SON. My father got too old for the train journey to London … A ROBING ROOM MAN comes in with a wig and gown, stand-up collar and bands, and stands by the SON. As he speaks the SON unfixes his own collar, hands it to the man, takes the collar which is handed to him, puts it on, ties the bands and is robed in the wig and gown. Upstage Courtroom arches are projected, a JUDGE is sitting in wig and gown. A LADY WITNESS, in a flowered hat and gloves, is waiting to be questioned.
My father retired on a pension of nothing but credit, optimism and determination not to think of anything unpleasant. His money had gone on cigars and barrels of oysters and Eau-de-Cologne for his handkerchief and always first class on the railway and great rare Japanese cherry trees that rustled in the wind and flowered for two weeks a year in a green-white shower he never saw. He left to me all the subtle pleasures of the Law …
JUDGE (loudly to the SON). Do you want to cross-examine this witness?
SON (turns round as if woken from a reverie and enters the Courtroom scene). Certainly, my Lord.
JUDGE. Very well, get on with it.
SON (turns to the witness). Now madam …
WITNESS. Yes.
SON (starting on a menacing pause, he begins to count under his breath). One … two … three … four … five … six … seven … eight … nine …
JUDGE. Are you intending to ask any questions?
SON. Twelve … thirteen … I’m sorry, my Lord … ?
JUDGE. If you’ve got a question to ask, ask it. We can’t all wait while you stand in silent prayer you know.
Offstage, sound of laughter.
SON. I’m sorry my Lord … Now, madam. Is there anything you’ve ever done you’re ashamed of?
WITNESS. Yes.
SON. Ah. And what’re you ashamed of?
WITNESS. I once wrote up for an autograph … with picture. You know the type of thing. At my age! Well I began off ‘Am heartily ashamed to write up but –’
JUDGE. Have you any relevant questions?
SON. Will you please read this letter? The one I am about to hand you …
WITNESS. Oh, yes.
SON. Read it out to us, please.
WITNESS. I can’t …
SON. Madam. The Court is waiting …
WITNESS. I really can’t.
SON. Is there something there you’d rather not remember?
WITNESS. Not exactly …
SON (very severe). Then read it, madam!
WITNESS. Could I borrow your glasses?
Laughter.
The laughter fades. Light change as the SON goes. The MOTHER is laying the dinner table. The FATHER’S in his arm chair, his eyes closed, apparently asleep. A small table with a portable radio on it. ELIZABETH enters, exhausted from putting the children to bed. She and the MOTHER talk quietly, not to wake up the FATHER.
MOTHER. Are the children settled?
ELIZABETH (lighting a cigarette). Yes. They’re all settled.
MOTHER. How’s our little Jennifer?
ELIZABETH. Your little Jennifer’s fine. (She starts to help her lay.) And so are our Daniel and Jonathon.
MOTHER. Jenny’s so pretty. I’d like to have done a drawing of her. Perhaps a crayon …
ELIZABETH. Why don’t you?
MOTHER (laughs at the ridiculousness of the idea). Oh, I gave up drawing when I got married. You have to don’t you – give up things when you get married …
ELIZABETH. Do you?
MOTHER. And of course there’s no time now …
ELIZABETH (looks at the FATHER and whispers). Doesn’t he leave you half an hour to yourself?
MOTHER (whispers). He doesn’t like to be left. I suppose … I often think. (She pauses with a handful of cutlery.) Someday I’ll be alone shan’t I. You can’t help thinking.
Pause. ELIZABETH looks at her.
ELIZABETH. (whispers). What’ll you do? Travel. Go to France.
MOTHER. Oh no. I shall stay here of course. Somebody has to see to the marmalade.
She puts down the handful of cutlery and determinedly goes on laying. Sound of a car stopping. ELIZABETH looks out, as if from a window.
ELIZABETH. There he is – come to join the family for the weekend.
MOTHER. It seems they’re giving him a lot of briefs now.
ELIZABETH. Yes.
MOTHER. It’s hard to believe. (Pause.) It must be keeping you very busy.
ELIZABETH. Me? Why me?
MOTHER. Don’t you help him – with his cases?
ELIZABETH. He’s got a secretary now. He hardly ever discusses his work: he thinks I take it too seriously.
MOTHER. Of course his father misses going to London – He used to get such a lot of fun, out of the divorces …
FATHER (opening his eyes). What’s that?
MOTHER. I said you missed going to London, dear.
FATHER. It’s my son, you know. He’s pinched all my work.
The SON enters carrying a bottle of champagne.
SON. Victory!
ELIZABETH. What’s happened, darling?
SON. I won … Timson v Timson. After five days.
FATHER (smacking his lips). Five refreshers!
SON. They insisted on fighting every inch of the way. Terribly litigious …
FATHER. The sort to breed from – those Timsons!
SON. I brought champagne. For a small celebration.
He starts to open the champagne.
ELIZABETH (mutters). Just like a wedding.
SON. What did you say?
ELIZABETH. Oh nothing.
SON (pours a glass of champagne. Gives it to the MOTHER). Champagne …
MOTHER. How festive. Isn’t it festive, dear?
The SON is handing a glass to the FATHER.
FATHER. What is?
MOTHER. He’s handing you a glass of champagne.
FATHER. I’m glad you can afford such things, old boy. Now that you’ve pinched all my practice. (He drinks.)
I suppose you’re polite to solicitors?
SON. Occasionally.
FATHER. I could never bring myself … Pity. If I’d gone to dinner with solicitors I might’ve had something to leave you – over and above my overdraft. I remember after one case, on The Temple Station, my solicitor said, ‘Are you going West, dear boy, we might have dinner together.’ ‘No,’ I lied to him, I was so anxious to get away. ‘I’m going East.’ I ended up with a sandwich in Bethnal Green. It’s been my fault … The determination – to be alone. (He drinks.) You know what’d go very nicely with this champagne?
MOTHER. What, dear – a biscuit?
FATHER. No. The crossword.
The MOTHER sits beside the FATHER and opens The Times. The SON pours champagne for ELIZABETH. She turns on the radio, they drink. The radio starts to play an early Elvis Presley. The SON and ELIZABETH start to dance together: a slow jive.
MOTHER. The N.C.O. sounds agony.
FATHER. How many words?
MOTHER. Two. Eight and ten.
FATHER. Corporal punishment.
MOTHER. How clever!
FATHER. Oh, I’ve got this crossword fellow at my mercy.
ELIZABETH. You’re very clever, darling.
SON. Yes.
Pause.
ELIZABETH. The only thing is …
SON. What?
ELIZABETH. I thought … I mean in that Timson v Timson. Weren’t you for the husband?
SON. Of course I was for the husband.
ELIZABETH. Wasn’t he the man who insisted on his wife tickling the soles of his feet. Four hours at a stretch …
SON. It was only while they watched television.
ELIZABETH. With a contraption! A foot tickler … ?
SON. Something he improvised. With a system of weights and pulleys. It was ingenious actually. The work was done with an old pipe cleaner.
Pause.
ELIZABETH (puzzled). Ought he to have won?
SON (correcting her). I won.
ELIZABETH. But ought you … ?
SON. The Judge said it was part of the wear and tear of married life.
ELIZABETH. Yes, but how did they feel about it. I mean, I suppose they’re still married, aren’t they?
SON. They looked a little confused.
ELIZABETH. Perhaps they didn’t appreciate the rules of the game.
SON. I enjoyed it …
The music stops. They stand facing each other.
ELIZABETH. You enjoy playing games?
SON. I … I suppose so.
ELIZABETH. You know what?
SON. What?
ELIZABETH (quite loudly). You get more like him. Every day.
The FATHER looks up.
FATHER. Isn’t it time we had dinner?
MOTHER. It’s all ready.
She moves with the FATHER to the table. From the other side of the stage the SON and ELIZABETH move towards the table.
ELIZABETH. Will he try and start arguments at dinner?
The FATHER and MOTHER sit down at the dining table.
SON. Of course.
ELIZABETH. Why?
SON. Because that’s what he enjoys.
They sit down at the table too. An awkward silence, which the FATHER breaks.
FATHER. Music! I can’t imagine anyone actually liking music.
Pause.
The immortality of the soul! What a boring conception! Can’t think of anything worse than living for infinity in a great transcendental hotel, with nothing to do in the evenings …
Pause.
What’s the time?
MOTHER. Half past eight.
FATHER. Ah! The time’s nipping along nicely. (Pause.) Nothing narrows the mind so much as foreign travel. Stay at home. That’s the way to see the world.
ELIZABETH. I don’t know that’s true.
FATHER. Of course it’s true! And I’ll tell you something else, Elizabeth. Just between the two of us. There’s a lot of sorry stuff in D. H. Lawrence.
ELIZABETH. I don’t know about that either.
FATHER. Oh yes there is. And a lot of damned dull stuff in old Proust. (Pause.) Did you hear that, Elizabeth? Lot of damned dull stuff in old Proust.
ELIZABETH. Yes. I heard.
FATHER. I’ll say one thing for you … At least you’re an improvement on the ones he used to bring home. Girls that would closet themselves in the bathroom for hours on end. And nothing to show for it … None of them lasted long.
ELIZABETH. I wonder why?
FATHER. Yes. I wonder. At least my son’s someone to talk to. Most people get damned dull children.
The SON fills his glass. The FATHER puts his hand out, feels the SON’s hand.
Is that you?
SON. Yes.
FATHER. Your play came across quite well they told me.
SON. Yes.
Pause.
MOTHER. Won’t you have one of my little tarts?
Pause.
FATHER. I see that other fellow’s play got very good notices. You want to watch out he doesn’t put your nose out of joint.
Pause.
I haven’t been sleeping lately.
Pause.
And sometimes when I can’t sleep, you know, I like to make a list of all the things I really hate.
MOTHER. Do have one of my little tarts, Elizabeth.
ELIZABETH. Is it a long list?
FATHER. Not very. Soft eggs. Cold plates. Waiting for things. Parsons.
SON. Parsons?
FATHER. Yes. Parsons. On the wireless. If those fellows bore God as much as they bore me, I’m sorry for Him …
ELIZABETH. My father’s a parson.
FATHER. I know. (Pause.) ‘Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.’
Pause. He smacks at the air with his hand.
Is that a wasp?
MOTHER. Yes, dear.
FATHER. What’s it doing?
MOTHER. It’s going away.
FATHER. After you’ve been troubled by a wasp, don’t you love a fly?
Pause.
Don’t the evenings seem terribly long now you’re married? Aren’t you finding it tremendously tedious? What do you do – have wireless?
ELIZABETH. We don’t get bored, exactly.
SON. We can always quarrel.
FATHER. I was surprised to hear about that play of yours.
SON. Were you?
FATHER. When you told us the story of that play, I said, ‘Ha. Ha. This is a bit thin. This is rather poor fooling.’ Didn’t I say that?
MOTHER. Yes, dear.
FATHER. ‘This is likely to come very tardy off.’ But now it appears to have come across quite well. Didn’t that surprise you, Elizabeth?
ELIZABETH. Well …
SON. She doesn’t like it.
FATHER. What?
SON. Elizabeth doesn’t like it very much.
FATHER (interested). Really? That’s interesting. Now tell me why …
Pause.
ELIZABETH. Not serious.
FATHER. You don’t think so? You think he’s not serious.
ELIZABETH. He plays games. He makes jokes. When the time comes to say anything serious it’s as if …
SON. Oh for heaven’s sake!
FATHER. Go on.
ELIZABETH. There was something stopping him. All the time …
FATHER. Is that true? I wonder why that is …
ELIZABETH. I should think you’d know.
FATHER. Why?
ELIZABETH. Because you’ve never really said anything serious to him, have you? No one here ever says anything … They make jokes … and tell stories … and … something’s happening!
SON. Elizabeth. It doesn’t always have to be said.
ELIZABETH. Sometimes. Sometimes it has to.
FATHER. All right. What would you like to hear me say? What words … of wisdom?
Silence. They look at him. No one says anything. Very softly he starts to sing.
FATHER (sings).
‘She was as beeootiful
As a butterfly
And proud as a queen
Was pretty little Polly Perkins
Of Paddington Green …’
The SON gets up from the table and moves forward towards the audience. Light fades on the upstage area, where the FATHER, MOTHER and ELIZABETH go.
SON (to the audience). He had no message. I think he had no belief. He was the advocate who can take the side that comes to him first and always discover words to anger his opponent. He was the challenger who flung his glove down in the darkness and waited for an argument. And when the children came to see him he told them no more, and no less, than he’d told to me …
THREE CHILDREN run in. Two boys and a girl, dressed in jeans and sweaters. They take packets of mints out of the FATHER’S waistcoat pocket, pull out his gold watch, blow on it and he makes it open miraculously for them.
FATHER. Who’s this?
GIRL. Daniel …
FATHER. Oh really. And you’re …
FIRST BOY. I’m Jennifer …
GIRL. I’m Daniel. Honestly.
SECOND BOY. She’s a liar.
FATHER. Oh come now. If she says she’s Daniel – shouldn’t we take her word for it?
FIRST BOY. Tell us some more …
FATHER. What about?
SECOND BOY. The Macbeths …
GIRL (with relish). The Macbeths!
They sit down, look up at him. The FATHER starts to tell the story. The SON, downstage, looks on.
FATHER. Dunsinane! What a dreadful place to stay … for the weekend. Draughts. No hot water. No wireless! The alarm bell going off in the night just when you least expected it. And finally … The dinner party!
CHILDREN. Go on! Tell us! Tell us about the dinner party! (Etc.)
FATHER. A most embarrassing affair. Dinner with the Macbeths. And everyone’s sitting down … quite comfortable. And his wife says, ‘Come and sit down, dear. The soup’s getting cold …’ And he turns to his chair and sees … (He points with a trembling, t
errible finger.) Someone … Something, horrible! Banquo … (His voice sinks to a terrifying whisper.)
‘The time has been
That, when the brains were out the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools …’
He grabs the GIRL by the arm. The CHILDREN are roaring with laughter.
SON. I used to scream when he did that to me.
The CHILDREN become quiet again. The FATHER is talking to them, telling them stories. They are listening.
(To the audience.) His mind was full of the books he read as a boy, lying in the hot fields in his prickly Norfolk Jacket. He told them about foggy afternoons in Baker Street and sabres at dawn at Spandau Castle, and Umslopagas and Allan Quatermain and She Who Must Be Obeyed. He spoke to them of the absurdities of his life …
FATHER. My old father was a great one for doing unwelcome acts of kindness! Recall his rash conduct in the affair of my Uncle George’s dog …
During this story, which the CHILDREN know by heart, they prompt him.
FIRST BOY. It’s the dog … !
SECOND BOY. Go on about the dog.
GIRL. Uncle George’s dog …
FATHER. My poor Uncle George fell on evil days … and had to sell his faithful pointer. And my father, thinking he was heartbroken, went furtively about … to buy the animal back. It was a most …
GIRL. Lugubrious hound?
FATHER. With a long powerful rudder! It seldom or never smiled. It was not so much dangerous as …
FIRST BOY. Depressing?
FATHER. Depressing indeed! And as soon as he saw it, my Uncle George went off to Uxbridge where he had taken a post with good prospects and diggings at which animals were unfortunately not permitted … He shed no tears, to my old father’s surprise, at parting from his dumb friend who then took up residence with us. (He starts to laugh.) A most …
A Voyage Round My Father Page 8
