A Voyage Round My Father

by John Mortimer

  The MOTHER enters. She goes up to the FATHER, touches him.

  MOTHER. Your bath’s ready.

  FATHER. What?

  MOTHER. I said your bath water’s nice and hot.

  He gets up, takes her arm. She starts to lead him off the stage.

  I suppose there isn’t an easier way of getting rid of earwigs?

  FATHER. An easier way! Sometimes I wonder if women understand anything.

  They go. The SON stands, then moves down towards the audience. The light changes and the garden fades on the backcloth, to be replaced by a pattern of Gothic arches. The SON speaks to the audience, downstage right.

  SON. It was my father’s way to offer the law to me – the great stone column of authority which has been dragged by an adulterous, careless, negligent and half-criminal humanity down the ages – as if it were a small mechanical toy which might occupy half an hour on a rainy afternoon.

  Upstage a Judge’s chair with a coat of arms, a witness box. A JUDGE enters, and takes his place; from offstage left, the sound of footsteps on a stone passage and the tapping of a stick. Then the FATHER and MOTHER enter downstage left. The FATHER is now wearing a black jacket and a winged collar and bow tie. The MOTHER stations the FATHER by one of the cubes on which a mirror is hanging. She goes out and returns with his wig, gown and white bands to take the place of his tie, and helps him to change. The opposing barrister, MR BOUSTEAD, robed, but carrying his wig, comes and starts to comb his hair in front of the mirror.

  SON (to the audience). He never used a white stick – but his clouded malacca was heard daily, tapping the cold stone corridors of the Law Courts. He had no use for dogs, therapy, training, nor did he adapt himself to his condition. He simply pretended that nothing had happened. (The SON goes.)

  BOUSTEAD. Good morning.

  FATHER. Who’s that?

  MOTHER. It’s Mr Boustead, dear … He’s for the husband.

  FATHER. Agin me, Bulstrode. Are you agin me?

  BOUSTEAD. Boustead.

  FATHER. Excuse me. Boustead of course. Where are you?

  BOUSTEAD. Here, I’m here …

  FATHER. I have studied your case pretty closely and I have a suggestion to make which you might find helpful.

  BOUSTEAD. Really?

  FATHER. What I was suggesting, entirely for your assistance of course – is that you might like – my dear boy – to throw in your hand … Now, is that a help to you … ?

  BOUSTEAD. Certainly not! I’d say we have some pretty valuable evidence …

  Light change. In the witness box appears MR THONG, a private detective of a crafty appearance, wearing a brown suit and a cycling club badge on his lapel. BOUSTEAD moves to upstage right, stands questioning him. The MOTHER leads the FATHER to his seat left and sits behind him.

  BOUSTEAD. Now from the vantage point which you have described, Mr Thong, will you tell my Lord and the Jury exactly what you saw?

  The FATHER turns and speaks in a loud stage whisper to the MOTHER.

  FATHER. Throat spray!

  The MOTHER puts a small throat spray into the FATHER’S hand. THONG consults his notebook.

  BOUSTEAD. Yes, Mr Thong, in your own words.

  FATHER (loud whisper). Thanks.

  THONG (monotonously, reading his notebook). From my point of vantage, I was quite clearly able to see inside the kitchen window …

  BOUSTEAD. Yes?

  THONG. And –

  The FATHER opens his mouth and starts, very loudly, to spray his throat.

  JUDGE. Speak up, Mr Thong, I can’t hear you.

  THONG. My Lord. I was able to distinguish clearly the Respondent …

  JUDGE (writing carefully). Yes …

  THONG. In the act of … (His mumble is again drowned by the FATHER’S work with the throat spray.) … with a man distinguishable only by a small moustache … I now recognize him as the Co-Respondent, Dacres.

  BOUSTEAD. In the act of what, Mr Thong?

  THONG. The act of … (The FATHER works the throat spray very loudly.)

  BOUSTEAD. If my learned friend would allow us to hear the evidence …

  FATHER (puts down the throat spray and whispers deafeningly to BOUSTEAD). I’m so sorry. My dear boy, if this is the valuable evidence you told me about, I shall be quiet – as the tomb … !

  BOUSTEAD (firmly). Mr Thong.

  FATHER (half rising to address the JUDGE). By all means, my Lord. Let us hear this valuable evidence.

  JUDGE. Very well.

  THONG. I distinctly saw them …

  JUDGE. Distinctly saw them what?

  THONG. Kissing and cuddling, my Lord.

  BOUSTEAD. And then …

  THONG. The light was extinguished …

  BOUSTEAD. Where?

  THONG. In the kitchen.

  BOUSTEAD. And a further light appeared?

  THONG. In the bedroom.

  JUDGE. For a moment?

  THONG. Merely momentarily, my Lord.

  BOUSTEAD. So …

  THONG. The house was shrouded in darkness. And the Co-Respondent, this is the point that struck us, had not emerged.

  BOUSTEAD. And you kept up observation until …

  THONG. Approximately, dawn.

  BOUSTEAD (very satisfied, as he sits down). Thank you, Mr Thong.

  The FATHER rises, clattering. Folds his hands on his stomach, gazes sightlessly at MR THONG and then allows a long pause during which MR THONG stirs uncomfortably. Then he starts quietly, slowly working himself up into a climax.

  FATHER. Mr Thong, what price did you put on this valuable evidence?

  THONG. I don’t know what you mean …

  FATHER. You have been paid, haven’t you, to give it?

  THONG. I’m a private enquiry agent …

  FATHER. A professional witness?

  THONG. Charging the usual fee.

  FATHER. Thirty pieces of silver?

  BOUSTEAD (rises, indignant). My Lord, I object. This is outrageous.

  JUDGE. Perhaps that was not entirely relevant. (BOUSTEAD subsides.)

  FATHER. Then let me ask you something which is very relevant. Which goes straight to the secret heart of this wretched little conspiracy. Where was this lady’s husband during your observations?

  THONG. Captain Waring?

  FATHER. Yes. Captain Waring.

  THONG. He had accompanied me …

  FATHER. Why?

  THONG. For the purpose of …

  FATHER. For the purpose of what … ?

  THONG. Identification …

  FATHER. And how long did he remain with you?

  THONG. As long as observation continued …

  FATHER. Till dawn … ?

  THONG. Until approximately 5.30 a.m.

  FATHER. And did he not storm the house? Did he not beat upon the door? Did he not seize his wife’s paramour by the throat and hurl him into the gutter?

  THONG. According to my notebook. No.

  FATHER. And according to your notebook, was he enjoying himself?

  BOUSTEAD (driven beyond endurance, rises to protest). Really … !

  FATHER. Please, Mr Bulstrode! I’ve sat here for three days! Like patience on a monument! Whilst a series of spiteful, mean, petty, trumped-up sickening and small-minded charges are tediously paraded against the unfortunate woman I represent. And now, when I rise to cross-examine … I will not be interrupted!

  JUDGE. Gentlemen! Please, gentlemen. (To FATHER.) What was your question?

  FATHER. I’ve forgotten it. My learned friend’s interruption has had the effect he no doubt intended and I have forgotten my question!

  BOUSTEAD. This is quite intolerable …

  FATHER. Ah … Now I’ve remembered it again. Did he enjoy the night, Thong, in this field … from which he was magically able to overlook his own kitchen … ?

  THONG. This plot of waste ground …

  FATHER. Up a tree, was he?

  THONG. What?

  FATHER. Was he perched upon a tree?

&nb
sp; THONG. We had stepped up, into the lower branches.

  FATHER. Was it the naked eye?

  THONG. Pardon?

  FATHER. Was he viewing this distressing scene by aid of the naked eye?

  THONG. Captain Waring had brought a pair of field glasses.

  FATHER. His racing glasses … ?

  THONG. I …

  JUDGE. Speak up, Mr Thong.

  THONG. I imagine he used them for racing, my Lord.

  FATHER. You see, Captain Waring has given evidence in this Court.

  BOUSTEAD (ironic). On the subject of his racing glasses?

  FATHER (his voice filled with passion). No, Mr Bulstrode. On the subject of love. He has told us that he was deeply, sincerely in love with his wife.

  THONG. I don’t know anything about that.

  FATHER. Exactly, Mr Thong! You are hardly an expert witness, are you, on the subject of love?

  Light change. MR THONG leaves the witness box. BOUSTEAD leaves also. The FATHER is standing as if addressing the Jury.

  May it please you, my Lord, Members of the Jury. Love has driven men and women in the course of history to curious extremes. Love tempted Leander to plunge in and swim the raging Hellespont. It led Juliet to feign death and Ophelia to madness. No doubt it complicated the serenity of the Garden of Eden and started the Trojan War: but surely there is no more curious example of the mysterious effects of the passion than the spectacle of Captain Waring of the Royal Engineers, roosted in a tree, complacently viewing the seduction of his beloved through a pair of strong racing binoculars …

  The light fades altogether on the back of the upstage areas. The FATHER’S voice comes out of the shadows.

  Is not the whole story, Members of the Jury, an improbable and impertinent tissue of falsehood … ?

  The SON is lit downstage as in the upstage darkness, the JUDGE, the FATHER and the MOTHER go and the Courtroom furniture is moved away.

  SON (to the audience). He sent words out into the darkness, like soldiers sent off to battle, and was never short of reinforcements. In the Law Courts he gave his public performance. At home he returned to his private ritual, the potting shed, the crossword puzzle and, when I was at home, the afternoon walk.

  Projection of trees as the upstage area becomes slowly lighter.

  The woods were dark and full of flies. We picked bracken leaves to swat them, and when I was a child he told me we carried cutlasses to hack our way through the jungle. I used to shut my eyes at dead rats, or magpies gibbeted on the trees: sights his blindness spared him. He walked with his hand on my arm. A small hand, with loose brown skin. From time to time, I had an urge to pull away from him, to run into the trees and hide … to leave him alone, lost in perpetual darkness. But then his hand would tighten on my sleeve; he was very persistent …

  The SON walks behind a cube and emerges with the FATHER who is wearing a tweed jacket and his straw hat and is holding the SON’s arm tightly as they walk round the stage, slowly, towards a raised platform upstage …

  FATHER. I’ve had a good deal of fun … out of the Law.

  SON. Have you ever been to the South of France?

  FATHER. Once or twice. It’s all right, except for the dreadful greasy food they can’t stop talking about.

  SON. Bill and Daphne say the worst of the War is that they can’t get to the South of France.

  FATHER. Who’re they?

  SON. Two ladies from the book shop.

  FATHER. Where you had to go, as a visitor?

  SON. That’s right.

  FATHER. My heart bled for you on that occasion.

  SON. Daphne’s Miss Cox.

  FATHER. And Bill … ?

  SON … Bill’s Miss Baker.

  FATHER. Damned rum!

  SON. Before the War they practically lived in Cannes. They met Cocteau …

  FATHER. Who?

  SON. He smoked opium. Have you ever smoked opium?

  FATHER. Certainly not! Gives you constipation. Dreadful binding effect. Ever seen those pictures of the wretched poet Coleridge? Green around the gills. And a stranger to the lavatory. Avoid opium.

  SON. They may find me a war job.

  FATHER. Who?

  SON. Miss Baker and Miss Cox.

  FATHER. Why, is ‘Bill’ on the General Staff?

  SON. They have a friend who makes propaganda films for the government. He needs an assistant.

  FATHER. You’re thinking of entering the film world?

  SON. Just … for the duration.

  FATHER. Well! At least there’s nothing heroic about it.

  SON. No.

  FATHER. Rum sort of world, isn’t it – the film world?

  SON. I expect so.

  FATHER. Don’t they wear their caps back to front in the film world?

  SON. You’re thinking of the silent days.

  FATHER. Am I? Perhaps I am. Your mother and I went to a silent film once. In Glastonbury.

  SON. Did you?

  FATHER. We were staying there in an hotel. Damn dull. Nothing to do in the evenings. So we sallied forth, to see this silent film. The point was, I invariably dressed for dinner, when in Glastonbury. Follow?

  SON. I follow.

  FATHER. And when your mother and I entered this picture palace – in evening dress – the whole audience burst into spontaneous applause! I believe they took us for part of the entertainment! … Rum kind of world I must say. Where are we?

  SON. At the bottom of Stonor Hill.

  FATHER. I’ll rest for a moment. Then we’ll go up to the top.

  The SON moves him to the right of the platform and sits him down.

  SON. Will we?

  FATHER. Of course we will! You can see the three counties from the top of Stonor Hill. Don’t you want to see three counties … ?

  SON. All right.

  FATHER. See everything. Everything in Nature … That’s the instinct of the May beetle. Twenty-four hours to live, so spend it … looking around.

  SON. We’ve got more time …

  FATHER. Don’t you believe it! It’s short … but enjoyable! You know what? If they ever say to you – ‘your old Father, he couldn’t have enjoyed life much. Overdrawn at the Bank and bad-tempered and people didn’t often visit him …’ ‘Nonsense,’ you can say. ‘He enjoyed every minute of it …’

  SON. Do you want to go on now?

  FATHER. When you consider the embryo of the liver fluke, born in sheeps’ droppings, searching the world for a shell to bore into for the sake of living in a snail until it becomes tadpole-like and leaves its host – and then gets swallowed up by a sheep again! When you consider that – complicated persistence, well, of course, I’ve clung on for sixty-five years. It’s the instinct – that’s all. The irresistible instinct! All right. We’ll go up … Watch carefully and you’ll see three counties …

  He puts out his hand, the SON pulls him up. They walk off behind a cube. Light change. The projection of trees changes to blue sky and small clouds. On the platform, MISS COX and MISS BAKER are sunbathing: wearing bathing suits, lying on a rug, their arms around each other. They are kissing as the FATHER and SON reappear breathless after their climb. The SON says nothing. MISS BAKER puts a hand over MISS COX’S mouth.

  What can you see?

  SON. Three counties …

  FATHER. Be my eyes then. Paint me the picture …

  SON (pause). We can just see three counties. Stretched out. That’s all we can see.

  FATHER. A fine prospect?

  SON. Yes. A fine prospect.

  FATHER. We’ve bagged a good many sights today! What’ve we seen?

  SON. We saw a hare. Oh, and that butterfly.

  FATHER. Danaius Chrysippus! The one that flaunts a large type of powder puff. You described it to me. You painted me the picture.

  SON. Shall we go home now?

  FATHER. We saw a lot today.

  As the SON moves back towards the door the FATHER moves with him.

  We saw a good deal – of the monstrou
s persistence of Nature …

  The FATHER and the SON move away. MISS BAKER takes her hand off MISS COX’S mouth releasing a cascade of giggles as the light fades.

  Act Two

  Light downstage. Noise of carpentry, shouting, singing and cursing. A movie camera on a tripod is set somewhere downstage. Film technicians, a SPARKS trundling a 2K and a CHIPPY with a trestle and a bit of wood, enter. The CHIPPY starts to saw noisily. The DIRECTOR, wearing a sheepskin flying jacket, fur boots and a woollen hat, comes in smoking a Wills Whiff and looks into the camera. The stage management of the play should come on the stage in this scene and become the film technicians, cameramen, etc. Projection on the backcloth suggests a cloudy sky, a radar installation and observation post ‘somewhere in England during the War’.

  SPARKS (singing loudly).

  ‘Oh Salome, Salome,

  That’s my girl, Salome.

  Standing there with her arse all bare …’

  The SON enters. He is carrying a glossy magazine called Kinema Arts and wearing dark glasses. He looks round, lost. DORIS enters. She’s the Unit Manager. A tough, very competent, deep-voiced woman also wearing a sheepskin flying jacket, flying boots and a G.I.’s cap on her orange hair. She also has a cigarette drooping from pillarbox-red lips, and is carrying a clipboard with the script, schedule, etc. on it. She approaches the SON with a military swagger.

  DORIS (yells). Let’s have some quiet please! (The noise stops. To SON.) You the new assistant … ?

  SON (nervous). Yes?

  SPARKS (singing quietly).

  ‘Every little wrinkle made the boys all stare …’

  DORIS (full-throated roar). Great Scott, Sparks! I can’t hear this boy.

  SPARKS. Sorry, Doris.

  He stops singing.

  DORIS. Know your job, do you … ?