PLAYS OF THE YEAR
Volume 10
1953-54
PLAYS OF THE
YEAR
CHOSEN BY
J. C. TREWIN
THE PRISONER
Bridget Bo/and
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
Moliere, adapted by Miles Malkson
MEET A BODY
Frank Launder and Sidney Gilliat
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
ILonald Millar
BOTH ENDS MEET
Arthur Macrae
VOLUME 10
1953-54
Copyright 1954 by
PLAYS OF THE YEAR COMPANY
AND ELEK BOOKS LTD.
14 Great James Street, London W.C.i.
Printed in Great Britain by Page 'Bros. (Norwich} Ltd.
All plays included in this volume are fully protected
by British and United States copyright, and may
neither be reproduced nor performed., in whole or in
party without written permission.
THE PRISONER
Copyright 1954 by Bridget Bo land
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
Copyright 1954 by Miles Malleson
MEET A BODY
Copyright 1954 by Frank Launder and Sidney Gilliat
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
Copyright 1954 by Ronald Millar
BOTH ENDS MEET
Copyright 1954 by Arthur Macrae
. '^ '"» "
'• r *v
INTRODUCTION
page 7
THE PRISONER
page 17
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
page 109
MEET A BODY
page 223
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
page 339
BOTH ENDS MEET
page 425
FOE. WENDY
Who Appreciates
INTRODUCTION
Qme more this is a collection of recent plays almost
fantastically diverse in subject. One is a comedy about
income tax; another is a sharp study of mental torture; a
third is a new version of a Molilre comedy by one of the
most distinguished English actors of his time; and the fourth
and fifth are^ respectively^ a comedy-drama with a body in
the piano >, and a highly competent straight play that derives
from a novel.
The action of THE PRISONER passes at the present
day in a mediaeval castle that has become a prison, There
are two settings., the Interrogation HLoom and the prisoner's
celL Ingeniously and economically, they were shown in
"London in a double set. The producer — or director as ive
must say now — might, I think, have considered the lines of
sight. There -were one or two expensive seats in the theatre
from which it was impossible to see some of the action in the
cell. But that is by the way: I mention it because certain
'London theatres have seats — especially in the dress-circle —
that should be marked with a black cross on any box-office
plan.
Still, this is nothing to do with Bridget Roland's
chilling play: one — though not everybody realised it at the
time— for three voices only: those of the Prisoner., the
Interrogator, and the Warder. The Prisoner is a Roman
Catholic Cardinal cc with considerable pride of bearing ".
The inquisitor has " a genuinely pleasant manner ". So,
at least, we meet them at the beginning of a play which
shows how a man can be destroyed by psychiatric interroga
tion. The Cardinal., once a hero of the Resistance ', must be
softened. Another resistance must be worn down; he must
be made to say whatever the Government wishes. His
inquisitor practises a dangerous trade. 'Listening, I
remembered those lines on one " who slew the slayer, and
shall himself be slain ".
George Orwell (in his Nineteen-Eighty-Four mood)
might have appreciated the craft of THE PRISONER.
Here the questioner's weapon is the voice, that unceasing
voice with its tormenting catechism, on, on, through the
days and nights. It is, in effect, a water-drip torture.
Select jour place, jour sore spot, however small; concentrate
upon it unremittingly, and sooner or later your strong-man
victim must gibber. Everyone has some hidden fear; once
it is revealed, the end approaches. When I met the play I
yielded sooner than the Cardinal. After about an hour
there was little I would not have confessed. The play is a
document in the madness of the world: as presented at
the Globe by Alec Guinness, as the Cardinal who finds
gau^e after protective gau^e stripped away from his
mind, and by Noel Willman, as the interrogator who
destroys his own nerve, it was a lesson in the player's craft.
I remember, too, Wilfrid Lawsorfs bold, chuckling
flourish as an earthy, condemned-cell warder far larger than
life. Miss Boland hits him off in a phrase. He has " the
robust manner that goes with a mind untroubled by thought ".
The most terrifying speech in the play is simply this,
the Interrogator's:
Thafs the way if only we can find it — the human
weakness, the chink in the plate armour. You've told me
the strength of jour defences — we should save more of the
small hours of these long nights, my dear Cardinal, if
you would help me to the weakness, 'Plate armour. It
zsfff even that, you know. Ifs cbain mail, a clattering
skin of linked weaknesses, all holes just twisted to
gether. Ifs the using of flails and battle-axes thafs a
mistake. The fine point* s whafs needed. Not even a
rapier. A. bodkin. Thafs why the women win. . . .
THE PRISONER is, alas, acutely a play of our time.
II
I wonder very much what future ages will make of
another play of our time, Arthur Macrae* s farcical comedy ,
BOTH ENDS MEET. Will the subject be current, say
a century on, or will playgoers have long ceased to laugh at it?
It may be then, of course, a theme for tragedy: dramatists
may write of tax inspectors with a real and agonised
fervour. Thalia will have yielded to Melpomene.
On the afternoon before the London premiere, I saw
Valentine about to extract Cramptotfs teeth in You
Never Can Tell. Shaw unkindly dropped the curtain too
soon on the best first act ever set in a dental surgery. I
thought of this at night when Mr. Macrae devoted the whole
of his comedy to a single-minded discussion of official den
tistry as practised by the Commissioners of Inland Revenue.
A.t present this is accepted as a matter for wry jesting.
We laugh grimly at ourselves while the teeth are drawn, and
delight to pretend that the average tax inspector is a kind
of Front-de-Boeuf: " Tell down thy ransom, and rejoice
that at such rates thou canst redeem theefrom a dungeon, the
secrets of which few have returned to tell" Theoretical tax
evasion is a kind of parlour game. How to make a happy
return? How far can one get before the dragon pounces?
I am sure that these dragons are the mildest sort of
people. True, I dorft know my own tax collector, though
we have had some absorbing, if guarded, correspondence.
Having heard the revelation in BOTH ENDS MEET,
I can guess what he is like (if he is at all typical): a
haunted man who hates to use the red-hot tongs, and who
moans as he searches for the drill. You might say that,
like the Walrus, with sobs and tears he is sorting out those
of the largest si%e. This tax collection is a tricky business,
Nobody enjoys a public admission that he spends his life
skinning his neighbours. Hence the touching embarrassment
of Arthur Macrae* s Mr. Wilson as he serves a writ.
Hence., too, a young man's desire to call himself an " ac
countant " instead of a tax official— a cowardly move that
forces him to hear, against his will, the methods of tax
evasion favoured (in theory and practice) by his potential
fiancte* s guardian, and by a very knowing solicitor.
I had hoped we might see some senior official. Mr.
Macrae could have had his fun with those dogmatic docu
ments^ those minatory final Demands. The pleasure is
denied. All the other ee buff-envelope boys " are off-stage.
We are left with the taxpayers as they tax their brains —
both in seeking how not to pay, and then in trying to
recover when they have said too much, given themselves away
before Authority.
There is no secondary theme. We cannot enter the
" bays and backwaters " that, as Mr. Masefield has said,
are often the most delightful parts of a narrative. All is
confined to this matter of tax — and absorbing it is. I
came from the theatre with plenty of ideas, though I cannot
very well re-marry my wife in a bucking collier in the North
Sea. (Besides I am at sea, in two senses about this.) I
sympathise with Maggie:
I am a woman. I want to be married in Church,
wearing white. You say., No. Because of the laws, thafs
to be given up. You are not going to wait in a morning
coat for me to come down the aisle in white satin. No!
In a coaling ship, somewhere offClacton-on-Sea,you and
I are to be brought before the Captain on stretchers. . . .
TOM: Why on stretchers'?
MAGGIE: Because we9 re in the North Sea and are
both,, if you remember, very poor sailors. There, in front
of the Captain, we two — miserable, sea-sick, and pre
sumably covered in coal-dust — are to be united forever in
a furtive secrecy unmatched since the marriage of Mary
10
Queen of Scots and 'Lord Darn ley. . . . No! You
can forget that. No!
At the first-night interval I began to wonder whether
Mr. Macrae could keep it up. He appeared to have said
everything that could he said, used all his ammunition.
Then, quite suddenly ', he trained upon us the fire of his
big guns: Miles Malleson and Alan Webb, a pair of
veterans who in their day had heard the Parisian chimes at
midnight. (I had at first a wild hope that they might
prove to be two of the Commissioners of Inland Revenue in
person?) Always I have held that Mr. Malleson is the
best living Shakespearean comedian; and he can he un
commonly funny in modern dress. In BOTH ENDS MEET
he arrived in a huff-and-a-puff and a cheerful apoplectic
frea^j as a 'Blimp ivith a past and., maybey a future.
Alan Webb, more of a foreign Office type, joined him
gloriously in remembering both the pranks in a bygone
Paris — what whee^ings^ and what recriminations I — and
also certain little matters of a later day that no doubt
would excite the Commissioners, thanks to this pair,
the fiscal comedy — directed by Peter Brook — kicked up its
heels until the last. As the text will show, it does not
try to overreach itself: it gets all the fun it can from its
situation, and then stops.
from the Apollo production I remember also Mr.
Macrae himself; Brenda 'Bruce, who can put a whole
Bodleian in a look, and who delivers a series of orations by
twitching an eyelid now and then or slightly pursing her
mouth; and Cyril Raymond, as a comfortably Anglo-
Saxon solicitor, endeavouring with elephantine coyness to
explain his revelations as so much fantasy — the vapourings
of a mind given to that sort of thing, exaggeration bred,
no doubt, of his 'Latin blood.
Ill
And now Mr. Malleson himself— continuing his
partnership with Moliere. THE SCHOOL FOR
WIVES (L'Ecole des Femmes) is the fourth of these
ii
free, but now definitive^ theatre-versions that we have had
the pleasure of printing in this series. Mo Here, I am sure,,
would have appreciated Malleson. The latest version — it
was produced at the Bristol Old Vic — has the quality I
noted in The Miser: " In its suppleness and vivacity it
makes others seem buckram-stiff"
The verse comedy was produced in 1662, when Mo Here
was forty He has had to endure much in 'English dress.
Let me (as I have done before) borrow a few speeches from
Baker and Miller \ whose 1739 ~Prose translation has been
said, oddly, to have "more of the spirit of the original"
than anything more modern could give. Here are Arnolphe
and Chrysalde in the first scene:
CHRYSALDE: . . . Would you have me open my heart
to you as a friend? Your design makes me tremble with
fear for you, and what way soever you consider the matter ',
to marry is in you a very great piece of rashness.
ARNOLPHE: My friend., that's true. 'Perhaps you find
reason at home to be apprehensive for me. Your own
brows make you imagine, I suppose, that horns are
everywhere the infallible appurtenances of matrimony.
CHRYSALDE: Those are accidents nobody is secure
against, and the care people take on that account seems
to me to be exceeding foolish. But when Tm afraid for
you, ifs because o' that raillery which a hundred hus
bands have endured the sting of. For in short you're
sensible that neither high nor tow have been exempted
from your reflections. . . .
And here is Horace in Molttrfs fifth act:
. . . They went away very much terrified; and as I
was considering bow to get off, young Agnes, whom my
pretended death had frighted, came to me in great concern.
(For she had heard what the people said to one another, and
being less observed during all this bustle, she easily
slipped out of the house?) But finding I was not hurt,
she appeared in a transport hardly to be expressed.
What shall I say more fye? At last this charming
creature has followed the dictates of her love, and being
12
unwilling to go home any more, has committed herself
entirely to my trust. You may find a little, by this*
harmless proceeding, how much the gross impertinence-
of a fool exposes her, and what a dreadful risk she*
might have run had I a less sincere regard for her.
And now, with relief which you will share, I commend yow
to Malleson. One day I hope n>e may see his versions
(which are appreciated in France) presented in West End
repertory, with their author himself in the cast.
IV
No play staged in August 1940 could he on top of the
world. One of the 'London productions during that ominous
month was a " comedy-thriller " by Frank Launder and
Sidney Gilliat, called The Body Was Well Nourished.
// went on at the Lyric, and, inevitably, came off within a
few weeks when the London theatres had to shut down
during the blit^. But it was too good a specimen of its kind
to be forgotten. Fourteen years later, in a new version
called MEET A BODY and described, rightly, as an
improbable adventure, it arrived at the Duke of York's with
Brian JLeece at the head of the cast, the discoverer of a body
in a grand piano. Let me add what I wrote about it that
summer night:
" The scene is St. John's Wood. Up there in N.W.%
one seldom finds more than a couple of corpses in a grand
piano during an average week. Mr. Reece, as a stranger,
was naturally surprised. He was still more surprised, a
little later, when the corpse tottered in to see him. Now,
when Mr. Reece is surprised, odd things happen. He
seems to open out like a telescope, just as Alice did when
she had eaten the cake. As he grows before us, we can
almost hear him saying, " Good-bye, feet 7" On the heights
his eyelids ftvitch in anguish. His mouth is compressed.
He performs a variety of ballet movements. We feel,
watching him, that if any more bodies get into any more
pianos in St. John's Wood or elsewhere — or, for that
matter, if anybody surprises Mr. Reece again in the-
13
slightest fashion — the Duke of York's Theatre will have
to get a new roof.
" The play in n'hich these things occur is by Frank
Launder and Sidney Gilliat. In the third act a bomb will
very probably explode in a radio set at the side of a bar-
parlour: that of the Green Man at Newcliffe — on the
South Coast, I believe. Do not ask why the student of old
clocks wants to blow up the Member of Parliament. In fact,
if you are wise, do not ask anything, but take the play as it
comes. Watch Mr. Reece as he demonstrates with mag
nificent nonchalance a vacuum-cleaner about which he knows
less than ive do, or else gibbers at the sight of pools of blood
and stray corpses. He appears to be saying, c How is*t
with me when every noise appals me! 9 and the more he is
appalled the better we like it"
Mr. JLeece would agree that the authors provided the
right brand of text for his personality; and it is a text that
now reads well. A.S an American Professor said to me,
it is " kinda dear ".
V
In the year 1951 Nigel Balchin published a novel called
A Way Through the Wood. It was supposed to be
written in the first person, by one of its principal characters,
James Manning, who said, in a preface:
" In the middle of the way of life, I found myself in a
dark wood."
This is the only way in which I resemble Dante. No
one looks at me as I pass and whispers, c There is the
man who was in He//.' If they say anything it is, ' Old
Jim Manning's had a rough time lately? And they dotft
say it with am. Very properly. For there is nothing
awe-inspiring about a personal mess. It is a thing for
the sensible man to forget, rather than to try to re
member.
But though it is all over now I am^ still desperately
confused; and I am tired of confusion. There is still a
great deal about the whole business that I dotft under
stand, and it is very important to me that I should under
stand it; for not to do so is not to understand people —
how they mil think and feel and act. Until this happened,
I thought I understood people tolerably well. Now I am
in the dark wood, in which it seems that anything might
happen. ..."
In his play, WATTING FOR. GILLIAN, another
treatment of the theme of Mr. Balcbitfs novel., Donald
Millar showed how Manning and his wife passed through
the dark wood. The play was summarised at the time of
its St. James's production: " Incompetent wife snarled up
with impeccable husband and little cad who has the prefix
( Honourable '. A motor accident complicates further"
This is a sincere and theatrically ingenious drama. The
way in which Mr. Millar works it out must have surprised
those who had read the book and who thought they knew
what to expect.
J. C. T&EWIN
Hampstead>
October, 1954
I am grateful to The Illustrated London News and
The Sketch for permission to quote.
THE PRISONER
by
BRIDGET BOLAND
Copyright 1954 by Bridget Roland
Applications for the performance of this play must be
made to Christopher Mann Management Ltd., 140 Park
Lane, London W.\. No performance may take place
unless a licence has been obtained.
On April i4th, 1954, by arrangement with Peter
Glenville, Tennent Productions Ltd. presented the
play at the Globe Theatre, London, with the
following cast:
THE INTERROGATION ROOM WARDER
Colin Douglas
THE PRISONER Alec Guinness
THE INTERROGATOR No&lWillmatl
THE SECRETARY Timothy Findky
THE CELL WARDER Wilfrid LeWSOn
THE DOCTOR Kenneth Edwards
THE BARBER John Gill
A WARDER Richard Easton
AN OLD WOMAN Lilian Moubrey
Directed by Peter Glenville
Setting by Felix Labisse
Technical Adviser to Felix Labisse : Michael Northen
Incidental music composed by Roberto Gerhatd
CHARACTERS
THE PRISONER
THE INTERROGATOR
THE WARDER
A SECRETARY
A DOCTOR
A BARBER . none of whom speaks
WARDERS
AN OLD WOMAN
SYNOPSIS OF SCENES
ACT ONE
SCENE i. The interrogation room of a continental prison
SCENE 2. The prisoner's cell
SCENE 3. The interrogation room
SCENE 4. The cell
SCENE 5 . The interrogation room
ACT TWO
SCENE i. The cell
SCENE i. The interrogation room
SCENE 3. The interrogation room
ACT THREE
SCENE i. The cell
SCENE 2. The cell
Time: The Present
ACT ONE
Scene i
Scene: The interrogation room of a continental prison*
The set suggests a cell, furnished only with essentials.
There is an impression of a barred window, through which
at present daylight streams, and two desks, with a swivel
chair for the prisoner in front of the main one. There is a
telephone on the extra desk and a typewriter, and an old
fashioned house telephone on one wall. There is a steel filing
cabinet and a row of extra chairs. Throughout, whether
daylight is indicated or not, a practical overhead light
shines over the prisoner's chair.
The door is opened by the Warder, a man of uninteresting
appearance, with one starting characteristic: a loud and
unpleasant sniff, which punctuates the succeeding scenes at
inappropriate intervals. He looks round the room, goes
into the passage again, jerks his head beckoningly. There
passes him into the room the Prisoner, a man of middle
age, in the cassock of a Rowan Catholic Cardinal. He
has considerable pride of bearing. He looks about him and
smiles wryly.
The Warder sniffs heartily and goes out, closing the door.
The Prisoner feels the chair before the desk, as the lodger
feels his bedsprings, and sighs. He looks up at the over
head light, finds the switch and turns it over with a grin. He
stands quite still for a moment listening, then turns to face
the door. It is opened by the Warder, who stands back
to let the Interrogator pass. The latter is much the same
age as the Prisoner, with a genuinely pleasant manner.
He is followed by his Secretary, a bustling, important little
man. The Prisoner looks mildly surprised at the identity
of the Interrogator.
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE
INTERROGATOR: My dear Cardinal! Fantastic, isn't
it, after all these years ? How are you ?
[He holds out his hand. The Prisoner hesitates, and then
takes it.]
PRISONER : Very well — at the moment.
[The Warder has just noticed the light. With a shocked
cluck he turns the switch off again.]
INTERROGATOR (to Warder)-. All right. All right.
(To Prisoner.) Been here before, eh ?
PRISONER : Near enough.
INTERROGATOR: Ludicrous, aren't they? Still using
electricity for all it's worth, as though nothing had
been invented since. (To Warder.) All right, all
right. (He gestures him out.)
\The Warder goes •, closing the door]
Do sit down, won't you ?
{The Prisoner remains standing. The Secretary r, with much
important jangling of keys, is unlocking one of the filing
cabinets.]
What's all that about? Oh, for heaven's sake,
Stephen, we don't need any more bumf.
[The Secretary transfers his attention to the arrangement
on the desk of the papers he has brought with him. When
ever he can do so unobtrusively he stares with fascination at
the Prisoner, who once catches him at it and born.]
It's not going to take us long to straighten this out.
I can't think why the authorities didn't simply
arrange for you to come up to my office at the
Ministry of Justice — or I could have slipped over to
the Cathedral some time. Still a bit new to power,
22
THE PRISONER
you know, and inclined to use a battering ram when
a door-knocker would do. All right, Stephen, I
shan't need any of that, you know. (To Prisoner.}
You've been out of town, though, recently, haven't
you?
PRISONER: To Rome. With a return ticket.
INTERROGATOR : You flew though.
PRISONER: It's quicker — both ways.
INTERROGATOR: But aeroplanes do worry them so, at
the Ministry of the Interior. We progressive govern
ments are inclined to distrust the march of science —
like any other march, unless we are issuing banners.
Thank you, Stephen. I'll use the house 'phone if I
need you.
[The Secretary goes, remembering halfway that he hasn't
locked the filing cabinet y and coming back with a jingle of
keys to do so.]
(To Prisoner. .) Cigarette ?
PRISONER (laughing) : Thank you — no.
INTERROGATOR: Given it up? I keep trying to.
PRISONER: If I might smoke my own — while they
last?
INTERROGATOR : Oh, now I do resent that. Drugged
cigarettes already? You don't give me much credit
for the art of conversation.
PRISONER: On the contrary, I remember you as a
young barrister conducting some of the most
brilliant cross-examinations I've ever heard. When I
was studying voice-production for the pulpit, the
ecclesiastical authorities thought the law courts less
disedifying than the theatre. That was in the days
when cross-examinations were held in public, of
course. Nowadays I — smoke my own.
INTERROGATOR: Goodbye, Stephen.
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE
[The Secretary goes out. The Interrogator lights both
cigarettes.}
Now look here, Eminence, stop treating me as a
police inspector, and relax.
PRISONER: You can hardly blame me, under the
circumstances.
INTERROGATOR: I've told the Powers that Be that
your arrest is the worst gaffe they've made yet. You're
a national monument. " Please do not deface."
. PRISONER: Please, do not deface.
INTERROGATOR: I'm sorry. This is humiliating for
you and it's shaming for me. You're not just a
national figure. Since the war, since all your work for
the Resistance under the Occupation, you've been a
man to every man of us. I have, if you'll allow me to
say so, a deep personal respect for you — combined,
of course, with a fanatical loathing of what, for some
reason, is always called your cloth! Come now —
PRISONER: Well, I'm in your hands.
INTERROGATOR : Let's get down to it. (He opens a file
on 'the desk, and turns pages.) Official blather — higher
official blather — " eyes grey, hair thinning."
PRISONER: I also have a tonsure.
INTERROGATOR : Born here in the capital — were you ?
I never knew that.
PRISONER: Just off the fish market.
INTERROGATOR: Local boy makes good. I'd have
said a country town, a lawyer's or a doctor's son.
PRISONER: I could have told you more about
yourself. We had the acreage of your father's estate
in your service dossier, in the Resistance. Arable,
pasture, and forest. Fishing too — but a long way from
fish markets. A noble inheritance.
INTERROGATOR : Heavens, don't tell the Government.
You'll get me the sack. " War record — see separate
24
THE PRISONER
file." A file to itself. There aren't many of us who'd
need that.
PRISONER : You did well enough, in your district.
INTERROGATOR : Do you ever regret those days ?
PRISONER : Among the wars, I prefer those in which
one is on the same side as one's fellow countrymen.
INTERROGATOR: Ah, here it is. (He looks over a
paper in silence for a moment?) I'm sorry. Do sit down.
\The Prisoner leans on the chair or on the spare desk, but
remains standing.'}
(Still among the papers.) I see you issued a statement
to be published if you weren't back at the Cathedral
within five hours, that any information you gave or
confession you made would be the result of drugs or
torture, and was not to be credited.
PRISONER: "The result of human weakness" was
what I said.
INTERROGATOR: Have you a human weakness?
Well., I don't suppose you object to answering how
many ordained priests there are in the country ?
PRISONER: Certainly not. Roughly four thousand
odd.
INTERROGATOR : Granted most of the population was
Catholic in the past, what about remaining members
of recognised Catholic Societies and organisations ?
PRISONER: Why not look it up in the directory?
INTERROGATOR: Why not, indeed?
[The Interrogator sits casually on the edge of his desk to
write the answers, leaning over with his back to the
Prisoner.]
PRISONER: Counting the League of Decency and the
Mothers' Unions ?
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE
INTERROGATOR: Oh, definitely, I should say.
PRISONER: Divide the Catholic population by four,
and then divide by three again, because they're all
the same ladies wearing different hats, multiply by —
call it eighteen thousand.
INTERROGATOR: Twenty?
PRISONER : It's a rounder figure.
INTERROGATOR i Members of underground Catholic
Societies and organisations. (After a pause.) That's
what it says.
\Thej both
Yes, they're a bit premature with that one. Members
of the Christian Workers Trade Organisations ?
PRISONER: Offhand, a hundred and fifty-eight thou
sand. Disbanded. Suppressed — remember?
INTERROGATOR: So I'd heard. Propaganda centres,
anti-government ?
PRISONER: None. No, wait — how many pulpits have
we?
INTERROGATOR (making a note) : That seems to be that
lot.
PRISONER: Well, the last one was a gift, the booby
prize. (Not at all sorry.) Forgive me, that was un
kind.
INTERROGATOR : Your Eminence -
PRISONER: I know. This is more awkward for you
than it is for me.
INTERROGATOR: Hardly that, I suppose.
PRISONER : Oh, I don't know, in spite of your political
creed it's you who are the gentleman. Degrees as a
lawyer and a doctor, born a gentleman, of an
ancient house. No tides nowadays, of course, but
yours was a noble line.
INTERROGATOR: You're a Prince of the Church,
aren't you?
26
THE PRISONER
PRISONER: A temporal, practically a diplomatic
appointment. We think more highly of the spiritual
grades I have never achieved. Look, don't think I
don't enjoy fencing with you, but your masters are in
a hurry, I fancy. People who are going to make
heaven on earth always are, so hadn't we better come
to the point?
INTERROGATOR: A man attacking a fortress tries to
get a plan of the defences.
PRISONER: My dear sir, you should have asked for it!
I am reasonably acute, my mind works fast, if not
very deeply, I am tenacious, wary, proud, and have
few of the finer feelings.
INTERROGATOR: Proud?
PRISONER : Quite sinfully — of my record in dealings
with your predecessors, the Gestapo. I am difficult
to trap, impossible to persuade, and even more im
possible to appeal to. Also, I've been here or here
abouts before, and I know the ropes. I am, besides,
tolerably inured to physical pain.
\Tbe Interrogator looks at him for a moment^ and then
goes to the house 'phone on the wa/L]
INTERROGATOR: Three one . . . Stephen, bring me
down the completed confession, will you? (He
hangs up and turns back.)
PRISONER: Already?
INTERROGATOR: You might care to hear it. I don't
think it a very good one, myself, but it'll give us some
sort of agenda to work from.
PRISONER: The State isn't fussy about just what we
say I've done ?
INTERROGATOR: Cards on the table ? No.
PRISONER: There's no particular plot, counter-revo
lution, or underground movement that they're
anxious to unmask?
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE
INTERROGATOR: Not unless you happen to know of
one — in particular.
PRISONER: They believe us harmless, but require us
discredited. And the point of arresting me?
INTERROGATOR: To — deface the national monument.
We can no longer afford you at home or abroad, for
your own followers or foreign journalists to watch
and quote.
PRISONER : I am not, you know, beloved. I am not a
likeable man.
INTERROGATOR: No. In an odd way, that's the
point. It's not the personality of a demagogue we're
up against, it's the record of a hero. That's what we
have to destroy. You see, I take you at your own
valuation, and show you my hand from the start.
PRISONER: Oh you're wise to skip the preliminary
skirmishing.
INTERROGATOR : It might have been amusing, if we'd
had time* What a pity you're on the wrong side.
PRISONER: Tell me, you yourself, can you admit no
possibility of good on — the other side ?
INTERROGATOR (with complete honesty) : No. Very little
good on either, but on your side not even right. And
we can't allow you the right to be wrong.
PRISONER: Ah. That's the root of it.
INTERROGATOR: Don't tell me your side aren't the
same in the parts of the world where they're on top.
[The door is opened by the Warder., and the Secretary brings
in a thick sheet of typescript. Both he and the Warder stare
with startled interest at the Prisoner. ~\
I expect this will have fluttered the dovecotes. You
wouldn't care to sign it right away, and really shake
them? You know, you might just as well.
PRISONER: Fd love to read it first, if I may.
INTERROGATOR: Thank you, Stephen.
28
THE PRISONER
[He gestures to him to hand the typescript to the Prisoner
and he does so, though clearly shocked by the break from
routine.]
I know, I know, it's not even supposed to exist yet.
We're just starting at the wrong end, that's all, in
order to save time.
[The Interrogator sits down. The Secretary is about to
remove the papers he placed earlier.]
No, no — I may need those. Run along. And,
Stephen, I shall want you to stand by tonight.
\The Prisoner looks up quickly with a wry smile. The
Warder, who has stood through this interchange, sniffs
mournfully and holds the door open— for the Secretary to go
out — closes it and puts a chair against the wall by it on
which he sits, composing himself for a long session]
Sit down, your Eminence.
[At his tone, the Prisoner obeys with a little bow of
formality. Their official relationship is established]
Curtain
Scene 2
Scene: The Prisoner's celL
Time: Night.
There is a chair, table and bench, but no bed. There is a
high, barred window and an overhead practical light which
is always on.
ACT ONE, SCENE TWO
The Prisoner is kneeling as the curtain rises. He is
muttering, giving an air of prayer without piety. (It is
for this effect that the formality of the "Latin is suggested,
though not essential}.
PRISONER: <e. . . . May He not slumber that keepeth
thee. Behold He shall neither slumber nor sleep that
keepeth Israel. The Lord is thy keeper, the Lord
is thy protection upon thy right hand. Save us, O
Lord, while we wake and guard us while we sleep,
that we may watch with Christ and sleep in peace.
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."
[He makes the sign of the cross (the automatic gesture of
habit} on the last words, as he rises. He sits down and
composes himself elaborately. He looks up at the light
and grimaces. He relaxes carefully. 'There is a slight
pause. Then the door opens briskly^
]The cell Warder comes in. He is a competent professional
of rather more than middle age, though time-less as a
machine, and with the robust manner that goes with a
mind untroubled by thought.]
WARDER: Ah I None o' that. Mustn't drop off,
y'know. Can't have that. You walk up and down a
bit. Nothing like walking up and down for waking
you up.
PRISONER: It must be thirty-six hours since I slept.
[He gets up and moves about as the Warder directs^
WARDER: That's right. Being difficult, are you?
PRISONER: I hope so.
WARDER: Beats me. Always does. "Human
nature ", they say.
30
THE PRISONER
PRISONER : What is.
WARDER: " Not guilty." Every time, " Not guilty."
PRISONER: You must have heard a good deal of that,
certainly since the new government took over.
WARDER: Since the new. . . ? Know how long
I've been in the Prison Service? Thirty-one years.
" Not guilty, officer, I'm not guilty. It's a put-up
j ob, my enemies wanted me out of the way, my wife
wanted me out of the way. I'm not like other prison
ers. Me, I'm not guilty." Nor you neither, I
suppose?
PRISONER: That's right.
WARDER: Keep walking a bit, I should, it stirs the
circulation.
PRISONER: If I preferred to sit down?
WARDER: Well, it's regulations, you see. Every so
often.
PRISONER: Yes, I remember.
WARDER: Been inside before, have you?
PRISONER: A criminal type, you'd say?
WARDER: There's as many criminal types as there's
men and women in the world. I've found that out in
thirty-one years. Guilty. Everyone. Something on
their conscience. Whatever they've been arrested for,
something on their conscience. And what's the other
thing they have in common? "Not guilty." It's
only what they're guilty of there's any variety in.
PRISONER : And what would my type be ?
WARDER: Political, you're in for. Well, that's not a
very interesting line, but there's generally more to it
than meets the eye. Only being a priest puts you out
of a lot of likely classes, of course.
PRISONER: Good.
WARDER : Larceny, for instance. Petty larceny, that is .
You folk live too well to need to pick pockets, eh ?
And if you do rob your own poor boxes, who's to
ACT ONE, SCENE TWO
know? Same with violence. You don't need to, do
you — knock an old crone down and snatch her bag —
she'll put it in the plate, Sunday, what they call the
widow's mite. Rape? Why should you bother,
with all the pretty girls coming into the dark con
fessionals in the dark corners of your dark churches,
mm ? Oh, you cunning old lechers, eh ?
PRISONER: Do you really believe that?
WARDER: Come on I cc Confessions six to nine."
Evenings, always, isn't it? Dusk. City girls,
coming home from work, sharp, smart, neat little
things, with their well-brushed hair and their silk
stockings — up the Cathedral steps, two at a time, with
their tight little skirts clinging to their behinds — I've
watched 'em — nice, eh? " Confessions six to nine "
— and absolution thrown in, that's where you have
the pull.
PRISONER: You've stood and watched them? Did
you ever look at their faces ?
WARDER: Not specially. Did you? No, no need for
rape. I'd put you in the confidence trickster class.
PRISONER (quickly) : What?
WARDER : Oh, I know you're political, otherwise I'd
say that's your type.
PRISONER: Why do you say that?
WARDER: Hide yourself up your sleeve, that's your
type.
PRISONER: Thirty-one years' experience. You must
have gone on serving under the Occupation then.
WARDER: 'S right.
PRISONER: Governments may come and go
WARDER: But crime goes on for ever. That's the
way of it.
PRISONER: And what are you guilty of?
WARDER: Me? I'm in the prison service.
PRISONER: " Not guilty."
THE PRISONER
WARDER : Don't be silly, of course not. All right, you
can sit down now, but no dropping off, mind. Very
strict, your Interrogator, no dropping off, no
talking to no one but me and him, not even the
doctor. Psychology, they call it. Modern. They say
he always gets what he wants, for all his fancy ways
of going about it. Not dropping off, are you ?
PRISONER: No. Just sitting still. Still as a still-room
maid, without face or occupation.
[There is a knock on the door. The Warder,, who was just
crossing to it, opens it.~\
WARDER: Hello, company.
[He stands for a moment in whispered conversation with
someone outside^ and then ushers in the Doctor. The
Prisoner is asleep in his chair.]
Medical examination. Here !
PRISONER (alert quickly): A night call, doctor? Am I
so sick?
WARDER: No talking to the doctor. No talking by
anyone to anyone. Orders.
[The Doctor signs to the Warder. The Doctor examines
the Prisoner^
PRISONER: Am I allowed to say "ninety-nine" to
him? What's it all for? I was examined the day I
was arrested.
WARDER: Routine.
PRISONER: Routine? In the middle of the night?
WARDER: Lot of work done at night here.
PRISONER: So I've noticed. . . . Oh, I'm due for a
long spell of interrogation on end, is that it ? We
2 33
ACT ONE, SCENE TWO
haven't had that yet. You start at two in the morning,
when resistance is at its lowest, and finish up about
two tomorrow morning, by which time it should be
lower still. And I'm not to die on your hands before
Fve said anything to cover you. Yes. I shouldn't
worry, doctor.
[He puts on an elaborate bedside manner^
The pulse fairly regular . . . that little flutter's
not anything to be alarmed about, it's caused by the
natural human impulse of fear, you often find it
among cases under threat of torture — physical or
mental — and, of course, death, just a simple reflex,
uncontrollable, but not at all serious. . . . The
heart's very sound, yes, very sound indeed — I hope.
Lungs quite all right, nothing to worry about there.
Continuous confinement is not usually recommended,
of course, particularly if the quarters are at all
damp
WARDER: Here, let me tell you, there isn't a damp
cell in this prison! And you're not supposed to be
talking to the doctor.
PRISONER : He's talking to me. Didn't you recognise
his bedside manner?
\The Doctor signs to him to cross his knees. He tests bis
reflexes.}
No. No sign of hysterical paralysis — though it's not
a bad idea at that. Tell me — have you examined the.
Interrogator? Because if I'm in for a long session —
so is he.
Curtain
34
THE PRISONER
Scene 3
Scene: The Interrogation R.OOM*
Time: Night.
The Prisoner is leaning back in his chair \ tired, but
physically relaxed. The Interrogator^ in shirtsleeves., with
his coat over the back of his chair \ is restless at his desk>
and shows the effect of nervous strain more than does the
Prisoner. The interrogation room Warder sits by the door,
doling.
INTERROGATOR: Very well then. Do you at least
admit that the whole weight of your authority must
logically be directed against this Government.
PRISONER : Logic is a system of avoiding false con
clusions, not a motive for action.
\The Interrogator makes a violent movement of irritation.
The Warder starts^
You've woken the management!
INTERROGATOR: I don't know how one tries the
patience of a saint, but for a saint you begin to have
a disastrous effect on mine.
PRISONER: Rekx. Even though you sleep between-
whiles, and I'm not allowed to, you can't keep it
up — on the edge of your chair. You want what you
want too badly and too soon. An interesting boyish
• quality.
INTERROGATOR (mildly): Now lay off me. Warder,
black coffee, strong. And tell them to keep a brew
going.
\The Warder goes. \
35
ACT ONE, SCENE THREE
Where did you learn the trick of it? Yogi? or a
circus ?
PRISONER: My first curacy.
INTERROGATOR: Whatever for?
PRISONER: Stage fright. I was always sick before I
went into the pulpit.
INTERROGATOR: You were? A human weakness.
PRISONER: The old parish priest taught me how to
relax for ten minutes beforehand in the sacristy. It's
a trick. You -
INTERROGATOR : Why were you sick before you went
into the pulpit ?
PRISONER (briskly] : I've no idea.
INTERROGATOR: Mm. No idea. A weakness. That's
the way if only we can find it — the human weakness,
the chink in the plate armour. You've told me the
strength of your defences — we should save more
of the small hours of these long nights, my dear
Cardinal, if you would help me to the weakness.
[The Warder returns with a tray of coffee things, which he
takes to the
Plate armour. It isn't even that, you know. It's
chain mail, a clattering skin of linked weaknesses, all
holes just twisted together. It's the using of flails
and battle-axes that's a mistake. The fine point's
what's needed. Not even a rapier. A bodkin. That's
why the women win.
[The Warder, from where he is, can see the 'Prisoners
face, which the Interrogator can't. He looks up quickly at
the Interrogator^
Well? Oh, is he?
[He puts out a band to stay the Warder from waking the
36
THE PRISONER
Prisoner. He himself presses the Prisoner lightly behind
the ear> speaking as he does' so,]
What are you afraid of?
PRISONER: Thank you. Very refreshing.
\The Warder sniffs loudly,, then goes back to his chair.
The Interrogator pours out coffee}
Coffee?
PRISONER: Thank you. No.
\The Interrogator takes the glass from the water carafe.}
INTERROGATOR: From the same pot as I use myself,
from a gkss you've used before ?
PRISONER: Fve been asleep since I last drank from
it.
INTERROGATOR: Oh, you keep your wits about you,
with your eyes shut.
[He pours some coffee from his own cup into the glass.,
drinks from it, and fills up both glass and cup from the pot.
He holds out the cup}
Some coffee, your Eminence?
PRISONER: Oh. Thanks. (He takes it.) My health.
\They both drink}
INTERROGATOR: Afraid I shall slip you the "truth
drug " ?
PRISONER: For instance.
INTERROGATOR : I know the truth already.
PRISONER: I was forgetting. It's a confession, not
the truth, we're after,
37
ACT ONE, SCENE THREE
INTERROGATOR : Oh, I could drug you into stumbling
out some form of words that had been forced into
your mind. Old tricks, and the foreign correspon
dents wouldn't be any more impressed than they
would by our sawing a lady in half.
PRISONER: Older methods ?
INTERROGATOR: Racks and thumbscrews?
[The Prisoner holds up his hands and turns them about.}
PRISONER: Old, but not so long outdated.
[The Interrogator looks at his hands and then at his own.]
INTERROGATOR: They never caught me. . . . You
know, I'd give anything for it not to be you that
j
PRISONER: Oh, don't apologise.
INTERROGATOR (goaded) : Well, you might be broken
now. You're an older man that you were, you've
lived in the odour of popular esteem since the war,
which is as enervating as a hot bath. But confession
from a broken body seldom looks really spontaneous,
so we shan't be trying that.
PRISONER: My dear man, if you really meant that
you'd never be fool enough to relieve me of even the
fear of pain. Come now
INTERROGATOR: Who do you think you're dealing
with? Some mad sadistic moron in the Gestapo?
Some filthy butcher with power to play with flesh
and blood for his lust? I tell you even the sight of
physical exhaustion after these sessions revolts me so
that Fm sick. I wouldn't have you touched, I was a
doctor before ever I was a lawyer, your body is
sacred to me. I wouldn't even have you sit there and
think of the possibility of pain at my suggestion.
38
THE PRISONER
PRISONER: You're speaking the truth, I believe. No
drugs, no torture ? What can you hope for ?
INTERROGATOR: Conversion.
PRISONER : And yet you're not mad.
INTERROGATOR: No. And Fm right. You're wrong,
and you're dangerous because you mislead the poor,
the uneducated, and the silly. Sentiment may drive
me to regret that it has to be done, but sentiment
won't be allowed to stop me
PRISONER: To stop you ?
INTERROGATOR : — getting in the end a free and open
confession that will dispel the black magic of your
name and wreck your mistaken cause, at home and
abroad, a confession made in public by you, your
self, you, whole in body and in mind. It's your mind
we want.
PRISONER: I'm a fool to admit it, but for the first
time since I came into your prison, I'm afraid.
INTERROGATOR : You think of prison as the rack, in
one form or another. It's stupid of me to get
annoyed because you think of me as the inquisitor.
PRISONER : How do you expect me to think of you ?
INTERROGATOR : As your doctor. To me, you're on a
couch in my consulting room. You're an enemy of
society, but only because you're wrong-headed.
You're dangerous, like the schizophrenic or the
paranoiac can be, but we can get to the root of the
trouble and you can be cured.
PRISONER: You can cure me?
INTERROGATOR: I'm trained in the skill that this age
has developed more than any other — the medical
knowledge of the human mind. And then there's
yourself, you're not like a voluntary patient who
wants at heart to co-operate — and that makes it more
difficult — in the early stages. But we shall get to the
heart of it in time. In time. Science must succeed.
39
ACT ONE, SCENE FOUR
PRISONER : You believe it. ...
INTERROGATOR: Yes. I do believe it.
PRISONER: God give me cunning against your skill.
God keep my watch.
Curtain
Scene 4
Scene: The Cell.
Time: Night. •
The Prisoner, dressed in a shirt, without dog-collar, stands
leaning against the wall, his eyes shut. He recites from
the 'Psalms monotonously in an effort not to think.
PRISONER: "Consider and hear me, oh Lord my
God, lighten my eyes lest I sleep the sleep of death
. . . lest mine enemy say: I have prevailed against
him." (Louder, shouting down his thoughts.) " Rejoice
not against me, O mine enemy: when I fall I shall
rise, when I sit in darkness the Lord shall be a light
to me."
[The door opens and the cell Warder comes in, yawning.
The Prisoner prepares to follow him.]
(Reciting words of habit rather than prayer) " Set a
watch, O Lord, before my mouth, keep thou the
door of my lips."
[The Warder signs, and is followed into the cell by the
Barber, another professional, whose salon habits are
unaffected by his present milieu^\
40
THE PRISONER
Another medical inspection? What's this? Am I
mad, or is he ?
[The Barber sets about his preparations with elaboration.]
WARDER: You are, or you'd tell your Interrogator
whatever it is he's after, and give us all a proper
night's sleep.
PRISONER: A barber? Execution.
WARDER: Lord, we don't shave 'em to hang 'em!
Come on, come on.
[He hustles the Prisoner into the chair.]
PRISONER: Why, then?
WARDER: Look, if you were going to be hanged,
which you aren't — or not tonight, anyhow — you
couldn't put it off by refusing to be shaved. A
corpse looks silly enough with a rope round its
neck, believe me, without wondering whether its
chin's a bit blue. Special orders, this is.
PRISONER: There'll be no tip, I'm afraid.
\The Barber sets about shaving the Prisoner.]
Safety razor, I notice. For his protection, though, I
suppose, rather than mine.
WARDER (yawning) : 'S right.
PRISONER: Disappointing weather. Well, and what
do you make of our new government, Alfonse ?
]The Barber is startled and his hand jerks]
Oh, Alfonse! You've cut me!
[T6e Barber applies lotion and cotton mol^ much agitated^
ACT ONE, SCENE FOUR
WARDER: Well, it's your own flaming fault. Oh
God, now you've upset him and he'll be hours. You
did that on purpose.
PRISONER: Sorry, Alfonse.
\There is a knock on the door. The Warder goes to open it]
WARDER : It's his perfession to turn you out looking
proper.
[He unlocks the door. The interrogation room Warder
appears with a clean collar, a bottle of cleaning spirit., and
a clothes brush. He gives the collar to the cell Warder
and looks about him]
PRISONER: A clean collar!
WARDER: Here, get up a minute. Oh, get out from
under my feet, Alfonse.
[He gets the cassock from where it is lying over the chair
on which the "Prisoner has been sitting, and gives it to the
other Warder ', who starts cleaning it.]
PRISONER: What's all this about. Last time I saw my
friend the Interrogator he was a bit blue about the
chin himself. It's a new man! They've changed
him! Tell me, tell me, have they changed him?
WARDER: What? No, no. Same man.
\The Prisoner is relieved, though he is not jet aware himself
of his growing dependence on the Interrogator]
PRISONER: Oh. . . .
WARDER: Now, how does this damn thing work?
(He tries to help with the collar?) (To the other Warder) :
Never mind the back, man. Brush it.
42
THE PRISONER
PRISONER: Wonderful service you get in these State
hotels nowadays. What is it all for? You can't be
staging the trial yet, you know— you haven't got a
confession.
WARDER : And whose fault's that ?
PRISONER: A visit! Is that it? The foreign press
coming to see how I'm being treated ?
WARDER : Not likely !
PRISONER : Well, I've no consul to make a fuss on my
behalf— this is my own dear homeland — perhaps the
Vatican ? No, you'd hardly lock up the native clergy
and then let a Papal Nuncio
[The Barber nearly trips over the Warder.}
WARDER: All right, all right, Alfonse — that's enough
of that. Never mind that cut, he won't bleed to
death, he's not scheduled to go that way.
[With dignify the Barber collects his things]
PRISONER: Thank you. Thanks.
WARDER : Come on, they're waiting.
[He lets the Barber out — and then helps the prisoner into
the clean shirt.]
And your Interrogator's in a black rage, let me tell
you, spitting blue blood.
PRISONER: Why should he be angry? What's
happening ? What is it ?
WARDER (to the Prisoner.): Seems they're upsetting
his schedule, and his schedule's scientific and theirs
isn't. Oh God, look at those shoes. Here, got a rag ?
\The other Warder hands over a large grubby handkerchief.
43
ACT ONE, SCENE FIVE
The cell Warder kneels down and starts rubbing over the
Prisoner's shoes.}
They're upsetting my schedule too, for what that's
bloody well worth — my night off duty.
It's the high-ups in a hurry. Well, any political of
mine looks decent. I'll be damned if they don't, any
hour of the day or night. All right, bring it here.
\The other Warder brings the cassock, and the Prisoner puts
it on.]
My God, all those buttons! Well, you'll have to
do them up as we go.
PRISONER: I refuse to co-operate by doing up another
button.
\There is a silent battle of mils ending in the Warder
buttoning^
Curtain
Scene /
Scene: The Interrogation ILoom.
Time; Night.
The room is in darkness. There is a sound of laughter.
The interrogation room Warder comes in and switches on
the light and the Prisoner and the Interrogator come in
together, laughing. The Secretary, looking extremely
shocked, follows. The Prisoner is still carried by the over-
excitement of the scene he has just been through, but reaction
is near.
INTERROGATOR: No, that was wonderful! That was
44
THE PRISONER
really wonderful! I wouldn't have missed it for the
world.
PRISONER: Well, I wouldn't quite say that, perhaps,
but it was worth a lot. Their faces !
INTERROGATOR: Hey, look at Stephen's face now!
PRISONER: Oh, my dear boy, cheer up! It was their
own fault, you know, they asked for it. Confronting
me publicly in the middle of the night with enough
badly faked evidence to make a laughing stock of the
police department for months.
INTERROGATOR: I warned them! I was furious when
they demanded to have the show put on. At about
two hours' notice, too.
PRISONER: What? It must have taken days to get all
that nonsense together !
INTERROGATOR : Days ? They've been working on it
for months, poor darlings !
PRISONER: Oh, dear!
INTERROGATOR: Those maps! And that lovely
photograph of the secret arsenal they'd so carefully
planted for you in the Cathedral crypt !
PRISONER: And I went and remembered that the
date they'd hit on to say they'd found the place
bristling with guns was the feast of St. Fontenal, the
one day in the year when the crypt is open to the
public.
INTERROGATOR: Cigarette? I've never seen two Field
Marshals, three Ministers and a Judge all looking so
silly at the same time. Lord, if the dear public had
seen them.
PRISONER: Why did they suddenly want to do it?
INTERROGATOR: Oh, it's the old business — you con
front the prisoner with a mass of irrefutable evidence
against him, in the presence of overpoweringly im
portant people, and he realises his only chance is to
throw himself on their mercy by pleading guilty.
45
ACT ONE3 SCENE FIVE
PRISONER: It is behind that rafter, isn't it — the
microphone? And the switch under the rim of your
desk
[The Interrogator obligingly switches it on and off. They
both laugh.}
The fake confession on the tape recorder was the part
I liked best. I'm sorry I had to run such rings round
the way you joined the bits together, Stephen, to
make a confession out of flat denials — but honestly,
you'd have looked far sillier producing a botched up
job like that in open court.
INTERROGATOR: Now, that's very unsporting of you.
You know it's against the regulations for the poor
boy to answer you back. All right, Stephen — run
along.
[The Secretary goes — the Warder remains by the door.]
PRISONER: You don't feel what a strain the excite
ment's been till it's over. Tell me, though, weren't
you moving some of my pieces in the game this
evening ? I felt as though we were both playing on
the same side.
INTERROGATOR: Well, I was so damned angry with
them. Suddenly wanting to put the pressure on
because of some footling crisis or other
PRISONER: What crisis?
INTERROGATOR : — and insisting they could do more
in an hour than has taken us months, with their box
of child's tricks and antique police laboratory fakes !
You told them why they wouldn't get all that non
sense past the foreign journalists, but my God, I'd
already told them they wouldn't even get it past their
own illiterate followers !
46
THE PRISONER
PRISONER: Well, I don't suppose they liked that.
Do they trust you ?
INTERROGATOR: Fools . . . that's what you get if
you join a movement from the wrong side of the
fence — imbecile suspicion. Well, I wasn't born one
of them, but I give them all I can. I give them
absolute devotion. Why not use it? Why not use my
skill? My brain can serve them better than their
text books. My brain
PRISONER : — is consumed with intellectual pride.
\The Interrogator laughs and relaxes.}
I hope for your sake the microphone was switched
off for that little outburst. Shall I get some sleep
tonight? You and I — how odd it is, a kind of bond's
growing between us. I suppose it only comes of no
one else being allowed to speak to me, but to me you
seem like the only real human being in a world of
shadows.
INTERROGATOR: You were beginning to think that,
were you ? Oh, God, the fools.
PRISONER: I don't know, I'm tired, perhaps I'm
starting to play your game, but I could have sworn
you were playing mine tonight.
\Tbe Secretary comes in with a note for the Interrogator, who
reads it.]
\The Secretary confers with him in a whisper.]
What ? I tell you I won't have it — oh, come outside.
\The Warder closes the door behind them as they go out.
The Prisoner tries to rest while talking for the benefit of the
vigilant Warder]
47
ACT ONE, SCENE FIVE
PRISONER: No, I shan't sleep. Not till I know what
the next move's to be. Chess. Chess, you know —
game with figures of painted ivory, red and white — or
black, of course — I'm black. He's got all the knights
and castles, and I've only the king's bishop left. Not
even a bishop, really. Not a proper chess man at all.
(He is dropping asleep.) Not asleep. Still talking.
Still playing chess with my friend.
[The Interrogator comes back into the room with the
Secretary^
INTERROGATOR: I'll stop them
[He goes to the telephone ', but as he approaches it, it rings.]
Yes. . . ? Speaking, speaking. . . . Damn. . . .
I said " damn ", and you can tell them. . . . All
right. . . . (He hangs up.) (To Stephen.) Too late,
they're here. Go on. (To Warder.) Get out there,
they'll need you.
[The Secretary and the Warder go, leaving the door ajar.]
(Gently.) Wake up. (Harshly.) Wake up!
[Two Warders., carrying a coffin on their shoulders., come in.
During the ensuing scene, dawn lighting is brought up.
The Interrogator turns his back for a moment, and then,
interest overcoming revulsion, be watches the Prisoner as
the men set down the coffin.]
PRISONER: Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my
spirit. I am tired. I hadn't let myself feel how tired.
Shall I be allowed time to pray?
[The Interrogator signs to the two Warders. One goes
out — leaving only the regular man by the door.]
48
THE PRISONER
INTERROGATOR: This is not your death.
PRISONER: Not death? You must give me time to
take that in. I let my mind feel how tired it was, and
now it won't. What must I do now?
INTERROGATOR: My orders are that you open the
coffin.
PRISONER : Open it ?
INTERROGATOR: Lift the lid.
PRISONER: You don't like your orders.
\The Prisoner lifts the lid of the coffin. Shivly be raises
his head^\
My mother. My mother. How old she looks. Old
and innocent. ILequiem aeternam dona — I never learned
to pray for her. I never could pray for her.
Oh, God, let me pray. (He kneels by the coffin. He
prays the words of habit > his mind elsewhere.) Out of the
depths have I cried to thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my
prayer. Let thine ears be attentive to the voice of
my supplication, and let my cry come unto thee.
If thou, O Lord, shall be extreme to remark what
is done amiss . . . what she did amiss . . . her
sin. . . .
INTERROGATOR: It's your mother. Shouldn't you
bless her?
PRISONER: I, bless her? (Coming back to the present
and realising he is being watched.) Yes, of course.
She's dead. (He touches her in blessing) Warm. She's
still quite warm. (He gets up and backs awaj. Then
suddenly he turns on the Interrogator.) She's only just
dead. It was because I played at being cleverer than
you all just now that you did it. You killed her, L
never wished her death, it wasn't my doing, it
wasn't my fault, I never knew anything of it !
INTERROGATOR (interested) : No. , . ?
PRISONER (quickly) : And you killed her, the doctor to
49
ACT ONE, SCENE FIVE
whom my body was so sacred. Let's talk of that. My
body was of — was of — that flesh 1
INTERROGATOR: Well?
PRISONER: Of that flesh! I am admitting it, do you
hear? We were of the same flesh, she and I! When
you had her killed, you killed part of my life. You
said you wouldn't have a hair of mine touched — if
it's only to shame you I'll claim my body and hers are
one. I am her son, the child of her womb, look how I
kiss her hand! The pulse — the pulse — she's alive!
(He drops the hand and backs away again.)
INTERROGATOR: Yes, alive, only anaesthetised. Why
did you say
PRISONER (himself again): Anaesthetised? Why?
INTERROGATOR: Part of the system. This is supposed
to work.
\The Prisoner is dragging from the coffin the inert for *m of
the little old woman, in its provincial working class best
clothes, and he props it, lolling ludicrously, on a chair. Pie
slaps the hands and face and hurries to get the water carafe '.]
PRISONER : Her heart may give out if you leave her
under too long.
INTERROGATOR: You can't do anything. Two hours,
another two hours at least before she comes round.
PRISONER: It won't be my fault if — You must have
known if I touched her I'd find out. Why did you
make — let me touch her?
INTERROGATOR: Part of the system.
PRISONER: Shock tactics. I was meant to realise she
was alive? Why? She's supposed to be someone I
love
INTERROGATOR: Supposed?
PRISONER: Someone I love. Well, then, what now?
INTERROGATOR: Well, the confession is ready for
signature.
5°
THE PRISONER
PRISONER: The confession. Oh, I begin to see, Or
else?
INTERROGATOR: She goes to hospital. The Cancer
Hospital.
PRISONER: She has cancer?
INTERROGATOR: No.
PRISONER: I don't understand.
INTERROGATOR: The Cancer Research Hospital.
She will have cancer.
PRISONER: Nol If it were a dog, it would make
you sick. And you agree to this ?
INTERROGATOR: She's in the hands of the police, I
have no power there. It's only you who are my
patient.
PRISONER: No signature. No confession.
INTERROGATOR: You are to have — she'll have —
twenty-four hours.
PRISONER: No signature. I should be glad if she
might be taken away, unless this gives you particular
interest.
INTERROGATOR : I could have her left in your cell.
PRISONER: And in an hour or so she'd come round,
and ask me what I condemned her to ? She wouldn't
even try to plead with me. (Bitterly?) You don't
know us, my mother and I.
INTERROGATOR: Too proud to beg of me?
PRISONER: You say it's not in your province. I
hope it's not in your province.
INTERROGATOR: No, it's not in my province. It's in
yours. It's you who'll condemn her.
PRISONER: Yes.
INTERROGATOR : I could tell myself, as a doctor, other
lives might be saved, other pain relieved by hers.
Can you make yourself feel humane ?
PRISONER: No!
INTERROGATOR: I told them it wouldn't work.
ACT ONE, SCENE FIVE
hated it, but at the worst I thought I might learn a
little about you from it. I didn't think what I learned
would shock me so.
PRISONER (bitterly) : Oh3 you have a heart.
INTERROGATOR: Sentiment is a weakness I have to
guard against. But at least it's human.
PRISONER: You have an unnatural monster on your
hands : I do not love my mother ... I never have.
If your orders allow it, have her taken away. I beg
of you — taken away. (He sits, his had turned from
her.}
INTERROGATOR: It was scarcely even a temptation!
I was afraid it would lose me the foothold I'd
gained with you. I didn't think it would be I that
would be revolted. I was getting too close. I was
slipping into the weakness of human pity.
PRISONER: Were you?
INTERROGATOR: Yours is a mind diseased. At all
costs, you must not be damned. If she must, your
mother can die of pain — to save your immortal soul.
You're a hard man, Eminence, a hard man. (He goes
to the door, but pauses and turns back.} No, I won't
have her taken away yet. I'll keep her here to
remind me, not you.
[He pushes the chair with the corpse-like figure of the
woman on it so that she and the Prisoner sit facing
side by side^\
I was beginning almost to dislike my work.
shan't dislike it now.
Curtain
ACT TWO
Scene i
Scene: The Cell.
The window is shuttered. There is a bed in the corner.
The Prisoner, dirty and unshaven, in shirt and trousers *, is
on his knees polishing the floor with a rag, with fanatical
care, reciting rhythmically as he rubs.
PRISONER: Three nines are twenty-seven, four nines
are thirty-six, five nines are forty-five, six nines are
fifty-four, seven nines are sixty-three, eight nines are
seventy-two, four eights are thirty-two, six elevens
are sixty-six. (He pauses in his polishing, beginning to
think in spite of himself } Seven elevens are — seventy-
seven. (He pulls himself together and polishes again.}
Nines. Seven nines are sixty three, eight nines are
seventy-two, nine nines are eighty-one, ten nines are
ninety. Once ten is ten, two tens are twenty, three
tens are thirty. Four tens are forty, five tens are
fifty, six tens are sixty, seven tens are seventy —
ight tens are eighty.
\The door opens and the cell Warder comes in with a
tray.}
(Loudly} Nine tens are ninety. What happened to
you?
WARDER: Eh?
PRISONER: What day is it? How long is it since you
brought me food?
[He falls on the food almost before it is on the table.}
WARDER : You're fed according to regulations.
53
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
PRISONER: Not for days — three days. Do you think
I can't tell? That's why they've shuttered the
window, isn't it? So that I can't tell, to frighten
me
WARDER: It's just the being left to sleep as much as
you like. You got out of the habit, and now it
muddles you up.
PRISONER: Are you trying to tell me it's only five or
six hours since you fed me last? (He is bolting the
food)
WARDER: You know the times it's due.
PRISONER: You're lying. (The Warder shrugs) What
do you gain by lying to me ?
WARDER: 'S right. What would I? You're fed
according to regulations.
PRISONER: Fm to be left alone for weeks, months —
how long is it ? Left to rot in a mad timeless vacuum
till I'm broken ready for him to work on again. And
you're in the game, aren't you ? It's thirty-six hours,
isn't it, or forty-eight, since you fed me last?
WARDER: Can't get over what you're doing to this
floor.
PRISONER: How long is it?
WARDER : Jtf st a stone floor, and it's coming up like
marble, like glass, the way you're doing it. I must
say it's a nice change — what some of 'em will do to
their floors would suprise you. Tell you what, I'll
get you a nice tin o' polish, how would that be, and
a proper cloth. Real show place, you're making this.
You can get as much sleep as you like now, though,
you know. I told you the switch is working in here
now. What do you dream about, eh ? Girls ? Had a
chap once in solitary a long time used to take a mop
to bed with him and stroke its hair. But it got so he
ate it in the end, and they took him away.
PRISONER: Am I not going to see him again? Are
54
THE PRISONER
they just going to leave me here now? No trial,
here for ever? Is that it?
WARDER: Now why should it be?
PRISONER: It's months since I've seen him.
WARDER: Mm. Like it's days since breakfast. (He
begins clearing the table?)
PRISONER : It's terrifying the way I've got dependant
on him. I didn't realize it — he could stop me going
mad, don't you see? I'm no good to them mad,
am I? Explain that to them, you get them to see
that, and make him send for me again.
WARDER: Now then, don't you start fretting. You
say some of that everlasting Bible of yours, or do
your sums.
PRISONER: Don't go yet. What time will you be
back? If I could make a sundial — if the window
wasn't boarded. Wait. Leave me that jug. A water
clock. Look, I'm going to make a bag with a corner
of the blanket and time how long the water takes to
pour through. I'll know next time you leave me
alone for a couple of days like that, so don't you try
it on again.
WARDER: Now, now, you know I can't do that,
leaving crockery about in the cells. Come on, give it
here.
\The Prisoner clutches the jug to him^\
PRISONER: I only want it to tell the time with.
WARDER: Come on, now.
PRISONER: No, I want it. (He catches an echo of the
childish indignity of the situation. With an effort., he puts
the jug quietly on the tray?) I warn you. I shall make
a clock somehow. . . . Something running, some
thing rolling, something round — a stud, (brushing
past the Warder he hurries to his cassock 'which lies over
a chair, and rips off a button?) Good. Now a slope.
55
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
[The Warder who has paused, watching him, lifts the tray
from the table.}
It'll need a gentle but quite definite slope. The table.
[He tries to prop the ledge of the table on the back of the
chair.]
WARDER : Cuckoo ! That's what you want for a clock,
a cuckoo ! My Gran had one. I stuck his little door
up so he couldn't get out, and you could hear him
inside, whirring away, trying to fly out. I thought
he was alive! Ttl Kids! Cuckoo! (Laughing
delightedly at his amusingyouth — he lets himself out.)
PRISONER: No good when one's asleep, of course, but
I'll be able to keep a check on you in the daytime. . . .
[He turns and realises he is alone., and coughs in an em
barrassed way. Feeling his pulse with one hand, he sets the
button rolling from the top of the table. It goes much too
fast. He considers., and has another idea. He puts his
folded blanket under one leg of the table. Now the button
won't roll at all. He drags the table over to the wall and
tilts two legs against it. The button still rolls too fast.
He starts to adjust the slope and then suddenly overthrows
the table violently and stands shuddering. After a moment
he goes over to the bed and sits down.]
[After a moment he makes as though to kneel and then
with a hopeless sigh gets up, takes his rag and starts his
rhythmic polishing of the floor, stressing the rhythm of the
words heavily \
In principio erat verbum et verbum erat apud Deum, et
Deus erat
[He stops, shocked at his use of the words. He starts again,
this time singing or hummingl\
56
THE PRISONER
Dies irae^ dies ilia
Solvet saeclum infavilla
Teste David cum
[He stops again and after a moment gees on rubbing without
rhythm in silence. He hears a noise, but thinks he must
he wrong. The door opens and the Warder appears again
with a fray.]
(Whispering hoarsely.} A trick. It's a trick.
WARDER: Still at it? My! See your face in it soon.
PRISONER : What time is it supposed to be now ?
WARDER: Hey! What 've you been up to ? Pick it up!
PRISONER (shouting): No! Not till you tell me what
time it is ! (Gets a grip on himself and sets the table on its
legs.} Look, Fve done it. How long is it since you
came before ?
[The Warder puts down the tray. The Prisoner starts to
eat automatically.]
WARDER: Twelve o'clock dinner, eight o'clock
supper, in the regulations. You work it out. I
just do what I'm told.
PRISONER: Eight hours? You haven't been out of
this cell eight minutes.
WARDER: Worked up a pretty good appetite, haven't
you, in eight minutes ?
PRISONER: Well, I was hungry, I hadn't eaten for
three days.
WARDER: Eight minutes, you said.
PRISONER: You're tricking me, you're trying to fool
me (He clutches at the Warder}.
WARDER: Now, none o' that. You know better
than that.
PRISONER: Tell me the truth, say it was three days
before and only ten minutes now — say it
57
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
[Hi? shakes the Warder who, without effort \ imprisons his
arms.}
WARDER : Now, you don't want to get violent, you're
not the violent sort. That's right. Easy now.
PRISONER: Are you doing this to me, or am I going
out of my mind ^
WARDER : Don't ask me.
PRISONER: You've seen prisoners run mad.
WARDER: 'S right. -
PRISONER : Like me ?
WARDER: It's interesting. Depends how much store
a man sets by his wits — the more, the easier he loses
them. A man that sits and watches his mind work —
you can't leave him alone five minutes in the dark
without him frightening himself to death.
PRISONER: The Interrogator — he's a doctor, he can't
want my mind unhinged. Can't you get to see him ?
Ask him — no. Yes, say I asked him to see me. I
won't confess, don't let him think — yes, even let him
think it, I can take care of that. Ask him, beg him, to
see me again.
WARDER: Just ring him up, I suppose, and ask you
both to dinner at my club. . . ? (He takes the tray.)
PRISONER : It's what he wants, what he wanted — the
voluntary patient, the man on the psychiatrist's
couch who wants to talk.
WARDER: Mm? 'S right, they say he always gets what
he wants. And go easy with the furniture. This cell
isn't padded, you get rough and you're liable to
smash things. 'Night. Turn the light out when you
want. Always complain at first, and then when you
say they can, they never want to. Get so you don't
like the dark, don't you? Well— 'night, 'night.
]The Warder goes out— the Prisoner continues the con
versation in imagination^
58
THE PRISONER
PRISONER: " Not like the dark ?" cc My good fellow
do you really think I'm afraid of the " " My good
fellow "
[He looks round the cell — as though he might forget what it
looks like — and goes to the light switch. He switches out
the light. In the darkness the springs of the iron bedstead
can be heard creaking. There is silence.]
(Screaming.} Quiet! Quiet I
[The light is sivitched on and he is seen clinging to the switch,
painting as though he has been running. He leans against
the wall.}
Save us, O Lord, while we wake, and keep us while
we sleep, that we may watch with Christ and sleep in
peace.
Curtain
Scene 2
Scene: The Interrogation TLoom.
Time: Day.
Both Prisoner and Interrogator are asleep. The Prisoner
wears shirt and trousers — no cassock. The door opens and
the interrogation room Warder comes in. The Interrogator
wakes at once,, takes a quick look at his watch and at the
Prisoner^ and stays the Warder from waking him. He takes
a note from the Warder and reads it.
59
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
INTERROGATOR: No. Tell them no; they had their
chance, we're playing it my way now. And ask my
secretary to come down. We'll be keeping at it;
some hours, anyway.
\The Warder salutes and goes out. The Interrogator looks
down thoughtfully at the sleeping Prisoner and then walks
away from him, thoughtfully. He takes a bowl from the
extra desk with a sponge in it, which he holds to the back
of the 'Prisoners neck.}
PRISONER: No.
\The Interrogator pours a glass of water, which he gives him]
INTERROGATOR: We're making progress, you know.
PRISONER: Thank you. I'm sorry you should think
so.
INTERROGATOR: Oh, not with the arms in the
Cathedral crypt. We're getting to know each other
better.
PRISONER: I've known no one else, since I was born,
a hundred years ago.
INTERROGATOR: Tell me, what am I like?
PRISONER : Any scientist. A man with a toy too big
to pky with. Can't let it go, but frightened of it
yourself sometimes.
INTERROGATOR: As a man
PRISONER: One who might have been a friend.
INTERROGATOR: I believe you've been a lonely
devil. You've had a hard life.
PRISONER: The aristocrat to the priest: a hard life.
Plenty to eat, a pen or a breviary in soft hands, not a
pick or the shudder of a pneumatic drill; air — or
incense — in the lungs, not coaldust or sulphur fumes.
You and I shouldn't insult each other without
sympathy — even to gain that friendship, so late.
60
THE PRISONER
INTERROGATOR: Before dawn in the fish market, at
ten years old
PRISONER : But warm in school by nine o'clock, with
the fat fruits of my scholarship.
INTERROGATOR: Charles — did your clothes smell of
fish?
\There is an endless pause. .]
PRISONER: Heavens, that it should rile me still!
"Cod guts and mackerel blood!" "Look, there
are squashed fish eyes sticking to his boots! "
INTERROGATOR: Dear little boys!
PRISONER: I used to go to the market with just my
overall on over my skin, even when the snow was up
to our ankles between the stalls. And I washed!
Lord, how I washed ! I used to save up and buy every
new brand of soap I saw advertised. I burned the
skin off my hands with disinfectants. And then:
" Sir, must I sit next to him? He stinks of fish."
INTERROGATOR: Our happy schooldays !
PRISONER: Torment. And always shame.
INTERROGATOR: Why?
\The door opens briskly and the Secretary bustles import
antly /#.]
God damn and blast you, you flaming little pest, what
in hell's name do you mean by bursting in here at a
moment like this. . . . Hold it. ... Yes, yes, I
did send for you. I beg your pardon, Stephen. You
interrupted a train of thought. Please, later. I'll
ring. Tell them I'll dictate the progress report later.
Fm sorry.
\The Secretary goes.]
61
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
PRISONER : And it was only Idle gossip he interrupted,
poor chap — wasn't it ?
INTERROGATOR: I should have thought so. What was
I saying? Weren't we talking about our schooldays ?
PRISONER : My schooldays.
INTERROGATOR : I was only waiting my chance to cut
in.
PRISONER: Don't tell me anyone ever cried " stink
ing fish! " after you.
INTERROGATOR: No one called anything after me. I
was alone. My school-room was a corner of the
library, because my tutor was too lazy to move away
from his favourite fire. Winter and summer, a
roasting fire and the old genius dozing over his
grubby notes. Hanetau, the historian.
PRISONER: Hanetau!
INTERROGATOR : Lucky, wasn't I ? A man steeped in
Europe's past. How I hated Europe's past, with all
the future racing away from me! I got my grand
father to let the village schoolmaster come up and
teach me mathematics — not that he knew much, poor
scared little runt! — and the doctor had some physics
and chemistry he hadn't quite forgotten.
PRISONER: Did you want to learn so much?
INTERROGATOR: I wanted to break out of the past,
and twist the future all my way. I was a clever little
devil, I could run rings round that huddle of puzzled
old men; I though Fd run rings round the world, if I
took a couple of degrees. By the way, I noticed an
odd thing on the files : you won a scholarship to the
University at a fantastically early age, and yet you
never took it up. Why? You must have had to work
yourself sick and dizzy to get up to that standard so
young.
PRISONER: Black coffee at night— an alarm clock
under my pillow
62
THE PRISONER
INTERROGATOR: You started early to do without
sleep. You should have warned me. But after all
that, why didn't you go through with the University ?
PRISONER: I had a vocation to the Priesthood.
INTERROGATOR: You found that out suddenly —
between sitting for the scholarship and winning it.
PRISONER: No, I had always known it. I had tried
to evade it.
INTERROGATOR: Why?
PRISONER: That's an odd question for a layman,
surely. I didn't think I was worthy.
INTERROGATOR: So you won the scholarship and
then suddenly overnight you found yourself worthy
of the Priesthood after all.
PRISONER: No, I found that for me — I had to be a
priest.
INTERROGATOR: Why?
PRISONER: I had to. I had to. That and the next
step, and the next, all my life, shirk nothing, duck
nothing, overcome everything.
INTERROGATOR: Like going into the pulpit without
being sick?
PRISONER: Without even feeling it.
INTERROGATOR: Have you ever?
PRISONER: Never.
INTERROGATOR: Ashamed?
PRISONER: To preach? Why should I be ?
INTERROGATOR (gving it up} i Why indeed? IfFdled
your life, I'd preach myself. Well, I went to the
University instead of you — and look where it's
landed us both! Forgive me, they'll be clamouring
like a pack of hounds for their confounded report.
(He goes fo the bouse 'phone.) Three one. . . . Stephen,
if you'll be good enough. . . . Thank you, and
bring your typewriter. (He hangs up and goes to the
window.) A lovely day. Come and look.
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
]The Prisoner joins him at the window. The Interrogator
opens it and the Prisoner breathes deeply^
Lot of shipping on the river. With these spring
floods the boats seem to ride above the streets. I
don't think you can see the roof of the Cathedral
from here. . . .
PRISONER: You can see the roof of the Cancer
Research Hospital, though.
INTERROGATOR: I was wrong about that, wasn't
I ? It was hard for you.
PRISONER: No, not as you mean it. Not hard to
condemn her. You knew I must do it. Under the
Occupation even people without religion or belief
learned of duties above human relationships.
INTERROGATOR: Yet you found it hard in some way
I don't understand.
PRISONER: Not hard to be "heartless". Terrible
to be without heart.
INTERROGATOR: You wish you'd found the decision
harder to make?
PRISONER: For me, the hard decision would have
been to sign the confession and destroy myself and
my cause. But the cause was God's, not mine. I'd
no choice — except to torment myself with it. Is there
news of her?
INTERROGATOR: She's alive — well. Well enough.
PRISONER: At the hospital? God forgive them, and
me.
\There is a knock at the door. They both look up9 sur
prised. Then they Iaugh.~\
INTERROGATOR: Stephen, knocking at the door. I
must have scared him out of seven years' growth
last time. Come in !
THE PRISONER
[The Secretary stands politely framed in the doorway.]
Come in, Stephen, I'll dictate it now and get it over.
[The Secretary glances enquiringly at the Prisoner as he
opens his notebook^
That's all right. Sit down.
[He indicates the Prisoners chair. The Prisoner stares out
of the window at first \ then turns to listen^
" Interrogation progress report " — what is it —
sixty-three or something? — and all the rest of it.
Then : " No progress has been made with the formal
confession drafted hy the Police Department. The
terms of that confession are no longer being con
sidered even as a basis for questioning. It is under
taken that a full confession, both more approprkte
and credible, will be forthcoming in the previously
estimated time. The prisoner has been questioned "
— however many times is it — " for a total of " —
however many hours it is — " since the last report."
And attach the latest medical report. Type it down
here, would you, and I'll sign it right away.
[The Secretary goes to the " quiet " typewriter at the
extra desk]
Sorry about that. Where were we?
PRISONER: Up to schedule, apparently. Why am I
to hear all this ?
INTERROGATOR: Because I believe what I say. I've
nothing to hide from you.
PRISONER: You must know that however deep you
go you'll find no — no armaments stored in the crypt.
5 65
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
INTERROGATOR: I know. I'm only spying out the
nakedness of the land.
PRISONER : I ought to be afraid.
SECRETARY (indicating typewriter] : Does this not bother
you, sir?
PRISONER (oblivious oftt): Where did you learn it all?
INTERROGATOR : Cigarette ?
\The Prisoner takes one, looking as he does so at the hand
that offers it.}
PRISONER: Those nervous fingers probing the
tissues of the heart.
INTERROGATOR: Not yet the heart. When you touch
the heart
PRISONER : It stops beating ?
INTERROGATOR: Perhaps, until you massage it back
to life. (He lights cigarettes for both.} Where did I
learn my trade? I specialised in forensic medicine as
a doctor, and in criminal psychology as a lawyer —
I've got a split personality, only both sides have the
same hobby.
PRISONER: Are we interesting, the criminal classes?
Are we numerous ?
INTERROGATOR: The whole human race.
PRISONER: Yours must be a lucrative practice. All
of us guilty of something., like the warder said
\The Secretary brings the Interrogator the report to sign.]
INTERROGATOR: Oh, thanks. Much good may it do
them. We know you're guilty — what does it matter
to them what you are guilty of?
PRISONER: Quite. What? What did you make me
say then ?
INTERROGATOR: Sorry, just a moment. Stephen, get
66
THE PRISONER
them delivered by messenger right away, would you ?
And don't forget the medical report.
[The Secretary takes the papers and goes.}
I beg your pardon ? What were you saying ?
PRISONER: I was admitting quite casually to a sense
of guilt.
INTERROGATOR: My dear fellow, we were joking.
You'll be getting persecution mania
PRISONER: Well. If a man in gaol isn't entitled to
feel persecuted I should like to know who is. Now
what?
INTERROGATOR: Do sit down. These tiresome forms.
..." Attitude of the prisoner to the working man,"
it says here. Your first curacy was in a working-class
parish, wasn't it ?
PRISONER: Saint Nicholas.
INTERROGATOR: Saint Nicholas? Oh, I know that
district well. Rowdy political meetings in working
men's clubs when I was a student. Very progressive
and matey we all felt, going to them — a long way
from old Hanetau by the library fire! So you were
a curate at Saint Nicholas ?
PRISONER: The church strategically dominating the
Central Railway Viaduct in the Police Department's
map.
INTERROGATOR: Noisy, wasn't it? I expect the
trains punctuated your sermons as they used to do
my speeches. D'you know, it always sounded to
me as if I didn't mean what I said.
PRISONER: Didn't you?
INTERROGATOR: Oh, I had intellectual conviction,
but — talking to those men — I never got the ring of it
into my voice. I wanted to hold them, but I knew
I didn't belong among them. No, the background for
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
me, the manipulation of truth, not the preaching of it.
PRISONER : The manipulation of truth 1
INTERROGATOR: Well, you yourself felt sick, preach
ing to a houseful of empty stomachs : " Thou shalt
not steal ".
PRISONER: That's an easier text for the poor than
for the rich — after all, they wouldn't be poor if they
didn't practise it.
INTERROGATOR: And you presumably practised it
yourself.
PRISONER: Why do you say that? What makes you
say that ?
INTERROGATOR: The habit of repartee, I think. Does
it matter? Were you living a lie in that pulpit of
yours? In all spiritual pride, my friend, you're
trying to hoodwink me. When did you steal?
Years before ?
PRISONER (laughing a little) : Not so very long before.
I was very young in that pulpit.
INTERROGATOR: What was it? Chocolate at school.
No, I've got it: soap!
PRISONER: Books. Books for those exams. Books,
and paper, and pencils
INTERROGATOR: You poor little devil.
PRISONER: No. I used to look down into those faces.
It was in the bad days of unemployment. The faces
of the women mostly — women who weren't stealing
the things their men and their children needed.
INTERROGATOR: You'd needed the books.
PRISONER: Ambition, not need.
INTERROGATOR: Ambition's a hunger.
PRISONER: Besides
INTERROGATOR: What besides?
PRISONER: I — used to take the best. The thick,
shiny paper, and the pencils out of the threepenny
tray.
68
THE PRISONER
INTERROGATOR: And be damned in splendid earnest!
But surely you'd " confessed " all that off your
conscience by then ?
PRISONER: Oh, yes. Besides, I found there was no
need to see the faces. You could look between them.
INTERROGATOR : Do you never look into the eyes of
the people ?
PRISONER: Now? Always. One must learn to do
these things.
[The 'phone on the extra desk rings.]
INTERROGATOR: Blast! Excuse me. (He goes to
answer //.) Hullo. . . . Yes, speaking. . . . Yes.
General, I dictated a report this morning, it'll be
on its way to you. . . . Still in the diagnosis stage.
. . . You may remember that when you tried to
rush it for the last international crisis, you very nearly
looked the most conspicuous ass. . . . Certainly
the prisoner's here, I'm in the middle of an interroga
tion — where do you expect him to be ? No, I fancy
he's asleep, he has a gift that way. ... Not at all.
Good day, General. . . .
[He hangs up and goes over to the Prisoner who is asleep.
He looks at his watch and sighs. He takes the sponge and
squeezes water over his own wrists, then holds it to the
hack of the Prisoner' V neck.']
Talking in your sleep !
PRISONER : What did I say ?
INTERROGATOR: Childhood — something about your
mother.
PRISONER: What was it?
INTERROGATOR: Mm — hm. I didn't catch it. I'm
half asleep myself. Come on, we'll have to keep each
other up.
ACT TWO, SCENE THREE
[He takes the "Prisoner's arm and starts to stroll with him,
arm in arm, round the room.'}
INTERROGATOR: Tell me how you climbed from a
curate in the slums to the dizzy heights in Church and
State you occupy today.
PRISONER: Today?
\They both laugh and the Interrogator presses the 'Prisoner' *s
arm as they stroll.}
INTERROGATOR: Well, not today, perhaps — but re
cently; and tomorrow, again. Why not?
Curtain
Scene 3
Scene: The Interrogation R.OOW.
Time: Night.
The Prisoner y in shirt and trousers and looking dishevelled,
is struggling hysterically with the Interrogation ILoom
Warder. The Interrogator watches.
PRISONER: I'll kill him— let me get at him.
[In obedience to the uplifted hand of the Interrogator, the
Warder is careful only to restrain him. 'Eventually his
struggles weaken and the Warder lowers him, exhausted,
into the Interrogator's chair, where he lies shaking and
gasping^
70
THE PRISONER
INTERROGATOR: Medical Officer, at once.
[The Warder glances in doubt at the Prisoner \]
No, that's all right. And remind him of the regula
tions about speaking before he comes in — with my
compliments, of course, my compliments.
^The Warder goes. The Interrogator goes to the house
''phone into which he speaks quietly -.]
Three one. . . . Stephen. . . . Well, blast it, go
and wake him, and tell him forty-eight hours. I
warned them to have everything standing by, and
then I can only guarantee them twenty-four hours
to play with. Is the relay of stenographers laid on.
. . ? Right.
[He hangs up and goes to the Prisoner. He feels Ms pulse.]
Come now, pull yourself together. It's only that
you've been talking for over fifteen hours. The
prison doctor's coming.
PRISONER: I can't keep watch any more.
INTERROGATOR: No need to be on guard any more.
We're beyond that, aren't we? We're so close, you
and I, you might as well try to be on guard against
yourself.
PRISONER: Feel friendship and talk, and something
knows I mustn't. . . . Have I said anything?
INTERROGATOR: No. . . .
PRISONER: About the Church?
INTERROGATOR: We're only talking about you.
forget the rest. Just about you — you and me. Now,
here's the doctor, you've just been a little faint
\The Warder shows in the Doctor. The Interrogator, behind
ACT TWO, SCENE THREE
the Prisoner's back, lays a finger on his lips. The Doctor
nods briskly and goes to the Prisoner, who submits limply.
The Doctor feels Ms pulse, looks at his eyes.]
Justfaintness, talking too long. The doctor will give
you something. That's it.
[The Doctor takes something from the case the Warder
gives him and fills a glass.]
PRISONER: Not faintness. I — lost control. Warder.
I hope I didn't hurt you. Something I had to hold
off. ...
INTERROGATOR (to Doctor): The last kick — poor
brute. I know the signs. (To Prisoner.} That's
right. It's all right. Drink this.
\The Doctor holds the glass to him?[
PRISONER : No, nothing in this room.
INTERROGATOR: Oh, come on, now! It's all right.
Look — (He drinks from the glass and jives it to the
'Prisoner). The things I have to drink for you.
Filthy, isn't it? That's right.
[The Interrogator jerks bis head quickly to the Doctor
who makes the gesture of one writing a report. The In
terrogator nods impatiently and the Doctor goes. The
Warder sits by the door. The Interrogator starts a
gesture of dismissal and then turns it into one indicating
absolute quiet.}
Better? You need someone to talk-to-yourself to,
when yourself won't listen. Why do you hate your
self. I know you and I don't hate you.
PRISONER: You must.
THE PRISONER
INTERROGATOR: I am supposed to, but I can't. You
don't love your fellow men, do you?
PRISONER: No.
INTERROGATOR: Is that it? Or something deeper?
You've no delight in your God, have you ? Nor ever
had?
PRISONER: No. *
INTERROGATOR: Is that why you hate yourself?
Your heroism in the Resistance was only to convince
yourself, to prove yourself to yourself. Why should
you need to ? What must you keep proving ?
PRISONER: The flesh not weak
INTERROGATOR: What are you ashamed of ? Women?
PRISONER: A priest.
INTERROGATOR: Even so?
PRISONER: No.
INTERROGATOR: Well, before — before
PRISONER: Thank God, no.
INTERROGATOR: Not round the corners of your
mind. Not alive, pulsing in the dark, not veiled,
drowned, buried, waiting?
PRISONER: No.
INTERROGATOR: You think your life was a facade.
What were you hiding? Why were you ashamed?
PRISONER: Unclean flesh.
INTERROGATOR: Yes. Yes?
PRISONER: My body of her flesh and blood.
INTERROGATOR : Your mother.
PRISONER: Filth of her filth. I, me, at the root of it,
her lust.
INTERROGATOR: Behind the Fish Market. A prosti
tute?
PRISONER: Not even for money. A whore. Not
even for money, for lust.
INTERROGATOR: Yes.
PRISONER: Whelped in the kennel. Naked lust. Oh,
73
ACT TWO, SCENE THREE
I put a scholar's gown on it, wrapped it in a cassock,
pride to cover it, and then success to justify the
pride, something, always, to prove — what wasn't
there.
INTERROGATOR: Not there. No love?
PRISONER: Sentimental fools ! There's no love in the
kennel! Desire, seduction, and a quick satisfaction,
and on to the next. There's no love in some of us!
Don't you think I'd have found it if there were ?
INTERROGATOR : Heredity. You were afraid
PRISONER: Oh, that cant phrase. Heredity. What
else is my flesh but her flesh, where else did I get this
crawling body that I'm buried in? All right, en
vironment ! The environment of a bed in the other
room, listening to new feet blundering up the staircase,
the whispering and the smothered laughter, and the
bedsprings screeching beyond the stupid flowered
paper on the wall! Remembering the smell of the
woman who bent over you to try and kiss you good
night. Where, before I was born or after it, would I
find a heart ?
INTERROGATOR : Surely you proved to yourself
PRISONER: Chastity, temperance, fortitude — but no
love. I can serve men, or God, or my country, but
I can't care. Open it up, tear it open, look for a heart
— there's nothing there I
[He collapses, exhausted and fainting. The Interrogator
stands looking down at himl\
INTERROGATOR (standing f or a moment, steeling himself
for the final stage — he does not move or touch the 'Prisoner.
A.t last he takes the jug and dashes water over him} : You
fake, you empty husk of a man. Not so much alive
in you as a maggot.
\The Prisoner rises, swaying.]
74
THE PRISONER
The National Monument ! The hero of the Resistance
who outwitted the Gestapo for his own vanity, the
martyr for the Church who is only resisting for his
own pride.
PRISONER: Yes.
INTERROGATOR: His Eminence the Cardinal, the
Papal Chaplain, who flies to Rome on the high
international business of the Church, the diplomat,
the wit, the cultivated man of the world, is that you,
Eminence? That's what you've shown the world,
that, and the great preacher with the voice of £re
and ice, who could fill your huge Cathedral to the
doors with intellectuals and society women and the
sweepings of the slums — Yes, you've lived a good
life, haven't you ? For the greater glory of you, for
the making of a Prince of the Church, for the proving
and perfecting of the miserable little bastard of a
backstreet drab who smelt of fish.
PRISONER: Forgiveness.
INTERROGATOR: Did you preach forgiveness, up
there in your fine pulpit, to those hungry faces with
the eyes you didn't dare look down into, forgiveness
for those that stole?
PRISONER : Of course
INTERROGATOR: But with restitution. Didn't they
have to give back what they'd stolen? Mustn't they
make amends and return what they'd taken, poor
devils, before they could be forgiven ? But not you.
You could sin and wallow in the profit of it, you could
steal — you could steal the estimation of the world,
and hug it to yourself to stuff the empty place where
your heart ought to be. You could feed your hungry
vanity with stolen honour and then confess your
pride and be forgiven. You never had to give back
what you stole.
PRISONER: Stolen honour
75
ACT TWO, SCENE THREE
INTERROGATOR: Yes, stolen honour! You know
what you let men think of you and you knew the
cold, proud fake you were, without the capacity for
love of God or man ! What right had you to honour ?
What right?
PRISONER: Restitution. How can you give back
honour ?
\This is the crucial moment for the Interrogator. He pauses
for a moment^ registering now.]
INTERROGATOR : Give it back. Oh — difficult. Deface
the National Monument, pull it down? No, that'd
be suicide, there'd be nothing left.
PRISONER: Nothing? Is there no more to me than
that facade ?
INTERROGATOR: Nothing* Pride. A prig who had
to be respectable — a small man who had to be great
and called it a vocation.
PRISONER: Oh, God. What to do?
INTERROGATOR (pith an effort}-. If you have the
courage, tear down the facade, throw them back
their dream opinion of you, rid yourself of it, be
yourself at last.
PRISONER: How?
INTERROGATOR: Tell them, as you've told me. But
it'd take more than courage to do that.
PRISONER : It would take humility.
INTERROGATOR: A majestic splendour of humility.
PRISONER (doubtfully) : Splendour ?
INTERROGATOR (quickly}: To end the splendour.
Abasement.
PRISONER: Smash it, shatter it, grind it in the dust!
Oh, but I've loathed it so!
INTERROGATOR: You'll do it?
\The door opens quietly and the Secretary comes in, still
THE PRISONER
disarrayed from a hasty call. The Interrogator grips some
thing to control his emotion and signs to him to go. The
Secretary, agitated but insistent, gives him a piece of paper,
n^hich the Interrogator, shaking with tension, reads. The
Prisoner suddenly kneels.]
(Whispering.} Twenty-four hours. I warned them to
have everything laid on.
[The Secretary whispers in his ear.}
They've got to be ready for the public hearing. Tell
them that. It's in my grasp, and I shall be able to
hold it for twenty-four hours.
[He indicates the Prisoner, who kneels, his hands over his
ears, trying to concentrate his swimming thoughts. The
Secretary whispers again. The Prisoner notices him and
rises.]
PRISONER: Stephen.
[The Interrogator takes the Secretary by the arm and
urges him out of the room, closing the door softly. The
Prisoner^ trying to get his bearings^
That was Stephen. You have to be careful in here
not to say
INTERROGATOR (pitching on the interrupted note}: But
you could hardly do that to your reputation, could
you — to yourself?
PRISONER : I mustn't sign the confession.
INTERROGATOR : No, not the confession.
PRISONER: Not harm the Church or the people
INTERROGATOR: We've given that up, remember?
It's only you we're talking about now, nothing to
77
ACT TWO, SCENE THREE
do with politics, you and the honour of your soul. A
different confession about nothing but you.
PRISONER: A true confession?
INTERROGATOR: Yes, a true confession, that you
could sign.
PRISONER : That I must sign.
INTERROGATOR (breathes a longsigh but still goes carefully) :
What must you say ?
PRISONER: All that I've told you. The mockery of a
man.
INTERROGATOR: Will they ever believe it?
PRISONER : There's no restitution if I can't make them
believe it.
\The Interrogator signs behind the Prisoner's back to the
Warder, who switches on the recording apparatus.}
INTERROGATOR: What shall you say ?
PRISONER : That I am the son of my mother, and my
whole life a fantasy to hide me. Write that I lied
my way through school and stole my way to a
scholarship. Write that I became a priest for my own
glory and that all my service was to my own spiritual
pride. Write that I never had any love — love of the
heart — for God. I never had a heart. 'Ehe only
prayer I ever prayed from — almost from — a heart
was " Lord, I believe; help Thou my unbelief."
INTERROGATOR: And the people? The faces below
the pulpit ?
PRISONER: Write that I posed and postured for them.
I ate when they were hungry. Tell them that when
they called me in the night my first thought was anger.
A woman dying in child-birth, uselessly, of a dead
child, a man on the railway siding hanging mangled
and screaming in the jaws of a crane, and my first
thought when they woke me to go to them was anger,
78
THE PRISONER
hatred of their stupidity and their suffering. I prayed
for forgiveness, but I knew I had no heart.
INTERROGATOR: And in the war
PRISONER: Write that I betrayed them.
[The Interrogator is terrified of saying anything^ but he
needs more. He whispers.]
INTERROGATOR: That you betrayed them. How?
PRISONER: Write that, just that. Write that I
betrayed them, and finish the mockery for ever.
\The Interrogator waits to see if any more mil come, and
then deliberately breaks the atmosphere. He stretches and
yawns]
INTERROGATOR: Oh well, it's late. Soon be dawn.
(He laughs.} It won't do, you know. Put like that,
they'll never believe it.
PRISONER: Why do you laugh ? Why do you say that ?
INTERROGATOR: Because you don't believe it, not
one sanctimonious word of it.
PRISONER: I spoke in all sincerity.
INTERROGATOR: "In all humility!" I know. Not
you! You know if I wrote that down it would read
like the death-bed of a saint. Still at it, my dear
humbug. If we put that out, and shot you at dawn,
you'd be canonised within a year; well, twenty-five
years, or however long it takes.
PRISONER: What can I do?
INTERROGATOR: Use your wits, man! There's only
one line in all that weak rigmarole that would
convey the truth.
PRISONER: What was that?
INTERROGATOR : That in the war you betrayed them.
PRISONER: Not true.
79
ACT TWO, SCENE THREE
INTERROGATOR: Yes, that's why.
PRISONER: No, no, that's madness!
INTERROGATOR: It's a mad world. Tell them the
truth, and It only gleams like another false facet of
virtue in your shining humility. Do you really want
to start again as low as the gutter you came from ?
Tell them you betrayed them in the war. That they
can understand.
PRISONER: The men who worked under me — I
betrayed them to the Gestapo. The links with the
Allies, the chain that led out of the country. In the
end I answered all they wanted to know. (He looks
at and feels his bands.} Oh, God, am I doing right at
last?
INTERROGATOR : Have you the courage to go through
with this ?
PRISONER: To sign this
INTERROGATOR : Sign ? They'll not believe it.
PRISONER: My signature?
INTERROGATOR: Faked, they'll say.
PRISONER: Recorded — —
INTERROGATOR: You know what can be said your
self about recordings ?
PRISONER: In court.
INTERROGATOR: In the public court? Before the
judge and jury, the people, and foreign journalists?
PRISONER: Yes.
INTERROGATOR: Could you do that?
PRISONER : I must.
INTERROGATOR: It couldn't be done.
PRISONER: It must be done.
INTERROGATOR (elaborately): The Government can
hardly be expected to put on so elaborate a show as a
State trial just to restore the honour of your immortal
soul.
80
THE PRISONER
PRISONER: Don't play with me, don't mock me. It
must be done.
INTERROGATOR: You know, there is one way
PRISONER: What?
INTERROGATOR : Throw in enough politics to leaven
the loaf, and they'll eat it.
PRISONER : Politics ? I mustn't confess, sign anything,
I mustn't — I mustn't
INTERROGATOR : The last shred of pride that spoils it
all! You mustn't weaken, you mustn't fail, you, so
certain of yourself when you arrived, with your wit
and your sacred hands, and your insufferable conceit!
PRISONER (begins to laugh} : That's it, isn't it ? Let them
see rrie in the weakness of the flesh and the meanness
of the spirit, that will be degradation, that will be
shame enough to burn the past and come through the
flames, free.
INTERROGATOR : That is hysteria.
PRISONER: No. No, calm. Forgive me a moment.
INTERROGATOR: No hysteria, and no hypnosis. I
can't hypnotise you into saying anything you think
wrong, remember that. It must be your will, not
mine. Do you believe that this is what you must go
through with?
PRISONER : Only this way. Not drugged, nor hypno
tised, nor hysterical. Sane and whole, and with the
courage — with the grace of God — to make restitution
in my own way. Deface the monument.
[The Interrogator signs to the Warder > wbo brings the
carafe and glass. The Interrogator pours water and drops
into it the contents of a capsule.}
INTERROGATOR : You must rest now. It's a long time
since you slept properly. You'll sleep well, and when
you wake you'll walk straight into the court and shed
the burden of your life.
81
ACT TWO, SCENE THREE
[He gives the glass to the Prisoner, whose band goes to his
head in the effort to concentrate^
PRISONER: You — you always taste it first.
\The Interrogator hesitates. The Warder makes a
movement^
INTERROGATOR: Warder. Tell my secretary to carry
on with the programme. The time factor remains as
I said. Everything is in order for an hour or two.
PRISONER: You must taste it.
INTERROGATOR: Of course. Here's to you, my friend.
[He toasts him and takes a long sip from the glass.]
\The Prisoner drinks after him, thirstily. The Warder
takes his arm and raises him> and with a small formal bow
to the Interrogator goes out on the Warder's arm.
The Interrogator covers his face with his hands. After a
moment he gets to his desk> lowers himself into his chair
and with the abandonment of exhaustion^ head on arms,
falls asleep.]
Curtain
ACT THREE
Scene i
Scene: The Cell.
Time: Night.
The shutters have been removed from the window, the over
head practical tight is not on, and moonlight streams in.
The 'Prisoner, fully dressed, lies motionless on his bed.
After a pause,, the cell Warder appears, opening the door
quietly.
WARDER: You awake? (He switches the light on and
goes over to the bed, sees the Prisoner's eyes are open and
follows their direction?) Yes. . . . Mm? Nothing up
there that I can see. Let you have your sleep out,
after the court. And you've slept, haven't you?
Five good meals you've missed.
[Warder goes out, leaving the door ajar, and comes back
with a fray.]
It's eight o'clock, if you're interested. No reason
why you shouldn't know the time o' night now, is
there ? — what's left of it, eh ? (He laughs cheerfully?)
Pity to let it slip by, eh, and wake up and find it all
gone. (He arranges food on table?)
PRISONER {forcing himself to it) : What did the news
papers say?
WARDER: Whool Talk about headlines ! "Appalling
Confession ", and your name and photograph, and
hardly any room for anything else in the papers.
PRISONER : I must sec them.
8?
ACT THREE, SCENE ONE
WARDER: There I Day after the sentence, every
criminal, nearly, I've ever known, first they sleep the
round of the clock, like you done, then they wake up
to their dinner and they ask me one question : " What
do they say about me in the papers ? " Murderers,
specially; and specially the rough ones, the ones
that did it messy: " What do they say about me in
the papers ? " Proud, you see, and wanting everyone
to know.
PRISONER: Everyone to know. . . .
WARDER: Oh? . . . Takes all sorts to make a
world. Cheer up. You want to eat you know. Oh,
now you're not going to go on hunger strike, for
heaven's sake ? You politicals !
PRISONER: I am condemned to die, thank God.
WARDER: Yes, but you'll die the way it's laid down
in the regulations; you just remember that! None
of your hunger-striking, nor bits of jagged iron
opening an artery and blood all over your beautiful
cell floor. You wait for the proper time and place,
my lad, and eat up now. . . . Hey! Dinner! Tell
you what, I can't give you the papers to read, but
there's nothing says I can't tell you bits out of them,
is there?
PRISONER: Tell me
WARDER: Dinner first.
PRISONER: I — I can't
WARDER: You eat a bit, I read a bit. How's that?
[Tfo Prisoner makes a pretence of intending to eat. Having
once brought himself to the pitch of facing //, he is in an
agony to know. With maddening deliberation, the Warder
produces from an inner pocket of his uniform a newspaper
folded into an almost impossibly small compass ^ which he
opens with great care.]
PRISONER : Please, I must know what they've said
THE PRISONER
[With equal deliberation he produces a pair of spectacles
from another pocket , and a handkerchief to polish them
with from a third.}
Now — now ! And you get on with that good dinner.
[He begins to read with the broken rhythm and false
emphasis of the unaccustomed reader^
66 Trial Reveals Church's True Role "— " Loathsome
Confessions by Traitor Priest" — and then there's
your picture. . . . Not very like, more proud-
looking. An old one, I suppose.
PRISONER: Please
WARDER : Yes. Well, it says : " Speaking well and
clearly, he assured the court he had been subjected to
no drugs or torture, and made his confession of his
own free will."
PRISONER: Yes, yes, but what does it say I said?
WARDER : " He admitted to personal crimes and vices,
in wriich he had wallowed from childhood — detailed
transcription page four "
PRISONER: No, no, about the Church. Read on
there.
WARDER: Oh, here's a bit I wanted to ask you: " It
has shocked patriotic Catholics even more to learn
that since the Liberation he has been receiving for
his organisation large sums from abroad to foment
sabotage and unrest; and he admitted " — here's the
bit — " that he had been personally guilty of esp —
espyo »
PRISONER: Espionage.
WARDER: Yes. Now, what's that, eh?
PRISONER: Spying.
WARDER (disappointed}-. Oh, is that all, Here, you're
not playing fair, get on with it. ... There's another
85
ACT THREE, SCENE ONE
headline, here — "Worst blow Churches have ever
received." Good for you!
PRISONER: Have they printed a denial from the
Bishops ?
WARDER: Well, no one would hardly believe them,
would they? I mean, you said yourself you weren't
drugged nor hypnotised.
PRISONER: Anything from the Vatican — from the
Pope?
WARDER: Yes, he said something about it was a sin
to tamper with the minds of men; and the paper says
he's a fine one to talk about that! . . . Morning
papers, evening papers — never seen anything like it.
Foreign papers, too — it has bits out of them, trans
lated, tonight. The things you told 'em! You're a
proper priest, all right, eh ?
[The Warder sees the untasted food.~\
Hey! Now that's too bad — I trusted you.
PRISONER: You! (He gives a sobbing laugh.} Yes, you
did, too. I'm sorry. Yes, I must live till the judgment
is executed. (He tries to eat.)
WARDER: Swallow all right ?
PRISONER : I could drink, I think. (He drinks.)
WARDER: That's right. Had a boy in here once,
couldn't swallow a thing. Killed three sailors with a
hand-spike in a fight in the docks, but a nice quiet
kid, not spiteful or out to make trouble for you.
Just couldn't seem to swallow. Nervous stricture, the
doctor said. Hanging, see ? But I soon settled him.
" They've changed your sentence, lad," I said,
" they're bringing in an electric chair, like in
America." Ate like a wolf after that: (He moves
downstage of pillar?) only standing up, see? (He sits
on pillar seat.) That's right, take your time.
86
THE PRISONER
[From of stage, the sound of the Prisoner's own voice is
heard approaching.}
PRISONER'S VOICE (recorded): Yes, it's a free and
spontaneous confession. I believe it's the only way,
I have got to make the world believe I did these
things.
[The Warder looks round at the Prisoner who thinks that
he alone hears the voice}
PRISONER (whispering): Madness. . . .
PRISONER'S VOICE : You must believe the worst that I
can find to say.
PRISONER: No — no!
[The door is opened and the Interrogation ILoom Warder
enters carrying a portable radio set. He comes down the
stairs leaving the door open}
ANNOUNCER'S VOICE: The Prisoner's voice, as you
can hear from that recording, was clear and normal.
WARDER (rising) : Thought I heard something funny.
[The Interrogation Room Warder goes to bed, puts radio
down and sits to opposite prompt of it}
ANNOUNCER'S VOICE: We will now play back some
other passages from the official recordings of this
trial, which has shaken the misplaced faith of
millions in this country and abroad.
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: You have not been a good
priest, you say?
WARDER: Here, shut the door. (The Interrogation Room
Warder goes up and shuts the door., then sits on the third
step down. The cell Warder crosses to bed and sits beside
the radio.}
87
ACT THREE, SCENE ONE
There's nothing about this in the regulations — it's
never happened before. Listen!
PRISONER'S VOICE: No. A bad priest.
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE : Will you tell the court what
you mean by that ?
PRISONER'S VOICE: My whole life was a He, a show.
I was a fake from beginning to end. A fraud on the
people.
WARDER: You. Like it?
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: Are you just saying that out
of saintly humility ?
WARDER: Him.
PRISONER'S VOICE: No I No! I stole — I stole money
they gave the Church for the poor
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE : Did you use the information
you learned in the confessional for blackmail ?
PRISONER'S VOICE: Yes. Yes.
PRISONER: Oh, my people. . . . (He rises, leans
against wall down left, and then crosses below table to
down right.)
WARDER: That'll teach them to trust the priests, eh?
ANNOUNCER'S VOICE: There was an outcry in the
public gallery at this point
[As the Prisoner crosses to right, he reaches as if about to
be sick. The Interrogation Room Warder, seeing the obvious
emotion of the Prisoner, indicates it to the Warder '.]
WARDER: Eh? ... Oh. Get the doctor. He's in
Number Four.
\The ^Loom Warder hurries out, having door open. In
watching the Prisoner the Warder forgets about the radio.}
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: Do you confess that under
the Occupation you betrayed the names of Resistance
workers ?
THE PRISONER
PRISONER'S VOICE: I confess that.
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: Do you confess that you
gave the Gestapo everything they wanted
PRISONER'S VOICE: I confess that.
[T&e Prisoner begins to chant during these lines, and con
tinues while the voices on the radio go on, as emotionlessly as a
priest in church.]
PRISONER: Confiteor Deo Omnipotent} \ beatae Mariae
semper vigini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beafo Joanni
Eaptistae, sanctis A.postohs Petro et Paulo, omnibus
sanctis, et vobis fratres quia peccavi nimis cogitations,
verbo, et opero
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: Did you betray the under
ground links with the Allies in return for immunity
for Church rights and property ?
PRISONER'S VOICE: I did.
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE : Did you assist the enemy in
laying traps for Allied parachutists bringing arms and
equipment for the Resistance ?
PRISONER'S VOICE: I did.
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: Why do you confess this
now?
PRISONER: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa
PRISONER'S VOICE: To make amends.
]The Prisoner faints clean away.]
WARDER: Hell!
[He pulls the Prisoner on the floor to a half-sitting position
against the column, so as to press his head down towards
his knees. The voices on the radio continue]
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: And since the end of the
war, have you received funds from abroad ?
ACT THREE, SCENE ONE
PRISONER'S VOICE: Yes. To pay for. . . . (He
hesitates?)
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: Sabotage? Bribery?
PRISONER'S VOICE: Yes.
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: Rigging the stock markets?
PRISONER'S VOICE: Yes.
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: Do you confess that you
have attempted the corruption of the National Army ?
PRISONER'S VOICE: Yes. I confess that.
\The Prisoner is beginning to come round.]
WARDER: That's right. Come on, now — (He moves
downstage around the prisoner and collects the blanket which
he threw down at the foot of the stairs as he got uf)+
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: Do you confess that you
have paid Catholic officers and men in responsible
positions to convey secret information to you for
transmission abroad ?
PRISONER'S VOICE: Yes I have done that,
\The Prisoner is moaning and muttering incoherently. The
Warder holds the two ends of the blanket firmly round the
Prisoner 'y so that his arms are pinioned I\
WARDER: Where's that bloody doctor
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: Do you admit that you
have made such men impossible to trust? All men
of your way of thought impossible to trust?
PRISONER'S VOICE f All men like me are impossible
PRISONER j^to trust.
[As soon as the Prisoner has the blanket wrapped round
him^ the Doctor enters^ followed by the ^.oom Warder,, who
haves the door open and then stands between the stairs and
the bed. The Doctor goes to the table ^ puts his bag down>
places the tray on the chair and then prepares an injection^
90
THE PRISONER
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: Do you tell the Court that
with absolute conviction and of your own free will
unconstrained ?
PRISONER'S VOICE: Yes. I do.
WARDER: Crazy. Give him a shot, or something.
[The Doctor., having filled his syringe^ crosses to the
'Prisoner \ pulls his left trouser leg up to expose the calf, and
then gives him a hypodermic injection^
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: Look round this court.
Look at the judge who represents your country.
Look at the jury who are here to see justice done.
Look out there at the sea of faces in this great hall —
look in those faces — tell them at last the truth about
yourself: have you betrayed your people ?
PRISONER'S VOICE: I have betrayed them.
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: The world is listening,
outside. Tell the world. Treachery ?
PRISONER'S VOICE: Treachery.
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: Corruption?
PRISONER'S VOICE: Corruption.
INTERROGATOR'S VOICE: A whole life of lies?
PRISONER'S VOICE: Yes, yes, yes!
\The Doctor returns to the table and as he puts away
his hypodermic syringe he notices the radio as if conscious
of if for the first time. He goes to switch it off, but turns
the wrong knob which only increases the volume. A.S he is
looking for the correct knob> the Interrogator enters. The
Doctor switches off the radio. The Interrogator moves to
left of the Prisoner who is quite motionless. When he
speaks., his voice is toneless^
PRISONER : Now that I'm mad I can kill you. There's
no sin, because I'm not responsible, and I can kill you
91
ACT THREE, SCENE ONE
because I know where the chink in your armour is.
It's near your heart.
\The lethargy of the drug holds his limbs immobile^ but in
his imagination he is untrammelled, and thinks that what
he is doing) passionless ly, is what must be done.]
It must be stamped out, that face, that voice, evil — it
must be stifled, with my hands round your throat,
pressing the bubbling pulse under my thumb. (He
struggles uselessly?) You see ? You can't even struggle.
The voice of life goes out of you.
]The Interrogator takes two steps downstage^
(Gently?) Ego absolvo te de pecatis tuis, in nomine Patris,
et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti — Amen.
[The Prisoner falls over in sleep with his head to centre^
INTERROGATOR: Get him up on the bed. (He moves
downstage of the table. To Doctor?) Thanks. I'll have a
word with you about the case later, before he comes
round.
]The Doctor exits up the stairs, and the ILoom Warder
moves the radio on to table. With the R.oom Warder at his
head, and the cell Warder at his feet, the Prisoner is placed
on the bed, his head on the pillow. The Room Warder collects
the blanket which he gives to the cell Warder, and is about
to go up the stairs when the Interrogator stops him.]
(Indicating the radio.] Get that out of here.
[The TLoom Warder takes up the radio and exits., leaving
the door open. The cell Warder covers the Prisoner with
the blanket^
92
THE PRISONER
WARDER: Funny thing. It's always the quiet ones
and you never learn. (Starts to clear up the overturned
furniture and food.)
\The Interrogator sits on the edge of the bed and looks into
the unconscious face of the Prisoner.}
INTERROGATOR: He was broken by a half truth — a
distorted truth. You poor fool, you were too humble.
You believed me when I told you your whole life was
built on pride. A proud man would have been more
sceptical. (Turning to Warder.) What did you make of
him?
WARDER: Me? Guilty.
INTERROGATOR: You'd believe all that confession of
his?
WARDER : Guilty. I knew it. You could see he knew
it. He won't be stuck crazy, will he, sir? I don't
want this, on and off — they'll have to keep him
padded up, I don't want the responsibility.
INTERROGATOR: No, he won't stay mad, poor devil.
Have you ever driven a brilliant mind to pray for
madness ?
WARDER: Me? No. That's psychology, I expect.
Progress ?
INTERROGATOR: Warder — I'm going to have a word
with the doctor, in a minute — will you let him know
if he seems to be in too much pain again ?
WARDER: Pain? There's nothing wrong with him.
INTERROGATOR (giving it up): No. . . . (To himself.)
Nothing that death won't cure.
WARDER : It was seeing you sent him round the bend.
What did you want to come upsetting him for ?
INTERROGATOR: Clinical interest — I thought. I
wanted to see what I'd left of him.
WARDER : Morbid, if you ask me. Like a murderer
93
ACT THREE, SCENE ONE
digging up his favourite corpse to see what it looks
like dead and buried. Well?
INTERROGATOR (revolted} : Well. It's still alive. When
it comes to, it may be able to crawl away into the
relief of drooling idiocy, but I doubt it. Well, it
had to be done. The effect has already been over
whelming.
WARDER: Looks like it. Do you a bit of good, I
suppose, sir.
INTERROGATOR (fiercely): Never mind that! It had
to be done.
WARDER: Yes. . . . Oh, yes.
INTERROGATOR: The mind of man. Reasoning and
creating, and beautiful. Do you know that that's
what you mean by <c God " ?
WARDER : I shouldn't be surprised.
INTERROGATOR (shouting) : Then if you smash it you
must expect to feel guilty of blasphemy !
WARDER: Why not get the doc to give you a shot
of that, sir ? (Indicating the Prisoner.} Do you good.
You want a nice long sleep.
INTERROGATOR: I've slept.
WARDER: So had he.
INTERROGATOR: Did you notice what he said? He
was the only person who could kill me, because he
knew the chink in my armour.
WARDER : Don't worry, we'll keep him locked up.
INTERROGATOR: You're too late. He's got out
already.
Curtain
94
THE PRISONER
Scene 2
Scene: The Cell
Time: Day.
The Prisoner, carefully dressed as in first Act, is kneeling
in prayer, very still. The cell Warder comes in n>itb a tray
piled high with crockery and food. He looks about and
dumps it on the floor and goes out again, leaving the door
ajar. The Prisoner pays no attention. The Warder comes
back with a white tablecloth, which, with an air of enormous
importance, he spreads on the table. The "Prisoner still pays
no attention and the Warder whistles on his fingers. The
"Prisoner looks up, and the Warder displays his cloth.
WARDER : What do you think of that ?
[The Prisoner rises and stands watching the Warder
thoughtfully.}
Double damask. Pattern both sides — see? Clean as
a marriage bed. Never been used. Well, used, but
washed since last time, that's the point. Last time.
. . . Well, you don't want to think o' that, no more
than the bridegroom, do you? Meals and women,
take 'em as they come, one after the other, enough
and not too often, and you won't get indigestion —
or anything else, you hope. Nice, isn't it ?
PRISONER: Beautifully laundered.
WARDER: There now! And that's an expert, mark
you; altar linen, eh ? God, when I was a choirboy,
use the corner of the hem to so much as wipe your
nose and they'd murder you. (He is laying the break-
fast.)
PRISONER; A very — elaborate breakfast.
95
ACT THREE, SCENE TWO
WARDER: 'S right. Appetite?
\Tbe Prisoner turns away.}
PRISONER: I'll try and do it justice.
WARDER: That's the spirit. You'd be surprised, the
amount of waste at these breakfasts. Course, we
finish it up, you know. " Make it kippers," my mate
said. "We're going to eat it — might as well get what
we fancy." " Kidneys," I said. " That'll be his taste."
PRISONER: I like them very much.
WARDER: What did I say! " He'll have what he
fancies," I said, " poor devil. His last taste of life."
(He whips a cover off a dish, and stands by expectantly.)
PRISONER: Kidneys.
WARDER: Can't abide 'em, so don't you bother about
the left-overs. (H* continues to prepare the table.)
PRISONER : You're a good soul.
WARDER: Ho! No, but a job's a job, you got to do it
right. And you've got to go to bed with yourself,
nights, with your mind easy.
PRISONER: What time is the execution?
WARDER: No orders.
PRISONER:- How long, as a rule, after breakfast?
WARDER: Half an hour, maybe. Course, since the
war, with there being so many and nothing done
properly, you can't tell. Go on, sit down, get your
belly full. I don't have nothing to do with executions.
I did the training course, and passed out well, but —
promotion doesn't go by rights, these days. Don't
let your kidneys get cold.
PRISONER: Shall I be allowed a priest?
WARDER: That's a good one! " Shall I be allowed
a priest! " Wait till I tell them that one! Good lad.
You're a good lad, I always said so ... I hate a
man that can't take it with a grin. " Shall I be allowed
THE PRISONER
a priest?" Hocus pokus porcus pie, eh ? We know,
eh? You're a good sort, and I'll miss you — no
trouble, 'you've been — well, hardly. Lord knows
what I'll get in here next time. Eat up.
PRISONER: Would you be allowed to leave me for a
little ? There's no knife, with the food all cut up, and
the crockery's too thick to give a cutting edge if one
broke it. ...
WARDER: Lord, yes, if you like. Squeamish, are you ?
Takes everyone different, but you don't want to
waste those kidneys. Take your time.
[He is going to the door when it opens and the Interrogation
ILoom Warder appears with a note — a pass — which the
cell Warder reads.}
No, he can't! (He reads again.} Oh, well. (To the
Prisoner.)
\The second Warder stands hack with a penetrating sniff.
The Prisoner reacts to the sound. The Interrogator appears
in the doorway. The other Warder goes. The Interrogator
gives the cell Warder an envelope}
INTERROGATOR: Your instructions. Read them out
side.
WARDER: He's having his breakfast, sir. He's got to
have time for a good breakfast. That's civilisation,
and always has been.
INTERROGATOR: Yes, yes . . . outside.
\The Warder shrugs and goes}
Well. (There is no reaction.)
PRISONER : What more can you want of me, now ?
INTERROGATOR: Nothing more.
4 97
ACT THREE, SCENE TWO
PRISONER: No. There would hardly be anything
else. Must we talk. I haven't seen you in the week
since the trial, and now that I hear your voice I find
it hard to forgive my enemies, and I haven't long.
INTERROGATOR: Well. I've got to know this. Have
you made peace with your conscience ?
PRISONER: Does it concern the Government?
INTERROGATOR: No.
PRISONER: To complete the record, scientifically, for
the casebook?
INTERROGATOR: For my own personal satisfaction.
It wouldn't interest you, but some — principles of
mine are involved.
PRISONER: Well, then: yes.
INTERROGATOR: You've forgiven yourself.
PRISONER: Oh, no. But I believe I shall be forgiven.
ee He who will judge us is He who made us."
INTERROGATOR: So you've found here a peace you
never really knew outside. Perhaps you should find
it in your heart to thank me.
PRISONER: The doctor who diagnosed the weakness ?
Perhaps I should.
[He speaks absolutely without interest \ but the Interrogator
misinterprets him.]
Shall I be allowed to see a priest before I die ?
INTERROGATOR : You won't need one.
PRISONER: I beg of you, let me see a priest.
INTERROGATOR: Still so much dignity.
PRISONER: I — had the habit of it. As humbly as you
like; a priest, before I die.
INTERROGATOR: You're not to die.
[Tfo Prisoner is unable to believe he has heard aright.}
No.
PRISONER: I was condemned. I am to be hanged.
98
THE PRISONER
You were in court, you heard the sentence.
INTERROGATOR: It's been commuted.
PRISONER: They couldn't commute it, after what I
said.
INTERROGATOR: They have.
PRISONER: I said Fd plotted madness — to set up a
Council of State with myself at the head, I said — how
could they let me live ?
INTERROGATOR: It's policy.
PRISONER (frightened}: To let me live? No!
INTERROGATOR: Listen. I asked to take over the
business of telling you from the Prison Governor,
I said it was my work to observe rare phenomena, like
the sight of a man being reprieved from a revolting
death.
PRISONER: Oh! (Relaxing with infinite relief. Almost
laughing^l I should have known by now. One last
experiment, give the specimen a whiff of oxygen, and
watch it wriggle on the slide under the microscope.
INTERROGATOR: I was playing at no clinical experi
ments. I thought I could help you to the idea. You
are not to die.
\Tbe Prisoner studies bim and is convinced^
PRISONER: I must. The poor, muddled, fools whose
beliefs I've shattered — they must at least see that I
can die.
INTERROGATOR: The sentence has been commuted.
PRISONER: " Martyrdom." That's what you're afraid
of. You needn't be. No one could make the world
see me as a martyr now. Suicide. That's it, they think
I'll take my own life, so that they can say that I
committed the kst cowardice of all. No ... I
shan't do that, you know.
INTERROGATOR: No. I didn't think you would.
99
ACT THREE, SCENE TWO
PRISONER: No. (He turns away and there is a short
pause while he faces the realisation^) I — had counted on
execution. For me, this is the heavier sentence.
INTERROGATOR : There's more to come.
PRISONER : What is it ? Oh, man, you know me well
enough by now to realize you've told me the worst
of it. Well, what is it to be ? Come on. What is it
to be? Road gangs, oakum, or shall I drain you a
foetid swamp ? What'll you have ?
INTERROGATOR: You're free to go. (Pause) The gates
will be opened. You've only to walk through.
PRISONER : I was mad, at the trial, in a way. And then
that insane fit of hysteria afterwards. Am I mad
after all ? Or asleep. . . ? They say you can't dream
a taste. (He takes something from the table and tries to
eat /*/.) Too dry, my mouth. They couldn't set me
free.
INTERROGATOR: Can't you see? The harm's done,
the object's achieved, but the effect mustn't be
spoiled. Dead, you might be a martyr; imprisoned,
you'd be an enigma; free, sane, whole, walking the
world in the broad light of day, what harm can you
do the Government?
PRISONER: They'd be mad to risk it — what I might
say
INTERROGATOR : That you were talked into it ?
PRISONER: It's another of your tricks. It can't be
true.
INTERROGATOR: Warder! (The Interrogator goes to the
door and raps on it, the Warder comes in. He grins
cheerfully at the Prisoner.)
WARDER: Think of that, eh?
INTERROGATOR : Give me the instructions.
WARDER: That's addressed to me — " Cell Warder
number six ".
INTERROGATOR: Idiot, the Governor and the gate
100
THE PRISONER
warder and half a dozen other people have copies.
Well, give it to the prisoner.
[The Warder gives the paper to the Prisoner who reads it
while the Warder talks.}
WARDER: Oh, want to see it in bkck and white, eh?
Shook me, I don't mind telling you.
[The lack of reaction from the Prisoner penetrates}
(To Interrogator^) Takes 'em different, you know, sir.
Knew one once went out of his mind when the
reprieve came. Straight jacket. You couldn't help
laughing. " Fd sooner be hanged any day of the
week," I said to my mate, " than look such a bloody
damn fool as that, floundering about and squeaking
like a bat, in a straight jacket.'* Couldn't help
laughing. Sooner be hanged.
INTERROGATOR: Get out. Go on — outside.
WARDER: This here is my cell, sir. Number six.
INTERROGATOR: Get out.
WARDER: Amachers ! (He goes, closing the door.}
PRISONER: How can they risk it? They won't for
long.
INTERROGATOR: Don't fool yourself, there's no hope
there. You're no danger to them. What could you
say?
PRISONER: My mother ! That you used my
mother.
INTERROGATOR: Her own doctor sent her to the
Cancer Hospital some time before you were arrested.
You — hadn't kept in very close touch, had you?
PRISONER: Is that true?
INTERROGATOR: Yes.
PRISONER: Has she the disease?
101
ACT THREE, SCENE TWO
INTERROGATOR: They think not.
PRISONER: Thank God.
INTERROGATOR: For her sake, or yours.
PRISONER: Always the expert. For hers. I have more
sympathy than I had with human weakness.
INTERROGATOR: But — you see? Nothing you say
can harm the Government, it's even to their ad
vantage to have you set free.
PRISONER : On what grounds ?
INTERROGATOR: In recognition of your organising
the resistance in the early years of the war. They will
say that they believe you were only acting under your
Church's orders, afterwards. They've drawn your
sting. You can go.
PRISONER: It's true, then.
INTERROGATOR : It's policy. There's nothing you can
do.
PRISONER : You devils. Out there, like Cain, branded ;
to live, to crawl on through life dragging out the
scandal, trailing the offence. No !
INTERROGATOR: Listen
PRISONER: Death's easily come by, you mean, out
side. It'll hang on every bush, it could fall out of any
window, it'll be laid for me on every table, with the
knife beside the plate. Death — death — just for the
taking up. Always there, and not for me. I had so
eased my mind with the certainty of it, I — can't see
beyond it!
INTERROGATOR: You'll not take your life.
PRISONER: My mother's an old woman. I could live
twenty, thirty years. Yes, it's one thing I never
thought of, it's more terrible than I could have
thought of. Yes, I see.
[The Interrogator -produces a revolver from an inner
pocket^
102
THE PRISONER
INTERROGATOR: You flew at me once before. I can
pretend to call to the warder for help as I fire. Do
you want to pray ?
\The 'Prisoner looks at him with eager gratitude.}
PRISONER: You'd do it? (After a moment's struggle
with himself ^ with a cry of pain.} Oh, to tempt me to
cheat with death!
INTERROGATOR : Do you want to pray ?
PRISONER: I — must not — ask you to do murder.
You're not offering me martyrdom. You're offering
me escape. I've accepted the heavier sentence.
\The Interrogator slowly lowers the gun.\
INTERROGATOR: I'd shoot a dog to put it out of
such misery; and I couldn't kill you. You're entitled
to your hell. What is it? Have I found a soul in
you? What is it? When I saw you after the trial,
trying to scream yourself mad, I was sick with
loathing of what I'd done to you; I told myself it was
reaction from the strain. But I was right; it shouldn't
have been done. Not the lie itself— we needed the
lie, it's done good — but the twisting and breaking of
your spirit. We had no right — no cause however just
can have the right to tamper with the mind of a
man. Are you listening to me?
PRISONER: Yes. Yes, talk. I need the time.
INTERROGATOR: I should console you, surely?
You've shown me I've a power I daren't use again.
What is it — your courage now, or your weakness
then? Perhaps it's both, perhaps it's man — that
anything so frail can be so brave. . . . You did find
out my weakness, didn't you ?
PRISONER (wearily): Humanity?
103
ACT THREE, SCENE TWO
INTERROGATOR: Is that all?
PRISONER: It's enough.
\Tbe door opens and the cell Warder appears, the Secretary
with a sheaf of papers, and the Doctor are at his elbow.]
WARDER: Sorry, sir; medical discharge certificate.
INTERROGATOR : Give it to me.
WARDER: It's the official one, sir. Copy to the
Governor. The doctor, here
INTERROGATOR: Give it to me.
]The Secretary gives him the papers.}
(To Doctor.) It's all right. I'll sign them.
\The Doctor nods and goes, leaving his stethoscope behind.
The Interrogator jerks his head to the Secretary ', to indicate
to him to wait outside, and he and the Warder go out.]
There's something I can do, to lighten it for you.
\He clears a corner of the table, and begins to fill in the
forms.)
PRISONER: How odd that he should think there
could be anything about me you'd need to find out
with a stethoscope.
INTERROGATOR: I hid that revolver. I hid what I
was doing from my own secretary and the prison
staff! Indulging in secret treachery.
PRISONER : It seemed like humanity at the time.
INTERROGATOR: It was treason. What have you done
to me?
PRISONER: That, from you?
INTERROGATOR: I was out of my mind, How could I
let myself be so shaken by pity — by sheer sentiment —
that I risked throwing away the very effect that I'd
104
THE PRISONER,
worked for? God knows, I realized the dangers in
volved. I knew that for success I had to get so close
to you that we would be like two sides of the same
man talking to each other. But I let myself get
trapped into a lunatic weakness for the other side,
till it took over and made me abominate what I'd
achieved.
PRISONER: If you had to do it again, you would. For
you, your cause will always be right.
INTERROGATOR: Yes.
\The Interrogator goes up the stairs to the door, knocks on it
and calls.}
Stephen !
[He returns at once to the right of the chair. The door opens
and the cell Warder lets in the Secretary who hurries to
the. foot of the stairs.}
Stephen, I want you to arrange a meeting for me with
the General at once. Say that I must see him within
the next hour. And have all my keys and important
papers where they can be got at easily, will you? —
And Stephen — watch yourself. There's no need for
you to be mixed up in this.
\The Secretary, after a da^ed moment, goes out.}
I'm resigning my post at the Ministry of Justice.
(He crosses upstage of the chair and looks out of the down
stage window.} You can't be prepared to commit
treason and trust yourself again. The time will come
when they'll have to set people on my staff to watch
me. Rustling through my papers. Tapping my tele
phone. And I shall have to face the fact that they
105
ACT THREE, SCENE TWO
would be justified — that they'll be right. No. I
won't wait for that.
PRISONER : What next — for you, then ?
INTERROGATOR: An end to me, probably, quite
soon. There won't be room for long for a man who's
too — fastidious to trust.
PRISONER : That's your war. Every story is the story
of one man's war. The setting, the battle-field is only
incidental.
INTERROGATOR : You have your religion.
PRISONER: I was never a man to whom religion was
a consolation. I want no consolation. (He moves to
the table and picks up the reprieve?) I wanted the worst,
and they've thought of it — they, or God — thank God.
Well. I'm ready.
]The Interrogator signs the certificate on the table.]
INTERROGATOR: Your discharge certificate of physi
cal and mental health. An appropriate use for my
last official signature.
[He hands the certificate to the Prisoner and steps towards
the stairs. He stops when the Prisoner speaks.]
PRISONER: Thank you. (He pockets the certificate and
the reprieve.) Have you a plain piece of paper ?
[The Interrogator takes a piece of paper from his pocket '.]
(Taking the paper.) He thought I'd like the kidneys.
\The Interrogator goes to the door and exits to find the
cell Warder. The Prisoner takes the lid off the kidney
plate \ and tips the kidneys into the piece of paper. He
just achieves this before the cell Warder enters, followed by
the Interrogator. The ROOM Warder stays at the door.]
1 06
THE PRISONER
WARDER: Ready? You've got a reception committee
and a half out there — mobs of 'em! (He hands the
Prisoner his cross and ring.)
[The Prisoner kisses the cross and puts it on.}
INTERROGATOR: A crowd?
WARDER: Never seen such a crowd. And dead still.
Give you the creeps. (He puts the feriola round the
Prisoners shoulders?) Dead still, all looking this way —
as if they were waiting, sir.
INTERROGATOR : Turn out the prison staff and get that
square cleared at once. Do you understand? I
don't want a living soul in that square in ten
minutes' time.
WARDER: But — there's hundreds of them. You can't
say they're doing any harm, just quite still — as if
they were listening.
INTERROGATOR: Call out the police and have the
pkce cleared.
PRISONER: No. (He puts on the ring)
INTERROGATOR: You can't walk out of here in
broad daylight into that. It's madness.
PRISONER : Don't clear the square. (There is a pause >
then he starts to walk downstage of the table?) You can't
empty the world for me forever. (He turns upstage to
the stairs?) Those are my victims, and my judges, and
my future. (He continues up the stairs and disappears
from sight.)
INTERROGATOR (calling up through the grille) : Open up.
WARDER: It's all open, right through.
[There is a pause. The Warder goes to the table to clear it)
Ah, well, I don't suppose we shall have his room on
our hands for long. . . . (He picks up the kidney
'107
ACT THREE, SCENE TWO
plate.) There, he liked his kidneys ! I knew he would.
(He turns to put the plate on the tray on the bed.) We get
to know about human nature in our profession,
don't we ?
INTERROGATOR: Yes. We do.
Curtain
108
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
by
MOLIEKE
free version by
MILES MALLESON
Copyright 1954 by Miles Malkson
All applications for permission to perform this play,
whether by amateurs or professionals, must be made to
Samuel French Ltd. 26 Southampton Street, Strand,
London, W.C.z. No performance may take place unless
a licence has previously been obtained.
The School for Wives was presented at the Theatre
Royal, Bristol on April 6th, 1954, by the Arts
Council of Great Britain and the Old Vic Trust,
Ltd., with the following cast:
CHRYSALDE Eric Porter
ARNOLPHE Miles Malleson
ALAIN John Warner
GEORGETTE Pat Heywood
AGNES Christine Finn
HORACE Michael M.eacham
ORONTE A.lan Dobie
ENRIQUE Basz! Henson
The play produced by Denis Carey.
Settings designed by Patrick Robertson.
CHARACTERS
ARNOLPHE, a rich man (of about fifty)
CHRYSALDE, his friend
ORONTE, another friend
ENRIQUE, who has been in America
HORACE, Oronte^s son
ALAIN, a countryman ~\ Servants oj
GEORGETTE, a countrywoman j A.rnolphe
AGNES
ACT ONE
A Street Scene in Pans
ACT TWO
Inside The House
ACT THREE
The Same
The action takes place inside and outside a house owned by
Seigneur Arnolphe: in Paris about 1660.
ACT ONE
Scene: A Street in Paris. 1660.
Two men> in middle-age, enter. Arnolphe and CbrjsaMe.
CHRYSALDE: Can I believe my ears ?
You mean to marry her??
ARNOLPHE: Indeed I'm here in Paris for the
wedding.
But a few days, and she will be my wife !
CHRYSALDE: Then let me seize this opportunity —
perhaps the last —
to tell you what I think!
as a friend, my dear good Arnolphe,
as a friend.
For anyone, at any time, to take a wife
is something of a hazard.
But, for j/0# — the risk is terrible \
ARNOLPHE : Doubtless you speak out of your own
experience!
You took the hazard; and you've
learned the risks !
Has your wife made you a laughing
stock ?
Have you the cuckold's horns ?
CHRYSALDE: No. I don't think so!
In any case, Fm not aware of them !
ARNOLPHE: You will be ! Make no doubt of that !
They'll sprout! They'll sprout! —
You have 'em on the brain!
CHRYSALDE : It's always possible I may be made a fool
of—
as you say —
And yet, to me, the biggest fool —
as I see life, my friend —
is he that lets himself be tortured;
tortures himself, and suffers agonies;
ACT ONE
when, in reality, the pain's quite
bearable !
Why turn Misfortune into Calamity ?
But I fear for you.
I give you solemn warning.
Marriage, for you, is a far greater
menace,
than for any other man, throughout the
whole of Paris.
ARNOLPHE : Ridiculous
CHRYSALDE: But true.
And for this reason:
all your life, you have poured scorn
upon your married friends.
When things went wrong with them,
you've laughed; and mocked; and
never spared their feelings.
With reason; or without.
ARNOLPHE: Always with reason.
Is there another city in the world
where husbands suffer such indignities,
and bear their miserable lot with such
humility ?
CHRYSALDE: Oh, you exaggerate!
ARNOLPHE: Indeed I don't!
You are a man with eyes !
Then look about you !
Look!
What do you see ?
There! . . . There's a man making a
fortune. —
And his wife spending it for him. —
But with other men.
There's another!
Smiling and smirking over all the
presents
114
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
that his wife receives.
And believing her,
when she assures him they are hers by
right
because she's such a noble character.
CHRYSALDE: But really
A RNOLPHE : Wait !
There's one who actually dares to doubt
her story
and makes his protest
It does him little good.
Gets himself told that he's insensitive !
Shows a sad lack of trust !
In fact, married to such as he,
anything a woman does is fully justified !
He'd better have held his tongue.
And there's another!
Oh, a fine fellow ! — the pick of all the
bunch 1
Accepts the situation!
And when the lover calls,
loaded with gifts,
opens the door for him, takes his hat and
stick,
and bows him welcome to a happy
home!
Oh these Husbands !
And these Wives! These Women!
Up to every trick !
I know a wife, who takes her husband
into her confidence.
And whispers to him —
all about her luckless would-be lover.
Till the poor oaf pities the other man.
But when his back is turned —
there's no one to be pitied, but himself!
ACT ONE
I know another wife: —
to explain the sums of money that she
spends,
boasts that she wins " at play ".
And her fool husband,
gloating on her gains,
never realises the kind of play !
Look where you will, there's matter for
a laugh.
CHRYSALDE : That's what I mean.
And there your danger lies.
I make no boast of it —
merely I find no mirth in other people's
pain.
I don't exult.
So, should I become a laughing-stock —
the phrase is yours —
maybe they will not laugh.
Even, they might be sorry for me.
But not so with you !
They're waiting for you, man!
Give them the slightest pretext —
ARNOLPHE : But I'll not.
Don't waste your sympathy on me!
There isn't any need.
I've been too clever for 'em.
They'll never get the chance to mock at
me.
I know the risks you speak of; very
well;
and knowing, laid my plans.
This girl, to be my wife, is innocent.
CHRYSALDE: So are they all, at some time in their
lives !
ARNOLPHE: Yes, but she's more than that.
CHRYSALDE: How so?
116
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
ARNOLPHE: She's ignorant.
CHRYSALDE: Of what?
ARNOLPHE: Of everything. She's to be taught by
me.
CHRYSALDE : Taught what ?
ARNOLPHE : The things I'd have her know.
CHRYSALDE: Are you to be a husband, or a school- _
master ?
ARNOLPHE : Something of both !
And my household is to be a school for
wives ! —
You have a charming and a clever wife.
CHRYSALDE : I'm glad you think so !
ARNOLPHE: A clever wife's a very bad investment!
You think you're safe, but never can be
sure.
Indeed a wife who reads and writes
knows more than's good for herl
She can read love-letters —
and w±ite 'em, too !
I shall be well content
if mine can sew and spin,
look to my table,
and can say her prayers.
CHRYSALDE: My God, dear friend, it all sounds very
dull!
A wife who's stupid !
ARNOLPHE: I prefer stupidity that's all my own
to Wit and Beauty that I share with
others.
CHRYSALDE: Ridiculous!
ARNOLPHE : But tTUC ! —
I've seen it all too often!
If a clever woman makes up her mind —
Well, that's the end of it ... or the
beginning !
"7
ACT ONE
They have no Principles.
Except the one that suits them at the
time.
And that they use to put us in the
wrong.
Give me a fool!
CHRYSALDE: I'll say no more.
ARNOLPHE: But you can listen!
I know what I'm about.
Fm rich.
She'll be dependent on me. Absolutely.
And she's very sweet; and loyal;
and looks up to me.
I fell in love with her when she was just
a child,
and quite adorable!
She's an orphan —
or, I presume she is.
Would you believe it:
her parents left her in some woman's
care,
and went abroad;
arranging to send money —
but which never came !
And when I met them first,
the woman, having not a penny of her
own,
was in despair.
And, quite naturally, was overjoyed
when I suggested I should take the
child,
and send her to a Convent.
Which I did.
Giving my instructions to the Nuns,
as to her education —
CHRYSALDE: — or her lack of it!
118
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
ARNOLPHE : The Nuns have sent her back to me,
exactly as I would;
A virgin page — for me to write upon.
A stripling vine — for me to shape its
growth.
CHRYSALDE: She's to be scribbled on,
and tied against a wall —
d'you think she'll like it ?
ARNOLPHE: My dear good fellow, but you miss the
point !
When she has learned what I shall have
to teach,
she'll like what Hike;
enjoy what I enjoy.
There'll be no room for differences;
for quarrels and disputes;
for all the things that spoil the name of
marriage.
Now, d'you see my drift ?
A man who wants a perfect wife,
must make her for himself!
He'll not obtain one any other way.
CHRYSALDE: And when, my dear fellow, can I meet
the girl ?
This Perfect Nothingness !
This lovely empty bowl —
in which you mean to pour your very
self,
creating a personality to be the twin of
yours.
ARNOLPHE : Tomorrow.
You'll sup with us tomorrow !
CHRYSALDE: That's very kind of you.
Indeed, I thank you.
Tomorrow — at<your house.
ARNOLPHE : Not at my house.
119
ACT ONE
Not at the one you know.
CHRYSALDE : What's this ?
ARNOLPHE: My house in Paris is always very full.
People coming and going; to be
entertained;
where she might learn much she is not
to learn.
I keep her to myself. Close. In another
house.
CHRYSALDE: Alone?
ARNOLPHE: With two servants.
Both as simple as she is herself.
This is the place.
[He points to the front door of a house outside of which
they are.]
CHRYSALDE: This? And what's her name?
ARNOLPHE: Agnes! Her name is Agnes; and she
lives here.
And that reminds me!
Here I am not the " Arnolphe " that
you know.
My name is here " La Souche ".
CHRYSALDE: You've changed your name ? Whatever
for?
ARNOLPHE: For reasons of my own: " La Souche "
— you'll not forget ?
CHRYSALDE: " La Souche " — I shall remember.
ARNOLPHE: Here, then, tomorrow!
CHRYSALDE: I can hardly wait.
ARNOLPHE: And you're the only one of all my
friends
I'd trust in such a way.
CHRYSALDE r My good* — now, what's the name?
ARNOLPHE: La Souche.
120
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
CHRYSALDE: My good La Souche, I prize the
compliment.
ARNOLPHE: It's from my heart.
CHRYSALDE : So has its place in mine.
ARNOLPHE: Praise God we met.
CHRYSALDE : I say Amen to that.
(Then, as he turns and goes) The Pompous
Ass!
ARNOLPHE (As he turns to the front door): The Silly
Idiot!
[And with the knob of his stick he knocks on the front door
of the house^\
(Shouting as he knocks) Hullo! Hullo!!
Hullo!!!
[The Lights fade.
szc, which continues, until the Lights come up again , Inside
the house, in a room just the other side of the front door.
Two servants are in the room. Alain, a man, 'who is
busy at the fireplace, and
Georgette, a woman, who Is busy at a birdcage.
At once we hear Arnolphe's knocking and hear his voice.}
ARNOLPHE (of): Hullo! . . . Hullo!! . . . Hullo!!!
[The servants continue what they are doing. A battery of
knocks follows^
ALAIN (to Georgette): Can't you hear ? There's
someone knocking —
open the door.
121
ACT ONE
GEORGETTE: I thought you must be deaf. Open it
yourself.
ALAIN: It's not my place.
GEORGETTE: Nor mine.
ARNOLPHE (calling): Alain! Georgette!
ALAIN : The Master !
GEORGETTE : Quick, man — let him in !
ALAIN (turning back to his fireplace) : I'm busy
with my fire!
GEORGETTE (back to her birdcage) : I have to mind my
sparrow.
ARNOLPHE (off): I'm losing patience! Open!
Open, I say ! !
ALAIN (getting busier than ever) : No getting it to
light!
GEORGETTE (making bird noises into the cage): My
sweet! My pretty sweet!
ARNOLPHE (off): Can't you hear me?
One of you, or both, will pay for this !
\Eotb servants stop what they are doing to listen^
(off} The one of you who doesn't open
this door for me,
Goes without food — and for three days !
[They both scuttle to the door — and collide^
GEORGETTE : Where are you coming to ?
ALAIN: Opening the door.
GEORGETTE: It's not your place. You mind your fire.
ALAIN : The cat'll get your sparrow.
GEORGETTE: We haven't got a cat.
[Another volley of knocks They arrive together at the door,
and throw it open,}
122
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
ARNOLPHE (entering) : Here's a fine welcome ! After
a week away!
Which of you's to blame ?
ALAIN : Not me.
GEORGETTE: Nor me.
ARNOLPHE : Which of you opened it ?
ALAIN: Me.
GEORGETTE: No. Me.
ALAIN : We opened it together.
ARNOLPHE : Enough of this. . . . Well ! And how
is she?
GEORGETTE: Blooming.
ARNOLPHE : And has she missed me ?
ALAIN : No.
ARNOLPHE: What's that? Surely you mean Yes.
ALAIN: Yes, I mean No.
ARNOLPHE: Eh?
GEORGETTE: Master, she's had no time.
ARNOLPHE: No time?
GEORGETTE: To miss you.
ARNOLPHE: What's she been doing?
GEORGETTE: Every moment of the day, Good
Master,
since you went away, she's been ex
pecting you.
At every sound and footstep in the
street,
rushing across her room, she'd throw
her window wide
Her eyes examined every passer-by.
NOLPHE : Good, very good !
ALAIN: And not a Donkey, Mule or Ass went
past,
she thought it must be you.
ARNOLPHE: She's up there now?
ALAIN: She 'must have heard you knock.
ACT ONE
GEORGETTE: And she'll be coming down.
ARNOLPHE: Ah! — Here she is.
[Agnes appears. Very pretty; very demure; just growing
from a. girl into womanhood^
And with her sewing, too. That's as
I'd have her.
And are you well, my dear ?
AGNES: Yes, sir. Very well.
ARNOLPHE: And happy?
AGNES : Yes. Very happy.
ARNOLPHE: Then I'm happy too — You have no
complaints ?
AGNES: No, sir* — Except my bed.
ARNOLPHE: Your bed ? What's wrong with it ?
AGNES: You see, I get no rest.
ARNOLPHE : No rest ? For Heaven's sake, dear child,
what d'you mean ?
AGNES : I hardly like to say.
ARNOLPHE (to Georgette) : What can she mean ?
GEORGETTE: Well, good Master — you can be assured
there's no one with her, to disturb her
rest!
AGNES : If there were only one !
ARNOLPHE: Only one!
GEORGETTE: What are you talking of ?
AGNES: Fleas.
GEORGETTE: Fleas!!
ARNOLPHE (laughing)-. Oh! How you frightened
me!
For one awful moment, I was afraid —
AGNES: Afraid! Afraid of what?
Why should you be afraid?
ARNOLPHE: Oh, no matter — and no need to ask.
I love your innocence.
124
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
Forget the fleas!
Remember very soon I shall be there to
catch 'em!
AGNES : I shall be glad of that.
ARNOLPHE: I make no doubt you will.
AGNES : They'll take you all your time.
ARNOLPHE: My pretty sweet — perhaps not all of it.
What have we here? (Indicating her
sewing.}
AGNES : A new night cap, sir, for you.
ARNOLPHE : I shall look well in it !
Now, back to your room!
Before I go this evening I shall have
much to tell you
of the wedding; and how you're to
behave.
[She makes a Uttle curtsey to him.~\
Oh, you look lovely.
[She turns and goes. . . . He watches her go. . . .
Then turns to the servants. They busy themselves at some
household tasks.}
Oh, ladies ! Dear sweet ladies
who know so much of Life!
With all your learning, all your
cleverness,
your wit, your wiles, your genius for
intrigue,
your beauty, your attractiveness —
all that's as nothing to me ! — nothing ! —
against the simple modesty of this dear
gkl
I mean to make my Wife —
to be my Other Self! . . .
125
ACT ONE
[The Lights fade . . . Musk which continues, until the
Lights come up again. Out in the Street again on the other
side of the front door; and Arnolphe is coming out of
it. . . . As he does so a Young Gentleman enters from
the opposite side of the stage , and observes him. They meet,
as Arnolphe walks from his front door.]
HORACE: Surely, it's Seigneur Arnolphe!
ARNOLPHE: That is, or was, my name.
HORACE (a low bow) : Good Seigneur Arnolphe !
ARNOLPHE (a slight boiv) : Young sir !
Although I must confess I don't know
who you are.
HORACE: Oh yes, you do.
You knew my father well.
ARNOLPHE: Your father.
HORACE: And my name is Horace.
ARNOLPHE : It isn't !
HORACE: It is.
ARNOLPHE: My old friend's son!
HORACE : He often speaks of you.
ARNOLPHE: He's often in my thoughts.
Well, well and well!
Last time I saw you, you were half the
si2e.
I make no doubt you've heard as much
before !
HORACE: It's the way that every elder starts a
conversation 1
ARNOLPHE: Oh, but I'm glad to see you.
How long have you been in Paris ?
HORACE: Nine days.
And the first hour of the first day
I visited your house.
But they knew nothing of you.
126
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
ARNOLPHE: I've been away on business, in the
country.
Now tell me of your father. Is he well ?
HORACE: Yes. Very.
ARNOLPHE : As young as ever ?
HORACE: Younger.
ARNOLPHE: He makes a mock of Time. Defying
age.
HORACE: I have a letter for you from him.
ARNOLPHE: Give it to me.
[He takes the letter. While he is reading it Horace
continues^
HORACE: I had a letter from him yesterday;
Saying he hoped to join me.
ARNOLPHE: That's good news.
HORACE: He mentioned, too, a mutual friend of
yours.
ARNOLPHE : A mutual friend ?
HORACE: Who's made a fortune in America.
ARNOLPHE: America! Where's that?
HORACE : It's where he's made a fortune.
ARNOLPHE : Does your father mention his name ?
HORACE (consulting the letter] : Enrique.
ARNOLPHE: Enrique? I don't remember I
[Having read the letter; folding it; and putting it away.]
He asks me here to treat you as a son.
I'd have done that, without the asking.
Is there anything, in any way,
that I can do for you ?
HORACE : I'm short of money 1
ARNOLPHE : How much do you want ?
HORACE: A hundred pistoles.
127
ACT ONE
ARNOLPHE
HORACE :
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE :
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE:
(handing him a purse}-. Here's two
hundred.
Oh, sir! To be repaid you, when my
father comes
Of course, of course.
I'm very grateful that you took me at
my word.
And this is your first visit ?
Yes.
Well, what do you think of us ?
And how does Paris strike you ?
It's very full of people!
Some of the buildings are magnificent.
And, I should imagine, that a man —
with money in his pocket
could lead a perfect life.
That's very true.
For here, a man may satisfy his every
appetite.
For food; for Art; for learning; and
for Love.
You'll find our women most accessible,
blonde and brunette alike.
And the husbands too!
Just as accommodating !
For they'll not interfere.
Things happen here in Paris every day
fit for a story-book.
Nine days you've been here!
Nothing started yet!
You disappoint me.
You're a young man to catch a woman's
eye.
Well— to tell the truth—
you rather drag it from me —
something has started.
128
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
ARNOLPHE: Oh! It has\
HORACE: I think I must be the luckiest man on
earth.
ARNOLPHE: Hey, hey, what's this??
HORACE: I've lost my heart!
ARNOLPHE: You call that lucky!
HORACE: Yes.
For I have another in exchange.
And she has mine.
ARNOLPHE: Good; very good.
HORACE : Her heart in me, fills me with ecstasy,
and then I have to hold her very close,
to hear my own heart beat.
ARNOLPHE : You're doing very well !
You'll be another history for my Case
book!
HORACE: Please; if I tell you, you'll keep it to
yourself?
ARNOLPHE : Of course, of course.
HORACE: Strangely, the whole thing came about
almost by chance.
Quite by chance, I saw her.
I couldn't believe my eyes.
Such dazzling loveliness.
I acknowledged her beauty — as any
body would —
and she responded!
ARNOLPHE: What did you expect??
HORACE: Oh, but so simply; and so naturally —
as one would wish a woman to,
and they so seldom do —
And then,
before she took my heart, she took my
breath away.
Asked me to visit her!
Which I have done!
Beyond all reason, the affair progresses.
5 129
ACT ONE
ARNOLPHE: Oh, this is splendid!
More! You must tell me more!
Who is she? What's her name? Where
does she live ?
HORACE : Her name is Agnes ; and she lives here.
ARNOLPHE (with a cry) : Merciful God ! !
HORACE: Good sir, you're ill!
ARNOLPHE : A twinge !
A touch of giddiness.
I'll just sit here.
[There is a bench in the street \
It'll pass. It's nothing serious.
At least I hope it's not.
Tell me more.
HORACE: As it turned out, my little Beautiful —
If you could see her, oh, she's exquisite.
ARNOLPHE: Oh!!
HORACE: Sir!
ARNOLPHE: Another twinge !
HORACE: Well, this Simplicity and Naturalness I
told you of —
Indeed this is a story for your case
book —
is simply Ignorance.
There's some old man —
can you imagine such stupidity —
who shields her from the world.
God ! He must be a fool 1
ARNOLPHE: Oh!!
HORACE: Dear sir
ARNOLPHE: I have a cramp.
Go on, go on, go on.
HORACE: Somehow this Ignorance gives her
added charm.
130
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
It seems a pity that she has to learn !
ARNOLPHE : Aah !
HORACE : Sir, you're in pain
ARNOLPHE: A touch of gout! —
But tell me: this old fool? You've
seen him ?
HORACE : Indeed I've not. Nor am I likely to.
His name's La Souche — not that it
matters.
I've made up my mind.
Here is this lovely jewel of a girl;
I'll not leave her to Methuselah —
I'll have her for myself
and the two hundred pistoles that you
let me have
will make that possible.
ARNOLPHE {giving a howl} : Ow !
HORACE: Sir! What's the matter?
ARNOLPHE: The wind! I have the wind.
HORACE : I hardly like to leave you here alone.
ARNOLPHE : I'd rather you didn't wait !
I shall stay here awhile ;
and then go home.
HORACE: You'll keep it to yourself?
ARNOLPHE : The wind ?
HORACE: What I have told you.
ARNOLPHE: Indeed I will.
HORACE : Not even tell my father.
He might disapprove.
ARNOLPHE: You can trust me —
as far as I'd trust you.
HORACE : Next time we meet,
and make no doubt of it,
I shall have more to tell.
[He turns to go.]
131
ACT ONE
ARNOLPHE: Aah!
HORACE (turning bacty: You spoke?
ARNOLPHE: No, only belched.
HORACE: If there's a wiser man in all of Paris
than Seigneur Arnolphe, I'd like to meet
him.
(Going) Oh! That fool La Souchell
[And laughing, he disappears.}
ARNOLPHE: Thank God he's gone!
I couldn't have contained myself a
moment longer.
And thank God he chattered —
We're all the same, we Frenchmen;
a promising intrigue, we have to boast
about it.
Which is as well for husbands !
I think the God of Virtue made us
so. ...
Oh, why did I let him go before he told
me more ?
I may be glad he's gone,
but I've yet to know
how far he may have gone!
Now, let me think.
What did he say?
That she'd invited him;
he'd been received.
Why, then the servants must have let
him in!
The rascal pair !
The treacherous couple ! !
My God, I'll deal with them!
[He leaps up from the seat,, shouting.}
132
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
Akin! . . . Georgette! . . .
[He goes to the door of his house and> throwing it open.,
disappears througfc /"/, still shouting^
Georgette!! . . . Alain!!
\The Lights fade. Music which continues., until the Lights
come up. Inside the room. Arnolphe has just burst in,
shouting^
ARNOLPHE: Georgette . . . Georgette . . . Alain. . . .
[He jells at the top of his voice, ,]
Where are you both?
Alain ! ! Alain ! 1 ! Where are you ?
ALAIN (^putting his head round a corner) : Master,
did you call ?
ARNOLPHE: What d'you think I'm doing ? Talking
to myself?
Where's the other one ?
Georgette ! ! ! !
GEORGETTE (^putting her head round another corner) \
Did I hear your voice ?
ARNOLPHE: I shouldn't be surprised!
And you'll hear more of it.
Come here; the pair of you.
Here. In front of me !
GEORGETTE (to A.lain; as they approach) : What's the
matter with him ?
ALAIN: He's swallowed a tiger!
ARNOLPHE: That's enough! no muttering!
While I'm talking you can hold your
tongues —
you'll have enough to answer for,
after I've done with you.
133
ACT ONE
ALAIN : Master, what is it ?
GEORGETTE: What can we have done?
ARNOLPHE: What is it?
WTiat have you done ?
Why, I ... I ... I
Oh, I'm so distracted, I can hardly
speak !
Which of you disobeyed me,
While I've been away ?
Which of you? Eh? Or both?
Have you agreed together in deceit?
GEORGETTE: Deceit? Not me!
ALAIN : Nor me !
ARNOLPHE: A man's been here!
[The two give a quick glance at each other.}
Ah! I saw! I saw!
You looked at one another!
Guilty!
The pair of you !
Oh, you damned rascal! ! !
Oh, you wicked slut! ! ! !
I'll skin you both alive!
Which of you let him in??
Which was it? You?? or you???
[They remain silent. . . . He goes up to Georgette}
You, Georgette ? Was it you ? ?
I'll get it out of you !
What! Have you lost your voice??
[He loses all control.}
Say something, woman!
134
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
Say something!
or I'll wring your neck !
GEORGETTE (utterly terrified; and collapsing into a seat) :
I think I'm going to faint!
\Arnolphe turns in his mad fury upon Alain.]
ARNOLPHE: Well! You?
ALAIN (collapsing on to a seat too)'. I've come
over queer!
AKNOLPHE (suddenly clutching at his throat and col
lapsing on to a seat) : And I can't get my
breath.
[For a moment they are all three collapsed.
'Then A.rnolphe leaps up^ forgetting the servants .]
I knew him in his cradle !
Then, as a schoolboy ! !
Now, a man
who's stolen from me everything I
have I
Has he ? ... or hasn't he ?
I shall go mad unless I know what
happened.
Go and tell Agnes to come down to me.
No! Don't!
You'd give her warning — and I'll have
none o* that!
I'll go myself.
And take her by surprise.
The truth!
I'll have the truth.
Oh, how I dread to hear it!
\Calling upstairs as he goes.]
135
ACT ONE
Agnes, are you there??
[And he disappears.}
GEORGETTE: Well II What a to-do!!
ALAIN : It's that young feller 1
He's the trouble — and I said he would
be!
GEORGETTE: But what's the fuss about??
Why does he want to keep the girl
shut up ?
This house is like a cagel
That's what it is,
a kind of human cage,
as if she was some kind of animal.
And yet, she's not for show I
Why does he get the Jumps-and-Jitters
if anyone comes near ?
ALAIN: Because he's jealous.
GEORGETTE: What's he jealous for?
ALAIN: Because he's jealous — that's the way he
is!
GEORGETTE : But why ? ?
ALAIN: It's Jealousy, good woman, gives the
Jumps-and-Jitters.
Stops you enjoyin' life!
GEORGETTE: It don't make sense to me!
ALAIN : Put it like this :
if you was hungry, with a plate o' soup;
and someone comes along, as hungry as
you,
and puts his spoon in
wouldn't you be cross ?
GEORGETTE: Of course I should.
ALAIN: Well, there you are!
A wife's a plate o' soup.
136
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
And who wants another feller
dippin' 'is fingers in ?
GEORGETTE: Some men don't seem to mind.
ALAIN : It isn't everyone's as greedy as a pig
wantin' 'is dish entirely to 'imself,
allowin' nobody even a sniff of it.
GEORGETTE: He's coming back.
ARNOLPHE (re-appearin<j£)\ Make yourselves scarce!
Clear out ! !
\The servants go.
Arnolphe watches them go; then looks upstairs; and
waits impatiently I\
A Greek Philosopher
(I forget his name)
once gave a Roman Emperor
(Augustus Caesar I believe it was)
some very sound advice!
Whenever anything occurred to put him
in a rage,
just to repeat the Alphabet
to give hitn time to cool,
and not do anything he might be sorry
for!
That's what I've done now
I've said the Alphabet five times !
I'm not quite cool!
But I was cool enough to tell Agnes
to come down here and have a talk with
me.
A most unusual talk I
It won't be easy — learning the truth
from her;
without her learning what I'm trying to
learn!
137
ACT ONE
Oh! Here she is!
God grant my worst suspicions may be
laid to rest!
For if they're not
Then, that's the end of me
I shall be laid to rest !
[Agnes appears.']
Ah, there you are, my dear.
Sit down . . . and I'll sit here.
[A pause.]
What a fine day it is !
AGNES: Yes. Very fine.
ARNOLPHE: Yes. . . . Any news?
AGNES : News ?
ARNOLPHE: Anything happened while I've been
away?
AGNES : What should have happened ?
ARNOLPHE : Er . . . yes . . . what indeed ?
AGNES : My kitten died.
ARNOLPHE: Oh dear, that's very sad.
But cats are mortal, like the rest of us.
AGNES : Yes, but it was a kitten, not a cat.
ARNOLPHE : You must have another.
AGNES : No. Not yet. I'd like a dog.
ARNOLPHE: Then you shall have a dog,
AGNES : A little dog.
ARNOLPHE: A little dog.
[A pause.
Amolphe in his embarrassment wipes his brow.}
How hot it is.
138
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
AGNES : Yes. Very hot.
ARNOLPHE : Hasn't It rained at all ?
AGNES : On and off.
ARNOLPHE: You've not been out?
AGNES : Oh no.
ARNOLPHE : You've stayed indoors ?
AGNES : Of course. You told me to.
ARNOLPHE : You've not been dull ?
AGNES (with enthusiast?;} : Oh no\ I've not been
dull.
ARNOLPHE (in dismay): You haven't?
AGNES No.
ARNOLPHE (with a groan) : I'm glad to hear it.
What have you found to do ?
AGNES: Six night shirts.
[Arnolphe tries a new tack.}
ARNOLPHE: Agnes, my child — the world is very
strange.
AGNES: Oh yes, it is.
ARNOLPHE (suspicious] \ You think so
AGNES: If you say it is.
ARNOLPHE: Oh yes — of course . . .
People talk scandal.
AGNES: Scandal? . . . What's that?
ARNOLPHE : What people talk.
AGNES: I like to hear them.
ARNOLPHE : I hope you don't like scandal ?
AGNES : I don't know what it is.
ARNOLPHE : I'll tell you.
It's very simple.
For instance,
a neighbour told me that, while I was
away,
a young man came to see you;
here; in this house.
ACT ONE
And you received him.
That's scandal!
You see what stupid make-believe it is !
[She is looking at him, wide-eyed^ but doesn't say anything.
Under her ga%e be adds:]
(with an uneasy little laugh} I laid a wager
with him
that it wasn't true.
AGNES : Oh, heavens, don't do that !
You'd lose your money!!
ARNOLPHE : You mean there was a man, here, in the
house ?
AGNES (pith a delighted giggle)\ He was scarcely
ever out of it !
ARNOLPHE (leaping to his feef): God give me
patience !
AGNES : You're not angry ?
ARNOLPHE: No. No. Not angry — not yet! Taken
aback.
(to himself}
Oh, surely, such frankness must mean
innocence.
AGNES : I didn't hear.
ARNOLPHE : You weren't intended to ...
If I remember right . . .
I forbade you, definitely, to see anyone.
AGNES : You don't know why he came
ARNOLPHE : No — but I can guess.
AGNES : Oh, no, you never could.
ARNOLPHE : Tell me what happened.
AGNES : From the beginning ?
ARNOLPHE: Yes, from the beginning.
AGNES : Well — I was out on my balcony
ARNOLPHE : What were you doing there ?
140
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
AGNES: Sewing . . . and a young man came by.
ARNOLPHE: Below you in the street?
AGNES: Oh, such a handsome fine young man
he was !
ARNOLPHE : What then ?
AGNES: I dropt my sewing,
and jumped up to have a better look.
[Arnolphe groans.]
And when he saw I'd noticed him
he raised his hat; and bowed.
Not wishing to be less polite, I did the
same
at least, I raised my skirt, and curtseyed.
ARNOLPHE: Oh, you did!
AGNES: Of course.
The Nuns taught me always to be
polite.
And then he bowed again,
again I curtseyed
(with a little squeal of delight]
And a third time he bowed,
so graceful^ and so low
his hat was in the mud.
ARNOLPHE: The young coxcomb !
AGNES: Is that what he was? Coxcombs are
very nice I
ARNOLPHE: And after the bowing?
AGNES : Then he went away.
ARNOLPHE : Away ?
AGNES: Only to come back; and wave; and
kiss his hand.
ARNOLPHE : Oh ! ! !
AGNES: No need to worry; I was not outdone.
I did the same. And more •
and if the Evening hadn't come,
141
ACT ONE
and Darkness hidden him,
we'd have been at it still.
ARNOLPHE : At what ? ?
AGNES: Throwing kisses.
ARNOLPHE: And that was all?
AGNES : That was all for then !
ARNOLPHE : What next ? ?
AGNES : Next day ?
ARNOLPHE: Yes, the next day?
AGNES : Even more wonderful !
[She stops — smiling blissfully at the recollection.}
ARNOLPHE: Go on, go on!
AGNES: You are impatient 1 Do you like my
story?
ARNOLPHE: Yes, but get on with it.
AGNES : Well ! — I was standing by that door
(she indicates the front door)
and it was open
I wasn't in the street; indeed I wasn't —
not with either foot!
But as I stood there, just inside the
room,
a strange old woman came along the
road,
and when she reached me, stopped;
and spoke to me.
ARNOLPHE: What did she say?
AGNES: " The good God bless you, dear," she
said,
" Long may your beauty last."
(She adds, with rapturous smile]
She called me beautiful !
ARNOLPHE: And so you are — to me;
that's all that matters.
142
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
AGNES: Oh no, I was to him — he told me so.
ARNOLPHE : You shouldn't have listened.
AGNES: Not listen! When he said such lovely
things!
Nor to you either ?
ARNOLPHE : Of course, listen to me !
AGNES : But if I'm beautiful to you,
why not to him ? . . .
Won't you explain?
ARNOLPHE: No. Not now. . . . On with your
story.
AGNES : Where was I ? . . .
Oh yes, of course
I haven't finished what the woman said.
" Your beauty wasn't given you/' she
said,
" to make ill use of it."
And then she told me I'd been very
cruel;
and I'd wounded one who'd never done
me harm.
ARNOLPHE : Oh, what wickedness !
AGNES : But what had I done ?
I asked her what I'd done.
I'd done great harm, she said, to that
young man.
ARNOLPHE: Ah!
AGNES : Yes — him \
" That innocent, well-intentioned
gentleman," she said,
" I'd smiled at from my balcony."
Oh, I was near distraught!
Had I dropt something on him, with
out knowing it!
And what do you think she said
it was my eyes ! !
ACT ONE
A glance from them had dealt the
fatal blow!
— that's what she said.
My eyes had, deep within them,
a fearful power to pierce another's
heart
and the young man was dying !
ARNOLPHE : Dying ! !
AGNES: Yes, Dying. Think of that!
I said I couldn't bear it if he died.
She said I needn't worry !
His life was in my hands
You can imagine what I said.
ARNOLPHE: No, I can't.
AGNES: Well — you know I can't endure to see
things suffer.
No matter what !
When I think of my poor kitten, I still
cry.
I can't even bear to see a chicken killed.
And this young man
this beautiful young man
I asked what I could do
and it was all so simple.
All that he wanted was to come and see
me,
to hold my hand; and look into my
eyes
for only they could heal the wound
they'd dealt.
Oh, I was so relieved!
I said he was to come as quickly as he
could!
And I'd do everything I could to make
him well.
ARNOLPHE: What did you do ?
144
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
AGNES : Why, everything he asked.
ARNOLPHE : What did he ask ?
[She gives a little trill of a laugh^
AGNES : Oh, the strangest things ! You'd never
guess
you'd never think of them.
You'd laugh!
ARNOLPHE : I doubt it ! ! !
Oh, no Modesty! No decent holding
back!
AGNES: What's modesty? And why should I
holdback?
ARNOLPHE : Oh, God forgive me — I've brought this
on myself!
AGNES: What's the matter, sir?
You seem put out!
Have I done wrong, behaving as I did ?
ARNOLPHE: Yes!!
AGNES : Yes ? ?
ARNOLPHE: No.
AGNES : No ? ? ?
ARNOLPHE: I don't know what to say I
I don't know yet what happened. Tell
me.
AGNES : I'm trying to.
ARNOLPHE : You were alone with him ?
AGNES: Yes. Yes. I was
ARNOLPHE: What did he do?
AGNES : The moment that he saw me,
he seemed so strong and well
and fit for anything.
ARNOLPHE: I'm asking what he did?
AGNES: I'll tell you in a moment.
But if you knew the presents that he
brought;
ACT ONE
and all the money that he gave Alain —
and Georgette, too,
you'd be as fond of him as we are.
ARNOLPHE: My feelings for him now are strong
enough !
AGNES : Are they ? I'm so glad ! !
ARNOLPHE: Go onl!
AGNES : First, he swore he loved me.
Loved me! He'd only seen me once!
But he swore to me
no other girl in all the world
had ever been so loved, as he loved me.
ARNOLPHE : Ridiculous I
AGNES: I didn't think sol
For when he said it,
I felt the strangest things.
A kind of tingling
starting in my toes — up to my finger
tips
all thro' and thro'.
I think I've never felt such happiness.
ARNOLPHE: Oh, this is Misery!
When every revelation gives her plea
sure, and me pain!
There's nothing for it, I must probe
some more.
(He makes an enormous effort)
My dear sweet child . . .
besides this talk, this silly, idle talk,
did he do anything ? . . . what are you
smiling at?
AGNES: The things he did!
ARNOLPHE (In desperation) :
Now for it !
Now!
Did he make love to you ?
146
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
AGNES (pulled bj the expression) :
" Make love " ?
ARNOLPHE: Did he caress and kiss you?
AGNES (with enthusiasm')
Oh yes, he did.
He took my hand, and kissed it.
Then, all up my arm
and kissed behind my neck
I thought I should have died!
And be enjoyed it too.
I thought he'd never stop.
All up and down he went.
Time after time!
ARNOLPHE (in a strangled voice] : What more ?
[She looks at him: then drops her eyes.]
AGNES (in a whisper] : No 1
ARNOLPHE: Heaven be merciful! You must tell the
truth.
AGNES: I can't.
ARNOLPHE: Why not?
AGNES : You might be vexed with me.
ARNOLPHE (a cry, to himself] : Oh, no !
AGNES: Ohjesl I think you would.
ARNOLPHE: Let me know the worst.
AGNES: Promise you won't be cross.
[He doesn't answer . . . she goes on]
I gave him . . . or at least he took
No. You'd be angry.
ARNOLPHE : I can't suffer more !
AGNES : I couldn't help it.
I didn't want to.
I felt it would be wrong, unfair to you.
147
ACT ONE
There was just nothing I could do
but let him have his way !
ARNOLPHE (only just able to speaK) :
Listen, my child.
Tell me — in your own words — what
happened ?
What was it that he took?
AGNES : The ribbon from my hair.
The one you gave me.
Please, don't be cross
ARNOLPHE : He did nothing more ?
AGNES : Was there more to do ?
I'd have done anything\
He pinned it on his coat,
told me he'd wear it always
and was gone!
ARNOLPHE: What an escape! !
All this, my dearest child, comes from
your innocence.
I'll say no more about it !
We can forget it.
AGNES: Forget!
ARNOLPHE (laughing, with the might off his mind; he
he is very light-hearted) :
This naughty fellow sought to turn your
head,
to flatter and deceive — and laugh at you.
AGNES : Oh, no ! it wasn't that.
He told me so, at least a score of times.
ARNOLPHE: And you believed him!
What a touching faith!
It's worthy of an angel.
But the world we live in isn't Heaven !
(And then he becomes pompous)
Now, pay attention, please.
To listen to a Jackanapes like him
148
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
to accept his presents
let him kiss you
and, worst of all
to like it!
This tingling in the toes, you speak of—
Is a Sin!!
AGNES: A Sin??
ARNOLPHE: A Mortal Sin!
AGNES : How can it be ?
ARNOLPHE: Good men have known it since the
world began.
AGNES : But the Nuns told me Sin was ugly.
This was beautiful.
ARNOLPHE (strongly) :
An Offence to Heaven.
Death to the body.
Damnation to the soul.
AGNES : You frighten me ! !
I'll never kiss again ! Not anyone.
Not him. Not you.
ARNOLPHE: Oh Lord, I've overdone it!
(He switches from Old Morality to Sweet
Reasonableness)
My child, you're growing up.
You're old enough to know . . . the
facts of life;
— or some of them
It's true, that kissing and caressing and
the rest of it,
can be a source of pleasure
some people find it so
indeed I do myself.
But such things must be done re
spectably.
AGNES : What's that ?
ARNOLPHE: In other words,
149
ACT ONE
when you are married, there's no harm
in it.
AGNES : Let me be married soon.
ARNOLPHE : That's why I'm here.
AGNES : "When shall we be married ?
ARNOLPHE : Tomorrow !
AGNES : Tomorrow !
Oh, I'm so happy!
Oh, you're so good to me!
Fd like to kiss you. May I ?
ARNOLPHE (deligbfed) : But of course !
AGNES : It's not a Sin.
ARNOLPHE .* No.
AGNES : I'm not married yet.
ARNOLPHE : Marriage is near enough to make a kiss
quite safe.
[She gives him a great big kissl\
AGNES: Oh, I'm so grateful!
I think the facts of life are wonderful !
\-And she Jeans her face against his body> adding:]
He'll be grateful, too.
ARNOLPHE: Eh? ... What was that? What did
you say?
AGNES: He'll be grateful too.
ARNOLPHE: He? Who?
AGNES: Him. The Coxcomb!
ARNOLPHE: What's he got to do with it.
You're going to marry me !
AGNES : (a sudden waiT) :
You! Oh no \ Not you !
ARNOLPHE: But this is wickedness !
This time there's no excuse !
150
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
You must be taught a lesson!
Listen, my lady!
You've seen the last of him!
AGNES: Oh no, I haven't!
He's coming here today!
ARNOLPHE: Is he? I'm glad to hear it!
When he comes,
you'll open the door to him
AGNES : Yes !
ARNOLPHE: — and slam it in his face!
AGNES : He'd only stay and knock.
ARNOLPHE: Then up to your room — out on your
balcony
and throw stones at him!
You'll find a pile of loose bricks
under the window-sill.
AGNES : Oh no, I couldn't. I shouldn't have the
heart.
Besides, I want to see him.
ARNOLPHE (raging at her) : Up to your room !
AGNES: I won't throw stones.
ARNOLPHE: You'll do just what you're told.
I'm master here.
If you learn nothing else, in this first
lesson,
at least, you can learn that.
[She begins to cry.]
And don't start crying.
[She cries more bitterly.]
Quiet, d'ye hear me? Quiet!
[She cries louder.]
ACT ONE
I won't have you miserable.,
if I have to thrash you for it!
[She sets up a howling . . . and disappears upstairs in a
regular crescendo of howls. . . .
He sinks into a seat, covering his ears with his hands.
The two servants put their heads into the room> to see
whafs happening^
Curtain
152
ACT TWO
Scene: Inside the house.
Arnolphe is there; with Agnes, who is sewing. And the
two servants^ Alain and Georgette.
ARNOLPHE (who is very, very pleased with himself, and
everything else) :
Well, I must say!
You've followed my instructions, all of
you,
with great success.
The enemy's defeated.
A very bright young spark has been
extinguished !
Between the four of us
we've put him out! !
Oh, the young devil!
That's what they are — he and his kind!
Devils ! Disguised as fops !
I know 'em well!
With handsome faces, under handsome
hats;
and well-built bodies, under well-cut
clothes,
But in their coloured shoes — the cloven
hoof!
And while I was away
one of 'em came knocking at your
door
even had hold of you !
My blood runs cold!
But you escaped
with flying colours I
I saw you throw that brick at him I
Well thrown!
153
ACT TWO
ALAIN I
GEORGETTE:
ALAIN:
GEORGETTE:
ALAIN:
ARNOLPHE:
GEORGETTE
ARNOLPHE:
GEORGETTE
You hit him on the shoulder !
And bruised more than his shoulder —
I'm quite sure of thatl
I've never seen a man look so surprised !
One glance up at you!
And then he stooped to pick up what
you'd thrown
and thrown at tnm\
He held it in his hand —
and stood there, gazing at it !
I laughed out loud.
I laughed so much I couldn't see the
end!
I thought he'd hear me, so I came
away.
Well done, well done, my dear !
(He turns to the servants)
And now, I want a word with her
alone
So off you go !
You can trust us, Master.
Your word is law.
We're only simple folk — we was
deceived.
That's what we was — deceived.
And we was more than that. Cheated,
we was.
That's what we was! Ohs we was
cheated.
He gave us both a Crown.
Oh, did he?
Mine was a bad 'un!
Well, be off with you.
(To Georgette)
Go and prepare the supper I arranged.
: Aye, that I will.
154
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
ARNOLPHE : My best friend's coming.
And so serve it well.
GEORGETTE: It shall be served as if you were a King.
ARNOLPHE: And so I am!
This household is my Kingdom.
GEORGETTE (going) i God save us all !
ARNOLPHE (to Alain} :
You, go fetch my Notary.
He has his office down in the Square.
ALAIN: I know the place.
ARNOLPHE : I want him here as quick as he can come.
ALAIN (g°Mg) '• m have him here quicker than
that!
[Arnolphe and Agnes are left alone.
A. slight pause.
Agnes., her eyes on her worky continues very busily to sew.]
ARNOLPHE: Now, my dear! . . .
No need to go on sewing.
Put it aside, and pay attention.
[She stops sewing; but keeps her ejes downcast^
Well, let's see your face!
[She raises her head.]
That's right I
You can hear better, when you look at
me!
And I can see you're listening !
Noa,
[She starts to sew again.]
Oh, put the damned stuff away !
[He takes it from her.]
155
ACT TWO
Now-
Where was I? What was I going to
say?
Oh yes!
We're to be married.
I wonder if you realise how fortunate
you are!
AGNES : Yes, I think I do.
ARNOLPHE : " Thinking's " not enough.
What were you when we met?
When first you saw me?
AGNES: I was six!
ARNOLPHE: A child!
AGNES: Yes; but I remember.
ARNOLPHE : A little village child
living in poverty.
AGNES : I remember that, too.
ARNOLPHE : What are you now ?
Or rather,
what will you be tomorrow ?
AGNES: Shall I be any different?
ARNOLPHE : Of course !
You'll be my wife.
A rich man's wife !
From Poverty to Wealth,
from Want to Plenty
from Over-work to Leisure,
All that you owe to me !
AGNES: Oh yes, I know.
ARNOLPHE : Well — don't forget it.
That's all I want to say.
Oh no — there's one tiling more!
Some men there are, who marry
country wives
for something of a change
after a mis-spent youth!
156
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
Promiscuous rioting I
Not so with me.
Oh, it could have been ! Make no mistake
in that\
Oh, there were many women, ready to
oblige.
AGNES : What do you mean—" oblige " ?
ARNOLPHE: Urn? — We'll leave that till tomorrow.
Enough to say : that in affairs of Love,
I've been both cautious, and economi
cal.
And kept myself £otjou.
And that's another thing, you'll please
remember.
AGNES: Oh yes, I will — if you remind me.
ARNOLPHE : Remind you ! !
AGNES: I'll do my best!
But I'm not clever,
as you keep on telling me,
and remembering things is very diffi
cult.
I find the things that stay there in my
head,
are those that come there of their own
accord!
ARNOLPHE : What kind of things ?
AGNES : Well, there's still my kitten
and the Coxcomb !
ARNOLPHE : You still think of him ?
AGNES (with a sudden grin) :
I'd like to throw another stone at him.
ARNOLPHE: He's out of sight.
Put him right out of mind.
AGNES: That's another thing:
it's just as hard to put things out,
as keep 'em in !
157
ACT TWO
Nothing goes in or out
unless I want it to ! !
ARNOLPHE: You have much to learn.
I wonder if you realise
the seriousness of marriage ?
AGNESS : No. I don't think I do.
ARNOLPHE: I'll tell you.
A man who marries,
accepts responsibility; shoulders a duty.
So does the woman.
It's a Partnership.
Two Halves — that are not equal.
Two Duties — not the same.
One to command; the other to obey.
One leads; the other follows.
You find that everywhere.
It's not confined to marriage.
A soldier of the line obeys his officer,
A servant his master,
and a child its parent.
Even to have harmony in music,
there must be one to sing the second
part!
And to be Soldier, Servant, Child, or
Second Fiddle
and be it well,
to be a wife,
the very source of perfect harmony,
by never saying, doing, thinking any
thing
against her husband's wishes— out of
rune
that's an achievement.
Something to be proud of!
And to be proud of one's humility
158
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
why, that's a virtue every Christian
knows.
It's simple. Isn't it?
AGNES: Yes. Very simple.
ARNOLPHE: Easy to say! Less easy to perform I
Too often women fail!
AGNES : Fail ?
ARNOLPHE : They disobey ! ! !
which spells Catastrophe!
That's not unusual either !
A soldier disobeys — the battle's lost!
A city's secret life is like a battle-field —
casualties everywhere.
Paris is strewn with broken marriages.
You understand ?
AGNES : I think so.
ARNOLPHE : You must do your best.
Most women fail thro* lack of under
standing.
Oh there are some women,
who, knowing what they do,
flout all the decencies.
And there are men, young and hot-
blooded,
who encourage them.
Together, they'll descend to anything !
Such you'll avoid, as you would the
plague.
You'll be my other half.
When you do wrong, I9 II be the one to
suffer.
And I'm sensitive.
Easily hurt.
And when I'm hurt, I'm angry.
And when I'm angry
Yotftt be the one to suffer!
ACT TWO
And, behind my anger
is the Wrath of God!
My dear, you're beautiful!
[She breaks into a seraphic smile, which he notices^
And like to hear me say so.
Be good, and faithful — and your purity
will shine out of your face.
Your beauty will endure.
But, stain my honour
and your soul turns black.
That, too, will be reflected in your face !
All those that see you will avert their
eyes.
And more than that
you'll be the Devil's prey.
And when you die, go straight to Hell
and boil in oil through all eternity.
. . . Did the Nuns teach you to read?
AGNES : From holy books.
ARNOLPHE : Then try your hand at this
a kind of holy book
the author's anonymous
AGNES : — a funny name
ARNOLPHE : When we're married you must learn the
words,
and say them to me daily,
when you say your prayers.
But now, read them out loud.
AGNES (reading^ carefully):
" The Secrets "—I like them
ARNOLPHE: You must have none from me.
AGNES : None ?
ARNOLPHE : Certainly not !
AGNES: Oh!
1 60
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
ARNOLPHE: Read on.
AGNES : " Of a Happy Marriage,
or. Some Rules for Wives.
Rule One . . .
She who shares a bed in wedlock
must always bear in mind
he who lies beside her
is her Only man. . . ."
Well! ! 1— I should think so !
I've never seen a bed
that's big enough for three!
ARNOLPHE : Rule Two ! !
AGNES: " A wife must dress
only for her husband.
Her appearance matters nothing
save to him."
Oh, but you said if I was naughty
I'd turn black,
and all who saw me
would avert their eyes,
ARNOLPHE: So they would;
it wouldn't matter, except to me; and
you
Rule Three.
AGNES: " A wife must never use
Paints, Powders or Creams.
A Desire to be especially beautiful
is seldom, if ever, inspired by a hus
band."
Do women paint their faces ? ?
ARNOLPHE: You have no need for that\
AGNES : No — but I'd like to try.
ARNOLPHE: Rule Four.
AGNES : " Never accept a present from a man.
Nothing is given for nothing."
ARNOLPHE: Note that.
.6 161
ACT TWO
For you took presents from him.
AGNES : But I gave nothing back.
ARNOLPHE: You let him kiss you.
AGNES : That was his nicest present.
ARNOLPHE (pointing to the paper} : Rule Five. . . .
AGNES: " Concerning Men Visitors "
(She perks up} Oh 1 Yes !
" A wife shall welcome to her home,
only those men
who come to see her husband.
Those wishing to see her,
shall not come in."
(At which she shakes her head, and gives a
deep sigh)
ARNOLPHE: Well? What's the matter?
AGNES (from her depths') : Marriage is serious !
ARNOLPHE (very pleased): Well said. Well said.
Rule Six. . . .
AGNES : <c A wife shall have no parties,
solely of women.
For women, on their own,
plot to deceive their husbands."
(With eager hopefulness]
Oh, how can they do that?
ARNOLPHE: Pray God you never know
Rule Seven. This is for Sunday.
Take special note of this.
What follows now, is all important to
you.
\What actually follows is a sudden tremendous knocking
on the front door.]
AGNES:
ARNOLPHE:
AGNES:
What's that?
Who can that be?
Shall I open the door ?
162
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
ARNOLPHE : Look from the window.
AGNES (running to if) : My Coxcomb !
ARNOLPHE : Your Coxcomb ? ?
AGNES : My target !
ARNOLPHE: Target?
AGNES: The one I throw the stones at!
(She rushes towards the door}
ARNOLPHE: Away from that door!
Up to your room.
[She rushes tips fairs. He jells J\
Akin! Alain!
GEORGETTE (appearing): He's gone for the Notary.
ARNOLPHE: He's here.
GEORGETTE: Who's here?
ARNOLPHE: The Enemy.
GEORGETTE: He's not!
ARNOLPHE: He is.
GEORGETTE : What shall I do ?
ARNOLPHE: Nothing.
(More knocking)
I'm going thro' the kitchen
into the street,
to head him off.
Don't let him in.
[He rushes out. Another hurricane of knocking on the door.
The Lights fade. Music, which continues until the Lights
come up again. In the street. Horace is knocking very
vigorously on the door. Arnolphe enters fro??i the opposite
side.\
ARNOLPHE: Horace!
HORACE (swinging round): Seigneur Arnolphe !!
ARNOLPHE (advancing towards him} :
Can I believe my eyes ?
ACT TWO
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE :
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE :
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE :
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE :
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE :
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE :
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE :
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE:
You here again!
Dear boy, I'm pleased to see you!
What are you doing here ? ?
What are jw doing here ?
Me? Here?
Oh, I have a Notary down in the
Square.
I've been to see him.
On my way here, passing this street,
I recognised your back.
My back?
Yes, I was glad to see it.
I always shall be.
And are you well ?
Yes. Very well.
You're quite recovered ?
Recovered ? ?
Last time I saw you
you were very poorly.
Poorly?
I left you here, in pain,
there, on the seat.
Oh Ah, so you did!
I had the cramps.
The wind, I think, the wind.
A touch of both.
But it has passed ?
Never in better health.
Nor spirits, so it seems.
Yes. All goes very well.
And with you too, I hope!
Tell me about yourself.
I'd rather not.
What's this ?
Last time I saw you I fear I talked too
much.
164
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
ARNOLPHE : Not a bit of it.
You didn't talk enough.
Last time I saw you,
I let you go
before you'd told me all there was to
tell.
Very unfriendly of me !
And not the way to treat your father's
son.
And now you say something's gone
wrong
HORACE: Did I?
ARNOLPHE : Did you what ?
HORACE: Say something had gone wrong
ARNOLPHE: Yes.
HORACE: I never said a word!
ARNOLPHE : But hasn't it ?
HORACE: How did you know?
ARNOLPHE : I saw it in your eye.
HORACE: My God, what understanding!
ARNOLPHE : Tell me everything !
I may be able to help.
HORACE: I'm very touched!
ARNOLPHE : Don't mention it !
HORACE: You're very right! Things have gone
wrong.
The fool's come back.
ARNOLPHE: What fool?
HORACE : Her guardian.
ARNOLPHE : Oh him \
HORACE (with great vehemence)-. THE DEVIL
TAKE HIM!
ARNOLPHE: Careful! Careful I
Don't invoke the devil.
When once be gets a finger in the pie,
ACT TWO
you never know what he'll be up to
next.
HORACE: That's very true I
ARNOLPHE: Women are bad enough without the
devil.
HORACE : That's true again. Oh, you're very wise !
ARNOLPHE: You think so?
HORACE: I do indeed.
ARNOLPHE: Then, tell me about La Souche.
HORACE: Oh, I can scarcely speak of him! And
not run mad.
Misguided, besotted, lecherous, half-
mad.
An upright corpse!!
With only one thing in him that's alive.
His insane jealousy!
ARNOLPHE: A charming portrait!
HORACE: He's there!!
ARNOLPHE : Where??
HORACE: Behind that door!
Let's break the damned thing down!
And take him by the throat,
and shake him, like a rat!
ARNOLPHE: Oh no. I wouldn't do that if I were
you!
HORACE : Why not ?
ARNOLPHE: We'll find some other way to deal with
him.
We'll get the better of him ! You and I,
together.
HORACE: Oh, Seigneur Arnolphe!
To think that two such men, as you and
he,
should stand on either side of that same
door.
It's very strange !
1 66
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
ARNOLPHE : It's stranger than you think !
HORACE: The old fool knows.
ARNOLPHE: Knows what?
HORACE : I've been to see her.
ARNOLPHE : Don't tell me that ! I
HORACE: I do.
ARNOLPHE : I can't believe it !
How did he find out?
HORACE : I can't imagine.
ARNOLPHE : Did the girl tell him ?
HORACE : She's not as naive as that.
ARNOLPHE : He might have wormed it out of her.
HORACE: Most unlikely.
Can you imagine yourself — if you were
worming it out of me ?
ARNOLPHE: You'd keep it to yourself?
HORACE: Of course I should.
ARNOLPHE : Like any Frenchman! !
How do you know he knows ?
HORACE: Oh, there's no doubt.
The last few days, how I've been wel
comed here!
And now! At my kst visit,
I walked up to the door and knocked
upon it -
so ! (He does)
\lmmediatelj Georgettes voice streams out at him from
the other side of //.]
G.'s VOICE: Go away, you scoundrel, go away I
HORACE: There - ! You hear? His voice!
ARNOLPHE: His! Whose?
HORACE: Her guardian's. La Souche.
ARNOLPHE: It sounded like a woman's.
ACT TWO
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE
HORACE
ARNOLPHE
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE :
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE :
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE :
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE
HORACE :
ARNOLPHE
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE :
HORACE:
So does his !
A silly piping squeak of impotence.
(indignant \ in spite of himself]:
Look here, young man
{going straight on) :
The door was slammed, right in my
face,
and insults shouted thro' it!
(with hardly-concealed glee):
What kind of insults?
I can't remember.
Try.
It's of no consequence.
And as I stood there, dumbfounded,
utterly,
I heard a voice — above me.
Hers?
Up on her balcony.
And shouting insults too ?
Yes. Yes, she was.
(almost choking with delight) : Poor lad !
Worse was to come !
What happened then, you'll never,
never guess,
not in a hundred years,
it's past belief !
What do you think?
(being mischievous) : She threw a stone at
you.
Good God! You've second sight!
It's what I should expect!
Her outraged innocence.
There's been no outrage — yet!
This stone she threw at you
was it a big one ?
Very.
168
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
ARNOLPHE : And hit you ?
HORACE: Yes.
ARNOLPHE: And hurt?
HORACE : Considerably.
ARNOLPHE: That's good; that's bad, I mean!
HORACE : The next time I see her,
she shall pay for it — with all she has.
ARNOLPHE: Horace! You must be brave!
You must prepare yourself!
Next time will never come.
From what you've told me, you've no
chance at all.
HORACE : There is a gleam of hope !
ARNOLPHE (suspicious)'. What gleam1?
HORACE: I haven't finished yet!
ARNOLPHE (shaken) : Not finished ?
HORACE: No. There's more to come!
Well ! — Can't you guess ?
ARNOLPHE (frightened) : God help me! No, I can't!
HORACE : I'm not surprised.
What followed then, would baffle even
you!
You know the stone she threw
it hit me on the shoulder;
fell at my feet; I stooped to pick it up ;
I held it in my hand
ARNOLPHE (impatiently]-. I know, I know!
HORACE (surprised) : You know??
ARNOLPHE (passing it off): Well, you're telling me!
HORACE (repeating): I held it in my hand. . . .
Then ! — Can you imagine ?
ARNOLPHE (on tenterhooks) : No, I can't . Go on.
HORACE : On the bottom side, where it was flat,
tied neatly on with string — a letter!
ARNOLPHE (a cry)\ Ah!
HORACE : Dear sir, what is it ?
169
ACT TWO
ARNOLPHE : I've got the cramps again !
HORACE: How very strange!
There must be something, here, about
the place,
that doesn't suit you.
Have you the wind as well?
ARNOLPHE: I may have any moment.
What of the letter?
HORACE : I have it here.
ARNOLPHE: Then read it to me! Read it!
HORACE (as he unfolds if) :
Completely ignorant!
She may have been — indeed, I think she
was
but, oh, how swiftly Love can teach!
And, in a moment, how we can be
changed!
In one revealing flash,
abysmal ignorance knows all there is to
know!
ARNOLPHE : Read me the ' letter !
HORACE : Yes, indeed I will.
(He looks at //.)
A childish scrawling hand — -and she
writes this :
(he makes as if to read^ but goes on talk-
ing)
Oh, but the Little God works miracles !
Under his touch
the miser spends his money;
a coward may be brave;
a man without manners becomes
courteous ;
a mental clodhopper becomes a wit!
The blind can see.
The lame can walk.
170
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
The foolish understand!
ARNOLPHE: Yes, yes, yes — the letter!
HORACE: Yes. The letter. . . . She writes:
(but again he breaks off]
Oh, I can see her now
ARNOLPHE : Where ? ? ?
HORACE: As she was then — up on her balcony.
Her arm raised high;
her little hand clutching the great big
stone
and she leaned over to me
and she shouted
" I've thought of all you had to say,"
she screamed,
" considered every word — AND
HERE'S MY ANSWER!"
And she flung it at me !
Doesn't that show resource!
A very pretty cunning!
Aren't I a lucky fellow ? ?
Don't you admire her for it
and doesn't it make that guardian of
hers
look ludicrous ?
ARNOLPHE (to himself): Nothing to what he feels !!!
HORACE: He shuts the girl up like a prisoner!
And tells his servants not to let me in!
It's true his coming back has compli
cated things,
for the time being.
I wouldn't have it otherwise.
It's brought the girl to life.
And there he is! Behind this very
door
as close to me, as I am, now, to you!
D'you think he's listening?
17*
ACT TWO
ARNOLPHE: I shouldn't be surprised.
HORACE: It's funny, isn't it? (He laughs)
ARNOLPHE: Yes. Very very funny.
\_Arnolphe tries to laugh too; but it ends in a kind of
hiccough.]
HORACE : The' wind ? ?
ARNOLPHE: The letter!
HORACE: Yes. The letter!
It's very touching, and ingenuous !
It's brave; and it's bewildered.
A little cry of pleasure, and of pain
Cupid's first dart draws blood !
ARNOLPHE: Give it to me? I'll read it for myself!
HORACE : Til read it ! She begins :
(reading)
" My own dear Coxcomb "
Now, that's beyond me!
Why should she call me that?
ARNOLPHE: I can't imagine!
HORACE: She goes on:
(be continues reading)
66 1 want to write to you and tell you
all my thoughts; but I don't know
how to say them. I mistrust even my
own words."
It's pathetic! Listen to this :
" I know now that I have been brought
up
to know nothing."
And she goes on:
" I am afraid I might write something
I should not."
Then she writes :
" I am sad, and very angry, at the things
I am made to do against you.
172
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
And my heart aches that I do not see
you any more.
Oh, how I wish that I was yours."
That's what she says I She wishes she
was mine!
" I hope it is not wicked to say that.
Everybody, I mean my Guardian and
the Nuns,
tell me young men are deceivers; and
you
should never listen to them; and all
they
want to do is to betray you.
I don't know what that means. And
anyhow
I don't believe it."
Bless her! She doesn't believe it!
I love this bit:
" Your words went thro* and thro' me,
and I hear them still.
So how can they be false? Please tell
me if they are!
Never could I wish any harm to you.
I think it would be very wrong of you to
wish me harm."
Was anything so simply logical?
And she ends up:
" Come again soon. Til throw another
stone at you; your loving loving
Agnes."
This in my hand, am I to give up hope ! !
Not on your life!
But I must ask your help!
ARNOLPHE : Eh ?
HORACE: Sk, will you condescend to play a part
in this?
175
ACT TWO
ARNOLPHE: I mean to whether I'm asked or not!
First tell me this :
What d'you mean to do ?
HORACE: Let's put our heads together!
I half expected she'd come out on her
balcony,
and throw another stone !
Why do you think she doesn't ?
ARNOLPHE : Perhaps because of me?
HORACE: What difference should you make?
ARNOLPHE: Young women don't, as a rule,
stand on their balconies,
and throw stones at men.
HORACE: That's very true!
I'll throw a stone at her!
ARNOLPHE: What for?
HORACE : Answer her letter ! Tell her I love her.
ARNOLPHE: No. I shouldn't do that.
HORACE: Why not?
ARNOLPHE: It might attract attention
HORACE: How?
ARNOLPHE: The noise — La Souche might hear!
Remember he's very close !
HORACE: That's true again!
ARNOLPHE: One thing is certain!
Whatever course you take,
La Souche must never know.
This wants thinking over.
Suppose we sleep on it.
HORACE: Sleep on it!
ARNOLPHE: Tomorrow morning I shall see more
clearly.
I shall have made a plan.
Be patient till tomorrow.
HORACE: Tomorrow! That seems years away.
ARNOLPHE : But a few hours I
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
HORACE :
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE :
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE :
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE :
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE :
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE :
HORACE:
Better wait, than make some silly move,
that might be fatal.
I suppose that's true.
Of course it is !
If you want my help,
wait till the morning.
I'm in your hands 1
Yes, dear boy, you are!
Where shall we meet?
Come to my house.
Your house ?
If I'm not there — Fll leave a
message for you.
(He begins to urge Horace of the stage)
Don't stay here now. •
Most ill-advised.
He may be watching.
You think so ? ?
I shouldn't be surprised! .
I have a feeling that he's got his eye on
you!
Tomorrow at your house.
How can I ever thank you ?
Don't try!
I'll give you something to be thankful
for.
I take my leave. . . .
[He goes.
When Horace has gone Arnolphe^s pent-up feelings find
expression^
ARNOLPHE: Oh, anguish, anguish, anguish!
Oh that letter!!!
It'U be the death of me!!
Oh, the little Vixen!!!!
ACT TWO
I can see her now-
sitting there, listening to me
her childlike, smiling eyes I
And all the time
the knowledge of what she'd done to
me
was at the back of them.
Oh Women!!
Young or old; clever or silly;
at heart, they're all the same.
They're never innocent.
Either wanting intrigues; or having
intrigues
or getting out of 'em ! !
Unfathomable depths of Infamy!!
And this one's worse than most!
She makes a mock of all I've done for
her
I'll leave her to her fate !
He'll take her; have her; and have
done with her!
I'll be revenged
she'll bring it on herself!
What can I ask for more ? ?
[He laughs,, but his laugh turns to a groan.}
That way I'd lose her!
And I can't do that!
I can't. I can't. I can't.
I chose her for myself.
So carefully! So many years ago!
She'd no relations ; not a single friend,
she'd nothing!
So she'd be wholly mine!
I petted and played with her,
176
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
watched her grow up
a child — a girl — a woman!
How I've looked forward —
Like any lovely fruit, I've watched her
ripen:
and now another plucks her from my
tree.
The more I think of it, the more I burn
with rage.
Rage, I could bear — it passes !
But the more I'm consumed with Anger,
the more I'm consumed with Love.
Somehow, she's never seemed more
beautiful.
I'm going mad!!!
She's up there now. Beyond her bal
cony.
I could call out to her!
What could I call??
I'm mad already! Stark, staring mad !
A fool, a shameless fool!
I could beat out my brains !
[He starts to beat his head with his hands., but stops ]
My horns ! My cuckold's horns,
[He feels his headJ\
No. They're not there.
Not yet. I'm sure they're not.
Oh, Merciful Heaven! Grant they
never will be!
Or if they are,
give me the strength to bear them, like
my fellow men I
177
ACT TWO
No! I'll not ask for that!
That's surrender! — and I'll not give
in!
What am I thinking of!
I hold all the cards !
The girl belongs to me
I'm her appointed Guardian
and, obviously, a better match for her,
than this young Ne'er-do-well !
For her own sake,
she has to marry me!
I have to keep my head 1
That's all I have to do.
Instruct my servants further,
double-bolt my doors — that's all !
and that 1*11 do.
[He goes to bis house; and at the door turns and looks in
the direction Horace has gone.]
Young man, I'm sorry for you!
Tomorrow morning it'll be too late !
Curtain
ACT THREE
Scene: In the house.
Arnolphe is haranguing the two servants.
ARNOLPHE: Let me see! ... Where was I? ...
Oh yes
Ohnoi
First, tell me this :
since her kitten died,
there's been no cat or dog about the
house ?
ALAIN: No.
GEORGETTE: No, there hasn't.
ARNOLPHE : Very strange ! . . . Just now, up in her
room,
while I was talking to her,
I heard a noise.
It might have been a dog under the bed.
I looked, but there was nothing.
I don't know what it was.
Oh well, no matter!
Where did I say I was ? . . . Oh yes :
get this into your skulls, thick as they
are.
A threat to my honour is a threat to
you!
If he outwits you and gets in again,
I've done with you 1
Into the street you go, the pair of you —
and starve! — I'll see to that!
ALAIN (in plaintive protest} :
Master, you can trust us.
GEORGETTE: We've told you so.
ALAIN: We keeps on tellin* yer!
ARNOLPHE (zgnorittg them) :
You'd be a laughing stock!
ACT THREE
ALAIN
GEORGETTE:
ALAIN :
ARNOLPHE:
ALAIN:
ARNOLPHE I
ALAIN
ARNOLPHE:
ALAIN
ARNOLPHE:
There's not a servant up and down the
street,
or round the Square,
who wouldn't cock a snook at you
the Nincompoops who couldn't guard
a home.
(indignant to Georgette) :
Did you hear that?
He called us Nincompoops.
I tell you. Master — if he came here
now-
Well, what if he did
and made a pretty speech.
A pretty speech! to me!
just waste of breath!
Ah, but suppose he came to you and
said:
(He mimics and exaggerates Horace's voice
and manner)
" I'm in great trouble! I beseech your
help!
As you hope for mercy at the Last,
grant me one tiny boon."
(looking at him in great disgust) :
Oh, you're an idiot.
What's that???
(blandly) : That's what I'd say to him!
Oh yes — good, good, good!
(He turns to Georgette)
Now, he might say to you: —
" Georgette, my dear one! Oh, my
Beautiful."
(Georgette giggles)
" You always were a favourite of mine!
So good. So sympathetic?
Such a heart of gold."
180
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
GEORGETTE (ferociously) : Oh, shut your mouth ! ! !
ARNOLPHE : What did you say ? ? ?
GEORGETTE : You're him I
ARNOLPHE: Oh yes. So I am!
But then he'd try again, even more
pitiable.
" Oh, if you don't have mercy on me,
I shall die!"
GEORGETTE : Good riddance !
ALAIN : I know of two, at least,
who'd be glad to see you go ! !
ARNOLPHE: Um? Yes! That sounds convincing.
But he'd not stop at that.
He'd try another tack!
" I know the world," he'd say
" I'm not a man who wants something
for nothing.
No one will suffer for what I want to
do!
Why shouldn't jou benefit ?
Here's money for you! Gold!
Here, take it. Take it."
(They both do.)
ALAIN (suddenly giving Arnolphe a violent push):
Now, get out of it!
ARNOLPHE (taken by surprise): Hey!
GEORGETTE (also pushing him violently) : Be off! !
ALAIN (another push): Away with you! !
GEORGETTE (another) : Make yourself scarce,
ARNOLPHE: Hey! That's enough!
ALAIN (pleasantly): That sort o' thing?
GEORGETTE : Something like that ? ?
ARNOLPHE : (recovering himself) :
Not bad. Not bad
Except the money!
ALAIN: Money?
181
ACT THREE
GEORGETTE i What money ? ?
ARNOLPHE : I gave you some.
ALAIN: Did you?
ARNOLPHE : You put it in your pocket.
ALAIN: Did I?
ARNOLPHE: You shouldn't have taken it.
ALAIN (in mock amazement]'. Shouldn't have
taken it!
GEORGETTE : Would you believe it 1
ALAIN: Let's do it all again.
GEORGETTE: Pushing and all!
ARNOLPHE: No need, no need!
ALAIN: Try the bit again — offering money.
GEORGETTE: We might forget — and take it, by
mistake.
ALAIN: Force o' habit.
ARNOLPHE (giving up)
Keep "what I've given you!
Less reason to take his !
Well, he's a cleverer fellow than I think
if he gets in now.
In any case, we've seen the last of him,
at least until tomorrow.
GEORGETTE (pointing to the window) : Master !
ARNOLPHE: What is it?
GEORGETTE: Look.
\.A.rnolphe goes to the w
ARNOLPHE: Oh, God-in-Heaven, there he is again!
ALAIN: And coming here!
GEORGETTE : No. No, he's not.
ALAIN : What's he up to ?
GEORGETTE : What's he doing at the balcony ?
ALAIN: He's going to climb it!
GEORGETTE : He is I
182
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
ALAIN: He is! . . . He is! . . . He isn't!!
GEORGETTE: What's he think he's doin'?
ALAIN : Measuring.
GEORGETTE: That's what he's doing— taking
measurements.
ARNOLPHE: This is insufferable!
Go out and stop him !
Ask him what he wants I
No, don't!— He wouldn't tell you;
and I've got to know!
I'll go myself -
out thro' the back; and take him from
behind.
(As he crosses the room)
Thank God he knows my Notary's in
the Square.
He always thinks that's where I'm
coming from.
(At the door)
Is he still there?
GEORGETTE: He's pickin' up a stone!
ARNOLPHE: Aah!!
(And he bolts)
\The stage becomes dark. Music, which continues until the
Lights go up. Outside the house. Horace is at the balcony
obviously making sure of its height. Amolphe runs on to
Horace ! You here again !
You, too, Seigneur Arnolphe!
What are you doing here ?
Some very awkward business — with
my Notary -
keeps me on tenterhooks; running
to and fro.
ARNOLPHE :
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE:
ACT THREE
HORACE: Oh, such adventures since I saw you
last!
Tve been up in her room!! I
ARNOLPHE (letting out an involuntary cry) : Aah !
HORACE : Don't say you're ill again ? ?
ARNOLPHE: No — only excited by what you're
telling me!
HORACE: I'll tell you everything!
ARNOLPHE: For God's sake, do!!
HORACE: Well, when I left you, I couldn't rest.
To sleep upon it seemed impossible.
In fact, my legs refused to bear me
back to my lodgings.
Instead, they brought me here!
To have another look — just one more
look
at the dear window,
behind which she lives.
And there she was 1
Out on her balcony
and overjoyed to see me.
ARNOLPHE (gives a groan which he tries to suppress —
the result is an unexpected noise)
HORACE: I knew you'd laugh!
She managed to come down!
ARNOLPHE: Come down!
HORACE: Down the back stair- way; into the
garden;
opened the gate for me
she had the key.
Oh, she's a cunning one.
ARNOLPHE : She is, she is !
HORACE: Together we crept up again — into her
room.
No sooner were we there,
than we heard footsteps !
184
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
Her guardian! On the stairs!
I was prepared to kill him !
ARNOLPHE: Eh?
HORACE : It wouldn't have been wise.
No point in doing that!
ARNOLPHE: No point at all — Oh no! A great
mistake!
HORACE: But Agnes, acting in a flash,
bundled me into her wardrobe!
He stayed there half an hour
talking such utter drivel
what I could hear of it.
There I was — shut up
it was as dark as night and hot as hell,
I couldn't see a thing,
and then — I got the cramps !
I bumped my head; knocked down a
dress;
and got myself entangled in a shift !
The row I made!
I can't imagine how he didn't hear
God, he must be decrepit!
Deaf as a post.
ARNOLPHE (not hearing)-. Eh?
HORACE: I said, deaf as a post,
ARNOLPHE: Oh yes
HORACE : And tonight ! ! !
ARNOLPHE : Tonight ? ? ?
HORACE: I visit her again.
She begged me to !
Never have I known,
such simple, natural, unconventional,
uninhibited
yet strangely innocent expression
of all she feels and wants.
Oh, I'm her skve!
185
ACT THREE
Obeying her every whim!
I don't know how to wait till darkness
falls
Then, I shall bring a ladder
ARNOLPHE : A ladder !
HORACE: I've taken the measurements.
Under his very nose!
And there he sits, snug in his little
fortress,
thinking himself secure.
But tonight
ARNOLPHE : Yes ? ?
HORACE: YES!!!
\Chrysalde comes hurrying on.~\
CHRYSALDE: Ah, my dear friend! I'm pleased to find
you.
I feared I might be late.
ARNOLPHE: Late? Late for what?
CHRYSALDE: Dinner!
ARNOLPHE: Dinner — who wants dinner?
CHRYSALDE: I do. You invited me!
ARNOLPHE: Oh! ... er! ... This is Horace!
Son of my oldest friend.
HORACE: And a good friend to me — dear Seig
neur Arnolphe.
CHRYSALDE: You mustn't call him that!
HORACE: Not call him by his name?
CHRYSALDE: It's not his name. He's changed it!
ARNOLPHE: No, no! Indeed I haven't.
CHRYSALDE: You told me so yourself
only this morning,.
" Here I'm not known as Arnolphe "
— that's what you said
" My name is now " . . . Ah, it's
on my tongue . . .
186
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
" is now " No, I've forgotten it!
ARNOLPHE (to himself)-. Thank God for that!
CHRYSALDE: Don't tell me! I'll have it in a moment!
It was a silly name.
La ... La. . . .
ARNOLPHE (breaking in) : Oh la k ! I
(Then he b/sses, under his breath)
Hold your tongue!
CHRYSALDE: I beg your pardon!
HORACE: I must be off.
(To Chrysalde) Sir, I take my leave !
(To Arnolphe) Wish me luck tonight,
[And he goes.]
CHRYSALDE (a sudden shout of remembering) :
La Souche! LaSouche!!
ARNOLPHE : Ugh !
HORACE (returning)'* Who called La Souche?
ARNOLPHE : Nobody called ! I sneezed ! (He sneezes)
La ... Soooooche!
I think my cold is worse !
HORACE: Oh, I'm sorry.
(To Chrysalde) We must take care of him.
I'm anxious for him — he has so many
ailments.
Well, goodbye again!
[And again he goes.]
CHRYSALDE:
ARNOLPHE
CHRYSALDE
ARNOLPHE :
Why this mystery?
(tetchilj) : There is no mystery.
(good humoured) :
I should have thought there was!
But let it go ! What about dinner ?
I'm not hungry !
187
ACT THREE
CHRYSALDE: But I am! ! Do we have dinner here?
I gather your intended doesn't dine out!
ARNOLPHE : She won't get any dinner.
CHRYSALDE: Not hungry either?
ARNOLPHE : Whether she is or not, she'll go without !
CHRYSALDE: You sound a happy household! Any
thing wrong?
ARNOLPHE: Everything!
CHRYSALDE : Oh my poor friend — tell me the trouble !
ARNOLPHE (a soulful and comprehensive protest}
Oh, I'm the sport of Fate!
That's what I am — a plaything of the
gods!
And after all the forethought that I have
taken
to arrange the future exactly as I want —
It isn't fair!
I ask no special treatment from Above.
A little recognition, some slight reward,
for all I've done
and all I haven't done
But no! The gods are jealous, that's
what it is !
They'll have no planning in the Uni
verse
except their Own.
CHRYSALDE: Yes; but — apart from the Universe —
what's wrong?
ARNOLPHE: I'll tell you. Listen — that young
jackanapes
CHRYSALDE: Horace? The Charming Horace ??
ARNOLPHE: — the devil take his charm
while I was away, broke into my house.
CHRYSALDE: And met the girl ?
And she thinks well of him ?
ARNOLPHE: A thousand times too well!
188
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
CHRYSALDE: Well — what d'you expect?
The first young gentleman she's ever
seen!
And most presentable!
Were he a Monster, she'd have been
intrigued!
ARNOLPHE : He is a Monster — of Deceit !
And so is she!
The way they plot and plan
CHRYSALDE (laughing at him} :
You've spent your life in making plans
to outwit your fellows.
It has one disadvantage — others do the
same!
ARNOLPHE : But she's my wife !
CHRYSALDE: Is she?
ARNOLPHE : Well, very nearly is
CHRYSALDE: And you're jealous!
ARNOLPHE : Wouldn't you be ?
CHRYSALDE: Yes. I expect I should!
But knowing myself, as well as knowing
you,
I doubt if I should feel the same
despair
nor even, for that matter, lose my
appetite !
ARNOLPHE: I hate your flippancy!
CHRYSALDE: An attempt to laugh you out of your
misery!
But, in all seriousness,
it's not the gods
or fate
or some External Thing
that tortures you.
It's something in yourself
189
ACT THREE
It's this barbaric passion of possessive-
ness.
You can't keep even your dearest things
completely to yourself.
ARNOLPHE: There is a limit.
CHRYSALDE: Of course there is. It's where you set
your limits.
Yours are quite impossibly confined.
They should be stretched with genero
sity.
A civilised desire that the one you love
should have the most from life.
ARNOLPHE : Revolting nonsense !
An intellectual excuse for immorality !
CHRYSALDE (heated himself)
Let me tell you, sir,
I think your attitude just as nonsensical
and as revolting — as you think mine.
And to what depths of folly
does this dread of cuckoldry reduce
you!
A man may be a thief; a bully; or a
cheat;
if his wife's faithful to him,
he's a decent chap!
Why judge a man by how his wife
behaves ?
Take my advice
ARNOLPHE: Advice from you ! Rank poison!
CHRYSALDE: Take it as medicine then!
A' little at a time.
Nasty — but to be swallowed.
Here's a dose :
look to your own behaviour]
Not too much to hers;
190
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
or you may drive her to the thing you
fear.
ARNOLPHE: I never heard such idiocy.
I'll tell you this :
unless I keep an eye on her;
both eyes — wide open
the worst will happen — I shall be
betrayed.
CHRYSALDE What then?
ARNOLPHE: Eh? What was that? What did I hear ? ?
CHRYSALDE: It's an accident can happen to us all I
To bear it bravely, and with self-
respect
ARNOLPHE : Self-respect !
You sicken me.
To compromise with Evil; and call it
self-respect!
CHRYSALDE : The thing's as EviTas^'you think it is.
No more., no less.
Regard it as overwhelming — you'll be
overwhelmed.
Believe it bearable — you'll find you'll
bear it.
ARNOLPHE: And go about the place3
boasting my wife has lovers — and I like
it!
If you boast about it, everybody knows.
But so they do if you run mad,
and call destruction down on all con
cerned,
yourself included !
You're just as ridiculous raging
boasting.
There's a middle way.
Keep quiet about it!
Steel yourself to silence.
CHRYSALDE :
as
191
ACT THREE
Avert your eyes !
And it can happen — when you turn to
look,
there's nothing there !
ARNOLPHE: That's very possible!
No lover and no wife — they've gone
away together.
Any more physic ?
I'll pour it in the street.
CHRYSALDE: I'll give you one more dose.
Fd rather be married to a wife,
who might, on occasion, have a faith
less lapse,
than to a nagging one.
Or to a wife, always making demands,
who eats a man alive,
complaining all the time
she doesn't like the taste !
Or to the worst of all
some Paragon of Virtue,
who believes her Faithfulness
to be her only obligation in the married
state.
And has only one interest in her
husband
that he should have no interest in
another woman !
Then, she springs to Life,
and pours abuse upon him.
Here's a kst pill!
If a woman isn't always all that she
should be
it gives the man a certain latitude.
So swallow that!
Talking of swallowing — I'm hungry !
I must go and eat!
192
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
[And without waiting, he strides off.}
ARNOLPHE: Here! Hi! Comeback!
\but Chrysalde has gone ^\
Of all the idiots !
(Then he turns towards the house and calls]
Akin! . . . Alain!! . . . Georgette!
[Alain appears.}
Oh, there you are!
Come out here; I want to talk to you.
Is Georgette there ?
ALAIN: She's coming.
ARNOLPHE (turning again from the house) :
Oh, I'm so angry!
GEORGETTE (appearing; to Alain):
What's the matter now ?
ALAIN (to Arnolphe) : With us ?
ARNOLPHE : No. Not with you.
An interfering fool, who says a lot of
things
I don't know how to answer — till he's
gone!
Oh, what's he matter?
I can deal with him another time.
Now to deal with Horace !
And I mil!
(To the servants)
I found out what he was up to ;
you were right — measuring.
He's going to bring a ladder !
GEORGETTE: A ladder? Whatever for?
ARNOLPHE: What d'you think?
7 193
ACT THREE
GEORGETTE:
ARNOLPHE :
ALAIN:
ARNOLPHE:
GEORGETTE :
ALAIN:
ARNOLPHE :
GEORGETTE :
ALAIN:
ARNOLPHE:
To climb.
My God, you're bright!
You mean he's going to climb a ladder
on to the balcony? . . . Into her
room?
I don't suppose he'd stop out on the
balcony!
Oh, the wickedness !
What are you going to do ?
I'm going to let him.
Let him?
You're going to let him?
Hold your tongues.
He's coming here tonight!
Inside the house, we three will be on
guard
watching !
As soon as he appears,
the two of you — armed with sticks
out thro' the kitchen; into the street;
behind him !
It'll be dark.
He'll place his kdder.
As soon as he sets one foot upon the
bottom rung
you attack.
And beat him.
Beat him black and blue.
Belabour him.
Don't spare that back of his !
We'll teach him such a lesson!
Black-and-blue, and bleeding, he can
creep home,
and that's the kst we'll have of him
hanging about the place!
Into the house!
194
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
We have to find the sticks.
They must be stout and strong, and
very nobblyl
I could be glad of this I
I feel myself, tonight, the champion of
my sex.
If every lover were received like this,
that wretched animal — a man with
horns -
would soon become extinct!
In with you. In.
It's getting dark.
We shan't have long to wait.
\Thej go in. The Lights fade. . . . &lusic> which continues
until the Lights come up. Inside the room. . . . I\0w it
is Ht by candles. And Arnolphe with his two servants is
at the window peering out into the night.}
ARNOLPHE : He should be coming any moment now !
It's very dark!
We shall see him when he comes,
round the corner,
under the lamplight, there, across the
road.
. . . What was that? . . . Something
moved !
Isn't that a shadow? On the wall?
It moved again -
It* shim! . . . He's coming! . . . Here
he isj
And with his ladder!
Have you got your sticks ?
He's stopping . . . and looks round,
Now looks to her balcony.
Oh, you villain!
ACT THREE
He thinks he's unobserved!
Here he comes, nearer. . . .
Careful! Keep from the window!
Don't let him see you!
Are you ready ?
Don't go yet !
Wait till I give the word ... get
ready . . .
ready. . . .
Now!
Out! Thro' the kitchen.
]The servants with an ugly-looking stick each run to the
door. There he stops them for a last quick instruction^
ARNOLPHE: As he mounts the ladder — strike!
And strike hard.
Don't spare your blows.
There's nothing sham about this fight,
so strike to hurt.
[They go.}
(alone) Oh, this is wonderful !
I wouldn't miss this moment for the
world!
(cautiously to the window again}
What's he doing now ?
How stealthily he moves !
Again, he stops! . . . again, looks
up! ...
now sets the kdder! . . .
Where are those servants ? ?
In a moment, he'll be up it.
Ah! There they are!
I can see 'em, in the lamplight!
They mustn't stop there, or he'll see
them too ! !
196
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
Ah, there they go — into the shadows !
I can see 'em moving.
They must be near him
Yes, they're close behind him! Almost
touching!
Now he starts to climb !
Now! . . . Now/!!
[And he himself gives a great swinging blow with an
imaginary stick — which is followed by a great cry.]
He's getting what he asked for!
(But he shrinks away from the windoiv)
My God, Akin can hit !
And Georgette, too!
I've never seen a carpet beaten with half
such energy. . . .
(He stands and listens . . . but there is no
sound}
What's happened ?
(He returns to the window}
What could have happened ? ?
I can't see anyone . . . and not a
sound.
He must have got away; and they'll be
coming back.
(He moves about for a few moments, in a
state of great agitation)
Why don't they come! !
They may have overdone it !
That kst blow of Alain's would have
felled an ox.
I can't stand much of this ! ! !
[The servants re-enter, Alain first . . . Georgette behind.
They look at him. There is a silence. Theni\
ACT THREE
. . . Well?
ALAIN: Master! . . . He's dead!
ARNOLPHE: . . . Merciful Heaven! . . .
(Then suddenly he shouts)
Madman! . . . You madman!
ALAIN (shouting back in his fear) :
Don't shout at me !
Nor blame us either!
We did what we was told.
[Arnolphe stands gaping at him for a few moments in
silent horror \]
ARNOLPHE
ALAIN
ARNOLPHE I
ALAIN:
ARNOLPHE !
ALAIN:
ARNOLPHE:
ALAIN:
(in a small, dry voice)'. . . . What
happened ?
(quietly):
As he began to climb,
I aimed a blow.
But as I aimed he stooped.
It must have hit his head.
He gave a cry; one cry;
let go his hold — and fell.
Fell at my feet;
and didn't move . . . 'e never moved !
I turned him over, like a sack o' coals !
There never was a doornail, half as dead
. . . 'e never moved !
He never moved !
He lies there now.
Oh no, 'e don't!
Well, where's he gone to ? ?
Into the garden!
Into the garden ? ? ?
Yes. I dragged him there!
Round to the back.
No point in leaving him,
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for every stranger, passing by, to see!
Master — this is Murder.
[Upon which Georgette sets up a great wailing hullabaloo^
GEORGETTE:
ARNOLPHE:
ALAIN:
ARNOLPHE:
ALAIN:
ARNOLPHE :
ALAIN:
ARNOLPHE:
GEORGETTE:
ARNOLPHE :
Oh! Oh!! Oh!!!
I'm frightened! Fm afraid!
What are we going to do ?
What'U they do to us ?
We'll be arrested; put in prison;
executed!!!
Oh, for God's sake, woman, stop it,
stop that noise.
You'll be all right. No harm'll come to
you.
Or him; or me.
No harm! ! How d'you make that out?
The blow was struck in self-defence.
Well! I of all the— Self-Defence! ! !
Defending my honour!
And the girl's !
And he was breaking in.
Yes ; that's true enough.
The Law has little sympathy for thieves ;
and young seducers
Oh — are you sure of that ?
Well, if it has
there's certainly a way of getting round
it.
Let me think!
First, leave the kdder there — for
evidence.
Next — the body-
ALAIN:
In the potting shed.
He'll stay there till you want him.
ARNOLPHE: I'll to the Notary.
199
ACT THREE
If he's in bed, I'll rouse him.
He'll tell us what to do.
It may be that La Souche must dis
appear;
and the four of us leave Paris for a
while;
and live in my country house.
There I am " Arnolphe ".
and " La Souche " is nobody.
He doesn't exist !
How can a man without existence
commit a crime ?
Pack all your things to travel, and wait
here.
(At the door., he has another thought)
Did you see Agnes?
GEORGETTE: No!
ALAIN: Not a sign of her!
ARNOLPHE : That's something to be thankful for ! —
Pack her things, too.
[He goes. Light fades. Music which continues until the
Lights come up again.
In the street.
It is rather dark; there is some moonlight; and on the side
of the stage furthest from the house some kind of street
lamp throws an arc of golden light around itself.
Arnolphe comes out of his front door,, and crosses the stage
not without apprehension.
And when he is in the patch of golden light \ ke hears his
own name called^
A VOICE: Seigneur Arnolphe!
ARNOLPHE (stopping dead; very scared) :
Who's that?? . . . who called???
200
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
THE VOICE (again) ' Seigneur Arnolphe !
ARNOLPHE (In a trembling voice) : Who Is it ?
HORACE (appearing): Me!
\Arnolphe lets out a strangled cry.]
You didn't expect to see me here again 1
And I must say : I*m not surprised.
Oh, Seigneur Arnolphe
since I saw you last,
I've had such strokes of luck !
ARNOLPHE : Of what?
HORACE : Of luck ! Of great good fortune !
ARNOLPHE : I think I'm going mad.
HORACE : Off to your Notary again ? ?
ARNOLPHE: Same old business.
At it day and night.
HORACE : But that's where I was going !
ARNOLPHE: You? To my Notary I
HORACE: Yes.
ARNOLPHE : Whatever for ?
Has something happened to you?
HORACE : It has ! Indeed it has.
ARNOLPHE: I should keep quiet about it, if I were
you.
HORACE: Keep quiet? No. Never.
He'll see the inside of a prison,
or something worse.
ARNOLPHE: You mean La Souche?
HORACE: La Souche is done for; finished;
we've heard the kst of him.
ARNOLPHE: I think you may be right!
HORACE: We can forget him. He no longer
counts. . .
Things have gone further!
ARNOLPHE: What's that? Further?
201
ACT THREE
HORACE: Adventure upon Adventure.
Listen to this:
I came here with a ladder — as I said —
no sooner had I set one foot upon a
rung,
than I was set upon.
It must have been La Souche.
ARNOLPHE: Oh no!
HORACE: How did he know?
ARNOLPHE : Know what ?
HORACE: That I was coming.
ARNOLPHE : Don't ask me !
And you were set upon! I can't
believe it.
HORACE: They might have killed me,
very nearly did.
A blow right on the head.
It knocked me out!
And the next thing I knew,
I slowly realised I was on the ground
and someone bending over me.
La Souche! — or one of his household,
there were two of them
I'd been unconscious, and my eyes were
closed,
and so I kept 'em closed
I heard him telling someone I was
dead
Lord, he was frightened.
Then, if you please, he took me by the
feet,
and dragged me, for what seemed a
hundred miles,
over some cobble stones,
and thro' a cabbage patch,
and dumped me in a shed.
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE :
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE :
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE:
And shut the door!
I still felt pretty dizzy.
And not knowing where they were,
I thought Fd better stop there for a
while.
Then, in the dark,
I heard a quiet fumbling at the door,
and it was opened.
Someone came in.
And knelt beside me,
and began to cry!
Tears fell on my face;
well, by that time, I thought that Fd
been
dead for long enough
and opened my eyes.
A face — so close to mine
in the half- darkness
looking down at me.
It was hers.
Hers ? ? ? You mean Agnes ?
Yes. Agnes.
She'd watched the whole thing from her
balcony.
And when they'd gone, came down.
Now d'you realise my luck ?
She's come to me !
She's mine!
She's with me now!
Aah!
Dear Seigneur Arnolphe, ought you to
be out?
Out?
This chill night air is shocking for a
cold.
203
your
ACT THREE
ARNOLPHE: She's with you now?
What have you done with her ?
Where is she?
HORACE: Under that archway.
Waiting for me.
(Pointing off]
You can see her from here.
I was taking her with me to
Notary.
I thought perhaps he'd know your
whereabouts.
I had to find you
even at this hour.
There's no one else!
Sir, I have to ask you one last favour.
You see;
as it's turned out, this is no episode.
Her tears upon my face!
The things she said to me !
First, her distress; and then, her
happiness !
I know she loves me.
Even more deeply
I know that I love her.
, Those few moments in a potting shed —
But she is all my world,
and I am hers
I mean to marry her.
ARNOLPHE: Marry!
HORACE: That, with your Notary's help,
I can do tomorrow.
But there's tonight
ARNOLPHE : What of tonight ?
HORACE: Perhaps you'll think I'm foolish;
but even before I'm married,
she seems to be my wife.
204
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
And there's her reputation to be thought
of.
She can't come home with me;
because, in ray lodgings., Fm alone
with only one room.
Dear sir, would you, just for tonight,
I hardly like to say it
Would you take care of her?
ARNOLPHE: Me — take care of her?
HORACE: I know it's a lot to ask.
ARNOLPHE: Yes; but I will, my boy; of course I
will.
Bring her to me at once.
HORACE: I will. I will. At once,
Oh, Fm so grateful!
Oh, when you see her,
you'll fall in love with her.
ARNOLPHE: Wait! Wait a moment! Wait!
What am I thinking of?
When she sees me — it's always possible
she may not want to come.
HORACE: She doesn't want to leave me anyhow.
ARNOLPHE: Is that so? In that case, we must be
careful.
We have to consider her!
Let me advise !
Forgive me, but I'm older
Now, let me think:
I'll stand aside.
You tell her who I am.
Old Seigneur Arnolphe, tell her
your father's oldest friend
and yours.
And tell her this :
I'll guard her, as if she were my own.
HORACE: How can I thank you!
205
ACT THREE
ARNOLPHE : I'm pleased to do it.
Very pleased
you'll never know how pleased !-
Now
go and send her to me!
I'll wait here !
[He makes a gesture throwing his cloak up round his face
so as to hide it — but he just overdoes it — so that Horace
notices.]
HORACE : Why are you doing that ?
ARNOLPHE : D oing what ?
HORACE: Putting your cloak about your face?
ARNOLPHE: Eh? ... I'm feeling cold !•
The night air, you know !
You were quite right, my boy — it's very
dangerous !
A touch of pleurisy!
(He clutches at his chest)
HORACE: Oh sir!
ARNOLPHE: No matter! Never mind! I'll risk my
life for you
only for Heaven's sake, dear fellow,
and for mine
cut this thing short!
As quick as you can, say your Goodnight
to her,
allay her fears ;
tell her you'll fetch her early in the
morning.
Remember, every added moment
brings me nearer Death
I fear pneumonia !
[He has a terrible fit of coughing.]
206
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
HORACE : Oh, indeed, I'll hurry-
ARNOLPHE :
AGNES:
HORACE :
AGNES :
HORACE:
AGNES:
HORACE:
AGNES :
you must get home to bed.
Yes. Yes. I must.
At once.
So go and send her to me.
[Horace runs off. Arnolphe, his cloak well across hisfacey
moves into the darkest shadow he can find. . . . Horace
re-enters with Agnes. But she Is unwilling^
HORACE : My darling love,
he'll guard you with his life
he's told me so,
my father's oldest friend.
No one could be more suitable in all
the world.
I want to stay with you !
I want you to :
but, dearest, you can't.
For one night — that's all
and for my sake, as well as yours.
I'm not happy any more
unless you're with me,
It's the same with me.
Then why not stay together 1 1
It's a silly world !
You know I love you.
Not as I love you.
For if you did,
you'd never let me go !
(She catches sight of the dark figure of
Arnolphe)
Who's that?
HORACE: That's him!
[Agnes takes a step towards htm: and drops a curtsey.
207
ACT THREE
Arnolphe^ still in deep shadow, bom. But Agnes turns
back to Horace.]
AGNES: Don't go!
[Behind her back, Amolphe is now making violent signs to
Horace, that he should go.]
HORACE: I must.
AGNES : Then come back soon.
HORACE: Tomorrow morning, before the sun is
up,
I'll come to his house, to fetch you;
and we'll never part again.
AGNES: I'm frightened! Don't leave me here,
alone!
HORACE : Darling — you're not alone !
Look! There's my friend!
And yours.
Tomorrow morning. Early.
Till then— Goodnight.
[He kisses her; and goes. . . . She stands, looking after
him. . . . Stealthily, like an animal after its prey,
Arnolphe creeps towards her. Seeming to sense his approach^
she turns to him. Swiftly, all in one movement, he seizes her
by the hand, and hurries her towards the house]
AGNES (utterly taken by surprise) :
Oh! ... Oh! ... No ... No ... No!
[But she hardly has time to raise her voice before they
disappear into the house. The Lights fade. Music, which
continues, until the Lights come up. Inside the house. . . .
It is daylight. Piled about the room are baggages and boxes
and bundles — the paraphernalia of travel. Arnolphe is
208
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
there; and the hvo servants; and Agnes sits perched on a
large travelling trunk, disconsolate.]
ARNOLPHE : Is all the packing done ?
All of it?
(A.t the various piles)
— Mine; and yours;
and yours; and hers.
All ready, eh?
Ready to be off into the country
at any moment.
Good.
You needn't hang about!
I can make sure she doesn't run away.
Go to your rooms.
I'll call you when I want you
in a moment.
\The servants go . . . and he turns to A-gnes. He has
regained his composure; but is in a cold rage.]
Well!— Miss Simplicity!
Miss Innocence!!
Miss C,unning\ \ \
Where did you learn it, eh ?
You're wicked from your birth
— the lot of you
that's what it is !
Thank God, I know it;
and can be cunning, too !
I can match^yours ; and add some of my
own.
And I already have !
Don't look to your lover to come and
rescue you.
He knows me by another name,
209
ACT THREE
and in another house !
AGNES : Why do you scold me so ?
I've done nothing wrong!
ARNOLPHE: Wrong! Done nothing wrong ?
To run off with a lover! Nothing
wrong ! ! !
AGNES : But to be married !
That's why I went to him !
Marriage takes away the sin
you told me so yourself!
ARNOLPHE: Oh, you're a half- wit 1
You can marry only one husband
and you're to marry me.
AGNES: I'd much rather not!
ARNOLPHE : And why ?
AGNES : Well — for one thing
you make it sound so awful!
He makes it sound a joy.
Besides, I love him !
ARNOLPHE: You dare sit there,
and tell me that you love him ?
AGNES: But it's true!
The Nuns taught me always to tell the
truth.
ARNOLPHE: Oh drat the Nuns!
Oh what a reward for doing all in my
power
everything I could
to make you love me!
AGNES : What did you say ! — " to make me love
you"?
ARNOLPHE: Yes
AGNES : You've tried ?
ARNOLPHE : Of course I have !
AGNES: Well! . . . Who would have thought
it!
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
You're not as good at it as Horace is!
ARNOLPHE : Oh, how you answer back !
Any sophisticated Miss in High Society
could learn from you.
Very well!
Since you're so clever, and know every
thing,
answer me this :
Considering everything I've done for
you,
had you educated,
fed you; and clothed you; — and now,
given you a house and servants of your
own
AGNES : I don't call those servants ;
they're more like prison guards.
And had me educated 1
Taught !
What did you have me taught?
Nothing I — so I'm ashamed!
He taught me all I know
and all I want to know.
It's him I should be grateful to; not
you!
ARNOLPHE: Oh, I could give you such a sounding
smack !
AGNES: All right; goon; and do it!
It wouldn't make me love you any more.
ARNOLPHE (in a passion) :
My fingers itch to beat you !
And everything you say, and do, and
are
(then bis voice breaks]
makes you more lovely I
And I love you more!
And more, and more, and more ! !
211
ACT THREE
AGNES:
ABKOLPHE:
AGNES:
Oh, Women may be wicked
but Men are fools !
Weak fools!
And I'm a man!
I love you more than he
— I've known you so much longer!
What did he do, to gain your love ?
I'll do the same !
He gave you presents !
Well— what of that?
I'll give you better ones!
What d'you want? Just tell me!
Fine clothes? And friends? And all the
life of Paris ?
Yours — for the asking!
Don't look at me, like that;
without a smile!
What did he do to please you ?
kissed your neck and arms
and so will II!
(He seizes her band; she withdraws)
You seize your hand away!
What do you want?
For I'm your slave !
See ! I'm on my knees !
Just say the word !
I'll beat my brains out!
Or I'll kiU myself!
Oh, please do stop !
Why should you kill yourself?
It's all so silly!
If you're my skve
I am. I am. I am.
(He grovels before her)
Then take me back to Horace
and let me marry him.
212
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
[For a moment Arnolphe stays quite still where he Is on the
floor; then struggles to his feet. He is quite livid with rage.}
ARNOLPHE: This is insufferable! (He calls} Alain!!
You've had your chance! (He calls
again) Alain!!!
I'll never offer you another thing.
[Alain appears.}
Bring round the carriage — to the back;
and put the luggage in.
Then come and let me know the
minute that you're ready.
[Alain hurries out thro'' the kitchen. Georgette has
appeared}
During the journey you're to guard the
girl!
Don't let her out of sight
We start at once.
[There is a sudden loud knocking on the door}
Now, who — in God's name — is that??
GEORGETTE : I expect its him!
ALAIN: It isn't.
GEORGETTE: Three of 'em!
ARNOLPHE: Three! D'you know 'em?
ALAIN : Not from Adam 1
[More knocking
Don't open . . . 1*11 go myself and
see!
213
ACT THREE
[He runs out thro* the kitchen. More knocking. . . .
A.gms begins to cry. Georgette goes to comfort her^ and
the girl, clinging to her, sobs in her arms. . . . More
knocking. 'The stage becomes dark. Music, which continues,
until the Lights come up. In the street. Three men,,
Chrysalde, Oronte and Enrique are standing at the front
door. . . . Arnolpbe appears stealthily , from the opposite
side of the stage., watching and listening but keeping out of
sight.}
CHRYSALDE: My good Enrique!
Are you quite sure this is the house ?
ENRIQUE: Well . . . from the address and the
description, yes.
CHRYSALDE: I think you must be wrong.
I know the man who owns it.
ORONTE: Who?
CHRYSALDE: Arnolphe.
ORONTE:* Arnolphe! Seigneur Arnolphe ??
Oh no — you're wrong yourself;
I know him well.
One of my oldest friends.
Last time I was in Paris,
I had dinner with him
at his house
it wasn't here.
CHRYSALDE: He has other houses.
One here in Paris — where you had
dinner;
another, in the country;
but this is where you'll find him.
under another name.
ORONTE : Another name ?
What do you mean ?
What for??
CHRYSALDE: He's very close about it.
214
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
Something to do with a young girl
he means to marry.
ORONTE: Marry!
Arnolphe ?
A young girl — you can't be serious !
CHRYSALDE: Indeed I am.
ORONTE: But he's as old as I am!
Even older!
Another name!
He must be crazy!
What's he call himself?
CHRYSALDE i He told me . . . but I can't remember.
ORONTE: Then, who lives here?
CHRYSALDE: The girl.
That's why he bought the house.
And today, I think it is, he plans to
marry.
ORONTE: Well, well, well.
We've come in time to pull his leg,
and give him a wedding-feast.
Let's knock again.
(He does . . . then turns to 'Enrique]
Enrique, dear fellow, you've been
misinformed.
These aren't the two we're after.
CHRYSALDE: Strange no one answers!
He keeps two servants; and the girl
herself.
ENRIQUE : Here's some kind of garden, at the back ;
and another door.
CHRYSALDE: Let's try that. There must be someone
in!
]The three disappear.
Arnolphe ventures out towards the middle of the stage —
when Horace comes quickly from the other direction^
215
ACT THREE
HORACE : Seigneur Arnolphe !
ARNOLPHE: Horace!
HORACE : Disaster ! ! Utter disaster ! ! !
ARNOLPHE : What's the matter now ? ? ?
HORACE: Last night, I returned to my lodgings,
walking on air
to find my father waiting,
with a man Enrique
a childhood friend; and fabulously
rich
he has a daughter!
I'm to marry her!
My father's adamant.
I wasn't even able to come to your
house this morning.
This man Enrique — rolling in money
and thinking he owns the world,
insisted on coming in this direction,
to find some house or other;
and I had to come with them.
But, as we passed your Notary,
I slipt inside, to try and get a message to
you.
Oh, Seigneur Arnolphe!
You'll intercede for me?
You won't see Agnes snatched away
from me
under your very nose ?
ARNOLPHE: You can rely on me..
HORACE: I knew I could! I knew!
\Chrysalde and Oronte, and later "Enrique reappear^
CHRYSALDE: Why, there he is !
ORONTE (going quickly to Arnolphe; and greeting
him effusively):
216
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
ARNOLPHE :
ORONTE:
ARNOLPHE:
HORACE :
ARNOLPHE :
ORONTE:
ARNOLPHE :
HORACE
ARNOLPHE :
HORACE:
ARNOLPHE :
My dear old friend!
Oronte! Dear fellow ! But I'm glad to
see you!
And what a day to choose
to run across you so!
Your wedding-day !
You to be married — at your age !
I'm proud of you !
How did you know?
Oh, Chrysalde has told you.
Yes. I and my future wife
start for the country in a moment's time.
Another minute, and you'd have missed
us.
Seigneur Arnolphe!
You to be married!
But you never mentioned it!
No. You had other things to think
about!
(Turning to Oronte)
Talking of getting married,
I hear you pkn a marriage for your son.
And the young dog objects.
Oh, but that's very wrong!
(utterly taken abacfe) : Wrong ? ?
There's nothing I feel more passionately
about than filial duty !
But, Seigneur Arnolphe !-
A son must obey his father!
And in everything!
This Modern Cult of Disobedience
must be stamped out.
CHRYSALDE: Oh come, my dear fellow!
Force a young man to marry,
and against his will ?
ARNOLPHE: You take the rebel's part!
217
ACT THREE
I might have known it.
Irresponsible!
This refusal of the young
to recognise Authority
threatens Society.
Horace ! Obey your father !
It's your Duty !
(To Oronte)
And you, old friend,
insist on his Obedience.
It's your Duty, too I
And doing your duty, both of you !
you'll find happiness -
[Georgette appears in a great state of excitement from the
GEORGETTE (loudly)
Master, what shall I do ?
The girl's run mad.
I can't keep hold of her.
She wants to get away!
ARNOLPHE (taken aback; but recovering himself} :
See how it is with me !
So eager is the girl I'm going to marry,
there's no restraining her!
You heard ?
" She wants to get away,"
into my coach,
into the country,
into my arms -
[Agnes suddenly comes rushing from the house; and
straight into the arms of Horace^
AGNES : Horace, my love !
218
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
HORACE (receiving her} :
My darling, darling girl!
ORONTE: In Heaven's Name — what's this?
ARNOLPHE: Keep calm! Don't lose your head!
I'll deal with this!
(To the two young people., locked in each
other's arms]
That's right, my dear — say your good
byes to him.
And you, young fellow — take a last
farewell.
[Alain has appeared; and is making signs to Arnolphe^
who doesn't see
ORONTE
ALAIN:
ORONTE:
ALAIN:
HORACE
ALAIN:
CHRYSALDE:
ENRIQUE
ORONTE:
ENRIQUE:
(to Alain) :
What is it!
What d'you want??
A word with my master.
Your master?
Monsieur La Souche.
(extricating himself from Agnes) :
La Souche?
Did I hear La Souche ?
(To Alain}
Is this man called La Souche ?
Well, it's 'is name.
Yes! Thafs the name ! La Souche!
(emergingunexpectedly from the background) :
Then you're the man I want !
Enrique, dear fellow, can you unravel
me this mystery?
Indeed I can.
And there's no mystery!
Some fifteen years ago,
I had to go on business to America.
219
HORACE
ENRIQUE
ACT THREE
My wife came with me.
But for our baby girl,
she feared the long, uncertain, perilous
weeks at sea.
Believing we should be away only a
year or less,
we found a woman we could trust
and left our child with her.
But in America,
my wife died of a fever,
and the business failed
and I was alone; with nothing!
But as with awful suddenness
the Fates had taken all that I had,
with equal wantonness
they gave me back more than I needed.
By a first stroke of luck
I found myself with money in my purse :
with which
caring little whether I won or lost
I speculated.
And won; and won; and won.
And so I hastened home
sought out the woman,
and learned from her
she'd given my daughter to a man La
Souche.
(to Arnolphe) :
Oh what hypocrisy!
What cunning! What deceit!
You nauseating villain!
(to Arnolphe] :
Sir, let me shake your hand!
Fve much to thank you for ! !
The woman told me how you'd cared
for her,
220
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES
and everything she has, she owes to you.
Now, bring her to me.
Oh, my eyes ache
to see the only living thing
that is some part of me!
[Then Agnes walks to him; and stands in front of him;
and looks him up and down.}
AGNES : Fve often heard the story,
how my parents went to America -
and disappeared!
ENRIQUE : You !
Can you be the baby that I left asleep !
Indeed you are!
Your mother's very image!
AGNES: You say she's dead.
ENRIQUE: She lives in my heart -
and here. . . .
[He takes a locket and holds it out to Agnes \ who looks at
//.]
AGNES (in wonder] :
I'm looking at myself! ! . . .
You were a legend to me -
my mother and my father -
I never believed in you!
But this is my mother's picture -
(she raises her eyes from the locket to
Enrique)
and you're my father!
ENRIQUE (taking her in his arms) :
My dear! My child!
HORACE : But if she's your daughter ! ! ! -
ENRIQUE: Yes, my boy, take her!
I'm just in time to give her to you;
221
ACT THREE
and with the greater part of all my
fortune
which is immense ! !
ORONTE : I still don't understand !
(To Horace)
Do you know the girl ? ?
HORACE : This man, La Souche'll tell you !
CHRYSALDE: No. I'll not have that!
La Souche is dead !
And my old friend Arnolphe
knows nothing of it !
(To Horace)
You have the girl; at least be generous
(To Arnolphe)
Oh ! you're a lucky man !
ARNOLPHE: Eh? What's that? Me? Lucky!
CHRYSALDE: There's one thing spoils your life;
and only one
This haunting, obsessing fear of being
deceived;
of being made a fool of;
of wearing your cuckold's horns.
And there's only one way to deal with
that
to eliminate the risk
not to get married!!
My dear old friend,
accept my congratulations !
HORACE: And mine!
ORONTE : And mine !
ENRIQUE : And mine !
[And as they gather round him, shaking hit hands; and
banging him on the back; and as Horace and Agnes
embrace ]
The Curtain comes down
MEET A BODY
by
FRANK LAUNDER and
SIDNEY GILLIAT
Copyright 1954 by Frank Launder and Sidney Gilliat
Applications for the performance of this play by amateurs
must be made to Samuel French Ltd., 26 Southampton
Street, Strand, London, W.C.z. Applications for the
performance of this play by professionals must be made to
Christopher Mann Management Ltd,, 140 'Park Lane,
London, W.i. No performance may take place unless 'a
licence has been obtained.
The original version of Meet A Body, under the title
of The Body Was Well Nourished, was presented at
the Lyric Theatre, London., on August I4th, 1940;
its run was cut short by the " blitz." The revised
version, Meet A Body, was staged as an " improbable
adventure," by Laurence Olivier Productions Ltd.,,
at the Duke of York's Theatre, London, on July
2ist, 1954. The cast was as follows:
REGINALD wiLLOUGHBY-pRATT William Kendall
ALAN Patrick Cargill
WILLIAM Brian Reece
ANN Joy Shelton
MR. HAWKINS Duncan'Lewis
SERGEANT Noel Cohman
WINIFRED Christine Pol Ion
LANDLORD ]ulien Mitchell
MR. BOUGHTFLOWER Cyril Chamberlain
L i L Y Barbara Leigh
SIR GREGORY UPSHOTT Llojd Pearson
JOAN WOOD Dorothy Gordon
Directed by Henry Kendall
Sets designed by Hal Henshaw
CHARACTERS
(in order of their appearance)
REGINALD WILLOU GHBY-PRATT
ALAN MONTAGUE
WILLIAM
ANN
MR. HAWKINS
SERGEANT
MRS. BOSTOCK'S VOICE
LANDLORD
LILY
MR. BOUGHTFLOWER
SIR GREGORY UPSHOTT
JOAN WOOD
RADIO ANNOUNCER'S VOICE
SCENES
PROLOGUE
Scene: A spotlight is thrown on a cameo of a B.B.C.
Announcer.
ACT ONE
Scene: The curtain rises on the lounge of a newly built
little house in St. John's Wood. If is an early evening in
May.
ACT TWO
SCENE i. Scene: The lounge of the house next door,
immediately after the end of Act One.
SCENE 2. Scene: The Lounge, Appleby. The same as
Act One.
ACT THREE
Scene: The Ear 'Parlour of the Green Man, Newr/ffi.
Time: The same night, 10.20 p.m.
PROLOGUE
A spotlight is thrown on a cameo of a J5.JB.C. announcer,
Reginald Willoughby-Pratt. His one distinctive feature is a
moustache which, in the modern fashion, Inclines towards the
fully-fledged, but stops halfway before it can interfere
seriously with his vocation.
REGINALD: . . . and depended, he said, on the
decision of the new French Government, if — and
when — it was formed.
At a luncheon in the City today, Sir Gregory Upshott,
the recently appointed Special Envoy to the Middle
East, told the guests of his high hopes for his forth
coming mission. The Government had appealed
to him to come out of retirement and put to use once
again his lifelong experience of peoples, personalities
and conditions in the Middle East.
[Reginald turns away from the microphone to indulge in a
slight fit of coughing.}
(Leaning into microphone.} I beg your pardon. (Re
suming reading from script.} His object was to persuade
the countries in that vital strategic area that it was
either a question of hanging together or hanging
separately. Certain minority elements there had
threatened to take steps, however extreme, that
might be necessary to defeat the object of his mission.
Sir Gregory said that he remained quite unintimate,
and. . . .
[Reginald breaks off, studies his script for a moment and
leans to the microphone^
I'll read that again. Sir Gregory said that he remained
quite unintimidated, and concluded by remarking that
227
PROLOGUE
it was a platitude, but a true one, to say that in the
common interest we must all unite. The moment
of impact might not be far ahead, and if he could help
to achieve a completely new outlook, then his task
would be done, and he would be able to disappear,
this time finally, from the public scene. (Intimately, to
microphone.} A recording of Sir Gregory* s speech
will be broadcast in the Home Service at 10.45 ^s
evening.
At question time in the house today the Prime
Minister denied that the cuts in the Army, Navy and
Air Force estimates had anything to do with the
Government's entry into the film business.
[He continues reading as the lights black out and the Curtain
falls.}
228
ACT ONE
The curtain rises on the lounge of a newly built little bouse in
St. John's Wood. A. bouse of modern design — as the
Instate Agent terms //, " A veritable suntrap ".
The furniture too, is modern and almost painfully brand
new, A sharp eje might perhaps detect a certain tenta-
tivemss in the arrangement of the pieces — an i?npression
reinforced by the presence of (for instance) numerous piles
of books tied tip with string on the floor and an odd packing
case or so in the corner.
Buf, apart from this, there is evidence of a disturbance of a
rather different character; one edge of a rug is turned back,,
a chair is lying over-turned, and a cushion has fallen from
the sofa on to the floor. The curtains on the windows are
closed.
It is 6.30 in the evening in May.
After a moment., Montague., a dark,, compact little man
(of whom it is possibly sufficient to say that he has the look
of a rather intense shop steward), enters from door right.
His cuffs are turned back and he is wiping his hands on a
towel. He is breathing fast and altogether his manner
certainly suggests that he has just suffered a considerable
shock to his nervous system and is anxious to clear out as
soon as possible. In the distance., a church clock strikes the
half hour.
Hurriedly s he picks up the cushion; sets the chair back on
its legs. He kicks the rug with his foot to straighten it,
puts on his jacket, and opens the curtains. Then he catches
sight of a stain on the carpet: muttering, he bends down and
rubs the stain vigorously with his towel. He steps back to
study bis work, then grabs his hat, hurrying to the front
door. He opens it, then sees be has left the towel in view,
229
ACT ONE
and hurries back and puts it in his pocket. As be takes a
final look round the room., his eyes rest on a bottle of
whisky on the small table. He hesitates^ then crosses —
picks up the bottle > pours out a drink, and swallows it down
with a gulp.
As he does so., the front door is pushed slowly open and the
head of a young man., William,, appears round it. He is
carrying a long wooden case which he puts down left of door.
WILLIAM: Anybody at home?
[Montague gasps and swivels round.}
(Sitting him.} Ah, good evening.
MONTAGUE: What . . . what is it?
WILLIAM (moving left to Montague) : I have an appoint
ment with Mrs. Bostock.
MONTAGUE: Mrs. . . . Bostock?
WILLIAM: That's it. " Windy Ridge ", Hilcot Road,
St. John's Wood — correct I think?
MONTAGUE : What ? (Then his face clears as if this has
given him the answer to the problem?) Yes. Of course.
That's right. Windy Ridge.
WILLIAM: Splendid.
[He promptly closes the front door.}
MONTAGUE (quickly) : She's out.
WILLIAM: What?
MONTAGUE: Mrs. Bostock's out.
[He moves towards kztchen.]
WILLIAM: But she asked me to call at 6.30.
MONTAGUE ; She must have overlooked it — that's it —
230
MEET A BODY
she'll have forgotten. (Gaining confidence.) She went
out at about six, said she was going to the pictures.
WILLIAM: Ah, well! One can't compete with
Gregory Peck.
[He opens the case and takes out the rubber ///£<?.]
MONTAGUE (suddenly apprehensive): Did you ring the
bell?
WILLIAM (shakes his head smilingly) : I'm sorry if I came
in unheralded, so to speak, but the door was open,
and in my job a foot in the door is worth two on the
step. You see I represent the Little Wizard of the
Carpet.
MONTAGUE: The what?
WILLIAM: I telephoned Mrs. Bostock and arranged
the demonstration. My card.
[He hands Montague his business card. Montague looks at
it, reacting nith some relief^
MONTAGUE: Oh, I see. You're a vacuum cleaner.
WILLIAM: Well not incarnate, sir. Just the human
agency. (He takes the card back.} Pardon me — it's the
only one I've got.
MONTAGUE: I'll tell Mrs. Bostock you called.
[He moves towards the front door.}
Sorry you've wasted a visit — how about the same
time tomorrow?
WILLIAM: Please don't bother to apologise, Mr.
Bostock,
MONTAGUE: Eh?
WILLIAM: It is Mr. Bostock, I take it?
MONTAGUE: Yes, yes. Of course.
WILLIAM (shutting the front door) : Good. Good. Then
231
ACT ONE
I couldn't have hoped for a happier accident. (He
takes the handle out of the case.}
MONTAGUE (hastily): I'm sorry but I'm afraid I'm
very busy just now.
WILLIAM: This is the very machine for the busy
man. The whole thing assembles in twenty-five
seconds. . . . (The motor jams in the case, he pulls
again.) ... if I can get it out.
MONTAGUE: I haven't the time to wait while. . . .
WILLIAM: May I just explain? The ordinary cleaner
sweeps as it cleans, the superior cleaner beats as it
sweeps as it cleans . . , but the Electro-Broom, the
Little Wizard of the Carpet, disinfects as it beats as it
sweeps as it cleans — thanks to our own inbuilt
germicidal insecticide. Have you any idea what that
carpet hides, sir? Millions of tiny germs. I won't go
into what they're doing but if they're allowed to
increase in numbers, what do you think will happen ?
MONTAGUE: I've no idea, but. . . .
WILLIAM: Now, we have some rather cunning
gadgets here, sir. (He takes each one out of the box in
turn?) This is for getting into small places and clean
ing gentlemen's hats . . . this is for slightly bigger
pkces and — (running the attachment over Montague's
suit) — clea.nf.ng gentlemen's suits . . . this is for
krger pkces and carpets, and so on . . . and this
(He breaks off, looking pulled.) Excuse me, sir. (He
picks up the pamphlet and consults it.) Oh yes — (he
laughs) — how silly of me!
MONTAGUE (forcing a ghastly smile): I'm sure Mrs.
Bostock will be very interested — tomorrow.
WILLIAM: While I'm assembling it you might care
to gknce at this folder giving five unreasonable
answers — I mean unanswerable reasons why you
should choose our machine in preference to any other.
MONTAGUE : I've said I'm not interested.
232
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM : But surely, sir, when it comes to a question
of how your money's spent you must be interested,
if only morbidly.
MONTAGUE : I tell you I'm not interested in spending
it on a vacuum cleaner.
[He crosses nervously to the window J\
WILLIAM: I beg your pardon, sir, but I think you
said you were willing to let Mrs. Bostock see it
tomorrow.
MONTAGUE: It doesn't matter what I said.
WILLIAM: I'm only too afraid you're right. Once she
sets eyes on it — you are — forgive the expression — a
dead duck.
MONTAGUE: Will you pack that thing up and go I
WILLIAM : At times like this I ask myself what would
be the point of having learnt how to overcome sales
resistance if there were no sales resistance to over
come. . . . Expecting somebody?
[He has noticed that Montague Is looking out of the window^
MONTAGUE: No.
[He looks at William in despair and gives the whole thing
up.}
How long will you be ?
WILLIAM: The Electro-Broom is noted for its
extreme ease and rapidity of assembly ... in fact
it almost assembles itself . . . (struggling with if)
— when — you — understand — it. I've only been at
this a week. (Handing the body of the machine to Monta
gue?) Look, sir, would you mind giving me a hand
with this ? It's a perfect devil until you get used to it.
233
ACT ONE
(He connects the tube.} You see, the whole thing fits
together. ( The tube promptly falls out?) Oh !
MONTAGUE (looks at him uneasily) : . . . I've got some
thing to sort out in the next room. I won't be a
minute. (He puts the machine on the tabled)
WILLIAM: Fine.
[Montague exits right.]
I'm glad I persuaded you. Seriously this isn't a bad
little machine at all. If you know anything about it.
[He finishes assembling //.]
Right, that's fixed it. Can you hear me Mr. Bostock ?
MONTAGUE (off) ". Yes. All right.
WILLIAM (shouting): I'm going to put down a layer
of soot and one of sand. Yes, the same old routine.
Rather corny you might say but I can't persuade the
firm to change it. I'm putting it on the hearth here.
No need to worry — ten seconds and it's in the bag.
(He laughs.} Now all we've got to do is plug it in.
Where's the point? . . .
[Having wandered about the room with the cleaner kad>
frying to find the point \ he now locates it on the wall 'beside
the fireplace and plugs in.]
WILLIAM: Ah, there it is. This reminds me of a
rather dim colleague of mine. He smothered a new
carpet with soot and then actually found there was no
electricity laid on. He took a poor view of it when we
laughed ourselves silly but
[Laughing, he switches on the plug and clicks over the switch
on the cleaner itself. Nothing happens. He repeats the
Z34
MEET A BODY
acthn. Still nothing happens. He bends down and examines
the plug. He switches on the electric light y but here too
nothing happens. Crestfallen, he surveys the damage and
then cou^s and looks up apprehensively towards the
kitchen.}
Oh ... Mr. Bostock.
[No reply. He crosses to the kitchen door.}
You remember that silly fellow I was telling you
about ? ]Mr. Bostock, have you got a minute. , . .
[Disappearing Into the kitchen}
Why didn't you tell me there was no electricity?
[Slight pause.}
(Off.} Mr. Bostock! Where are you?
\WiIIiam reappears looking extremely ptz&led and carrying
Montague's bowler bat, which he examines dubiously, and
lays on the back of the sofa.}
Mr. Bostock!
[He goes up the stairs out of sight.}
Mr. Bostock! (Off.} Hello there!
[A. moment or two later he comes down again}
That's funny. . . .
[He goes to the window to see ij 'Montague is in the road and
ACT ONE
on the way he notices the mark on the carpet left, pauses to
give it a curious look, then bends do:m and dabs his finger
on it. He lifts his finger up. looks at it, and whistles. He
runs his hand up the leg of the piano and stands up with a
crj of alarm., wiping blood off his fingers. He glances
nervously round the room, cautiously lifts the dust sheet on
the table and peers underneath. Finding nothing, he makes
for the front door and pulls up as he spots a cupboard in the
wall. He goes tip to it, hesitates, and then summoning up his
courage,, jerks open the door. A mop falls out. William
gives a shout, pushes it back and retires hurriedly to the
settee. This gives him an idea and he cautiously looks under
the cushions, and prods the sofa. Then he bends down and
peers under the settee. He pulls out an umbrella from
underneath. Going down more or less flat, he searches
underneath the settee and reaches as far as he can stretch,
feeling with his hand.
Meanwhile, the front door has opened quickly, a girl
appears, and carrying a number of parcels including a long
modiste's box, she takes her key out of the lock, closes the
door and walks in, to be greeted by the sight of William
grovelling by the settee. Ann gives a scream. William
looks up startled.]
ANN: Who are you? What are you doing here?
WILLIAM: Oh — good evening.
ANN: What are you doing down there?
WILLIAM: Rescuing an umbrella.
[He shows her the umbrella^
ANN: Who are you?
WILLIAM: Yes. H'm?
ANN: I said. Who are you?
WILLIAM: I represent the Little Wizard of the Carpet.
ANN: What?
236
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM: You asked me to call at 6.30 — remember?
ANN: I did?
WILLIAM: That's right. You are Mrs. Bostock, I take
it.
ANN: No.
WILLIAM: No?
ANN: No.
WILLIAM : Oh. . . . Then of course you wouldn't
know. I made an appointment with Mrs. Bostock.
ANN: \Tho is Mrs. Bostock?
WILLAIM: Don't you know?
ANN: I've never heard of her in my life.
WILLIAM : But she asked me to call here and demon
strate a vacuum cleaner.
ANN (coldly)* I?m afraid you've come to the wrong
house.
WILLIAM: Oh3 no. I took down the address.
ANN: Which house did you want?
WILLIAM: " Windy Ridge ".
ANN: Well, this is " Appleby ".
[She begins to take off her coat.]
WILLIAM: Oh, I see what's happened. You\t come
to the wrong house.
ANN : Don't be absurd. You think I don't know my
own house when I see it?
WILLIAM : Your house ?
ANN: Yes.
WILLIAM: Are you sure?
ANN: Of course I'm sure. I told you, I live here
myself — at least, I'll start doing so next month.
\Sbe puts coat on window seat.]
WILLIAM : I can see how it happened. All the houses
on this side of the road are exactly alike.
ACT ONE
ANN : Do you think I don't know my own furniture
when I see it? I got that table at HeaPs — it only
came yesterday — and the curtains, and the settee, and
the— OH!
[She has seen the soot and sand on the carpet. She wheels
on him furiously^
Are you responsible for this ?
WILLIAM: Only indirectly. You see, I was giving a
demonstration and Mr. Bostock omitted to tell me
there was no electricity kid on.
ANN: You've ruined my hearthrug.
WILLIAM: Are you sure it's your rug?
ANN: Of course I am. I tell you, this is " Appleby " !
WILLIAM: I'm awfully sorry — " Windy Ridge ".
ANN: Have you been drinking?
WILLIAM: I regret to say — no.
ANN (controlling herself with difficulty] : Well, it's easily
settled. (Moves up centre to door.} The name's hanging
over the door.
WILLIAM: Yes. I noticed it when I came in.
ANN: Exactly — " Appleby ".
WILLIAM: "Windy — " — allow me.
[He walks past her to the front door> opens it and stretches
up on the threshold to reach over the top of the porch
Apart from the fact that the customer is always right,
I very much dislike having to prove a lady wrong,
especially on so short an acquaintance, but I think
you'll have to agree with me once and for all, the
name is definitely. . . .
[He brings down into view one of those detachable house
238
MEET A BODY
name plates which are suspended by a win for unhooking,
with the name in bold letters. William breaks off as he
looks at the name plate., which has " Appleby " on it.}
— " Wind— elby ".
{Ann looks from the plate to him. There is a pregnant
pause.}
I'll get a brush and sweep that up.
\Thromng the nameplate on the settee^ he exits into the
kitchen. Ann glowers after him and goes over to the
cleaner and wrenches it out of the socket.]
ANN (shouting): For heaven's sake, don't bother.
You've done enough damage akeady. Just take your
wretched cleaner and go. (Coiling up the cable.) You
blunder into the wrong house, probably the worse
for drink, you deliberately ruin my new hearthrug —
I ought to call the police.
[William re-enters carrying brush and dustpan and looking
serious]
WILLIAM: You're right — you ought.
ANN: What?
WILLIAM : Call in the police. I'm worried.
ANN: You're worried.
[Grabbing dustpan and brush in alarm as he begins to
sweep up rug.]
Give me that, you'll only rub it in.
[Glaring at him., she begins to sn<eep vigorously. William
thoughtfully picks up the nameplate from the settee]
WILLIAM: Just suppose this really is " Appleby ".
ANN (loudly^. Will you please go?
239
ACT ONE
WILLIAM : This Is the point — who was the fellow who
let me in?
ANN: How do I know? (Suddenly rising^ having dust
pan on floor.) Did someone let you in ? Someone
must have!
WILLIAM (picking up Montague's bowler): Here's his
bowler. He left it behind.
ANN: You're sure it isn't yours?
[He puts it on. It is much too small for him]
WILLIAM : Well, there you are.
[He turns the hat upside down.]
Exhibit A — one gentleman's bowler hat, size 6| —
owner evidently suffers from dandruff. (Sniffs.)
Must be either Denis Compton or Robert Beatty.
ANN : That's a tremendous help.
WILLIAM: It's almost all we have to go on. This —
and the blood on the carpet.
ANN (jumping): What?
WILLIAM (pointing): There.
ANN: Oh!! (She crosses left and peers at it cautiously^)
Where did it come from?
WILLIAM: I don't know. There's some more on the
leg of the piano.
ANN: Are you certain it's blood?
WILLIAM: I'm afraid so.
ANN: But it can't be — not here in St. John's Wood.
WILLIAM: Murders have to happen somewhere.
ANN: Murder?
WILLIAM : Of course, that's taking an extreme view.
[Ann looks about her fearfully]
ANN: You haven't found — anything, have you?
240
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM: Not yet.
ANN: Why didn't you tell me before?
WILLIAM: We had to settle where the hell we were
first.
ANN: I'm sure there must be some perfectly simple
explanation — there always is.
WILLIAM : Maybe. Though on the other hand — well,
never mind, let it go.
[He puts on his hat and kneeling starts to pack the
vacuum cleaner in its box.]
After all, it's only a theory — so far.
ANN (stopping him): You're not going? I mean, if
anything has happened I ought to know more about
it.
WILLIAM: Yes. I see your point.
ANN : Do you really think anything has ?
WILLIAM : I'm bound to say it looks like it.
ANN: Oh . . . please don't go. Won't you sit
down?
WILLIAM : Thank you very much. (Taking out packet
of cigarettes^) Do you mind if I smoke?
ANN: Of course not. (Slight pause.) Well?
WILLIAM (lighting his cigarette): I don't want to re
open a painful subject, but I'm perfectly certain that
the name over the door read " Windy Ridge " when
I first got here. I remember a scratch on the paint.
[During this Ann hurriedly picks up an ashtray and
crosses to put it pointedly beside him.}
ANN: But you've just seen. It's " Appleby ".
WILLIAM: " Appleby " now. Suppose someone
changed them over ?
ANN: Why?
241
ACT ONE
WILLIAM : Let's call the victim X.
ANN: The victim?
WILLIAM : The body. The corpse. X has arranged to
call on someone at " Windy Ridge ". Somebody else
• — probably the man who let me in — (holds up bowler
hat} — is very anxious indeed that X should never
get there. So he takes this (holding up name plate) and
sticks it over the porch of " Windy Ridge " and
brings this back here. He then lies in wait in this
room until X comes along, looking for the real
" Windy Ridge ". She sees the name over the door.
ANN: She?
WILLIAM: Exhibit B. The victim's umbrella, lady's
model. . . . Well, Miss X sees the name over the
door, rings the bell, and he — Dandruff— lets her in.
And that, madam, is how you came by your bloody
carpet.
ANN (shivering): It sounds terribly convincing.
WILLIAM : Thank you. One of my previous occupa
tions was writing detective stories.
ANN : But what did he do with — with her afterwards ?
WILLIAM: We don't know yet. But our friend, having
disposed of Miss X, is about to make his getaway
when an unknown factor turns up.
ANN: What's that?
WILLIAM: Me. He doesn't know that I have made an
appointment with Mrs. Bostock. So without know
ing it I find myself face to face with a murderer. His
position is worse — he finds himself face to face with
me. I try to sell him a vacuum cleaner — naturally he
doesn't feel like one at the moment. His nerve
breaks, he makes his escape by the back door, taking
the precaution of changing back the name plates on
the way.
ANN: What happened then?
242
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM: I'm afraid the picture has reached the
point where you came in. It fits, doesn't it ?
ANN: Yes. But surely
WILLIAM: What I can't understand is why he should
choose this particular house to do it in.
ANN: I'm afraid that fits, too. You see, we haven't
occupied it yet.
WILLIAM: We?
ANN : Myself and my fiance.
WILLIAM: Oh!
ANN: We shan't be living here until after our
wedding.
WILLIAM : How refreshing.
ANN (coldly) : I meant that if whoever it was knew the
house was unoccupied, he'd think he'd be perfectly
safe.
WILLIAM: You've hit it. He was relying on the fact
that he could leave her here undiscovered for days.
ANN: In that case, she — Miss X, that is ?
WILLIAM (rising apprehensively) : Cannot be far away.
ANN: Oughtn't we to call the police?
WILLIAM: Not without the evidence. Ridiculous
though it may seem there's just the possibility that I
may be wrong. I have a romantic streak in my nature
that sometimes leads me astray.
ANN: I suppose I have, too, in a way.
WILLIAM: Really?
ANN (hopefully): You don't think we've both been
led astray?
WILLIAM : Not in any worthwhile sense.
[Avoiding her eye, he moves away and starts to ferret about.}
ANN: What are you going to do?
WILLIAM: Search this room, with your permission.
You take your side, I'll take this. Yell if you find
anything.
243
ACT ONE
ANN: Don't worry — I will. (She brightens as a thought
strikes her.) She might have got out.
WILLIAM : Out of what ?
ANN: The house. Got away.
WILLIAM : It's possible. But in that case, one would
expect to find a trail of blood to the window or the
door. Depending, of course, on the nature and
situation of the wound.
ANN: Don't.
WILLIAM: I'm sorry. At one time I used to be a
medical student. I remember once in the cutting
room
ANN: What? I thought you wrote stories.
WILLIAM: That was a spare time occupation. . . .
We seem to have drawn a blank in here.
[He suddenly moves right towards kitchen.}
ANN: Where are you going?
WILLIAM: A happy thought has just struck me.
ANN: What?
WILLIAM : She might be in the fridge.
[He disappears. Ann shudders and looks about her un
happily. She hurries fo the mantelpiece^ grabs a cigarette
and is lighting it nervously when she suddenly starts and
looks towards the door. William returns}
WILLIAM: She's not in the fridge. . . . What's the
matter?
ANN (gasping)-. The door. . . . Somebody's trying to
get in. Supposing he's armed !
[William turns to look at fhe door and there is the sound
of a key turning in the lock.}
WILLIAM: Quick — behind the settee!
244
MEET A BODY
[He pulls her down behind the settee. The next moment the
door opens and Reginald enters — the B.J3.C. Awouncer of
the opening. He is dressed with extreme care> wearing a
howler and carrying a neatly furled umbrella. Under his
arm he has two brown paper parcels > a picture wrapped in
green bai^e and a large envelope. He throws the envelope
on the sofa, crosses to the piano and 'lays the picture ', bat
and umbrella on it. The two parcels he puts on the window
seat. "&£ turning to the piano., he catches sight of William
and Ann., who by now have crept ^ on all fours,, half -way up
the stairs.}
REGINALD: Ann!
ANN (relieved) : Reginald !
REGINALD: Ann — what does this mean?
[Suddenly becoming aware of the absurdity of their position^
she scrambles to her feet while Reginald stares^ open-
mouthed^
ANN: Oh, Reginald, you're just in time!
REGINALD: So it appears. Who is this fellow ?
ANN: It's Mr. — what was the name?
WILLIAM : Blake — William Blake. No relation to the
famous admiral, of course. You remember the old
song about Blake tying a broom to the mast to sweep
the Dutch off the sea.
ANN: Except that it was Van Tromp.
WILLIAM : Van Tromp what ?
ANN: Van Tromp fixed the brooin to his mast.
Blake fixed a whip.
WILLIAM: No, I'm sure you're wrong about that.
There's an old song about it — (He sings.) " Now
Blake was an admiral brave and bold. . . .
REGINALD (breaking in): Ann! What is all this?
ANN (to William}: This is my fiance. Reginald
Willoughby-Pratt.
ACT ONE
WILLIAM: I beg your pardon?
ANN (dearly) : Reginald Willoughby-Pratt.
WILLIAM (controlling a snigger) : I see.
Reginald turns to Ann.}
REGINALD: Ann, I am still waiting for your explana
tion.
WILLIAM : May I explain ? I came here to demonstrate
a vacuum cleaner and
REGINALD : That's hardly what you were doing when
I came in.
ANN : You see, Fd forgotten you were coming over.
REGINALD: Apparently.
ANN: We were only hiding, Reginald.
REGINALD (startled): Hiding? From me?
ANN: No — him.
REGINALD: Who?
ANN: Mr. Bostock.
WILLIAM: Not that he's really Mr. Bostock, of
course.
ANN : Because it's the wrong house.
WILLIAM: That's right.
ANN : But whoever it was, we think he did it.
WILLIAM: At least, the evidence seems to point to it.
ANN: So you see, that's why.
\Keginald has been looking from one to the other as if he
doubts not only their sanity^ but his own.]
REGINALD : Have you gone out of your mind ?
ANN: But I've just told you — there's been a murder.
REGINALD: Murder? Where?
ANN: Here, we think — that is, he thinks,
REGINALD : You mean, in my house ?
WILLIAM: Yes.
246
MEET A BODY
REGINALD: Rot!
ANN: How can you say that when you haven't
heard his story ?
REGINALD: Ann!
ANN (subsiding) : I'm sorry, Reginald.
REGINALD (to William}: Now could we have one
thing at a time? And do please try to be coherent.
WILLIAM: Well, it was like this. I made an appoint
ment with Mrs. Bostock of " Windy Ridge ". I
saw the name over this door, and. . . .
REGINALD: But this is not " Windy Ridge ".
WILLIAM : If you don't mind. We've exhausted that
topic. The door was open, I came in
ANN: — and found blood on the carpet!
[Reginald quickly looks around the carpet ^\
REGINALD: Blood! Where?
WILLIAM: There. And there's some more on the leg
of the piano.
ANN: And that's not all, Reginald. He found a man
here.
WILLIAM : Pretending to be Mr. Bostock.
REGINALD: Bostock?
ANN (excitedly)'. He wasn't actually Mr. Bostock, of
course, because the real Mr. Bostock would be Mrs.
Bostock's husband, if she has one alive, which
naturally we don't know as we've never met her, but
she might have, in which case there would be two of
them, but only one real one.
REGINALD (who seems to be stunned by this] : I don't feel I
can bring myself to ask you to say that again, Ann.
ANN: But Reginald, it's frightfully important!
REGINALD (to Ann) : Of course, my dear. Now don't
you think you ought to sit down for a while and read
a magazine or something? (To William?) Please go
on.
ACT ONE
WILLIAM: The man disappeared while I was fixing
the machine. Fve no idea who he was.
REGINALD : That at least is clear.
[Suddenly he spots the mess on the carpet.}
Good heavens! What's that?
WILLIAM: An oversight. I was giving a demonstra
tion and didn't know there was no juice. But you're
right. Don't let's confuse the issue. I called Dandruff
but. . . .
REGINALD : You called who ?
WILLIAM: Dandruff.
REGINALD: Dandruff?
WILLIAM (handing Urn Montague's bowler) : A nom-de-
chapeau for Mr. Bostock ... I searched the house
but he had gone all right. Then Miss . . . (to Ann,}
.... I don't think I ever had the pleasure ?
ANN: Vincent — Ann Vincent.
WILLIAM: Ann Vincent. Hm. Pity to change it.
[He catches Rjgwa/d's eje.]
REGINALD: What?
WILLIAM (quickly): As I was saying, Miss Vincent
arrived and found me looking for the body.
REGINALD: What body?
WILLIAM (showing umbrella): To go with this. Miss
Vincent was quick to point out that I had come to the
wrong house. This wasn't " Windy Ridge ", it
was
REGINALD:^
ANN: / rr J
REGINALD: Ann,, please.
[Ann subsides.]
248
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM (laughing): " Appleby " . . . what a ridicu
lous name for a house.
REGINALD (sharply): Appleby happens to have been
my mother's maiden name.
WILLIAM : I see the connection. I went to look over
' the porch, and sure enough it said " Appleby ".
REGINALD: And what did you expect it to say?
WILLIAM: " Windy Ridge", of course— like it did
when I got here. The name pktes had been deliber
ately changed over.
REGINALD (raising eyebrows): Really? With what
object may I ask?
WILLIAM: To decoy the lady with the umbrella here
in the belief that this was " Windy Ridge ". Hence
the blood. This house was chosen because it hasn't
been occupied yet. By the way, may I offer my
congratulations ?
REGINALD: Thank you.
[He is studying the bowler bat, pulling out pieces of &
newspaper which ham been used to line it.}
ANN: Reginald, you really must do something. I'n
sure we ought to call in the police.
REGINALD: Now, now, Ann. (To William.) Is thai
all?
WILLIAM: Isn't it enough?
REGINALD: I should say it's altogether too much.
ANN: Arn't you going to do anything?
REGINALD : Nothing at all.
ANN: But, Reginald!
REGINALD: I never heard such tarradiddle in my life.
WILLIAM: Tara — what?
REGINALD: Diddle, Mr. Bkke. I refuse to believe
that anything in your story has the slightest criminal
significance whatsoever.
249
ACT ONE
WILLIAM : What ? My dear sir-
REGINALD : These tilings simply don't happen.
WILLIAM: Oh I Don't you ever read the papers?
REGINALD: In my position that is hardly necessary.
ANN (mtb pride) : Reginald is an announcer at the
B.B.C.
WILLIAM: Oh, I say . . . could you get me Mrs.
Dale's autograph?
REGINALD: If I may say so, you have prematurely
jumped to conclusions on very slender evidence, and
so built up an absurdly melodramatic picture which
the events cannot for one moment justify.
WILLIAM: Can you explain them any better.
REGINALD: I think I can. Let us go back to the
moment when you first thought you saw the name
" Windy Ridge ** over this porch. Where were you
then?
WILLIAM : On the other side of the road.
REGINALD: Did you cross immediately?
WILLIAM: Let me think . . . yes, almost — I only
waited for a lorry to pass. To be exact, it was a
brewer's lorry. I remember feeling thirsty at the
time.
REGINALD : You're sure of that ?
WILLIAM: I think so.
REGINALD : Or did you, as one often does — note this
carefully, Ann — did you walk a little way back along
the pavement to cross behind the. lorry?
WILLIAM: I might have done. Come to think of it, I
did.
REGINALD: As I thought.
ANN: What do you mean, Reginald?
REGINALD: It's really very simple, my dear. Blake
went back to pass behind the lorry, so that when he
reached our side of the road he was then opposite
ibis gate instead of the one next door.
250
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM: Where does that get us?
REGINALD: Perhaps I should have told you that the
house next door is " Windy Ridge ".
WILLIAM: Good Lord!
ANN: Is it?
REGINALD : Of course, ray dear. (To William^ Not
realising your mistake, you came up the garden path
and into this house.
ANN (gating admiringly at Reginald): Reginald, that's
simply wonderful.
REGINALD: Just practical commonsense, my dear.
WILLIAM : Yes, but what about Mr. Bostock ?
ANN (rising): Yes — because of course we still don't
know who Mr. Bostock is except that he probably
isn't
REGINALD (hurriedly stopping her) : For goodness' sake,
Ann — the very mention of the name seems to make
you gibber. (To William.) Describe him.
WILLIAM: Let's see. Nondescript, thin-faced, thirty-
ish, medium height. . . .
REGINALD: Yes, yes, quite. One moment, please.
[He goes to the bottle of whisky and tumbler on the side
table., sniffs at the glass and turns round the bottle,, setting
his thumb against the level of the liquid]
You haven't by any chance been helping yourself to
my whisky?
WILLIAM : Certainly not.
ANN (quite indignantly) : Of course he hasn't.
REGINALD : Well, someone has.
WILLIAM: Mr. Bostock?
REGINALD: Precisely. Furthermore — (be holds up the
bits of paper he has pulled out of the bowkr bat) — he lines
his hat with the racing edition of the Star. Putting
two and two together, your friend Bostock is addicted
to other people's whisky and the turf. Agreed?
251
ACT ONE
WILLIAM: Well — oh, all right — so far.
REGINALD (to Ann, brightly) : Now, my dear. Think.
A nondescript man, thin-faced, thirty-ish, of medium
height, who drinks whisky and backs horses. Who
does this suggest to you ? Fm sure we both have the
same man in mind.
[Ann thinks, then she gets //.]
ANN: Hackett!
REGINALD: Precisely. Hackett.
WILLIAM: Who the hell's Hackett?
ANN: Mrs. Hackett's husband. Mrs. Hackett is our
charwoman.
REGINALD : And probably the owner of that umbrella.
A few days ago I gave Hackett some odd jobs to do.
Obviously he came here this afternoon to do them.
WILLIAM : Then what about the blood on the carpet ?
REGINALD: One of the odd jobs was unpacking some
glassware. Probably he broke something, cut him
self, bled on our new carpet, then drank some of my
whisky to steady his nerves.
ANN: Or else drank the whisky first and then broke
something.
\Tbey all laugh.]
REGINALD: As I see it, your arrival no doubt caught
him in the act, and he cleared out as soon as your
back was turned. Well, I think that covers every
thing.
ANN: Reginald, you're marvellous, you really are.
WILLIAM : I must hand it to you. A very sound piece
of reasoning.
REGINALD: I must say, Mr. Bkke, I think you should
have thought twice before alarming Miss Vincent by
inventing such a ridiculous story,
252
MEET A BODY
ANN : He didn't exactly invent it, dear. I mean, after
all, it was quite a natural mistake to make. We can't
all explain things away as cleverly as you do.
WILLIAM: There are heights to which some of us
can never aspire.
REGINALD: Perhaps I was unjust. But in future,
Blake, remember to look for the obvious explanation
first. (To Ann.} Well, my dear, if Mr. Blake is
satisfied, I don't think we need detain him any
longer.
[Reginald crosses to drinks table and pours himself one.]
WILLIAM: Very well! (To Ann.} I'm sorry if I
alarmed you over nothing.
ANN : That's all right. In a way it was quite fun. . . .
(She hesitates., then turns to Reginald.} Perhaps Mr.
Blake would like a drink before he leaves.
WILLIAM: No, thank you. I'd be quite content if you
would grant me one small favour.
REGINALD: What's that?
WILLIAM (picking up tube of vacuum with small attach-
ment} : Your undivided attention for one moment. I
have here the Electro-Broom, the Little Wizard of
the Carpet.
REGINALD: I'm sorry, but I'm afraid we're not
interested.
WILLIAM: Ah, but no newly-married couple can
afford to be without it. Picture it ... the Electro-
Broom's gende, soothing hum will, in the years to
come, drift upwards to the nursery like a lullaby and
bring soft soothing slumber to the little tousled
heads resting on the pillows.
REGINALD: Mr. Blake, I have already given you your
conge.
WILLIAM (looking about Mm}-. I must have put it down
somewhere.
253
ACT ONE
ANN: Reginald, I do think it's the least we can do
just to listen a moment to what he has to say.
WILLIAM: Thank you.
ANN: Even if it's utterly pointless.
WILLIAM: I — well now, the ordinary cleaner sweeps
as it cleans
\During the ensuing dialogue, William is vainly endeavour
ing to demonstrate the ULIectro-'Broom.]
REGINALD: Good heavens! Look at the time. I've
got to get back to Broadcasting House. I don't know
what Fm going to do.
WILLIAM: You could put on a gramophone record.
REGINALD : I haven't hung a single one of my pictures
yet.
ANN: I'll do it for you afterwards.
REGINALD : But I know exactly how I want them.
WILLIAM : The superior cleaner beats as it
ANN: You tell me how and I'll put them up.
REGINALD :_ But IVe brought my "Mill House and
Pool " with me — you know, the attributed to
Constable.
ANN: Well, there can't be more than one or two
different ways of hanging pictures.
REGINALD: That just shows your complete unaware-
ness of these things. (Unwrapping the painting in
question?)
WILLIAM: Perhaps I could be of assistance ?
REGINALD: I hardly think so.
WILLIAM (holding vacuum tube to Reginald like a micro
phone] : Would you care to say a few words ?
ANN: But Reginald, you just said that you had to
get back to the B.B.C. and you want the pictures
hung.
REGINALD: You don't think I'd trust him with my
attributed to Constable?
254
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM (looking unimpressed at the picture): Who
attributed it?
ANN: We could leave that one out.
WILLIAM: We certainly could. Now if you want to
get under sofas. . . .
REGINALD : I tell you, they'll have to wait.
ANN: But Mr. Blake has very kindly offered
REGINALD : And I have refused. Besides, he'd knock
holes in the walls.
WILLIAM : Do you know any other way of getting a
nail in?
ANN: You'll be kte anyway.
REGINALD (suspiciously)-. You seem very anxious to
get rid of me.
ANN: You just said you had to be going.
REGINALD : Is that the only reason ?
ANN : What are you suggesting ?
REGINALD : I don't think I need particularise.
ANN: Take that back at once!
REGINALD : Certainly — when you have got rid of this
fellow.
ANN: I'll do nothing of the kind.
REGINALD: Very well I I shall go back to Broad
casting House.
[He goes to the door^ picking up his umbrella, and pauses
dramatically.]
I'm just beginning to realise the true significance of
the little scene that greeted my entrance. Goodbye!
ANN: How — how dare you! Goodbye!
[She follows him up to the doory hut as Reginald slams //,
the cupboard springs open and the mop Jails out. Ann
screams. She replaces the mop.~\
ANN: He had absolutely no right to say that.
255
ACT ONE
WILLIAM : Certainly not. He should know you better.
ANN : He should indeed 1
WILLIAM: Of course this is absolutely nothing to
do with me — but may I make a suggestion ? Always
stand up to Reginald like that. It'll do him good.
ANN : I certainly will.
WILLIAM : Speaking out of turn — as someone on the
outside looking in — he seems to think he's marrying
an echo.
ANN: Well, he's not. He should never have said
that — never. Even if he didn't really mean it.
WILLIAM: Now, don't weaken.
ANN: I'm not. . . . He simply goaded me into
answering him back, didn't he ?
WILLIAM: Unquestionably.
ANN: . . . I'll bet he'll be feeling sorry for this when
he cools down.
WILLIAM: Only for himself.
ANN: How can you say that? You've only known
him five minutes.
WILLIAM: Not at all. He's been saying goodnight to
me on the air for the kst five years.
ANN (unhappily) : He'll have reached the end of the
road by now.
WILLIAM: Oozing self-pity.
ANN (suddenly looking at him very hard: WilHam looks
at the ceiling : I believe you're deliberately trying to
make things worse. Anyway, everything's gone
wrong since you turned up.
WILLIAM: Did I choose Reginald for you?
ANN: That's nothing to do with it.
WILLIAM: As a complete outsider, I can't very well
comment. Otherwise I might remark that it's
everything to do with it.
ANN: What do you mean?
MEET A BODT
WILLIAM: You two haven't a hope. He's a realist —
you're a romantic.
ANN: Now you're being impertinent!
WILLIAM: I was only trying to help in a spkit of
scrupulous detachment.
ANN: You mean, you're trying to detach me from
Reginald.
WILLIAM: I won't say any more. It will only be
misunderstood.
ANN : I was a fool to have listened to your cock-and-
bull story in the first pkce.
\She moves towards the door.}
WILLIAM: Where are you going?
ANN : I'm going to catch my fiance before he reaches
the station. And when I come back I expect to find
you gone — and my hearthrug cleaned up. You've
messed up my house, but you're not going to ruin
my life!
\With this, she flings out, slamming the door. William
shrugs and turns his attention to packing his vacuum. The
tube proves difficult to get into the box, and be flings it down
in disgust. He turns his attention to sweeping up the mess
on the rug. As he picks up the dustpan, the soot Ann has
already swept up falls out on the rug. He gives this up, too,
in disgust. Wandering back to centre, William* s eje
catches sight of the " attributed to Constable " lying on the
piano. He picks it up, and, singing the song " Blake was an
admiral ", tries the picture in various positions on the wall.
As he is kneeling on the piano stool, holding the picture
against the wall, he loses the tune. With one finger he plays
the melody and, as it rises to B flat, the piano emits only a
clicking sound. Murmuring " Tbafs funny ", William
plays the tune again, but on the same note the same thing
ACT ONE
happens again. RJsing, he lifts the lid of the piano and looks
inside. A woman* s arm flops inertly over the side.
William lowers the lid and is walking away when he
realises with something approaching an electric shock what
has happened. He trembles all over, emitting terrified
whimpers, rushes upstairs and down again, and out of the
front door. He runs in again presently, lifts the lid of the
piano, and without looking pops the arm hack inside, and
holts out of the front door.]
Curtain
258
ACT TWO
Scene i
The lounge of the house next door, immediately after the
end of Act I. The setting is similar to the lounge of
" Applebj " except that there is no staircase, a different
fireplace, and French instead of casement windows. At the
small table right centre .Mr. Hawkins is playing chess with
the local police sergeant. Mr. Hawkins is a shaggy man^
5 5 or so, cultured and a little old womanish. His manner is
mild and inoffensive. It is apparently Mr. Hawkins's move.
HAWKINS: Sorry to keep you waiting, Sergeant.
SERGEANT: That's all right, sir. Take your time.
[The clock,, an antique clock on the mantelpiece, chimes
seven. The sergeant glances up.\
Pretty chime that clock's got.
HAWKINS: Mmm.
SERGEANT: Make it yourself, sir?
HAWKINS: Scarcely. It dates from 1760. I only
reconstructed it.
SERGEANT : Rare lot of skill that needs I should think,
all the same.
HAWKINS: It's my job.
[For a moment they study the board in silence^
ly I think I can see something. That's the
trouble with me, I'm always thinking I think I can
see something.
SERGEANT : Well, Mr. Hawkins, perhaps you can.
HAWKINS: What?
SERGEANT: See something.
HAWKINS (roguishly)-. A police trap — eh?
259
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
SERGEANT: Now you know I wouldn't deceive you
Mr. Hawkins.
HAWKINS: Hm. Well perhaps you haven't this time.
There, we'll try that.
[Rather pleased with himself he makes a move. The sergeant
looks at him In some surprise^
SERGEANT: Oh!
HAWKINS: Bit of a surprise, eh?
SERGEANT : Would you like that move back, sir ?
HAWKINS: Eh! What the matter ?
SERGEANT: Mate in two more moves for me I'm
afraid.
HAWKINS: How do you make that out?
SERGEANT (rapidly): My bishop to here, check, you
can't move here or here or here, so you'll have to
move here. I move my queen here, check and you've
had it. Q.E.D.
HAWKINS: Mate?
SERGEANT: Mate.
HAWKINS (sighing) : And I thought I was being such a
Machiavelli!
SERGEANT: like it back?
HAWKINS: Oh no, no.
SERGEANT: Go on, have it back.
HAWKINS : No, no it would be bad for my character.
Besides. . . .
[He makes a vague gesture towards the clock^
SERGEANT: Yes, I'm afraid you're right.
\Thej both get up. The sergeant goes to the hat stand in the
hallway for his helmet I\
HAWKINS: One for the road ?
260
MEET A BODY
SERGEANT: Not when I'm going on duty if you don't
mind, sir. Thanks for the game. You did a bit
better this time.
HAWKINS: You're much too clever for me I'm
afraid, Sergeant. Same time nest week, then.
Meanwhile don't let them promote you out of the
district, Sergeant.
SERGEANT: Promotion? Fat chance of that!
[He puts bicycle clips round bis trouser legs.]
HAWKINS: Come, merit must tell sooner or later.
SERGEANT (moving right to kitchen door): Merit don't
enter into it very far, IVlr. Hawkins. Only luck.
Happening to be on the spot when something juicy
breaks. But somehow or other I never am. Never.
Goodnight, sir.
{Sergeant exits right. Hawkins starts to fill his pipe.
The sergeant is heard in the kitchen}
SERGEANT (off): Goodnight, Nellie.
MRS. BOSTOCK'S VOICE (of): Goodnight, Sergeant.
Mind how you go on that bike of yours.
[There is a violent knocking on the front door. Hawkins
opens it to admit a very agitated William. Seeing Hawkins,
he bursts in without any preliminaries.}
WILLIAM: Where's your telephone?
HAWKINS: Eh?
WILLIAM: Telephone?
HAWKINS: May I ask ?
WELLI.AM: Couldn't find a call bos. Where is it?
HAWKINS: What is all this?
WILLIAM: Next door. We must call the police.
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
HAWKINS : The police ?
WILLIAM: Murder.
HAWKINS: What?
WILLIAM: Next door. Just found a body.
HAWKINS: Good gracious!
WILLIAM : A woman.
HAWKINS: No I
WILLIAM: Where's the 'phone?
HAWKINS: Oh dear! You've just missed the police
sergeant. He was here only a minute ago. Playing
chess, mated me in two. Telephone, yes, yes the
telephone.
[Picks up the telephone receiver.}
WILLIAM: Hurry.
HAWKINS: Yes, of course. Which side?
WILLIAM: That side, Appleby.
HAWKINS: Appleby. A woman?
WILLIAM: Yes . . . Dkl 999,
HAWKINS (struggling with the telephone): 9 . . 9 . . .
Wait a minute, better if I catch Sergeant Basset at the
station. Now what's the number? Oh yes. (To
William.) Oh — would you mind closing the front
door.
[He starts to dial again. William in his agitation closes the
front door from outside., thereby locking himself out. He
knocks violently again and Hawkins re-admits him.]
You're quite serious about this ?
WILLIAM: Of course. (He shuts the front door.)
HAWKINS: Yes. I must say you look it. (Apparently
someone answers the other end of the telephone.) Oh,
police station. Yes. Oh — good evening. Is Sergeant
Basset there yet? Mr. Hawkins. I know he's on
MEET A BODY
his way. He can't be more than a moment. Yes, I'll
hang on. (To William?) Couldn't be suicide ?
WILLIAM : Out of the question.
HAWKINS: Mm. (In telephone?) Sergeant? Oh thank
goodness. You must come back here at once.
There's been a death next door and the young man
thinks it's murder. What — the man who found the
body. Yes, next door.
WILLIAM: Appleby.
HAWKINS: Appleby. . . . Oh yes do, please. Yes,
of course.
\He listens for a moment y then bangs up.]
He's coming round at once.
WILLIAM: How long will he be?
HAWKINS: Two or three minutes at the most.
WILLIAM: Good.
HAWKINS: Meanwhile he says everything is to be left
exactly as you found it. Do sit down and let me get
you something.
WILLLAM : Thank you. I won't say no.
HAWKINS: Rather not. Try to relax. (He is pouring a
drink at the sideboard?) I didn't know the people next
door had moved in yet.
WILLIAM: They're on the verge — just finishing
furnishing.
HAWKINS: I see.
\William turns to take the drink,, grabs the bottle instead.]
WILLIAM: Thanks. Oh — sorry. (He swops the bottle
for the glass*}
HAWKINS: And you — pardon me, but I suppose in
the circumstances I ought to ask
WILLIAM : I'm just a salesman who happened to have
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
an appointment. Stumbled on the tiling by accident.
HAWKINS : It must have been a nasty shock.
WILLIAM : It was.
HAWKINS: Most upsetting. It upsets me just to hear
about it. And the victim, was — it — I should say —
she ?
WILLIAM : I don't know. Never seen her before in my
life.
HAWKINS: Dear me. Hmm. In the circumstances I
had better tell my housekeeper she can go for the
night. These local people talk so. What do you
think?
WILLIAM: I expect you're right.
HAWKINS: She won't think anything being a daily
woman..
[He crosses to the kitchen door and calls through. .]
We shan't want anything more tonight, you can go if
you want to.
MRS. BOSTOCK'S VOICE (off): Thank you, Mr.
Hawkins. The usual time in the morning?
HAWKINS: Er . . . yes.
MRS. BOSTOCK (receding)'. Goodnight, sir.
HAWKINS: Goodnight, Mrs. Bostock.
WILLIAM (looks up sharply) : Mrs. Bosfotfe?
HAWKINS: Yes.
WILLIAM: Then this is " Windy Ridge "?
HAWKINS : That's so. (Bringing a cigarette box from
the table.} Cigarette?
WILLIAM: Thank you. Good Lord. Of course it
would be. (Suddenly.) Were you expecting anybody
tonight?
HAWKINS : I beg your pardon ?
WILLIAM: A lady by any chance?
HAWKINS : I don't follow, why ?
264
MEET A BODY
\VILLIAM: I don't know whether . . . well there's no
reason why I shouldn't tell you. I've reason to
believe that the woman who was killed was coming
here.
HAWKINS: Oh good gracious. What makes you
think that ?
WILLIAM : You'll hear the full story when the police
come. I believe the name plates on the porches were
changed over for half an hour or so this evening,
yours was stuck over the porch next door. The victim
called there thinking it was the real Windy Ridge.
Incidentally so did I. I'd made a date with your Mrs,
Bostock to demonstrate a vacuum cleaner.
HAWKINS : What? But what a fantastic suggestion —
not the vacuum cleaner itself of course, that strikes a
mundane note which seems quite out of keeping. But,
my dear fellow, surely
WILLIAM: You're certain nobody was calling here
tonight ?
HAWKINS : Only the police sergeant.
WILLIAM : Then I give it up.
HAWKINS : Unless ... no it couldn't be that.
WILLIAM: What?
HAWKINS : I've an unmarried sister living at Purley,
who's apt to call without warning. But I really don't
see. . . .
WILLIAM : Did she paint her finger nails ?
HAWKINS: Good gracious no. Maud disapproves
most strongly of. ...
WILLIAM (cutting across him} : Well this one did.
HAWKINS: Oh thank goodness for that. I must say
for the moment you gave me quite a turn. You know
I find it difficult to believe that one minute I'm
playing chess with a policeman, the nest I'm mixed up
in murder most foul. I suppose I shall have to appear
in court?
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
WILLIAM : To say nothing of the News of the World.
HAWKINS: Really? You think so? And I detest
sensationalism in any form.
WILLIAM: It shook me I don't mind telling you.
Imagine opening a piano and seeing that.
HAWKINS : A piano ?
WILLIAM: That's right.
HAWKINS : It ... she was in a pianoforte ?
WILLIAM: Yes.
HAWKINS: Good God! This is positively surrealist!
WILLIAM : Well, there she was as large as life and. . .
(He breaks off, rising.} — Lord, I'd forgotten!
HAWKINS: What?
WILLIAM: Miss Vincent — the girl who lives next
door — she doesn't know and she's coming back.
HAWKINS : You mean somebody ought to warn her ?
WILLIAM: If she sees what I saw
HAWKINS (hurriedly): Yes, quite — don't dwell on it.
(He coughs and eyes William?) One of us ought to go,
I suppose?
WILLIAM: It had better be me.
HAWKINS: Oh, really — I wasn't trying to
WILLIAM: Oh that's all right.
HAWKINS : I admire your spirit I must say.
WILLIAM (fingering his glass): I rather admire yours.
HAWKENS : I'll wait here for Sergeant Basset.
WILLIAM (drains his drink in a final gulp) : Well back to
the Chamber of Horrors.
HAWKINS (stopping him): Just a moment. Oughtn't
you to take some weapon with you, just in case?
WILLIAM: What? Please don't put ideas into my
head.
HAWKINS (gambling about): We've nothing in the
house to meet these situations, except the tools of
my trade — I'm a clock maker, you know. . . . Ah —
wait a minute. (He goes to a cupboard at the window and
266
MEET A BODY
takes out a revolver of about 1860 vintage?) What about
this?
WILLIAM (recoiling : Good Heavens !
HAWKINS : It is rather old. My great Uncle acquired
it when he lived in Western America. He always
used to say it gave him confidence — er — he was a
rent collector.
WILLIAM (examining it gingerly); Is it loaded?
HAWKINS : Oh no, no. I don't think my great Uncle
ever actually fired the thing. I imagine he was
thinking of the — er — visual effect.
WILLIAM (handing it back): Thanks. I think on the
whole I'll be safer without it. I don't want the police
to mistake me for the murderer.
\They go to the front door, which Hawkins opens.]
HAWKINS : Good luck.
WILLIAM: Thanks. And before the Sergeant comes
back, please put away that chess board. I shall feel
strongly about any deky.
[He goes away down the gardm path.]
Hawkins closes the front door and returns to the cabinet
to put the gun away. As be does so9 a low whistle is heard
off right. It is repeated. Hawkins hurries out to the
kitchen.]
HAWKINS (off): What the devil are you doing here?
[There is a muffled reply.]
(O/.) Wait there. Wait.
\HaT/kins returns info the room and draws the curtains^
167
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
so that the room is in near darkness, Then Montague
enters from the kitchen carrying a bundle wrapped in a
dust sheet over his shoulder I\
(Sternly > pointing to the sofa.} Over there.
{Montague dumps the bundle, which can dimly be identified
as the body of a woman ', on the sofa. Hawkins switches on
the light in the room. Then he gives a cursory glance at
the body and turns on Montaguel\
HAWKINS: I thought I told you to make certain the
house nest door was empty.
MONTAGUE: I did, but. . . !
HAWKINS : Then what the hell's happened ? You've
made an unholy mess of everything.
MONTAGUE: Tve made an unholy mess! How was I
to know that chap had made a date with Mrs.
Bostock?
HAWKINS : You could have got rid of him.
MONTAGUE: I'd like to have known what you'd have
done.
HAWKINS: I'd have bought his blasted vacuum
cleaner of course.
MONTAGUE: Where is he now?
HAWKINS : Next door waiting for the police.
MONTAGUE (alarmed} : Police? "What the !
HAWKINS: It's all right. As it so happens they won't
be coming. Reconnect the telephone will you, there's
a good fellow.
MONTAGUE (complying): Who disconnected it?
HAWKINS : I did, of course.
MONTAGUE: Suppose Munro's been trying to get
through ?
HAWKINS: I could hardly discuss the removal of
Sir Gregory Upshott in front of Police Sergeant
268
MEET A BODY
Basset — it might have put him off his game. Surely
even you can see that.
MONTAGUE (suddenly bursting ouf}\ I can't see what
I'm not told — and I'm not told anything.
HAWKINS: What's this? Temperament? Tempera
ment?
MONTAGUE: If you took me into your confidence
instead of always keeping me in the dark
HAWKINS : What's that to do with it, may I ask ?
MONTAGUE: We're working for the same cause, aren't
we?
HAWKINS : I always keep one shining ideal before me,
Number One.
MONTAGUE: Look here, Mr. Hawkins — I came into
this because of my political convictions.
HAWKINS : Your convictions unfortunately have not
been confined to the political.
MONTAGUE: All right, throw that in my face. You
know I only agreed to come in this because that bloke
Upshott represents everything I hate — oil monopo
lists who grind the faces of the poor. . . .
HAWKINS (interrupting) : The trouble with you, Alan,
is that you've developed your pea: liar ideology at
the expense of your brains. What is troubling you,
my boy?
MONTAGUE: I've got a right to be properly informed.
HAWKINS: This passion of the working man for a
share in management I Sometimes I wonder what
we're coming to.
MONTAGUE: I did what you told me with her, didn't
I?
HAWKINS (glancing at the ~body}\ Apparently,
MONTAGUE: I didn't ask any questions, then, did I?
HAWKINS: No. I have to admit that you seemed to
do the job all right.
269
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
MONTAGUE: Although you didn't even tell me who
she was !
HAWKINS : Didn't I ?
MONTAGUE: You know you didn't.
HAWKINS (sighs and glances at the body) : Poor Winifred.
MONTAGUE: Winifred?
HAWKINS: Sir Gregory's secretary. She was good
enough to give me the fullest particulars of her em
ployer's movements and habits. Yesa in a way we
owe everything to her.
MONTAGUE : So she was your stool pigeon ?
HAWKINS : Such a pity she smelt a rat. Imagine my
indignation, when I discovered she was actually
following me — and had even found out my address.
You know me, honest and open to a fault. I taxed
her with it only this afternoon when she telephoned.
But she would insist on coming here at once. At
such short notice too, no time to put off Sergeant
Basset. Poor Sergeant Basset! Thinks he's so good at
chess but I always have to let him win.
[Montagus rises nervously^
What is the matter?
MONTAGUE: Supposing that vacuum cleaner bloke
comes back?
HAWKINS : That's unlikely for the next ten mintues.
But if he does then I'm afraid you'll have to repeat
your earlier performance.
MONTAGUE: I don't like it. Everything's gone
wrong. Let's get out of here while the going's
good.
HAWKINS : Calm down, Alan, calm down. Nothing's
gone wrong that can't be put right. Meanwhile I
would like to run over the arrangements at NewclifFe.
Must get it right after all. Let's see — the bar parlour
270
MEET A BODY
at the Green Man is the first door on the right — and
the radio set that you sold the landlord you put at
the foot of the stairs.
MONTAGUE : That's right, on an old radiogram. You
can't miss it. All you have to do is turn it round, take
off the back, set the time clock and connect the
detonator-.
HAWKINS (smiling)'. I think I ought to be able to
manage that.
MONTAGUE : It's not much of a pub. Not the sort of
place you'd expect Upshott to patronise.
HAWKINS: He has his reasons for wishing to be
discreet.
MONTAGUE: Oh, it's like that is it?
HAWKINS: Sir Gregory has responded to the call of
the wild in the shape of the fourth typist from the left
in his outer office. Tonight he's taking her down to
the Green Man — incognito, of course, as he's a
public figure.
MONTAGUE: A public gilded sepulchre!
HAWTKINS: Now, now, Alan, you mustn't let your
ideology get the better of you. Still it does make a
nice pattern, doesn't it? To stab him, so to speak,
through the chink in his armour. We are striking in
our humble way a blow for morality. Doesn't that
make you happy?
MONTAGUE: All I'm concerned with is carrying out
our orders.
HAWKINS : There's no need to be so damned virtuous.
Y0#'re being paid for it too.
MONTAGUE: I tell you, I'm only concerned with
making quite certain Upshott never gets to the Middle
East.
HAWKINS : With a little luck he might be blown there.
MONTAGUE: How do you know he'll be anywhere
near the radio set?
ACT TWO, SCENE ON£
HAWKINS: How do I know?
[Montague watches him as he opens the case of a tape
recorder which is standing on a table against the back wall.]
MONTAGUE : What have you got there ?
HAWKINS: The answer to your question. A tape
recorder. Excuse me.
[He starts the machine and as Sir Gregory's voice starts to
come over on his speaker, he stop-watches the start. AT.B.
Record starts in middle of a sentence. Hawkins is resuming
the timing of it, presumably interrupted^
MONTAGUE: What's that?
HAWKINS : Don't you recognise Sir Gregory ?
MONTAGUE (stares at the machine) : What ?
HAWKINS: It's his speech at the luncheon today. I
took this off the broadcast.
MONTAGUE: This isn't the time to go pkying records.
HAWKINS : The point is, Alan, they're broadcasting a
recording of his speech, this speech — at 10.45 tonight
and Sir Gregory, like most politicians, is known to
be very fond of the sound of his own voice.
MONTAGUE: You mean he'll listen to it.
HAWKINS: It's a psychological certainty.
[At this point the telephone starts to ring.]
HAWKINS : Munro ! Answer it.
[Montague goes to the telephone. Hawkins continues to
time the recording with his stop watch.}
MONTAGUE (in phone) : Yes, Alan here. Yes, he is.
What? Good. All right. I'll tell him. What . . .
±72
MEET A BODY
going smoothly? I wouldn't exactly say that.
O.K. (He rings off and turns to Hawkins.) Sir Gregory's
on his way to NewclifTe.
HAWKINS : Splendid. Just a moment. . . .
[He listens intently to the recording which at this point
reaches " When I will disappear ', this time finally, from
the public scene ". Hawkins checks the stop watch and
stops the recorder.}
" Disappear, this time finally, from the public scene ".
and so he will, bless his little heart, at the most
approprkte moment, let's see (consulting stopwatch}
three and five is eight — at 10.48 precisely. Ingenious,
I think, on the whole.
MONTAGUE: It would be simpler to shoot him.
HAWKINS: So you have remarked on a wearisome
number of occasions. Simpler perhaps but not
safer. Besides I'm fond of any sort of mechanism.
Even the human mechanism. (Getting into his over
coat?) I'll see you at Northolt at seven in the morning.
MONTAGUE (jndicating body): What about her?
HAWKINS : Yes, that's a point. There's an inspection
pit in the garage — I should think that would be
quite a nice place. I'm sure I can rely on you not to
linger.
MONTAGUE: You bet.
[Hawkins moves to the door. ^Montague suddenly moves
offer him.}
Wait a minute.
[He suddenly thrusts out his hand^ with emotional stolidity^
Good luck to our mission.
273
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
HAWKINS: When I look at you, Alan, I'm glad my
mind is a political vacuum.
[He pauses as he turns again to go.}
Do you know I feel quite excited. I honestly believe
Td do this sort of work without even being paid for
it. I suppose if the truth be known I have a kink.
Goodnight.
[He goes, shutting the door. Montague stands for a
moment, surveying the body. The sound of Hawkins* s car is
heard driving off. Then Montague switches off the lights
and crosses to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves in prepara
tion for his grisly task. He exits. After a moment there
is a faint groan from the sofa. The body writhes under
the dustsheet shroud, then slowly struggles to sit upright.]
Curtain
Scene 2
The "Lounge of "Appleby" The same as Act One.
As the curtain rises., the stage is vacant. The front door is
open in the little hall at the back. Ann enters, hatless and
rather breathless, as if she had hurried up the road after
leaving Reginald. She looks round as if expecting William
to be there. She sees the vacuum cleaner still lying on the
floor. She stares at it indignantly, glances round the room
and crosses swiftly to the door right.
AJSJN (calling) : Hey you ! Are you still here ?
274
MEET A BODY
[There is no answer. She calls up the stairs.}
(Calling.) Are you there? Hello! Mr. Bkke! Hello!
[There is no reply. Deciding William must have gone., Ann
returns to the room and looks at the vacuum cleaner. Then
her attention is drawn to the large cardboard box she
brought in. It is lying on the window seat. Her face lights
up — she crosses to it quickly ', takes off the lid and delving
inside pulls out several pieces of lingerie — -first a wrap, then
a scanty foundation garment. She looks at the garment,
and then glancing around her as if in search of something
she picks up a mirror from the table, runs across with it
to the mantelpiece and stands it up. She holds the garment
briefly against her, then hurries out right.
The moment she exits William comes in through the front
door. He glances round and thinking Ann has not returned
studies the room curiously for a second, moves across and
picks up the umbrella, then takes up the bowler hat
carefully. He examines the interior, sniffs it and makes a
face. He crosses to the window, holds the bowler hat up to
the light at arm's length and looks at it thoughtfully,
at the same time drumming his fingers of one hand on top
of the piano. Suddenly he realises he is touching the piano
where he saw the body. He jumps away from it, puts down
the hat and umbrella, he then glancss around as if a thought
had just struck him, makes for the stairs and goes up them.
Ann returns with her wrap around her. She crosses quickly
to the little hall and shuts the front door. Feeling that she
is now quite safe she comes back to the room and with an
air of freedom swiftly takes off her wrap, throws it across
the armchair and reveals herself in the foundation garment.
She then moves the sofa in line with the mirror on the
mantel and jumping up, balances on the arm and surveys
275
ACT TWO3 SCENE TWO
herself. She is just performing this difficult balancing feat
when William comes quickly downstairs. Seeing Ann, he
turns and bolts out of sight again,, then he returns, looking
deliberately nonchalant. Ann doestft see him.}
WILLIAM: Keeping fit?
[Ann hears his voice and swings round.}
ANN: Oh!
[She loses her balance and falls Into the sofa., quickly
fulling a cushion down to cover herself 'up >.]
(Shrilly.) Where did you come from ?
WILLIAM: Upstairs.
ANN: Why?
WILLIAM: Well, it's usually up there.
ANN: You had no business here at all. How long
have you been standing there?
WILLIAM: Only a second or two. Not more. I
didn't count.
ANN : Get me my wrap please, over there.
WILLIAM: Certainly.
[He picks up the wrap from the armchair and moves
back towards her with It. He stops short and throws the
wrap across to her.}
ANN : Kindly turn your back.
WILLIAM: Yes. Of course.
[He smartly turns round so that his back Is to her}
Let me know when the lights turn green.
ANN: When I do, you can take your vacuum cleaner
and clear out.
276
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM: That's out of the question just now.
ANN: Very well then, I shall send for the police.
WILLIAM: That's why it's out of the question.
ANN: What?
WILLIAM: I've sent for them already.
[Ann stares at himl\
Called them from next door.
ANN: Turn round.
[William does so jnechanically^
What did you say?
WILLIAM: Police Sergeant Basset is on his way to
investigate the murder.
ANN: What murder?
WILLIAM : The one Reginald called off.
ANN : What about it ?
WILLIAM : It's on again.
[Ann stares at him and suddenly seems to realise that she
is quite alone. She looks at William^ apprehensively,
glancing nervously about her.]
ANN: Oh. ... is it?
WILLIAM : Please don't be alarmed, I'm quite sane and
it's perfectly true.
ANN : But Reginald explained it away.
WILLL\M : Reginald would explain anything away.
ANN : He tore your silly story to shreds and you know
it.
WILLIAM: I'm afraid Fve put it together again. (H*
catches sight of himself in the mirror^ which Ann is taking
over to the window seat.} I say — who's that good-
looking fellow following you ?
277
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
ANN (returning to sweep up the rest of the soot on the rug) :
Reginald was absolutely right. Of course he was
right. In spite of your cheap sneers he generally is
right, because he has sense and intelligence and
WILLIAM: But he hasn't got a body.
ANN: How dare you!
WILLIAM: I was referring to the corpse.
ANN : Oh. So you have a corpse now ?
WILLIAM: Yes. I found it while you were running
after Reginald. So we are now back in position one.
ANN: Indeed?
WILLIAM: You think I'm lying, don't you?
ANN: In my opinion you're a pathological case.
\She takes the dustpan and brush out to the kitchen.]
WILLIAM (calling through the door) : Miss Vincent, you
must understand that this is a serious matter. The
police are on the way and the man who committed
this murder is still at large. Perhaps only a few yards
from us at this moment.
ANN (appearing in kitchen doorway) : What wTas that ?
WILLIAM: What?
ANN: That whistle.
WILLIAM : What whistle ?
ANN (listening intently): There's someone in the
garden.
WILLIAM : Are you sure ?
ANN: Listen.
\Thej both pause and listen.}
They must be whistling to someone they think is in
this house.
WILLIAM: Stay here,
278
MEET A BODY
[He strides quickly to the front door, opens it and goes
out. Ann dashes to the door and slams it after him.}
ANN (shouting through the letterbox) : If you want your
vacuum cleaner you can call back in the morning.
I'll tell Mrs. Hackett to put it out on the doorstep.
[The letter box is pushed open.}
WILLIAM (shouting through letterbox) : Hey, let me in.
ANN : Certainly not.
WILLIAM: Miss Vincent!
ANN: Stop making that noise and go away.
WILLIAM: It's important, open the door.
ANN: I will not.
WILLIAM: Remember there's a body in there.
ANN : I know, but it's got a vacuum cleaner already.
WILLIAM: Is that your final word?
ANN: Of course.
WILLIAM: Very well, Fll go.
\The letter box closes, then it opens again.}
You'll find it in the piano.
ANN: What?
WILLIAM (grimly) : It. Goodbye.
[He slams down the letter box again. Ann looks at the
pianot then uncertainly at the door. She moves hesitantly up
to the piano, touches the lid fearfully., starts to open //,
then suddenly pulls her hand away unable to go through with
it. She hurries to the door and pulh it open}
ANN (catling): Did you call?
[He steps quickly inside.}
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
ANN: If you said that just so that you could sneak
back into this house -
WILLIAM: I give you my word — would you like me
to prove it ?
[He moves over to the piano and goes to touch the lid.]
I must warn you that it won't be pleasant.
[He's about to lift the lid when Ann suddenly stop
ANN: No . . . don't.
WILLIAM : If you'd rather not look -
[He again goes to raise the lid^\
ANN: Wait. (She looks at him fearfully^ It was a
woman's, wasn't it — after all ?
WILLIAM : Yes, it was. She was murdered.
ANN: How do you know she was murdered?
WILLIAM: Well, people don't usually kill themselves
and pop themselves into pianos.
ANN: Who could it be? I don't understand how it
could possibly have happened here.
WILLIAM: The police may be able to answer both
those questions, I can't. . . . The front door was
locked, of course?
ANN: Naturally.
WILLIAM : Then the chap I met must have come in by
the window.
[He crosses to the window and looks.]
Yes, this one's open.
ANN : You mean he came in — and waited ?
WILLIAM: Yes. He must have opened the door to
her.
280
MEET A BODY
ANN: Then she would have seen him.
WILLIAM: She probably expected to.
ANN: But when he attacked her, surely she would
have screamed. Somebody would be bound to hear.
WILLIAM: He might have taken her by surprise.
ANN: How?
WILLIAM: This wants working out. He must have
been in a position to. ... Sit down a minute.
ANN: Why?
WILLIAM: I'll show you.
[Ann immediately sits on the sofa.]
I sit opposite to you — here. Let's say you're trying
to blackmail me.
ANN: Why?
WILLIAM: Well, I have a wife and children.
ANN: Have you?
WILLIAM: No. Does it make any difference?
ANN: No, of course not.
WILLIAM: Quite so. I say blackmail because it's as
likely as anything else. . . . Well, I pky for time.
Pour you out a whisky — the whisky — and while
you're sipping it, I cross casually to the fire place,
keeping tip a brisk conversation — take the poker —
and poke the dying fire.
ANN: It's never been lit.
WILLIAM: Very well., I don't poke the fire. I toy
with the ornaments.
ANN: No ornaments.
WILLIAM: I pick up the poker or whatever else is
handy. Quietly I approach the sofa from the back.
ANN (suddenly pulling an envelope out from the side of the
sofa) : Oh, he's left it behind.
WILLIAM: What?
ANN: Reginald. He's left the manuscript of his
poem here.
281
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
WILLIAM (annoyed at being interrupted)1. What of it?
. . . Quietly I approach the sofa from behind. . . .
ANN: But he was going to read it tonight on the
Third Programme.
WILLIAM : He's bound to have another copy. Quietly
I approach. . . .
ANN: I don't think he has.
WILLIAM : He's probably learnt it by heart.
ANN: He can't have done. It's a modern poem.
WILLIAM : Then he can make it up as he goes along.
Please pay attention. This is really important. The
more I think about it the simpler it becomes. All
this time I've been getting nearer, suddenly I lean
over and with the other hand -
ANN: But I'm sure Regin -
WILLIAM : — stifle your screams — and before you can
utter a sound I give you a violent blow with a blunt
instrument. You struggle, but I have my hand over
your mouth.
[He grabs her mouth with one hand. Ann has been taken
completely by surprise and in mid alarm she thrusts out her
hands and seizes William by the throat. He tries so
desperately to free himself that they roll off the sofa on to
the floor. The key turns in the lock of the front door and
JLeginald comes hurrying in. He pulls up abruptly as he
sees Ann and William rolling on the floor. They both look
up and see
REGINALD: Ann!
ANN (lamely) : Oh Reginald, I found your poem.
REGINALD (in terribly strained voice)'. What are you
doing on the floor with that fellow?
WILLIAM : Waiting for the police.
REGINALD : Do you expect me to believe that ?
WILLIAM: I was simply conducting an experiment
with your fiancee.
MEET A BODY
REGINALD : I'm not interested In the preliminaries.
ANN: Listen to me, Reginald. (To William?) And
you shut up.
REGINALD: I refuse to listen.
ANN : Reginald . . . someone's been murdered . . .
the body is here in this room.
REGINALD : I beg your pardon ?
ANN: It's in the piano.
REGINALD : Ann, what on earth has come over you ?
ANN (frantically): I tell you there's a body in the
piano.
REGINALD: What?
ANN (excitedly): It's a woman, Reginald. She was
battered from behind with her mouth shut.
[Reginald crosses swiftly to the piano.}
(Turning away.} Reginald! Don't.
[Reginald ignores her. Lifts up the lid of the piano while
Ann covers tip her face and turns awaj. Reginald looks
inside the piano then lowers the lid. He turns to stare at
William^
REGINALD (after a pause) : I suppose you think that's
funny?
WILLIAM: Eh?
[He crosses to the piano. Lifts the lid, looks inside.]
ANN (turning): What's happened?
WILLIAM: I tell you, she was there wiien I left the
room!
[Ann in turn crosses to the piano , and stares inside.]
ANN (bewildered): There's nothing there.
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
WILLIAM: But it's incredible. Somebody must have
moved her. I struck B fiat and it wasn't there. (He
strikes it now four times and it plays.) Now — it's there,
and she isn't.
REGINALD (to Ann): What you can hope to gain by
this ludicrous charade, I can't think.
WILLIAM (lamely)*. It isn't a charade.
REGINALD: I was not addressing you. (To Ann.) It's
absolutely beyond me how you could bring yourself
to listen to the demented vapourisings of this com
mon adventurer.
WILLIAM: I beg your pardon, Charterhouse and —
well, never mind.
REGINALD (ignoring this and continuing to Ann) : I can
only say, Ann, that you've shown me a side to your
nature which I never dreamed existed.
ANN (recovering her spirit) : How dare you talk to me
like that in front of a stranger.
REGINALD: Stranger! Huh!
WILLIAM: Not so much of the huh!
REGINALD: Be silent, sir. I enter my house. . . .
ANN: Your house!
REGINALD : Certainly it's my house.
WILLIAM: Who paid the deposit?
REGINALD (turns back to face Ann) : I enter my house to
discover you alone with that fellow, hiding for some
obscure reason, behind the sofa. Later I come back
to find the position has deteriorated to the point
where you are rolling on the floor with him in your
underwear.
ANN (furiously interrupting) : If you say another word
I'll smack your face.
REGINALD: Should I be so foolish as to return yet
again, I shudder to think
{Ann smacks his face. "Reginald stares at her for a full
284
MEET A BODY
second., then turning on his hed grabs his bat and jams it on
his head. Unfortunately it is the bowler hat left by
Montague.]
This is the end of the chapter.
[He exits. William looks at Ann admiringly]
WILLIAM: You were magnificent. Absolutely mag
nificent.
ANN (rounds on him) : You dirty, lying hound I
WILLIAM: Eh?
ANN (shouting): Qear out and leave me alone.
(Throwing herself on the sofa.) Oh, why did I believe
such a damned silly story.
\Wtitiam sits on the arm of the sofa.]
WILLIAM (sympathetically): But it's true. It really is
true.
ANN: Don't come near me.
WILLIAM: But I did see it.
ANN: You didn't.
WILLIAM: I did. I tell you I saw a woman's arm. I
touched it.
[He is interrupted by Ejg?tta/d rushing in. He hangs
Montagues hat on the table ^ jams on his own., and crosses
to William and Ann]
REGINALD: My poem.
WILLIAM (to Ann) : His poem.
REGINALD (fiercely) : I want it.
WILLIAM: He wants it.
[Ann feels for the poem, she is sifting on it, she drags it
out from under her.]
285
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
ANN (savagely): Take it.
[She passes the poem to William.]
WILLIAM (handing poem to ILeginald): I pass.
[Reginald steps up to William.]
REGINALD (between his teeth) : By heaven, I'd give you
the thrashing of your life . . . (William rises) ... if
I didn't have to read the 9 o'clock news.
[He takes his poem and exits without troubling to shut
the front door.]
WILLIAM: Pity to let him go like that. The weather
forecast tonight will be terrible.
ANN : If he was half a man he'd have given you a good
hiding instead of just talking about it.
WILLIAM : I suppose it's hopeless to try and convince
you?
ANN: Absolutely.
WILLIAM: I thought so. I'm beginning to wonder if
I ought not to doubt it myself.
ANN (again sarcastically): Are you really? How
remarkable.
WILLIAM: Yet I know I touched her arm. She was
wearing a black dress.
ANN : And she felt so uncomfortable in the piano that
she got up and went home.
WILLIAM: Why should I tell you I saw her there if I
didn't?
ANN (slowly): Wait a minute. Didn't you say you
'phoned the police ?
WILLIAM: Yes.
ANN (sharply): Then why aren't they here? When
286
MEET A BODY
someone reports a murder they don't hang about do
they?
WILLIAM: By jove, you're right. Why aren't they
here?
ANN : Because you never 'phoned them of course.
WILLIAM : No — now I come to think of it, I didn't.
ANN: You didn't.
WILLIAM: No. The fellow next door did — I — I
wonder
ANN: What?
WILLIAM (thinking aloud}'. Of course he didn't. He
only pretended to make that call. Don't you see
ANN (interrupting) : I'm afraid I don't see. I'm going
to change now, and if you haven't removed yourself
when I come back, I shall 'phone the police myself
and have you thrown out.
[William is staring out of the window. The door is opening
slowly . . . // swings back abruptly and the woman in
black staggers slowly in — the woman of the last scene. She
is in a complete da^e; across her forehead is a streak of
blood. Ann lets out a shriek.]
WILLIAM : What's the matter — stubbed your toe ?
[He turns and sees the woman staggering to the centre of the
room. He rushes forward to catch her as she collapses in a
heap.}
Quick — some brandy !
[He lifts her bodily and places her on the sofa. Ann
recovers her nerve.]
ANN : We haven't any.
WILLIAM: Whisky then — anything. That bottle.
287
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
[Ann rushes to the drinks table., takes up the whisky and a
glass. She holds it upside down over the glass — a few drops
come out.]
ANN : There's only a drop.
WILLIAM: Right. Pity there isn't more — we could
all do with a shot.
ANN: Is she the - ? (She looks fearfully towards
piano.}
WILLIAM: Yes.
ANN: Then she's not dead.
WILLIAM: Well — she wasn't when she came in the
door.
[He has been trying to make the woman take some of the
Wait a minute . . . no, she's definitely swallowing.
ANN: Oh! We shouldn't have given it to her.
WILLIAM: What?
ANN: The whisky.
WILLIAM : Why not ?
ANN : Not in cases of shock.
WILLIAM: Why didn't you think of that before ?
ANN: Well, you used to be a medical student.
\The woman opens her ejes.]
WILLIAM: She's coming round.
[He helps her up into a sitting position^
WINIFRED: W — what . . . where -
WILLIAM: There . . . there . . . you're quite safe.
ANN : Ask her how she got in the piano.
WILLIAM: Give her a chance.
288
MEET A BODY
WINIFRED (suddenly clutching at him desperately) : You've
got to ... stop them.
WILLIAM : Stop who ?
WINIFRED: Sk Gregory — we must warn him I
ANN: Sir Gregory?
WINIFRED: Upshott . . . Sir Gregory Upshott . . .
I work for him. (Tensely.} The time — quick —
what's the time ?
ANN: It must be nearly nine.
WINIFRED (n 'Hdly, struggling to her fee f): 10.48 ... it
will happen at 10.48 . . . hurry.
\She collapses and jails over William* s shoulder. He puts
her back on the sofa.]
WILLIAM : She's fainted.
[He gives her some more whisky. Winifred opens her eyes}
Tell us — what's going to happen at 10.48 ?
WINIFRED: Eh? . . . they're going to kill him.
ANN (to William) : We must send for the police.
WINIFRED (fiercely)'. No — there's no time. They
won't believe it — and he's using another name.
{{Hutching at William?) It's going to go off at 10.48.
WILLIAM: What?
[Her head falls hack.}
She's out again. (He bends over her.} Listen.
[No response. He turns to
You know who Sir Gregory Upshott is, don't you?
ANN: Isn't he something to do with the government ?
WILLIAM : Yes — he's the special envoy we always send
out East every time our oil's going west.
\Begins to shake her.}
10 289
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
Listen to me, you must tell us what this is all about.
[William energetically keeps on shaking Winifred. She
murmurs and half raises her band, passing it over her
forehead,, and staring at William^
WINIFRED (in a flat ^ strained voice)-. . . . " the moment
of impact may not be far ahead . . . disappear, this
time finally, from the public scene ". . . .
WILLIAM: Eh?
[Montague appears in the doorway holding the ancient
revolver which Hawkins offered previously to William. In
the other hand he holds a pad. . . . He approaches the
group on the sofa stealthily. Winifred meanwhile has
slowly pushed William back and is sitting bolt upright \ her
stare curiously blank}
[Ann and he look at each other blankly}
WINIFRED (seizing William again}'. That's when,
don't you see? Somebody must warn him. They
know he's going to the coast. They know it's the
Green Man at New
[Montague has now reached the back of the sofa, before
Winifred can say anything more he suddenly presses the
pad over her mouth speaking rapidly at the same time.}
MONTAGUE (to William and Ann): Get back over
there.
WILLIAM (recognising him) : Oh . . . hello. (To Ann.)
Mr. Bostock.
MONTAGUE: Keep your mouth shut.
[He waves them back with the revolver. William does not
move and Ann stays by his side.}
290
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM ; Would you mind explaining what the hell
is going on?
MONTAGUE: I warn you — I'm not in a mood to stand
any nonsense. One squawk out of either of you and
you've had it.
WILLIAM (to A.nn) : An unoriginal type Fm afraid.
MONTAGUE: You shut your mouth!
[William suddenly looks up with bright surprise towards
the door.}
WILLIAM (conversationally): Oh, hello Reginald old
boy — come in.
[Montague involuntarily looks round^ though the revolver
still points directly at William. William shakes Ann
free and takes a flying leap at Montague. They go down in
a heap behind the sofa out of sight. There is the sound of a
violent struggle,, then William** head appears momentarily
above the sofa.]
WILLIAM: The bottle! (Montague's hand grabs William's
hair, and pulls him out of sight. Then William's head pops
up again.") The bottle!
[Montague grabs him again and — he disappears with a
jerk — more sounds of violence , then a hand appears. .Ann
puts the whisky bottle in //, // is swept down and followed
by a thud. Then William rises slowly, bottle in hand^ much
dishevelled.}
WILLIAM : Oh well — we got a double out of it after
all. (Picking up the pad.) Chloroform. Well, this is a
fine state of affairs.
ANN: I wonder what she meant.
WILLIAM: We might persuade him to tell us — if he
comes round.
291
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
ANN: No, no. This time we really must call the police,
WILLIAM: And tell them what?
ANN : That somebody is after Sir Gregory. Remem
ber what she said — the moment of impact might not
be far ahead.
WILLIAM: And something or other is going off at
10.48?
ANN: That's right.
WILLIAM: Can you imagine the reaction of the
average copper if we told him that"* We'd spend the
night in the looney-bin!
[He moves to the door., putting on his hatl\
ANN: Where are you going?
WILLIAM: Fm driving down there in my car.
ANN: Where?
WILLIAM: To the place she said. The Green Man at
New.
ANN: New?
WILLIAM: New. . . . Yes, that's a point.
ANN: That's what I was thinking.
WILLIAM: What we need is a map.
ANN: I think there's an A. A. book of Reginald's
somewhere.
[She crosses to the packing case of books beside the end of
the piano. As she speaks^ Ann searches for the book.]
WILLIAM : That'll do if you can find one.
ANN (searching)'. The Green Man may not have
meant a thing — she was half delirious.
WILLIAM: We'll have to chance that. She said
something about the coast, so New-whatever it is
must be somewhere on the coast. And she seemed
to think there was time to get down there by 10.48.
ANN: Here's one.
292
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM (sitting on arm of chair down left) : Give it to
me — let's see what " News " there are.
ANN (sitting on packing case) : New Brighton.
WILLIAM: That's in Cheshire.
ANN: Newbury.
WILLIAM: Thafs not on the coast — and New York's
in America — so that leaves NewclifFe and Newhaven,
and that's the end of the " News ". Wait a minute —
Newcliffe . . . London 5 5 miles. The Green Man,
twelve stars, two beds. I mean twelve beds, two
stars.
ANN (pointing to another entry in the book) : What about
Newhaven ? They've got a Green Man too.
WILLIAM : Newhaven is simply a port. Newclifle is a
health resort.
ANN: Well, it doesn't sound as if it will be very
healthy there tonight — that is, if it is Newcliffe.
WILLIAM: Fifty-five miles. I ought to do it easily in
an hour and a half.
ANN: What about these two? We can't leave her
with him — he might come round first.
WILLIAM: Soon settle that. (He picks up the pady
sniffs it and recoils. Then he drops the pad on Montague's
face.) Sleep well. (Glances at Winifred.) She won't
be round for at least an hour. (To Ann.) Now then —
have you got any rope ?
ANN: No.
WILLIAM: Anything then, string . . . picture cord?
ANN: Yes — picture cord.
[Ann takes a length of cord out of the packing case, and
takes it to William > who is holding Montague3 s feet in the
air.~\
Of course, I still think it's Newhaven.
WILLIAM: Well I'm not going there.
295
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
\William starts to tie up Montague and gets the cord round
Ann's waist as she supports Montague's legs.}
ANN: Ouch — you've got me!
WILLIAM: At one time I used to be a Sea Scout
and to be a Sea Scout you have to know how to tie
a sheepshank, a fisherman's bend, a bowline and
... an old-fashioned granny. The old-fashioned
granny is the only one I remember.
[Having tied Montague's feet, he lets them drop with a
thud and proceeds to tie up his hands.}
ANN: I'm going to change.
[She rushes out right. The rest of the conversation is
carried on in shouts — Ann from the next room and William
from behind the sofa.}
WILLIAM: Why?
ANN: I'm coming with you.
WILLIAM : Oh no you're not.
ANN: You're taking me.
WILLIAM: I'm not taking any woman on a trip like
this.
ANN: There's no danger till a quarter to eleven — she
said so.
WILLIAM (satirically}: And so far it's been roses,
roses all the way.
ANN: We're both still here aren't we?
WILLIAM: Yes. And that's where you're staying.
[He straightens up from behind the sofa.]
That ought to hold him for a bit — even my old
skipper couldn't untie my knots — that's why I left
the sea.
ANN (of): What about her?
294
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM: I was just thinking about her. 1*11 make
her a bit more comfortable.
[H> lifts her on to the sofa. Ann reappears, having
changed^
(JLooks at her admiringly^) I say! If ever I get hitched
up I hope my old woman can change as quickly as
you do.
ANN (who is slightly confused by this) : I didn't want you
to go without me.
WILLIAM: But I am.
ANN: You're not.
WILLIAM: Listen — even if her story is fifty per cent
nonsense we've certainly no time to stand here
arguing. Besides, what would Reginald say ?
ANN (gives him a funny looty: I'd forgotten all about
him.
WILLIAM: You couldn't do better. I'm sorry, I
shouldn't have said that. Goodbye. (Again he turns
to go.)
ANN: Please wait.
[She hurries to the window seat and from behind the cur
tains pulls out a telephone. William is making for the
door when he sees this and turns
WILLIAM: I say — you've got a * phone!
ANN: Yes.
WILLIAM: Well, I couldn't find it when I found the
body. Anyway, you haven't moved in yet, I've
been on the waiting list for one of those for two and a
half years.
ANN : Reginald naturally has priority.
WILLIAM (under his breath) : Reginald has. . . . Give
me strength.
[She is dialling^
295
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
ANN (speaks into the telephone] \ B.B.C. ? Extension
3ja. Mr. WiUoughby-Pratt please.
WILLIAM : His not coming. That's definite.
ANN: It's only fair to tell him where we're going.
WILLIAM : Have you a watch ?
ANN: Not with me.
WILLIAM: That's awkward. Not even an alarm
clock?
ANN: No. (Nodding towards Winifred?) What are you
going to do with her?
WILLIAM: Don't worry about her — she'll be a nice
surprise for Reginald.
ANN (into telephone): Reginald? This is Ann. . . .
Listen Reginald. . . . But I haven't rung you up to
apologise. . . . I've something much more im
portant to tell you. Reginald, there was a body in the
piano. ... I know, but it came back. . . . I'm not
being absurd. Listen! It's terribly serious., and I'm
going down to the Green Man at Newcliffe with Mr.
Bkke. . . . Of course we'll be alone but what's that
got to do with it? ... Reginald! (She turns
furiously to William.} He's rung off!
WILLIAM: Good.
ANN: I won't tell you what he said.
WILLIAM: I got a rough gist of the conversation.
ANN : How dare he ?
WILLIAM: Well, I think that settles the question.
Burning to go.) Wish me luck.
ANN: Do you think I'd stay here after that? I'm
ready. Come on, let's go.
WILLIAM: Can I ask you a personal question?
ANN: What?
WILLIAM: Why this sudden faith in me?
ANN: Well it looks as if you were right after all.
WILLIAM : It's taken two bodies to prove it.
ANN: Besides, to be absolutely frank — wdl, any man
296
MEET A BODY
\vho can attack someone who's pointing a loaded
revolver at him has guts.
WILLIAM: I'm sorry to disillusion youa but this
(holding up revolver] was offered to me by your next
door neighbour and he assured me it wasn't loaded.
ANN: That's the kst thing I expected of you.
WILLIAM: What?
ANN: Modesty.
WILLIAM : You don't believe me ?
ANN: Of course not.
WILLIAM: 'Tis true, 'tis pity and pity 'tis, 'tis true!
[He points the revolver at the ceiling, presses the trigger.,
and the gun goes off with a hud report^
Curtain.
ACT THREE
Scene: The Ear Parlour of the Green Man, Newcliffe.
Time: The same night, 10.20 p.m.
The Green Man is a small i%th century hotel standing on
the cliffs of the Sussex coast. It is very prosperous in its
way, doing a fair amount from weekenders, ^.t the back
is an open door which leads into a passage which runs off
into the hall. To the left at the back is a flight of stairs
which lead to a landing which goes off left, and on the
landing is a grandfather clock., now standing at 10.20.
Downstage of the stairs is an old-fashioned radiogram^ on
top of which is a small portable set. The fireplace lies to
the right and in front of it is an old-fashioned sofa covered
with flowered cretonne material. On the right at the back
also are French windows leading out on to a small balcony.
The Curtain rises to disclose Charles Itoughtflower, a
stoutish middle-aged man in tweeds^ earnestly checking
several pieces of paper ^ one with another. The Landlord, a
tall lank figure in the middle fifties., enters at back with
Hawkins., who is wearing the coat he put on in Act 17,
Scene i, which he discards as he comes in.
LANDLORD: This way, sir. This is the lounge. If
you care to glance out of the window here Brighton-
wards you can see the lights of the pier. Right on the
edge of the cliffs we are here, sir. As a matter of
fact this balcony's famous in a way, a gentleman
threw himself off of it last year. Doctor he was —
Left a note saying he was taking the only way out of
the health service.
HAWKINS: Really, I quite sympathise with him. Let
me see, what's the time ? — If I have a little supper —
you say it's ready ?
LANDLORD: Yes, sir. It's cold I'm afraid.
298
MEET A BODY
HAWKINS : Never mind. I suppose I can have a drink ?
LANDLORD : 'Fraid not, sir. Bar closed at ten. Unless
you're staying the night.
HAWKINS: No — er — I don't exactly anticipate that.
Never mind., a cup of cocoa will do.
LANDLORD: Very good, sir.
[Landlord rings the bell at the fireplace^
(To Boughtflower.} Good evening, Mr. Boughtflower.
How's Wardour Street ? Sold any good films lately ?
BOUGHTFLOWER: I'm selling them in assorted sizes
nowadays — wide, wider and blooming enormous. I
tell you, I'm flogging Jane Russell at so much an
acre.
LANDLORD : Ah — checking your pools ?
BOUGHTFLOWER (grunting): Umml
LANDLORD: Anywhere near this week?
BOUGHTFLOWER (shakes his head): I'm all right on
my ones and twos but my draws have let me down.
[Ha&kzns glances at the radio right with interest and crosses
to It. JL//X, a buxom barmaid in the early thirties,, enters^
LILY: Did you ring, sir?
LANDLORD: Yes, Lily. Tell Tucker to get supper for
this gentleman and a cup of cocoa.
LILY: O.K.
[JL//X goes out again. landlord notices Hawkins examining
the radio.]
LANDLORD: Interested in wireless, sir?
HAWKINS : Er yes, it's a hobby of mine in a way.
LANDLORD (proudly) : That's the kst word in trans-
portables, they tell me. Chap came round yesterday
299
ACT THREE
with It — said I could have it for a month on trial free
— and if at the end I don't want it he'll take it back
without charging a penny.
HAWKINS: That sounds fair enough.
BOUGHTFLOWER: Yd let him have it back. It
crackles.
HAWKINS: Probably some minor fault, you know.
Such things are easily put right.
[Lify re-enters?^
LILY (to 'Landlord]'. Lady and gentleman waiting to
see you in the hall. Say they've booked.
LANDLORD: Ah, yes. That'll be the couple for the
big double. (To Hawkins?) The dining room's in
there sir. (He points to the door down left.)
HAWKINS: Thank you.
\Hawkins goes into the dining room, the 'Landlord goes out
up centre. Lz/y looks to see that the coast is clear then
turns to Boughtflower.]
LILY (crossing to mantelpiece for glasses) : Had you" any
difficulty getting away Charlie?
BOUGHTFLOWER: Like hell I did. We've got to be
much more careful. My wife's beginning to tumble.
LILY: I knew that was coming. (She takes the glasses to
the hatchway?)
BOUGHTFLOWER: Keeps dropping hints — harping on
a friend of hers who's bringing an action for entice
ment.
LILY: You'll have to watch your step, Charlie, I
don't want any trouble. The Guvnor wouldn't mind,
but the brewers would.
BOUGHTFLOWER: You know, it's me being away
weekends, puts ideas in her head.
300
MEET A BODY
LILY: Your wife doesn't expect you to sell £lms
sitting at home, does she ?
BOUGHTFLOWER i That's what I tell her. If you've
got The Robe or Marilyn Monroe you can afford to
sit on your backside but what have I got ?
LILY (advancing and putting her arms round his necfe) :
You've got everything, Charlie.
BOUGHTFLOWER {grinning at her admiringly} : Well, I'm
not the only one.
LILY: Still, you'll have to be more careful. You
don't want her following you, or any of that caper.
BOUGHTFLOWER: Don't you worry. I've laid me
red herrings all right. I'm supposed to be staying in
Walton-on-the-Naze this weekend. Now, which
room have I got? I'd like to have a wash. (He picks
up his case from beside the hatch.}
LILY: Single on the top floor, next the Guvnor's.
BOUGHTFLOWER (grinning): I hope the floor boards
don't creak.
LILY: They do, but I've marked the creakers with
bits of paper.
BOUGHTFLOWER: Think of everything, don't you?
O.K. kid.
[He exits up the stairs. As Ulj turns to go out the land
lord enters with Sir Gregory Upshotf. With him is Joan
Wood, a pretty but very nervous and self-conscious girl in
her twenties. "Lily goes out up centre}
ULNTDLORD: This way, sir. This is the lounge. I've
reserved a double room for you at the front. It's got
a nice outlook facing the sea, just above this one.
SIR GREGORY: Splendid.
LAKTDLORD : If you care to glance out of the window
here Brightonwards, madam, you'll see the lights of
the pier.
SIR GREGORY: There's a bath I take it?
301
ACT THREE
LANDLORD: Just across the landing, sir.
SIR GREGORY (displeased): Oh, I see. Hot and cold
water I hope ?
LANDLORD : Well sir, Saturday night there's a bit of a
run, but I'll have the boiler stoked up for you.
SIR GREGORY (even more put ouf) : We're not too late
for supper by any chance ?
LANDLORD: No sir. But I'm afraid it's cold.
SIR GREGORY: Really] You know, you fellows will
have to smarten up your ideas a bit. You won't
capture the foreign tourists this way.
LANDLORD (taking Sir Gregory's coat to hall-stand in
passage}-. I don't want to capture no foreigners, sir.
Fm quite happy with my weekend customers, thanks
all the same,
SIR GREGORY: Oh! ... (he coughs.) Hrrrn! All
right, we'll have to have it cold.
LANDLORD: Yes, sir. Something to drink first, sir?
SIR GREGORY: Drink ? Oh yes, I'll have a whisky and
soda. (To Joan.) What about you, my dear?
JOAN: I don't want anything, thank you very much.
\The Landlord knocks on the hafch.}
SIR GREGORY: Oh come, you can't let me drink alone.
How about a bottle of champagne ?
JOAN (intimidated) : Champagne ?
SIR GREGORY (to Landlord) : Have you got any ?
LANDLORD: I think so, sk.
SIR GREGORY: Any Pol Roger?
LANDLORD (cautiously)'. I don't remember the name,
sir, but Fm as good as certain it's French.
[.L//X opens the hatch and takes in the glasses on //.]
SIR GREGORY (giving it up): Oh, all right. Bring it.
302
MEET A BODY
LANDLORD : Would you care to see the room first ?
SIR GREGORY: The room? Oh yes, of course, the
room. (To Joan.) Come along my dear.
[The Landlord goes to the foot of the stairs. Joan ner
vously tugs at Sir Gregory* s sleeve.]
JOAN: Not now.
SIR GREGORY: What?
JOAN : I'd rather stay here, if it's all the same to you,
sir.
SIR GREGORY: Oh. (Coughs.) Very well. As you
please. We'll see the room later, landlord.
LANDLORD: Yes, sir. Perhaps you wouldn't mind
signing the register while I order supper.
SIR GREGORY: The register, oh yes. Quite so.
[The landlord brings the register across from the halls f and
and puts it on the table.]
LANDLORD : Here you are, sir. The dining room's in
there, sk. I'll have your luggage sent up.
[He exits up centre.)
SIR GREGORY (be watches bin? go, then turns to Joan) : My
dear Joan, you really must try to appear more at ease.
JOAN: I don't feel at ease.
SIR GREGORY: Do you realise you called me " sir "
just now ?
JOAN: Oh did I? I'm afraid, Sk Gregory.
[She sits at a table left centre.]
SIR GREGORY: There's no need to call me that.
Just Gregory now. What are you afraid of?
ACT THREE
JOAN: I know someone will recognise you.
SIR GREGORY: Of course they won't without my
moustache.
JOAN: You look just the same to me.
SIR GREGORY: That's only because you know me.
JOAN: What about the cartoons ?
SIR GREGORY: Nothing like me at all.
JOAN: You can't alter your bald head. Everyone
knows that.
SIR GREGORY (picking up his cap} : Just to please you
I'll put my cap on.
[Joan takes one look at him and bursts into tears.}
What's the matter?
JOAN : You can't keep it on all the time.
SIR GREGORY: Now please Joan, don't be fanciful.
No one will look at us or bother about us in the
least. Just try to forget convention and look upon
this as an adventure — a gay adventure. After all,
what is convention? I've travelled a lot and I can
tell you it changes with the latitude. The Moslems,
for instance, have a totally different attitude to
latitude. (He laughs,, delighted with his joke?) Fm really
excelling myself this evening.
JOAN (flatly)-. Mother's not a Moslem.
[Sir Gregory's smile fades abruptly I\
SIR GREGORY: I do wish you wouldn't keep on about
your mother. Does she have to be brought into
everything ?
JOAN: I don't want her brought into this.
SIR GREGORY : You know, you've been the same ever
since we left. You're not the little girl I knew in
London, that I used to take out for those cosy little
dinners in Charlotte Street.
304
MEET A BODY
JOAN: This isn't a cosy little dinner in Charlotte
Street.
SIR GREGORY: Now you don't want me to wish I
hadn't brought you away.
JOAN : I didn't want to come anyway.
SIR GREGORY: What?
JOAN: It was only because you kept on at me.
SIR GREGORY: I don't know how you can say that,
Joan. You know I'm very fond of you and I've
done everything I could to please you.
JOAN: Just because you promised to put me in
Grade One
SIR GREGORY: That was quite unconnected with this
trip. Didn't I tell you I wanted to encourage you to
be ambitious — take responsibility — get more ex
perience.
JOAN: — Broaden my mind?
SIR GREGORY: That's right. (He coughs and goes on
hurriedly?) Now do please try to pull yourself to
gether and no more inhibitions, eh? (He opens the
register?) Now let's see if we can think of something
original to write in this book, shall we ? Any ideas ?
[Joan shakes her bead.]
Extraordinary how one's mind becomes a blank with
all the names in Christendom to choose from. Hmm3
let's think of a famous writer. . . . What about
Reade — Charles Reade?
JOAN: I've never heard of him.
SIR GREGORY: Famous novelist, my dear — he wrote
If 3 Never Too Lafe To Mend. (Suddenly realising
implications.) Well nobody reads him nowadays.
How about Fothrington ?
JOAN: It doesn't sound real.
SIR GREGORY: But it is. I once knew a horse called
305
ACT THREE
Fothrington. Wait a minute though, we can't use
that.
JOAN: Why not?
SIR GREGORY: I've just remembered I must have put
a name on the telegram I sent here.
JOAN (alarmed again] : Don't you know what it was ?
SIR GREGORY: Hmm, must have put something.
James, that was it, James.
[Joan suddenly bursts info tears again.]
Now what on earth's the trouble this time?
JOAN (frying)'. I used to be engaged to a boy called
James.
\Hawkzns enters from dining room. He hurries in carrying
bis attache case and pulls up short on seeing Sir Gregory
and Joan.]
SIR GREGORY (seeing Hawkins, becomes a littk confused) :
(To Joan,) Now, now my dear, don't cry, you
probably left the watch in the car. You haven't
lost it yet.
JOAN (dumbly)-. Haven't lost what?
[Sir Gregory bustles her into the dining room in confusion.
They exit. Hawkins who has been getting a bottle of
indigestion tablets from his coat pocket in the ball, watches
them go. He takes a quick look out of the door and crosses
swiftly to the radio on top of the radiogram. Qpening his
attache case he takes out a short length of flex ', a pair of
pliers and a small screwdriver. He then swivels round the
radio and opens its back and deftly connects the flex to a
couple of terminals. He glances at both his wrist watch and
the clock and makes a swift adjustment with his screw
driver and has just finished when Eoughtflower appears on
the staircase landing. He looks down on Hawkins curiously^
306
MEET A BODY
BOUGHTFLOWER : Trying to fix that crackle ?
\Hawkzns looks up surprised, but he quickly takes ad
vantage of Bougbtflower* s words.]
HAWKINS: Ah yes, I told you, wireless was a hobby
of mine. (Laughing.} I'm afraid I'm one of those
people who can't see any mechanism without wanting
to tinker with it. I expect you've met them,
[He gives a careful last look inside the radio and closes it.}
BOUGHTFLOWER (nodding as he comes downstairs}'. The
wife's father's just the same. Can't keep his hands off
the television. Result is, we see everything through a
rainstorm,
HAWTKINS: Yes, I know. Sometimes fellows like
him and me make the whole place quite untenable —
in one way or another. (Switching on radioy tuning in
to dance music?) Doesn't seem to be much crackle
about that.
BOUGHTFLOWER: It certainly seems to be better.
Finished your supper already ?
HAWKINS: No. I came back to get my indigestion
tablets, really.
BOUGHTFLOWER: It's usually that sort of supper
here. (Crossing to window.) Still, you can't have
everything, can you? If you look Brightonwards
you can see the lights of the pier.
HAWKINS: So I gathered. Well, back to the feast —
cold rabbit pie and cocoa. I'll see you kter perhaps.
BOUGHTFLOWER: Yes. I'll still be here.
HAWKINS (drily) : I hope so.
[He exits. Bougbtflower steps out on to the balcony. Ulj
enters with William
3°7
ACT THREE
LILY: If you don't mind waiting here, sir, I'll fetch
the Guv'nor.
[William has glanced round the room quickly and spotted
the grandfather clock which now shows 10.27.]
WILLIAM : Is that clock right ?
LILY: It's always right Saturday night., sir.
ANN: Why Saturday?
LILY: Well, you see, it loses ten minutes a week, so
the guv'nor puts it on ten minutes every Saturday
and by the end of the week it's back with Big Ben, so
to speak.
WILLIAM : So long as you're sure that's the right time.
LILY (glancing at her watcft) : Bang on, sir.
WILLIAM (at once becoming active) : It won't be the only
thing that's bang on if we don't get cracking. We've
exactly twenty-one minutes.
ANN : What are you going to do ?
WILLIAM : Have a look at the register.
ANN : What about telling the landlord ?
WILLIAM: Let's see if Upshotfs here first.
LILY (off) : They're in the parlour, Mr. Masters.
[Landlord enters.}
LANDLORD: Evening, sir.
WILLIAM: Good evening.
LANDLORD: Evening, madam. Lovely night. If
you're wanting a double room I'm afraid we haven't
one left. It's always a bit of a rush weekends this
time of the year.
WILLIAM: Have you any singles ?
508
MEET A BODY
LANDLORD: I've only one free, sir. Bit on the small
side, too.
WILLIAM: Oh. Suppose we'll have to manage with
that. (To Ann.) Won't we, my dear?
[Ann chokes and starts to speak. William fixes her
quickly with a look.}
I know it's a bit of a blow, but there's nothing else
for it.
[He winks at Ann}
LANDLORD: Mind you, the bed's on the big side for
a single. There's a nice outlook. If you care to gknce
out of the window Brightonwards you'll see the
lights of the pier.
ANN (suddenly bursting out at William) : If you think.
!
WILLIAM: Please, dear. I know it's a nuisance, but
after all I did suggest sending a wire. (To 'Landlord).
Can we have the register?
LANDLORD: Yes, sir. Here you are. Will you be
taking supper?
WILLIAM : I don't know yet.
LANDLORD : The dining room's in there, sir.
WILLIAM : Thank you.
\L,andlord exits. Ann instantly rounds on William.}
ANN: How dare you say we're staying the night?
WILLIAM : Quickest way to get the register.
ANN: There was absolutely no need to suggest we
were going to — to stop here.
WILLIAM: No one will stop here if we don't get
down to brass tacks. (Glances again at clock.) Only
twenty minutes to find what is going to go off.
ANN : If anything is.
309
ACT THREE
WILLIAM: She said so, didn't she?
ANN: It might have been a figure of speech and it
might have been Newhaven.
WILLIAM (looking in dining room door) : I tell you, this
Is the pkce and 10.48 is the time.
ANN: Then why not get on with it instead of
arguing ?
WILLIAM : I — (controls himself) all right.
[He starts to search the register. Ann looks over his
shoulder.}
ANN: What are you looking for?
WILLIAM: Upshott.
ANN: She said he was using another name.
WILLIAM: I know, I know. . . . Here we are . . .
(reading) Mr. and Mrs. Alec Morrison, Charles
Boughtflower, Mr. and Mrs. John Smith, Mr. and
Mrs. Victor Jones, Mr. and Mrs. Tom Smith, Mr.
and Mrs. E. Smith, Mr. and Mrs. F. Smythe. . . .
Gosh, that fellow showed imagination!
ANN: All British subjects, but Charles Boughtflower
is the only one staying here on his own.
WILLIAM : And that's a fake name in any nationality.
ANN: Unless Sir Gregory isn't on his own.
WTLLIAM: That's hardly likely. Have you ever
seen him?
ANN: No. Have you?
WILLIAM: No. But I'm sure I've seen his photo
graph in the paper, and my impression is he's at
least sixty, fairly tall, bald, and with a grey moustache.
ANN: That's curious, because my impression is quite
different.
WILLIAM: Oh — is it?
ANN: I should say he's not more than forty two or
three, dark, clean-shaven and rather stout.
310
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM : We can't both be right.
ANN: I wasn't suggesting that for a moment.
WILLIAM: I know it's a lot to ask, but do you think
there's a six to four chance of our agreeing to differ ?
ANN (shrugs) : If you like. I don't mind.
WILLIAM: Then I'll go and look for my version.
[Starts off towards the door.]
ANN: How?
WILLIAM : By getting the landlord to introduce me to
Boughtflower.
ANN : And what do I do ?
WILLIAM: Look for whatever it is that's going to go
off.
ANN: Where?
WILLIAM : How do I know ? Why not start with the
clock? That's a popukr — wait a minute, he said
he was a clockmaker. . . .
ANN: Who?
WILUAM: Stand back.
[He approaches the clock warily and nerves himself to
whip open the door. The moment the door opens, the clock
loudly strikes the half hour. William jumps back as Ann
gives a little scream. William signs her to be quiet, and
sticks his head inside the clock case., peering upwards.]
WILLIAM (withdrawing head} : Looks normal enough to
me. My God, look at the time!
[He starts hurriedly for the door.]
ANN: Where else?
WILLIAM (impatiently) : Anywhere you think. Use
your imagination. Under the sofa — behind that
picture — up the chimney — in the aspidistra. Yes,
that's an idea — the aspidistra.
ACT THREE
[He is looking at an aspidistra plant by his elbow, near the
stairs. He picks it upy dives his hand into the pot and pulls
out the aspidistra by the roots. As he is searching the
inside of the pot with the 'other hand the Landlord enters.]
LANDLORD: Beg pardon, sir, but have you brought
any
[He stops short, his eyes glued on the aspidistra in Williartfs
hand]
ANN (to William}: The landlord.
WILLIAM: Nothing doing ... eh? (Seeing Land
lord.) We're looking for a man about sixty, bald with
a grey moustache. . . .
ANN (quickly): Dark, clean-shaven, and not more
than forty-three.
WILLIAM: It's a matter of national importance.
LANDLORD (taking the aspidistra and flower pot from
William): My mother planted that.
[He exits mumbling]
WILLIAM: What's the use of talking to a fellow
like that? It's a waste of time. Keep on looking.
I'll go and find Boughtfiower myself.
ANN (staring towards the French windows): There's a
man out there on the balcony.
WILLIAM: Where?
[Ann points. Willla?n goes closer to the window and looks
out]
Doesn't look like him. Not in those tweeds.
ANN: It could be. After all, he is in the country.
WILLIAM: By himself, too.
312
MEET A BODY
ANN: And smoking a cigar.
\They stare at him hopefully.}
Look out, he's coming in.
WILLIAM: I'd better handle this.
\Bougfitflomr enters from French windows^ William
crosses to him at once]
Good evening, sir. D'you happen to be Mr. Charles
Boughtfiower?
\Boughtflomr pulls up with a start.]
BOUGHTFLOWER : I don't know you, do I ?
WILLIAM : No. But we know you, sir.
BOUGHTFLOWER. (at once suspicious) : Eh ?
ANN (to William) : You see, I was right. (To Bougbt-
flower} You're here incognito, aren't you ?
BOUGHTFLOWER: In what?
WILLIAM: We've followed you all the way from
London.
BOUGHTFLOWER (alarmed): Followed me? . . .
(backing) What's the idea?
WILLIAM : WeVe been given certain information. . .
BOUGHTFLOWER: Oh, you have, have you? . . .
(Indicating Ann?) Is she with you?
WILLIAM: Yes, but
BOUGHTFLOWER: Two of you, eh?
ANN (impulsively) : You're not safe here.
BOUGHTFLOWER (bitterly) : No, you bet your life I'm
not. Oh well, I had this mm ing to me. (He sits on
the sofa.}
ANN: You mean you knew all about it?
BOUGHTFLOWER: I had a damned good idea.
313
ACT THREE
WILLIAM (to Ami): Well, I suppose it's one of the
risks of " Mr. Boughtflower's " profession.
\Bougbtflawer takes this in a big way]
BOUGHTFLOWER: Risks ? (Cunningly?) What proof
have you got anyway.
WILLIAM : Well, sir, the evidence is pretty conclusive.
BOUGHTFLOWER (bursting out) : I'm not caught yet, if
that's what you mean.
WILLIAM: That's the spirit, sk.
BOUGHTFLOWER (pulled) : What ?
WILLIAM: Now listen, sk — there's absolutely no time
to lose — as I expect you realise. How soon can you
get out of here ?
BOUGHTFLOWER: Get out?
WILLIAM: You haven't a second.
BOUGHTFLOWER (narrowing his eyes): Whose side are
you on?
WILLIAM: Need you ask that, sk?
BOUGHTFLOWER : I don't know what you get out of
this, but I can take a tip when I'm handed one!
1*11 get my case.
[He hurries to the stairs]
WILLIAM: For heaven's sake, hurry!
BOUGHTFLOWER (mounting stairs] : You bet !
[He pauses briefly halfway up the stairs., and sticks his
head over the banisters.}
So the old girl thought she'd get me, did she?
[He rushes 0#, leaving William and ^.nn slightly mystified.]
WILLIAM: Old girl? Must be a woman behind it
somewhere.
MEET A BODY
ANN: So it was NewclifFe, after all. You win.
WILLIAM: Not yet. We've picked up the ace, but
there's still the joker.
ANN: The what?
WILLIAM : The box of tricks. Keep on looking.
ANN: Where are you going?
WILLIAM: We've got to clear everyone out of the
whole place. Now we've found Sir Gregory I'll be
able to knock some sense into the landlord.
[He runs out.}
ANN (catling after him} : Oh, Mr. Bkke . . . Bill . . .
supposing it goes off too soon?
\She searches frantically round the sofa and fireplace then
runs to the door and almost bumps into Lily, who stares
at her curiously^
LILY: Your name Vincent?
ANN: Yes.
LILY : There's a man on the 'phone wants to speak to
you. Toll call.
ANN (da^ed): A man?
LILY: Sounds like your father. I haven't let on
you're here, mind. Like me to tell him there's no one
here of your description ?
ANN : No, no — I'll speak to him.
LILY: All right — the 'phone's through.
\S he points to telephone which is on a table in front of the
hatch, and exits. Ann crosses to it and picks up the
instrument. Bar door optns and Landlord enters with
another plant in a pot.]
ANN (telephone} : Hullo , . . hullo. . . .
315
ACT THREE
[Landlord notices Ann, sniffs^ crosses to aspidistra stand
and puts new plant in //.]
Who is it? Reginald! . . . Yes of course I'm here.
. . . Yes, he's here, too. . . . Reginald! . . .
Really! . . . What are you suggesting? . . .
\Rjsginald is obviously doing all the talking. The Landlord
has one eye on Ann., who has her back to himl\
[Angrily.} What? ... I don't know how you can
say things like that. . . . Do you think we came
down here fox fan?
\The clock is now 0/10.33.]
. . . What on earth do you mean? . . .
\]Landlord gives her another look, then takes out watch and
compares it with the grandfather clock, puts the clock on
ten minutes to 10.43.]
... So you don't believe me ? ... In other words
I'm a liar? ... I tell you I haven't anything to
conceal! . . . I'm not talking to you any longer. I
tell you one thing — Mr. Blake's got more guts in his
little finger . . . oh, good-byel
\William has come hurrying hack in time to hear Ann's
last words and see her ring off, Landlord is on the stair
landing. William spots him^\
WILLIAM: Ah, Landlord, there you are. This is
important. You remember I asked you about a man
just now?
LANDLORD: I remember.
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM: We've just found him. He's Sk Gregory
Upshott.
ANN: That's right. Registered in the name of Charles
Boughtflower.
LANDLORD: What name?
ANN: Boughtflower.
LANDLORD: I see.
WILLIAM : Incredible though it may seem, we believe
that an attempt is going to be made here tonight to
assassinate him.
LANDLORD: I see.
WILLIAM: As far as we can make out they've pknted
some kind of explosive somewhere on the premises
and we're expecting it to go up at 10.48.
LANDLORD: I see.
WILLIAM: Don't keep saying " I see " like that.
Can't you understand — everyone in the hotel's in
mortal danger!
LANDLORD: ")_ .
>I see!
WILLIAM: J
WILLIAM: You've got to get everybody out of here —
now I
LANDLORD (deliberately): I don't know how many
you've had but one thing I do know — you never
had 'em here.
ANN: But it's going to go off!
WILLIAM: Look, let me put this in terms even you
can understand — do you want to lose your pub?
LANDLORD: I don't want to lose my licence. I'm a
broadminded man, but Fm not very partial to people
who can't hold their liquor — especially if they bought
it elsewhere.
[He exits centre^
ANN (wails): Now what are we going to do?
ACT THREE
WILLIAM : Rouse the whole place while there's time !
ANN: How?
WILLIAM: Beat that gong.
[He runs to a dinner gong near the entrance to the dining
room, picks up the stick and is about to give it a good
whack when Boughtflomr comes hurrying down the stairs
carrying a suitcase. Ann sees himl\
ANN: Bill — look! Get Sir Gregory to tell him.
WILLIAM: Right. Listen, sir! You must talk to the
landlord and make him undertsand that everyone else
has got to clear out, too.
BOUGHTFLOWER : Eh?
WILLIAM: They're in danger as well — but of course
you know that.
BOUGHTFLOWER: What's this?
WILLIAM: You've got to knock some sense into that
landlord.
ANN: He refuses to believe you're Sir Gregory.
BOUGHTFLOWER: Sir which?
WILLIAM : Sir Gregory Upshott.
BOUGHTFLOWER: Who is?
ANN: ^
>• You are.
WILLIAM: j
[Boughtflower stares at them blankly.}
WILLIAM (assailed by a horrible doubt) : . . . Aren't you ?
BOUGHTFLOWER: What d'you mean? I'm Charlie
Boughtflower — always have been.
WILLIAM: My God, I believe he is!
BOUGHTFLOWER: Here — what's the game?
ANN: We thought you were Sir Gregory.
BOUGHTFLOWER: You mean you mistook me for Sir
Gregory Upshott?
318
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM : Do you know him ?
BOUGHTFLOWER : I've seen him once.
WILLIAM: Where?
BOUGHTFLOWER: At Newmarket, leading in his
horse.
WILLIAM: Would you know him again?
BOUGHTFLOWER: No, he was the other side of the
horse. Here — what is all this anyway?
WILLIAM : It's a matter of life and death. Please try
to help. We think he's staying here.
BOUGHTFLOWER : If he Is, I haven't seen him and I've
seen most of 'em since I got here.
ANN: Oh, dear. . . .
BOUGHTFLOWER: Wait. a minute. ... I met a chap
upstairs just now going into the . . . bathroom.
WILLIAM : What's he like ?
BOUGHTFLOWER: I dunno — he was the other side of
the door.
WILLIAM : Is he still up there ?
BOUGHTFLOWER: I suppose so — only went in a
couple of minutes ago.
[William promptly dashes for the stairs.]
(Suddenly recollecting.) Here — where does my old
woman come into this?
WILLIAM: She doesn't.
BOUGHTFLOWER: What?
[The time now says 10.47 Ann looks at the clock and lets
out a scream of alarm. William stops and turns]
ANN: The time! Look at the time!
[William looks at clock.}
WILLIAM: My God!
3*9
ACT THREE
[He takes a flying leap down the stairs up to Ann and the
bewildered Bought/lower*]
BOUGHTFLOWER : Will somebody tell me what the
hell's going on?
WILLIAM: There's something somewhere in this
building that's going off at 10.48.
BOUGHTFLOWER: Eh?
WILLIAM: It's intended for Upshott, most likely a
bomb, but if we don't get out of here damned quick
we'll all be blown to blazes.
BOUGHTFLOWER: Blimey O'Reilly!
[He dashes outl\
WILLIAM: Oh my God — look at the time,, 10.48!
Under the table. Quick!
[He and Ann dive under the table left centre. The 'Land
lord enters up centre ivith a tray of champagne and glasses.
Seeing William and Ann crouched under the table,, he starts
and bolts for the dining room door lest their obvious insanity
should fake a violent turn. In his haste he drops his tray
with a crash in the dining room.]
ANN (re-emerging): Of course I did mention it might
be the Green Man, Newhaven.
WILLIAM: Nonsense!
[Nevertheless be crosses to telephone and lifts receiver^
(Telephone^ I want the Green Man, Newhaven. Do
you happen to know the number? What? Good —
thank you. Will you connect me?
ANN: There's scarcely any point in calling them up
now., surely. Why not wait for the morning papers ?
320
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM: It's ringing. . . . (Telephone.} Hullo?
... Is that the Green Man, Newhaven ? . . . Oti —
er — are you still there? . . . you are? . . . Oh,
well — er — good night.
[He hangs up.}
They're still there. Something's slipped.
ANN : Things seem to have a habit of slipping with
you.
WILLIAM : You heard what that girl said. It was to go
off at 10.48.
ANN : You may remember I did suggest it might only
be a figure of speech.
WILLIAM: Don't be ridiculous. How could a
figure of speech endanger his life ?
ANN : Well then, we've come at the right time on the
wrong day.
WILLIAM: What do you suggest — that we keep on
coming down here until something . . . blows up ?
ANN: I don't know why I let myself be talked into
coming here in the first pkce.
WILLIAM : What ! I suppose you think I arranged all
this just to sell you a vacuum cleaner.
ANN: Nothing you did would surprise me.
WILLIAM (complacently): I admit I have a certain
quality of unexpectedness. (Coughs.) Unlike Reginald.
ANN: He 'phoned up just now.
WILLIAM : I know. I — er — caught the tail end of the
conversation.
ANN (quickly) : Did you ?
WILLIAM: Yes. You gave me quite a nice build-up.
ANN: I think it's time we started back.
[She gets up.]
WILLIAM: Oh — wouldn't you like one for the road?
I would.
i! 321
ACT THREE
ANN (smiling) : All right.
[He crosses to the hatchway to bar and raps on it. Hatch
way slides up and the Landlord looks through.]
WILLIAM : Can we have a drink ?
LANDLORD: No.
[He slams down the hatchway. William raps again. It
slides up once more.}
WILLIAM: Two to Charing Cross.
LANDLORD: Eh?
WILLIAM : Could we have a couple of dry gingers ?
LANDLORD (astonished) : Dry gingers ?
WILLIAM: Well, we'll have a dash of gin in them, if
you absolutely insist. We are sadly changed charac
ters, landlord. Sober to a fault.
LANDLORD : No more fiinny business ?
WILLIAM: No more funny business. Cross my heart.
[He closes hatch. William moves back to ^Ann.}
WILLIAM: He'll — er — think about it.
ANN: What time will we get back to town, Mr.
Bkke?
WILLIAM: About 12.30, Miss Vincent.
[Pause.}
WILLIAM: Tell me, how far have things gone with
you and Reginald?
ANN: What do you mean?
WILLIAM: Anybody called any banns yet?
ANN: If you want to know, they have.
WILLIAM: Oh.
[Slight pause.}
322
MEET A BODY
ANN: Once.
WILLIAM (brightens) : One up and two to play. Might
be worse.
ANN: I can't see that it's anything to do with you.
WILLIAM: Can't you?
ANN: I only met you this evening.
WILLIAM: I know, but hasn't it been fun?
ANN: You've got a strange idea of fun. . . . Besides,
I don't go back on my word.
WILLIAM : You haven't given me the only reason that
matters. Are you in love with htm?
ANN: Why do you think I'm marrying him?
WILLIAM: I can't think of any really satisfactory
reason. Can you honestly tell me that your heart
beats any faster when he says, " Here is the forecast
for shipping " ?
ANN: What is all this leading up to ?
WILLIAM: Me.
ANN: Don't be ridiculous. We've only known each
other a couple of hours and we haven't agreed once.
WILLIAM: On what firmer basis could a marriage of
two minds be built?
\The Landlord enters from bar with tn*o drinks on a tray
and puts them down in front of 'them '.]
LANDLORD: Two gin and dry gingers.
WILLIAM : You've come just in time.
LANDLORD : Eh ? That'll be five shillings, please.
WILLIAM (giving it to him}: Keep the change.
LANDLORD: Thank you, sir. Mind if I turn the
radio on ? We like a bit of music on Saturday nights.
\WiUiam and Ann don't mind so the Landlord crosses and
turns on the portable and exits centre}
ANN: What did you mean, he was just in time?
WILLIAM: Just too late.
5*3
ACT THREE
[A ILadio Announcer's voice is heard. The clock now
shows 10.52.]
RADIO ANNOUNCER: . . . Other parts were pkyed
by Hazel Warris, Percival Hermes and Guy Hamilton.
The play adapted for broadcasting by Edward Scaife
and produced by Ernest Steward. . . . The time is
exactly 10.42.
\William reacts, nearly choking over his drink.}
RADIO ANNOUNCER : The next part of the programme
follows at 10.45.
WILLIAM (to Landlord., who is re-entering): Landlord!
That clock I Have you altered it?
LANDLORD: Of course. Put it on ten minutes.
[The radio starts to play an interim record of the Chopin
in Aflat Major, Op. 69, No. i.]
WILLIAM: My God.
ANN (wails) : We've still got six minutes to go !
WILLIAM: Six minutes!
[He makes d blind dash for the stairs, watched in a dumb
founded way by the
ANN: Where are you going?
WILLIAM: Upshott!
ANN: Where?
WILLIAM: First floor — in the bathroom!
[He disappears from sight. The Landlord now turns back,
deliberately picks up the two drinks, and puts them back
on the tray, marching purposefully back into the bar and
slamming down the hatchway. Ann is searching feverishly
MEET A BODY
behind the window curtains for the bomb. 'Lily enters with
two glasses of Lager on a traj.~\
LILY: Miss Vincent?
ANN: Yes?
LILY: He's on the 'phone again.
ANN: Who?
LILY : Your father. I've put you through.
[Lily exits to dining room. Ann crosses impatiently to
telephone and picks it up.]
*
ANN (hurriedly)'. Hello? Yes. . . . Listen, Reginald
— I can't talk now — there's no time. . . , What?
No, I'll ring you back. . . .
[At this moment Hawkins enters hurriedly. He glances
at Ann then., dismissing her as a casual customer,, locks
at his watch y then crosses quickly to the radio and turns it
up.}
(Into telephone., getting more and more angry -.) No! I
catft explain. Not now. . , . There's no need to
lose your temper. Well, why can't you wait till I get
back? . . . All right, break it off. I'm sure it suits
me. Good-byel
[She bangs the receiver down. Hawkins walks away from
radio to his overcoat}
HAWKINS: Good evening.
ANN (absently}': Good evening. . . . (Calling out.}
Bill!
[She looks with wild anxiety at the clocky then hurries up
the stairs after William. Sir Gregory and Joan come in
from the dining room^ watched by Hawkins}
ACT THREE
SIR GREGORY: That cold rabbit pie was dreadful,
diabolically dreadful. I must say, they manage these
things differently in Iraq. Why, there they think
absolutely nothing of serving up an entire sheep for
the company. (Looks at his watch and coughs.} Well,
my dear, I rather think it's time we — er (He
glances up the stairs?)
JOAN: Oh! Couldn't we have some coffee here first?
SIR GREGORY : We can have it sent up. In any event,
it will certainly be foul.
[He takes her arm and they ^tart towards the stairs.
Hawkins quickly interposes.}
HAWKINS: Perhaps you'd care to join me?
SIR GREGORY: Eh?
HAWKINS: I was just going to order some.
JOAN: Oh, thank goodness !
SIR GREGORY: Very kind of you, I'm sure, but under
the circumstances. . . . Come along, my dear.
HAWKINS : In that case there's no point in my offering
you a cigar.
SIR GREGORY: Not just now, thank you very much.
[He starts to lead the reluctant Joan up the stairs. Hawkins
quickly sticks a cigarette in his mouth.}
HAWKINS: Oh. I wonder if I might trouble you for a
light?
SIR GREGORY: Light? Of course. Here you are.
[He drops a box of matches over the hamsters to Hawkins
and continues up the stairs. The music fades out.}
HAWKINS: Thank you.
[As he strikes the match, the voice of a ILadio Announcer
comes through on the radio.]
MEET A BODY
RADIO ANNOUNCER : This is the B.B.C. Home Service.
The Middle East — a new approach. Here is a
recording of the speech made today at a luncheon in
the City by Sir Gregory Upshott, who has just been
appointed Britain's Special Envoy.
[ Sir Gregory has disappeared from view. Hearing his
narne^ he hurries downstairs^ Joan behind him^ smiling with
relief
SIR GREGORY: Oh! (He hesitates . . . then.} You
run along, my dear, will you. . . : I shan't be a
moment.
[During this the recording of Sir Gregory's speech has
begun. It continues during the ensuing dialogue and is
given in full at the end of the play. Sir Gregory establishes
himself in a chair near the radio. Joan slips info a seat
beside him. Sir Gregory glances at her,, motioning her to
go back up the stairs. Joan shakes her head determinedly.
Hawkzns, gratified 5 starts to put on his coat.
During this., William appears at the top of the stairs with
Ann. Hawkins sees bim^ recognises him, and turns
abruptly awaj with his back to them.}
ANN : Are you sure it wasn't him ?
WILLIAM (as thej hurry to the bottom of the stairs):
Positive.
\Thej cross to centre.}
ANN (lowering voice): Isn't it time to beat that gong?
\Hawkins jams on his bat and makes a move for the door
behind their backs. William glances at clocky uncertainly.}
327
ACT THREE
WILLIAM: I don't know — wait a minute.
[He stops as he suddenly sees Hawkins. He stares — then
moves quickly over and intercepts him.}
What a very small world it is, to be sure!
[Hawkins is startled, but quickly recovers himself.]
HAWKINS : Are you addressing me, sir ?
WILLIAM: What are you doing here — repairing
clocks ? Or looking for Sergeant Basset, perhaps ?
HAWKINS : I don't think we've met.
WILLIAM (to Ann) : This is your next door neighbour
—Windy Ridge.
HAWKINS : That does not happen to be my name.
WILLIAM: Take a look at the time.
HAWKINS: I can't recollect meeting either of you
before. And yet your face is somehow familiar
(pulling himself free) — though not so odiously familiar
as your manner.
WILLIAM : Do you know what the time is ?
HAWKINS: Naturally. It is time to go. Goodnight.
[William pulls out the revolver he took from Montague
and points it at him.]
WILLIAM: Oh, no.
[Hawkins looks at the revolver^
HAWKINS: Dear me, what's that?
WILLIAM : Your uncle's revolver, Mr. Hawkins — but
unlike him I'm not relying on the visual effect.
HAWKINS (to Ann}: The man's as drunk as a lord or
as mad as a hatter. I wonder which ?
328
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM: You've got just over thirty seconds to tell
us where you put it.
HAWKINS : Put what ?
[The landlord's voice is heard, off.}
LANDLORD: I tell you nothing's happened here.
What d'you mean, blown up ?
{Landlord enters. Roughtflomr excitedly pushing him in.}
BOCGHTFLOWER : That's what he said.
LANDLORD: What?
BOUGHTFLOWER {pointing to WiUianj): Him! There
he is. He's the one who told me.
LANDLORD : Oh — he did, did he ?
BOUGHTFLOWER : You said the whole place was going
up skyhigh.
WILLIAM: So it is — in 50 seconds. (To Hawkins.)
Isn't that so ?
HAWKINS: The man's just drunk.
[During this, Sir Gregory has been struggling to hear bis
own radio speech., and has moved very close to the radio.
A.t this point he gives up the unequal contest and turns on
them angrily}
SIR GREGORY: Can't you conduct your argument
elsewhere? The place is a bedlam and I am trying
to listen to an important broadcast! Thank you!
{Ann sees the clock, which is practically on 10.48. She
lets out a cry}
ANN: Bill — the time!
{Hawkins sees his chance and dives out of the door}
5*9
ACT THREE
RADIO: "... the moment of impact may not be
so far ahead."
WILLIAM: Listen!
\William looks from radio to Sir Gregory then back to
radio.]
RADIO: "... If I can help to bring about a new
settlement. . . ."
SIR GREGORY (clearing his throaf] : Hrrm !
[The record does the sa??2e immediately afterwards^
WILLIAM : Good God ! . . . Then you're Sir Gregory.
That's your voice. It must be in the radio. Look out
everybody 1
[He rushes forward and seizes the radio. He dashes with it
to the French windows and hurls the set out over the balcony.
The voice of Sir Gregory continues from the radio.}
RADIO: " . . . I shall then indeed feel that my task
will be done and I will be able to disappear, this
time finally, from the public scene."
[.An explosion is heard off^ followed by a rumbling as of
falling sections of cliff. . . . They have all followed
William to the window. Lily comes in from the dining
room.}
SIR GREGORY: Good heavens!
LILY: What on earth was that?
LANDLORD: Only half the cliff being blown away.
Pop upstairs and tell everyone it's all right, no bones
broken.
LILY: O.K.
330
MEET A BODY
[Exeunt landlord and JL//y, the latter running off up the
stairs.]
[William comes in from the balcony with Bcugbtflower.]
WILLIAM: Where's that fellow gone? (The noise of a
car driving off is heard.} There goes his car. (To
Bought/lower.} Get after him in yours — I'll 'phone the
police.
[Boughtflower hurries out centre. William crosses towards
the telephone hut is checked hy Sir Gregory who comes from
the window to him^\
SIR GREGORY: Pardon me, sir, but you seem to know
something about this.
WILLIAM: Up to a point, yes.
SIR GREGORY: What was that explosion?
WILLIAM: An attempt on your life, Sir Gregory,
SIR GREGORY: What?
JOAN {wails): He knows who you are. I'm not
staying here now, Fm not, Sir Gregory.
SIR GREGORY: Be quiet. And do sit down, (To
William?) Just a minute. You mean to say that in
that radio there was an explosive ?
WILLIAM (who has replaced the telephone) : Certainly.
SIR GREGORY: Who put it there?
WILLIAM: The man who just went out. Answers to
the name of Hawkins.
SIR GREGORY: I don't know the name.
WILLIAM : It's unlikely to be his real one.
SIR GREGORY: I see. Well — why are we waiting — ?
Telephone the police. Tell them who I am, and
WILLIAM: Is that advisable, sir? . . .
JOAN: Oh no, no — of course it's not!
331
ACT THREE
SIR GREGORY: That is for me to say.
WILLIAM : Naturally, but I didn't think you'd want to
give evidence in court — with the young kdy. I
mean, think of the newspapers, sir.
JOAN (wailing again): And mother takes the Daily
Mirror.
SIR GREGORY: She would.
WILLIAM: Why not leave here now, sir? I'll have to
make a statement after you've gone, but if you move
out now there'll be no proof you've ever been here.
After all, no harm's been done ... in any direction.
SIR GREGORY: Perhaps you're right. (To Joan.) We'll
leave at once.
JOAN: Oh thank you, sir!
[She goes to the mirror to tidy her bair.]
SIR GREGORY (to William r, in an undertone)". You're
MJ.5 I take it.
WILLIAM: No, sir. Nothing so glamorous.
SIR GREGORY: Oh. Then what are you?
WILLIAM: I — er — well, you might say I just go about
cleaning up things. Blake's the name, sir. I represent
the Electro-Broom, the Little Wizard of the Carpet.
(He hands Sir Gregory his card.) My card, sir.
SIR GREGORY: H'm? All I can say is, I owe you a
great deal, a very great deal.
WILLIAM (taking his card back) : Pardon me, sir. It's
the only one I've got.
SIR GREGORY: H'rrm. Yes. (To Joan.) Are you
ready, my dear?
JOAN (brightly) : Oh yes, Fm waiting.
SIR GREGORY (to William)*. I'll see you get recognition
for this.
WILLIAM : Thank you, sir. I hope you avoid it.
SIR GREGORY: I — hrrm! Goodnight.
MEET A BODY
WILLIAM
ANN:
> Good night, sir.
[Exeunt Sir Gregory and ]oan.~\
WILLIAM: Another couple of minutes and I'd have
sold him an Electro-Broom.
[The Landlord comes hurrying in with two glasses of
champagne on a fray. He puts the glasses on the fable left
centre in front of William and Ann.\
LANDLORD: I want to thank you two. I've got to
take back everything I said.
ANN: Perhaps you could sell him one.
LANDLORD : Fve just been out and had a look at the
clifF. If that thing had gone up in here there wouldn't
have been a bottle left in the place.
WILLIAM: I'm sorry about your radio, Landlord.
LANDLORD: That's all right, sir. The old one still
works.
[He crosses to turn it on. Borodztfs Nocturne fades in.
Thm he points to the champagne and smiksl\
That's on the house, sk.
\Landlord exits .]
WILLIAM: Worried about something?
ANN: I'm feeling a bit limp after all that excitement.
WILLIAM: Ah, yes. (Sighs.) The purple patch has
faded. Back to the humdrum — and Reginald.
ANN: I didn't tell you — he made another toll-call.
WILLIAM: Don't worry — he's sure to charge it to
expenses.
333
ACT THREE
ANN: He's broken it off.
WILLIAM: What? . . . Oh. That makes a difference
— or doesn't it ?
ANN: I don't know. Perhaps he didn't mean it.
WILLIAM : You ought to have snapped up an offer like
that.
ANN: I don't know what to do.
WILLIAM : You might consider me,
ANN (turns to look at him) : Do you think so ? Why ?
WILLIAM: I need companionship. I couldn't face
the future throwing bombs out of windows all
alone. ... It was fun, wasn't it ?
]Tbe music has jaded outJ\
ANN: Mmm.
WILLIAM: Ann. . . !
[He is about to enfold her, when the radio makes an
annotmcement^\
RADIO: This is the B.B.C. Third Programme.
WILLIAM (interjecting): We could do without that.
RADIO : Five minutes of Free Verse.
WILLIAM (interjecting) : Ann, what I wanted. . . .
RADIO: Here is Reginald Willoughby-Pratt, who will
read a group of poems by Milton Boyle, to which the
author has given the title " Vicious Cycle ". Reginald
Willoughby-Pratt.
[Ann and William look quickly at each other.
voice is heard. It shows the effects of strain . . . a strain
which increases^
334
MEET A BODY
REGINALD'S " Her beauty has a kind of ugliness,
VOICE: A strangulating loveliness,
Compressing the jugular of my sensi
tivity
As ivy constricts trunk of tree, ..."
\WiHiam rises and goes to the window seat for Antfs coat}
" Turning arboreal royalty
Into beanpole servitor — . . ."
[Ann rises. William helps her on with her coat.}
" Burying the berries
in a fruitless operation —
So that the name of her,
Ann "
\H?s voice falters at this unfortunate coincidence. William
and Ann are checked at the mention of the name.}
" Asininely monosyllabic,
The mere kbel she goes by
Yet pulsing with drum beat —
Ann — Ann — Ann — Ann "
\William and Ann are again arrested as they make for the
door. Reginald's voice cracks under the altogether in
tolerable strain — this is to much^ much too much. His
voice takes on another \ completely human note}
REGINALD'S VOICE: Ann! I can't go on. I won't!
Listen to me, Ann, wherever you are I You can go to
your bloody vacuum cleaner! I'm through — you.
M
335
ACT THREE
[He is switched off abruptly with an extra definite click.
Ann and William look at each other in amazement. A
new voice now breaks in from the radio]
RADIO ANNOUNCER: We must apologise to listeners
for a technical hitch. And that brings us to the end
of today's broadcasting in the Third Programme.
Goodnight, everyone. . . .
WILLIAM:-) .
ANN: j Good-m§ht-
RADIO ANNOUNCER : Good-night.
Final curtain
SIR GREGORY UPSHOTT'S SPEECH
Mr. Chairman, my lords, ladies and gentlemen . . .
hrrm— I have always liked to think that I am funda
mentally a modest man, but after your extremely
flattering remarks, Mr. Chairman, I confess I am
finding the part somewhat difficult to sustain
[Ripple of polite laughter]
Were I the walking compendium of all the commer
cial and diplomatic talents that he has described I
would certainly be priceless indeed.
[Laughter]
But I am afraid— I am very much afraid— that I am
not. Nevertheless, I think I can promise that such
ability as I may have will be unremittingly devoted to
the task to which I have been appointed.
536
MEET A BODY
I have spent, I suppose, the best years of my life in
the Middle East and at one time entertained serious
thoughts of embracing the Moslem faith. As a youth
ful orientalist I studied the civilisation of ancient
Egypt, and in later years I served under our minister
in Cairo. I have hunted with the Kings of Iraq and
shot with the Shahs of Iran. I watched the birth
pangs of the new Palestine with a friendly eye and
studied the obscurer dialects of Syria.
What do we find in those regions of today? A vital
area for British Commonwealth interests, a variety
of resources, strategic bases of stupendous import
ance, and, at the same time, diverse peoples, poverty,
backwardness, pressures and frictions, agelong en
mities, distrust and suspicion.
What is really wanted is a new deal. If our friends in
those parts could look upon themselves and ourselves
with a fresh eye and so bury the past — what is there
that could not be done ?
[Applause and " heary hears"}
The Egyptian fellaheen must learn to He down with
the Israeli. Ourselves and the Americans must make
an entirely new approach in Iran. Oil is, I confess,
much in my mind — it has to be. The future of our
military bases must come into it, too.
The international situation makes every aspect of my
task urgent. Indeed, elements in certain countries
that shall be nameless have threatened, openly and
covertly, to take any steps that may be necessary to
ensure that my mission shall be a failure. Any steps,
gentlemen — that is what we have come to! For
myself, I remain quite unintimidated.
^Murmur of applause.}
557
ACT THREE
— indeed I am greatly encouraged, because such
threats would never be made unless they feared that
my mission might be successful.
It is a platitude, but a true one, to say to our friends
in that part of the globe that we must hang together
or hang separately. In the common interest we must
all unite. The moment of impact may not be so far
ahead. If I can help to bring about a new settlement
— hrrm! — I shall then indeed feel that my task will
be done, and I will be able to disappear, this time
finally, from the public scene.
338
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
by
WXALD MILLAR
Copyright in the U.S.A. 1954 by Ronald Millar
Waiting for Gillian is fully protected by copyright
Applications for professional repertory licences should be
addressed to A. D. Peters,, 10 Buckingham Street,,
Adelpbi, London W.C.z and for performances by amateurs
to Samuel French Ltd.,, 2.6 Southampton Street, Strand.,
"London W.C.z. No performance may take place unless a
licence has been obtained*
Laurence Olivier Productions Ltd., staged Waiting
for Gillian at the St. James's Theatre, London on
April 21, 1954, with the following cast.
JAMES MANNING
JILL MANNING
THE HON. WILLIAM STEPHEN
FITZHARDING BULE
P.C. EDDIE CATER
SERGEANT GROVES
ELSIE PEARCE
DOCTOR BARRY FREWEN
FLO
A WOMAN
John
Googie Withers
Frank
Thomas Heatbcote
Gorman fierce
j^nna "Turner
Noel Hovlett
Kathleen Boutal!
Catherine Campbell
Directed by Michael Macowan
Settings by Alan Tagg
Lighting by Joe Davis
CHARACTERS
(In order of appearance)
JAMES MANNING
JILL MANNING
THE HONOURABLE WILLIAM STEPHEN
FITZHARDING BULE
P.C. EDDIE CATER
DOCTOR BARRY FREWEN
SERGEANT GROVES
ELSIE PEARCE
FLO
A BYSTANDER
SYNOPSIS OF SCENES
ACT L Scene i. The Manning? house in lucking-
hamshire. A Friday evening in
^larch.
Scene z. The Same. The following Sunday
afternoon.
ACT II. Scene i. The Same. Five minutes later.
Scene 2. The Same. An evening a few weeks*
later.
ACT El. Scene i. The same. After dinner,, six
weeks* later.
Scene z. "Ytis Cafe." A Year later.
ACT ONE
Scene i
The living room of a pleasant country bouse in Bucking
hamshire, on a Friday evening in Aiarch. French windows
in the right wall, an archway down left hading to the
dining room and kitchen. ^ hallway^ up centre back,
with stairs leading up to the right and the front door to
the left facing the stairs. The remains of a cocktail party
are littered about and the room is in considerable disorder.
Glasses^ bottles, canapes^ ashy cigarette ends, create an air
of untidiness in the otherwise charming room. The room is
empty and the radio is blaring dance music. Presently
James Manning enters through the front door. He is about
forty, quietly dressed in city clothes, dark overcoat and
bomburg.
JAMES (calls): Jill! Jfflie!
JILL (from upstairs) : Hello !
JAMES: I'm home, dear.
JILL : About time, too.
JAMES: Yes, I know.
[He turns off the radio, clears an ashtray and beer bottle
from an armchair. Jill appears on the stairs. She is an
attractive woman of about thirty., with something of the
child about her stilL She mars a housecoat and is brushing
her hair.}
JILL (on stairs} : Well . . . hello, stranger!
JAMES: I'm awfully sorry, but the board meeting
dragged on and on and I couldn't get away. Has
everyone gone?
JILL: Everyone except Bill and he doesn't count.
That's a bad thing to say. Everyone counts, don't
they? Everyone on this earth counts as much as
345
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE
everyone on this earth. And that's a beautiful thing
to say. (Kisses him}. Hello, darling.
JAMES: Hello, darling.
JILL: Had a bad time with your board?
JAMES: Not so much bad as bad-tempered. (She gives
him her hair brush and lies back on the sofa, her head on his
lap while he brushes her hair for her} It's an extra
ordinary thing that manufacturing cigarettes should
generate so much heat.
JILL: Poor darling. People get so worked up about
everything, don't they ... no peace ... no peace.
JAMES (brushing)-. Peaceful now?
JILL: Mm . . . that's wonderful. I feel liberated.
Like a bird.
JAMES : Rather a high flown bird.
[A crash comes from the kitchen.}
JAMES: What's that?
JILL: Only Bill.
JAMES: What's he doing in there?
JILL: Washing the— breaking the glasses. (Calls.)
Bill!
BULE(^): Hello!
JILL (calls): What was it?
BULE (off) : The ice bucket. It's all right — no bones
broken.
JAMES (eyeing the housecoat) : Is this what you wore for
the party?
JH-L (giggles): I wish I'd thought of it, it might have
gingered things up a bit. No, but really, darling, I've
had quite a day of it one way and another — and then
your not being here and having to carry the ball all
by myself— I felt if I didn't get into something and
stretch, I should burst. (Turns suddenly from him.)
You don't like me like this.
544
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
JAMES: Yes, of course, I — it's . . . very fetching.
JILL: No, you don't. I can always tell when you
don't. I can feel great waves of disapproval flooding
all over me. Bill, I'm in disgrace.
\Buk enters from the kitchen arch. He wears an apron over
a smartly cut suit. He is about James* age, rather more
dashing, perhaps ajear or
BULE : Well, that's more or less a permanent condition
with me. Evening, Squire. That was a smooth little
shindig you missed this evening.
JAMES: Yes, I'm sorry, I had an interminable
board meeting.
BULE (removing apron) : What do I do with this ?
JILL: Just chuck it down.
JAMES: How was the party?
JILL: Terrible!
BULE: Oh, I rather enjoyed it. About half time a
completely strange character with a bow tie and a
whisky breath, came up to me and said " You're
Bule."' I said " Yes ", he said, " Do you shoot?'',
I said " Only if someone starts something ", and he
nodded and said " Ah! " and went away quite
satisfied.
JILL (gfggks): That was Major Henderson.
JAMES: Did Jillie behave herself?
BULE: I'm happy to report that, in the absence of the
breadwinner, the little woman did splendidly.
JILL : No, she didn't. I'm no good at these do's — I
seem to forget things, and make the most awful
faux pas and — Oh! I don't know, I can't do it.
JAMES: Can't do what?
JILL: Well, there's a sort of a knack to living in the
country in England, and I just don't seem to have it,
that's all. It's not my " thing *', which isn't fair on
545
ACT ONE,, SCENE ONE
you, darling. You deserve a proper respectable wife,
who'd be all that she ought to be.
JAMES: What did you forget this time? The olives
again ?
JILL: No, the harpoon things you spear them with.
JAMES : Never mind, darling, we can't all be efficient.
BULE: And some of us can't even be nice to look at.
JILL : He says the sweetest things, doesn't he ?
BULE: Yes, well, with those kind words, I'll be
toddling, children.
JILL: No, don't go. Jim, give him one for the road.
JAMES : From the look of things, there isn't one.
JILL : Yes, there is, there's a smidgin of Gordons in
the whisky decanter. Back in a second, looking
wildly respectable.
[Disappears upstairs again. James makes T*>uk and himself
a drink.}
BULE: Smoke, Squire?
JAMES : No, thanks, I don't use them.
BULE : Really ? You know, there's something vaguely
indecent about manufacturing vices for other people,
but not indulging yourself. What do you do in
London, James? I'd visualised you as making the
gaspers yourself with one of those little gadgets.
JAMES : That's right. I put the paper in and spread
the tobacco on it and roll.
BULE: And lick the paper. Don't you run short of
lick, James ?
JAMES : What I am short of at meetings like that is
patience. This one went on from 10 until 6.30 when
the whole thing could have been over in an hour.
BULE: I don't see how you do it.
JAMES: Do what?
BULE: This Captain of Industry stuff.
546
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
JAMES: It's quite fun, really . . . I see you've got the
new car.
BULE: The Lagonda? Yes.
JAMES : Pity about the near-side back door.
BULE : Why a pity ?
JAMES: There's a scratch right across the paintwork,
I noticed it as I came in, didn't you know ?
BULE : Damn that man, I shall have to fire him. He is
the worst chauffeur in the world, bar none.
JAMES: Touched it coming out of the garage, I
should think.
BULE: Steals too.
JAMES: Who does?
BULE: My chauffeur.
JAMES : Sack him, my dear chap.
BULE: I mean to.
\]ames starts to empty ash trays info the grate ^ tidying up
the room, ]ill comes down the stairs. She is quietly dressed
in an afternoon frock^\
JILL: Darling, don't bother, Elsie will see to all that
in the morning.
JAMES : No bother.
JILL: Jim has a passion for tidiness. He's a far better
housewife than I am, I don't know why we have
Elsie, when Jim would so much rather do all the
chores himself.
JAMES: Not really. I just like rhings to be neat and
tidy, that's all.
JILL: Well, you give me a guilty conscience.
[James straightens a picture on the wa/L]
BULE: James, for one glorious moment, I thought
you were going to take it down,
347
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE
JAMES: Why should I take it down? It's quite
harmless.
BULE: Bad pictures are never harmless, James. You
see them whether you know you do or not, and they
eat into your aesthetic sense and corrupt it.
JAMES: I think it's rather pleasant. So does Jill.
BULE: Does she?
JILL: I wouldn't mind if he was a handsome man,
but he's got such a peculiar nose.
JAMES (curtly) : Well, darling, as far as I remember, you
put him there.
JILL: Oh, well, he's all right. Anyhow, he's an
ancestor or something, isn't he ?
BULE: Oh, a family portrait, I didn't realise that. It's
a jolly interesting picture, old man. Solid and re
assuring, like all the Mannings.
JILL: Male versions only.
BULE: Granted. You know, James, it must be very
hard work being a solid type, a decent chap, and so
on.
JAMES: I seem to remember that when I was at
Oxford it was pretty hard work trying to be a
bounder.
BULE : Ah, it may have been for you, James, but for
me it was easy. It's all a question of one's natural
instincts.
JILL: What is a bounder?
BULE : Someone with weaknesses different from one's
own. If you're a sober type, a man who drinks is a
bounder. But if he happens to cheat widows and
orphans and so do you, then he's just a smart
businessman.
JAMES: Oh come, that's a bit too easy.
BULE: By the way, James, are you coming to the
Duke's party?
JAMES: When is it?
348
WAITING FOR GILLIAX
BULE: Thursday.
JAMES : Oh God, I can't. I've got to be in town that
night.
JILL: What for?
JAMES : I'm having dinner with old Arthur Maitland.
I told you about it.
JILL: Well, couldn't you put him off?
JAMES : I don't see how I can.
BULE : Who is this old Arthur who can't be put off,
and why?
JAMES : Well, he's old and poor, and deaf as a post,
and a bore.
BULE: All perfectly good reasons for not going to
dinner with him. If he were young, rich, and acute of
hearing and wit, I should see your point. As it is,
I think you'd better come to the Duke's. Don't you
Jill?
JILL : Well, I'm coming anyway.
BULE: What? Even if James doesn't ?
JILL: Uh-huh.
BULE: Ah, I misunderstood. I entirely see your
point about Arthur, James. Nice Arthur, dear old
Arthur. One can hardly put old Arthur off.
JAMES: I couldn't understand why you felt so
strongly about me coming.
BULE: James, you're too modest. I say, that tie's a
brute, isn't it ?
JAMES: Listen, Bill, you're obviously in a carping
mood, so drink up your drink and hop it, there's a
good chap.
BULE: Cast into the snow defenceless. Well, well.
'Night, Jill. 'Night, James, thanks for the party.
No, don't bother, I can throw myself out.
[Bu/e exits through front door. Pause.}
JILL: Wasn't that rather beastly of you, darling?
349
ACT ONE3 SCENE ONE
JAMES: What?
JILL: Chucking the Honbili out like that.
JAMES: He irritates me. Incidentally, I wish you
wouldn't play that game with him, JHlie.
JILL: What game?
JAMES: The Poor Old James game. I get a little
tired of it.
JILL: Darling, I don't know what you mean.
JAMES: Well, the Honbili is always being clever or
critical about somebody or something. I don't mind
its being me, but I don't think you ought to gang
up with him against me.
JILL: Darling, we were only fooling.
JAMES : I know, but it's all rather smart undergraduate
stuff, isn't 113 and you know you've always rather liked
that picture.
\Tbe noise of Bute's ILagonda is heard as he goes and for a
moment its spotlight sweeps blindly across the windows.]
A pity old Bill's like that, otherwise he's an amusing
cuss. And I must say I like his style in motor cars.
JILL: He was fun at the party, the one bright spot in
fact.
JAMES : Was he ? Good. Who else came ?
JILL: Oh, the usual crowd, the Hendersons, the
Margetsons — Henry Riley brought a vague man.
JAMES: I rather like Riley.
JILL: Look, Jim, can't you put old Arthur off, and
come to the Duke's party with us
JAMES: It's a bit difficult. The old boy's hard up now
and very sensitive. He may think I don't want to
g°-
JILL: Do you?
JAMES: Heavens no, it's a penance. He's practically
stone deaf.
35°
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
JILL: Well, surely it doesn't make sense to miss
something you want to go to, just for the sake of
bawling into poor old Arthur's ear trumpet?
JAMES: You've no social conscience. All right. 111
try and fix something.
JILL: But I think ve ought to let the Honbill know
tomorrow.
* JAMES : Well, if the worst comes to the worst, you can
always go without me, can't you ?
JILL: But I wanted to go with you.
JAMES : Did you ?
JILL (suddenly contrite)-. Darling, is it a hell of an effort
to be as nice to me as you are ?
JAMES : Of course. It strains every fibre of my being.
JILL: I'm not worth it, you know. I'm no good to
man or beast.
JAMES: Useless Jiliie, no good to anybody. Darling
Jillie.
\Thej kiss. There's a ring at the door.}
JILL: Oh! That's Phyllis Scott. She left her gloves.
JAMES: Wretched woman, she always leaves some
thing behind.
[He goes to the door and opens It. P.C. Eddk Cater
stands there. 'Eddie isjoung> alert, nobody's fool.]
EDDIE: Evening, sir. Sorry to bother you at this time
of night.
JAMES: That's all right, Eddie.
EDDIE: Good evening, ma'am.
JILL: Good evening, Eddie. Come in.
JAMES: What's the trouble?
EDDEE: It's my sister, sir.
JAMES: Elsie?
351
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE
JILL: Our Elsie?
JAMES: What's happened?
EDDIE: Well, it's not her exactly, sir. It's her
husband.
JILL: Joe?
EDDIE: Yes, ma'am. He got knocked off his bicycle
by a car this evening. They've took him into hos
pital. Eslie's in there now.
JAMES : Is he badly hurt ?
EDDIE: Pretty bad, sir. Fractured skull, they reckon.
JILL : Oh, Eddie, how dreadful. How did it happen ?
EDDIE: Right outside his own gate, ma'am. Seems
Joe got home and Elsie was getting his tea and Joe
found he hadn't got any fags, so he says to Elsie:
" I'll just pop up to Thomas's, shan't be a minute."
Must have gone out and jumped on his bike and just
as he came out the gate, a car come shooting by very
fast and caught him.
JAMES : What car was it ?
EDDIE: I don't know, Mr. Manning, I wish I did. It
didn't stop, see.
JAMES : Just drove straight on ?
EDDIE: That's right, just drove straight on and left
him there as though he'd run over a rabbit.
JAMES : Do you think the chap who was driving knew
he'd hit him ?
EDDEE: I don't know, sir. Maybe, maybe not,
Elsie saw it all out of the window. Of course it was
half dark, but Elsie said it seemed to catch the bike
more than him. She said he was just getting on, and
this car came along and seemed to catch the bike and
sort of threw him and the bike across the road.
Doesn't seem the sort of thing that could happen and
the chap not know he'd done it.
JAMES: No. Elsie didn't get the car's number, of
course?
352
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
EDDIE : Well, no, sir. She was inside, see, and it was
all over in a second.
JAMES: What a rotten business. He's a nice chap too, ,
is Joe.
JILL: Do they think he'll be all right?
EDDIE: They won't say, ma'arn, they seem to think
there's a chance. (Pause.} Joe was in Crete. He come
all through North Africa and Italy and never got a
scratch. Then he comes home, and some silly fool
mucking about, goes and does this. Married man
too, with three kids.
JILL: Poor Elsie. Jim, you know what the Cottage
Hospital's like, I think we ought to go up there and
see. They'll never call in specialists, or anything, un
less someone makes them.
EDDIE: Well, now, ma'am, excuse me, but the tiling
is, with your permission, they're coming here.
JAMES: Coming here?
EDDIE : Yes, sir, that is, Elsie, the Doc, and Sergeant
Groves. You see, sir, you know them photographs
of cars you had at the fete ?
JAMES: You mean " Spot the model and win a
coconut " ?
EDDIE : That's right. Well, we was thinking if Elsie
was to take a look at them she might be able to
identify the car what hit Joe, and then maybe there'd
be some chance of us catching whoever it was. You
do still have them pictures, don't you, sir?
JAMES: Yes, I think so. They're in the desk. I'll. . . .
[The noise of the doctor's car arriving.}
EDDIE: That'll be them now, sir.
[The front door bell rings. James opens it. Dr. Rarry
Frewen, Sergeant Groves and Elsie Pearce enter. The
12 553
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE
Doctor is fifty ish> shrewd and penetrating. Groves is bluff
and red-faced, a hearty. Elsie is 35, but looks older ', a
tired> quiet little woman. At the moment she is da^ed>
under shock.]
JAMES : Come in, Sergeant.
GROVES: 'Evening, sir.
JAMES: Eddie's just told us, Elsie. We're most
terribly sorry.
JILL (going to her) : Come in, Elsie dear. Come and
sit down and I'll get you some tea, or would you
rather have brandy ?
ELSIE: Nothing, thank you, ma'am, nothing, really.
... I think I'd just like to go and sit in my kitchen
for a minute, if you don't mind, madam.
JILL: Of course. I'll come with you, shall I? And
then you can tell me about it quietly, and we'll see
what we can do.
[//// takes 'Elsie out through the kitchen arch.]
GROVES: Sorry to bother you at this hour, Sir,
but
JAMES: That's quite all right. (To doctor^ How is he,
Barry?
DOCTOR: Well, he's alive.
JAMES : Is he going to pull through ?
DOCTOR: People always may pull through until
they're actually dead.
JAMES : Bad as that ?
DOCTOR: It's a piece of very bad luck, really. Joe's
got an abnormally thin skull. If it had been normal
he might have got away with a fracture. As it is
(he shrugs.)
JAMES: Does Elsie know?
DOCTOR: She knows he's in danger. No point in
keeping that from her.
354
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
JAMES: Is there anything we can do, Barry? Specia
lists, or
DOCTOR: No. I've had Haygood already, excellent
man, specialist on head injuries. Came, stayed a
quarter of an hour, agreed with me, and went away
again. As I say, he may pull through. IVe seen
people survive as bad, and worse, but not often.
GROVES: Well, now, sir, if you wouldn't mind
letting us take a look at the silhouettes of those
cars, and then I'll have Elsie in and see if she can pick
out anything that looks at all like it.
JAMES : Yes, of course, they're here in the desk.
[He gets them^\
GROVES: Of course, it was getting dark and it all
happened pretty quick.
JAMES: What time was it?
GROVES: About six thirty, sir.
EDDIE: Elsie says it was a big car.
JAMES (suddenly) : That's odd. I mean, what would a
big car be doing along that road by the Pearces'
cottage? It's a backwater.
EDDIE: You can get to Stapleton that way.
JAMES : I know, but it's a longer way round than the
main road.
DOCTOR: Maybe somebody didn't know the district
and got lost. After all, Friday night, you begin to
get the traffic from London.
JAMES : But not along there.
GROVES: No, I see what you mean, Mr. Manning.
But there it is, it did come down there, worst luck.
Well, now, Eddie, would you go and see if your
sister'd like to come and have a look at these?
Because the longer we wait, the more difficult it's
going to be.
355
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE
[Exit Eddie to kitchen^
JAMES : What chance have you of tracing a car in a
case Hke this ?
GROVES: It depends on a lot of things, sir. If the
chap that was driving knew he hit him, if he's a real
hit and run bastard, he'll keep his mouth shut and
if his passengers do the same, it's like looking for a
needle in a haystack. The best chance is if he didn't
know, and if we appeal to the public to help, he'll
come forward. I've known that to happen.
JAMES indicating the photographs) : I doubt if these'll
help you. I tried to pick out our own Austin from
them and got it wrong.
GROVES: I doubt it too, sir, but we've got nothing
else to start from but Elsie, and at least she may be
able to give us a line on what general sort and size of
thing it was.
[Eddte returns with Elsie and Jill.}
GROVES: Now, Elsie, I've got all these pictures of
cars. What I want you to do is to look at them and
try and pick out the one that's most like the one you
saw.
[Elsie goes over to the photographs and stares at them.]
ELSIE: I ain't got my glasses with me, Eddie. I
ain't got my glasses, see.
EDDIE: Well, just do your best, dear.
ELSIE: There's a lot that's rather like it; that one,
and that, and that
EDDIE: Humber Pullman, Humber Snipe, Sunbeam
Ninety.
ELSIE: Or that one.
356
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
EDDIE (snaps): That's a Yank, a DeSoto, that isn't
like the others, Else.
ELSIE: It was dark, see, Eddie, and
EDDIE: I'm sorry.
ELSIE : I heard it coming and I looked out the window
and the light was in my eyes and it was only as it
passed I saw it, and it was going fast.
JAMES : Try to think if there's anything you remember
about it, Elsie. The noise it made, was it loud or
quiet ?
ELSIE: I didn't notice, sir, it was just the noise a car
makes coming.
JAMES: Did you get any idea of its colour?
ELSIE: No, sir. It was dark, see. I reckon maybe it
was black or some dark colour.
JAMES: Nothing at all that you can remember?
ELSIE: No, sir. Not except the light. It was very
bright, white, like, and it sort of swept across my
face.
JAMES : As the thing came round the bend, you mean ?
ELSIE: Yes, sir. It was a big car, not like — not like
(she is close to tears).
GROVES : That's all right then, that's been a real help,
Elsie.
DOCTOR : Have you finished with her now, Sergeant?
GROVES: Just one other thing, Elsie. D'you reckon
whoever was driving saw Joe? I mean, must have
seen him, or might it be that he never saw him at all ?
Did he seem to swerve or anything?
ELSIE: He saw him.
GROVES: What makes you so sure?
ELSIE: I never saw whether he swerved or no, but he
saw him, and he didn't care.
GROVES: All right then, Elsie, that's all, and thank
you very much.
357
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE
DOCTOR: I'll see you home, give you something to
make you sleep.
ELSIE: No, no, I want to go back to Joe. Please, take
me back to Joe.
DOCTOR: All right, my dear.
ELSIE (to Jill}: I'll try to come in the morning,
madam.
JILL: Don't you worry about the morning. You just
go back to Joe and stay with him till he gets better.
\The doctor, Jill and Elsie go out through the front door.}
EDDIE : All we can tell from that is that it was some
thing over about fourteen horse. And I wouldn't
trust that far.
GROVES : No, nor I.
JAMES : What can you do now ?
GROVES : We can ask anyone who was driving along
there about that time to come forward. Apart from
that we can check with our chaps, A.A. scouts and
people like that if they saw anything like it round
about there.
EDDIE: Like what?
GROVES: Yes, that's the trouble. Well, goodnight,
sir, and thanks very much. Come on, Eddie.
[He goes to front door, followed by Hddtey meets Jill
returning}
JILL: Goodnight, Sergeant.
GROVES: Goodnight, ma'am.
[Sergeant exits.}
JILL : I am sorry Eddie. Is there anything we can do ?
EDDIE: There's nothing you can do? ma'am. It's up
358
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
to us now. Goodnight, ma'am. (He goes. Jill closes
the front door).
JILL (thoughtfully); Eddie is very determined, isn't
he, for a country constable. Like a terrier. One has
the feeling he'll never let go.
JAMES : Well, naturally he wants to find that car. So
do I, if it comes to that.
JILL : Why you ?
JAMES: Well, I just don't think people ought to get
away with that sort of thing. What puzzles me is
what a big car was doing down there. Where was it
going?
JILL : I'm still not sure what really happened. What
time did she say it was ?
JAMES: About half past sis.
[Pause. Jill picks up the drinks fray.]
JILL: Food in five minutes. All right?
JAMES: M'm. Shall I give you a hand?
JILL (going) : No, I can manage.
[//// exits with tray. James takes a coin from his pocket
and wanders to cabinet. In a moment ] ill reappears^
JILL (re-entering)'. Where's my apron? (Seeing coin.}
Oh — is that a new one ?
JAMES: Yes. George the Fourth sovereign. I've been
trying to get hold of one for ages.
JILL : Oh. Good. (She turns to go.)
JAMES (quietly): Jill. (She stops.) You know him
better than I do. Just how unscrupulous a character is
theHonbiU?
JILL: Unscrupulous? What do you mean?
JAMES : Your party tonight. What time did Bill turn
up?
359
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE
JILL: Same time as everyone else. About seven.
JAMES : He wasn't early ?
JILL : No, there were quite a few people here before
he was. It must have been after seven. Why ?
JAMES: Joe Pearce.
[Pause.]
JILL : You're . . . not serious ?
JAMES : I don't know. Joe was knocked down about
six-thirty. Imagine coming from Bule's place to here.
You could come that way.
JILL: You could, but why should you? It would
mean driving right round us. It's miles quicker
along
JAMES: I know. But at least there's a big car that
might have been on that road.
JILL: Yes, but
JAMES: Wait a minute. There was a long new
scratch on the near side of Bill's Lagonda tonight. I
noticed it as I came in. Elsie says that the car that hit
Joe seemed to catch the bicycle. If that had happened
to Bill's car, it's just the sort of mark you'd expect to
find on it.
JILL : But that might have been done in hundreds of
ways.
JAMES: Of course it might. It might also have been
done that way.
JILL: Even so
JAMES : Elsie said the light of the car seemed to go
right across her face. Now normal headlights
wouldn't. But Bill's car has a big spotlight, and
the light from that would.
JILL: Look, J*im, are you seriously saying that you
think it was Bill who knocked down Joe Pearce ?
JAMES: Well, I must say it all tends to fit together
rather uncomfortably.
360
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
JILL: But
JAMES: But what?
JILL: Well, damn it, he's a friend of ours.
JAMES : Up to a point — but what's that got to do with
it?
jiLi^Oh, it all seems to me absolute nonsense.
Elsie's place isn't five minutes away, and Bill didn't
get here for another half-hour at least, and anyhow
he'd never come that way. Phyllis Scott came in a
big car. It might equally well have been her. His
car had a scrape on it, but cars are always getting
scrapes.
JAMES : I don't suggest that it proves anything, but —
JILL: And anyhow, if he had been on that road any
where near that time, surely he would have said so,
when we were talking about it?
JAMES: That's what I'm wondering. You see, you
trust him. I don't.
JILL: Why? Because he pulled your leg ?
JAMES : No. I just don't think he's much good, that's
all.
JILL: Darling, what are you trying to do? You're
not a policeman.
JAMES : No, but I am a J. P., and if I can I want to find
that car.
JILL: I should have thought it was better to spend
your time worrying about what's going to happen to
Elsie and the kids if Joe dies.
JAMES: I think both things are important. Look,
Jill, if Joe dies through somebody's criminal negli
gence and leaves that poor devil Elsie a widow and
those three kids without a father, we can't just
shrug our shoulders and leave it at that. For one
thing, Elsie won't get a penny compensation out of
anybody.
JILL: Is that really so, Jim?
361
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE
JAMES: Yes. Drivers have to be insured against
Third Party claims. From what Elsie says, she'd have
a claim against the driver. No driver, no claim.
(Pause.}
JILL: All right, darling, what do you want to do
about it ? *t
[Pause.]
JAMES: I think I should ask him straight out.
JILL : If you do it'll mean the end of our friendship.
JAMES : Is friendship with Bill so important to you as
all that?
JILL: As all what? After all, I'm down here most of
the time by myself. There aren't many people that I
like. Bill happens to be one of them. In a city you
can pick and choose from a wide field, but in the
country you have to settle for those who inhabit
the same half acre as you do.
JAMES : So Bill does matter.
JILL: Well, you can't expect me to be very pleased if
we can't know him any more, simply because you've
got this ridiculous suspicion about him.
[Pause.]
JAMES: All right. How about this ? I'll be perfectly
satisfied if I can find out where Bill was at the time
this happened.
JILL: Oh, well, if that's all you want to know, he
was at the Dawsons. I know, because he told me at
the time he'd come on from there.
JAMES: But why on earth didn't you say so before?
JILL: I'd forgotten until you asked me. Anyhow,
what difference does it make ?
JAMES : Simply that if he was coming here from the
362
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
Dawsons, it would be absurd to go along Tarrant's
Lane. And, anyhow, presumably he was with them
when it happened.
JILL: Fine, so now you know what you want to,
and we can all relax. (Pause.) I think I'll go over to
Elsie's, and see if there's anything I can do for her
and the children.
JAMES: Good idea.
[Pause.]
JILL: Come on, let's eat.
[She goes out. James sits for a moment, thinking^ then
goes to the telephone and dials.}
JAMES: Hello, can I speak to Mr. Dawson, please.
. . . Away ? When did he leave ? . . . A week ago ?
Are you sure. . . .
[James slowly replaces receiver as the curtain falls.]
Scene 2
The Same. The following Sunday afternoon.
James is seated at the table y examining coins. Presently he
gets up, picks up the Sunday paper from the sofa and
glances at the clock. As he sits on the sofa, the clock
strikes three.
Rule enters through the French windows *
BULE: Right on time, I think.
363
ACT ONE, SCENE TWO
JAMES (rising at once) : You came by the orchard ?
BULE : Instructions were carried out to the letter. But
- why all the hush-hush? You sounded positively
conspiratorial on the blower. " Come Sunday at
three. Come the back way." Why the back way ?
JAMES: I didn't want you to run into Jill till we'd
talked.
BULE: Ah. (He pauses.) And just what are we going
to talk about?
JAMES (bluntly) : Look, Bill, was it you who bowled
over Joe Pearce ?
BULE: No, it wasn't I. Was it you?
JAMES: No.
BULE: Then it was some third party. That's the
answer, James. As Holmes used to say, eliminate all
the other possibilities and the one that remains,
however improbable, must be correct.
JAMES: All right, then. I'm sorry, but I'll have to
ask you a question. You don't have to answer if
you don't want to, but it would help me if you would.
BULE: Help you — in what way?
JAMES: I've been worrying about this since Friday
night. I told myself that it was none of my business.
But it is. It's everyone's business. If you will answer
me it will set my mind at rest.
BULE: I doubt that, but fire ahead.
JAMES: Joe Pearce was knocked down at half past
six on Friday. Where were you then?
BULE (reflectively) : Half past six on Friday. Surely I
was here at your party.
JAMES: No, you didn't get here until after seven.
Jill says you told her that you'd come on from the
Dawsons.
BULE: Well, if I told Jill that I'd come from the
Dawsons, then I'd come from the Dawsons. I'm
a truthful type, really.
364
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
JAMES : You can't have. The Dawsons are away.
BULE (slowly) : Then I got it wrong. Or Jill got what I
said wrong. Or you got what Jill said I said wrong,
or something. Where is Madam, by the way?
JAMES: She's gone over to Elsie's. You admit that
you weren't at the Dawsons ?
BULE: I can't very well do that if Jill says I was, can
I? I mean to say, surely, James, this is simply a
Manning family dispute. Jill says I was at the
Dawsons and you say I wasn't. You must fight it
out between you.
JAMES: Never mind what we say. Where do you
say you were ?
BULE: I'll give you a clue, James. Wherever I was,
I was minding my own business.
JAMES : In other words, you lied to Jill and you refuse
to tell me the truth.
BULE : If you like. Does that — er — set your mind at
rest?
JAMES : No, it doesn't. Look, Bill, Joe Pearce was
knocked down by a big car driving on a spotlight,
in a pkce where through traffic has no reason to go,
but where a local driver might. You have a big car.
You often drive on your spotlight. You might con
ceivably use that way in coming to our place. You
had a fresh scrape on your car on Friday night that
might have been caused by a bicycle's handlebars. I
don't suggest that any of this proves anything. In
fact, you've only got to prove that at half past six
you were somewhere else and the whole thing's
settled.
[Pause.}
BULE: But supposing I was somewhere else but just
preferred not to prove it to you, James ?
365
ACT ONE, SCENE TWO
JAMES: Then you can't complain if other people
suspect you.
BULE: I don't, my dear chap. I don't mind in the
least.
JAMES : Or if the police ask you the same question ?
BULE: Ah, I thought we should get around to the
police. In fact, if I don't explain my moves to you,
you'll go to them and say you suspect me.
JAMES: I shall.
BULE (reflectively): The trouble about being a good
citizen is that it sometimes lands you in making an
abject ass of yourself.
JAMES : I'm prepared to risk that.
BULE: 1*11 bet you are. I wonder why you're so
anxious to prove that I did it. After all, we may not
like one another much, but it wouldn't give me any
particular fun to put you in a mess.
JAMES: I don't particularly want to prove that you
did it. But I want to know who did, and having got
this idea into my head, I must get it settled one way
or the other.
BULE: Yes, I can see all that, but it isn't quite the
whole story, is It, James ?
JAMES : I told you how I felt about this. If I can find
the driver of that car I shall do so, whoever it is. If
it wasn't you, prove it and I'll apologise.
BULE (slowly, after a moment) : Well, will this do ? For
reasons which are neither here nor there, I don't
want to describe my movements at that time. But
I give you my word of honour that I did not drive
my car or any other car along Tarrant's Lane on
Friday night, and I did not knock down Joe Pearce-
Does that satisfy you ?
JAMES : No, it doesn't.
BULE: Why not?
JAMES: Partly because I've heard you say a dozen
366
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
times the truth doesn't interest you, and that there
is absolutely no reason for telling it if it's incon
venient.
BULE (crossly) : Really, James, you are an ass.
JAMES : And partly because there's no real reason to
ask me to rely on your word when you can prove it
quite easily. I'm not interested in your private life. I
don't care in the least what you were doing or where
you were. But I'm not prepared just to be told you'd
rather not say, when you've akeady tried to set up a
false alibi about it through Jill.
[Pause.]
BULE: All right. I've done my best but the good citi
zen defeats me. Supposing I was in Tarrant's Lane
round about that time. What do you want me to do ?
JAMES: You admit that you did knock Pearce down?
BULE: I don't admit anything of the kind. But sup
posing it's all just as you suppose. What then?
JAMES : Then obviously you go to the police.
BULE: And then?
JAMES : Then it's up to them. The only person who
saw the accident was Pearce's wife.
BULE: Who'll say I was doing ninety miles an hour.
JAMES : Well, it was a bad show not stopping if you
knew you'd hit him. The police don't like hit and
run. And if he dies. . . .
BULE: They run me for manslaughter.
JAMES: Possibly.
BULE: And I go to jail.
JAMES: Possibly.
BULE : Really, you know, James — but really, it won't
do.
JAMES: WTaat do you mean?
BULE: Well, think. Joe Pearce is killed. His wife is
367
ACT ONE, SCENE TWO
widowed, his children are orphans. Haven't enough
people been made miserable by one bit of bad luck
already, without wrecking somebody else's life by
sending them to jail?
JAMES : Are you going to the police, or shall I ?
BULE (slowly): James, you don't think about these
things, that's your trouble. Those really are the
alternatives ?
JAMES: Yes.
BULE (sighs): Old sea-green incorruptible. How
Galsworthy would have loved you. (Smiles suddenly.')
All right, James, I'll go and own up. Tomorrow
morning. And then the whole school won't have to
stay in.
JAMES: Damn the whole business. Whatever hap
pened, Bill ? Did you know you'd hit him ?
BULE: Of course not.
JAMES : Did you see him ?
BULE: Yes, for a fraction of a second but he was well
clear of the wings by then. I knew it had been fairly
close, but that was all. I think he must have wobbled
into the back of the car.
JAMES : Yes, the scratch was on the back door. You
just touched his handlebars and that chucked him
and the bike into the road. Barry said that if he'd had
an ordinary skull he'd have been all right.
BULE (wearily): Yes, it was all very unfortunate.
Who had I better go and see ?
JAMES: Sergeant Groves, I should think. And take
your solicitor with you.
BULE: Yes. That's an idea.
[Noise of Jill's car driving up at the front door,]
BULE: Madam?
JAMES: Yes.
368
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
BULE: Look, if I were you, James, I wouldn't say
anything about this to Madam. Not just yet.
JAMES: Because for once you don't show up in the
best possible light?
BULE: I was afraid you'd say that. Well, well, at any
rate now your mind will be at rest and you'll be
able to sleep soundly.
JAMES: I'm sure it's the right thing to do, you know.
BULE: And I'm equally sure it's the wrong thing to
do. However, I don't doubt we shall see.
[He goes out through the French windows. In a moment Jill
enters through the front door}
JILL : Phew ! I need a cup of hot, strong tea rather
quickly. (Throws herself on to the sofa.) Elsie's over
at the hospital, I've been playing bears with the kids
till I'm black and blue. I was quite a success — con
sidering I've had no experience with children.
They don't know about Joe. Have you heard any
more?
JAMES (shortly) \ No. I'll put a kettle on. (He goes out
to the kitchen.)
[Pause.}
JILL: Jim.
JAMES (<?/): Yes? (He returns) Yes?
JILL: I've been thinking. About Joe. It's the holiday
weekend and there are always dozens of day trippers
about. It was more than likely one of them. Don't
you think?
JAMES: No, I don't,
JILL : That's because you've got a bee in your bonnet
about Bill. I was talking to Doris Elcott yesterday
and she says
369
ACT ONE, SCENE TWO
JAMES: Look, darling, you're not going to like this,
but I can't help it. I was right about Bill.
JILL: Right? Over what?
JAMES: It was Bill who knocked down Joe Pearce.
[A moment — then:}
JILL (breathlessly) : But how could it have been ? If he
was coming here from the Dawsons
JAMES : He didn't come from the Dawsons. I checked
up and they were away. He told you that just to make
an alibi. He admits it.
JILL (slowly): He admits that he knocked down Joe
Pearce?
JAMES: Yes. I called him over just now and asked
him flat. Oh, he denied it at first but I nailed him on
the fact that he couldn't say where he was at the time.
Apparently he didn't know that he'd actually hit Joe,
but he admits that he saw him and that he knew it
had been a near thing. So that's that.
[Pause — then\
JILL: Well, well, well. What now?
JAMES: He's going to the police. I've advised him to
take his solicitor.
JILL: I should have thought Bill would have
favoured keeping his mouth shut.
JAMES: He did, but I told him that if he didn't tell
the police, I would.
JILL: Do you realise what will happen? They'll
JAMES: They'll probably run him in for dangerous
driving. If Joe Pearce dies, they may charge him
with manslaughter, and if the charge is proved, he
may go to jail. Yes, I do realise it, and though you
probably won't believe me, I don't particularly like
37°
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
it. But it isn't a question of what I like or what you
like. It's a matter of common justice.
JILL: But good God, Jim, the thing was an accident.
You could tell from what he says that it was.
JAMES: All right. If he wasn't to blame, I don't
doubt that he'll get away with it.
JILL : Don't you ever make mistakes ?
JAMES : All the time. And pay for them.
JILL (after a moment} : Jim, darling, I'm going to ask
you something, something you're going to find it
difficult to do. I think it's worth asking because I
know you're a generous person.
JAMES: What's that?
JILL (slowly}'. I'm going to ask you to ring Bill up
and ask him to come back. When he comes, I want
you to tell him that you won't force him to go to the
police, but just leave him to decide for himself. I
don't want it to be*you who makes him. See?
JAMES: You could do that with some people, but
with the Honbill it's hopeless. He wouldn't think
about what was the right thing to do, or about Elsie
and the kids, or about anything but what was con
venient for him.
JILL: You won't do that for me?
JAMES : I'm sorry, darling. Not even for you.
. JILL: But don't you see
[The telephone rings. James picks up the receiver.]
JAMES: Hello? (Gravely.) Yes, very. How's his
wife? I see. . . . Well, thanks very much for
ringing, Barry. Goodbye.
[He hangs up and turns to face JilL]
JILL (very still) : Joe?
ACT ONE, SCENE TWO
JAMES (skwlyY* Yes. He's dead. . . . (Pause.} Well,
that rather settles it, darling, doesn't it ?
JILL (quietly) : Settles what ?
JAMES : You can't play around with the truth when a
man's been killed.
[Jill laughs suddenly, a laugh with no laughter in //.]
JILL: No. We must have the truth. You like the
truth don't you, Jim? Well, here it is, if you're so
keen on it. I was in Bill's car when it hit Joe. Or
Joe's bicycle, or whatever it was.
JAMES (stupidly)'. You were in it?
JILL: Yes. And what's more, I was driving it!
Curtain
372
ACT TWO
Scene i
The same.
A few minutes later. Jill is in the same position as at
the end of Act L ]ames is at the telephone.
JAMES (at phone) : I don't doubt that you think so, but
as it happens I don't. I prefer to know the truth,
however ugly. . . . We won't argue about it. The
point is, I think you'd better come back here. . . .
Yes, now. And hurry.
[James hangs upy turns to Jill.}
He's coming. Go on, please.
JILL (pleading): Do I have to?
JAMES: It's not a question of having to. Surely I'm
entitled
JILL (distracted): Yes, darling, of course you're
entitled. It's just that — once you start something
like this — it's like taking the first stone away from a
breakwater.
JAMES : I'm waiting, Jillie.
[Pause.]
JILL (at lengh} : Well, on Friday evening Bill came
over about five to help me get ready for the party.
When I came to look I wasn't sure that we'd got
enough gin. You remember, you were going to
bring a couple more bottles down with you from
town, and I'd been counting on them. Then you
phoned to say you wouldn't be here in time, and that
meant the gin wouldn't be here in time either. So
we decided we'd better go and get some. We went
373
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
over to that pub near Levening. While we were
there we had a drink and sat and talked.
JAMES: Were you tight?
JILL : No, of course we weren't.
JAMES : How many drinks did you have ?
JILL: Oh, about two, I think.
JAMES : Yes, but how many drinks did you really have,
Jill?
JILL: Well, as a matter of fact, I think it was three.
Anyhow, we certainly weren't drunk. -But Bill
suddenly looked at his watch and found it was
quarter past six. As these people were coming at
seven and we hadn't finished getting ready, we had to
bolt back pretty quickly. I asked him if I could drive
and he let me. Well, anyhow, we were coming along
Tarrant's Lane. I wasn't going very fast. You
can't — it's too narrow. I never saw Joe at all, first or
last. All that happened was that Bill suddenly said
" Whoops, that put the wind up him " and I said,
"What?" And he said, "Bloke with a bicycle-
nearly came out right under your wheels." And that
was all.
JAMES : Didn't either of you look back ?
JILL : I think Bill did just glance back. It was pretty
dark. I never thought any more about it until you
said it happened at half past six.
JAMES : Why on earth didn't you tell me then ?
JILL: I didn't want you to know I'd been out with
Bill.
JAMES : Why not? Hell, there's no harm in going out
to buy gin.
JILL: I thought you'd be cross and be sure it was my
fault.
JAMES: What did you do when you realised what had
happened?
JILL: I rang up Bill. He said he thought it couldn't
374
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
have been us and we agreed that we'd better keep
quiet.
JAMES: Was that when he decided to say that he'd
been at the Dawsons ?
JILL: No, that was just me. He never said he had. I
just told you that because then I thought you might
stop suspecting him. . . . The kettle's boiling.
[Goes out to kitchen. James goes to French windows^ looks
out, waiting for Bale. Jill returns with tea tray.]
JILL (setting it down) : There's no cake, do you think
it'll matter. I meant to order a fresh one yesterday
but with all this on my mind. . . . (Pause.}
JAMES (quietly) : Jill, how often have you been going
out with Bule?
JILL: Quite a bit.
JAMES: How much is there to it?
JILL: What do you mean?
JAMES: Are you having an affair with him, Jillie?
JILL : Darling, of course not. It — it isn't like that at
all. It's just that I've been a bit bored and — and have
been making an ass of myself, and — kicking up my
heels rather. You see, I've been here by myself
and
JAMES: And that's all there is to it?
JILL : Of course. You believe that, Jim ?
JAMES: Oh, yes. I didn't really think that — that
there could be anything else. But I had to ask you
because otherwise I shouldn't know where I was.
Well, there's one thing, Bule's certainly got the laugh
on me over this.
JILL: I don't think he's doing much laughing. Any
how, you were dead right, weren't you ?
JAMES: How?
JILL: About its being Bill's car. All you were wrong
375
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
about was who was driving it, and that you couldn't
know.
JAMES : Yes. It was a nice piece of observation and
deduction and it's given me great satisfaction.
JILL: I'm most desperately sorry to have let you in
for this.
JAMES: That's all right. The thing we've got to
decide now is what to do about it. (She goes on her
knees beside him.}
JILL: Think for me, Jim. You've always had to
think for me. I'm a useless person. I'll do whatever
you say.
[The front door bell rings.}
JAMES : -There he is. Come on.
\]ill rises. James goes to front door, opens it. Bute enters.}
BULE: Hello again, James. I gather Madam hasn't
been able to keep her big mouth shut.
JAMES : I should have liked it better if she had opened
it a bit sooner. As it is I'm not sure whether I owe
you an apology or you owe me one.
JILL (in a low voue)\ The only person who owes
anybody an apology is me. He's dead. Bill. Joe's
dead.
BULE: Oh.
JAMES : I've been thinking it over. There's a chance
that you might get away with it as an unavoidable
accident.
BULE: Well, I've been thinking it over, too, James,
and I can't say I'm too optimistic, particularly now
the lad's pegged out. Wherefore, I can't help feeling
we were in a stronger position when you and I
parted this afternoon than we are now.
JAMES: How's that?
376
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
BULE: Well, the idea then was that Bule goes to the
police and makes a clean breast of it. ... " Ser
geant, I cannot tell a lie, I did chop down Joe
Pearce " or words to that effect. Bule then takes the
rap and goes up the river, or else he's acquitted with
out a stain on his character. This didn't strike me as
attractive, but there was at least some grain of
satisfaction in it for Judge Manning. As it is, there
doesn't seern to be anything in it for anybody. At
least, James, I suppose being a decent citizen doesn't
include sending your wife to jail.
JILL: Why not?
BULE: Well, not being a decent citizen Fm hardly
qualified to answer
JAMES (snaps): Then don't.
BULE: However, speaking from my modest perch in
the treetops, where for some forty years I've looked
down upon suffering humanity, Fd say if the
honourable feller is forced to choose between two
duties — one to his spouse and t'other to society —
society's had it. Right, James ?
[No answer '.]
Which only goes to prove how much simpler life is
if you have no sense of duty whatever.
JILL: Bill, don't. This is serious.
BULE: No, it isn't. The solution is obvious.
JAMES : What solution ?
BULE: Bule takes the rap.
JAMES : Don't talk bunkum.
BULE (jndignantly}'. Bunkum? What do you mean,
bunkum ? It's what you'd do, isn't it, James ? What
any decent man would do. Can't we all be Boy
Scouts or have you bought the monopoly ?
JAMES: Look, if you have anything serious to
377
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
suggest, let's have it. Just don't waste time playing
the fool.
BULE: I'm not playing the fool. I'm perfectly serious.
I'll say it was me. Or is it " I " ?
JILL: Don't be an ass.
JAMES: You know perfectly well that's out of the
question.
BULE: The trouble with you, James, is that so many
things are out of the question. Here we are with
three possibilities. The first is that I should say I did
it. You say that's out of the question. The second is
that we should all keep our mouths shut. YouVe
already told me that's out of the question. The third
is that Jill shall risk going to jail. And that seems to
me to be — er — out of the question.
JILL: Why? If it was anyone's fault, it was mine.
BULE: Yes, but I shouldn't like it and neither would
James. And neither would you, my dear. Believe
me, what I'm proposing is purely selfish. I don't
really want to be a martyr. It isn't my game. But
I should dislike even more to see
JAMES : Oh, for God's sake, shut up.
JILL: Surely it's all perfectly simple. We get hold of
a good lawyer tomorrow morning. We decide with
him just how we're going to put it and then we go
along to the police. After that, it's up to them. If I
get away with it, all right, I get away with it. If I
don't — that's too bad.
BULE: My dear girl, I must say you're very frustrat
ing. My one chance to play a straight bat and you
knock down the wicket.
JAMES: You know perfectly well I can't take you up
on that, otherwise you'd never have suggested it.
BULE: Take me up on what, James?
JAMES : The idea of saying that you were driving.
BULE: You're quite wrong as it happens. I should
378
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
be slightly surprised if you did, but no more than
that. You see, I don't understand good citizens.
They're a closed book to me — like radio sets. They
may do almost anything.
JAMES : You've got me in a corner.
BULE: What can I say, James? I haven't got you in
any corner. You've got yourself there. You want to
be a chap who loves his wife and is prepared to say:
" To hell with Joe Pearce and everybody but her."
But you also want to make it quite clear that you're
a socially-minded citizen with a feeling for justice,
who thoroughly disapproves of lying and subterfuge.
JAMES : Both those things happen to be true.
BULE: I know. That's your bad luck. For me there's
no problem. I don't feel strongly about Justice or
Fairness or any of the other abstractions. I don't
think life is a just or fair business and I don't
see much point in swimming against the tide.
However, I intensely dislike inconvenience and dis
comfort. So my sole reaction to this mess is how to
get out of it as conveniently and pleasantly as possible.
JILL: But it can't be like that!
BULE: Madam, on the other hand, is in the opposite
corner. For some reason that's shrouded in mystery,
she simply can't wait to put herself behind bars.
JILL: It's just that — that I
BULE: Let's say it's just that you're currently rather
confused, dear. So there we are, Squire. Three
babes in the wood, in search of salvation. Taking it
by and large, and all things considered, I must say a
discreet silence seems the most sensible thing to me.
However, I'll keep quiet, or go to the police, or give
evidence, true or false, or any dam' thing that I'm
told. You're the boss on the moral front. It's for
you to decide — for the three of us.
[Pause.}
379
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
JAMES: All right, then, we keep quiet. And I wish
us all joy of it.
JILL: As it happens, it isn't for Jim to decide. It's
for rne. And I'm not having that.
BULE: Oh, really \
JILL (fo James}: You know you won't like that!
You know it!
BULE: Of course he won't. But he'd like it a whole
lot better than the other thing.
JILL: You'd never forgive me if I did that to you.
JAMES (irritably): Don't be silly, Jill. There's no
question of forgiving or not forgiving.
JILL: I won't do it.
JAMES : It's the only thing we can do.
JILL: No, Jim! No!
JAMES: Well, good God, isn't this just what you
were asking for in the first place?
JILL: Yes, but only because Bill had said it was him.
I never wanted it for myself!
JAMES : All right, then. You're the one who wants to
tell the truth and Pm the one who insists on lying.
Does that fix it for you ?
BULE: Gently, Squire. Moderate the voice. Other
wise whether we actually tell other people about it or
not will be purely academic.
JILL: I don't like it. I — I don't want it like this.
\Turns suddenly and runs upstairs and off.]
BULE: The social conscience seems to be infectious —
or is it contagious ? Now, James, if you'll forgive my
saying so, a certain amount of quick thinking has got
to be done.
JAMES: What about?
BULE: Well, if you could cotton on to the fact that it
was my car that hit Joe, so could somebody else.
380
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
Gradually, if not with your Holmesian speed. So
we'd better get that possibility covered. What put
you on to it in the first place ?
JAMES : The scratch, and its being at the right height.
BULE: That's all right. I've painted it out, so nobody
saw it except ourselves and my chauffeur, and I've
sacked him anyway. What else ?
JAMES: The spotlight. From what Elsie said, it
sounded as if the car was being driven on one, and I
noticed you have one on yours.
BULE : Yes, it's a long shot, though, isn't it ?
JAMES : They're all long shots but they add up.
BULE: The trouble is, if I sell the car, it's as good as
a signed confession. I'm stuck with the damn thing.
Do you think Elsie would know it again if she saw it
in the same conditions ?
JAMES: She might. But, of course, there'd be
nothing to prove that it was the same.
BULE: There never was anything to prove it, my dear
chap. If only Jill hadn't tried to fix up a fake alibi,
bless her, you'd never have nailed me. Jill's all right,
of course, whatever happens. Apart from people in a
pub fifteen miles away, nobody even knows she was
with me that evening, let alone driving. What's
needed is an alibi for me, or rather for the car.
JAMES: Is all this really necessary? The chances
are
BULE: The chances are it will never enter anyone's
head, but it might. And if some keen-eyed type
should suddenly turn up and ask me the questions
you asked me tonight, I should prefer to know the
answer, for all our sakes. At six o'clock, I was in
that pub. At quarter to seven, I was at home. Where
was I in the meantime, James ? Why is it quite im
possible that I should have been in Tarrant's Lane
at six thirty ?
381
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
JAMES: I don't care what you say to them. Does it
matter ?
BULE: Of course it does. Like Melbourne, I don't
care what damn lie we tell as long as we all tell the
same damn lie. And some good citizen has got to
confirm it. (Suddenly slaps his knee.) I've got it. You.
JAMES: Me?
BULE: Yes. I knew I was going to your party and I
sent everybody out. When I got back the place was
empty. I went straight home from the pub, got there
about six twenty, and came on to you, arriving just
after seven. In fact, at the time that matters I was at
home.
JAMES: But you said it had to be confirmed.
BULE: It is, James, it is. Because at just about six
thirty you rang me up from town and spoke to me.
At home.
JAMES: For God's sake!
BULE: It's formal confirmation in case we need it.
You asked me to pick you up at the station later in
the evening because you knew Jill would be busy
with the party. Don't look so unco-operative, James.
We criminal types must hang together.
\Tbe front door opens and Elsie enters. She walks and
speaks slowly, dully, as if dotted.]
ELSIE: Excuse me coming in this way, sir. I must
have left the back door key at home. I've come
straight from the hospital, see. (Simply.) He's gone,
sir.
JAMES: Yes, I know, Elsie. I'm terribly sorry.
ELSIE: I thought maybe if I come to work, it might
take my mind off it, like.
JAMES: But it's Sunday, Elsie.
ELSIE: Yes, sir.
38z
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
[Jill comes slowly down the stairs.}
ELSIE: Oh, madam, I was just saying I thought it
might help if I come to work. If you don't mind,
madam. Thinking about things, it makes them all
seem sort of on top of you, somehow, if you know
what I mean.
JILL: Yes, I do.
\bule takes out his wallet.]
BULE: Look, Elsie, I expect you'll be needing one or
two things, won't you, so I'd be awfully grateful if
you'd let me
ELSIE (at once) : Oh, no, sir. Please. It's ever so good
of you but it's not as if it was anything to do with
you, is it?
BULE: The point is that I'd like to help and I can.
Q
JAMES (curtly) : Elsie is our responsibility. She works
for us. We'll take care of her.
ELSIE (to Bule) : It was very good of you, sir.
BULE: Well, if you change your mind, you know
where I live.
ELSIE: Thank you, sir.
BULE: Yes, well — (to James and Jill) I'll see you later.
(He goes.)
JAMES (gently): Look, Elsie, it's not Mr. Bule's
place to do it, but he's quite right. You will be
needing help, won't you ?
ELSIE: I expect we'll manage, sir, thank you.
JILL : Yes, but how, Elsie ?
ELSIE (slowly) : Well, I shall get a widow's pension. I
don't know how much. Mr. Barnes is finding out.
And then mother's got hers. And then I thought if
I could go out a bit more, madam, Mrs. Taylor wants
383
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
somebody, and that would be so as we could manage.
JAMES : Even then, It won't be too much for five of
you nowadays.
ELSIE: Well, you see, sir, if I was to go to Mrs.
Taylor afternoons. . . .
JILL : But how about the children ?
ELSIE i They're not home until four, except baby, and
she's all right with mother for little whiles.
JILL: Look Elsie, you can't do it all by yourseE
You must let us — (Elsie suddenly turns and steps to the
French windows. She stands rigidly as the noise of a car
disappearing in the distance is heard. s4s the noise dies
away, her shoulders droop and her whole body relaxes.
She turns back slowly into the room.)
ELSIE (awkwardly): I'm sorry, madam, I
JILL (quietly) : Why did you do that, Elsie ? Why did
you go and look out ?
ELSIE: To — to see it go by, madam. I missed it. If
I didn't look it might go by again. That car might.
And then I shouldn't see it.
JAMES : You mean the car that hit Joe ?
ELSIE: Yes, sir.
JAMES: That was Mr. Bule's car just now, Elsie.
ELSIE (apologetically)'. Of course. I — I'm sorry, sir.
JAMES : You know, Elsie, the car that hit Joe probably
won't ever come by again. There's no reason why
it should.
ELSIE (quietly > but with absolute conviction) : It will, sir.
One day, Eddie reckons it was someone about here.
He said you said it was.
JAMES : I told him I thought it might be.
ELSIE: Yes. Well, he says go on watching. Watch
for the light, he says. I might not know the car, but
I'd know the light again anywhere.
JILL: Do you very much want them to — to be caught,
Elsie?
384
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
ELSIE : Who, madam ? Them that did it ?
JILL: Yes.
ELSIE: Yes, madam. 'Course. They ought to be
caught and punished proper, oughtn't they?
JILL: Jim, I
JAMES (quickly): They might not even know it
happened, Elsie. Quite often these things are pure
accidents.
ELSIE (stubbornly): Eddie reckons they must have
known.
JAMES : But he can't be sure.
ELSIE (solemnly) : No, of course he can't be sure. But
he says to go on watching. Find the car with the
light, he says, and you'll find them.
JAMES: Yes, well, I'm sure Eddie and Sergeant
Groves will look after that side of it. Meanwhile,
there's the question of you and the children.
JILL : Yes, you must let us help, Elsie.
ELSIE : You mean come more often to you, madam ?
JILL: If you like. But, anyhow, you must have
enough to live on and we'd like to see to it.
JAMES : What we mean is that we don't want you to
be worried about money, and we should like to
arrange for you to have what you need.
ELSIE: It's very kind of you, Mr. Manning, but I
shouldn't wish that.
JAMES: Why not?
ETSIE: Well, you and Mrs. Manning's always been
very good, sir. It isn't right for you to give me
money. It's them that did it that ought to pay.
(Pause.) I — I think perhaps I will go home, after all.
JAMES : Yes, of course. I'll drive you back.
ELSIE: I — I'd rather be alone, sir. If you don't
mind. . . .
[She turns and goes. A. moment's silence. Tben:~\
13 3^5
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
JILL: Jim. I don't think I can take it.
JAMES: What exactly can't you take?
JILL (jerkily)'. Elsie and the kids. And her going to
the window every time a car goes by. She doesn't
care about our money. There's only one thing that
interests her. I don't blame her. I should feel the
same in her place. I carft go on being all smiles and
having her say how good and kind I am, when if
she knew she'd hate my guts and like to see me dead.
JAMES : The argument was that nothing we could do
would bring Joe to life again and going to the police
would only hurt you without helping her. I've
accepted that. Now it's accepted we must stick to it.
JILL: But she doesn't see it like that. And you don't
really believe it. You only agreed to it because it
was me and I was your wife and you felt you had to
protect me. Bill believes it all right, that's the way he
is. But it isn't right for you and you know it. For
God's sake, let me go to the police and tell them the
truth.
JAMES : We talked that out and decided against it.
JILL (desperately}'. But, Jim, don't you see, I'm in a
much bigger mess than you think. I haven't got
anybody. Don't you see ?
JAMES (slowly): Haven't you got me?
JILL: No. Fm not on the level with you or Elsie or
the police, or even Bill. I'm just wangling around
and terrified that somebody is going to find out some
of the dirt.
[He stares at her.}
JAMES: Are you trying to tell me that you are having
an affair with Bule ?
JILL: Of course! Of course! Of course!
[Pause. Then:]
386
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
JAMES (quietly) : I hadn't considered that.
JILL: Of course you hadn't. You asked me and I
said " no ", and you believed me. Surely you know
by now that I always lie to get myself out of a jam?
[Pause.}
JAMES: How long?
JILL: About three months.
JAMES : Pretty nearly ever since we've known him,
JILL: Yes.
JAMES: Are you in love with him, Jill?
JILL: No, of course not. It — it was the purest
nonsense. Just making a fool of myself because I was
bored and — and cross with you.
JAMES: Why were you cross with me?
JILL: For not seeing I was bored, I suppose. Or not
doing anything about it.
JAMES : I never knew you were as bored as that.
JILL: How could you, you were away all day. I'm
just a useless idle woman. I've got no children.
What was there for me to do but make a fool of
myself?
JAMES: There was the house.
JILL: I'm no good at that. That's why I can't keep
any servants. They know I'm no good and they
despise me for it. So do I — but somehow that
doesn't make any difference.
JAMES: All right, there's the garden. There was
plenty to do there and you just dropped it.
JILL: I know, I know. I've let you down about that
and I knew you thought so. But you don't know
what it's like to be here all day with nobody to
talk to but Elsie, and — and then when you came back
to find I'd forgotten about the — the bloody peaches,
or something, and that you were cross with me.
There's never been a time for ages when you weren't
387
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
cross with me or disapproving inside, or disappointed
and thinking I ought to do better.
JAMES : But why didn't you tell me all this ?
JILL: How could I, I
JAMES : You knew I wanted you to be happy. Why
didn't you just tell me you weren't?
JILL (helplessly) : I was afraid you'd be hurt and — and
hate me. I knew you liked it here and I — I thought I
ought to be able to make it work for you.
JAMES: Well, kicking up your heels with Bill Bule
wasn't likely to make it work for me much, was it?
JILL: Of course not. But I never meant that to
happen.
JAMES : Then why did it ?
JILL (slowly) : Well, I liked him. It was fun to be with
him and just talk nonsense and laugh and not be
disapproved of.
JAMES: Is he in love with you?
JILL: I shouldn't think so.
JAMES : If I divorced you would he marry you ?
JILL: I don't think Bill Bule would ever marry
anybody.
JAMES : There must be some straightforward explana
tion for this. What is it?
JILL: Oh, Jim darling, you want everything so
clear-cut and tidy. Don't you see it can't always be
like that? At least not for me. There's no simple
answer. If I say I suppose I do love him in a way
you'll think I mean something more serious than I do.
And if I say " no, I don't- love him at all " you
won't believe me. I — I don't know what you want
from me.
JAMES: The truth.
JILL: Yes, but the truth isn't just one thing. It's
a — a sort of jumble of things.
[Pause.]
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WAITING FOR GILLIAN
JAMES : Was It the child dying ?
JILL : That was one of them. I felt I'd let you down
over that. I still do.
JAMES : But that's absurd
JILL: No. It was one more thing I could do for you
that I didn't do properly. But it wasn't just that.
JAMES : Would it have helped if you'd had another
baby?
JILL : It might have.
JAMES : Or is it my fault ?
JILL : Your fault ?
JAMES (slowly) : I can see that Bill's attractive. . . .
JILL: It's not that, Jim.
JAMES: Then what is it? What can he offer you that
I can't?
JILL: Nothing, really.
JAMES : Oh God, Jillie, stop defending and be helpful.
I'm trying to find out what this is all about.
JILL (slowly) : Well, it's completely silly, but I'm not
frightened of him and I am of you.
JAMES : Frightened ? of me ?
JILL: Of course, I always have been. There's a — a
sort of pattern which I think of as having run all
through our married life. It's of having been awful
or — or inadequate in some way, having spent too
much or forgotten something, or what have you, and
knowing that I have and probably lying about it;
and of your finding out and lecturing me about it,
very gently but a bit disappointed with me; and
saying that I was sorry, and your being very nice about
it, but saying I must make an effort. It was always
that I must make an effort. And you were always
right, and I knew I ought to. But, darling, I'm a bad
thing. I'm lazy and shiftless and I hate making efforts
and I always said I would and knew I shouldn't.
I can remember now what a triumphant feeling
389
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
it was sometimes when you decided it was you who
ought to make an effort. But it wasn't really any good
because I knew that if you decided that, you would,
you'd really do it. And I knew that I shouldn't.
JAMES: What a ghastly prig you make me sound.
Why on earth didn't you just tell me to go to hell?
JILL: Because you were right, don't you see. You
weren't asking for anything that wasn't perfectly
reasonable.
JAMES: And it's been like that ever since we were
married ?
JILL: I hope I haven't made it sound horrid. I
know it's completely my fault, but you did ask. . . .
What are you going to do about it ?
[Pause.}
JAMES : Is it finished ?
JILL: Utterly. I shan't see him again, ever.
JAMES : Then — let's start picking up the pieces, shall
we?
[Pause.]
JILL: I think you're the kindest and most generous
man I know.
JAMES : Good. So do L
[He smiles at her. She smiles back.]
JILL: And now — may I go and tell Eddie about
Joe?
[He turns away]
JILL (urgently) : Phase, Jim. If it were anyone but me
you'd be the first
JAMES (to her, simply) : But it is you, Jillie. And we've
just decided that you're my -wife.
Curtain
390
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
Scene 2
The same. A few weeks later. The stage is empty. A. bell
rings.
After a moment, James comes downstairs and goes to the
front door. He opens it. Sergeant Groves stands there with
Eddie.
GROVES: Evening, Mr. Manning. I wonder if you
could spare us a couple of minutes.
JAMES: By all means. Come in. Drink, Sergeant?
Eddie?
EDDIE: No, sir. Not when I'm on duty, sir. Thank
you.
JAMES: Is this an official visit?
GROVES (embarrassed); Well, sir, not really. It's
just
JAMES: What's the trouble?
GROVES: Well, Mr. Manning, it's like this. We've
never found a trace of that car, the one that killed
Joe, and the way we're going on we never shall and
we all know it.
JAMES : Nobody's ever come forward ?
GROVES: No, nobody has, neither the driver, nor
nobody that saw any such car. It's a dead end.
JAMES: Well, it was always a pretty forlorn hope,
wasn't it, Eddie ?
EDDIE: Maybe it was, Mr. Manning, but I told you
I was going to find that car and I'm going to, if it
takes me the rest of my life.
JAMES: Yes, but how? After all, that car may be
anywhere in England. It may belong to somebody
who doesn't even know.
EDDIE (quietly) : No, sir. There isn't anybody doesn't
know if he travelled past there that night, even if
391
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
he didn't know he killed somebody. With all the
broadcasting and appealing that's been done he'll
know he's been asked to come forward. It's what I
always reckoned. Whoever did it knows he did it and
he's lying low.
JAMES: All right, supposing we accept that. If he
goes on lying low, what can you do about it?
EDDIE (slowly) : I've thought about this and thought
about it, Mr. Manning. And I keep coming back to
something you said right at the start — what was a
big car doing down there at all ? It's not the best way
through from anywhere to anywhere else.
JAMES: It might have been somebody that didn't
know the district and had taken a wrong turning.
EDDIE : It could be that, sir, I'll agree, but what you
said was that it seemed to you most likely it was a
local car down there, and I'm going to start by
supposing it was. I know you feel like I do about
this, sir, and want to get to the bottom of it, and I
know you'll help us all you can.
JAMES: I don't quite see what you mean about
helping you. Do you mean have I got any idea
about what to do next ?
GROVES: Well, not exactly, sir. It's like this. A few
days ago, Eddie here got a tip. . . .
JAMES: I say, I'm sorry, Sergeant. Do sit down.
Eddie. . . .
GROVES: Thank you, sir. (They sit.) Well, Eddie's
been working on this tip, and now he's told me about
it and I think perhaps we ought to inquire further.
JAMES : A tip ? What sort of a tip ?
GROVES: It's this, sir. (He pulls a letter out of his
pocket.) It's addressed simply " P.C. Eddie Cater,
Maidley, Bucks." (He reads.) " Have you found out
where the Hon. Bule was at half past six when Joe
Pearce was killed ? If he says he was home it's a lie,
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
cause he wasn't, but somewhere else. And ask him
about a scratch on his car and how it got there and
had to be painted out quick. This is true. Good
luck."
[He hands the letter to James, who studies //.]
JAMES: One of those gallant affairs with no address
and no signature, eh?
GROVES: Yes, sir.
JAMES: London postmark.
GROVES : That doesn't mean anything, sir. Anybody
can post a letter in London. It must be somebody
local, or that had been local, or how would he know
about it?
JAMES: Yes. Not a very educated writing, but not
disguised, I should say.
GROVES: That's what we thought, Mr. Manning. I
reckoned a servant that had been at Mr. Bule's or
something like that. Mr. Bule had a fair lot of changes
lately. There was a maid and a chauffeur
JAMES: Oh yes. Chap that he sacked for stealing.
GROVES: Did he? Well, that's the sort of chap it
might be. Wouldn't come to us but would do this
out of spite.
JAMES (thoughtfully): I should say it's probably the
chauffeur. He'd know about the scratch on the car.
GROVES: So he would. Well, the proper place for a
letter like that is in the fire usually, but Eddie felt —
well
JAMES: That he ought to see if there was anything in
it?
GROVES (apologetically)'. Well, we haven't anything
else to go on, Mr. Manning.
JAMES: I don't see what else you could have done.
If only in justice to Mr. Bule.
593
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
EDDIE (grimly]\ That's what I thought, sir. If a
chap's afraid to sign his name you can't take much
notice of what he says. All the same, I thought I'd
better follow it up just to make sure. So I did, and
this is what came out of it.
^Producing his note-book^
About the scratch. No doubt about that. There was
a scratch and It's been painted out like the chap says.
A long scratch on the door. No way of telling how
long ago it was done, of course. Then about Mr.
Bule's movements. We went over to see Mr. Bule
this afternoon. Here's what he says. (Deferring to
notebook.) He says he was over at the Three Lions
at Levening, the night of the accident, that he left
there just after six and drove home, and was home by
twenty-five past, and didn't go out again until near
on seven when he came here.
JAMES : Well, he certainly came here because of the
party that night. And certainly most of the people
came about seven.
EDDIE: Yes, sir. Well now, Mr. Bule says he was
home by 6.25 and this chap in the letter says he wasn't.
JAMES: Well?
EDDIE: Well, the next thing we did was to go over
to the Three Lions and see if they remembered Mr.
Bule being there. We just came from there now.
GROVES (quickly) : Of course, it's not a question of
doubting Mr. Bule's word, Mr. Manning, but after
this in the letter
JAMES : Of course, Sergeant.
EDDIE: Well, they do remember Mr. Bule being in
because they know him. At least they're pretty sure
it was that evening. It seems Mr. Bule was there, and
he was with a lady. They didn't know her and can't
recall what she looked like and they reckon, as far
394
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
as they can remember, they did leave about six.
Bought two bottles of gin.
JAMES (after a moment): In fact, they confirm what
Mr. Bule said about leaving at six?
EDDIE : Yes, sir, they confirm that near enough.
JAMES : Well, if he left there at six he would certainly
be home before half past.
EDDIE: Yes, sir, if he went straight home.
JAMES: Well, there's no reason to suppose that he
didn't, is there ?
EDDIE (gently) : There's the lady, sir. Mr. Bule never
said anything about her. Did he bring a lady here?
JAMES : Not as far as I know. But how does she come
into it?
EDDIE : She could have proved what he said.
JAMES: But surely the people in the pub prove it
anyway ?
EDDIE : Not what time he got home, sir. But if the
lady went home with Mr. Bule, she could prove it.
JAMES: But there's no reason to suppose she went
home with him. They may just have been having a
drink together and then he dropped her somewhere
and
EDDIE: That's just it, sir. If he went straight home,
he would be there by half past. But if he took her
somewhere and dropped her, then he might not have
been. Like this chap says in the letter.
GROVES (uneasily): I don't know — I don't reckon —
what doj0# say, Mr. Manning?
JAMES: What do I say? I don't quite follow you,
Sergeant.
GROVES (reluctantly) : Well, it's like this, Sir. Mr. Bule
says you phoned him at his house from London that
evening just about the time Joe was knocked down
and killed. Is that right, sir? Did you phone Mr.
Bule at six thirty?
395
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
[The front door opens and ]i '11 enters. She mars a gay cock
tail dress and is apparently in high spirits.}
JILL: The prodigal daughter returns. My, my, you
all look very solemn and serious. What's afoot?
JAMES: Nothing, darling. We'll go into the other
room.
JILL: No, no, I'll go. The atmosphere is positively
pregnant with " women, keep out ". This one's
going to dip her head in the ice box and cool down.
What a grilling day it's been, hasn't it, Sergeant?
GROVES: Yes, indeed, ma'am.
JILL: You aren't grilling my husband by any chance,
are you ?
GROVES (laughing): No, ma'am. Nothing like that.
We shan't keep him a moment.
JILL: That's what they always say. I'd better pack
your tooth brush and pyjamas, darling, just in case.
[She goes upstairs}
GROVES (pleasantly)-. Madam seems in high spirits,
sir.
JAMES: She's been to a party.
GROVES: Ah, that accounts for it. Though, come
to think of it, she was in pretty good form earlier on
today, wasn't she, Eddie? Nearly bumped into us
driving out of Mr. Bule's this afternoon. Just as we
were driving in. Thought it was Mr. Bule himself
at first, until I recognised your Austin. And then, of
course, I saw the madam. Well now, sir, about that
telephone call, if you could confirm what Mr. Bule
says, it would make it a whole lot easier all round.
Can you confirm it, sir?
[Pause — then:}
JAMES (in a dead voice) : Yes. That's quite right. I'd
396
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
forgotten. I phoned Mr. Bule at his house that
evening from London just before half past six.
GROVES (with a broad smile)-. Well, there you are,
Eddie. What did I tell you ? Thank you, sir. That's
just what we wanted to hear. Very sorry to trouble
you but I wanted to satisfy Eddie here that what this
fellow said in the letter was just spite. Somebody
who doesn't like Mr. Bule most likely. The last thing
we want to do is to have any suspicions of a gentle
man like Mr. Bule, do we, Eddie ?
EDDIE (quietly): 'Course not. But it's like you said,
Mr. Manning, there hasn't got to be nobody you rule
out 'til you're certain. Nobody. You are sure about
the time of your call, sir ?
JAMES (flatly) : Yes. I'm sure.
\Eddie turns slowly and goes out.]
GROVES (confidentially): I'm sorry about this, Mr.
Manning. I know Mr. Bule's a friend of yours and of
course I didn't much like it, but — well, Eddie's
worked very hard on this. Between ourselves, I wish
he'd stop bothering his head about it. I never
reckoned it was any good and he's spent time on it
that could have been better used. But there it is, it's
his brother-in-law, see, and he's very stubborn,
Eddie is, when he gets an idea in his head. Very
stubborn. Well, good-night, sir.
JAMES: Goodnight, Sergeant.
GROVES : And thank you for clearing the air, sir.
[He goes. James is alone. After a moment Jill comes
downstairs.]
JILL: Sorry I barged in on you like that, darling.
What did they want?
JAMES (slowly): They wanted me to confirm Bill's
whereabouts the evening Joe Pearce was knocked
397
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
down. I'd agreed to say I phoned him from London,
if you remember.
JILL : Yes, of course I remember. Well, you told them
and now everything's all right, I suppose.
[//// helps herself to a drink.}
JAMES (slowly): Have you anything to tell me, Jill?
JILL: No, the Lovells do was just the usual crowd. I
think I drank too much. I hate women who get tight.
Does it show?
JAMES: No.
JILL: Barry was at the Lovells. I've been talking to
him about the Pearce business.
JAMES: Why?
JILL: Oh, he brought it up. I didn't. He asked me
how Elsie was and said it was a damn shame. I
agreed with him. We had quite a pow-wow. By
the way, did you know Barry was House Surgeon
at Guy's when Daddy was taking his Pre-Med ?
JAMES: No.
JILL: Nor did I. The old boy was full of compli
ments. Said Daddy was the most brilliant student of
his year and a whole lot more flim-flam. I said some
thing about never really knowing the parent because
he had to go and get himself killed trying to climb
that ruddy mountain when I was an infant, and
Barry suddenly went up in smoke. Said he wasn't
trying to climb it. He climbed it. Apparently the
rest of the party got stuck on the lower plateau, or
whatever you call it, but Daddy went on alone to
the summit. His heart snuffed out and there he died.
But he'd got to the top. Did you know that? I
didn't. Oh, well! I've been talking to Elsie too.
JAMES: What about?
JILL: Oh, I was being sweet to her. I always am,
you know. She thinks I'm kind, and nice and rather
398
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
wonderful. It's funny — I wanted to say, " And give
the bathroom a special e do ' and anyhow I killed
your husband," just to see her face. No, that's not
true. I only just thought of it. But don't you think
it's a nice idea ?
JAMES: No.
JILL: But don't you really, darling? After all, it
would be so easy. Supposing I did? Supposing I
went and told Elsie and Eddie and everybody. Then
they'd send me to prison and after that you'd like me
again. That's what's wrong with us, you know. I
say, I hope you're not taking any notice of this. I do
seem to be remarkably tight. Sorry, partner.
JAMES (carefully)-. What else did you do today?
JILL: Oh, nothing wildly exciting. Just puttered
about here, I think. Why ?
JAMES (after a moment}: I called you from town.
There was no reply.
JILL: Oh, yes, I remember, I had my hair done. Do
you like it ?
JAMES (suddenly, bluntly)*. Look, I know you've been
to Bule's, so you needn't go on.
JILL (slowly) : When have I ?
JAMES : This afternoon. As you drove out you nearly
crashed into Eddie and Sergeant Groves going in.
The next time you want to commit successful
adultery I suggest you take a few driving lessons
first. You might just get away with it.
JILL : Jim, it isn't a bit like you think 1 It isn't, really !
JAMES (biasing): What I think is that you were un
faithful to me, that you lied about it, that you
promised it was all over and that within a few days
you sneaked back to your lover when you thought I
wasn't looking. Is that true or not ?
JILL (wearily) : Of course it is. That wasn't what I
meant.
399
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
JAMES : Then what did you mean ?
JILL: Only that — no, it's no good — you wouldn't
believe me.
JAMES: Why should I? Have you ever told me the
truth? About anything? Think hard, I'm really
interested.
JILL (suddenly): Take me away, Jim! For God's sake
take me away! Don't you see that I'm in a mess here
all round? It isn't Bill, it's the Pearee business. I
can't even think about it unless I can get away some
where and get some sense into things. Let's start
again, somewhere — anywhere.
JAMES : How can we possibly start again ? Don't you
see that I haven't the faintest idea what sort of person
you really are now ?
JILL (gradually) : I wanted to tell and you stopped me.
I knew what it would do to us. You've hated your
self for lying — and hated me for turning you into a
liar. Oh, you haven't said anything, but I know.
You haven't . . . wanted me since, have you?
(Pause. Slowly.) And you — you aren't there for me
any more, either, Jim. Something's . . . gone. I
don't know what, but — something. You — you
aren't you any more. (Pause.) Bill . . . was still
there, the same as always. Because he doesn't care —
about lies and deceit and the rest of it. That's the
way he is. It hasn't done anything to him. There has
to be someone . . . somewhere. So I went to Bill.
Do you believe me?
JAMES: I neither believe you nor disbelieve you. I
just don't follow these vague metaphysical justifica
tions for what after all is no more and no less tha#,
common or garden adultery. The plain hard fact is —
he's your kind and I'm not. He's never done a day's
work in his life and nor have you. He's never taken
an inch of responsibility for anything and nor have
400
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
you. Compared with him I've no doubt I seem
pretty pompous and dull. Well, let's face it, by his
standards I am. But I warn you of this. Bule
wouldn't lift his little finger to keep you off the
streets. He isn't interested in anything in the world
but the Honourable William Stephen Fitz-Harding
Bule, and if you think he is, you're deceiving
yourself. Oh, he likes you fine. Why shouldn't he ?
He's got a good free mistress who can even pay for
her share of the drinks. Well, I wish you joy of him.
A man who comes to my house as my guest, poses
as a friend of mine and under cover of this seduces
my wife.
JILL: It was my fault!
JAMES: He knows that I've forgiven you and that
we're trying to get together, yet he joins you in doing
me dirt again the moment my back is turned 1
JILL: Jim, this has gone so far that in justice to Bill,
I must tell you something. I never did break it off
with him as I promised.
JAMES : I repeat, have you ever told me the truth about
anything?
JILL: I told you I loved you and that was true.
JAMES: I used to think you and I spoke the same
language. We don't. It's taken a man falling off a
bicycle to make it clear to me, but, by God, it's clear
to me now!
JILL (quietly}'. Does that mean you want me to go ?
JAMES: Yes, it does. It means exactly that.
[Pause.]
JILL (slowly): You've never known me, have you?
Eleven years . . . and we've been alone together all
the way.
Curtain
401
ACT THREE
Scene i
The same. After dinner ', a few weeks later. The furniture
has been rearranged., and gives now more the impression of a
bachelor's home. Dr. Frewen is at the bookshelf > studying
a volume. James enters down left with a box of cigars.
JAMES: Do you smoke these things, Barry?
DOCTOR: No, thank you.
JAMES : Have you read that one ?
DOCTOR: Yes, Mary gave it to me for Christmas. I
thought it a very bad book in a very good binding.
JAMES: I just got it to read during the night.
DOCTOR: Oh, that reminds me. (Takes a small bottle
from his pocket \ hands it to James.) A poor exchange
for an excellent dinner, but they should do the trick.
JAMES (studying bottle]-. You know, I've never taken
one of these before. The one thing I could always
do was sleep.
DOCTOR : You will again — with those.
[Elsie enters with coffee fray.]
Capital dinner, Elsie. Ate far too much, of course.
Do you always feed the brute like that ?
ELSIE: We all got to keep our strength up, haven't
we — so as we can go on. I always say, if your tummy's
all right, the rest of you will take care of itself, won't
it?
DOCTOR: You can have my job tomorrow, my dear.
You're qualified.
ELSIE (to James): Will you have the wireless, sir?
JAMES: No. Not tonight. Black, Barry?
DOCTOR: Thanks. (To Elsie.) How's the baby?
ELSIE: Better, thank you, Doctor. (Handing coffee^
402
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
I was a bit worried, leaving her in the evenings, but
it's only till madam comes home and then of course
Mother's there, and Eddie looks in on his beat.
Ever so good with the children, Eddie is. Policemen
always are, aren't they ?
JAMES: Thank you, Elsie.
ELSIE (going) : Yes, sir.
JAMES: Don't bother with the dishes. I'll see to
them later. You get on home.
ELSIE (indignantly): Leave you to wash up by your
self, sir ? Whatever next ?
[Exit Elsie.}
DOCTOR: Nice woman, that. Plenty of guts. She
cook for you every night?
JAMES: Three times a week. Her mother takes care
of the children and she's glad of the extra money.
It works very well.
DOCTOR (quietly} : " Till madam comes home."
[Pause.}
JAMES: Yes, well, how about a brandy?
DOCTOR: No, thank you.
JAMES : I think I will. (Moves to drinks tray and helps
himself.}
[Pause.]
DOCTOR (suddenly} : Jim, why don't you stop being an
ostrich? Your wife did you dirt, you chucked her
out. Fair enough. Let the tongues wag.
JAMES (deliberately}: Look, Barry, Jill had a break
down. She was ordered abroad by her doctor. You
gave me your word.
DOCTOR: Yes, I did, didn't I? All right, if that's the
way you want it.
403
ACT THREE, SCENE ONE
JAMES : I prefer not to wash my dirty linen in public.
. DOCTOR: Oh, come, that's not the reason for all this
flummery, and you know it. You're leaving the
door open.
[Pause.]
JAMES (slowly) : She's my wife, Barry.
DOCTOR: Well, is she, or isn't she? Six weeks ago
you told her to go and she went. Since then she's
been on the Continent with Bill Bule. That's hardly
marriage as I understand it. Am I being very
impertinent?
[Pause.]
JAMES: No.
[Pause]
DOCTOR (earnestly)-. Look, Jim — this is none of my
business, but what have you done about it since —
except not sleep at night ?
JAMES (hesitating : What should I have done ?
DOCTOR: What do most husbands do when there's a
crash? Talked to your solicitors?
JAMES: Well, no, I
DOCTOR: Told your bank to stop her allowance?
JAMES : Not yet. You see
DOCTOR: Told a cock and bull story to keep the
locals quiet and stood holding the front door open
for her to walk through it whenever she wants to ?
[Pause.]
You've started a war, Jim, and you're trying to fight
on both sides. It won't work.
[Pause.]
404
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
JAMES: I can't really believe it's serious. Not with
Bule. It doesn't make any kind of sense.
DOCTOR: Why do you say that?
JAMES : I know Jillie.
DOCTOR: Are you sure?
JAMES : She happens to have been my wife for eleven
years.
DOCTOR : My dear man, what's that got to do with it ?
(Pause.) She came to see me, you know.
JAMES (surprised): When?
DOCTOR: The day after you sacked her.
JAMES : You mean she was ill ?
DOCTOR: Not physically. She asked me to recom
mend her a good psychiatrist.
JAMES: Why?
DOCTOR: She . . . wants to find herself. That's
unusual, you know, Most people want only to escape
from themselves. But Jill's like her father, as I
remember him.
JAMES: Where did you send her?
DOCTOR : I didn't. She needed a shoulder to lean on.
I offered her mine. What a pretty woman she is, isn't
she ? She looked most decorative, sitting there in my
surgery, telling her troubles.
JAMES (carefully): Just . . . what did she tell you?
DOCTOR: I'm sorry. The consulting room is like the
confessional — sacred. But if it's any help to you —
(deliberately) she told me nothing that you don't
know already.
\There is a long pause as the two men look at each other.
Then James turns away.]
JAMES (taut, tense) : My God, Barry, what's the right
thing to do? What's right?
DOCTOR: For her? Or you? Or society?
JAMES : For all of them.
405
ACT THREE, SCENE ONE
DOCTOR : Yes, that's the trouble with people like you.
Only God can be sure of getting things right for
everybody — and even He, one imagines, must find it
a problem at times. But you want to work it all out
and produce a solution that would satisfy a Chartered
Accountant. (Pause.) I understand Jill wanted to
tell. You stopped her.
JAMES : What else could I do ?
DOCTOR: What would you have done if it had been
some other woman?
JAMES: It wasn't some other woman. It was my
woman. What kind of a man would give his wife
away? It would almost certainly mean a jail sentence.
She couldn't possibly take it, a girl like Jill. Even
Bule saw that.
DOCTOR: Are you sure it wasn't jou that couldn't
take it?
JAMES: All right. I couldn't take it. I'd do the same
again.
[Pause.]
DOCTOR: Jill says your stopping her sent her back to
Bule.
JAMES : I can't accept that, Barry. I'm sorry.
DOCTOR: I can. Good heavens, Jim, don't you see
you destroyed the one thing that held you two to
gether? Most men have only one really dependable
quality for a woman to cling to. You had integrity.
The salt of the earth type, as they say. (Slowly.) But
if the salt hath lost its savour. . . . (Pause.) '(Kising.)
Well, I must be off. Someone may be needing a
doctor. I have enjoyed my evening, thank you so
much. Oh . . . (pointing to pills on coffee table)
take a couple of those and get to bed early. Good
night, my dear fellow.
[He exits.]
406
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
[James stares after him. 'Elsie comes /«, collects the coffee
cups, puts them on the tray.}
ELSIE: I've done you a grapefruit for the morning,
sir, {picks up tray) and there's a kipper in the larder,
if you feel like fish for a change.
JAMES (abstracted)'. Oh. Right.
ELSIE: Will that be all, sir?
JAMES: Er — yes. Thanks, Elsie.
ELSIE: I'll say goodnight, then.
JAMES: Goodnight. . . . Oh — Elsie. Isn't it
Maureen's birthday tomorrow? Here. (Takes out a
note.) Put that in her ditty-box for me. (Puts note on
tray.)
ELSIE (overcome): Five pounds! Oh, sir\ You
shouldn't. Whatever will Maureen do with all that
money ?
JAMES : A fiver is hardly a fortune.
ELSIE : Well, thank you ever so much, I'm sure, but —
five pounds. People are wonderful. . . . (She goes
out with the coffee tray.)
[James finishes his brandy, picks up the pills thoughtfully.
He is about to go up to bed when he hears the noise of a
powerful car approaching at speed. Suddenly the spotlight
sweeps across the French windows. James goes to the
French windows., throws them open, steps on to the
terrace. He stands a moment looking out> then crosses
quickly to the hall and throws open the front door, and goes
out. The car's engine cuts out. It has obviously stopped
outside the house. Bale is heard off.}
BULE (off): Oh, hello, Squire. Greetings from
Granada.
JAMES (off) : What are you doing here ?
BULE (off) : Look, can I come in for a second or will
407
ACT THREE, SCENE ONE
you feel bound to chuck me through the nearest
window ?
JAMES (off) : Come in.
[Bale enters ^ followed by James.}
JAMES: I thought you were still abroad.
BULE: We came back ten days ago. Look, I'm sorry
to barge in on you like this but do you happen to
have Madam?
JAMES (quickly] : What's happened ?
BULE: I — 1 just thought Jill might have been in
touch with you, that's all. (Looking about, glancing
upstairs.) She's not here, is she ?
JAMES: No. Why?
BULE: Oh, nothing important. Sorry to have
troubled you. (Moves to go.)
JAMES : If you've had a row or something, for God's
sake tell me because
BULE (turns) : Not exactly a row, it's just that she was
a bit upset and I thought
JAMES (flatly) : She's walked out on you.
[Pause.]
BULE: For the moment. I imagine she'll come back.
JAMES : Why did she walk out ?
BULE: Really, James, I don't think there's any point
in going into it. (Moves to go.)
JAMES : There's every point. (Blocks bis path.)
BULE: All right. (He comes down into the room) Jill
stayed in my London shack while I went up north
for a few days. We were going down to Cornwall this
weekend and I found I'd made a double date and
couldn't go.
JAMES : So after leaving her alone in London all the
408
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
week you came back and were going straight off
again ?
BULE: Well, yes, that's what it comes to. It was a
pure piece of forgetfulness and I realised she'd be
disappointed. But she went rather surprisingly off
the handle.
JAMES: What did she say?
BULE: Oh, you know the sort of thing women do say
when they're in a flap. Wild talk.
JAMES: You mean she said she'd kill herself?
BULE: No, I don't think she did. She said she wished
she were dead but it was all rather incoherent.
JAMES (impatiently)*. You must have understood
something.
BULE: Well, one thing she kept saying was, "I
wanted to and you wouldn't let me and now it'll
never come right." What particular thing she wanted
I've no idea. But it was apparently something I'd
stopped her from doing. Coming back to you, I
imagined. Seems I was wrong.
JAMES (sharply) : Say that again.
BULE: Say what again?
JAMES : What she kept saying.
BULE : Well, I can't be sure of the words but it was
something like " you wouldn't let me and now it will
never come right." I tried to calm her down and
then I went into the next room to telephone and when
I came back she was gone. The doorman at the
flats said he heard her tell the cab driver " Marylebone
Station " so I thought she must be coming back here
and I drove straight down. She's not at my place,
she's not here. Where the devil is she?
JAMES (slowly) : Unless she's put herself in the river,
which I don't think she has, I think I know where
she's gone.
BULE: Where?
409
ACT THREE, SCENE ONE
JAMES: I think she's gone to Elsie's.
BULE : Oh.
JAMES: That was what you wouldn't let her do —
only it wasn't you she was talking about, it was me.
BULE : I see. Yes, that never occurred to me. (Pause.}
Well, what now, general? You're the boss on the
moral front. Let the men in the ranks know their
orders.
[Pause.]
JAMES (suddenly} : What time did she leave your place ?
BULE: About eight.
JAMES: Eight. That means she was going for the
eight-seventeen. It's supposed to get in at nine-
twenty, but it never does. It's nine twenty-two now.
Yes, we might just beat her to it. Come on.
[James turns off the lights as be and Bit/e exit. Noise of
car driving off. The spotlight weeps across the window. Then
the room is in darkness. Almost at once Jill appears in
the French windows. She comes slowly., hesitantly into the
dark room. She makes her way gradually across to the
fireplace. As she leans on the mantelpiece 'Elsie enters from
the kitchen. She is wearing her coat^ obviously about to go
home. She sees the French windows open, crosses and closes
them. As she turns she sees ////.]
ELSIE (starts violently} : Madam I
JILL (quietly) : Hello, Elsie.
[Moves to light switch^ turns on light.]
ELSIE: Oh, madam, what a turn you gave me. I — I
didn't know you was here
JILL: Yes ... yes, I— I'm here ... at last. And
410
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
now that you're here ... we can get it all over
with. . . . (Sits down suddenly')
ELSIE: Well, I was never so surprised to see anyone
in all my life. Didn't even know you was in England,
madam. Thought you was still abroad.
JILL: No ... I ... got back a few days ago.
ELSIE: I expect you feel ever so much better, don't
you, for the change?
JILL: Soon. I'll feel better soon.
ELSIE: That's right. The master will be pleased
you're back. I'll call him.
JILL (rising quickly) : No, don't do that, I (Sways,
puts her hand to her head, sits down again.)
ELSIE (anxiously, moving to her): You're not well,
Madam.
JILL (weakly) : I'm all right. It's just that I — I haven't
eaten all day and I'm . . . rather tired.
ELSIE: Nothing to eat! Well, goodness, no wonder.
I'll get you something right away.
JILL: No, don't go! I — I couldn't take anything.
Really.
ELSIE: But, madam, you must eat
JILL: No — I — I'm all right. Just give me a minute
to (trying to steady herself.) Tell me . . . about
the children. How are they?
ELSIE (still anxious about Jill) : Baby had a nasty cough,
but it's better, thank you, madam. She cried a lot,
of course, and its a job to quiet her. Joe was wonder
ful with her.
[Jill's expression tightens.}
Look, madam, you're not well — let me get the master
and
JILL: No. It's you I came back to see.
ELSIE: Me, madam?
411
ACT THREE, SCENE ONE
JILL: Yes. I went to the cottage. Maureen said you
were here. I — didn't know.
ELSIE: I've been working evenings, madam, while
you was away. Is something wrong, madam ?
JILL: It's been wrong. But it's going to come right
now. It's got to come right. You see, Elsie dear
\The spotlight of the Lagonda sweeps across the windows. In
a flash E/sfe is at the window ', staring out.]
ELSIE: That's it, madam! That's the one! The one
that killed Joe!
[E/sle turns and stares at the door> riveted. "Pause. Then
it is thrown open. James strides in. He stops dead as he
sees Jill. They stare at each other.}
JAMES : We've been looking for you.
[Bute enters}
\Rlsie stares at Bute, then turns to James.}
ELSIE (at a loss)-. Mrs. Manning's . . . not well, sir.
She — she ought to be in bed.
JAMES: Yes. Thank you, Elsie. Don't worry. I'll
take care of my wife. You get on home now.
Goodnight.
JILL: No, don't go, Elsie! Jim, I'm going to tell her !
JAMES (firmly: You can see Elsie in the morning,
dear.
JILL : Jim, you wouldn't stop me now ! You wouldn't
do that to me.
JAMES (gently): Look, my dear, you've got everything
a bit mixed up.
4iz
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
JILL: No! No! It isn't mixed up! You're mixing
it up and I had it all clear!
BULE: Jill, you're talking nonsense.
JILL (ignoring him, to James) : You didn't believe it was
right. If only you'd stuck to what you believed! But
you swung round and said the other thing and then I
got confused because
JAMES : I thought I was giving you what you wanted.
JILL (wretchedly): I know, I know. But you were
wrong.
JAMES: Well, let's talk about it when we're alone,
shall we ?
JILL (desperately)*. No! No! If we're alone, you'll
talk me out of it again and it will never come right
and we shall go on and on. (Turns to Elsie.) It was
me, Elsie, it was me!
BULE: Jill, this is absurd!
JILL: Jim, help me! Help me!
BULE: Jill, I'm sure Elsie can't make head or tail of
all this. I know I can't. So come along and
JAMES : Shut up ! (Turns to Elsie., deliberately.) Elsie.
What my wife is trying to tell you is that she was
responsible for Joe's death.
[A moment's pause , then:\
BULE (gently)-. Oh, James, James. A bad general.
You never let the man in the ranks know. . . .
ELSIE (in an odd voice > staring at Jill) : She doesn't know
what she's saying, sir.
BULE: Of course she doesn't.
ELSIE (whipping round on him): No, Mr. Bule, she
doesn't know what she's saying. But there's some
that could tell about that if they had a mind to, or
so Eddie reckons.
BULE (smiling): Well, well, and what does Eddie
reckon ?
413
ACT THREE, SCENE ONE
ELSIE (fearlessly] : He reckons you were driving down
the lane sneaking up to Mr. Manning's back gate
after madam and that's how it happened. And now
you know.
BULE (still smiling : Eddie's a hell of a good detective.
That's exactly what did happen, Elsie.
JILL: It's not true, Elsie. He was there, but I was
driving the car.
ELSIE: No, no, madam. It was him. Eddie knows,
see, but he can't prove it. You wouldn't do that, not
drive on and leave him there, madam. You wouldn't
do that. It was him, and that's his car. I see it come
tonight like it did the night it killed Joe.
JILL : It was that car, but I was driving.
ELSIE (appealing to ]ames) : Mr. Manning. . . .
JAMES: It's true, Elsie. It was Mr. Bule's car that hit
Joe, but Mrs. Manning was driving it.
[Elsie stands quite still. Then:}
ELSIE (almost in a whisper) : But he said he done it.
JAMES : He was only trying to protect my wife.
[Elsie turns slowly and looks at JitL]
ELSIE (wonderingly) : And you never said, madam.
JILL: I didn't know. Oh, God, I didn't know I hit
him. (She puts her hands over her face.)
ELSIE: You didn't know? But you must have
JILL: I didn't. And then when I found out, they
wouldn't let me say !
BULE: You see, Elsie, it was like this. . . . (He stops.
Eddie stands in the doorway.)
EDDIE (to James): Good evening, sir. Excuse me
comin' in like this, sir, but is that your car outside,
Mr. Bule?
414
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
BULE: Yes. It's mine.
EDDIE (very still) : I thought I recognised it. Haven't
seen it around much in these parts lately. You've
been abroad, sir, I understand?
BULE: Yes, that's right.
EDDIE (not taking his eyes off Rule) : I saw the car stand
ing there — with the lights full on. So I turned them
off. I hope I did right, sir ?
BULE: Yes, thanks. I forgot about the lights. . . .
Smoke, Eddie?
EDDIE: No, thank you, sir. (Turns to Elsie). Have
you seen Mr. Bule's car, Elsie? You come and look
at it. (Takes her by the arm and leads her up to the door.
He opens it with a sudden movement, the spotlight shines
full on his face and Elsie's. Looking off.) Well ... I
never turned the spotlight off, did I ? I'm sorry, sir.
BULE : There's a separate switch. (Pause.)
EDDIE: It's a lovely car. I dare say you saw it when
Mr. Bule came, didn't you, Elsie?
ELSIE (in a low voice) : Yes. I saw it.
EDDIE (carefully): Ever seen it round your way,
Else?
[No answer.]
EDDIE: Ever seen it in Tarrant's Lane?
[No answer. Elsie moves away from Eddie and the- door.
With a sudden change of manner, he follows her.]
EDDIE (suddenly tense and urgent) : Else, a car come by
your place one night. It killed your Joe and left you
a widow and by yourself, and the kids without a
father. Them that was in it didn't care and didn't so
much as stop. I've been looking for that car ever
since, see?
ACT THREE, SCENE ONE
ELSIE (frightened) : Yes.
EDDIE: You saw the car that killed your Joe. You
saw it go by. Was it anything like that car out there
now?
[No answer.]
EDDIE (twisting the sword) : They killed your Joe and
drove on and left him lying there in the road like a
dog. Was that the car?
ELSIE (with a great cry) : No! No, it wasn't! Not like
it!
EDDIE (quickly) : Why not ? You said it was a big car.
You said so all along and
ELSIE (trembling) : Wasn't like that. Not — not so big
— and not the same, Eddie. Not the same.
EDDIE : Are you sure ?
ELSIE (facing him, with sudden resolution) : Yes, Eddie.
Yes, I am. And you'll never get me to say different.
Never. See ?
[Silence, then:}
EDDIE: I see. . . . All right. Then I can't do no
more. I've done my best for you and Joe, see. But I
can't do nothing without you and — I see how it is.
Goodnight, Mr. Manning. Goodnight, madam.
Fm sorry for disturbing you.
[He goes to the door.}
JILL (suddenly) : Eddie.
[Eddie turns in the doorway.]
BULE (quickly) : Jill, don't be a fool
416
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
ELSIE (overlapping): No, madam! No!
JAMES (violently}: Stop it!! (He goes deliberately to
Jill's side. Very gently and tenderly.} Go on, my
darling.
JILL (trembling) : Finish it for me — finish it.
JAMES : No. You can do it — alone.
[Jill gives him a look of deep gratitude. For a moment
their eyes hold. Then she turns slowly to Eddie '.]
JILL (steadily}: Eddie, you won't need Elsie. I
killed Joe.
[No one moves but Elsie , who turns away with a little sob.
Tableau. The lights fade.]
Scene 2
Flo's CafL A year later.
A small drab cafe in a dingy street in a "London suburb.
The tablecloths on the three or four tables are far from clean.
On a counter to the right, currant buns and slices of cake.
Behind the counter a big brass tea urn. On the wall opposite ;
a clock. At back of the counter •, a string curtain of beads
leads to the back parlour. Up centre a door to the street.
When it opens a bell pings. Through the window at the
back can be seen part of a big, ugly stone building. It is
early morning.
At rise, Flo is busying herself behind the counter. A woman
sits at a table sipping tea. In a moment the door bell pings
and James enters. He is dressed in city clothes, dark homburg
and overcoat as at the beginning of the play. He looks about
him., tentatively, uneasy in these surroundings.
14 417
ACT THREE, SCENE TWO
THE WOMAN (gets up, mutter s] : 'Bye Flo. (She exits.)
FLO: Close the tent, dear. It's nippy this morning.
[James closes the door., comes to a table and sits.]
What'll it be, dear? Tea and toast, buns, slice of seed
cake?
JAMES: Er — just tea, please. For two. .
FLO: Ah. You're waiting, are you?
JAMES : I beg your pardon ?
FLO: For someone over the way. Oh, don't mind
me, dear, I've been in meself. I have, honest. That's
why I'm open at six every morning. I know what it's
like to come out and be needing a cuppa and no one
to offer you one. Yes, Fingers, they used to call me.
Fingers Flo. On account of I couldn't keep me hands
to meself, you understand. Terrible, I was. Pickin'
pockets, stealin' from shops. You never saw any
thing like it. Mind you, I'm over it now. Know what
cured me? Taldn' this place. Oh, I know it's not
much to look at. It's the position see. Whenever I
feel the old itch comin' over me, all I got to do is to
take a look out the winder at Buckin'am Palace
opposite — and it's " Get thee be'ind me, Satan." I
tell you, you can't see the devil for dust.
[F/o pours tea from the urn.]
JAMES: Is that clock right?
FLO : Bang on the dot, dear. What time are they goin'
to open up them pearly gates for her ?
JAMES : I understand it's at seven.
FLO : Won't be long now, then. Three more minutes,
that's all, then Bob's your uncle. . . . What did they
give her?
JAMES : A year.
418
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
FLO: A year! Poor soul. Still, you'll have seen her
on visiting days, so you won't be strangers.
JAMES : We've not met since the trial.
FLO: Go on!
JAMES : I wanted to come. She . . . asked me not to.
FLO : Still, there's always the post. You wrote to each
other, didn't you ?
JAMES : Yes. We wrote.
!»
[Flo sets the tea on the table.]
FLO: She'll be all right. Women are tough, you
know. Tougher than men.
JAMES : I . . . think perhaps that's true.
FLO : 'Course it's true. You keep your pecker up and
listen for the clock tower — you'll hear it striking the
hour in half a jiffy — and then, you mark my words,
your lady'll come marching in through that door,
large as life and twice as handsome, before you can
say Jack the Ripper, just you see if she doesn't. I'll
be in the back. If you want me — just give a shout.
[Flo disappears through the bead curtains. James sits facing
the door. He looks at his watch. Suddenly the prison clock
starts to strike seven. His eyes are riveted on the door.
The chimes are still. Silence. Then suddenly the doorbell
pings, the door opens, and Jill is there.
She stands quite still in the doorway.
She wears the same clothes as in the previous scene, but she
has no make-up on and her hands are gloved. They stand
and look, at each other, absorbed by the physical sight of
each other after twelve months.]
JILL (at length, quietly] : Hello, Jim.
JAMES: Hello.
419
ACT THREE, SCENE TWO
\Wtthout taking her eyes from her husband Jiil closes the
door behind her. She comes to the nearest chair. His hat is
on it) he removes it. She sits. He sits opposite her.]
JAMES: Tea?
JILL: Thanks. Oh — let me do it.
[She pours. Then:]
%
They're difficult, aren't they — the first moments. I
knew they would be.
JAMES: It'll be all right in a minute.
JILL: Yes.
[Pause.]
JAMES: You look. . . . the same.
JILL: The same? Do I?
JAMES: Except . . . there's something. . . . Oh, yes.
I know — gloves. I never could get you to wear
gloves.
JILL: It's just that my hands are rough — from the
work.
[Pause.]
JAMES : Was it — hard work ?
JILL: No. . . . Your hands get rough — and after a
time the smell of the sacking clings to your body,
but — no, not hard . . . not really.
[Pause.]
Did you get my last letter? Of course. Or you
wouldn't be here. Have you been waiting long ?
JAMES: No. Not long.
420
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
JILL: I thought you'd prefer to meet in here —
instead of right outside the prison.
JAMES: Yes.
[Pause.]
JILL (brightly}'. How are you? Have you been busy?
I expect youVe been terribly busy, haven't you?
How's the garden?
JAMES: The tulips are out, and there are still some
of the dafTs left that we planted below our bedroom
window — if you remember.
JILL (warwly) : Yes, of course, I remember.
[Pause.]
JAMES (with a sudden quiet intensity) : How long have we
got?
JILL (quietly) : I told Barry to be here at ten past. Is
that all right ? I didn't trust myself to be strong and
sensible for more than ten minutes. I'm not sure I
can manage it that long. You'll have to help me,
darling. . . .
JAMES (with urgency): Look — Jillie — are you suret
Have you really . . . thought this through ?
JILL (gravely): Yes. I've thought. We both have.
Haven't we ?
JAMES : Now — at this moment — I'm thinking I want
you back more than I've ever wanted anything in the
world.
JILL: I want to come back, at this moment, more
than anything in the world. That's why I didn't want
us to be together, until we'd made up our minds. So
we wouldn't be influenced by the wrong things —
like the way you're looking at me now.
JAMES : How am I looking at you ?
421
ACT THREE, SCENE TWO
JILL: Like a lover.
[Pause.]
JAMES : Where will you go ?
JILL: To a hotel. Just for tonight. Tomorrow I'll
find a room — hotels are expensive — and then look for
a job. Probably something in the dress line.
JAMES (urgently); You don't have to do this. You
don't have to do any of it.
JILL : Jim, you promised ! If you fight me, you'll win.
I — I'm just not strong minded enough to fight back.
[Pause.]
JAMES: I'd almost rather you were going to Bill.
JILL (suddenly, almost gaily): Oh. I had a letter from
Bill. Asking if by any chance I would care to
" make an honest man of him ". I was rather
touched.
JAMES (incredulous} : You mean he actually asked you
JILL: Oh, I don't think he really wanted to marry me,
it was a sort of beau geste. He said if I said yes we'd
go on a trip round the world. And if I said no, he'd
go anyway — to drown his sorrows. He's probably
drowning them now with some lovely in Honolulu.
. . . How's Elsie ?
JAMES: She's going to be married.
JILL: No! Who?
JAMES : Ted Armstrong from Schroder's Farm.
JILL (warmly): Oh, Fm glad, I'm very glad. (Quietly)
And you, Jim ? How about you ?
JAMES : I'm married already.
JILL: It's never too late to start over again ... so
they say.
422
WAITING FOR GILLIAN
JAMES (carefully) : There's a point you reach where it
is too late.
JILL (very still)-. What . . . point is that?
[Pause.]
JAMES (gradually, his eyes never leaving her) : The point
where loving and being in love have come together.
Where the girl you first loved for her loveliness, for
the joy she gave you in being alive and young —
where you find yourself loving her more when her
eyes are tired, and her hair's in curlers . . . when
her cheeks are shiny and there's grease on the pillow
beside you. You know then you've found the
mystery of marriage. You know then she's your
wife — your person — forever. You know then there
can never be ... anyone else.
[Jill turns away, choking back the tears.}
JAMES (steadily) : Come home, Jillie.
JILL (fighting for control) : Don't! Don't. I'm trying so
hard to be honest and clear — don't make me mess it
all up again for you.
JAMES: You wouldn't be messing it up. You'd be
mending it.
JILL: I'm not ready! Not yet.
JAMES: But why? Why?
JILL: Darling, you always want everything put into
words, and some things just don't go. (She half turns
towards the prison.) (Haltingly.) In there — we all wore
grey. All the women. Some of them looked quite
pretty in it. It looked awful on me (struggling to
explain something intangible) I'm not a grey person,
darling. I — I'm black, or white — I don't know
which — yet. I only know I'm not grey. I can't be
423'
ACT THREE, SCENE TWO
grey. I've tried. It tears me apart and you too.
You've seen how it does. (Quietly., but deliberately.)
I have to find out what I am, Jim. I have to find out.
[Pause — James rises.]
JAMES (at length — quietly)-. You'd better not keep
Barry waiting.
[Jill rises slowly. Suddenly she turns to him.]
JILL: Will you wait?
[He looks at her in wonder. Their eyes hold. Suddenly his
arms go round her and he kisses her passionately. *They
cling together.]
[She stands, not moving — then quite suddenly she smiles.]
JILL (very simply): I feel suddenly like I used to feel
when you brushed my hair for me.
JAMES: Liberated?
JILL: Like a bird.
[She smiles radiantly. Then she moves to the door and
opens it. T^he bell pings. The noise of rain is heard.]
JAMES: Jillie. (She turns.) You'd better take this.
It's raining. (Holds out his umbrella to her.)
JILL (simply): Oh, no. I shall like the rain. (For a
moment she stands in the doorway. She smiles at him.
Then she is gone.)
[He stands looking after her, motionless, the umbrella in his
hand.]
Slow curtain.
424
BOTH ENDS MEET
by
ARTHUR MACRAE
Copyright 1954 by Arthur Macrae
Applications for performance of this play by amateurs
must be made to Samuel French "Ltd, z6 Southampton
Street, Strand, London, W.C.z. Applications for the
performance of this play by professionals must be made to
H, M. Tennent Ltd., Globe Theatre, Shaftesbury Avenue,
London, W.i. No performance may take place unless a
licence has been obtained.
H. M. Tennent Ltd. presented Both 'Ends Meet at the
Apollo Theatre, London, on June 9, 1954, with the
following cast:
MR. WILSON Richard Pearson
MARGARET ROSS Brenda Bruce
TOM DAVENPORT Arthur Macrae
CLARISSA DAVENPORT Jane Downs
EDWARD KINNERTON Richard ULaston
JIMMY SCOTT- KENNEDY CyrttfLaymond
SIR GEORGE TREHERNE A.lan Webb
LORD MINSTER Mile s Malkson
Directed by Peter Brook
Setting by Alan Tagg
CHARACTERS
MR. WILSON
MARGARET ROSS
TOM DAVENPORT
CLARISSA DAVENPORT
EDWARD KINNERTON
JIMMY SCOTT-KENNEDY
SIR GEORGE TREHERNE
LORD MINSTER
SCENES
The entire action of the play takes place in the living room
of a flat in Knightsbrictge.
Time: The present.
ACT ONE
Morning.
ACT TWO
SCENE i. The same day^ afternoon.
SCENE 2. The same evening.
ACT THREE
The following morning.
ACT ONE
The living room of Tom Davenport's flat in Knlghtsbridge.
The flat is on the ground floor ; and in addition to the door
of the room, there are French windows leading into a
garden.
It is morning.
Mr. Wilson is sitting in a chair. He wears an old raincoat,
is holding his bowler hat on his knees and looks faintly
ill at ease as he ga^es round the room.
Suddenly the telephone rings, startling Mr. Wilson. He
looks at the telephone, half rises, sits again, then goes
and lifts the receiver.
MR. WILSON: Hullo? (He listens, then peers short
sightedly at the number on the transmitter. Definitely.)
Yes. This is Mr. Tom Davenport's house. . . .
Mr. Tom Davenport . . . yes. (Nervously talkative.)
No, he's not in, but I know he's expected, because
I'm waiting to see him, and the charlady said. . . .
(He is cut short.) Yes, with pleasure. (He takes a
pencil from the pad beside the telephone.) Well, this is an
honour. I've had the pleasure of meeting you
. . . twice . . . but you wouldn't remember . . .
it was sort of business, so I didn't get the opportunity
to say how much I've enjoyed your performances on
the stage. No, I'm not a friend of Mr. Davenport's,
rm just waiting for him. What, when I met you?
Well, both times I was waiting at the stage door.
Well, I am a fan, but actually as I said, it was . . .
you know . . . business. (Embarrassed.) Well, I
don't expect you want to talk about it. (With nervous
jocularity.) Actually I was waiting with one of those
annoying bits of paper . . . (he waves the writ which
he has unconsciously taken from his pocket) . . . about
. . . you know . . , silly old Income Tax. A
429
ACT ONE
writ. Yes, that's right. I ... Hullo? Hullo?
(The caller has gone, and he replaces the receiver?)
[He rises, takes a few irresolute steps , then moves up to the
French windows. As he takes a step through the windows
to look at the garden, the voices of Tom Davenport and
Margaret Ross are heard. Mr. Wilson stops and looks
towards the door. The door is flung open, and Maggie and
Tom enter. Tom is carrying one or two heavy parcels, and
Maggie has a well-filled carrier bag. They are in the middle
of a heated argument^
TOM: You are absolutely and completely wrong.
MAGGIE : I am absolutely right.
\Torn dumps his pare els I\
TOM: Listen! (He is about to speak.}
MAGGIE : No ! You listen 1 It is the first night of your
revue. Think what that means. . , .
TOM: It won't be the first night of the first revue I've
ever written. I have, after all. . . .
MAGGIE: It's just that I want the revue to be all
right ... so you'll have some money and . . . and
we'll possibly be able to. ...
TOM: There's no possibly about it. I've told you.
We'll be married. . . .
MAGGIE: When your ship comes home.
TOM: Yes.
MAGGIE: I'm beginning to wonder whether, some
where over the horizon, your old ship hasn't sunk.
TOM: No, no. Darling, you know I've got this
journalist coming this morning. I don't think you'd
better be here, do you ?
MAGGIE: Why not?
TOM : It might give the wrong impression.
430
BOTH ENDS MEET
MAGGIE: You are ridiculous. D'you think he's going
to suppose I'm living in your flat ?
TOM: Well . . . you are an actress, and . . . I'm
only thinking of your reputation. Now, you run
upstairs to your own little flat. . . .
[He turns with her and faces Wilson]
WILSON: I'm so sorry. Did I give you a fright? The
charlady let me in. She said. . . .
TOM: I'm so terribly sorry. How are you? I
hadn't realised it was so late. Would you excuse me
for one minute? I'll just put these things in the
kitchen. You know Miss Ross, of course, Margaret
Ross. I'll be one second and then I'll be able to
answer any questions you like. (Going?) You'll have
a drink, won't you ?
WILSON (stunned) : Oh ... er ... no ... I don't
think. . . .
TOM: Of course you will. Maggie, look after the
Press. Whiskey, brandy, gin. . . .
WILSON: Oh, I never touch them. (With a faint
smile?) Too expensive.
TOM: Expense, what does that matter? (Gaily.}
Entertaining! It all comes off the Income Tax.
Shan't be a second.
[He has gone.}
[Mr. Wilson gives Maggie a watery smile, .]
MAGGIE (at drink table): What will you have?
WILSON: No, I really won't . . . Not while I'm
. . . working, so to speak.
MAGGIE: I suppose you have to be careful.
[Mr. Wilson looks at her enquiringly.]
431
ACT ONS
I imagine people are offering you drinks all day long ?
WILSON (pulled) : No, I can't say they are.
MAGGIE: Really? Your colleagues, all the ones I've
met. . . .
WILSON: You've had some of my . . . colleagues to
see you ?
MAGGIE (faintly surprised) : Yes.
WILSON (be leans forward sympathetically): I'm so sorry.
MAGGIE: But they've always been charming. , . .
WILSON (eagerly): Well, that's what I say. I mean,
just because we do an unpleasant job, it doesn't
mean we're unpleasant.
MAGGIE (pulled) : Excuse me, but I don't think you
can be what I thought you were. Are you a reporter ?
WILSON: No.
MAGGIE: I'm sorry. Mr. Davenport's expecting
someone from a newspaper. We thought it was you.
(Suddenly.) Unpleasant? Did you say your job was
unpleasant ?
WILSON : Well, I mean, it's not nice.
MAGGIE: What is it?
WILSON: Well, it's just that . . . I've come with one
of these annoying old things. (He half shows the writ,
and replaces //.)
MAGGIE: One of what annoying old things ?
[He half shows it again.}
Is it a bill?
WILSON: Not exactly.
MAGGIE: Well, what is it?
WILSON: It's a ... you know ... a stupid old
writ.
MAGGIE: A w;/?
WILSON: For silly old Income Tax.
MAGGIE: But he told me he'd paid it.
432
BOTH ENDS MEET
WILSON: Well, I don't know . . . but there it is.
MAGGIE (overwhelmed with black misery)-. Now it's
writs 1 We shall never be married.
WILSON: Oh, now. . . .
MAGGIE: Never! I can see that quite clearly. Never!
(She stares ahead of her.)
\Torn re-enters. For the benefit of the Press, he is a little
over-vivacious '.]
TOM : Well, here we are ! All merry and bright. Fm
delighted to see you — always glad to welcome the
Press. (To Mr. Wilson.) You haven't got a drink.
That won't do. (Suddenly.) Do you like champagne ?
I've got some wonderful champagne. Krug, 1945.
Very difficult to get. My Aunt Sophie sent it to me
last Christmas. Poor old dear, she died last week
in Switzerland. Six bottles of Krug, she sent me, and
she wasn't at all well off. Just say the word and I'll
go and get a bottle.
WILSON (horrified) : No !
[Tom stops.]
You can't give me champagne.
TOM (immensely cheerful) : If we can't give you cham
pagne, who can we give it to ? (He has turned with a
bright smile to Maggie.)
MAGGIE: Who indeed?
TOM: You must have something. Whiskey, sherry,
Dubonnet ? (About to pour.)
WILSON (quickly): No, no, I never touch it. Port's
the only thing I ever. . . .
TOM: Port. Fine.
WILSON: But not now. . . .
\His voice falls away despairingly, as Tom pours a large
port.}
433
ACT ONE
»
Well, only very small.
TOM: Do sit down and relax and be comfortable.
Sit down. Now, are you quite comfortable there?
You wouldn't like a cushion ? (Goes and gets one.)
Have a cushion. Make yourself at home. Relax.
Put your feet up. (Sitting.) Now, about the new
revue. Of course, it's only half written . . . I'm
doing the lyrics and sketches ... I think we'll have
a very good cast . . . (laughing) . . . and I must say,
if we've got nothing else, we have got one excellent
idea.
MAGGIE : You're going to need it.
TOM: What?
MAGGIE : May I make a suggestion ?
TOM: Of course.
MAGGIE: Let him do the talking.
[Torn is about to speak.}
Just let him get a word in edgeways.
WILSON: It's the embarrassment. (Distressed.) I
should have spoken ... I shouldn't have. . . .
Oh, I bate my job.
TOM (incredulous): You hate your job? But it must
be such fun. Always meeting new people. Going
into their homes.
WILSON: I'm not a reporter, Mr. Davenport. I've
come with this.
TOM: What is it?
MAGGIE : I wouldn't be at all surprised if it weren't a
writ.
TOM: Don't be silly, dear. (To Mr. Wilson.) What's it
about ?
WILSON: Income Tax.
TOM: Income Tax?
WILSON: Yes, silly old Income Tax. Ought to be
done away with, I say.
434
BOTH ENDS MEET
TOM (with some grandeur): But my dear fellow, you
can't come barging into my home and present me
with bills for Income Tax.
MAGGIE : It's no use saying he can't. He's here.
WILSON : I really am very sorry, but I'm just doing my
job. . . .
TOM: Doing your job? (Pouring the port back Into the
bottle?) But what sort of a job is it, I'd like to know.
Pushing your way into . . . into law-abiding citi
zens' houses. I . . . I'm a rate-payer.
MAGGIE: That's got nothing to do with anything.
TOM (turning on her}: I wish you'd be a little more
helpful.
MAGGIE (at him) : I don't feel helpful. You swore
that you'd paid your Income Tax. . . .
TOM: I have paid it. Perhaps they haven't noticed.
(Loftily, to Mr. Wilson.} There's some silly mistake.
You take that back to your people and tell them
there's some silly mistake.
WILSON : I'm afraid I can't do that. . . .
MAGGIE: Why don't you read it?
TOM: I haven't got my glasses. Anyway, what's the
point of reading it? (Looking for his glasses.) Really,
I don't know what's happening to this country.
(Turning to Mr. Wilson.) If I owe the butcher some
money, he doesn't come here and wave his bill in
my face. The milkman, the grocer — they don't be
have like this. Well, really — if the butcher, the milk
man and the grocer can behave like gentlemen, I
think it's high time the British Government learned
to do the same. (He has found his glasses, puts them on,
and looks at the paper. Suddenly:) It's a writ !
WILSON (miserably): Yes.
TOM (in utter despair) : But . . . but this is the end of
everything. (He sits.)
WILSON (miserably)'. It's not right, it really isn't.
435
ACT ONE
I think they're overdoing all this Income Tax
business, I really do. ...
MAGGIE : How much is it ?
TOM: Three hundred pounds. (To Maggie*} I haven't
got. . . .
[Maggie coughs quickly]
Surely . . . surely they should have warned me,
before. . . .
WILSON: I expect they wrote to your accountant.
MAGGIE: He rang up a fortnight ago, if you re
member. You told me to say you were abroad,
because you hadn't. . . .
TOM (quickly): Yes I Yes, but still. . . . (He looks
at Mr. Wilson.) Well, what happens ?
WILSON (eagerly) : Well, either you settle up, and then
everyone's happy . . . (Getting no response., he adds in
a saddened voice) ... or else it's the proceedings.
You know — the Court, and all that.
TOM: The proceedings 1 The Court and all that!
(Incensed?) Marvellous, isn't it ? I'm supposed to be
earning my living — writing a revue. (Savagely.)
Witty lyrics — screamingly funny sketches! They're
going to be hilarious. What splendid ideas I shall
have as I jog along to Court in the Black Maria.
The proceedings, the Court and all that. . . .
\The doorbell rings.]
(Quickly) If it's the reporter, you'd better say I'm
out.
[Maggie goes, leaving the door open.]
(To Mr. Wilson — indicating the door.) That poor girl!
436
BOTH ENDS MEET
We've been wanting to get married for years — now
she finds herself linked to a potential convict.
WILSON: Oh, I don't think there's any question of
imprisonment. . . .
[From outside, voices are beard.}
MAGGIE: Clarissa! Hullo, darling. How well you're
looking.
CLARISSA : I've had the most wonderful time.
[J5/ cetera.]
TOM (quickly going and shutting the door) : It's my niece.
She's been abroad. Would you mind if I said you
were . . . what?
WILSON: An old Army friend?
TOM : Very good idea.
WILSON: If there's callers, I'm nearly always passed
off as an old Army friend.
TOM : Oh, good. That is kind of you. . . .
\Tbe door opens and Clarissa enters^
CLARISSA: Uncle Tom? (She is delighted to see kim>
and flings her arms round his neck.} Darling. I am glad
to see you.
TOM : Did you have a lovely time ?
[Maggie has re-entered.]
CLARISSA: Lovely — heavenly 1 Darling, Cornel It's
the most beautiful of all. Why don't we go and live
there?
TOM: Why not? In the ruins.
CLARISSA: I've never had such a holiday. It was. . . .
(She turns and comes face to face with Mr. Wilson?)
437
ACT ONE
TOM: Oh, Clarissa. This is an old Army friend of
mine. Mr. ... er ... how stupid. Til forget my
own name next. . , .
WILSON: Wilson.
TOM: Wilson, of course.
WILSON: How d'you do?
CLARISSA (to Tom): Oh, could you lend me ten
shillings . . . for the taxi ?
TOM: Ten shillings ? From Victoria ?
CLARISSA: Darling, just ten shillings.
TOM (having looked}: I haven't got ten shillings.
CLARISSA: Maggie, could you. . . ?
[Maggie shrugs.}
(Before she can be stopped.} Mr. Wilson ? Would you
mind awfully. . . .
TOM (horrified}: Clarissa! Really!
CLARISSA (surprised}: But you said he was an old
friend.
TOM: Well, he is an old friend, but one doesn't .
er . . . one doesn't want to. ...
CLARISSA: I'll give it back the next time I see him.
MAGGIE: You might not see him again.
CLARISSA: Oh, isn't he staying in the house?
[Maggie looks at Tow.]
MAGGIE: I really don't know.
WILSON (who has been searching, and has found a ten-
shzlhng note.} Look, it's quite all right. You could
always post it.
CLARISSA: Thank you so much, that is kind of you.
Shan't be a second.
[She goes.]
TOM: I'm so sorry,
438
BOTH ENDS MEET
WILSON: Quite all right. Makes me feel a bit ... a
bit more human.
TOM: You really are unhappy in your work, aren't
you?
WILSON: Oh, I hate it.
MAGGIE: Tom, I've had an idea . . . (she turns to
Mr. Wilson) ... are you allowed to take a cheque?
WILSON: Oh yes.
MAGGIE (turning to Tom with a bright smile) : Well,
then? Everything's all right.
[He, perplexed, is about to speak. Maggie's brightness
becomes steely.}
Everything's all right!
TOM: Is it?
MAGGIE (to Tom)\ I'll write a cheque and you can
sign it. Can't you ?
TOM : Yes, I can.
WILSON : Oh well ! That's a happy relief to one and
all.
TOM: You know, it's not your fault but your people
are driving me mad. There was a time when I was
quite a calm, good-natured sort of person. I'd walk
in the Park, I'd sniff the air and feel well, I'd look
at the trees, I'd pat the poodles. What happens now ?
I sniff the air and think, " What's the good of feeling
well? It only means I'll live longer and have more
tax to pay ". As for the poodles, I just look at them
and think, " Why couldn't I have been born a
poodle ? Washed, fed, petted, taken for walks ".
(He signs the chequed)
MAGGIE: Never mind, perhaps you'll come back as a
poodle.
TOM: If you think once having gone, I'm coming
back, you're out of your mind.
439
ACT ONE
MAGGIE: Well, that's that.
[Clarissa re-en ters.~\
WILSON: Thank you so much.
MAGGIE: And I expect you'd like this back.
WILSON: Oh yes, the silly old . . . doings.
MAGGIE: Yes, well, goodbye. So sorry you have to
g°-
TOM (going to Mr. Wl/son) : It has been nice seeing you.
WILSON (to Maggie) : Good-bye. (To Clarissa.) Good
bye.
CLARISSA: Good-bye, Mr. Wilson.
TOM (escorting him to the door): Do come again . . .
(hurriedly) . . . not on business, of course.
[They go through the door, talking.]
CLARISSA: Oh, Maggie. I'm in such a fever of
excitement. Oh, and I bought you these off a barrow.
(She picks up and hands her a bunch of flowers.)
MAGGIE: Clarissa! . . . They smell divine,
\Torn re-enters]
TOM: Well! Dear old Wilson's gone.
CLARISSA: Is he a dear? I thought he seemed a bit
shady. As if you might . . . find something
valuable missing after he'd gone.
MAGGIE (at Tom)-. I can assure you that Mr. Wilson
has not gone off with anything of the least value.
TOM (whole-heartedly}'. No, indeed. Maggie, I'd like
to ask you. . . .
MAGGIE (quickly): Yes, of course, but I must just. . . .
(She bos unwrapped the flowers.) Oh, Clarissa. These are
lovely.
CLARISSA (dismayed): Oh! But they're half dead
already.
440
BOTH ENDS MEET
MAGGIE: No, no. Just a little tired.
CLARISSA: I'll put them in water.
[Maggie hands them to Tom to hand to Clarissa, who
hurries out.}
TOM : Maggie ! What about that cheque ?
MAGGIE: It was perfectly all right, except that I put
next year's date.
[They smile at each other, then laugh.}
TOM: Oh, Maggie. Maggie, darling. (Hugging her.)
You are the brightest, sweetest little ... I don't
know what.
MAGGIE : I hope I'm not a bright, sweet little crook.
TOM: Of course not. You made a mistake.
MAGGIE : That's what I thought. Now we've got that
nasty writ out of the house it'll give you time to
think.
TOM: Think! The first thought that occurs to me
is that sooner or later, he'll be back.
MAGGIE: We'll just have to fly to the front window
and look, and if it's him pretend you're out. We'd
better telephone Jimmy.
TOM: Why?
MAGGIE : Well, he is your solicitor. (She goes to the
telephone).
TOM : You are sweet to take it so calmly.
MAGGIE (looking in small telephone booty : Well, what's
the use of. ...
TOM: Yes, but that's what's so wonderful about you.
You don't fuss and fume, and make the obvious
remarks about it being all my fault. (Mimicking.)
" Of course you had a good financial year four years
ago, dear, but you should have saved at least half of
it, so that two years later when you'd forgotten you'd
441
ACT ONE
ever earned it, you could give it all back to the dear,
kind Government."
MAGGIE: Tom. I want to talk to you. Seriously.
Don't let's think about getting married.
TOM: What?
MAGGIE: I mean, don't let's think about getting
married now. We know we're going to be married
one day. Why don't I just frankly and openly move
in here ?
TOM (deathly serious): Maggie! This is not the first
time you've made this . . . frankly unpleasant
suggestion.
MAGGIE (suddenly going into gales of laughter): Oh!
You are silly.
TOM: It's not silly to have a moral sense.
MAGGIE (still laughing) : Oh, la-di-da ! You know the
truth about you. You're a martyr to your conscience.
Cromwell, that's who you are.
TOM: All right, I have a conscience. It is an un
pleasant suggestion. I'd be appallingly uncomfortable
. . . for you as well as for myself. And so would you
be.
MAGGIE: But why"? Nobody would mind.
TOM: Oh no. Nobody would mind. They'd think it
very gay and jolly and great fun. But I love you.
MAGGIE: Well?
TOM (inarticulate}: Well? Among other things, that
means I respect you.
MAGGIE: And if I moved in here, you'd secretly
think of me as a loose woman ?
[Tom makes a frustrated gesture.}
Oh, darling, I know. (She draws him to her:} You're
muddled and rather pompous, but never mind.
[They kiss.]
442
BOTH ENDS MEET
Your solicitor seems to be out.
TOM: I'm not muddled or pompous. Good heavens !
We know the way this country's arranged. A couple
of married wage-earners pay five times more tax than
a couple of unmarried ones living cosily together.
But I'm already forced to pass dud cheques, forced
to ny to the window to see whether or not I can
open my own front door. I certainly do not intend
to be forced into living in sin, simply to diddle the
Inland Revenue.
MAGGIE (into telephone)*. Hullo? Is Mr. Scott-
Kennedy there, please? Well, if he comes in or
telephones, will you say Mr. Davenport would like
to speak to him? Thanks very much. (Replacing the
receiver and turning?) You know, the last time I
suggested moving in here, you had quite a different
objection. You said Aunt Sophie might get to hear
of it, and think how shocked she'd be.
TOM: So she would have been. Terribly shocked.
MAGGIE : Well, that doesn't apply any more, does it ?
TOM : Darling ! When we are married. . . .
MAGGIE: When! D'you know something? The day
you ask me to marry you, I made a list on a piece of
paper of the wedding presents I wanted. You should
see that piece of paper now. It isn't paper at all.
It's papyrus. And half the things on the list have
gone off the market.
TOM: You will admit it'd be madness to rush into
marriage at the moment, when I haven't a bean.
MAGGIE (thinking) : D'you think Aunt Sophie might
have left you something? You said she had a
lovely house in Paris — a large house. . . .
TOM: That was ages ago. She's been living for years
in a small hotel in Geneva.
MAGGIE : That suggests she was very rich.
TOM (catching her excitement} : Oh, Maggie. Wouldn't
443
ACT ONE
it be wonderful ? I am her nearest relative. Suppose
it were five thousand !
MAGGIE: Ten.
TOM: Ten thousand. Think what we could do with
ten thousand.
MAGGIE (in a dream): You could pay your Income
Tax.
TOM (in a dream) : We could get married. (Suddenly.)
Do you know who's really the reason we can't get
married ?
MAGGIE: The Chancellor of the Exchequer?
TOM: No. I was looking it up yesterday. This may
surprise you. (He picks up a reference book.) Income
Tax was invented by William Pitt.
MAGGIE: Dear old William.
TOM : Invented by William Pitt to pay for the wars
with Napoleon.
MAGGIE : Dear old Napoleon.
TOM: If we're still paying Income Tax because of
Napoleon, we ought to get cut rates on the French
railways. " After Waterloo Income Tax was done
away with but it was revived by Sir Robert Peel."
Dear old Sir Robert, who not only brought back
Income Tax but invented policemen to arrest you if
you couldn't pay it.
[Clarissa enters."]
CLARISSA: Uncle Torn! Maggie 1 I've got some news
for you. While I was away I met the most wonderful
young man. I don't mean a handsome, glamorous
Prince Charming or anything of that sort. Just as
well. After all, Fm not exactly Cinderella. His name
is Edward Kinnerton, and he's perfect.
TOM: Where did you meet him?
CLARISSA: In Rome. Then when I went on to
444
BOTH ENDS MEET
Stockholm, he took a plane and suddenly appeared
there.
TOM (frowning) : Chasing you around ? That doesn't
sound . . . Clarissa! There wasn't anything ... I
mean, you haven't. . . .
MAGGIE (laughs} : There you are. Nasty old Cromwell
in a black hat.
TOM: I must remind you that I'm not only Clarissa's
uncle, but also her guardian. . . .
CLARISSA: Oh darling, you don't understand.
Edward's everything one could wish. As correct as
he can be. But not too correct. He can be very gay
and dashing.
MAGGIE : What does he do ?
CLARISSA : Something to do with finance.
TOM (quickly) : Finance ? Is he a banker ?
CLARISSA: Well, no. He's ... we didn't go into it
deeply . . . he's an accountant.
TOM : An accountant !
MAGGIE : That is interesting.
TOM: He sounds ... all right.
MAGGIE: He sounds . . . very nice.
CLARISSA: Do be kind to him. (To Maggie.} He isn't
staggering looking — at least I think he is but I see
other people mightn't — but I do love him and I do
want to marry him. So may I ?
TOM : Well, we'll have to see him first.
CLARISSA: He'll be here any minute. He's got a
room in Ebury Street — I dropped him there, and
went in just to have a look — that's why the taxi was
so much — and I told him to give me five minutes to
explain.
[The doorbell rings.]
This'll be him.
445
ACT ONE
MAGGIE (quickly., trying to slop her): No, no. It might
be Mr. Wilson.
CLARISSA (in the doorway) : Well ?
MAGGIE: Well . . . Tom doesn't want to see Mr.
Wilson again.
CLARISSA: I'll look at the legs through the letter-box.
[Clarissa has gone.}
MAGGIE (quietly) : An accountant.
TOM: Mm!
MAGGIE: In the family! Not to be sneezed at.
TOM: No, indeed. Very useful.
[Clarissa re-enters.}
CLARISSA: Uncle Tom. Maggie. (She calls.}
[Edward enters.}
This is Edward.
TOM: How d'you do?
MAGGIE: Hullo.
EDWARD: I hope I'm not a nuisance, arriving like
this. It was Clarissa's idea. I felt it was a bit much.
TOM: Not at all. Delighted. (Indicating a chair}
EDWARD: I expect it's a surprise, about Clarissa and
me.. (He smiles^ I hope it isn't a shock.
TOM: No, of course not.
CLARISSA (to Maggie — sniffing): Something delicious
cooking. . . .
MAGGIE: Oh, I'd forgotten it. (To Edward.) Will
you excuse me ?
EDWARD : Oh, are you going ?
MAGGIE: Only to the kitchen.
TOM: Maggie sometimes comes down and cooks for
me. . . .
MAGGIE: Sometimes?
446
BOTH ENDS MEET
TOM (quickly): She has a flat on the first floor.
(Definitely.) A small self-contained flat — with its own
front door.
EDWARD: Oh?
TOM: We're engaged. We're going to be married.
EDWARD: Oh really? When?
TOM : Er , . . we haven't quite fixed the date.
MAGGIE (in the doorway) : We just hope when we do we
won't be too old to get to the church.
[Maggie goes.]
EDWARD: Well, I expect you'd like to know some
thing about me.
TOM: Oh . . . no hurry.
\The telephone rings.}
Excuse me. Hullo? (With a rather false laugh.) Oh,
hullo! (To Edward.) It's my accountant. (Tom is a
little flustered?) Clarissa, wouldn't you like to show
Edward the garden?
CLARISSA : What for ?
TOM: Not/0;" anything. I just thought he might like
to see the garden.
CLARISSA (to Edward) : There's not very much of it,
but what there is is charming.
[Torn gives Edward a bright social smile as he goes.]
(into telephone)-. I haven't what? (Innocently.) Oh,
haven't I? Some oversight. I'll see about it. (He
listens.) I know. Three hundred. No, not five
hundred. Three hundred. (Aghast.) Five hundred ?
On top of the three hundred? Super-tax? What
d'you mean, super? Super what? Nothing super's
447
ACT ONE
happened to me for the last four years. Did I?
When? Two years ago! And that was super! Was
It ? (Infuriated.) But you can't expect me to remember
things that happened two years ago. You know the
trouble with those Inland Revenue boys ? They live
too much in the past. (Blackly depressed.) Oh yes,
I've noted it. Thank you. Good-bye.
[As he replaces the receiver, "Edward and Clarissa re-enter.]
EDWARD: Your tomatoes are doing well.
TOM: I'm glad to hear something's doing well.
Income Tax! Supertax! What Fd like to do to those
tax collectors. How I hate them! I'd like to take
one of them by the throat, and very, very slowly. . . .
MAGGIE (re-appearing in the doorway) : Tom, could you
come and have a look at the sink ? I think it's choked.
TOM: Of course it's choked. The whole of Britain's
choked with rage, frustration and Income Tax.
MAGGIE : As you can do nothing about the whole of
Britain, perhaps you'll come into the kitchen and do
something about the sink ?
TOM: I'll be delighted to come into the kitchen —
where you and I, my love — can put our heads slowly
but firmly into the oven.
\Torn goes.]
MAGGIE: Don't worry. It's an electric oven.
[Maggie goes.]
CLARISSA: You mustn't think this household's
always like this, Uncle Tom's usually quite calm.
It's just that, any mention of Income Tax sends him
off into a frenzy.
448
BOTH ENDS MEET
EDWARD: Clarissa, dear, I hope you'll understand
this. Those ten days in Rome and that week in
Stockholm were the most wonderful time of my life.
[She puts her arms round him.}
So I didn't want anything to spoil it.
CLARISSA: Nothing did.
EDWARD: I told you a good deal about myself.
But now we're back. . . . (He stops.}
CLARISSA (frozen): You're going to tell me you're
already married.
[Edward laughs.]
EDWARD : Of course. With nine children.
CLARISSA: Oh darling — my heart stopped. It
stopped. I've gone ice-cold.
EDWARD : It's nothing like that. It's just — about the
office. I told you what I do. . . .
CLARISSA: Yes, darling. You have an office in
Westminster, and you're an accountant, and you have
a secretary called. . . .
EDWARD : I didn't say I was an accountant.
CLARISSA: Yes, you did. We'd had that wonderful
lunch in the Piazza Navona, and I was in. ...
EDWARD : You were obviously in a haze of Chianti,
because I certainly said nothing about being an
accountant. I work in an office of the Commissioners
of Inland Revenue.
[There is a slight pause. ~\
CLARISSA: Oh, glory! (She dashes to the door and
shuts //.) Oh, darling! This is worse than the nine
children. Oh, heavens! What are we going to do?
EDWARD: Look here! It's a perfectly respectable
job. I earn quite a good salary.
*5 449
ACT ONE
CLARISSA: Oh, I know, I know. But that's not the
point. (Distraught. She pats him as she passes.) Oh
dear, oh dear! How are we going to tell Uncle Tom ?
EDWARD: Well, couldn't we just . . . drop it in
casually ?
CLARISSA: Drop it in casually? You mean like
saying, Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you, Edward
is the Public Executioner.
EDWARD: I did try to tell you in Rome.
CLARISSA: Well, you weren't very explicit.
EDWARD: I suppose I really didn't mean to be.
CLARISSA : Why not ?
EDWARD (miserably)-. Well . . . because of spoiling
everything. I do a perfectly good job of work —
very interesting work. I got interested in it, then I
became fascinated, and it wasn't until I was in it up
to my neck and doing pretty well that I realised what
I represent to the world at large. The Public Execu
tioner.
CLARISSA: Oh, nonsense.
EDWARD: You've just said it.
CLARISSA : I didn't mean I thought you were.
EDWARD: But . . . but people do. It's awful. I
. . . I've seen people move away from me in bars.
Fellows I was at school with. They move away, look
at me and mutter. Sometimes I wake in the night
and think, This is terrible. I'm a social pariah. . . .
CLARISSA (laughing) : Oh, Edward. Darling, don't be
silly. (She kisses him.) Now, about Uncle Tom. We
obviously can't tell him now.
W3W&&D (alarmed): Oh no! He'd throw me out of the
place.
CLARISSA: You and I will talk it over later, and think
up something. . . .
\Torn re-enters.]
450
BOTH ENDS MEET
TOM : Now, Edward — can I give you a drink ?
EDWARD: Thanks. Could I have a pink gin?
TOM (at drink table) : Pink gin. Fine. (He picks up a
bottle?) So you're an accountant ?
EDWARD (faintly) : What?
TOM (occupied): Must be a very interesting job. Do
you enjoy it?
EDWARD: Er. . . .
CLARISSA : He's very fond of it.
TOM: Good! (Handing him the drink.) How I envy
you.
EDWARD (with a nervous smile) : Oh — really ?
TOM : Thwarting those horrible buff envelope boys.
(Lost in a dream.} How I'd like to go to an office
every day, and spend all my time thinking up new
ways of doing them in the eye.
CLARISSA (quickly): Well! Perhaps I'd better go and
unpack.
EDWARD (eagerly) : Can I help you ?
CLARISSA: Well. . . .
[Maggie re-enters.}
TOM : You'll be pleased to hear, Clarissa, that Maggie
thinks Edward is absolutely gorgeous.
MAGGIE (furious) : I didn't say gorgeous. (To Edward.)
I simply said that you looked very nice. Which you
do.
CLARISSA (to Maggie) : I'm going to unpack.
EDWARD : Can I. . . ?
CLARISSA: No, no. You stay. I shan't be long.
[Clarissa goes quickly.}
MAGGIE: Edward, how did you two first meet?
EDWARD: In Rome. In the Forum. Clarissa asked
me for a light.
ACT ONE
TOM: I wonder how people became acquainted be
fore the invention of matches.
EDWARD : Then she said could I tell her which was
the Temple of the Vestal Virgins.
MAGGIE: Oh, I do see it was all bound to happen.
TOM: I'm delighted it has. So is Maggie.
MAGGIE: You know she's training to be a nurse?
We've always been rather scared she might marry a
doctor. Not that one's got anything against doctors.
The reverse. But it's the life
[Edward is centre^ with Tom and Maggie on each side of
him.]
TOM: Well, there are compensations. (To Edward.}
I should think a doctor can make quite a bit on the
side, wouldn't you ?
EDWARD: How d'you mean?
MAGGIE: Asking for cash down, so he doesn't have
to show it in his returns.
EDWARD: Oh, no.
TOM (smiling) : It has been done, you know.
EDWARD : But doctors are men of integrity.
TOM: Doctors are men. And men, even men of
integrity, are being driven by impossible demands to
do dark deeds.
MAGGIE: You must know all about that, in your line
of business.
EDWARD: Well—not really.
TOM: Oh, now. You're just being tactful. We all
three know that the most honest of men. . . . Well,
take me for example.
[Edward smiles uncomfortably.]
No, I mean it. I've always been completely honest.
452
BOTH ENDS MEET
Declared every penny I've earned, and every expense
I've claimed has been legitimate. What's the result?
(Lying back mth a glass in his band?) I'm in the gutter.
EDWARD: Of course, I know everybody has a
difficult time. . . .
TOM: Difficult? In my profession, it's practically
impossible. I can't say to Mr. Sylvester . . .
Sylvester's the big boss. Owns the theatres, puts on
the shows. ... I can't say, Well, Mr. Sylvester,
there are your revue sketches. Now perhaps you'd
just like to leave a little something in cash on the
desk. I can't do that.
MAGGIE: Edward. I was talking to Tom in the
kitchen, and telling him he ought to ask your advice.
EDWARD (apprehensive)'. What about?
MAGGIE: Well — how to do it.
EDWARD: Do what?
MAGGIE: Cheat.
[Edward looks at her.]
Swindle. You must know all sorts of good, artful,
legal ways of getting out of paying.'
EDWARD: If I may say so, I don't see how a swindle
could be legal.
MAGGIE: Don't you? If I were to tell you a few
things about Mr. Sylvester, that great theatre boss,
you might change your mind. (About to continued)
EDWARD (quickly)'. Perhaps you'd better not tell me.
MAGGIE: Mind you, the theatrical side's all above
board. It's his other ventures. . . ,
EDWARD (again breaking in quickly) : Whatever he does,
it can't be legal. There's the law, and there's breaking
the law. Don't you agree?
MAGGIE: No. Life's always on the move, the law's
always rigid. Nowadays, trying to conform to the
453
ACT ONE
law is much the same as trying to walk about in
Tudor corsets.
TOM (after a fraction of a pause, straight to Edward):
Edward, what Aoyou think's the best way of getting
out of paying Income Tax?
[There is another slight pause.}
Yes, do think about it carefully before you answer.
(Frowning.) I have been told something about
buying up bankrupt hat-shops, but I don't know. . .
MAGGIE: I do. You're not buying any bankrupt
hat-shops. A., you've nothing to buy them with.
B., the whole thing would go wrong, and I'd finish
up wearing all the bankrupt hats.
TOM (to Edward): Just simple swindling, I suppose,
isn't a good idea ?
[Edward looks at him and hurriedly looks elsewhere.]
I mean, frankly altering figures.
EDWARD : A very bad idea, I should say.
TOM: Pity. Maggie's very neat with her fingers.
MAGGIE (to Tom): You know, I don't see why
Sylvester shouldn't pay you in cash. He's up to every
trick in the business. Why shouldn't you benefit?
TOM: I have asked him for better terms.
MAGGIE: Are you going to get them?
TOM (uncomfortably} : He's thinking it over.
MAGGIE (angrily): We know what that means!
Really, it's monstrous. (To Edward.) There's that
man, Sylvester, getting away with murder. Do you
know I've been told he's got a chain of fish and chip
shops all over Britain ? Oh, very carefully in another
name, of course. His name and the profits carefully
concealed. . . .
EDWARD (uncomfortable) : I don't think. . . .
454
BOTH ENDS MEET
MAGGIE: For two pins I'd denounce him to the
Inland Revenue, but of course they'd never catch
him, he being so smart, and they such half-wits.
And it's not only fish and chip shops. The elegant
Mr. Sylvester, who is to be seen dining in the
smartest restaurants, controls a fleet of barrow boys.
TOM : You don't know that.
MAGGIE: I do know it. A hundred barrows, he
controls, with no cash records kept. How do you
suppose he manages to have a Rolls Royce, a
Bentley, two other cars, houses in London and the
country, a villa in France. I ask you. And I'll tell you
another thing. That secretary of his. The elderly
woman with grey hair. (To Edward.) That, if you
please, is his mother,
EDWARD (startled): His mother?
MAGGIE: Every Friday she draws her salary of
twenty pounds a week — off the Income Tax it
comes — every Saturday in she pops, closes the door
carefully, and hands back to her darling boy twenty
pounds in cash. Well, there's a thousand a year free
of Income Tax, to begin with.
EDWARD : Oh, not as much as that. . . .
MAGGIE: Well, whatever it is. And you can be sure
he's got a hundred other little devices equally
charming and simple.
TOM (excited): But that's a wonderful idea. Why
didn't you tell me before? (To Maggie) You're
my secretary. I pay you five hundred a year. (To
Edward.) I give her ten pounds a week and she gives
it back. What could be better than that?
EDWARD: I ... I don't think I'm a very good
person to ask.
TOM: Well, you must admit it's simple?
EDWARD : Not really. She'd have to pay tax on that
five hundred.
455
ACT ONE
MAGGIE: Typical, to pay tax on five hundred pounds
I don't even get.
TOM: Edward. (Appealing.} Come on. Give me
some helpful advice.
EDWARD: You really want me to?
TOM: Yes.
\Torn and Maggie lean toward Edward, in rapt attention^
EDWARD: Well, here it is. Pay up and smile.
\Torn and Maggie exchange a rather dumbfounded look.]
TOM : Is that the advice you give your clients ?
EDWARD: Oh yes. Definitely!
MAGGIE : Are you doing well ?
EDWARD: Yes.
TOM: Fancy.
EDWARD (cheerfully}: After all, it's in a good cause.
Putting the country on its feet.
TOM: My dear Edward, in the last twenty years I
have put on its feet — possibly not the entire country
—but certainly the whole of Wiltshire and part of
Dorset.
EDWARD: We live in difficult financial times. And
we're not out of the wood yet.
TOM: Why come out? Personally, I'd like to stay
in it. ^
MAGGIE: Nice shady wood.
TOM: Full of nice shady people. . .
EDWARD: Oh, you don't mean that. On the whole,
people are pretty honest, you know. Of course, this
man Sylvester, if what you say is true, he ought to
be looked into.
\CIarissa re-enters.]
456
BOTH ENDS MEET
CLARISSA (putting her arm through Edward's) : I thought
we might be married at the church round the corner.
I'd have a white wedding dress . . . and two
pages. . . .
MAGGIE: Oh, I wouldn't. Pages are always disaster.
They either stand on the bride's train, or lift it so
high, the guests think they're at the Folies Bergeres.
(Going to Tom?) Tom, we won't have pages, will we ?
TOM: We won't even have guests.
MAGGIE: What?
TOM: You know perfectly well we couldn't be
married publicly.
MAGGIE: What do you mean?
TOM (to ILdward): Maggie and I are both wage-
earners. If we marry, our incomes are added to
gether and we're taxed even higher. Well, you know
about that.
EDWARD: Yes. Oh, yes.
TOM : But I've had an idea. (To Maggie?) I was going
to tell you. I ran into a man I know the other day —
he's now in the Merchant Navy, in a little coaling
ship that sails all round Britain. But that isn't all.
He's the Captain. The Captain of the ship. He could
marry us without anyone knowing. Now, here's my
idea. We embark at night at Tilbury. We sail for
Newcastle-on-Tyne. Somewhere in the North Sea,
between Tilbury and Newcastle, we are married.
Nobody knows. You can move in and live here, and
though the world may think what it will, we four will
secretly know we're a respectable married couple.
Of course, nobody must ever be told. If you're ever
questioned, you must swear the relationship is an
immoral one.
[The other three are definitely da^ed.]
MAGGIE (suddenly bursting out, with passion and vehemence?)
457
ACT ONE
Oh,-no! (She strides about the room.} Oh, no, no, no!
Now you've reached the peaks of madness.
TOM : The laws are mad, not me. To evade mad laws,
one must do mad things.
MAGGIE: I am a woman. I want to be married in
church, wearing white. You say " No," because of
the laws, that's to be given up. You are not going
to wait in a morning coat for me to come down the
aisle in white satin. Nol In a coaling ship, some
where off Clacton-on-Sea, you and I are to be brought
before the Captain on stretchers. . . .
TOM : Why on stretchers ?
MAGGIE: Because we're in the North Sea and are
both, if you remember, very poor sailors. There, in
front of the Captain, we two — miserable, sea-sick,
and presumably covered in coal-dust — are to be
united forever in a furtive secrecy unmatched since
the marriage of Mary Queen of Scots and Lord
Darnley.
\Torn is about to speak.}
No! You can forget that. (With an emphatic gesture^)
No!
TOM: Well, I was only trying to. ...
\Thefront doorbell rings. Maggie goes.~\
Be careful! It might be Mr. Wilson. Oh well, what
does it matter?
CLARISSA : You've put her in a rage.
TOM (laughing): Not really. (To Edward.} She's a
wonderful person, Maggie. But isn't it extraordinary
how conservative women are about weddings?
What's the difference whether you're married wearing
orange blossom or a life-belt?
458
BOTH ENDS MEET
[Maggie has re-entered, followed by ]immy Scott-Kennedy.}
JIMMY: Hullo, Tom.
TOM: Jimmy! I didn't mean you to come all this
way. . . .
JIMMY: It's all right. I was in the Knightsbridge
area anyway. Fixing up a nice lucrative divorce. I
telephoned the office, and they told me you'd
telephoned.
TOM: Mr. Kinnerton, a friend of Clarissa's. Mr.
Scott-Kennedy.
JIMMY: How d'you do? Hullo, Clarissa, my dear.
MAGGIE (coming forward, to Torn}-. Now! Now that
we've got off that old coaling ship. . . .
JIMMY: What?
MAGGIE: Sit down, Jimmy. I would like to make a
practical suggestion. (To Jimmy.) This is all to do
with finance, which is the reason Tom wanted to see
you! (To Edward.) Edward, what's your room in
Ebury Street like?
EDWARD : Well — it's a room.
CLARISSA: Maggie means, is it nice. (To Maggie.)
Not very. Rather on the dingy side.
MAGGIE: Well, here's my suggestion. Tom has
this house on a long lease. I have the first floor flat,
Clarissa has two rooms on the second. Now, un
fortunately, Tom's terrible old stick-in-the-mud
accountant insisted on including the modest rent I
pay as part of Tom's income. . . .
EDWARD: Yes. Well, that's perfectly correct. . . .
MAGGIE: Correct it may be, perfect it is not.
JIMMY: Oh no, indeed. (To Edward.) I'm a solicitor,
so I do know what I'm talking about. (Relaxing
with his drink.) The thing to do nowadays with a
house like this is to let off every bit of it you don't
want to friends. Friends who just quietly pay in
459
ACT ONE
cash and no questions asked. Mary and I have been
doing it for years.
TOM : Have you ?
JIMMY: Oh — years. It's all right to talk, isn't it ?
TOM: Yes, of course. We're all friends. Edward's
an accountant.
EDWARD: Er. . . .
JIMMY (to Edward) : Oh well then, I'm not telling you
anything you don't know. Yes, that's the thing to
do. I mean, how d'you think we manage to run a
Bentley?
MAGGIE (to Edward): How much do you pay for
your room?
EDWARD: Four guineas.
MAGGIE: Fine! (To Tom}. We convert the attic floor.
. . . (To Edward.) Edward gets a charming little
flat and Tom gets four guineas a week free of Income
Tax.
TOM : We're saved ! Edward, you'd better move in at
once.
EDWARD: I'm afraid it wouldn't be possible. It's
very kind of you, but I think I'd better stay where I
am.
MAGGIE (astonished) : But you'll have a proper flat. A
nice one.
EDWARD: Yes. I really am most grateful, but . . .
well, I couldn't.
JIMMY: Look, if it's the legal side that's bothering
you, do let me assure you that's perfectly all right.
Scott-Kennedy and Phillips are a most upright and
old-established firm of solicitors. We wouldn't go
in for anything in which — er — in which there was a
chance of
EDWARD: Being found out?
JIMMY: Exactly. And I assure you, my partner, old
Phillips, is doing much better than I am at this letting
460
BOTH ENDS MEET
racket. He's got a huge house just near here —
absolutely packed with friends.
CLARISSA: Well, let's think about it.
TOM : But what's there to think about ?
JIMMY: Obviously you agree there's nothing wrong
in diddling the tax people ?
EDWARD: I don't agree at all.'
CLARISSA: Edward, let's talk about it later. . . .
TOM : You mean you think I'm wrong in offering you
the flat?
EDWARD : Since you ask. . . .
CLARISSA: Edward I
EDWARD: Since you ask, yes I do. You'd get into
most serious trouble if you were found out.
JIMMY : But it couldn't be found out. I/* by any chance
any questions are asked, you're just a friend. But in
point of fact, that'll never come up, because the tax
people will never know, believe me.
EDWARD : I don't believe you.
JIMMY: I beg your pardon?
EDWARD : I said, I don't believe you.
CLARISSA: Edward!
TOM: Not very polite, Mr. Kinnerton, is he? I offer
him a flat, free of Income Tax. . . .
JIMMY: Look herel You say you don't believe
me. . . .
EDWARD : I don't.
CLARISSA: Let's go for a walk. . . .
JIMMY: You don't believe me, in spite of the fact
that I've been successfully operating this racket for
years. Making very nearly six hundred a year out of
it.
EDWARD : How much ?
JIMMY: Six hundred. And the poor old Tax Col
lector hasn't the least idea. Not a clue. (To
Doesn't believe me.
461
ACT ONE
MAGGIE (calmly): I expect Edward thinks we're
trying to palm off something rather nasty. Attic
doesn't sound very attractive. But I know, when you
see it. ...
EDWARD: It isn't that at all. I'm sure it's very nice.
But I can't have anything to do with an illegal
arrangement.
TOM : Can't you ?
EDWARD: No.
TOM: I don't know about you, Clarissa, but I'm
beginning to have grave doubts about Mr. Kinner-
ton.
CLARISSA (taking Edward's arm): I have no doubts
whatever.
EDWARD (hotly) i You have grave doubts about me,
just because I won't break the law? Well, let me tell
you. . . .
TOM: Let me tell you I do not like being shouted
at. ...
EDWARD (shouting) : I am not shouting. I am simply
trying to tell you. . . .
TOM (topping him) : Grave doubts, is what I said. You
want to marry Clarissa. I am her guardian, and I
want her to marry a man who's likely to get some
where. It seems to me that an accountant, in the
modern financial world. . . .
EDWARD : But I'm not an accountant.
TOM (after a fraction? s pause): Then why did you say
you were ?
CLARISSA: He didn't. I did. I misunderstood.
TOM (to Edward} : Well, what do you do ?
CLARISSA: Please don't let's go into that now.
EDWARD: I'm sorry, but I'd rather get things
straight. . . .
CLARISSA: No!
462
BOTH ENDS MEET
JIMMY: What's the mystery? Are you something
disreputable ?
EDWARD : Not in the least. Quite the reverse.
CLARISSA: Edward — dear — listen to me. . . .
EDWARD (very firmly): Be quiet, Clarissa.
CLARISSA (stunned] : What?
EDWARD: Be quiet.
MAGGIE: Charming 1
[Clarissa stares at him, gasps in dismay, and moves away
from him.}
TOM: Really! You arrive in my house for the first
time, you shout at me, you insult my niece. I hope
this will be a lesson to you, Clarissa, to think twice
before picking up strange young men when you're
abroad, because I can assure you I'd think a great
many times before agreeing to your engagement to
Mr. Kinnerton.
CLARISSA: That's unfair.
TOM : I don't like his manners, and I wish he would
now go away.
[Edward stands irresolute for a second, then swings round
and is gone.}
CLARISSA: Edward! (She moves towards the door.)
Edward!
TOM: I should just let him go, darling. He's a very
ill-bred young man,
CLARISSA: He isn't. It's not his fault. You put
him in a terrible position.
TOM : I put him in a terrible position ? What are you
talking about?
CLARISSA: Well, it was so embarrassing for him.
MAGGIE: What was?
CLARISSA (tearful) : It's not his fault I thought he was
an accountant.
463
ACT ONE
MAGGIE: Nobody said it was, darling. But you must
agree. ...
CLARISSA: I *i?;;V agree. It's . . . it's his work. . . .
TOM : Look — perhaps you would explain ?
JIMMY: What is his work?
TOM : What does he do ?
CLARISSA (blowing her nose) : Reworks. . . .
TOM: Yes.
CLARISSA: In an office ... of the Commissioners
of Inland Revenue.
\There is a silence.]
TOM: What?
CLARISSA: The Commissioners of Inland, Revenue.
TOM : You mean he's one of them ?
CLARISSA: Yes.
[There is a silence.']
JIMMY: I told him about my six hundred a year.
TOM : I tried to let him a flat on the side.
MAGGIE: I told him about Sylvester. The £sh and
chip shops
TOM: The barrows!
MAGGIE: His mother!
TOM (springing at Clarissa)-. You've got to get him
back.
CLARISSA: Edward?
TOM: You've got to get him back!
CLARISSA (who has dashed to the door) : If I do get him
back, can I marry him ?
TOM : What d'you mean, can you marry him ? You've
got to marry him.
[Clarissa goes, Tom^ Maggie and Jimmy stare at one
another \ then collapse into their chairs, and remain staring
into space.]
Curtain
464
ACT TWO
Scene i
The same day. Afternoon.
'Tom stands looking out of the window. Maggie is sitting
in one chair and ]immy in another. They are all deep in
thought.
TOM: What time is it?
MAGGIE : Nearly four.
TOM (suddenly): D'you think Clarissa's found Edward,
but he won't come back ? Why should he come back ?
We all insulted him. . . .
MAGGIE : You insulted him.
TOM: Well, I didn't mean to. ... I was only . . .
I mean, I don't see why he should take it seriously.
So foolish, to go through life taking everything to
heart.
MAGGIE : You ordered him out of the house. Did
you expect him to treat that as a merry prank?
TOM : You keep saying, I did this and I did that.
MAGGIE: Well, you did.
TOM : I still say that he's foolish. . . .
MAGGIE: You know, you're going to work yourself
into such a frenzy of nerves that the minute he
appears you'll start the whole thing all over again
by telling him he's a fool.
TOM: The sun's shining. Perhaps it's a sign from
above — everything's going to be all right.
MAGGIE : You and your signs from above.
TOM (putting out a cigarette}-. These cigarettes taste
like shredded wheat.
MAGGIE: I'm not surprised. You've smoked at least
forty since lunchtime.
TOM (intensely nervous): You do realise, don't you,
465
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
we still haven't worked out any proper plan of
campaign ?
MAGGIE: I'm going to make some tea.
[She goes.]
JIMMY: We shall have to emigrate. America, that's
the place.
TOM: Is it?
JIMMY: The land of the free.
TOM : Is it ?
JIMMY: Well, isn't it? What's the first thing you see
on arrival ? The Statue of Liberty.
TOM: Yes. The next thing you see is Ellis Island.
(He thinks.} I might become a Trappist monk. A
friend of mine did it very successfully. When his
creditors finally found him, somewhere near Rouen,
there he was sitting at the gate, and when they asked
him when he was going to pay up, he just shook his
head, smiled sweetly and put his fingers to his lips.
He'd taken a vow of silence. (He frowns.) Jimmy!
What are we going to say to him?
JIMMY : Say to who ?
TOM : To Edward.
JIMMY: I'm still worrying about what I'm going to
say to old Phillips.
TOM : Old Phillips doesn't matter. . . .
JIMMY: Doesn't matter? I told your chum every
thing about old Phillips — about his house— and the
friends — I practically gave him the address. And you
say it doesn't matter ?
TOM: I mean it doesn't matter now.
JIMMY: Have you ever seen old Phillips? Silver
hair — skin like parchment — always wears a stock.
The most respectable old man in the City.
TOM (irritated): Weil, as it turns out, he's not all that
466
BOTH ENDS MEET
respectable, is he? A spell on Dartmoor'll do him
good. Put some roses in those parchment cheeks.
JIMMY (hurt) i Don't joke about it, old chap. I keep
getting the most horrible picture. I'm looking up at
him, and he's there, very frail and old, in the dock.
TOM : Where are you ? Lying on the floor ?
JIMMY: What?
TOM : As you'll presumably be standing next to him
in the dock. . . .
JIMMY: Oh, don't.
TOM : I don't see why you should be looking up at
him. I really wouldn't worry too much. He'll
engage the best counsel in Britain. . . .
JIMMY: Well, that's what's worrying me. The best
counsel, the only man for the job, wouldn't touch it.
TOM : Why not ?
JIMMY: Because I've good reason to suppose he's
operating the same racket himself.
TOM : Letting rooms ?
JIMMY: Yes.
TOM : You know, from a nation of shopkeepers, we
seem to have turned into a hive of landladies,
JIMMY (suddenly): I'm sure I ought to telephone old
Phillips and warn him.
MAGGIE (who has re-entered with a pot of tea) : You'll
do nothing of the sort. Really, for sheer panic I've
never known anything like you two. Now! We
must, as you said, make a plan of campaign. To
begin with, I think we've let ourselves get flustered
and we're exaggerating the things we said in front of
Edward.
JIMMY: I know I told him about my six hundred a
year. I think I told him twice. Heaven knows how
I'm going to explain to Mary that life's really much
nicer without a Bentley. Later on, we'd planned to
sell it and send young Jimmy to Cambridge. He was
467
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
going to read law. Fat chance he'll have of reading
law now.
TOM: Probably just as well. You wouldn't like to
think of young Jimmy turning to Chapter Five and
reading all about Dad.
MAGGIE: Tom, you can't have incriminated your
self, because after all, you've never done anything
wrong. . . .
TOM: I stated definitely that I intended to do wrong
in the future.
JIMMY: Couldn't get you on that.
TOM : I also asked him point-blank what he considered
to be the best way of getting out of paying Income
Tax. You can imagine what that's going to do. I've
spent at least the last ten years running breathlessly
through life with the Commissioners after me like a
pack of wolves. From now on, I'm going to have
them all around me. Snarling and baring their teeth,
until eventually they drag me to the ground and
devour me.
MAGGIE: They'd never eat you raw. You'd have to
be done overnight in a casserole
TOM: This is no time for gruesome flights of fancy.
MAGGIE: Exactly. So perhaps you'd kindly return
to the ground.
TOM : I can't think why you're so calm. You're in it
up to your neck. It was you, as I remember, who
asked his advice on how to cheat or swindle. And it
was you who told him about Sylvester. . . .
MAGGIE: He probably didn't even take that in. To
us, Sylvester is the Universe. He runs our particular
world. But I doubt if Edward's ever heard of him.
Look at my grandmother. She still doesn't quite
know who Hitler was.
TOM: That proves nothing, except that your grand
mother's dotty.
468
BOTH ENDS MEET
MAGGIE: Not at all. She only takes in essentials,
and look how right she's been proved.
TOM: You can't get out of it like that. To a tax man,
news of someone evading tax on a monumental
scale is an essential. Well, I remember—he said
something like, "if what you've said is true, Sylvester
ought to be looked into*'.
MAGGIE: So he ought. Terrible old crook.
TOM: Please be a little more careful what you say.
We're in enough trouble. We don't want a libel
action.
MAGGIE: It drives me mad, the way he gets away
with everything.
TOM: You always talk as if Sylvester's a sort of cat
burglar. In point of fact, he comes from quite a
good family.
MAGGIE: I can see him being born, with somebody
else's silver spoons in his mouth.
TOM: He's going to be delighted when he hears it
was us who gave him away, isn't he? I don't see him
putting our names up in red neon. I see him putting
them in scarlet, at the head of a black list. (Looking,
with horror •, into bis teacup?) A pair of handcuffs !
JIMMY: Where?
TOM: In my cup.
\The telephone
MAGGIE: Hullo? (Into telephone.") What? Yes. Yes,
he is. (She swings round excitedly.} Tom! Long
distance. From Geneva.
TOM: Geneva! (Hip dashes towards her., then stops
suddenly?)
MAGGIE: Aunt Sophie's left you everything. I
told you so.
TOM (not moving) : Suppose it's the opposite.
MAGGIE: What?
469
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
TOM : I was her nearest relative.
MAGGIE (into telephone) : Hold on a minute. (To Tom.)
What are you talking about ?
TOM: Suppose she's left debts? Suppose she left a
lot of debts ?
MAGGIE: Don't be ridiculous! (She slams the receiver
into his hand.)
TOM (distraught) : It's just the sort of thing that would
happen to me. It's more than likely.
MAGGIE: Why should she have left debts? Didn't
she, only last Christmas, send you six bottles of
champagne ?
TOM : Yes. Now she's probably died and left me the
bill. (Into telephone.) Hullo? Allo? fecoute. Je ne
quitte pas. (To Maggie.) Suppose I'm responsible for
everything. How do I know? I'm not going to
risk. . . . (Into telephone.) Allo? Non! Monsieur
Davenport tfest pas la. It est parti.
MAGGIE (to Jimmy) : What did he say?
JIMMY: He's gone out.
MAGGIE: But I want to know what it's about.
TOM: I don't want to know. Once they get hold of
me. . . .
JIMMY: Tell them to get on to the office, they can
deal with it.
TOM: Good idea. (Into telephone.) Ecoute^. Voule^
vous telephoner — er — numero
JIMMY: City double one, double one.
TOM: Cite—Un, Un, Un, Un. . . . Was? (To
Maggie.) She's talking German— {Into telephone.)
Haben sie gut. . . ? Oh, are you English — I beg
your pardon. Will you put this call through to City
double one, double one?
JIMMY: Ask for Mr. Phillips.
TOM: Ask for Mr. Phillips. Thank you. (He replaces
the receiver)
470
BOTH ENDS MEET
MAGGIE (infuriated) : How ridiculous !
\Torn and Maggie speak together.]
I've never heard anything so cowardly and idiotic.
There really are times when I think you're not quite
right in the head. . . . (etc.)
TOM (with Maggie) : It isn't ridiculous. If you'd just
stop and think you'd realise I'm right. Once they've
got hold of me. . . . (etc.)
\]immy laughs.]
TOM : What are you laughing at ?
JIMMY: You two. Maggie thinks it's good news — you
don't. In point of fact, you're both wrong.
TOM: How do you know?
JIMMY: It's my business to know these things.
Sorry to disappoint you, Maggie, but if it were
anything important, Tom would have heard days
ago. (Indicating the telephone.) That was probably to
tell you about some small bequest.
MAGGIE : You can't know that.
JIMMY: Pardon me, but I can. You'll find she's left
you — possibly a few books — or some linen ... or
perhaps some small piece of china. (Seriously?) Of
course it is just possible there may be funeral expenses.
MAGGIE: Jimmy, couldn't it possibly be something
exciting ?
JIMMY: I'm afraid not.
MAGGIE (dashed) : Oh! (She sighs) Oh well!
[The bell rings.}
JIMMY: I'll go.
TOM : If it's a man called Wilson, Fm out.
471
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
MAGGIE (musing): It'd be rather nice if she had left
you some linen. Very useful.
TOM : You may be sure it's the funeral expenses.
JIMMY (offstage) : Oh hullo, my dear fellow. Come in.
TOM (to Maggie] : Who is it ?
EDWARD (off): No, I won't come in, thank you.
TOM : "1 T , -o -, j ,
hit s Edward!
MAGGIE I j
\They leap into activity.]
MAGGIE: Well, go on. Go and get him.
TOM (in a hoarse whisper) : No, you go. Much better,
[Maggie is irritated by Tom but decides there is no time to
lose., and goes to the door.]
MAGGIE: Edward! How lovely. Do come in.
EDWARD (off) : No, I won't do that.
MAGGIE : But of course you must.
[She disappears, but is heard off.]
I never heard of such a thing. Standing at the front
door.
[Jimmy, who has re-appeared in the doorway, enters]
JIMMY: It's your chum. What are you doing?
TOM: Looking at the " Good Thoughts " calendar
for guidance.
JIMMY: What does it say?
TOM (reading)*. "Pray to Heaven in the storm, but
keep on rowing."
JIMMY: Trouble is, I can't row.
[Maggie sweeps in, with Edward.]
472
BOTH ENDS MEET
TOM: Hullo, Edward.
[Maggie, Tom and ]immy are inclined to be a Htth over-
effusive^
MAGGIE (to Edward) : We were just talking about you.
EDWARD: Really?
MAGGIE: Weren't we, Tom?
TOM (with a nervous laugh) : Yes.
MAGGIE : Well, this is nice.
EDWARD (stiffly) : I only came to see if Clarissa was
here. I didn't mean to intrude. . . .
TOM: Good heavens, you're not intruding. As far
as I'm concerned, this is your house. (He stops; he
thinks > and is embarrassed). Er ... I'm not referring
to any of that silly nonsense about the attic floor, of
course.
MAGGIE: That was just my foolish chatter. There's
never really been any question of making the attics
into a flat. As a matter of fact, one couldn't. Sit
down and have some tea.
TOM : Come along. Put your feet up. Relax.
EDWARD (who hasn't moved) : Er. . . .
TOM: What's the matter?
EDWARD : Well, the last time I was here you told me
to leave. Now you're asking me to come in, put
my feet up and relax. . . .
TOM (improvising gaily) : That's life, isn't it ? The
mood changes
MAGGIE: It's his profession, Edward. They're all
half mad.
TOM (annoyed) : There's no need to go too far, Maggie.
We don't want Edward going round talking about
his half-mad uncle.
[Edward has come into the room. Tom hands him the cup
473
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
of tea which Maggie has poured, and Jimmy holds out a
sugar basing
JIMMY: Sugar?
TOM (to 'Edward} : Have a scone. Maggie made them.
EDWARD: Real ones.
MAGGIE: I was born in Edinburgh.
EDWARD: Really? I had a Scots Nannie.
MAGGIE: rOh how interesting.
JIMMY: \Oh really?
EDWARD: My first five years were all oat cakes and
Old Testament. That's probably why. . . . (He
stops.}
TOM : Why what ?
EDWARD: Oh, nothing really. Well . . . Clarissa
told me in Stockholm that I sometimes seem rather
hide-bound. A sort of John Knox.
JIMMY: John Knox?
TOM : Wasn't _ he always . . . (he looks at Maggie]
. . . denouncing everyone?
MAGGIE (smoothly] : That's right.
TOM (to Edward) : But I'm sure you don't go around
. . . denouncing people ?
EDWARD: I don't think so.
TOM (relieved) : Of course you don't.
EDWARD: But then, one never knows about oneself,
does one?
JIMMY (immensely uncomfortable) : Look! I wanted to
have a word with you, ... er ... Well, it's
really about that ridiculous over-statement I made.
I don't know whether you remember ?
EDWARD : What about ?
JIMMY: Well, I think I said something about making
three hundred a year out of letting. . . .
EDWARD : Six hundred.
JIMMY: What?
474
BOTH ENDS MEET
EDWARD : You said six hundred.
JIMMY: Oh, you . . . do remember?
EDWARD: Yes.
JIMMY: Well, I just thought I ought to explain what
a terrible old romancer I am. I mean, these two know
me. Don't you ?
TOM (to Edward): Jimmy is, to put it mildly, the
bald-faced liar of all time.
JIMMY (eagerly): Oh, thank you, Tom—thank you.
Yes, I am. I really am. You see, I had an Italian
grandfather. That's where I get this tendency to
exaggerate. To look at me, I don't expect you'd
think I had Latin blood, but if you were to meet me
in Rome, you wouldn't know me.
MAGGIE : As I remember, we met you in Venice and
you didn't know us.
[Jimmy frowns at her.]
Was that your Latin blood ? Or the fact that neither
of the ladies at whom you were throwing flowers
happened to be your wife ?
JIMMY: There you are! Throwing flowers at ladies.
I'd never do that in St. James' Street.
TOM: I should hope not. What would old Phillips
say?
JIMMY (to Edward} : The point I'm trying to make is
this. I've got this streak in me, and I get carried
away and tell the most fantastic stories. . . . Well,
Mary would tell you. Mary's rny wife. You must
come and dine with us one night soon — we've got a
magnificent French cook, and I really have got a good
cellar. You'll love Mary and she'll adore you.
Wonderful girl, Mary. When she wants to, she can
charm the birds from the trees. Twist you round her
little finger. . . . (He stops suddenly.) I mean, not
475
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
that I want her to twist you round her little finger.
... Er. ... Why should I? Er. . . .
MAGGIE : Some more tea, Edward ?
EDWARD : Thank you.
\A.s Edward goes, Tom gives ]immy a warning look.]
TOM : Do you ever row, Edward ?
EDWARD: Row? No, I don't.
TOM : Jimmy's very fond of rowing, aren't you ?
JIMMY: Er — yes.
[Edward is occupied at the tea-fable.]
TOM (smoothly): But do you know something? I
think you row too fast.
JIMMY (with a glance at Edward's back) : Oh — really ?
TOM: A slower, smoother stroke might achieve
rather more, I think.
JIMMY: I'll bear it in mind.
EDWARD (turning back) : Where do you row ?
JIMMY: On the Serpentine.
TOM: Every morning he goes skimming past.
EDWARD : I've always wanted to learn.
TOM : Get Jimmy to teach you.
\]immy gives Tom a black look, and turns to Edward.]
JIMMY: Well, you see— I— er ... to be frank, I
don't row all that well. There I go again. Exaggerat
ing. The trouble is — I want to do something, my
imagination runs away with me, and in five minutes
I think I've done it. I mean, it's like my saying I
make an income out of letting part of my house.
\]immy laughs jovially, butgettingno response from Edward,
the laugh dies away]
476
BOTH ENDS MEET
TOM (lightly}: Well, we're all inclined to exaggerate.
Take Maggie, for instance, saying all those things
about Sylvester. (To Edward.} I don't suppose you
took in what she said. . . .
EDWARD : Oh, yes I did.
TOM (dashed) : Oh ! But the name Sylvester wouldn't
mean anything to you. ...
EDWARD: Oh yes. Our department handles Syl
vester's assessments.
TOM: Oh!
MAGGIE (fanning herself} : Warm, isn't it ?
[There is a slight pause.}
EDWARD : Is Clarissa shopping, or. ...
MAGGIE: No. She went round to Ebury Street to
see if she could find you.
EDWARD: Oh, I see. I haven't been back there. I
went for a walk, to think things over — and then I
went straight to the office.
[There is a pause.]
MAGGIE {faintly} : The office ?
EDWARD: Yes.
MAGGIE: But . . . Clarissa said you didn't have to
go back for a couple of days.
EDWARD: I don't. I just looked in to see if there was
any mail. And to make a few notes.
[There is a pause.}
MAGGIE (faintly): Notes?
EDWARD: Yes.
MAGGIE (forcing a smile): A shopping list — or
something of that sort?
EDWARD: No. (Uncomfortably.} Notes about the
477
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
things I'd been thinking over . . . when I went for
a walk.
JIMMY (apprehensive, but smiling): Some personal
problem?
EDWARD: In a way, yes.
TOM : Anything ... we three could help you with ?
EDWARD: Well . . . it concerns you.
MAGGIE: Us?
EDWARD (bursting out) : I'm in the most awful fix, you
know. I've heard a lot of things I shouldn't have
heard. Oh, I know I should have spoken up, and
told you about myself, but. . . .
TOM: My dear Edward, we absolutely understand
why you didn't. Just forget it all happened.
JIMMY: Absolutely.
MAGGIE: That's the solution, Edward. Forget it all
— and let's start again.
JIMMY: Of course.
MAGGIE (delighted} : Now — it's all forgotten. . . .
EDWARD : But it isn't.
MAGGIE (stopping : What ?
EDWARD : I want to marry Clarissa. . . .
TOM: But of course you do. You want to marry
Clarissa, and she wants to marry you — we're de
lighted.
MAGGIE: 1 ^ ,. , ,,
JIMMY: } Delighted!
TOM: And everything's forgotten.
EDWARD: Oh, now wait a minute. (With a slight
smile., gently} I'm not an absolute ass.
TOM : Of course you're not.
EDWARD: I couldn't marry Clarissa on condition I
forgot what I'd heard. . . .
MAGGIE: But that was just gossip. Airy gossip.
EDWARD: Then you wouldn't mind some investiga
tion?
478
BOTH ENDS MEET
MAGGIE: No! (Suddenly flustered?) What?
EDWARD: Sylvester, for instance?
MAGGIE (ho fly}-. I think it'd be most unfair. And
rather sly. Just because you overhear something.
EDWARD (worried) : Yes, I know. That's what I was
trying to puzzle out, on my walk.
MAGGIE: Well, you'd better go for another walk, and
puzzle some more.
JIMMY: "1 ... _
TOM: jM*gg^
EDWARD: No, no. You're perfectly right to be
annoyed. Let me say here and now, I sympathise
with all your problems. I mean, the financial ones.
But you see, I'm like a man being torn in half.
(Abashed by this statement^ he looks at Maggie} Clarissa
says I'm neurotic.
TOM : Oh, are you ? I am glad.
EDWARD: I don't want to make any trouble for any
of you, but if I just wash the whole thing out and
pretend to forget, I am neglecting my duty. (He
thinks.} There is such a thing as the letter of the law.
(Worried and perplexed} You know, for two pins I'd
give the whole job up.
TOM f (leaping on this} : Do you know, that might
I be an excellent solution. .
JIMMY: 1 Very good idea.
MAGGIE: [Wonderful.
EDWARD: But then I couldn't marry Clarissa. I'd
be out of work. And I haven't any capital.
TOM: Capital. What a pretty word. I don't think it's
ever been used in this house before.
MAGGIE: Edward, d'you know what I think? I
think it's your duty to forget anything you may have
heard.
EDWARD : My duty ?
479
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
MAGGIE: Definitely. It's never wise to follow the
letter of the law, because the law, as we know, is an
ass.
JIMMY: I say! Just a minute. . . .
MAGGIE (to ]immj} : I'll prove it to you. If I go out
and throw a brick through a window, I've broken
the law.
EDWARD: Yes.
MAGGIE: I've broken a rule which has been made by
men of the law ?
EDWARD: Yes.
MAGGIE (to Edward} : This morning, if you remember,
Jimmy arrived saying he'd been in Knightsbridge
arranging a nice lucrative divorce.
JIMMY: Well?
MAGGIE: So you see, Edward, there's the situation.
The law will be angry if you break the rules it has
made here on earth. But ... the law will happily
accept a large fee to assist at the breaking of a
marriage, which — we are told — has been made in
heaven.
EDWARD: Yes,
MAGGIE : Surely, one's duty shouldn't be dictated by
such an earthly and dubious authority ?
JIMMY: Now, just a minute. . . .
[Tom pulls him quickly back.}
TOM : Maggie's absolutely right. Admit it.
JIMMY: But if I do, I'm calling myself a. . . .
TOM: Never mind what you're calling yourself.
Pretend there's no one listening. That you and I are
out together rowing — rowing^ Jimmy, on the Serpen
tine — wouldn't you admit that the law is an ass ?
JIMMY (having got the ided)\ Oh,j&r. Absolutely.
TOM (to Edward}: There you are. Straight from the
ass's mouth.
480
BOTH ENDS MEET
EDWARD (to Maggie) : I suppose I seem silly to have
worried about it all, but. . . .
MAGGIE: Not at all. You're a conscientious young
man. Nothing wrong with that.
EDWARD: There are arguments both ways, of
course, but I think you're probably right.
TOM (happily) : Well, that's settled. Now all you have
to do is tear up your notes.
EDWARD : My what ?
TOM: You said you made some notes. (Gaily.) Don't
want them lying around, making unnecessary trouble.
EDWARD: Oh, yes. (He has put his hand in his pocket?)
Oh!
TOM: What?
EDWARD : I must have left them on my desk.
JIMMY (alarmed) : In your office ?
EDWARD: It's all right. They're in a personal file.
Nobody would look at them.
TOM: Oh well, that's a relief.
JIMMY: You're sure it'll be all right?
EDWARD : Oh yes, perfectly.
MAGGIE: Well, I'll make us all some fresh tea.
[Clarissa enters.}
CLARISSA: There you are! I've been sitting waiting.
EDWARD: I'm sorry. I had no idea. . . .
CLARISSA: Well, you're here, anyway. That's some
thing.
MAGGIE: Everything's cleared up, finished and for
gotten, and we're all the best of friends.
TOM: The best of friends.
CLARISSA (with edge): Oh! are we? (Ignoring Tom.)
Edward, I have something I've been wanting to ask
you. What did you mean this morning when you
said, "Be quiet."
16 481
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
EDWARD: Obviously, I was asking you to stop
talking.
CLARISSA : Are you liable to be addressing me in that
sort of tone very much? Because if so, I don't see
our future together being very happy, do you ?
[Maggie and Tom have exchanged a sharp look]
MAGGIE: Clarissa!
JIMMY: She's tired.
CLARISSA: I'm not in the least tired.
TOM (quickly, taking Edward's arm and walking him
away) : Edward, I don't know what time your office
closes, but d'you think it's wise to leave those notes
lying around? You never know — just suppose some
one saw Sylvester's name. . . .
CLARISSA : What notes ?
TOM (ignoring her): As you say your office does his
assessments. . . .
CLARISSA (at 'Edward) : D'you mean you actually made
notes about what you heard here ?
EDWARD (angry) : Yes, I did.
CLARISSA: Well, that's the limit ! That's the absolute
limit I And you expect me to marry a man who. . . .
EDWARD : You don't have to marry me if you don't
want to.
JIMMY: Of course she'll marry you.
TOM: Of course.
MAGGIE (seeing Clarissa about to speak): Have a
scone ?
CLARISSA: Of all the dirty tricks. (To Edward.} I
think you'd better go.
[She goes into the garden.}
EDWARD: Thanks very much!
[Edward moves to the door.]
482
BOTH ENDS MEET
TOM (bringing him back} : She doesn't mean it. She
really is a very sweet girl.
\Torn directs HLdward into the garden .]
I could kill her.
\The telephone rings.}
MAGGIE (answering — distraught}: Hullo? (To Jimtny '.)
It's for you.
\]immy goes to the telephone^
TOM : We get the whole thing settled and she has to
come in and be disagreeable. He'll be walking out on
us again if we're not careful.
JIMMY (into telephone)'. What? What? (Turning.) It's
old Phillips. But ... but ... what?
TOM (apprehensive) : What is it ?
JIMMY (into telephone] : Are you sure ?
MAGGIE: Jimmy — what is it?
JIMMY : Before I tell him, are you dead sure ? Posi
tive.
TOM : Jimmy, will you please tell me.
JIMMY: It's your Aunt Sophie.
TOM: Yes?
JIMMY : She's left you everything.
TOM (exasperated}-. Well, what is everything? Is it
linen, or an old china dog?
JIMMY: It's a hundred and twenty thousand pounds.
TOM (faintly): What?
JIMMY: She has left you a hundred and twenty
thousand pounds.
TOM : You're sure ?
JIMMY: Yes.
483
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
TOM: Quite sure?
JIMMY: The Geneva call was from her solicitors.
There's no doubt whatever.
TOM: Maggie!
MAGGIE: Darling!
TOM: We're rich!
MAGGIE: We're rich!
TOM: Think of a thousand pounds, think of it a
hundred and twenty times.
MAGGIE: I feel faint.
TOM: So do I.
[Maggie and Tom stand transfixed, hand in band, looking
at each other '.]
JIMMY: There '11 be death duties.
TOM (entranced}: There'll be parties. There'll be
magnums for Maggie, and satin and tiaras to put on
her head. Cars for Clarissa, cigars for Edward
and cheques for the Commissioners of Inland
Revenue. We don't have to worry. We don't ever
have to worry again.
[Maggie, who has been getting more and more tearful,
suddenly bursts into fears.]
What's the matter?
MAGGIE: I don't know. (In floods of tears.) I can't
think why I'm being so silly.
TOM:^ We can be married, Maggie. We can all be
married. You can marry me, Edward can marry
Clarissa, Jimmy can marry Mary. . . .
JIMMY: I've married her once. . .
TOM: Well, marry her again. (Kneeling beside Maggie.)
Darling, are you all right?
MAGGIE: Yes. It's just that. . .
484
BOTH ENDS MEET
TOM (looking at his watch): Listen! It's just four
o'clock. We can do something we've always wanted
to do. Go on a shopping expedition to end shopping
expeditions. (Suddenly?) Jimmy, you are sure?
JIMMY: Positive.
TOM : It couldn't be a mistake ? You said we'd have
heard.
.JIMMY: I was wrong. You, Tom Davenport, have
been left one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.
TOM (to Maggie) : Jimmy will drive us. You'll drive
us, won't you? We can buy anything. Nothing is
barred. Anyone can have anything they want.
JIMMY : Can I have a new Bentley ?
TOM : You can have two.
CLARISSA (re-entering from the gardens] : You make me
want to scream.
[She goes straight to the door and goes]
EDWARD : And you make me want to scream.
[T0#z, Maggie and Jimmy let out a yelL Edward gives
them one stunned look — and makes a hasty exit.]
TOM: I'm going to put on a jacket. I'll be one
minute. Jimmy, start up the car.
[Jimmy goes.}
What d'you want first?
MAGGIE: Something simple.
TOM: Mink?
[She shakes her head.]
Sables?
[She shakes her head.}
485
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
I know. We were looking at it last week. You said,
" What I like about it is that, in spite of everything,
it's simple ". In Bond Street.
MAGGIE: Oh, darlingl The ring! You don't mean
. . . the ring?
TOM : " And I said, If I were rich, I'd buy it for you ".
MAGGIE: But I couldn't. I've got nothing to wear
with it.
TOM: You will have, darling. (He kisses her lightly.}
You will have. Silks, satins, laces, furs, diamonds,
emeralds, sapphires, rubies, foie gras, caviare,
champagne. . . .
MAGGIE: All the simple things of life.
TOM (suddenly): It can't be true, can it? There'll be
some horrible snag.
MAGGIE: Why should there be?
TOM: You know how it is with me and money.
There's bound to be trouble. There always is.
MAGGIE: Tom, darling.
TOM: There'll be something. The telephone will
ring. The telephone will ring and there'll be some
thing.
[There is a slight pause.'}
MAGGIE: There you are. The telephone hasn't rung.
Let that be a sign from above that everything's going
to be perfect.
TOM: Oh, Maggie, darling, you're right. Of course
you're right. Everything's wonderful, everything's
rosy. Not the smallest cloud in the sky.
JIMMY (off) : Come on, you two.
TOM (to Maggie) : Forward—to Bond Street.
MAGGIE: To Bond Street.
\They go in high spirits. There is a door slam. The
telephone begins to ring.}
Curtain.
486
BOTH ENDS MEET
Scene 2
The same. About six-thirty the same evening.
Clarissa is in 'Edward's arms.
CLARISSA (after a second^ drawing away and contemplating
him) : You know — you're not really at all pompous —
or for that matter, reserved.
\They smile at each other, and he puts his arm around her
again.}
The real person is the gay, charming Edward I met
in Rome. So what's this strange creature that's
suddenly appeared in London ?
EDWARD : My official self. You can blame that on my
job.
CLARISSA: You can't let a job turn you into some
thing you're not. I'd give it up, if I were you. Any
way, you don't like it. You said so.
EDWARD: Mm!
[He kisses her.]
I've had a row with my boss. Murgatroyd.
CLARISSA: When?
EDWARD : After I left here. I went back to the office
— I found a file missing — the one I'd put the notes
in about Sylvester. I went into Murgatroyd's office
about 'something else and there was my private and
personal file lying open on his desk. So I spoke out!
CLARISSA (fascinated) : What did you say?
EDWARD: Oh, that he had no right to snoop about
in my personal papers.
CLARISSA: D'you think he'll do anything?
487
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
EDWARD: He can't. The things I'd jotted down
couldn't mean anything unless you knew the rest of
it. That's what annoyed him. He felt I knew some
thing I wasn't telling him.
CLARISSA: You won't, will you?
EDWARD : Darling, I've racked my brains, and they're
fairly simple brains, with rather cut and dried ideas
about right and wrong.
CLARISSA: That's all right.
EDWARD: If I stayed on there, I'd have to say some
thing.
CLARISSA: But you're not going to stay on? Oh,
Edward, please don't. You haven't got the tempera
ment for a job like that. Start again, in something
you like.
EDWARD: But what about us? We want to get
married, and I don't want to have to wait till I'm
about thirty — and half unable to get around.
CLARISSA: Well, now that Uncle Tom's as rich as
Croesus. . . .
EDWARD: Oh no, none of that. Was that him and
Maggie thumping about upstairs ?
CLARISSA: Yes. They came back from a wild bout
of shopping . . . (indicates piles of parcels) ... all
this . . . (picking up a painting . . . and a Dufy
. . . and rushed upstairs like a couple of mad
children.
EDWARD (confidentially]-. His generation is, rather,
don't you think ?
CLARISSA: Rather what?
EDWARD: Childish.
CLARISSA (agreeing) : Mm !
TOM (of -stage): Clarissa! Clarissa!
CLARISSA: Here I am.
TOM (entering)-. Ah I (Brandishing a mink tie.} Your
present.
488
BOTH ENDS MEET
CLARISSA: Oh, Uncle Tom!
TOM (seeing Edward): Oh, hullo! You're back.
CLARISSA : Back for good.
TOM : Fm glad to hear that. (Picking up the painting.,
and loo king for a place to hang it.) Maggie and I had a
serious conversation about you, and came to the
conclusion that you were both rather childish.
CLARISSA (having looked at Edward) : We'll try not to be
in future. Darling, this is lovely.
TOM: Edward, we bought you a suitcase.
EDWARD (startled) : Oh ! How very nice.
TOM: I don't quite know why we bought you a
suitcase. Possibly because you keep going away and
coming back.
EDWARD (overcome): It's wonderful.
TOM: The rule was that everyone had to have some
thing, and it had to be expensive. I have no intention
of celebrating in a simple and austere manner.
Flashy vulgarity is to be the keynote of the next few
days.
EDWARD: This is wonderful — it's got all sorts of
bottles and brushes. I shall have to go and stay at
some very grand, stately home.
TOM : It has a strong lock. You might leave with the
fittings intact. Maggie!
MAGGIE (off-stage): Just a second.
TOM: I practically had to force things on Maggie.
There we were, in one of the most famous jeweller's
shops in the world, and this diamond necklace was
too big and that was too clumsy — Maggie!
MAGGIE (entering): Here I am. (She is in evening
dress.)
CLARISSA: Oh! I thought you were going to be
from head to foot in sequins.
MAGGIE: No, no. It's so silly to waste money on
non-essentials. I keep telling Tom, we must retain
489
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
our basic simplicity. (As she speaks, she brings her left
hand round,, and poises it lightly on her shoulder. She is
wearing a magnificent diamond ring?)
CLARISSA (gasping) : Maggie ! Is that real ?
MAGGIE: Just something Tom wanted me to have.
Foolish boy.
CLARISSA : But it's — it's magnificent.
MAGGIE: Isn't it? And it's going back tomorrow.
TOM: Now, Maggie. . . .
MAGGIE: Tom dear, it's sweet and wonderful of
you to want me to have it, but I really couldn't.
Really. I thought I'd have it just for this evening.
It's like the tiaras. (To Edward and Clarissa?) He
seriously wanted me to have a tiara.
TOM : Why not ?
MAGGIE: When on earth would I wear it?
TOM: You looked wonderful in it. What's the matter
with looking wonderful round the home ?
MAGGIE : In a tiara ? Doing the washing up ?
TOM : You keep forgetting, you won't have to do the
washing up. There will be servants.
MAGGIE: If you think that means I won't still have to
do the washing up, you're very out of touch.
CLARISSA: Uncle Tom, I've had an idea about
Edward.
EDWARD: What?
CLARISSA (to Torn]'. He wants to give up his job. . . .
EDWARD : Well, now. . . .
CLARISSA: He wants to, but then of course he'll be
out of work. (To Edward.) You said you'd like to
be an accountant.
EDWARD : But that takes ages. . . .
CLARISSA: But it is what you'd really like. So Uncle
Tom, would you finance Edward during whatever
period. . . . ?
EDWARD : I say, just a minute. . . .
49°
BOTH ENDS MEET
TOM: But that's a wonderful idea. Don't you agree,
Maggie? Eventually we would have a financial
adviser in the family — and one who understands the
ins and outs of those curious minds.
CLARISSA: Edward?
EDWARD: Well, of course, it'd be wonderful. What I
really want.
TOM: That's fine. Everybody is to have what they
want. What else is the use of money?
CLARISSA : Had you any idea Great Aunt Sophie was
so rich?
TOM: None.
CLARISSA : Did you know her well ?
TOM: I only met her once. In the 'twenties. I was
still at school. My father took me to see her in Paris.
MAGGIE: What was she like?
TOM: I remember her as a magical sort of person.
Very beautiful, very gentle — she had the most
graceful manners. I loved her. I didn't understand
half she said — she talked about Proust — apparently
she knew him well, and there was something about the
real Duchesse de Guermantes having been to tea the
day before — it all sounded too wonderful for words.
(He laughs.} And she was surprising.
MAGGIE : In what way ?
TOM: She suddenly turned to me and said, " Tell me,
Tom. What is your opinion of love?"
MAGGIE : How old were you ?
TOM: Seventeen.
MAGGIE : What did you say ? Or don't you remember?
TOM : I remember exactly, I said, " I think if we com
pletely understood the nature of love we would
understand the whole Universe."
MAGGIE: At seventeen?
TOM: I was very serious. And in love.
MAGGIE: Who with?
49 *
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
TOM : My housemaster's wife.
MAGGIE: Tom! Are we in the presence of Old
Woodley?
[The door bell rings.}
CLARISSA: I'll go.
EDWARD : It's wonderfully generous of you to offer
to finance me. I don't know what I can ever do to
repay you.
TOM: You can reveal all your office secrets.
EDWARD : I'd better be going. I'm taking Clarissa to
dinner.
[Conversation heard off.}
MAGGIE: Who is it?
TOM: I don't know.
[Clarissa re-enters.}
CLARISSA: Sir George Treherne.
[Sir Gearge enters?^
SIR GEORGE: Good evening. I hope you'll forgive
this intrusion. You are Mr. Davenport?
TOM: Yes.
SIR GEORGE: I am an old friend of your Aunt
Sophie.
TOM : Oh, how very nice.
SIR GEORGE: I'm only in London for a few days, so I
took the liberty of calling on you.
TOM: I'm delighted you did. This is Miss Ross.
MAGGIE: How d'you do?
TOM: Mr. Kinnerton.
49*
BOTH ENDS MEET
SIR GEORGE (to Edward) : I hope I'm not driving you
away.
EDWARD : No, no. We were on our way.
[Edward goes.]
CLARISSA: Will you excuse me, Sir George?
TOM : Won't you sit down, Sir George ?
CLARISSA (in the hall): Edward, would you get a
taxi. . . ? I shan't be a moment.
[Clarissa goes upstairs.]
TOM (closing the door): Will you have a drink. Sir
George? There's some champagne. It was a
present from Aunt Sophie.
SIR GEORGE : Oh ! From Sophie. How fascinating.
TOM : We'll drink to Aunt Sophie.
SIR GEORGE: Yes, indeed. To dear Sophie. Radiant
— unforgettable
TOM: And so magnificently and wonderfully
generous.
SIR GEORGE : Dear Sophie. I was greatly saddened to
hear the news. I had occasion to telephone Geneva. I
spoke to her solicitors — what's their name?
TOM : I'm afraid I don't know.
SIR GEORGE : Oh. They haven't been in touch with
you?
TOM: Not personally.
SIR GEORGE: Oh. Then you don't know the terms
of the will. I telephoned you earlier. . . .
TOM: Is there some trouble?
SIR GEORGE: Oh no. No. Good heavens, no. It's
just that dear Sophie has been kind enough to
mention me. How does she put it? "I trust my
nephew will give to my old friend Sir George
495
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
Treherne some remembrance of young, happy days.*'
TOM (relieved): Well, of course! I'll be only too
pleased.
MAGGIE: Tom will find you something personal of
hers. Some books. . . .
TOM : Or a piece of china.
SIR GEORGE: I don't think that's quite what she
meant.
TOM: Well, you must tell us quite frankly exactly
what you would like.
SIR GEORGE : Oh, how kind of you. (He gives Tom a
sharp look.) I have come here on a delicate mission.
MAGGIE : Delicate mission ?
SIR GEORGE: Delicate mission, that's what we used
to call it. I was in the Diplomatic Service — attache
in Paris and so on — that's where I first met Sophie.
She was living in the most unpleasant little flat. . . .
Shortly afterwards she moved to a delightful house
just off the Champs Elysees.
TOM: What happened between the unpleasant flat
and the delightful house ?
SIR GEORGE : Sophie and I met on the stairs of the
Embassy, at a reception.
TOM: Yes?
SIR GEORGE: That's all.
TOM (smiling) : It hardly explains the move, does it ?
One's fortunes don't change, just because jSu meet
someone on a staircase.
SIR GEORGE : Depends who you meet.
TOM: I beg your pardon?
SIR GEORGE : I was an extremely wealthy young man.
TOM: Are you telling me that Aunt Sophie met you
on a staircase and because you were a wealthy young
man. . . ?
SIR GEORGE: No, no. We fell instantly and com
pletely head over heels in love.
494
BOTH ENDS MEET
TOM: And you set her up in the delightful house?
SIR GEORGE: Naturally.
TOM: The whole thing was done openly.
SIR GEORGE: The whole thing was done quietly. I
was in the Diplomatic.
TOM: I presume your delicate mission is to tell me
that the hundred and twenty thousand really belongs
to you ?
SIR GEORGE : Good heavens, no.
MAGGIE: Well, that's a relief!
SIR GEORGE: I wish it did. No, I only once gave
Sophie ... a little something. I can't conceal from
you that it would be nice if — it's a delicate matter — if
you could see your way — how shall I put it. . . ?
TOM : To return the little something.
[Sir George closes his eyes., and bows slightly,}
TOM : How much was it ?
SIR GEORGE: Ten thousand pounds.
[Clarissa opens the door.}
CLARISSA: Well, darlings. Have a jolly evening.
TOM: What?
CLARISSA (taking her handbag): I said, have a jolly
evening.
TOM: Yes, dear!
CLARISSA : Don't spend all your money.
TOM: No dear!
[Clarissa exits.}
I don't understand. If you only gave Aunt Sophie
ten thousand, where did the other hundred and ten
come from ?
495
ACT ONE, SCENE TWO
SIR GEORGE: Well, I think it's plain that she did
invest her money wisely. She had a great friend on
the Paris Bourse, another who was a banker, another
in the champagne business. They would have given
her excellent advice.
TOM: Nothing more?
SIR GEORGE: Mm?
TOM: No more ten thousands?
SIR GEORGE : Good heavens, no ! I was the only man
your aunt ever cared tuppence for.
[Clarissa re-enters.}
CLARISSA: Another old friend of Aunt Sophie's.
Lord Minster.
[Lord Minster enters.}
LORD MINSTER: I do hope I'm not intruding, but I
felt as I was dining nearby I must look in for one
second and say. . . . (Sees Sir George.} George !
SIR GEORGE: Dickie.
LORD MINSTER: I had no idea you were in London.
What a very pleasant surprise. Of course, you would
be here, wouldn't you ? Such sad news about Sophie.
(To Tom.} We all knew one another in Paris, at
the Embassy. Good old George. A few years older,
but still able to get about, eh?
SIR GEORGE (irritably} : Really, Dickie. That juvenile
manner ill becomes a man well over sixty.
LORD MINSTER: I'm sorry, George, but I just grow
younger every year.
SIR GEORGE: You're going to be most embarrassing
at eighty.
LORD MINSTER: As grumpy as ever. You must
496
BOTH ENDS MEET
come and dine — I'm on my way to- Vickie Hol
lander's. . . .
SIR GEORGE: Oh lord. Are you going there too?
LORD MINSTER: Oh, good. I'll give you a lift. . I've
got the car outside. Just felt I had to stop and say
how d'you do to Sophie's nephew. (To Tom.) I
say, I had no idea she had so much money. Where
did she get it ?
TOM : Early in life, she made a very good investment.
LORD MINSTER : On the Market ?
TOM: On a staircase.
SIR GEORGE: Dickie, you go along. I'll follow.
LORD MINSTER: No, no. I'll take you.
SIR GEORGE (irritably) : But I don't want to be taken.
LORD MINSTER (laughing) : You can be tetchy, but not
half as tetchy as Vickie will be if we're a minute late.
Now, come along.
SIR GEORGE (to Tom) : I shall have to telephone you
in the morning. Perhaps in the meantime you will
give the matter some thought? I wish you a very
good evening. Come along, Dickie.
[Sir George goes.]
LORD MINSTER (to Torn)'. So very nice to have met
you. Do forgive my arriving unannounced, but I
read the news in the evening papers, and there was
your address — (Looks quickly over bis shoulder towards
the door.) Wonder if I could see you tomorrow ? I
didn't expect to find him here. It's just a . . very
small financial matter. A little gift I once made
Sophie.
TOM (stonily) : How much ?
LORD MINSTER: Five thousand.
SIR GEORGE (re-appearing in the doorway): Well,
really 1 You bustle me out of the place. . . .
497
ACT TWO, SCENE TWO
LORD MINSTER: Just coming, my dear fellow.
\Going, as. Sir George again disappears^
(He turns and whispers?) Tomorrow morning.
[Lord Minster exits.}
[Tow and Maggie look at one another^
TOM: Ten thousand. Five thousand. (He shrugs?)
Presumably she met Lord Minster during the sales.
MAGGIE: Now, Tom, whatever happens, don't let it
worry you.
TOM: Worry me? Fifteen thousand gone in ten
minutes. And what about the rest? All the other
gentlemen ?
MAGGIE: We don't know there were any others.,
TOM : A hundred and five thousand left. That could
mean at least another twenty applicants on their way.
MAGGIE: Sir George said he was the only man in her
life. . . .
TOM : He said, the only man she cared tuppence for.
There are a lot of tuppences in a hundred and twenty
thousand. A friend on the Bourse, another who was
a banker — another in the champagne business. And
that's only Paris. There are plenty more cities in
Europe, and Aunt Sophie was a great traveller.
MAGGIE: Tom I You must keep calm. . . .
TOM: Calm? How can I keep calm? D'you think it's
nice to be told your gracious, charming aunt was in
point of fact a sort of old Madame Zaza?
[Tow puts out his band and Maggie comes to him.]
498
BOTH ENDS MEET
I said there'd be trouble, but I didn't imagine any
thing like this.
MAGGIE: Well, it's not all that bad. Obviously, with
all that money, there was bound to be some bother.
What does it matter? We're together, and we'll
fight the lot of them.
TOM: What a shame — about your ring.
MAGGIE: What?
TOM: How right you were, about just having it for
this evening.
MAGGIE : If you think I meant that seriously, you're
very much mistaken.
TOM: But you said. . . .
MAGGIE : This is my engagement ring. I've waited a
long time for it, and I intend to keep it.
TOM : But until I know. . . .
MAGGIE: I don't care how many of Aunt Sophie's
admirers turn up. I don't care if they're taking off
from all parts of the globe — planes full of elderly
gentlemen. They're not going to have my engage
ment ring.
[Door bell rings.}
TOM: There's another.
MAGGIE: It might be Clarissa.
TOM: She has a key.
\Tbe door bell rings.}
MAGGIE: Could it be Jimmy?
TOM: Dining in Hampstead.
\The door bell rings.}
It's another, all right.
499
BOTH ENDS MEET
MAGGIE: Don't answer.
TOM: What?
MAGGIE : Just don't answer.
TOM: That's cowardly.
MAGGIE: Yes.
TOM: Right.
\Torn sits beside Maggie. Door bell rings.}
(Suddenly.) D'you know something? Aunt Sophie
lived for two years in Russia.
[Tbe door bell rings}
Curtain
500
ACT THREE
The same> the following morning.
Maggie is pouring out coffee. Tom enters, putting on his
jacket.
JIMMY: D'you always get up this late?
TOM: The daily woman normally wakes me. She
hasn't arrived — as usual.
JIMMY : Buy an alarm clock.
TOM: What with?
[Maggie gives him a sharp look.]
JIMMY : Your fortune, dear fellow, your fortune. You
forget . . . (picking up a newspaper and reading)
". . . when we telephoned Mr. Tom Davenport, he
said he was astonished and delighted. ..."
TOM: Oh — stop.
JIMMY : And there's a photograph of you. . . .
MAGGIE: Let me see.
JIMMY: They must have taken it out of a very old
passport.
MAGGIE (looking : If you had that in a passport, you'd
never get out of the country.
TOM (looking) : It was taken twenty years ago.
JIMMY: What's that on top of your head?
TOM: Hair.
JIMMY: For somebody whose life is going to be a
bed of roses, you don't seem very jovial this morning.
TOM: I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking, going round
in circles, and always coming back to the same
conclusion.
[Maggie, who is inspecting the " Good Thoughts " calendar,
again looks at him sharply > and he catches her eye.]
501
ACT THREE
What's the thought for today ?
MAGGIE: " Experience always comes in useful."
TOM : Who said that ? Aunt Sophie ?
JIMMY (offering a gold case)-. Tom, this really was a
wonderful present. I don't know how to thank you.
TOM: Lovely, isn't it? Pity it'll have to go back.
[Jimmy drops the case. Maggie puts down the coffee pot
abruptly.']
JIMMY {picking tip the case) : What ?
TOM : It'll have to go back. I don't think I can accept
Aunt Sophie's legacy.
[Jimmy is dumbfounded.}
MAGGIE: So that's the conclusion to which you kept
coming back? I thought so.
JIMMY: What on earth are you talking about?
TOM: It's not easy to explain. . . .
MAGGIE: It's perfectly easy. Tom, having the moral
outlook of a Victorian father, disapproves of the
source or sources of Aunt Sophie's money. (To Tom.}
I think I've expressed the situation in a nutshell ?
TOM : Life's much too complicated to express in over
simplified phrases. What, after all, can be put in a
nutshell ?
MAGGIE: Nuts.
TOM: I don't disapprove. . . .
MAGGIE: Oh yes, you do. You built up a senti
mental picture of a gracious woman, sitting around
in her salon like a sort of Whistler's Aunt, with her
silver, her porcelain, her objets de vertu. . . .
TOM: Objets de easy vertu.
MAGGIE: . . . and you're furious to find that far
from being anything like your picture, Aunt Sophie
was in fact infinitely more interesting and exciting.
502
BOTH ENDS MEET
TOM: I don't criticise her or the source of her money.
One would expect a lady who was no better than she
should be, to die better off than most. I merely say
I cannot spend the rest of my life living on the pro
ceeds of hers.
JIMMY: Why not?
TOM : Would you ?
JIMMY: Like a shot.
MAGGIE: And what about Sir George and Lord
Minster? Have you given them a thought?
TOM: Yes, they'll be looked after.
JIMMY: For heaven's sake, old boy. You're not
going to send them away with fifteen thousand in their
pockets ?
MAGGIE: He won't have fifteen thousand to give
them, if he's refused the money.
JIMMY: I simply don't get it, Tom. Why should you
give these fellows a farthing ?
TOM: If they want it, there's a moral obligation.
Isn't there? It was theirs. It is theirs. Surely you
can see in the situation, it's only right and proper?
MAGGIE: I can imagine no situation in which it's
right and proper for dissatisfied customers to return
thirty years later and ask for their money back.
\Torn thinks this over, and is impressed^
TOM : You know ... I think you're right.
JIMMY: Of course she's right.
TOM : Why should they get anything ?
JIMMY: You can't be under a moral obligation to
men like that.
TOM: You are right, you're absolutely right. They
shan't have a penny — not a penny.
MAGGIE: And you're going to accept the money.,
aren't you ?
TOM: Well. . . .
503
ACT THREE
MAGGIE: Don't forget, apart from anything else,
you owe eight hundred pounds. . . .
TOM : That's not enough reason. I want. . . .
MAGGIE : A sign from above ?
TOM : Yes. A sign from above.
[The door opens. . . . Edward and Clarissa enter in a
state of some excitement.}
CLARISSA: Well 1 He's done it.
MAGGIE: Done what?
EDWARD: I've thrown up my job. Pension and all.
TOM: Oh! Er. . . .
EDWARD (to Tom)-- I've burned my boats, and in
sulted my boss. It was wonderful.
CLARISSA: Dear Uncle Tom! I can't tell you how
grateful I am. (Taking Edward's arm.} He's a dif
ferent person.
EDWARD : I feel terrific. Free !
CLARISSA: He just wasn't right in the job. Now he's
my own dear Edward again. (She puts her arm round
his neck and kisses him.)
EDWARD (to Tom): I'm tremendously grateful to
you, sir, for making it possible. Without your
financial backing I know I'd never have had the
courage.
TOM: Have you ... er ... completely. . . ?
EDWARD: Oh — completely.
TOM: Oh!
EDWARD: I marched into Murgatroyd's office —
didn't knock — and told him I wouldn't be coming
back. When it finally all sank in, he said, " But you
can't do that! This hasty decision. . . ."
TOM : It is rather hasty, isn't it ?
EDWARD: There seemed to be no point in waiting.
TOM: But I didn't know you were going to. ...
504
BOTH ENDS MEET
EDWARD: "And" he said, " if you think of nothing
else, think of your lost emoluments."
CLARISSA : Lost what ?
EDWARD: Emoluments. It's a word they use for
money. Think of your pension. " Fiddle-de-dee to
that," I said. He nearly fainted. To them, the pension
is Mecca. Something far off and beautiful, to be
thought of during the magic hours of sunrise, sunset
and morning coffee.
TOM : I think you have been rather hasty. If I were
you, Fd go back there and. ...
EDWARD: Oh, I couldn't do that. To begin with, I
wouldn't. Apart from which, I've completely given
them the chuck. Written and posted the official
letter — and I feel fine.
MAGGIE (to Tom): How do you feel?
TOM : I feel I've had the sign from above. I've got to
accept the money.
MAGGIE: That's right.
[The door bell rings.}
JIMMY: Tom — if this is Sir George or Lord Minster,
you will be adamant, won't you ?
TOM: Yes. But if there's any argument, you'll
back me up, won't you ?
\]immy nods.}
JIMMY: Not a penny.
TOM : Not a penny.
[Maggie re-enters.}
MAGGIE: Lord Minster.
\Lfird Minster enters^
LORD MINSTER (breezily): Good morning. I just
ACT THREE
thought I'd look in and. . . . (He sees the others?)
Oh!
TOM : Now ! You said five thousand ?
LORD MINSTER : Well — this is rather. . . .
TOM: The whole thing has been discussed quite
openly, so I assure you there's nothing to be em
barrassed about.
LORD MINSTER : Oh ! Well, in that case. . . . You're
quite right, of course. There is nothing to be em
barrassed about. The only real embarrassment was
walking in here last night and finding George. (He
laughs.} After all these years, it'd be a shame if he
found out about myself and Sophie.
JIMMY: Lord Minster, I am Mr. Davenport's solicitor.
Have you any proof — about this five thousand
pounds ?
LORD MINSTER: My dear fellow, you're not going to
drag this into Court?
JIMMY: Anybody could arrive and tell the same
story.
LORD MINSTER: Anybody?
JIMMY: We might get half the Athenaeum Club
marching in.
LORD MINSTER: They can't walk, let alone march.
(To Tom). Fm only sorry to have to spoil a charming
memory by mentioning the sum involved.
JIMMY: Yes, but have you any proof?
[Sir George Treherne appears in the doonvay.]
LORD MINSTER: Funnily enough I kept a letter from
her. . . . (Keadingit.} MydearToto — Five thousand
thanks — you see, five thousand pounds was the sum
I gave her — for the enchanting gift. I shall remain for
ever in your debt, Sophie.
SIR GEORGE: What five thousand that you gave her?
506
BOTH ENDS MEET
(To Tom.} A middle-aged person was admitting her
self at the front door. ...
TOM: Oh, the daily woman. She's arrived. That's
good.
SIR GEORGE (to Lord Minster) : You gave Sophie five
thousand pounds ? May I ask why ?
LORD MINSTER : But surely you remember ?
SIR GEORGE: Most surely I do not.
LORD MINSTER : I told you all about it at the time.
SIR GEORGE: Had you told me about it at the time,
you would not be here to tell me about it now.
LORD MINSTER: Now, George. . . .
SIR GEORGE: I would have knocked your silly head
off.
LORD MINSTER: Don't be ridiculous. It was all per
fectly innocent.
SIR GEORGE (suddenly): You were the man in the
cupboard.
LORD MINSTER : Man in the cupboard ?
SIR GEORGE: In nineteen sixteen. I came back to
Paris on leave, unexpectedly. I called upon Sophie,
was kept waiting, and then shown into her bedroom,
where she was lying on a chaise-longue, in an elabor
ate toilette, with noticeably heightened colour.
LORD MINSTER : Well ?
SIR GEORGE : She told me that since my departure her
life had been a desert. Her mornings a wilderness —
and nothing to look forward to in the evenings.
LORD MINSTER : I'm sure that was true.
SIR GEORGE (to Maggie)-. I ask you! Do ladies with
nothing to look forward to in the evenings put on
evening dress ?
MAGGIE : If anything, they take them off.
SIR GEORGE (to Lord Minster) : On the floor, pushed
out of sight but perfectly visible to my eye, was a
British Staff Officer's cap.
507
ACT THREE
LORD MINSTER: That might have been anybody's.
SIR GEORGE: That occurred to me at the time.
Sophie knew so many distinguished persons. One
did not wish to fling open the door of a cupboard and
disclose one's commanding general.
MAGGIE (fascinated) : How did you know there was
anyone in the cupboard ?
SIR GEORGE (deathly serious)'. Somebody sneezed.
MAGGIE (enthralled) : In the cupboard ?
SIR GEORGE: Quite definitely.
MAGGIE (delighted): But I've been in this, scores of
times !
SIR GEORGE : In it ?
MAGGIE: In repertory companies. It's traditional.
The maid dashes in and says, " Your lover has re
turned unexpectedly! " — so you push your new
lover into the cupboard. (To Lord Minster?) Was
there anyone else in the cupboard ?
LORD MINSTER: No.
SIR GEORGE (to 'Lord Minster) : So there was nobody
else in the cupboard ?
LORD MINSTER : What ?
SIR GEORGE: Just yourself.
[Lord Minster is about to speak.]
You've admitted it. (To the others?} He's admitted it.
LORD MINSTER: Well, I. ... (He laughs.} At this
stage in our lives, what's the point of denying it?
Yes, I was in the cupboard. (To Tom.) I should
explain it was a huge, built-in affair. Room for six
or seven. It was just a joke.
SIR GEORGE: A joke! I said nothing to Sophie at
the time, because I couldn't bear to see her humiliated.
LORD MINSTER : You said nothing to Sophie because
508
BOTH ENDS MEET
about a minute after I sneezed there was an air-raid
warning and you said, " My hat ! Zeppelins ! " —
and rushed back to H.Q. H.Q. being, of course,
the downstairs bar at the Crillon.
SIR GEORGE: You — of all people! And how many
more were there like you ? I ask myself.
MAGGIE: We all ask ourselves.
SIR GEORGE (to the air) : Perhaps you will inform me
when this person has left the premises ? I shall wait
out here in the . . . (surveying it} yard.
[He goes into the garden^
MAGGIE: \ ...
VYard
JIMMY: j
LORD MINSTER (amused) : I'll calm him down. Sorry.
I'm afraid I never can resist pulling his leg. (Going.)
George, don't be such an old chump. . . .
[He follows Sir George into the garden .]
JIMMY: You're going to have a tough time shaking
them off.
TOM: I don't see why. I'll simply tell them. . . .
JIMMY: Telling them won't get you anywhere.
They're the sort who'll hang on like grim death.
Before you know where you are, they'll be saying
you tacitly admitted their claims, and with a couple
like that you'll be in a lawsuit before you can say
" knife ".
MAGGIE: I think we could get rid of them both,
for good — if it worked.
JIMMY: If what worked ?
MAGGIE (looking at the calendar] : " Experience always
comes in useful."
TOM : What experience ?
509
ACT THREE
MAGGIE: Ours — here — yesterday, with Edward. We
were all in a fine panic, discovering we'd given away
secrets right and left in front of an Income Tax
official.
EDWARD : But I'm not one any more,
MAGGIE : They don't know that, do they ?
TOM (musing)-. I'm sure they both have a lot of
secrets.
MAGGIE: Lots and lots.
TOM (thoughtfully) : What we'd have to do is lead the
conversation round to the subject of taxation.
JIMMY: Maggie, I think you've got something. (To
Tom.) If we get away with it, we shan't see them for
dust. I mean, look at the flap I was in. I was
practically on a boat for New Zealand.
TOM: We shall need lots of champagne. Clarissa,
would you mind ? — it's in the kitchen.
[Clarissa goes.]
[Sir George re-enters > followed by Lord Minster.]
SIR GEORGE: Go away! I do not wish to bandy
words with the type of man who hides in cupboards.
LORD MINSTER: Good thing it wasn't your family
cupboard. I'd never have been able to get in for
skeletons.
SIR GEORGE: At least we have a family cupboard,
which is more than can be said of some.
LORD MINISTER : Twit me as much as you like about
being the first Lord Minster, dear old chap. Doesn't
worry me at all. I'm not ashamed of having been
made a peer.
SIR GEORGE: No labourer should be ashamed of the
fruits of his toil.
LORD MINSTER : I beg your pardon ?
510
BOTH ENDS MEET
SIR GEORGE: I remember it happening so well. I
was sitting in the Club, and someone said, " I see
they've made Dickie Minster a peer. I am glad.
He's worked so hard for it. The only sad thing is,
now he's become a peer, there'll be nothing left for
him to work for." " Oh, I don't know," I replied.
" He might work even harder and become a gentle
man."
LORD MINSTER : In your Club, were you ? I wonder
you heard one another above the noise of bouncing
cheques.
TOM: Er . . . wouldn't you both like a drink ?
SIR GEORGE: Not for. . . .
MAGGIE: Oh yes — do. It's — er — it can be such a
help.
[Clarissa re-enters with champagne.}
TOM: Champagne?
LORD MINSTER : Personally, there's only one thing I'd
like more than a glass of champagne
JIMMY: What's that?
LORD MINSTER: Two glasses. (He laughs.}
MAGGIE (with a look at Tom) : I'm sure we can arrange
that.
LORD MINSTER: Can't afford much of it nowadays.
[Maggie looks at Tom., and takes a breath.}
MAGGIE: The taxation, I suppose?
LORD MINSTER : You've hit the nail bang on the head.
What I couldn't say about the Income Tax !
EDWARD: Oh, really?
LORD MINSTER: Eh, George?
[Sir George grunts.}
ACT THREE
Bet you could say a bit, if you chose,
SIR GEORGE: It is not a subject about which I wish
even to think.
MAGGIE: Pity.
LORD MINSTER: Not in public. But you do quite a
bit of thinking in private, don't you ? Or so Fm
told. (To the others?) And you can be sure he doesn't
think to no purpose.
SIR GEORGE: Perhaps you would be kind enough.
LORD MINSTER: George, stop being so crusty. I'm
paying you a compliment. Everyone I know is
filled with admiration for the way you diddle the
Tax Collector.
MAGGIE (wide-eyed] : What do you mean ?
LORD MINSTER : You know. Tax evasion.
SIR GEORGE: Really, Dickie. . . !
LORD MINSTER: Now don't deny it. Who bought
Marie Antoinette's desk, and got away with charging
it as office furniture ?
[Sir George, m spite oj himself , begins to chuckle.}
And not only her desk, but two armchairs and a
magnificent mirror.
SIR GEORGE (amused}\ Well, one has to have a desk
in one's office, and a chair to sit on, and a glass for
the wretched typist to look at herself in.
LORD MINSTER: Yes, but one doesn't then have to get
in touch with the authorities at Versailles, and have
them over here buying everything back, at an
enormous capital gain to yourself.
SIR GEORGE (smiting): Oh, nonsense, nonsense.
These things become grossly exaggerated.
LORD MINSTER: How you ever swung that one, I
can't imagine. Sheer impudence, I suppose ?
512
BOTH ENDS MEET
SIR GEORGE : Like your brandy smuggling.
MAGGIE: What?
SIR GEORGE : Brandy smuggling.
LORD MINSTER : I don't know what you mean.
SIR GEORGE: Got you on the raw there, eh Dickie?
(To the rest} He has a country house looking over
Romney Marsh — famous smuggling country, of
course. . . .
LORD MINSTER (fussed}: George, there are certain
things one doesn't say in public. . . .
SIR GEORGE : You started it.
LORD MINSTER: I merely repeated something every
body knows, . . .
SIR GEORGE : And you, I suppose, think that all your
chicanery is a dark secret?
LORD MINSTER: Nothing illegal can be kid at my
front door.
SIR GEORGE: It's laid, so I believe, at your back door.
LORD MINSTER : What IS ?
SIR GEORGE : The brandy.
LORD MINSTER: Really, George! I don't know what.
. . . (.Accepting a glass of champagne.} Thank you.
SIR GEORGE : You had a butler called Trimmingham.
For the last two years he has been with me. (He
laughs.} We have most interesting talks about you.
LORD MINSTER: Discussing me with a former ser
vant. It amounts to spying.
SIR GEORGE : Like hiding in cupboards ?
CLARISSA : Do have a gkss of champagne, Sir George.
MAGGIE: Tell us about the smuggling.
CLARISSA: There's something so glamorous about
smuggling.
LORD MINSTER (taking them in, not for the first time) : To
charming young women like yourselves, how could
an old fellow like me ever do anything gkmorous?
MAGGIE (wide-eyed) : But men of your age — I mean,
*7 513
ACT THREE
attractive men — are the most glamorous of all.
(She sits looking up into his eyes.) D'you think that's
silly?
LORD MINSTER (blossom'ttg) : Not at all.
CLARISSA: Do tell us about your dark secrets.
LORD MINSTER (smiling) \ Well, I oughtn't to.
MAGGIE: I love doing things I oughtn't to, don't
you?
LORD MINSTER: Yes, indeed.
EDWARD : Do tell us, how you manage the smuggling.
LORD MINSTER: Well, it's not really smuggling. I
have some very good friends in Brittany — in the
wine trade, and I have a small yacht, which oc
casionally goes out and gets lost and has to put in at
St. Malo or somewhere round there. Then it sets out
again, with a few bottles of brandy. . . .
SIR GEORGE : About a hundred dozen.
LORD MINSTER: And finds its way home. . . .
SIR GEORGE : At dead of night.
LORD MINSTER : And that's all there is to it.
SIR GEORGE: Apart from a handsome profit.
MAGGIE: How romantic.
LORD MINSTER: Mark you, it's just a bit of fun.
One likes to feel one's still got some dash. . . .
CLARISSA: Of course.
LORD MINSTER: So one amuses oneself — once in a
while.
SIR GEORGE: Trimmingham said once a month.
LORD MINSTER: Trimmingham had better. . . ,
(Suddenly?) You stopped the night at the Marsh,
about four years ago on your way to France. I
suppose that's when you got hold of him, bribed
him, . . .
SIR GEORGE: Bribed him?
LORD MINSTER: With tales about what he could make
BOTH ENDS MEET
out of those expensive teas you serve on the days you
open your stately home to the public.
[Sir George is about to speak.~\
Yes, and I'm told he takes at least four times more in
gate money than is ever revealed to the Tax Inspector.
SIR GEORGE: That could be checked. There are
admission tickets.
LORD MINSTER: But only one visitor in every four
seems to get one.
SIR GEORGE: Who told you that?
LORD MINSTER : Freddie Bradford.
SIR GEORGE: Who?
LORD MINSTER : The Duke of Bradford.
SIR GEORGE: The Duke of Bradford? But he's been
invited to stay as a guest. Why should he pay five-
shillings and be herded round with the trippers?
LORD MINSTER: Because, he said, it's less boring that
way — and you get a better tea.
SIR GEORGE : Really ? If a few of the facts about the
Duke of Bradford were known, he wouldn't be at
liberty to go snooping round other people's houses.
LORD MINSTER : Quite true. (To Jimmy.} He lets his
shooting to wealthy Americans, gets dollars on the
sly, and then asks them for fifty per cent of the bag —
which he sells on the quiet to a London hotel.
SIR GEORGE (to Tom) \ That's true.
LORD MINSTER : Oh, I know it is, because he told me
himself— and that you'd put him up to it.
SIR GEORGE : I put him up to it ? Of all the. . . .
LORD MINSTER : Oh, come off it, George. Everyone
knows about your shoot. It's famous.
SIR GEORGE: Where on earth do you hear these
things ?
LORD MINSTER: Just gossip.
ACT THREE
SIR GEORGE: It's high time they abolished the House
of Lords.
LORD MINSTER: We won't mention the workmen's
cottages on your estate. The tenants only pay ten
shillings a week — on paper — but they all seem to have
Rolls Royces.
SIR GEORGE: Might we just pause and consider the
East Wing of your country house, let to a Canadian
family. . . .
LORD MINSTER: They are my guests.
SIR GEORGE: And have been your guests for the
last seven years. Rather a long visit — unless of
course, they're paying guests. Now, I wonder if
there's an account in a bank in Montreal, not of
course in the name of Lord Minster. . . .
LORD MINSTER : I' ve never been to Canada. . . .
SIR GEORGE : But you have been to New York, where
Canadian dollars are so useful. Trimmingham did
so enjoy the trip with you. He said the Chase National
Bank. . . .
LORD MINSTER: George, you're going much too far.
I think the champagne must have gone to your head.
SIR GEORGE: It always does.
LORD MINSTER : You've said quite enough.
JIMMY: He has.
MAGGIE (suddenly) : Edward ! I'd forgotten all about
you. We shouldn't. . . . You oughtn't to have.
... Oh dear!
TOM: What's the matter?
MAGGIE : Edward 1 He's heard everything Sir George
and Lord Minster have been saying.
SIR GEORGE (alarm J) i What?
TOM: Of course! I didn't realise.
JIMMY: Edward, you will treat everything you've
heard as confidential, won't you ?
BOTH ENDS MEET
LORD MINSTER:! I should hope so.
SIR GEORGE: J Why shouldn't he ?
JIMMY (to Sir George) : Don't panic, it'll be all right.
SIR GEORGE (infuriated}: What d'you mean, don't
panic?
LORD MINSTER (through this) : What's going on ?
CLARISSA: Edward, if only you'd say something.
TOM (to Sir George)-. Jimmy's right. You must keep
calm.
SIR GEORGE (maddened) : I am calm.
TOM: No. You're shouting. You're getting worked
up. We must keep our heads.
SIR GEORGE: Will you kindly explain yourself. (To
Edward.) What is he?
LORD MINSTER: A policeman?
MAGGIE (to Lord Minster) : It'll be all right.
CLARISSA: Edward wouldn't do anything under
hand, would you, Edward?
MAGGIE: He's really reliable, and conscientious. . . .
LORD MINSTER (taking Edward'' *s arm) : I don't know
who or what you are, but I'm sure you'll respect a
private conversation. (Easily.) You and I are
gentlemen, and we don't eavesdrop. . . .
{Edward gives him a sharp look. Lord Minster is confused.}
LORD MINSTER: You know, I stupidly didn't catch
your name. . . .
[Edward silently produces a card, and hands it to him}
Oh, thanks so much. Kinnerton, of course. (Glanc
ing.} Well, now — as I said. . . .
[He trails of, aghast at what he has seen written on the
card. He looks at Edward whose face is immovable. Edward
turns, and goes into the garden}
517
ACT THREE
SIR GEORGE: What's the matter?
\lLord Minster silently hands him the card^\
The Commissioners of Inland. . . . (He sits.)
LORD MINSTER: I wonder if I might . . . have a
little brandy ? (He sits.)
TOM: Brandy? Of course.
SIR GEORGE (furiously. At Lord Minster) : This is all
your fault.
LORD MINSTER (at Sir George): It was you who
brought the subject up.
SIR GEORGE (fuming)'. My office furniture ... the
workmen's cottages. . . .
LORD MINSTER: My Canadians.
MAGGIE (calmingly^ between them] : You mustn>t blame
yourselves. Whichever one of you it was who
started to talk about Income Tax. . . . The harm's
done.
LORD MINSTER: Harm? Announcing that I import
hundreds of dozens of cases of brandy.
TOM (handing a glass of brandy) : Brandy.
LORD MINSTER (moving to Sir George) : George, we've
stirred up a hornet's nest.
SIR GEORGE: You mean you have.
LORD MINSTER: We've got to think quickly, or we'll
have the tax people down on us. Of course, I know
your financial skies are rosy. . . .
SIR GEORGE : Not so rosy now you've filled them with
vultures.
LORD MINSTER (agitated} : I don't know what I'd do
if a lot of officials started prying about in my affairs.
I think I'd shoot myself. What would you do ?
SIR GEORGE: I'd shoot the officials.
JIMMY : Happily, I think I can get you out of all this
trouble.
518
BOTH ENDS MEET
LORD MINSTER: Oh, really?
JIMMY: If, in return, you'll do something for me.
LORD MINSTER : Of course, of course. Anything you
like.
JIMMY: That young man's going to marry Mr.
Davenport's niece and if he feels morally obliged to
remember the unfortunate things you've both —
quite accidentally — revealed, Mr. Davenport might
feel morally obliged to support his future nephew.
So don't you agree you'd be wiser to forget your
claims.
SIR GEORGE: I am perfectly prepared to waive any
claim. If you can assure me that matters . . . (indi
cating the garden) . . . out there, can be arranged
satisfactorily.
JIMMY: D'you feel the same way, tord Minster?
LORD MINSTER: Yes, yes, of course.
JIMMY : Then may I have the letter ?
[Sir George and Lord Minster hand him identical letters.]
(Surprised.} Thank you. Thank you. Well, gentle
men, I think I can assure you that everything will be
all right. (To Tom.} Tom, I'm rowing better today,
aren't I ?
\]immy goes into the garden.]
MAGGIE: Gentlemen, I have an idea. I don't pre
tend to be half as intelligent as either of you, but I
think the best thing would be for you both just to
disappear.
SIR GEORGE: You mean — now?
MAGGIE: Yes. You go — and we don't know where
you are, or how to get in touch with you — and we
never see you again, ever.
5*9 -
ACT THREE
SIR GEORGE (rising) : You're right. You're absolutely
right.
LORD MINSTER: But look here, are you absolutely
sure you can persuade him. . . . One doesn't want
to spend the rest of one's life in fear and trembling.
MAGGIE: You'll just both have to be very, very
careful in the future, won't you ?
SIR GEORGE: "i Definitely!
LORD MINSTER :j Of course!
\Tbe door bell rmgs.~\
SIR GEORGE: We'd better make outselves scarce.
LORD MINSTER (shaking Tow's band)'. Well, it's
extremely good of you.
SIR GEORGE: Yes, indeed.
TOM (opening door and calling) : It's all right, Mrs. Small.
\Torn goes.}
SIR GEORGE (to *Lord Minster) : Well, no more little
night trips in the Channel for you — eh? Pity. I
was going to ask you to get some brandy for me.
LORD MINSTER (quiefly): As a matter of fact, I'm
pretty well stocked, and just in case anyone should
come snooping, I might like to get rid of it.
SIR GEORGE: I'll give you twenty shillings a bottle.
LORD MINSTER (outraged): Twenty shillings? In a
shop, you won't get it under forty-five.
SIR GEORGE : In prison, you won't get it at all.
[Sir George goes.]
LORD MINSTER (to Maggie) : I'm sorry our acquaintance
has been so brief. Thank you for being so kind.
You've been most helpful. Most helpful.
MAGGIE : It was a pleasure.
520
BOTH ENDS MEET
LORD MINSTER; Tell me. I don't know whether you'd
ever fancy a quiet little dinner with a lonely old
bachelor. . . ?
MAGGIE: I'd love it.
[Lord Minster beams at her.]
So would Tom.
LORD MINSTER: Tom?
MAGGIE: My fiance!
LORD MINSTER (dashef): Oh! Is he? I didn't realise
. . . er — (Depressed.) Yes. Well, we must think
about it.
[He turns to Tomy who has re-entered with Mr. Wilson.
He looks closely at Mr. Wilson^
I know your face. I've met you at my nephew's.
Reggie Cartwright.
WILSON (diffidently) : Oh. Yes.
LORD MINSTER (to Tom) \ He's an old Army friend of
my nephew's.
TOM : Oh, really ? Mr. Wilson's an old Army friend
of mine, too.
LORD MINSTER: Quite a coincidence.
TOM: Mr. Wilson has lots of old Army friends.
LORD MINSTER (to Mr. Wilson) : Have you seen Reggie
lately?
WILSON: Not this quarter ... er ... not for some
time.
LORD MINSTER: Well, I'll tell him I ran into you. Do
look him up. He'll be delighted.
[Lord Minster has gone, ,]
WILSON: I'm so sorry having to come back like this
. . . it's just that you made a little mistake. . . .
521
ACT THREE
MAGGIE : With the date. (She smiles.} I know.
WILSON: I did come back last evening — about half-
past six. I rang and rang, but I couldn't get an
answer.
MAGGIE : Oh ! It was you. (She looks at Tom.}
WILSON: It wasn't really a business call. (To Tom?)
I thought it'd be a nice occasion to congratulate you
on this wonderful news in the paper — about all this
money you've inherited, and to get the cheque put
right. I suppose you two are going to get married
now?
MAGGIE: Yes.
TOM: Well, I don't know.
WILSON : Why not ?
TOM: Well, Mr. Wilson — isn't it true? — with a joint
income and all this extra money, it's almost im
possible. . . .
MAGGIE: You mean yesterday you were too poor to
get married, today you're too rich?
TOM: Yes.
MAGGIE : Now listen. If you think. . . .
TOM: ["Darling, don't get over-excited. Just
think about it calmly and clearly. . . .
MAGGIE : < If you think I'm going to go on cooking
and sewing and doing most of the
housework. . . .
TOM : Maggie, please! I'm only trying to be wise.
MAGGIE : Let's stop being wise. We are going to be
married. I don't care how rich you are. I don't care
how much wiser it'd be to wait until you're poorer,
we're going to be married. Unless, of course, you've
gone off the whole idea of marrying me ?
TOM: Darling — it's just a question of having a little
patience. . . .
MAGGIE : So what do we do ? Do we go on, as we've
gone on for the last. . . .
522
BOTH ENDS MEET
TOM : We've got along very well. , . .
MAGGIE: You mean, you've got along very well.
Very well indeed. Simply fine! But it might have
been more honest, when you asked me to be your
wife, if you'd explained that what you really wanted
was an unpaid cook-housekeeper.
TOM: Now, Maggie. . . .
MAGGIE: Always ready, when called upon. . . .
TOM : Have you lost your head ?
MAGGIE: I've lost my head, my patience, and my
temper.
\Jimmy re-enters.}
Go away ! I am tired of running up and down those
stairs, morning, noon, and all times of the night.
TOM (to Wilson) : You'd better, go too.
MAGGIE: No. You stay.
WILSON: Well, I must stay. There's my cheque.
TOM: Maggie. Darling.
MAGGIE: Go away.
TOM : Maggie, you don't understand. . . .
MAGGIE: I understand perfectly. You've no inten
tion of marrying me. I'd better start looking for
someone else.
TOM: What?
MAGGIE: Lord Minster. That's who I'll marry.
TOM: Lord Minster!
MAGGIE: Plenty of money, and he knows how to
cope with it.
TOM (furious}: All right! Marry Lord Minster.
Marry anyone you like.
WILSON: Now, now, now. You don't mean that.
You may seem to be worse off when you work it
out on paper, but there's a lot more to money than
mathematics. You go ahead and get married. You'll
523
ACT THREE
find there's ways and means of getting along. Oh
yes, I could tell you lots of little ways and means of
getting along. I wouldn't invest the money, not
these days. I'd use it as capital. You just occupy
the ground floor here, don't you ? But, for instance,
you might take over the whole house. No, I wouldn't
invest it. You could buy a country cottage, then
you could probably claim all this house as an office.
Might get away with that easily. Then there's a
Rolls Royce. They're terrible snobs, the tax people.
Won't hear of a cheap car being charged as expenses,
but the minute you mention a Rolls Royce, it's
" Oh yes, of course. Naturally ". You might buy a
farm. Wonderful allowances for running a farm —
even better if you make a mess of it. You could form
yourself into a company. That's always good. Or a
series of companies, that's even better. Then there's
deeds of covenant — quite legal and very useful. And
there's maintenance . . . and office stationery and
wear and tear, . . . Oh, but there's a hundred and
one lovely little dodges I could put you up to.
TOM: But, Mr. Wilson. . . .
WILSON: What?
TOM: Mr. Wilson, you're the man I've been looking
for. My accountant's no good, my solicitor's no
good. You are the brain I need.
WILSON : Twenty years serving writs for Income Tax,
and you get to know a thing or two.
MAGGIE: You wanted a financial genius ?
TOM: Yes.
MAGGIE: You've found him.
TOM: Yes.
MAGGIE: So now we can get married?
\Torn looks for advice at Mr. Wilson?^
WILSON: Yes.
BOTH ENDS MEET
TOM: Yes.
^Tom and Maggie embrace^
WILSON (through the embrace}'. Tying the knot has its
advantages. The marriage allowances are excellent.
(He takes his hat.}
TOM : You're not going ?
WILSON: More business.
TOM : But I need your advice.
WILSON : My advice ?
TOM: You've been wonderful. I only wish there
was something we could do for you in return.
WILSON (with a smile): Well, there's really nothing I
want. The only thing I really want's a flat, and no
one can find that.
MAGGIE (suddenly): A flat? Tom! Mr. Wilson wants
aflat.
TOM: The attic floor!
MAGGIE: The attic floor. Here. They're just junk
rooms at the moment. . . .
TOM : But they could be quite nice. . . .
MAGGIE: Two rooms, kitchen, and bath. . . .
WILSON (thrilled): You don't mean it?
MAGGIE: We'll have them converted.
WILSON: You don't mean it?
TOM : We do mean it.
WILSON : I couldn't afford much.
MAGGIE: That doesn't matter.
WILSON: But what I could afford. . . .
TOM: Yes?
WILSON : You'd get free of Income Tax.
TOM: It's a deal.
MAGGIE: We'll drink to it.
[The telephone rings.]
TOM: Hullo? (He listens.} Oh nol It's not possible.
ACT THREE
You can't. It's not possible. (Calling.) Jimmy!
Help!
[Jimmy re-enters, followed by ILdward and Clarissa^
JIMMY: What is it?
TOM: The Inland Revenue. The Inland Revenue
want to talk to me — about the death duties.
WILSON : I'll deal with them.
TOM: What?
WILSON : I know that department. I'll fix them.
TOM (into telephone): Hullo? My financial adviser
will ring you in the morning. (Replaces receiver.)
Edward, Clarissa, Jimmy — allow me to present my
new financial adviser — Mr. Wilson.
MAGGIE: We drink to you.
TOM: We drink to everyone. To Edward. . . .
MAGGIE: And Clarissa.
TOM: Sir George. . . .
JIMMY: Lord Minster.
TOM: Aunt Sophie.
WILSON : And of course. . . .
ALL : To the Commissioners of Inland Revenue.
Curtain
5*6
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