WILLIAMS. It is over the top and no perishing mistake. You coming, sir?
OSCAR. I suppose so. (Stopping.) Oh, before I enter the fray – it is still Mr Wright, is it, Williams?
WILLIAMS. That’s right, sit. Mark Wright, 12 Wilbraham Terrace, and the Savage Club. That’s what’s on the cards.
OSCAR. Good Lord. Mr Wright has cards now, has he?
WILLIAMS. Oh yes, sit. Everything quite comme il fait –
The bedroom door is kicked open and NORA emerges, without shoes and fiddling with the buttons of her dress. She turns her back to OSCAR who is standing nearer the bedroom door than WILLIAMS, when she speaks.
NORA. Do me up, darling, would you? I can’t reach –
OSCAR. Oh, yes. Delighted. (Fiddles with the buttons.)
NORA (to WILLIAMS). Better make some black coffee for Miss Fairweather, Williams.
WILLIAMS. Miss Fairweather, miss?
NORA. The pass-out case on my bed. (To OSCAR.) It’s too shaming, you know, poor Bubbles – I forgot she could only drink vodka. Gin always flies straight to her head.
OSCAR (still fiddling with the buttons). Indeed? And where does the vodka usually fly to?
NORA. You’d be surprised. Or would you?
He fixes her dress.
Thank you, darling, you’re an angel.
She goes back into the bedroom.
OSCAR. Tiens, tiens.
WILLIAMS. Exactly, sir.
OSCAR. Tell me, Williams, what happened to that nice Miss – what was her name?
WILLIAMS. Miss Sprigg? Same as usual, sir – got too interested – wanted to see him too often. You know the form.
OSCAR. I know the form.
WILLIAMS. She’s got a hat shop now – calls herself Dahlia. His Lordship bought it for her, of course. Doing well with it, too. Quite friends they are still – but – well – you know – friends are one thing, and the other thing’s the other thing, isn’t it?
OSCAR. I have based my life on that belief, Williams.
MARK comes in. He has hardly changed, except for a very slight greying of the hair.
MARK. Williams – what are you doing gossiping up here? You’re needed downstairs. Hullo, Oscar.
OSCAR. Hullo, Mark.
WILLIAMS. Sorry, my lord. I was just getting some black coffee for a Miss Fairweather.
MARK. A Miss who?
WILLIAMS. Guest that’s been taken queer – in there –
MARK. Oh – and Williams, there’s a man down there with grey hair and a red face and a moustache. Colonel somebody or other. He’s been shouting, ‘Hullo Binfield’, across the room at me. Get him out, somehow. Spill a shaker on him, or something –
WILLIAMS. I’ll try, my lord.
MARK. And Williams – did you call my home?
WILLIAMS. Yes, my lord. Her Ladyship said you were to ring her most particular. Something very urgent, she said.
MARK. Where exactly am I supposed to be today?
WILLIAMS. Cheltenham, sir.
MARK. I see. What’s the procedure, Williams, for making a trunk call?
WILLIAMS. Well, my lord, I suggest you get Colonel Philipson to call the number, and say, ‘Cheltenham wants you,’ leave three seconds, make a click, and then speak yourself.
OSCAR. How do we make the three pips?
WILLIAMS. I think it would be better to keep it under the three minutes. The three pips are a bit risky. I tried it once but Her Ladyship said there’s a silly woman on the line saying ‘peep’.
WILLIAMS goes.
MARK. Well, Oscar. How was Egypt?
OSCAR. Hot.
MARK. Are you back for good?
OSCAR. No. Only a month – damn it.
MARK. I don’t know why you don’t give it up. There’s no future in soldiering. We diplomats are going to see to it there’s not going to be another war.
OSCAR. My dear chap, you don’t give up the Brigade of Guards. You talk as if I were in the Army or something.
MARK. My God, you have grown a paunch, haven’t you?
OSCAR. It isn’t a paunch. I can pull it in. Look. (Does so.)
MARK. Then it comes out there.
He points, with some truth, to OSCAR’s overexpanded chest. Then he walks over to OSCAR and extends his own rather impressively straight stomach.
Feel that.
OSCAR (does so). Oh, well, of course, if you wear a corset –
MARK. A support – which has nothing whatever in common with a corset – is a healthy and sensible garment for a man who has reached the age of – thirty-five.
OSCAR. The age of what?
MARK. Thirty-five I said, and thirty-five I meant.
OSCAR. My poor dear old Mark, you can never hope to get away with that. But damn it, if you’re thirty-five, I’m thirty-eight. Well, I’m only three years older than you.
MARK. Four.
OSCAR. Three. It’s March now. Now even I have never tried to get away with less than forty-two.
MARK. Yes. I think that’s very wise of you. (Into telephone.) Hullo, I want Sloane 7838 please. (To OSCAR.) Now if that’s plainly understood, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to give your famous imitation of Cheltenham on the telephone.
OSCAR reluctantly goes to the telephone.
OSCAR. You thirty-five – with a hulking great son on the verge of being a diplomat.
MARK. He’s not hulking and he’s got a good four years to go yet before he’s a diplomat. That’s to say if he gets in.
OSCAR (indicating telephone). Engaged.
MARK. Damn it. Who on earth is she talking to?
OSCAR. Why shouldn’t Denis get in? He’s got brains, that boy. You mustn’t underestimate my godson.
MARK. He’s a damn little slacker. He’s been at this place in Tours for three months and he can’t even write a line of a letter in reasonably correct French. Keeps complaining that the daughter of the house has fallen in love with him.
OSCAR. I don’t understand what he has to complain about in that.
MARK. I’m sure you don’t. But Denis, I am happy to tell you, has inherited his father’s romantic nature.
OSCAR. Don’t say he’s acquired a Sylvia too, since I’ve been away.
MARK. A rather deplorable one, I’m afraid. Ursula Culpepper.
OSCAR. Ursula Culpepper? Oh, my God!
MARK. You know her? Off the stage, I mean –
OSCAR. It’s hard not to know her, isn’t it? His Uncle Oscar will have to have a very severe word with him. Oh dear, oh dear! What do these children see in her?
MARK. Glamour, I suppose. She uses a lot of words very loudly that they’ve only previously read chalked on walls.
OSCAR. An unsuitable Sylvia – I grant you.
MARK. Exactly. I’ve put my foot down pretty hard, I may say I had to, of course. He won’t see her again.
OSCAR. Good. Oh, by the way, Mark – congratulations on your new appointment.
MARK. Thanks. How did you hear?
OSCAR. It was in The Londoner’s Diary. Didn’t you read it?
MARK. No. What did it say?
OSCAR. Oh, something about Lord Binfield being our new Minister in La Paz.
MARK. Oh. Nothing else?
OSCAR. No. I don’t think there was anything else.
MARK (nastily). Oh, wasn’t there? Well, then, perhaps this will refresh your memory. (Takes a newspaper cutting from his pocket. Reading.) ‘The Earl of Binfield, a well-known and popular figure in Brussels, where he has been our Counsellor of Embassy since 1926 – ’
OSCAR. You said you hadn’t read it –
MARK. Well, I have! ‘… is today to be congratulated on a new appointment fitting to his brilliant attainments.’
OSCAR (sulkily). All right, all right, I remember.
MARK. How does it go on?
OSCAR. Oh, something about your being thin –
MARK (reading). ‘Slim. Slim, handsome, and witty, Lord Binfield, who inherited the title from his father in 1923 – ’
&nbs
p; OSCAR. Yes, yes. I’ll try that number again. (Goes to the telephone.) Get me Sloane 7838 please. (To MARK.) Friend of yours, this Londoner fellow, I presume?
MARK. Never met the man in my life. (Puts the cutting away.)
OSCAR. They said something like that about me once.
MARK. What did they say?
OSCAR. Oh – something about being one of the best-looking officers in the Brigade of Guards – you know – something rather embarrassing like that. (Hastily, into telephone.) Oh, is that – I mean are you – er – (Prompted by MARK.) Sloane 7838… You are. Splendid. Br – er – Cheltenham – that’s it – Cheltenham wants you… hold on.
MARK, after glaring at OSCAR, takes the telephone.
(Whispering frantically.) Click! Click!
MARK (whispering back). Click off. (After a pause, into telephone.) Hullo? Hullo, darling… Can you hear me all right?… Yes, I can hear you. They tell me you were trying to get hold of me. Oh, my God… is he there? Well, where is he?… Well, why did you let him?… Game of squash, I don’t think. More likely drinking in a Bloomsbury bar, with Ursula Culpepper and her crowd of degenerates.
OSCAR. Denis?
MARK (to OSCAR). Yes. (Into telephone.) Is he deigning to come back to dinner?… You don’t think so. That’s charming… Sorry for him? Well, I can assure you you’re going to be a good deal sorrier for him when I get through with him… Well, what do you expect me to do? Pat him on the back and say, ‘Well done, little man. Ruin your career. I’m proud of you’? Well, it’s going to be difficult for me, but I shall come up first thing tomorrow morning – even if it’s – only for a few hours – No. I can’t tonight… No. Utterly impossible. You can tell him from me he’s not going to enjoy the interview, and he’d better buy his ticket back to Tours first thing in the morning… Goodbye… ‘Victorian’? Really, what a ridiculous – Hullo, hullo.
He takes the telephone from his ear and replaces it slowly. The sound of the party is heard.
Victorian. Me?
OSCAR. At thirty-five.
MARK. Shut up. (Morosely.) The damn little fool!
OSCAR. Done a bunk?
MARK. Doesn’t like it over there. Decided he’s going to be an actor.
OSCAR. Oh. Can he act?
MARK. No, of course not.
OSCAR. How do you know?
MARK. I’ve seen him.
OSCAR. What as?
MARK. Shylock.
OSCAR. What was he like?
MARK. Unspeakable.
OSCAR. Well, perhaps he wasn’t very well cast.
MARK (aggressively). Are you taking his side against me too?
OSCAR (hastily). No, no. It’s just that – well, after all, there are always two sides to every question, aren’t there?
MARK. Who the hell says so?
OSCAR (pacifically). No one says so, old chap. It’s just that it’s a sort of – generally accepted theory –
MARK. Well, it’s a damn silly theory. My God, the way they allow these boys to act in these plays at school is a positive scandal. Filling their heads with all sorts of dangerous subversive ideas –
OSCAR (reminiscently). Come to think of it, I was rather good as Lady Macbeth.
MARK (viciously). You were ghastly as Lady Macbeth. You were absolutely excruciating as Lady Macbeth.
OSCAR (with dignity). The Etonian said I took my part with spirit and courage –
MARK. The Etonian must have been out of its mind.
The door opens and NORA emerges, dressed very daringly for the party. The strains of ‘Dance Little Lady’ can be heard from downstairs.
NORA. Oh, hullo, darlings.
MARK. Oh, hullo, darling. I don’t think you’ve met Oscar Philipson, have you? He’s one of my very oldest and dearest friends –
NORA. No. How do you do?
OSCAR. As a matter of fact, we met a moment ago.
NORA. Did we?
OSCAR. I was the one who did you up – do you remember?
NORA. Oh, my God, yes. A skilful and practised hand, I thought, too –
OSCAR. Oh, did you? That’s very good of you.
NORA. Darling, it’s too wonderful to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you from Mark.
OSCAR. Oh, you mustn’t believe all that Mark says, you know.
NORA. My God, no. You’re so right. I mean, from what he said, I thought you’d be quite old and staid and ordinary and, my God, look at you, a positive dreamboat, my dear –
OSCAR (delighted). A ‘dreamboat’? Oh, do you really think so –
NORA. An absolute gondola, my dear. But what, I’m here to ask, are we all doing up here? I mean, isn’t there a party on somewhere, or isn’t there?
MARK. Oh, yes. It’s still there, I think.
NORA. My God, without a host or hostess? It’s too shaming for words. Why have you deserted your post, you wicked man?
MARK. Only under fire, my dear. There’s a terrible man down there I’ve taken an acute dislike to –
NORA. Oh, my dear, I’m sure there are a hundred terrible men down there I’m going to take a positive, burning hatred to, but really that couldn’t be less here or there, now, could it? Or could it? My darlings, let’s fly to our deadly social duties this instant –
MARK. No, I’m not going down again until that Colonel’s gone. Oscar, run down, would you, and see if he’s still there?
OSCAR. Well, what does he look like?
MARK. Red-faced, grey hair, grey moustache, loud voice. You can’t mistake him. He’s the only one there even remotely the type.
OSCAR (at the door). But – dash it all – I won’t know anyone down there.
MARK. Yah! Windy!
OSCAR (considering him). Witty. Slim, handsome, and witty. The Londoner!
He makes a face and departs.
NORA. What did he mean?
MARK. Some obscure joke. (Kisses her.) How are you? I haven’t seen you for nearly three whole days.
NORA. Darling – devastated with mad expectancy for this wonderful weekend. (Showing her dress.) You haven’t said yet?
MARK. Oh, is that the new get-up?
She shows it off by walking up and down.
Oh yes. It’s exquisite.
NORA. Quite an exquisite price too, darling. Does that matter?
He looks at her, smiling.
Or does it?
MARK (embracing her). It doesn’t.
NORA. Mr Wright, I adore you. (Holds his hands.) Darling, you really must be madly rich –
MARK. Not madly rich.
NORA. But where do you get it all from, darling? Surely not out of sculpting?
MARK. Oh, well. There’s the other work, too, you know.
NORA. The Secret Service? But they pay you nothing in that – my dear – a positive pittance – I know. Look at Flossie Philips.
MARK. Flossie Philips?
NORA. Darling, you must know Flossie. She’s terribly important in your little affair. X101 or some such madly gay number, and she has trouble even to get her bus fares paid. So where, I’d like to know, darling, does all this gorgeous money, which I frankly dote on, come from?
MARK. Does it matter?
NORA. No. Not awfully. Madly mysterious you are, aren’t you? But I’ll find out, don’t worry. Darling, what’s all this lunacy about going to La Paz or somewhere?
MARK. Well, it’s true, I’m afraid.
NORA. But why La Paz, for God’s sake?
MARK. We’re not allowed to choose where we’re sent.
NORA. But, darling, La Paz! My God, it’s the other end of the earth. Now Brussels wasn’t so bad – you could get over for weekends. But La Paz. You can’t go to La Paz.
MARK (tenderly). Can’t I?
NORA. No. Tell them you won’t go. My God, there’s far more Secret Service to be done in London than in La Paz. Tell them to keep you in London.
MARK. I’ve told them. They won’t.
NORA. Then tell them to go to hell.
MARK. I’ve
thought of that too.
NORA. Have you? On the level?
MARK. On the level.
NORA. Are you going to?
MARK. I don’t know. It’s a very big decision.
NORA. Can I help you to make it?
MARK. Yes.
NORA. How?
MARK. By looking at me as you are now.
NORA. Like Sylvia, you mean?
MARK. No. Not like Sylvia. Like Nora.
Pause.
NORA. You realise I must go down to my party, don’t you?
MARK. Yes. But I also realise that later tonight you’re going to look at me in the same way as you’re doing now.
After a pause he turns her to the door.
NORA (at the door). Darling – I’ve got a wonderful idea. Why on earth didn’t I think of it before –
MARK. What?
NORA. I’ll get Flossie Philips to fix it.
MARK (vehemently). No, don’t, for heaven’s sake!
NORA. But, darling, one word from Flossie and you’re in London for years –
MARK. Darling, one word from Flossie and I’m in Queer Street for life. No, Nora. Thank you very much, but we’re really not supposed to talk about these things, and I can get into very serious trouble if you mention it. Be an angel. Not a word.
NORA. On one condition.
MARK. What?
NORA. You know.
Pause.
MARK. Then give me a truthful answer to a sincere question.
NORA. Right.
MARK. If I did that, would you stay with me for life?
Pause.
NORA. Yes.
MARK. Thank you. See you in a minute.
NORA opens the door and lets in the sound of the party.
NORA (listening). My God, it sounds as dead as a doorknob. I’d better get Babs to do her fan dance – if she’s still vertical. Don’t be long, darling.
She disappears. Almost simultaneously, BUBBLES, tousled and shoeless, appears in the bedroom door, staring at MARK through half-closed eyes.
BUBBLES. Has Ponsonby brought the vodka yet?
MARK (politely). Who is Ponsonby? And what vodka is he bringing?
BUBBLES. My good man – I am not here to bandy words with a complete stranger –
MARK. What are you here for?
BUBBLES. I’ve no idea. (Disappears into the bedroom again and closes the door.)
OSCAR darts in through the hall door.
OSCAR (in alarm). My God, Mark – you know that Colonel of yours?
MARK. Yes?
Who is Sylvia? and Duologue Page 10
