Cause Célèbre

by Terence Rattigan

  DAVENPORT (laughing). Why Turkey? Why not here – Jermyn Street?

  TONY. I’d thought of that, only I’m a bit – well –

  DAVENPORT. I’m not serious. At least, not yet. I should give it another year or two, I think, old chap, don’t you?

  TONY. But Dad, I’m seventeen!

  DAVENPORT. Yes, but that’s still a bit young, don’t you think? My first wasn’t till I was twenty. But still, when you do go, for God’s sake, take precautions, won’t you?

  TONY. What – ?

  PORTER. I’ve got your place, sir.

  DAVENPORT. Thank you. (Gives him half a crown.)

  PORTER. Thank you, sir. (Goes.)

  DAVENPORT. Well –

  TONY. Dad, what shall I tell Mum – about that woman?

  DAVENPORT. Tell her you didn’t meet her, but I was always talking to her on the telephone. It’s a question of her pride. Off you go, Tony.

  GEORGE WOOD crosses the stage to stand outside the RATTENBURYS’ house, taking off his bicycle clips.

  The lights come up to show the hall, sitting room, stairs. IRENE RIGGS, maid and companion to ALMA – dressed more as companion than maid – is entering the tiny hall.

  IRENE. Yes? What is it?

  WOOD. I’ve come about the advert.

  IRENE. You’re too old.

  WOOD. It says ‘fourteen to eighteen’.

  IRENE. I know what it says. I wrote it myself. You’re too old.

  WOOD. I’m seventeen.

  IRENE. You’re still not what we’re wanting. Sorry.

  ALMA (calling from upstairs). Who is it, Irene?

  IRENE (calling back). A boy about the advert. He’s wrong.

  ALMA (calling). Why?

  IRENE (calling). He’s too old.

  WOOD (making voice heard aloft). I’m not. I’m only seventeen.

  IRENE (calling). But he looks much older.

  ALMA (after a pause, calling). I’ll come down.

  IRENE (calling). I was sending him away.

  ALMA (decisively). Keep him.

  IRENE (annoyed, to WOOD). You’d better come in. (Clicking her tongue.) You’re not the type at all.

  ALMA has meanwhile swung her legs off the bed.

  ALMA (calling). I’ll just slip into something. I won’t be a mo.

  Pulls out a pair of day pyjamas – of a fairly hectic design and colour – from the wardrobe.

  Downstairs, WOOD has come in and is waiting uncertainly in the hall, twisting his homburg hat.

  (Calling.) Tell him to go into the lounge, Irene, and make himself comfortable.

  IRENE (nodding towards the sitting room). You heard her.

  WOOD (on his way in). You the maid?

  IRENE. Companion.

  WOOD. You don’t like me, do you?

  IRENE. I’ve nothing against you. You’re just not the type, that’s all.

  WOOD. That’ll be for her to say, won’t it?

  He nods upstairs. IRENE regards him coldly.

  IRENE (at length). Yes, it will.

  She goes down the passage and disappears. WOOD looks round the sitting room and perches on a chair. Upstairs ALMA has finished her dressing and is applying lipstick, then patting her hair into place. WOOD gets up and goes to a small piano, on the stand of which is a piece of sheet music left open. He examines it. ALMA comes rapidly down the stairs in slippered feet and surprises him as she comes in. He starts guiltily away from the piano.

  WOOD. Sorry.

  ALMA (laughing). That’s quite all right. I don’t mind anyone reading my music.

  WOOD. Oh, I don’t read music. Did you say your music?

  ALMA. Look at the front.

  WOOD (awed). That’s a picture of you.

  ALMA. Taken a long time ago, I’m afraid. It’s twelve years old, that photograph.

  WOOD. ‘Dark-Haired Marie’ by Lozanne. Is that you – Miss Lozanne?

  ALMA. Oh no – that’s just my pen-name. (Seeing WOOD’s bewilderment.) It’s just the name I put on my songs. My real name’s Alma. What’s yours?

  WOOD. Wood.

  ALMA. Christian name?

  WOOD. Perce. Percy, really. My dad calls me Perce – so Perce.

  ALMA. What does your dad do for a living?

  WOOD. He’s a builder, laid off. I work for him when he’s got work – but there’s not much of that about these days.

  ALMA. Oh, I know. It’s terrible, this slump. I can’t sell a song these days – for love nor money.

  WOOD. Do you do this for a living, miss?

  ALMA. Oh no. I don’t have to, thank heavens, or I’d be on the dole. Mind you, they do get done sometimes. That song, for instance, that was done only a year ago, on the BBC. A baritone sang it.

  WOOD (eagerly). The Whispering Baritone?

  ALMA. No. Just a baritone. Let me take your cap.

  WOOD. Thank you, miss.

  She takes it from him and puts it on the piano.

  ALMA. By the way, it’s ‘Mrs’. Mrs three times over, as it happens –

  WOOD. Cor. Divorced?

  ALMA (gaily). Yes, once, the other one died and now seven years gone with old Ratz – Mr Rattenbury, my present one. I’m giving things away, aren’t I? I started very young. I’ve a boy of thirteen. Almost as old as you.

  She laughs. He smiles politely.

  Yes, well… I suppose it’s working on building sites that’s made you so – developed.

  WOOD. I bike a lot too.

  ALMA. Yes. That does do wonders for the physique. You look quite what I would call – full-grown.

  Pause. WOOD has at last dimly realised the nature of his future mistress’s interest in him.

  WOOD. Your – Irene – thought I was too full-grown.

  ALMA. Yes. Well, you see we concocted that advertisement together, and what she had in mind was – well – a rather smaller kind of boy. You’d be under her, really, not me… Well, I’d better tell you what the wages are. It’s one of the reasons we wanted a little boy. I’m afraid my husband will only go to a pound a week.

  WOOD. Living in?

  ALMA. No, I’m afraid not. We haven’t room, really. There’s only one other room besides Irene’s, you see, and my two boys – I’ve another little one, only six – well, they’re in there, during school holidays that is. Of course, if you’d been a little boy like I meant in the advert, you could have slept in with them – I mean, if you’d been a really little boy – but being as you are, and me and Irene slipping about upstairs with next to nothing on – well, it would be rather awkward, wouldn’t it?… (Rather breathlessly.) No, I’m afraid living in’s quite out of the question.

  WOOD. I was only asking. Where does old Ratz sleep?

  ALMA. Oh, you mustn’t call him Ratz. You must call him Mr Rattenbury, like Irene.

  WOOD. Yes. Where does he sleep?

  Pause.

  ALMA. Inquisitive, aren’t you? That’s all right. I like an enquiring nature. Mr Rattenbury sleeps through there.

  She points to the door off the sitting room.

  He can’t do the stairs any more.

  Pause.

  WOOD. I see.

  Pause.

  ALMA (lightly). Well, is it a go, or isn’t it?

  WOOD. A quid isn’t much.

  ALMA. Well, I could slip you a few bob on the side – expenses, you know. Only Ratz – Mr Rattenbury mustn’t know. He’s a little strict about money. Do you live close?

  WOOD. Other side of Bournemouth. About half hour on my bike. You wouldn’t like to say how many bob?

  ALMA (patting his arm). You must ask when you need it.

  WOOD. Okay.

  ALMA. Well, I’m glad that’s settled. Why don’t we have a little drinkie on it?

  WOOD. I’m afraid I don’t drink.

  ALMA. I expect that’s just what you tell all your employers. Gin and it?

  WOOD. I don’t know what that is.

  ALMA. Fancy anyone not knowing what a ‘gin and it’ is!

  She is busy pouring
herself a drink.

  …Won’t you just try a sip, just to seal our little arrangement?

  WOOD. If you insist.

  ALMA. Oh, I don’t insist. I never insist. But just this once – There has to be a first time for everything, doesn’t there?

  WOOD. Yes.

  ALMA. A little of what you fancy’s my motto, and a very good one too. This is a lovely world we’re in, and we were put into it to enjoy it. Don’t you agree?

  She hands him the drink.

  WOOD. I might. I don’t think my dad would. He’s religious.

  ALMA. Well, our dear Lord didn’t say we mustn’t have fun, did He? He turned water into wine, not wine into water. Just tell that to your dad next time he gets narky. And He said we must love each other, and I think we should.

  Raising her glass.

  Well, Perce – no, I can’t call you Perce. Or Percy. Have you got a middle name?

  WOOD. George.

  ALMA. That’s nice. I’m going to call you that. (Raising her glass again.) George.

  WOOD (raising his). Mrs Rattenbury.

  ALMA. Alma… Not just now – always…

  WOOD. Alma.

  ALMA. George!

  They drink. WOOD makes a face. ALMA laughs and takes the glass away from him.

  I’m not letting you have any more. I’m not having anyone say I’m leading you astray.

  She drinks WOOD’s drink in a single gulp.

  – Just like water to me. Do you know what Alma means in Latin? A professor told me once, it means ‘life-giving’, ‘bountiful’. In olden times they used it about goddesses, like Venus.

  Sipping her drink.

  Well, I’m not Venus, God knows – but apparently it also means ‘kind and comforting’, and that I am, George, though I say it who shouldn’t –

  FRANCIS RATTENBURY comes into the hall.

  Here’s Ratz. I’d better warn you. You have to shout.

  She opens the sitting-room door. RATTENBURY immediately glances at WOOD. Deaf he may be, but certainly not blind. ALMA kisses him.

  (Loudly.) Had a nice walkie?

  RATTENBURY. There was an east wind. You should have told me.

  ALMA. Poor thing, did you get chilled?

  RATTENBURY. Blasted to buggery.

  Paying no attention to WOOD, he sits down in what is evidently his usual armchair – significantly one that has its back to a pair of French windows.

  Get me a whisky, would you?

  ALMA. It’s a bit early for your whisky, isn’t it?

  She begins to get him a drink.

  RATTENBURY. It’s a bit early for your gin.

  ALMA. I only meant you don’t usually have whisky in the mornings.

  RATTENBURY. I don’t usually get blasted to buggery in the morning.

  Showing her a paper.

  Shares are down again.

  ALMA. Oh dear. You’re probably wondering who the stranger is.

  RATTENBURY. No, I wasn’t, but who is he?

  ALMA. His name is George Wood, and he’s the new help.

  RATTENBURY (after a moody sip). Irene said ‘a boy’.

  ALMA. Well, he is a boy. He’s only seventeen.

  RATTENBURY. Hm.

  He stares at WOOD without overmuch interest.

  Has he any references?

  WOOD. No, sir. I’ve never done this kind of work before.

  RATTENBURY. What?

  ALMA (putting her hand on his shoulder). Don’t worry, dear. We had a nice long interview. I’ll vouch for him.

  RATTENBURY looks up at her. He grunts acquiescence and hands her his glass.

  That one went down pretty fast.

  RATTENBURY. Not as fast as my shares.

  As ALMA passes WOOD.

  Does he drive?

  WOOD (loudly). Yes, sir. I’ve got a licence.

  ALMA (coming back with the whisky). Well, isn’t that marvellous! (To RATTENBURY, loudly.) Isn’t that handy, dear? We’ve got ourselves a chauffeur.

  RATTENBURY. No uniform.

  ALMA (loudly). No, of course not. (To WOOD, quietly.) Well, perhaps a cap and a smart mackintosh. You’d look nice in a cap.

  RATTENBURY. What are you saying?

  ALMA. I was explaining ‘no uniform’, dear. (To WOOD.) Better go now. (Loudly, to RATTENBURY.) I’m just showing the new help to the front door. (To WOOD.) Come on. (To RATTENBURY.) Back in a jiffy.

  She and WOOD go.

  – Well, that’s settled, thank goodness. It’s lovely about your driving. Go and buy yourself a cap. (She fishes in her bag.) Here’s fifteen shillings. Will that be enough?

  WOOD. Should be.

  CHRISTOPHER comes in, wearing his Scout’s uniform.

  CHRISTOPHER. Mummy, there’s a smashing bike outside, with low handlebars. (Seeing WOOD.) Oh, is it yours, sir?

  WOOD. Yes. A Raleigh.

  CHRISTOPHER. I was going to ask if I could ride it.

  WOOD. Afraid I’m just going.

  ALMA. But he’s coming back tomorrow – and every day afterwards. He’s going to be one of the family.

  CHRISTOPHER. Oh, good.

  ALMA. I’m sure if you ask him nicely he’ll let you ride it.

  WOOD. You bet.

  CHRISTOPHER. Oh, thanks awfully, sir. Mummy, when’s lunch?

  ALMA. Quite soon, darling.

  CHRISTOPHER (calling and running off). Irene!

  CHRISTOPHER disappears up the stairs.

  ALMA. Sweet, isn’t he? (Sincerely.) I really am very blessed with my children.

  WOOD (in awe). He called me ‘sir’.

  ALMA. What? (Misunderstanding.) Oh, they teach him that at his school. Don’t worry. He’ll soon be calling you George.

  WOOD. I’d rather he went on calling me ‘sir’.

  ALMA. I’ll see he does then.

  IRENE appears from the shadows.

  (Hastily to WOOD.) Goodbye then. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  WOOD. What time?

  ALMA. What time, Irene?

  Pause.

  IRENE (at length, gloomily). Seven. Not a second later.

  ALMA. Can you manage seven?

  WOOD. Easy… Be seeing you.

  He goes out. ALMA, left alone with IRENE, is uneasy under her steady stare.

  IRENE (at length). You’ll have my notice at the end of the week.

  ALMA laughs and embraces her fondly.

  ALMA. Yes, darling, I’m sure I will.

  IRENE. I’m serious.

  ALMA. You always are. He can drive, Irene, which is more than any of your little teenies could have done.

  IRENE. Yes. There’s something else he can do that my little teenies couldn’t.

  ALMA. Irene…

  IRENE. Anyway, you owe me four weeks’ wages.

  ALMA. Six pounds?

  She looks in her bag.

  Oh dear. And there’s Christopher’s new cricket bat. (Nodding towards the sitting room.) He’s in a bad mood… still, he’s got a couple of whiskies inside him. Think of something for me –

  IRENE. I don’t know.

  ALMA. Pray for me.

  IRENE. Yes.

  She goes into the sitting room. IRENE exits.

  ALMA goes up to RATTENBURY.

  ALMA (to RATTENBURY, brightly). Well, Ratz, darling. Let me get you another little drinkie. There’s time for one before lunch.

  She takes his now empty glass to refill it.

  (Loudly.) I’ve been showing George the car.

  RATTENBURY. Who’s George?

  ALMA. Our new chauffeur, darling… (Brings the drink to him.) He says it’s in spanking condition, except just for one little thing – (Sits down, smiling lovingly.) It needs a new carburettor. He says if we don’t have one the car might seize up altogether, and that would mean a new car, darling.

  RATTENBURY. Well, we’ll have to walk then, won’t we?

  ALMA (laughing merrily). Oh, you are a scream…

  RATTENBURY (chokes on his drink). This is too strong.

  ALMA takes
the glass and puts more water in it.

  ALMA. Now, after lunch we’ll get your chequebook out and write out a cheque.

  RATTENBURY. I won’t sign it.

  She comes back with the drink, and lays her hand lovingly on his head.

  ALMA. Oh yes you will, dear. You’re far too kind and loving a husband not to. (Kisses the top of his head.) Oh, I do love my darling Ratz.

  The lights fade.

  TONY. Mum! Listen to this – Did you know Mrs Rattenbury and Wood battered old Rattenbury on the head so hard they completely smashed his skull.

  MRS DAVENPORT. What? Oh, you’re reading about that awful murder. A few years ago, a case like that wouldn’t even have been mentioned in The Times… be a darling…

  TONY. That’s what makes it so funny, it happening in Bournemouth.

  MRS DAVENPORT. I don’t see that that’s funny.

  TONY. On Aunt Stella’s doorstep… And ours, when we get that house. I wonder what their defence will be. Wood’s statement says he was doped on cocaine, and the police say Mrs Rattenbury was as drunk as a fly.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Tony, I don’t want you to talk about it. And you shouldn’t be reading it. Haven’t you your homework to do?

  TONY. Finished. Mum, could I ask you a question?

  MRS DAVENPORT. Of course.

  TONY. If you’d found out before you started the divorce that there wasn’t another woman at all with Dad, would it have made any difference?

  Pause.

  MRS DAVENPORT. But there is another woman.

  TONY. No, there isn’t. I’m sure there isn’t. And I honestly think he’d come back, if you asked him.

  MRS DAVENPORT. On his terms…

  TONY. I don’t know what they are.

  MRS DAVENPORT. I can’t explain it to you, darling. You’re far too young to understand…

  TONY (with unexpected vehemence). That isn’t true! Please believe me – I understand much more than you know.

  Pause.

  MRS DAVENPORT. … Is Randolph coming here, or are you going to him?

  TONY. He’s coming here.

  MRS DAVENPORT (takes a note from her handbag). Is ten shillings enough?

  TONY. Oh, plenty.

  MRS DAVENPORT. And for the cinema too?

  TONY. It’s only The Kensington.

  MRS DAVENPORT (sharply). What’s the film?

  TONY. I don’t remember the title. It’s got Irene Dunne –

  MRS DAVENPORT (relieved). That should be very nice. You haven’t told me yet how you like my new dress.

  TONY. Spiffing. Who are you out to impress?