human nature.

The silence of the void must be avoided at all costs: 'I can do no more. Say no more. But I must say more.' Being restricted to just facial mobility in the second act places even greater importance on her need to talk.

Her incessant chatter and bag business insulate her from consciously confronting the predicament of her existence. Habitual talk and stage business forestall 'the fear so great, certain days, of finding oneself … left, with hours still to run, before the bell for sleep, and nothing more to say, nothing more to do'. And as Vladimir recognised in 'Godot', 'habit is a great deadener.'

She is constantly interrupted in what she says and does, but perseveres in dismissing such difficulties with 'Oh well what does it matter?' Interruption frequently confuses her - 'What then? … What now? … What day?' - and leads eventually to the time when words almost fail her - '[Pause.] And now? [Pause.] And now, Willie? [Long pause.]'. Ultimately, she is silenced, but only her words fail; and the bell that 'hurts like a knife' ever prevents any respite.

To assure herself that she is not entirely alone in this world, she uses Willie as an audience 'just to know in theory you can hear me even though in fact you don't is all I need, just to feel you there within earshot'. Even when it seems that he may have died, she mentally resurrects him to preserve her own sanity and (disintegrating) peace of mind: 'it doesn't matter, you are there'. Contact with another human persuades and contents Winnie that she is still experiencing happy days.

Her constant dream is for Willie to come round where she can see him. In the event, she scoffs at him and takes refuge in letting her heart rule her head. Unaware of any malicious intent in Willie creeping towards her (and the revolver) at the end, her heart blithely wills her to sing on- 'It's true, it's true / You love me so!'

Being uncertain about when or if the present day will ever end, Winnie sees little option but to cling on to living. However, her waiting hopefully for 'the happy day to come when flesh melts at so many degrees' may be no guarantee of an end to her suffering. Being consumed by flames did not spell an end to the parasol. There is always the worry that 'There always remains something'.

Winnie, concluded Beckett, is 'an organised mess'.

WILLIE

In marked contrast to Winnie's monological monopoly, the henpecked Willie is comparatively little seen or heard, venturing just 52 words in total, a sixth of which are monosyllabic lines. Indeed, in the whole of Act 2 Willie utters only one, barely audible monosyllabic word.

He keeps himself conveniently out of Winnie's gaze, only occasionally surfacing from his tunnel. The 'bell' that disturbs his blissful sleep at the start is perhaps the splintering glass of the medicine bottle that Winnie tosses in his direction. His bald head appears, trickling with blood. Further blows await him from her parasol.

Any feeling he may once have held is scorned by her: 'Oh I know you were never one to talk, I worship you Winnie be mine, and then nothing from that day forth only titbits from Reynold's News.' His only interest now is to bury himself in an old newspaper or coarse picture postcards or underground.

Willie rarely responds to Winnie's interminable babbling, though often he is unbearably provoked. He functions mainly as something for her to talk at - being used as a supporting act by the old music-hall pro that Winnie is - for her own satisfaction: 'just to know that in theory you can hear me though in fact you don't is all I need.' She takes lines he feeds her, about the Rev. Dr Carolus Hunter or the 'wanted bright boy' for example, to excite her own private reminiscences of other men.

Billie Whitelaw, Beckett's favourite actress, played Winnie as 'needing someone else, if only to shout at. How many marriages do we know like that? And how many people?'

However, in the dying moments, Willie suddenly seizes the initiative. Does he finally crack and decide to end his life, or hers, with the revolver? Or does he come round to the front of her mound to fulfil her dream? Given human nature, ambiguity is the only ending that Beckett could possibly offer.