DAPHNE (light dawning). Oh. Oh, I see. (Indicating OSCAR.) He’s in the same line, is he?
MARK. Much the same line.
OSCAR. What line?
DAPHNE. That’s all right, Captain Philipson, Mark hasn’t given anything away – I assure you.
OSCAR. Oh. I’m glad to hear it.
DAPHNE. Come on, then, Mrs er – come on. Let’s see the garden.
The two girls go to the bedroom door.
ETHEL. After you.
DAPHNE hesitates politely.
No, I positively insist.
DAPHNE goes out, followed by ETHEL. OSCAR, after a glance at MARK, runs out after them.
OSCAR (off). Ethel. Just a word in your ear –
After a moment he reappears.
I thought I’d better inform Ethel of the change in tenancy. Now, before we go any further just exactly what line are you and I supposed to be in together?
MARK. The Secret Service.
OSCAR. I thought you were a sculptor.
MARK. I’m both.
OSCAR. Well, well. You’ve been cutting quite a dash, haven’t you? You’re not a famous matinee idol by any chance, or the open golf champion, or the English Nijinsky?
MARK. No. You know it all. What do you think of her?
OSCAR. Very charming. Of course she’s Sylvia again. (Indicates the bronze head.)
MARK. Yes. Extraordinary how like, isn’t it?
OSCAR. It’s mad how you go stampeding through life always looking for that same face. You’re not in love with her, are you?
MARK. My dear Oscar, I think she’s enchanting, but only as a romantic pastime, not a serious undertaking.
OSCAR. I’m always terrified of the disaster that looms ahead for a character like you who refuses to come out of the emotional nursery. Still in love with the girl he met at seventeen. You know what you are, Mark, don’t you? You’re an emotional Peter Pan.
MARK. Well, what’s wrong with that? I prefer to keep my emotions adolescent. They’re far more enjoyable than adult ones.
OSCAR. So now after all this time as a faithful husband you’ve suddenly decided to become an amorist have you? An amorist, you!
MARK. Well, why not?
OSCAR. You haven’t the talent, my dear fellow. Go back to being a faithful husband I implore you and leave this difficult and dangerous pastime to us trained bachelors.
MARK. Dog in the manger.
OSCAR. I scorn that. We bachelors welcome competition from married men. We so much enjoy watching them come the inevitable cropper.
MARK. There won’t be any cropper, Oscar. You talk as if I were a libertine and a sensualist like yourself. I’m not. I’m a romantic, and I intend in future to give full vent to my romanticism.
OSCAR. How far has this Prentice thing gone?
MARK. No distance at all, thanks to Mum being in one of her moods –
OSCAR. Mum trouble, eh? That’s bad. I’d rather Dad trouble, any day. But Mum trouble – that’s very bad.
MARK. Mum is no obstacle, I shall square Mum.
OSCAR. You will square Mum? Pardon me while I snigger. Don’t you realise, you poor tyro, that the process of squaring Mum is one of the most difficult, intricate, and dangerous operations in the whole field of amorism? And how, may I ask, do you propose to set about squaring Mum?
MARK. I haven’t thought yet.
OSCAR. Oh, well. I suppose if you are really set on this perilous course, I shall have to give you a little tuition. What’s the girl’s telephone number?
MARK. I’ve no idea.
OSCAR. You’ve no idea. How typical!
There is the noise of a stone at the window.
My God! What’s that?
MARK. Sidney. That’s his usual way of announcing himself.
OSCAR. How old is Sidney?
MARK. About fifteen from the look of him. (At window.) That you, Sidney?
SIDNEY (off). Hi!
MARK. Yes, I thought so. Here, catch.
MARK throws down the keys to SIDNEY.
OSCAR. All right, you go and collect the girls and leave Sidney to me.
MARK. I beg your pardon.
OSCAR. I’ll square Sidney.
MARK. You’ll square Sidney?
OSCAR. What’s the matter, what sort of a little boy is he?
MARK. Oh, you’ll like him very much. He’s a very clever little boy, making lots of money in munitions and –
A door is heard slamming off.
My God, there he is!
MARK goes into the bedroom as SIDNEY enters.
OSCAR. Hullo, my little man. Got the taxi?
SIDNEY. I’ve been ringing half a bleedin’ hour. Don’t no one ever answer a bell in this ’ouse – all gone deaf or somethin’?
OSCAR. Quite a little wag, I see. Now, Sidney, how would you like to make half a crown, eh?
SIDNEY. What for?
OSCAR. To keep your nasty little trap shut.
SIDNEY. ’Oo are you?
OSCAR. Never mind who I am. What about it, Sidney?
SIDNEY (after a pause). Cost you five bob.
OSCAR. Three and six, not a penny more.
SIDNEY. Five bob.
OSCAR. All right. All right – five bob it is. War profiteer! Now go straight home and tell your Dad that you found the flat all right, but rang the bell and rang and rang and nobody came to the door. Don’t tell him any more than that and you’ll be telling the truth, won’t you, Sidney – which will make quite a nice change for you. Now, have you understood that?
SIDNEY. Where’s my five bob?
OSCAR. There you are.
SIDNEY. Thanks. Tootaloo! (Goes out.)
OSCAR (shouting after him). And may the cigarettes you buy with it give you nicotine poisoning.
OSCAR crosses to window.
Hullo – cabby!
MARK and the two girls have come in.
ETHEL. And from that moment she was never the same again.
OSCAR (to cab driver). Would you wait a moment. We’re just coming out.
MARK. Oh, wasn’t she?
ETHEL. Never the same again.
OSCAR. Oh, Miss Prentice, did Mark tell you? He had an idea that we might all four go out together to the Savoy – and do a little dancing –
DAPHNE. Oh dear, I can’t I’m afraid. You see, my family’s expecting me back any minute.
OSCAR. Now, let’s cope with the family trouble. What’s your telephone number, Miss Prentice?
DAPHNE. You can get us on Bayswater 4302, that’s the newsagents downstairs.
OSCAR. Thank you. (Into telephone.) Hullo… Bayswater 4302, please.
DAPHNE (to MARK, alarmed). Oh dear – do you think he should? I don’t want to get into hot water.
MARK. I shouldn’t worry too much. He’s very experienced in these things, you know.
OSCAR. I may have to tell your mother a few half-truths, Miss Prentice. I hope you won’t mind –
DAPHNE. Oh dear –
OSCAR (into telephone). Hullo… Oh, could I speak to Mrs Prentice, please? Yes, I’ll wait.
DAPHNE. And anyway I couldn’t go to the Savoy in a day dress, could I?
OSCAR. The dress problem I think we can cope with. Ethel has a large wardrobe, haven’t you, Ethel?
ETHEL. It could be larger.
OSCAR. Yes. And I have no doubt it will be before my leave’s much older. (Into telephone.) Is that Mrs Prentice? This is Brigadier-General Mason speaking. We’ve never met, I’m afraid, but a friend of mine called Mark Wright – you know – the sculptor – has brought your daughter round to my flat to a little informal party I’m giving here… Oh no, really? Oh dear… Well, then I’m afraid he’s probably been ringing Wright’s doorbell and hasn’t been able to get a reply. It’s just as well I called then, isn’t it? (Laughs easily.) Poor little Sidney! I’m so sorry… Oh no. Surely not, Mrs Prentice? Not this minute? She’s so enjoying herself. Oscar Philipson is just going to sing… Oscar Philipson, the baritone… Yes. And I’m p
articularly anxious for her to meet a fellow who’s coming in later – you may have heard of him – Lord St Neots. He’s in the Foreign Office.
MARK starts violently. DAPHNE giggles.
I think it might be useful to your daughter to meet him… Oh, that is kind of you, Mrs Prentice. Just an hour or so… Yes… Would you like to speak to your daughter?… Here she is.
DAPHNE, fluttering, takes the telephone from him.
DAPHNE (into telephone). Hullo, Mum… Yes. It’s lovely here… Oh, he’s ever so nice… The Brigadier-General? Oh, yes, he’s ever so nice, too… Yes, Mum, and there’s ever such a nice lady I’ve been talking to called – er – Mrs Winnington-Piggott, I think. We’ve become great chums… Yes, Mum. All right… cheerio, chin-chin. Nighty-night. (She rings off and heaves a sign of relief. To OSCAR.) Well, really, Captain – you were wonderful. You really were – I’ve never known Mum sound so good tempered –
OSCAR (carelessly). Oh, it was nothing really. Nothing at all.
He meets MARK’s eyes, which are fixed rather crossly on him, and bows slightly.
DAPHNE. However did you think of that silly name – Lord – what was it?
OSCAR. St Neots. I don’t know. It just sprang to my lips somehow. Well, go on, girls. Jump in the taxi, get dressed up at Ethel’s place, and meet us at the Savoy in half an hour –
DAPHNE. Ooh, lovely, lovely, lovely! What a thrill! Come on, Ethel.
She collects her things and dashes to the door. ETHEL follows more impassively.
ETHEL. What’s your style, dear?
DAPHNE. Well, I don’t really know, dear. It’s more a question of size than of style. But I should think something simple – what have you got?
ETHEL. I’m afraid I may find it rather difficult to lay my hands on anything very simple – but let me see, now, I have got a flame-coloured spangled satin, with a rather virginal line to the neck –
Their voices fade as the front door bangs.
MARK (explosively). It was all nonsense what you said about my being emotionally adolescent. After seven years of married life all sorts of mysterious forces and pressures go rumbling around inside one. At any moment there might have been a catastrophic explosion. But now I’ve found the safety valve. A double life. It’s a wonderful idea, Oscar, you know, wonderful. I wonder why more people haven’t thought of it.
OSCAR. Quite a few people have. You obviously don’t read the right Sunday papers.
MARK. Tell me, Oscar, how much are you paying for this flat?
OSCAR. Two-fifty a year.
MARK. Would you take five hundred furnished?
OSCAR. Certainly not.
MARK. Seven-fifty then.
OSCAR. No, don’t go any higher. I’d have to accept.
MARK. Eight hundred.
OSCAR. It’s fatal, you know, Mark. It’ll end in the most terrible sordid tragedy. I can see the headlines now – ‘Viscount’s love nest raided. Incredible disclosures’. Think of your poor wife, and young Denis, Mark. Do you want Williams?
MARK. Yes.
OSCAR. That’ll be another two hundred.
MARK. Done.
OSCAR. Oh dear, oh dear! My poverty but not my will consents. Merchant of Venice.
MARK. Romeo and Juliet. Of course you can stay here whenever you want.
OSCAR. Seriously, Mark, and at the risk of being a bore – it’ll never work. You really can’t hope to have the best of your two worlds. They’ll collide and blow each other up. Mark Wright blown up would be a good thing, but I’m not keen – on seeing Mark St Neots in little pieces.
MARK. There’s no reason why they should ever conflict. I intend to keep my two worlds rigidly separate.
OSCAR. You can’t, you can’t. Nature will take her revenge – you mark my words.
MARK. Stop talking like a character out of Thomas Hardy. What was that?
He gets up and suddenly stops on his way to the door. We now hear it too. Whistles are being distantly blown, and there is the distant sound of shouting. Suddenly a voice shouts clearly in the street outside: ‘Take cover! Take cover!’
OSCAR. Zeppelins!
MARK. Oh, my God! Of all things to happen now. Denis’s prayers have been answered.
OSCAR. What are you burbling about?
MARK. Look, Oscar, I’ll join you at the Savoy later. I’ve got – to go home first.
OSCAR. Why, for heaven’s sake?
MARK. I can’t explain now, but Denis needs protection.
OSCAR. From the bombs, do you mean?
MARK. No. From his old imbecile of a grandfather. He’ll give the poor boy hell – I must run. Just in case I get caught at home, and can’t get away, explain to Daphne, will you? Tell her I’ll telephone her tomorrow –
He is half out of the door when he notices OSCAR is laughing.
What are you laughing at?
OSCAR. Your two worlds. Rigidly separate!
MARK (furiously). This, let me tell you, is only an isolated incident – a purely fortuitous circumstance. It proves nothing – absolutely nothing.
OSCAR continues laughing.
Damn you, Oscar.
MARK dashes out.
Curtain.
ACT TWO
The same. Before the curtain rises, a small jazz band can be heard playing a tune of the period (‘Makin’ Whoopee’). The curtain rises and the band can now be determined as coming from the party in progress downstairs. The sound of voices joins the music from the band.
The year is now 1929 and the time is about 6:30 of an afternoon in late spring.
The room has undergone some changes since 1917. New curtains and covers show a feminine influence (of the jazz school) and a rearrangement of the furniture has entirely removed the rather austerely celibate air that the room once had.
At the rise of the curtain, WILLIAMS, older by thirteen years, but dressed, as ever, in a neat blue serge suit – with a white jacket – is at the telephone. He is humming ‘Makin’ Whoopee’.
WILLIAMS. Sloane 7838?… This is the Foreign Office. Could I speak to Lady Binfield, please… Oh, that is Lady Binfield speaking? Foreign Office here… I’m just ringing…
The door opens and a girl (BUBBLES)in a very short skirt and a very boyish bob appears.
BUBBLES (vaguely to WILLIAMS). Hullo?
WILLIAMS (sharply). Don’t come in here, miss. The party’s downstairs in the studio and shut the door, please! (Holds his band over the mouthpiece.)
BUBBLES. Caveman!
She disappears, closing the door behind her, dispelling some of the noise.
WILLIAMS (into telephone). Lady Binfield?… I’m so very sorry. It was a dispatch coming in… I’m speaking for Lord Binfield. He hadn’t time to call you himself. He’s had to go very suddenly to Cheltenham on urgent business… Cheltenham… Two or three days, I believe… Well, of course, I wouldn’t know that, being only a clerk, but I expect it’ll be something to do with the Disarmament Conference… Yes, Lady Binfield… No, I’m afraid I can’t give you his number. It’s confidential… Well, of course, I might be able to get a message to him if it’s urgent… It is… Very well, I’ll see what I can do… to ring you immediately. I see. Thank you, Lady Binfield. Goodbye.
BUBBLES reappears at the double doors.
BUBBLES. Hullo! My dear, haven’t we met some place before?
WILLIAMS. I told you, miss, the party’s downstairs in the studio.
BUBBLES. I know, I just came from there. Blissful, my dear, utterly blissful, but, my dear, no vodka.
WILLIAMS. All right, miss, if you’ll go back I’ll slip out and buy you a bottle, but guests aren’t really supposed to come up here.
BUBBLES (hugging him). You’re a gorgeous beast – (Kisses him.) and I love you in that off-white affair. What’s in there? (Pointing at bedroom door.) Instinct tells me a bed.
WILLIAMS. Miss Patterson’s in there dressing, miss. If I might suggest –
BUBBLES. Goody. Goody. (Flings open the bedroom door.) Nora, angel dear, y
ou’re giving a simply thrill-some party. Why aren’t you at it?
NORA (off). Go away, Bubbles, I’m in a draught.
BUBBLES. Darling, may I use your delicious bed for just a sec? Baby has a tiny migraine and she feels she’d be better on her back.
NORA. Isn’t that the way Baby usually feels? All right, come in.
BUBBLES. Angel! (To WILLIAMS.) Well, goodbye, darling. It’s been simply divine meeting you.
She goes into the bedroom. WILLIAMS, with a disapproving sigh, goes to the sideboard to pick up a tray. OSCAR comes in. In civilian clothes he looks extremely elegant, but has put on a little weight round the girth.
OSCAR (extending his hand). Hullo, Williams.
WILLIAMS. Hello, Colonel.
OSCAR. Delighted to see you again.
WILLIAMS. How are you?
OSCAR. Oh, very fit, thank you. Very fit.
WILLIAMS. You’re looking very fit. You’ve put on a bit of weight, haven’t you?
OSCAR. No. (Pulls his stomach in instinctively.)
WILLIAMS. I thought, perhaps, just a little round here – (Indicates his stomach.)
OSCAR. Nonsense. An optical illusion. Back to the light. Most deceptive. (Puts his hat and stick on the table in the window.) Well, where’s the party?
WILLIAMS. You passed it, sir, on the way up. Didn’t you hear it?
OSCAR. That bedlam downstairs?
WILLIAMS. That’s right, sir, in the studio.
OSCAR. Studio?
WILLIAMS. His Lordship’s taken the flat downstairs and made it into a studio, sir.
OSCAR. Good Lord. What does he want a studio for?
WILLIAMS. To sculpt in, I think. Miss Patterson’s idea, of course. Very artistically minded, Miss Patterson. She’s got a job all right now, sir – walking on in that new play at the Strand –
OSCAR. Tell me, Williams, what’s she like?
WILLIAMS. Well, sir, I never was much of a one for the bright young people.
OSCAR. It rather depends how bright the young people are.
The sound of piano-playing mixes with the voices coming from the party.
WILLIAMS. I shouldn’t think they come much brighter than Miss Patterson. Take this party of hers. Well, sir, you’d hardly credit the way they carry on downstairs. Talk about the last days of Pompeii. That reminds me. I must get back or I’ll get stuck –
OSCAR. That’s it, Williams. Over the top.
Who is Sylvia? and Duologue Page 9
