by Kevin Elyot
BASIL pecks her cheek.
BASIL. My angel.
He leaves the room. ISABELLA stands quite still for a moment, then rushes around the room flapping her hands and arms trying to get rid of his smoke. She stops and breathes deeply. She takes a cigarette, lights it and drags on it voraciously. She stubs it out and leans against the mantelpiece panting, her hand on her chest trying to control her breathing, then wanders over to a table and leans over it, head hung down. ‘La Marseillaise’ from the opening of The Beatles’ ‘All You Need Is Love’ starts playing as the lights go down.
Scene Three
BASIL (forty-eight) alone on the sofa watching ‘All You Need Is Love’ being performed on the television. He’s casually dressed. A warm June evening. The doors of the French window are closed.
The unpacked boxes from the previous scene have now gone but the room is still none too tidy.
The latest Dansette record player stands on the table next to the twenties gramophone cabinet, discs piled around. After a minute or so, ISABELLA (mid-thirties) busily enters, putting on earrings, dressed to go out. She throws open the French window and breathes in the air, the late golden sunlight streaming in, then goes to the drinks trolley and pours herself a gin. She takes a swig, then turns off the television before the song has finished. BASIL glances at her, then back at the blank screen. From outside, the occasional birdsong and rustling of trees. ISABELLA sits away from him and starts putting on a pair of shoes, which she’s picked up off the floor.
BASIL. That was the first ever live global television link.
No reply.
It’s done via satellite.
ISABELLA gets up, shoes on, sips her drink and goes over to the Dansette. She starts shuffling through some records.
They estimate about four hundred million people will be watching that in twenty-six countries. It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it?
She chooses a record and takes it from its sleeve.
Four hundred million in twenty-six countries!
She puts the disc on the turntable.
(Re: the blank screen.) All sorts of people are there in the studio, singing along, clapping…
She puts the stylus on the disc.
Mick Jagger, Keith Moon. Very jolly…
His voice is drowned out by some very loud jazz: ‘Baden-Baden’ by The Modern Jazz Quartet. He glances at her again as she makes her way to the fireplace, moving to the music, to check herself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. She lights a cigarette, goes to the French window, leans against a jamb and smokes.
BASIL waits for a moment, then gets up in his own time, goes over to the Dansette, takes the stylus off the disc and stands there. ISABELLA doesn’t react, just carries on drinking and smoking, looking out at the garden. Silence. She throws down her cigarette and grinds it underfoot.
ISABELLA (sotto voce). Do you know how difficult it was to tell you? Do you have any idea?
Beat.
I thought you might show something: a flare of anger, perhaps, fury, regret. I thought you might have a row, at least a discussion, reasoned or not, even a question.
BASIL remains quite still.
(Turning on him.) But you sat there saying – (Suddenly yelling.) nothing! Nothing! Just sat there and said nothing!
She stares at him, breathing fast.
BASIL. I might be mistaken, but you look at me sometimes as if you hate me.
Pause.
ISABELLA. No, you’re not mistaken. The truth is, I can’t endure you, but I do because I have to.
BASIL (re: his clothes). I’d better change.
ISABELLA. Yes, you better had.
The doorbell rings. He goes out. ISABELLA quickly checks herself in the mirror. From the hallway:
BASIL. Uncle Charlie!
CHARLES. Basil, old chap.
BASIL. Come through, come through…
CHARLES (now sixty-eight), and BASIL enter.
ISABELLA (the perfect hostess). Charles, how lovely!
CHARLES. What a peach you look!
They kiss.
And the perfect evening for a bite by the river.
BASIL. Isn’t it though?
ISABELLA. You’re looking very dashing, Charles.
CHARLES. Get away with you! Do you really think so?
BASIL. Scotch?
ISABELLA. I’ll get it. You get dressed.
BASIL. Right, I’ll…
He goes out. ISABELLA pours a Scotch and a gin for herself. CHARLES looks out at the garden.
CHARLES. Yes, a golden evening.
ISABELLA. It is.
CHARLES. When are you going to get your terrace done?
ISABELLA. It would be nice, wouldn’t it?
CHARLES. And the garden could do with a short back and sides.
ISABELLA. Yes, but you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find a man.
CHARLES. Oh, I would, believe me. You should try and get hold of that chap who laid it out originally.
ISABELLA (handing him his drink). Cheers.
CHARLES. Cheers.
They drink.
Where’s Barry?
ISABELLA. At my mother’s.
CHARLES. Nice little fellow.
He takes out a packet of untipped cigarettes and offers her one.
No tipped, I’m afraid.
ISABELLA (taking one). Who cares?
CHARLES. That’s my girl.
He lights hers, then his, and looks back out at the garden.
ISABELLA. Would you like some music or…?
CHARLES. An evening like this… It’s music enough.
He inhales deeply. She smokes more nervously, pacing a little.
ISABELLA. Oh Charles, I’ve had the most awful day.
CHARLES (stepping from the window). I’m sorry to hear that, my dear.
ISABELLA. Quite awful.
CHARLES. A good dinner, a few stiff drinks – that’ll do the trick.
ISABELLA. You know, sometimes I feel you’re the only person I can talk to.
CHARLES. I’m sure you can talk to Basil. He’s quite a sensitive soul – always has been.
ISABELLA. So you say.
CHARLES. He’s a kind man, Isabella. He loves you, I’ve no doubt.
ISABELLA. Yes, he’s kind, and he loves me.
CHARLES. And you must have friends you can talk to?
ISABELLA. I’ve found that since marrying and becoming a mother –
CHARLES. And becoming a mother again.
ISABELLA. – you’re rather left to get on with it, as if you’re perfectly able to cope, and this neighbourhood – it’s not the friendliest.
She’s wandered over to the French window and sips her drink as she looks out at the garden, the golden sunset casting her shadow across the room. CHARLES has sunk into a chair.
I never imagined I’d end up like this, you know: a wife and mother. I always thought I’d have a career and independence. At one stage I even contemplated engineering. I got hold of course prospectuses and was convinced that this was where my future lay. I told a friend at school who thought I was quite mad, and even tried to discuss it with the headmistress – I think she’d have been happier if I’d told her I was pregnant – and when I told my father, he was furious. He said girls simply didn’t do that sort of thing, and no daughter of his was going to be an engineer, and my mother of course always deferred to him, and that put the final spanner in the works. He didn’t even want me to go to university. (Re: the garden.) You’re right, it could do with a tidy-up.
She swigs her drink. She hasn’t looked at CHARLES, who’s staring at the floor.
I bumped into someone I knew earlier this year – well, I say bumped; it wasn’t quite like that. I was sitting in a café and he walked past. I’d met him some years before. We’d only spoken briefly – that’s more or less all we did, all we could do – but they were the few moments in life I really lived; the rest has been just time passing. I left the café and went after him – quite undignified, I must
say – and for a second I don’t think he recognised me, but then he did, and he took me to a seedy guesthouse off the Edgware Road. We made love on the greasy sheets – well, a kind of love – and that was it. He had to get somewhere and so had I, but the point is, he’s the father of the baby I’m carrying. You see, these days, Basil and I hardly ever make love, and when we do I take precautions; easy enough as he’s never been too inquisitive in that department.
The dusky sunlight has turned golden-red.
Before you came, I told him. I had to. And he didn’t react. He didn’t say anything. If only he’d hit the roof, or me! But he just sat there, allowing it, and somehow, Charles, that makes it so much worse.
She finally looks at him. His head’s slumped forwards. She shakes her head with a sigh.
(Under her breath.) What the hell?
She looks up at the sky and closes her eyes. A gentle rustling of the trees.
Mm… So warm… I wonder if it’ll be a good summer? (Turning to him.) Charles? Charles!
She rushes to him and lifts his head. He tries to speak.
God, I thought you’d… What’s wrong? What’s wrong, Charles?
She holds him.
Oh Charles, I wouldn’t have told you if I thought it was going to upset you so much.
CHARLES.…I think…
ISABELLA. What?
CHARLES.…I think I killed him.
ISABELLA. Who?
CHARLES. Harry. I think I killed Harry.
ISABELLA. Of course you didn’t kill Harry. He jumped under a train.
CHARLES. Yes, but he –
ISABELLA. The District Line at Parsons Green. Everyone knows that. Of course you didn’t kill him.
CHARLES. He left a note.
ISABELLA. A note? We don’t know that, Charles. Nothing was ever found.
CHARLES. We do now. Monty found it. Monty, for God’s sake! He’s only fifteen! He was going through some junk the other day and there it was. Harry had decided to do away with himself because he was being blackmailed.
ISABELLA. Blackmailed?
CHARLES. Oh Isabella, you must know what he got up to. He always had an eye out for the chaps. He said how he’d lied, how he was a worthless husband and father, how the guilt had worn him down and he’d had enough. Imagine, reading that about your father, and poor old Fleur, believe it or not, she didn’t have a clue. She told me all this yesterday. She’s devastated. She thought he was just depressed.
ISABELLA. Couldn’t he have gone to the police?
CHARLES. Not then. It would’ve been far too risky.
ISABELLA. Better that than…
CHARLES. If only he’d hung on! Things are somewhat different now, but… Stupid man! I knew something was wrong. I challenged him about it, but he never let on.
ISABELLA. But why on earth do you say you killed him?
CHARLES. He was broke. He lied and said it was because of what he’d invested in the firm, but of course now we know it was the blackmail which did for him. He begged me for money – it was that evening we were going to Le Caprice, remember? – shortly after you’d moved in.
ISABELLA. Yes, I do.
CHARLES. And because I was in a pet about… this and that… I didn’t give him a penny, but if I had have, he’d still be here now.
ISABELLA. You don’t know that for sure. You can’t possibly take responsibility.
CHARLES. But one can’t help wondering.
ISABELLA. You’re being far too hard on yourself.
CHARLES. Do you think so?
ISABELLA. Of course you are.
CHARLES. Really?
ISABELLA. Yes!
CHARLES. Well, that’s a relief.
ISABELLA. You’re the kindest man in the world.
CHARLES. I wouldn’t go quite that far.
ISABELLA. Believe me.
She clinks his glass. They drink.
Do they have any idea who the blackmailer was?
CHARLES. Some thug he probably picked up in an alleyway. Apparently he made him pay for favours, to put it delicately, and if he didn’t, he’d have exposed him, which simply wouldn’t do for a solicitor of his standing. Oh, the vanity of us all, but when the blood’s up… I do miss him. I always will.
ISABELLA. Poor Charles.
She embraces him. BASIL’s appeared, now dressed for dinner, watching. They haven’t noticed him.
BASIL. It’s getting on.
ISABELLA and CHARLES, startled, break the embrace.
CHARLES. Oh Basil, old boy… (Getting up, patting his hair, checking his tie.) We were just…
BASIL. Time we left. We might lose the table otherwise.
CHARLES. Popular place, yes.
ISABELLA goes to the mirror to check her hair and make-up.
You’re very good to me, you two, taking an old duffer with you here, there and everywhere.
ISABELLA. We enjoy your company, Charles. I’m not sure what we’d do without it.
BASIL. Shall I take the Mini or – ?
CHARLES. The Rover’s roomier, don’t you think?
ISABELLA. Oh yes. We can’t go in the Mini.
BASIL. But Uncle Charles might prefer to –
CHARLES. We’ll take the Rover. Quite happy to, old chap.
BASIL. Right. Thank you.
CHARLES. I’ll tidy up the back seat.
He goes out, stranding BASIL and ISABELLA. Beat.
BASIL. Should we perhaps phone your mother? See how Barry is?
ISABELLA. No need. He’ll be in bed by now.
BASIL. Yes of course. No need to phone.
Beat.
Then I’ll just…
He doesn’t move.
Lucky, aren’t we?
She looks at him.
Your mother – always willing to take him.
ISABELLA. She spoils him.
BASIL. She dotes on him.
ISABELLA. It’s inappropriate.
Beat. He turns to leave. Almost as an afterthought:
BASIL (without looking at her). I love you, Isabella – you do know that, don’t you? – and I would never stop you from doing what makes you happy. We must all make the most of this life; it’s short enough, God knows.
He goes out. She looks after him as the lights fade and the ‘Act II pas de deux’ from Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker fades in. Lights up on:
Scene Four
The room is in exactly the same state as Scene One, the evening of that day. The rain has stopped. The only light is from the moon and the television, which BARRY’s watching on the sofa, the Tchaikovsky continuing (he’s listening to it on his iPod). Just outside the open doors of the French window, ISABELLA (seventy-five) sits looking at the garden, drink in hand, smoking a cigarette; although facing away from the room, she seems to be aware of what’s going on. When the music finishes, silence, except for the television (a programme about antiques). BARRY removes his earphones and adjusts his position as if in some discomfort. He continues staring at the screen. A sudden gurgling from upstairs pipes goes unremarked. Pause.
BARRY. You’ll catch your death.
Beat.
It’s cold.
ISABELLA. It’s summer.
BARRY adjusts his position again.
You’re fidgety tonight. Have you been up to something while I was in Dunstable?
Beat.
All this time on your hands: it isn’t healthy. You’re a sly boy.
BARRY. Boy!
ISABELLA. And lazy.
BARRY. I’ve been made redundant.
ISABELLA. You always were sly and lazy.
BARRY. Why don’t you come in and shut the doors?
ISABELLA. And no balls to speak of – just like your father. Balls, cojones, that’s what you need.
BARRY. I’m trying to watch television.
ISABELLA swigs her drink and lights a new cigarette from the old one, which she flicks into the darkness.
ISABELLA. If you were normal you’d be kicking them around, whacking them
with a bat or knocking them into holes or… bouncing them off your head. Or scratching them. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you scratch yours.
BARRY (sotto voce). Jesus Christ.
ISABELLA. Just like your father.
BARRY. You’ve drunk too much.
ISABELLA. Always the same; you always had to be different. Never mucked in with the other boys.
BARRY. You were never there to cheer me on.
ISABELLA. You did nothing to cheer, just pranced around on the periphery. If only you were more like Monty.
BARRY. Monty’s gay.
ISABELLA. So you say.
BARRY. Like father, like son – except Monty’s more honest about it.
ISABELLA. Sporty, tough, everything a young man should be.
BARRY. He’s over sixty!
He subtly readjusts his position; she catches him.
ISABELLA. See? You have been up to something.
He ignores her. The grating, cranking of the fridge. She stares up at the night sky. He continues watching television. The cranking stops.
(Holding out her glass.) Plop a gin in there, will you?
BARRY. You’ve had enough.
ISABELLA. Gin!
He gets up, goes over to her and takes the glass. As he pours a drink at the trolley:
BARRY. Mind you, I can’t see Monty topping himself like his dad did, even though his partner has just left him and seems to be taking him to the cleaner’s. The way people behave! (Going back to her with the drink.) Odd, isn’t it? It used to be funerals all the time, then civil partnerships, now it’s divorces.
Her head’s lolled forward; she’s dropped off. He places the drink beside her and returns to the television. He eases himself down onto the sofa and watches. A police siren passes, then fades into the distance.
ISABELLA (muttering to herself in a reverie).…My baby. My beautiful boy… (Coming to a little, raising her head.) I was sitting just here, on this very spot, staring at the stars, lost in a dream, with little Laurence asleep in his cot beside me.
BARRY’s continuing to watch television; he’s obviously heard all this before.
A stifling, midsummer night, and the bedroom… so hot. Basil snoring like a donkey, and you in the boxroom dead to the world. But down here was so peaceful, the air slightly cooler, just myself and my baby, and I lit a joint and drifted off, I can’t tell for how long, but when I came to – (Becoming tearful.) he was gone. I hoped I was imagining it, that it was a dream… How could he do it to me? He’d wanted me to run away with him, promised me that one day I’d have his baby and he was right. But when he suddenly turned up here some while later, and I insisted it wasn’t his… well, of course, he knew… and I lost them both.
