Twilight Song

by Kevin Elyot

  BARRY. Although…

  SKINNER. Yes, Mr Gough?

  BARRY. I’ve often wondered…

  SKINNER. Spit it out. You might as well get your money’s worth.

  BARRY. Well, my first encounter, a long time ago now, was with a gentleman I met in a pub in Bayswater: The Goat and Monkey. He took me to a rather squalid boarding house, and after some prolonged and, I must say, expert foreplay, the next thing I knew, it was morning and he’d gone, and all I was left with was a circle of blood on the sheet. I tried to find him again but of course I never did.

  SKINNER. To punch him in the mouth?

  BARRY. Well, no. To see if we might do it again, actually, but this time with me conscious.

  SKINNER. Right… So you fancy a bit of the old Goat and Monkey, then?

  BARRY nods briefly. SKINNER thinks for another moment, then:

  I’d do it for double the rate.

  BARRY. That’s alright. I popped to a cashpoint this morning.

  SKINNER. And I can’t guarantee a full-blooded performance. The old kidney-wiper doesn’t automatically stand to attention these days.

  BARRY. I’ve got a stash of Caverject that’s highly efficacious – if you don’t mind hypodermics.

  SKINNER. Oh, I’m well used to needles.

  BARRY. Good. I’m quite adept at injecting.

  SKINNER. No kissing, mind.

  BARRY. No.

  SKINNER. Cos I really don’t fancy you – (Checking his watch.) and I’ll have to be gone by half-past.

  BARRY. Yes.

  He looks down at the gramophone, immensely self-conscious.

  SKINNER. Right then, Mr Gough, better get cracking.

  Blackout as Chopin’s ‘Étude Op. 10, No. 1 in C major’ starts playing.

  Scene Two

  BASIL (mid-forties), in exactly the same position as BARRY at the end of the previous scene, stands at the gramophone on which the Chopin is playing, lost in the music. ISABELLA (late twenties) and CHARLES (sixty-two), away from the gramophone, and HARRY (fifty-six), filling his pipe at the open doors of the French window, are listening with varying degrees of interest. CHARLES, HARRY and ISABELLA are in evening dress, BASIL isn’t. All have drinks: ISABELLA, a gin and tonic; the men, tumblers of whisky. There are a few unpacked boxes from a removal firm piled against a wall. The Bose radio/CD player’s gone. A late afternoon in May. Golden sunlight streams in. The record suddenly sticks. The sound of digging from the garden.

  BASIL. Damn!

  He takes the stylus off the disc.

  Always at the climax.

  ISABELLA. That’s because it’s scratched.

  BASIL. Those wretched removal men!

  ISABELLA. It’s always going to stick before the climax.

  BASIL. They broke several things, you know, Uncle Charles.

  CHARLES. That won’t do.

  ISABELLA. They were a little on the rough side.

  CHARLES. Won’t do at all.

  HARRY. You should demand compensation.

  BASIL. Don’t worry, I will. (Re: the record.) Perhaps if I try again –

  ISABELLA. No, Basil, put it away.

  BASIL (returning it to its sleeve.) So infuriating.

  ISABELLA. You’ll just have to buy another.

  BASIL. It is marvellous, though, isn’t it?

  CHARLES. Every time you play it.

  BASIL. So uplifting.

  ISABELLA. You really should get ready, you know.

  BASIL. Don’t you think, Harry?

  HARRY. Very… light-fingered.

  BASIL. Isn’t she though?

  HARRY. Polish, I believe?

  BASIL. Hungarian, actually.

  HARRY. As you know, old chap, I’m not that musical. Rough-and-tumble on the field’s more my bag.

  CHARLES. Although you have been known to enjoy the occasional trip to the theatre.

  HARRY. Ah, well, I put that down to Fleur; she’s more the arty type.

  BASIL. And Uncle Charles.

  CHARLES. I’ve always had something of a theatrical bent.

  BASIL. You certainly have.

  CHARLES. As Harry well knows. In fact, he’s one of the few to have had the privilege of seeing me tread the boards.

  HARRY. Not so sure about privilege.

  CHARLES. Come on, old chap, I wasn’t half bad. Remember the officers’ mess panto?

  HARRY. Hard to forget.

  CHARLES. You were damned impressed by my Mother Goose. Nearly stopped the show.

  HARRY. Someone should have.

  ISABELLA. Did you ever think of taking it up professionally?

  CHARLES. Good heavens, no. Medicine was my calling. That’s where I felt I could do most good in this brief sojourn in the sun.

  Beat. The sound of digging.

  We haven’t been to the theatre since last year, have we, Harry?

  HARRY. That long, is it?

  CHARLES. I wanted us to see The Amorous Prawn. I’ve always been such a great admirer of Evelyn Laye ever since Lilac Time –

  BASIL. I think we may have heard this.

  CHARLES. – but Harry insisted on catching Mr Hitchcock’s new film Psycho.

  HARRY. Fleur was at the Soroptimists’ so I thought I’d take advantage.

  CHARLES. Well, I didn’t get it at all. Forty-five minutes in, poor Janet Leigh, our leading lady, mind, gets the chop –

  HARRY. Several, in fact.

  CHARLES. – and I could only think, whither are we bound? So out we trotted – popped to the club, didn’t we, Harry? – and left Mr Hitchcock to his shenanigans.

  HARRY. I can’t help feeling we missed the point.

  CHARLES. I don’t know what’s happening to people. I put it down to that frightful Mr Osborne. Do you remember that play we saw?

  HARRY. Of course I do.

  CHARLES. Some woman doing a pile of ironing and a young man ranting on about this and that. We barely lasted till the first interval. That’s not what I go to the theatre for. If I want to see a woman doing a pile of ironing, I’ll sit and watch the char.

  BASIL. Bless you, Uncle Charlie.

  CHARLES. Oh dear, am I being the most frightful old stick-in-the-mud?

  HARRY. A little pusillanimous, perhaps.

  ISABELLA. You’re allowed to think whatever you wish, Charles. It’s a free country, thanks to the likes of you. (Confidingly.) And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Basil didn’t think exactly the same.

  BASIL (joining HARRY at the window and looking outside). Works like a Trojan, doesn’t he?

  HARRY. A good man, no doubt about it.

  They step outside, HARRY clutching his Scotch and pipe.

  ISABELLA. There’s something about him, isn’t there?

  CHARLES. Basil?

  ISABELLA. Of course.

  CHARLES. Yes, he’s a good boy. Always has been. It’s such a shame his mother and father aren’t around to see all this. You’ve made him very happy, Isabella.

  ISABELLA. He’s made me very happy, Charles. This wonderful house, a little baby on the way. And he’s a kind man, and – well, I can’t believe how lucky I am. My mother was worried I’d end up on the shelf.

  CHARLES. You’re still so young.

  ISABELLA. It’s been such a whirlwind since meeting him. When he put the mask over my face with the ether, there was a look between us and I thought, ‘Oh heavens, this might be it!’, and then I floated off.

  CHARLES. Do you miss your tonsils?

  ISABELLA. I never think about them.

  CHARLES. Better out than in.

  ISABELLA. It was so touching the way he bought me little posies and gave me tokens. He’s quite awkward with that sort of thing, as I’m sure you know.

  CHARLES. Oh yes, really quite clumsy. Always was.

  ISABELLA. But very endearing, and when he suddenly proposed – we were strolling through Green Park, a lovely evening just like this – well, I couldn’t believe my ears, and I thought about it for a day, a week, and then I thought, why not? I
sabella Matthews walking down the aisle on the arm of an anaesthetist. The most sensible decision I’ve ever made.

  She drains her drink.

  Oh dear, this is going to my head.

  CHARLES. Shall I top you up?

  ISABELLA. I’d better hold back if we’re going for dinner.

  CHARLES. Now are you sure you can afford it?

  ISABELLA. Of course we can. We couldn’t possibly have afforded this house without your help, and Harry was so generous with his legal expertise and finding that man to lay the garden. Dinner’s the least we can do.

  BASIL and HARRY come back in.

  HARRY. It’s coming on jolly well.

  BASIL. All straight lines like a French garden.

  ISABELLA (taking a look out). Oh yes! It’ll look so lovely, and we can have drinks out on the terrace when it’s nice.

  BASIL. We don’t actually have a terrace.

  ISABELLA. Then we’ll get one, silly boy! We’ll have one built.

  BASIL. Izzy thinks I’m made of money, don’t you, darling?

  He pecks her cheek and gives her a squeeze.

  ISABELLA (stiffening). No squeezing now. We don’t want baby popping out before time.

  A momentary hiatus as she takes a cigarette. HARRY lights it for her.

  How’s your little boy getting on?

  HARRY. He’s not that little any more. Do you know, he’s already nine?

  ISABELLA. Is he really?

  BASIL. Good heavens.

  ISABELLA. I expect it broke Fleur’s heart, leaving him at the school.

  HARRY. He seems to be settling in well enough.

  BASIL. Something I never managed. I couldn’t stand the place.

  CHARLES. But you were a gentler sort, Basil, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Monty’s more like his father.

  HARRY. Should I take that as a compliment?

  CHARLES. What a dreary old world this would be were we all cut from the same cloth!

  HARRY. Poor old Fleur’s found it all rather exhausting. The change will do her good.

  ISABELLA. She’ll miss him dreadfully.

  HARRY. Of course she will, but she’s not as young as she was. We were late starters at this parenthood lark.

  CHARLES. Yes, you took us all by surprise.

  ISABELLA. Well, I think it’s absolutely wonderful. Now Basil, you have to get ready.

  BASIL. Yes, matron, I’m going now.

  ISABELLA. Please don’t call me that.

  BASIL (to CHARLES and HARRY). Better get my gladrags on.

  ISABELLA. I’ll give you a hand. (To CHARLES and HARRY.) Do excuse us.

  ISABELLA leads BASIL out of the room. HARRY gives CHARLES a look, then looks out of the French window and takes a deep breath.

  HARRY. An English summer, a decent Scotch, a full pipe and an Etonian at the helm. Bloody marvellous! Down the hatch!

  He drains his glass and goes to the drinks trolley for a top-up.

  CHARLES. Do you think you should?

  HARRY. You’re not in your surgery now, doc. Yes, good old Mac! You see, you’ve got to be straight with people. Gaitskell’s decent enough, I suppose, but you can’t pull the wool over people’s eyes. They’re not stupid – most of them anyway. Something for nothing? Tommyrot! Everything comes at a price in this life…

  He falters.

  CHARLES. Are you alright, Harry?

  HARRY. Yes, of course I’m alright. That’s why Labour got a bloody nose at the last ding-dong, but I’m damned sure there are elements within their ranks that enjoy opposition, that enjoy sniping from the sidelines. Buggers everything up for the rest of them. Still, let ’em get on with it, that’s what I say. Leave the grown-ups in charge, eh?

  CHARLES. Why not sit for a minute?

  HARRY. I’m fine as I am.

  CHARLES. Have a breather.

  CHARLES pats the sofa next to him. HARRY reluctantly sits.

  You push yourself too much. You should take care. We’re not youngsters any more.

  HARRY. When I want a consultation I’ll make an appointment.

  CHARLES. Unless something’s wrong. Is there, Harry? Is something wrong?

  HARRY. Nothing’s wrong.

  CHARLES. Well, something’s changed. We don’t chum up as we used to, that’s for sure. Our little trips to the theatre, suppers at the club. What’s happened?

  HARRY. My son has happened. I’m a father.

  CHARLES. You’ve been a father nearly ten years and I couldn’t be happier for you, but I know you, Harry. Something’s up and I’ve a right to be told.

  HARRY. ‘A right’? I don’t think so, old chap.

  He swigs his drink. CHARLES puts a hand on his knee.

  (Flicking it away.) For God’s sake, man!

  CHARLES. Sorry…

  HARRY. What are you thinking of?

  CHARLES. Sorry… I’m sorry…

  HARRY takes another swig. Beat.

  It’s good to see you anyway.

  HARRY. Yes, yes…

  CHARLES. Basil and Isabella seem jolly happy.

  HARRY. Yes, don’t they?

  CHARLES. And Fleur: on good form, is she?

  HARRY. Oh yes, keeps herself busy doing this and that.

  CHARLES. And Monty…

  HARRY. Settling in.

  CHARLES. Yes.

  HARRY. As I said.

  Beat.

  Well, I suppose we’d better get ourselves tip-top…

  As he starts to get up, CHARLES clambers on top of him, attempting to kiss him.

  (Struggling to push him off.) Dear God, Charles!…

  He manages to shove CHARLES off, who then lands with a bump on the floor.

  Get a grip, for Christ’s sake!

  The exertion has left them both breathless.

  Leaping around like that! You’ll bring on your angina.

  CHARLES. I know how to look after myself.

  HARRY (keeping his voice down). What the hell are you playing at anyway?

  CHARLES. What we’ve always played at.

  HARRY. Someone might come in!

  CHARLES awkwardly attempts to get to his feet.

  (Offering a hand.) Let me give you a hand.

  CHARLES (roughly knocking it away). Keep it to yourself!

  With great effort he finally succeeds, and stands for a moment getting his breath back.

  HARRY. Do you want some water?

  CHARLES. No, I bloody don’t!

  He sits heavily on the other end of the sofa from HARRY. Pause. The sound of digging continues.

  I thought that’s what you liked, an element of danger: parks, lavatories, the club library –

  HARRY. Alright!

  CHARLES. On the sofa in your house with Fleur and Monty upstairs.

  HARRY. Alright, alright!

  CHARLES. But not any more, it seems.

  HARRY. No, not any more.

  CHARLES. A pity.

  HARRY. Well, that’s the way it is.

  HARRY checks the coast is clear.

  (Still sotto voce.) Tidy yourself up, for God’s sake.

  Beat.

  CHARLES. I’ve danced to your tune for years, always been there when you wanted, made myself scarce when you didn’t.

  HARRY. Turn it down, will you!

  CHARLES. I took you for an honourable man but now I’m not so sure.

  HARRY. Come on, Charles. The spark goes out eventually. It’s a fact of life.

  CHARLES. But we’ve been through so much together – a bloody war, for Christ’s sake! It’s what we fought for.

  HARRY. This doesn’t become you.

  CHARLES. You can’t just push me away.

  HARRY. Quite unseemly.

  CHARLES. How the tables turn! There was a time you couldn’t keep your hands off.

  HARRY. Things are as they are and that’s an end to it.

  CHARLES. I have no one, Harry.

  HARRY. You’re starting to sound like Celia Johnson. Pull yourself together, man. Tighten up.
>
  CHARLES stares at him coldly and brushes himself down. HARRY pours himself another drink. Pause. HARRY, his back to CHARLES, is suddenly still. He clears his throat.

  CHARLES glances at him.

  You were asking if something was up. Well, as it happens… there is. (Checking again that the coast is clear.) It’s the firm. I’ve invested a hell of a lot recently, expanding and what-have-you, and soon, of course, it will start bringing in the bacon, but what with that and Monty’s school fees… The fact is, old sausage, I’m stony.

  BASIL, half-dressed, enters.

  BASIL. Do you think we’ll all fit in the Morris?

  HARRY. If you’ll excuse me.

  He leaves the room.

  CHARLES (following HARRY out). I just need to…

  BASIL. Oh.

  He stands there for a moment at a loss, then lights a cigarette, goes to the trolley and pours himself a Scotch. He wanders over to the French window and looks out, sipping his drink and smoking. The digging continues. ISABELLA enters.

  ISABELLA. I wondered where you’d got to.

  BASIL (turning to her, arms outstretched). Ah, butterfly! My clouded yellow!

  ISABELLA. Basil, you know you’re not very good with Scotch.

  BASIL. How lovely you look!

  They embrace.

  Sometimes I have to pinch myself – in the car, the street, at work.

  ISABELLA. You’re not falling asleep on the job, are you?

  BASIL. No, no –

  ISABELLA. You work too hard, you know.

  BASIL. It’s because I can’t believe my luck, the two of us, together.

  ISABELLA. Oh my darling. I was telling Charles just now how happy I am.

  BASIL. And sometimes I dare to imagine you and me – and the children.

  ISABELLA. Let’s not jump the gun.

  BASIL. Even grandchildren as we grow old together.

  ISABELLA. Old? Goodness! Why not get dinner out of the way first? (Stroking his cheek.) You’re such a dear man. A dear, dear man.

  She kisses him. He gently touches her stomach.

  BASIL. Should we call him Charles as a special thank-you for the house?

  ISABELLA. I don’t think so.

  BASIL. Then what about Joan, if it’s a little girl, in honour of your mother?

  ISABELLA. Oh heavens, no! That’s a ghastly name.

  BASIL. So what does my fair Isabella suggest?

  ISABELLA. Have you ordered the taxi?

  BASIL. I thought we’d take the Morris.

  ISABELLA. Oh no, Basil, I am not arriving at Le Caprice in a Morris Minor. We’ll take a taxi, so please, darling, get a move on and book it, there’s a good boy.