JAMES: And do you believe in anything that isn’t human?
KREUZER: No, I don’t believe. Sometimes I doubt my disbelief.
JAMES: What could have happened that was so terrible it wiped out all memory? I was a boy, Doctor. What a boy can do is very limited.
KREUZER: Perhaps it was something done to you.
JAMES: Then why the disgrace? Oh, I know some parents make a fuss about the little sexual games children play. Not my parents, though. It can’t have been anything like that. They were never worried by anything human.
KREUZER: That word “human” again.
JAMES: Well, God was taboo. My father had killed that superstition for his generation. Poor Father! I’m glad he didn’t realize how it was beginning to return. Like memory. We were not allowed ghost stories, either. Do you believe in ghosts, Doctor?
KREUZER: No.
JAMES: Or the soul?
KREUZER: I’ve never understood what the word means.
JAMES: If I had a child, I wouldn’t forbid it fairy stories. They might develop the sense of hope. If a pumpkin can turn into a coach, even this dreary room, that tablecloth, those awful ornaments, could be a palace, with limitless corridors.
KREUZER: Did you ever want a child?
JAMES: No. I didn’t want to create new convicts for a prison. To have a child you need hope.
KREUZER: There seems to be plenty of hope, then, around us. Judging by the birth rate.
JAMES: There should be another word for that simple sort of hope.
KREUZER: It’s enough for most of us.
JAMES: Doctor, I’m not sneering. I want it to be enough for me too. Why isn’t it? What happened to me—in that shed?
KREUZER: For six months now I’ve been trying to find out, and you haven’t given me a clue.
JAMES (pleading for hope): I was beginning to remember.
KREUZER: Yes. Outside that door. But what happened when the door shut behind you? Was there a lock? A bolt? A catch? Answer me quickly.
JAMES (in a low voice): I can’t remember.
KREUZER: Were you alone?
JAMES: I don’t know.
KREUZER: Think aloud. Invent. Tell a story—any story—a fairy story. Whatever comes into your head.
JAMES: Our Father methedrine, hallowed be Thy name. (He puts his head in his hands.)
KREUZER: You’ve seen many other sheds like that, haven’t you, besides the one you fear so? Describe them to me. Anything. The spades leaning against the wall. The smell of mould.
A pause, while James tries to remember, to invent.
JAMES: It’s as if there were only one place like that in the world. The walk was called the dark walk. The door was never painted.
KREUZER: Are you inventing?
JAMES: I think so. I don’t know. I kept my spade in there, with the real spades. In that way it seemed to be no longer a toy. But that was years before. Something made a pattern on the path as I walked, like a snake crawling beside me.
KREUZER: A snake?
JAMES: No, not a snake. I don’t know. When I came in sight of the door my heart was beating. I stopped to get my breath. My head was aching too, but I wasn’t unhappy any more. Just frightened.
KREUZER: You’d been unhappy? (James pays no attention to the question.) Was somebody waiting for you?
JAMES: Yes, or something. I don’t know. I can’t remember. That damned door shuts it all out. (Despairingly): Doctor, we can go on for a lifetime like this, I’ll never get through that door.
KREUZER: And when you came out again?
JAMES: I don’t believe I ever came out. Sometimes I think I’m still lying there.
KREUZER: Lying?
JAMES: Oh, it was only the first word that came. I’m tired, Doctor, and my mother will be here any moment now.
KREUZER: You are frightened of making an effort to remember. I can’t cure you. Perhaps there’s nothing to cure.
JAMES: What do you mean?
KREUZER: I can only cure the irrational, the exaggerated, the abnormal. If a man is melancholy because he’s lost his leg, I’m not called in. He has good reason.
JAMES: You think I may have reason?
KREUZER: Yes. But what happened behind that door to give you the reason—the mind boggles at that.
JAMES: So we give up? Right. It was my last fling, too.
KREUZER (apprehensively and sharply): Don’t be a bigger coward than you need be.
JAMES: Trying to make me angry, Doctor? You can’t. My plan needs courage.
KREUZER: I was just talking, Callifer, to make you talk. I never give a patient up.
JAMES: Has no one given you up?
KREUZER (after a pause, unwillingly): Yes, one.
JAMES: He got tired of it?
KREUZER: Yes.
JAMES: Did he find another cure?
KREUZER: Not what I can admit is a cure. Perhaps this may interest you. He killed himself.
JAMES: Oh. (The words have struck home.)
KREUZER: He was my son.
JAMES: I’m sorry.
KREUZER: He wouldn’t be treated by anyone else. I tried to make him, but he was afraid. He was never afraid of me. I had to go and tell his mother. We hadn’t met for years. She took it badly.
JAMES: How long ago?
KREUZER: Ten years. I swore then I’d never leave a case unfinished. Even if a patient tried to give me up. They often do.
Somewhere below, the front doorbell rings.
JAMES: My mother, Doctor Kreuzer.
KREUZER: Before I go— (He holds out his hand.)
JAMES: I don’t understand.
KREUZER: You acted very quickly. I suppose it was when I turned to telephone. I forgot to examine my desk before you left. My tablets, please.
JAMES: Suppose I won’t give them to you?
KREUZER: It’s not very important. I’m trying to save you from a stomach ache, that’s all. They’re not poisonous.
JAMES: Then why did you follow me here?
KREUZER: I couldn’t allow a patient to leave me ever again in that state of mind.
The door opens and Corner lets in Mrs. Callifer.
CORNER: Here’s your mother, Callifer. (He goes.)
JAMES (handing over the bottle): Here they are.
MRS. CALLIFER: James—
JAMES: Welcome, Mother.
MRS. CALLIFER: Is Anne here?
JAMES: No.
MRS. CALLIFER: I lost her at the barrier. I’m sorry, James, interrupting—
JAMES: No, we’ve finished. Quite finished. This is Dr. Kreuzer, Mother.
They shake hands.
MRS. CALLIFER: He’s not ill, is he, Dr. Kreuzer?
JAMES: He’s not that kind of doctor. He makes me talk, that’s all.
MRS. CALLIFER: Is that supposed to be a good thing nowadays?
KREUZER (picking up his case): Your generation believed in letting sleeping dogs lie, Mrs. Callifer.
MRS. CALLIFER: Was that so wrong?
KREUZER: You were clever at keeping them asleep, but sometimes they wake up your children.
MRS. CALLIFER (to James): Do you think I ought to go back to the station?
JAMES: Anne’s old enough. She knows her way.
MRS. CALLIFER: I can’t think how I lost her. She went ahead while I collected the luggage. She said she’d wait at the barrier.
KREUZER: Well, good-bye, Callifer. Same time next week?
JAMES: It’s no use, Doctor. We’ve failed.
KREUZER: I told you. I never give up.
JAMES (seeking an excuse): I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to play at this any longer.
KREUZER: There’ll be no charge.
Mrs. Callifer can feel the conflict between the two men, though she cannot understand it.
MRS. CALLIFER: If it’s a question of money—
KREUZER: It isn’t. It’s a question of courage.
JAMES: No. Only a question of hope.
KREUZER: Callifer, I’ve had this conversatio
n before with someone else. I beg you …
JAMES: I shall do nothing foolishly. I’m quite calm. You can feel my pulse. (He holds out his hand.)
KREUZER (turning hopelessly away and picking up his bag): It would be useless. I should feel only the methedrine. Mrs. Callifer, if only you would help him.
JAMES: Look, I don’t want my mother troubled.
KREUZER: I thought you didn’t know what love was? Very well, then, but I’ll phone you in the morning. Good-bye, Mrs. Callifer. (He goes out.)
JAMES: He’s a good man.
MRS. CALLIFER: What did he mean? How could I help? What were you talking about before I came?
JAMES: A potting shed where something happened. Mother, why did you leave my uncle out as well as me when my father was dying?
MRS. CALLIFER: There had been a quarrel years ago.
JAMES (sitting down at his desk): I can’t remember his face.
MRS. CALLIFER: I wish you’d give up trying. He belongs to the past, James. Like your father and me. Old years are like old people. You should let them get weaker and weaker. Age is not pretty or graceful except in books. Leave old years alone, James.
JAMES: They won’t leave me alone. (A noise on the stairs.) Oh, I think the truant has turned up. (The door opens and Anne comes in. She is in her school uniform. She tries to slip in with a certain airy unobtrusiveness.)
ANNE: Good afternoon, Uncle James.
JAMES: Hello, Anne.
ANNE: Where’s Spot?
MRS. CALLIFER: Where have you been, Anne? You said you’d wait at the barrier.
ANNE: I did.
MRS. CALLIFER: You weren’t there. I looked for you.
ANNE: Somebody told me you were waiting outside. So I went outside and I didn’t find you, and then I took the wrong bus.
MRS. CALLIFER: Where have you been, Anne?
ANNE: I told you. Nowhere.
JAMES: Nothing and nowhere. It’s the Callifer touch.
MRS. CALLIFER: I thought you were such a truthful girl.
ANNE: Oh, that was weeks ago.
MRS. CALLIFER: What do you mean?
ANNE: My vow is over. I can tell as many lies as I want to now.
MRS. CALLIFER: But you oughtn’t to want to.
ANNE: You have to, if people ask too many questions, or if you want to lure somebody to a certain house at a certain hour—
MRS. CALLIFER: What on earth are you talking about now?
ANNE: I can tell Uncle James. I can’t tell you.
Mrs. CALLIFER: Why not?
ANNE: You have grandmother eyes.
JAMES: What are they?
ANNE: Old and upright.
JAMES: And mine?
ANNE: Oh, your eyes don’t say anything. They just look away. Some peoples’ eyes are always saying, “Cleanliness is next to godliness” or “Virtus laudata crescit.”
JAMES: Virtus …?
ANNE: It’s the school motto. “Virtue grows by praise,” and whenever they say anything nice they expect the virtue to grow. Automatically. Like watering radishes. Where is Spot, Uncle?
MRS. CALLIFER: Anne, I asked you—
JAMES: He ran away.
ANNE: There ought to be paw prints as well as finger prints.
MRS. CALLIFER: She’s talking a lot of nonsense to hide something.
ANNE: Where did you see Spot last, Uncle?
JAMES: I don’t know. He was a very quiet dog. I hardly knew when he was there.
ANNE: You could advertise.
JAMES: I expect he’s happier where he is.
MRS. CALLIFER: Can’t you see the child’s play-acting? Anne, what have you been up to?
ANNE: Didn’t I tell you that I’d make a good detective? When my vow was over. Any moment now you’ll hear a ring and that will be the answer to all the trouble.
JAMES: Who’s going to ring, Anne?
ANNE: Mrs. Potter.
JAMES: Who’s Mrs. Potter?
ANNE: Potter’s wife. Yesterday I sent her a telegram.
JAMES: It’s quite a habit of yours.
ANNE: Well, you came, didn’t you, when I telegraphed? And so, I expect, will Mrs. Potter.
MRS. CALLIFER: We are on our way to Wild Grove, Anne. We have to catch a train. In three-quarters of an hour.
ANNE: Wild Grove can wait. I’ve just sent them a telegram too, that you’d been detained on urgent business. The real detective work came first, finding out that Mrs. Potter hadn’t passed on. And where she lived. And when I found that out, everything was easy. Even the telegram. Of course she has quite a journey. We may have to wait for hours and hours, but it will be worth it, won’t it, because she’ll tell us what Potter saw.
JAMES: I’m just beginning to understand.
MRS. CALLIFER (to James): What’s the child done?
JAMES: Perhaps what Dr. Kreuzer couldn’t do.
A bell rings.
ANNE: There. I told you.
Pause while they listen.
MRS. CALLIFER: But Potter’s dead.
ANNE: This is Mrs. Potter.
MRS. CALLIFER: What did you put in the telegram?
ANNE: “Dying. You can relieve a mind in torment. Come tea time Thursday.” I signed it “Callifer.”
MRS. CALLIFER: Anne!
ANNE: Well, we are dying, aren’t we, all of us?
JAMES: There were no lies in that telegram.
The bell rings again.
ANNE: Shall I go? (She puts her hand on James’s.) Your hand, Uncle. It’s shaking. You’re afraid.
JAMES: No, no. It’s the methedrine.
ANNE: I’ll answer the door.
MRS. CALLIFER: No.
ANNE: I will.
JAMES: No. Stop where you are.
ANNE: You are afraid.
JAMES: That’s what Dr. Kreuzer said. (The bell rings a third time, impatiently. Turning round to the door): Don’t be so impatient. Can’t you wait a few seconds longer on the doorstep? You’ve been waiting for thirty years.
A long pause. No further ring.
ANNE: She’s gone. We’ll never know now.
The door opens and Corner enters.
CORNER: There’s a woman at the door, Callifer. She says—
MRS. CALLIFER: Please tell her there’s no one at home.
CORNER: She says she has an urgent telegram. From you, Callifer.
MRS. CALLIFER: Please tell her it was a mistake, Mr. Corner. A child’s silly prank. Here, give her this for her fare.
JAMES: No. Let her come in.
MRS. CALLIFER: You’ll only hear a lot of nonsense. Fairy stories, James. (She is between him and the door.) Mr. Corner, my son’s excited by his treatment. Send her away. (Corner hesitates.) He’s not in a fit state.
JAMES: She’s come to see me, Corner. Not my mother. I’ll fetch her if you won’t. (Corner looks at the two of them, shrugs and goes out.) Mother, you stood in front of a door like this once before. But not again.
MRS. CALLIFER: What’s the use, James? She wasn’t there. She’s only heard stories, exaggerated stories, Potter’s stories. She knows nothing.
JAMES: Then tell me yourself. All you know. In your words. Before she comes.
MRS. CALLIFER: It was so long ago.
JAMES: I’ll send her away if you’ll tell.
MRS. CALLIFER: I promised your father.
JAMES: He’s dead.
MRS. CALLIFER: Can’t I keep a promise to the dead?
JAMES: Why should you if they’re really dead? You won’t be reproached by a bit of bone. Mother, it’s you or Mrs. Potter.
A small, white-haired, scared woman enters. She is over seventy years old, and her face is wrinkled and country-like. She gives a frightened little nod and beck towards Mrs. Callifer.
MRS. POTTER: You won’t remember me, ma’am.
MRS. CALLIFER: Oh yes, I remember you very well.
JAMES: I’m Mr. Callifer.
MRS. POTTER: I was expecting a sick gentleman from the telegram. Are you Master John?
&nb
sp; JAMES: No, I’m James.
MRS. POTTER (uneasily): Oh.
JAMES: Come in, sit down, Mrs. Potter. (She sits defensively on the very edge of the chair, looking nervously at Mrs. Callifer.) I want to ask you some questions, Mrs. Potter. There’s something I have to find out.
MRS. POTTER: What sort of questions, Master James?
JAMES: Do you remember the summer of 1925?
MRS. POTTER: All summers seem alike to me now, sir. Only warmer in those days.
JAMES: This was a different summer from all the others. Do you remember my uncle, Father Callifer?
MRS. POTTER: Oh, yes, sir, a fine young man. You and he were very close. That is, before—
JAMES: Before?
MRS. POTTER (evasively): There’s always trouble in families, sir.
JAMES: Mrs. Potter, one day that summer your husband went to the potting shed and found somebody, something, there. (A pause. Mrs. Potter stares at her hands.) It was something that shocked him very much. He wouldn’t have kept it dark from you, would he?
MRS. POTTER: Potter and me never had secrets.
JAMES: What did he tell you?
MRS. POTTER: It’s a long, long time ago, sir.
JAMES: But you remember it.
MRS. POTTER: Potter said don’t tell a soul, and I never have. For your poor dad’s sake.
JAMES: My father’s dead. You can tell me now.
MRS. POTTER (pleading): But you know, sir, already. What’s the good of raking around?
JAMES: I’ve forgotten everything that happened that day.
MRS. POTTER: You couldn’t, sir, not— (She stops again.)
JAMES: Mrs. Potter, I didn’t send you that telegram, but my mind is in torment. I’ve got to know.
MRS. POTTER: Ask your mother. Me, I’m only Potter’s wife. Potter’s widow. What’d I know about it?
JAMES: Well, Mother? (His mother turns away.) You see, my mother won’t tell me. You are the last chance I have, Mrs. Potter. If you owe anything to us …
MRS. POTTER: I owe everything to the Callifers. But if your mother doesn’t want you to know …
JAMES: Weren’t we friends in those days, Mrs. Potter?
MRS. POTTER: You was always my favourite, Master James. It wasn’t any fault of yours what happened. You were a dear boy to me. If your father had let you alone—
JAMES: I haven’t asked you for anything in thirty years, but I’m begging you now—
Mrs. Potter looks at Mrs. Callifer.
MRS. POTTER: But your mother—
MRS. CALLIFER: All right. I’ll tell you. You had an accident in the potting shed.
The Potting Shed Page 4
