Separate Tables

by Terence Rattigan

  MISS COOPER. Good evening, Mrs. Railton-Bell.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. Good evening, Miss Cooper.

  MISS COOPER. Good evening, Lady Matheson.

  LADY MATHESON. Good evening.

  MISS MEACHAM does not look up. MISS COOPER continues her journey towards ANNE’s table.

  MISS COOPER. Is everything all right, Mrs. Shankland?

  ANNE. Yes, thank you.

  MISS COOPER. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to show you your table. I had a telephone call from London. Are you being looked after all right?

  ANNE. Yes, thank you.

  MABEL has brought her dish and now places it before her.

  MISS COOPER (sharply). No soup?

  ANNE. No. I don’t care for it. It’s bad for the figure.

  MISS COOPER. I shouldn’t have thought you’d have to worry about that, Mrs. Shankland.

  ANNE. Oh, I do. I work at modelling, you know.

  MISS COOPER. And now you’re down here for a little rest?

  ANNE. Yes. That’s right.

  MISS COOPER. I hope you find your room quite comfortable.

  ANNE. I’m sure I shall.

  MISS COOPER. If there’s anything you want please don’t hesitate to ask me.

  ANNE. I won’t.

  MISS COOPER flashes her a cordial smile, extinguished instantly as she turns away. She glances at the empty table by the window, and summons MABEL with a gesture.

  MISS COOPER. Mabel, go to Mr. Malcolm’s room and tell him –

  MABEL. I’ve been. He’s not there.

  MISS COOPER. Oh. Have they kept something hot for him?

  MABEL. Yes, but cook says if he’s not in in five minutes he’ll have to have cold.

  MISS COOPER. Oh, well, I don’t expect he’ll be more than that.

  MABEL looks unconvinced. MISS COOPER goes towards the hall door. MR. FOWLER, rising from his table, intercepts her.

  MR. FOWLER. Did I hear you say something about a telephone call?

  MISS COOPER. I’m afraid it wasn’t from your guest, Mr. Fowler. It was from Major Pollock. He wanted to leave a new forwarding address.

  MRS RAILTON-BELL. Ringing up from London? That’s very extravagant – for the Major –

  MISS COOPER (with a faint smile). He was calling from a friend’s house, I gather. He’s coming back next Tuesday he says.

  MISS MEACHAM (through her book). Oh God! That old bore!

  MR. FOWLER. I can’t understand Philip not ringing up. How can he expect to be met at the station if we don’t know what train –

  MISS COOPER. Have you tried ringing him?

  MR. FOWLER. Yes. Twice. No answer either time. Perhaps I’d better try again –

  He goes through the change in his pocket.

  MISS COOPER. It’s a little late, Mr. Fowler. There’s only one train left from London –

  MR. FOWLER (on his way to the door). Please don’t worry about the room, Miss Cooper. If anything’s gone wrong – which I don’t believe, mind you – I’ll pay for it, I promise you.

  MISS COOPER. That won’t be necessary, Mr. Fowler. But I would rather like to know – if you don’t mind – as soon as possible –

  MR. FOWLER goes. MISS COOPER takes up the vase from his table.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL (sympathetically). It’s too bad, Miss Cooper. This is the third time, isn’t it?

  MISS COOPER. I expect he’ll turn up. Just forgotten to phone, that’s all. You know what these Bohemian young people are like.

  She goes out.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL (to LADY MATHESON). I don’t as it happens. I don’t care for Bohemians. (In her confidential whisper.) We have one too many here, I should have thought. (With her head she indicates the table by the window.) And I’m beginning to doubt the very existence of Mr. Fowler’s famous young painter friend.

  LADY MATHESON. I know he exists. Mr. Fowler showed me an article on him in Picture Post. He was the head boy of Mr. Fowler’s house at Tonbridge, I gather. So proud of him, Mr. Fowler is – it’s really quite touching to hear him go on –

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL, Well, I think it’s a disgrace that he keeps on letting him down like this –

  MISS MEACHAM suddenly closes her book.

  MISS MEACHAM. Nonsense.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL (startled). What, dear?

  MISS MEACHAM. It’s not a disgrace at all. Why should we old has-beens expect the young to show us consideration? We’ve had our life. They’ve still got theirs to live. Seeing us can only remind them of death, and old people’s diseases. I’ve got two of the prettiest nieces you ever saw. You’ve seen their photographs in my room. But they never come near me, and I wouldn’t like it if they did. God knows I don’t want to remind them of what they’ve got to become.

  She goes into the lounge, holding her book.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL (in her confidential whisper to LADY MATHESON). I’m getting a little worried about Miss Meacham.

  LADY MATHESON. She’s certainly getting more and more unusual, every day.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. These dream-games of hers. Well, I suppose they’re harmless – but I really don’t know what a psychiatrist would say. The human mind, you know – it’s a very delicate piece of machinery – as my husband used to say – and – one never knows. Well – (She rises majestically.) Shall I see you in the lounge, or have you a date with the Third Programme?

  LADY MATHESON. No. There’s nothing worth hearing on tonight.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. Good. A toute à l’heure, then.

  She sweeps regally into the lounge. LADY MATHESON is now on her sweet. ANNE has finished toying with her goulash. Deep silence reigns. MABEL comes in.

  MABEL (to ANNE). I’ve brought you the turnover. It’s better than the other.

  ANNE. Oh. Thank you so much.

  MABEL replaces her dishes and goes out. Once more silence reigns. The door is pushed open rather violently, and JOHN MALCOLM comes in. He is in the early forties, of rather rugged appearance, untidily dressed, and with unruly hair. When he speaks it will be with a slight north country accent. He looks quickly, at his watch, and then at the kitchen door. Then he walks towards the table by the window. To reach it he has to pass ANNE. She has seen him before he sees her, and is now staring at him remotely, with no change of expression. Conscious of the stare he looks in her direction and then stops dead, his back to the audience. After a moment he walks on to his own table and takes his seat, which is facing hers. He stares at the table-cloth. DOREEN comes in.

  DOREEN. Oh. You in at last? Thank heavens. I thought we’d never get off. Where you been? The Feathers?

  JOHN. Yes.

  DOREEN. Thought so. The goulash’s off. You’ll have to have medaillon.

  JOHN (still staring at the table-cloth). That’s all right.

  DOREEN. Brown windsor, like usual?

  JOHN. Yes.

  DOREEN goes. There is silence between the three. Finally LADY MATHESON finishes, gets up, and goes out into the lounge, as DOREEN comes in with JOHN’s soup.

  DOREEN. There you are. Tuck into that. Not but what I wouldn’t expect you’ve had enough liquid tonight already.

  She goes out. JOHN crumbles a piece of bread, and then slowly lifts his eyes from the table-cloth to gaze at the other guest.

  JOHN (at length). Is this coincidence?

  ANNE. Of course.

  JOHN. What are you doing here?

  ANNE. A rest-cure.

  JOHN. Why this place – of all places?

  ANNE. It was recommended to me.

  JOHN. Who by?

  ANNE. A man I met at a party somewhere.

  JOHN. He didn’t tell you I was here?

  ANNE. He did say something about a journalist – called John Malcolm. Is that you?

  JOHN. Yes.

  ANNE. John Malcolm. Oh yes, of course. Your Christian names.

  JOHN (savagely). Why, for the love of God, didn’t you go to the Royal Bath or the Norfolk or the Branksome Towers, or any of the grand hotels – why?

&nb
sp; He stops as DOREEN comes in.

  DOREEN. What you having after, ’cause cook’s got to leave it out? Turnover is best.

  JOHN. All right.

  DOREEN. Finished your soup?

  JOHN. Yes, thank you.

  DOREEN. You haven’t touched it. I said too much liquid –

  She takes the soup into the kitchen.

  ANNE. I couldn’t afford a grand hotel.

  JOHN. He pays you alimony, doesn’t he?

  ANNE. Seven fifty a year. I don’t find it very easy. You see, I’m not getting work these days –

  JOHN. I thought he was a rich man.

  ANNE. Michael? Oh no. His antique shop lost a lot of money.

  JOHN. He gets his name in the papers a lot.

  ANNE. Oh yes. Quite a social figure – first nights and all that.

  JOHN. How long exactly were you married to him?

  ANNE. Three years and six months.

  JOHN. Beating me by three months? I saw the headlines of the case. They were quite juicy – but not as juicy as ours – you’ll admit. It was cruelty again, wasn’t it?

  ANNE. Yes.

  JOHN. Did he try to kill you too?

  ANNE (quietly). No.

  DOREEN comes in with JOHN’s second course.

  DOREEN. There you are. Usual veg? (JOHN nods. DOREEN helps him.) You look a bit down in the dumps tonight. Anything the matter?

  JOHN. No.

  DOREEN. All right. Don’t take long, will you? My friend’s waiting –

  She goes out. JOHN makes no attempt to touch his food.

  JOHN. How did he show his cruelty?

  ANNE. In a lot of ways. Small ways. They can all be summed up by saying that he doesn’t really like women.

  JOHN. Why did he marry you?

  ANNE. He wanted a wife.

  JOHN. And you wanted a husband? (She nods.) As wide a contrast as possible from your first, I suppose. Still, couldn’t you have done a bit better for yourself?

  ANNE. I suppose so. But he was gentle and kind and made me laugh and I was fond of him. I went into it with my eyes well open. I thought I could make it work. I was wrong. (JOHN laughs suddenly.) What’s the joke?

  JOHN. A nice poser for a woman’s magazine. Girls, which husband would you choose? One who loves you too little – or one who loves you too much? (After a pause.) Third time lucky perhaps.

  ANNE. Perhaps.

  Pause.

  JOHN. How long are you staying here?

  ANNE. I booked for two weeks.

  JOHN. I’ll go to London.

  ANNE. No. If you feel like that, then I’ll go to another hotel.

  JOHN. That might be easier.

  Pause.

  ANNE. John – I don’t see why –

  JOHN. Do you think these old women don’t notice anything? They spend their whole days gossiping. It would take them less than a day to nose out the whole story and wouldn’t they have a time with it! They’re suspicious enough of me as it is. They know I write in the New Outlook under the name of Cato – and how they found that out I’ll never know, because none of them would sully their dainty fingers by even touching such a bolshie rag.

  ANNE. I read it every week.

  JOHN. Turning left-wing in your old age?

  ANNE (quietly). My old age?

  JOHN. How old are you now?

  ANNE. Well – let’s just say eight years older than when I last saw you.

  JOHN. Yes. You don’t look it.

  ANNE. Thank you. But I feel it.

  Pause.

  JOHN. Why didn’t you come to see me in prison yourself?

  ANNE. I wanted to. I was stopped.

  JOHN. Who by?

  ANNE. My mother and father.

  JOHN. I suppose they told you I might try to strangle you in front of the warder. I nearly did try to strangle your solicitor.

  ANNE. They thought it would make it easier for you if I kept away.

  JOHN. A very well-bred, Christian thought. My dear ex-in-laws. How are they?

  ANNE. My father’s dead. My mother lives in a place rather like this, in Kensington.

  Pause. JOHN is gazing at her intently.

  JOHN (at length). Then you’ll go tomorrow, will you?

  ANNE. Yes.

  JOHN. Thank you. (Stiffly.) I’m sorry to have to put you to so much inconvenience.

  ANNE. That’s all right.

  He gets up abruptly from his table and walks up to hers. ANNE rises quickly.

  JOHN. Well, what do we do – shake hands?

  ANNE. I’m very glad to see you again, John.

  She kisses him gently on the cheek.

  JOHN. It may seem boorish of me not to be able to say the same, Anne. But then I am a boor, as you know. In fact, you must still have a scar on the side of your head to prove it to you.

  ANNE. It’s gone now.

  JOHN. Gone? After five stitches and a week in hospital?

  ANNE. Eight years will cure most scars.

  JOHN. Most, I suppose. Not all, though. Well, good night.

  He goes towards the hall door. Before he reaches it MISS COOPER comes in.

  MISS COOPER. Mrs. Shankland – (Seeing JOHN.) Oh, good evening, Mr. Malcolm.

  JOHN. Good evening.

  He makes to move past her.

  MISS COOPER. Did you want something? Is there anything I can do for you?

  JOHN. I’ve finished, thank you. I’m going out.

  MISS COOPER. Oh. (With a hint of anxiety.) It’s a horrible night, you know. It’s started to pour –

  JOHN. It doesn’t matter –

  He goes into the hall.

  MISS COOPER (following him). I’ll have to open the door for you. I’ve already locked up. Excuse me, Mrs. Shankland –

  She follows him out. ANNE, left alone, sits down again. She looks thoughtfully at herself in a hand-mirror for a long time. MISS COOPER comes back.

  Coffee is served in the lounge, Mrs. Shankland. I thought when you’ve finished your dinner, you might like me to take you in there and introduce you to some of your fellow-guests. People are sometimes so odd about not talking to newcomers, I don’t know why, and I hate any of my guests to feel lonely. (Conversationally.) Loneliness is a terrible thing, don’t you agree?

  ANNE. Yes, I do agree. A terrible thing.

  She gets up from the table.

  MISS COOPER. Oh. Have you finished? Good. Then let’s go in, shall we? The lounge is through here.

  She leads the way to the lounge door.

  ANNE. Thank you.

  The lights fade.

  Scene Two

  Scene: the lounge, about two hours later. The dining-room door is upstage right and the door leading to the hall is at back. French windows, left, are curtained and we can hear the rain beating against them. There is a fireplace downstage right with an electric fire burning.

  CHARLES and JEAN are the only two residents in the room. They sit side by side on a sofa, still reading intently. Both are making an occasional note.

  CHARLES (breaking a long silence, into his book). There’s going to be a storm.

  JEAN. Hell. I hate spray.

  CHARLES (after another silence). Where are they all?

  JEAN. The new one’s gone up to her room. So has old Dream-girl. The Bournemouth Belle and Minnie Mouse are in the television room. Karl Marx is out boozing. Mr. Chips is still ringing up his painter friend.

  CHARLES. He won’t come.

  JEAN. Of course he won’t. (She closes her book and stretches herself.) I’ve finished my Stubbs. How are you doing with your anatomy?

  CHARLES. I’d do better if you’d shut up.

  JEAN (going to the window). I didn’t start the small talk. You did. Does your father know about me?

  CHARLES (making a note). Yes.

  JEAN. What did you tell him?

  CHARLES. What?

  She pushes his book against his lap, preventing him from reading.

  JEAN. What did you tell him?

  CHARLES. Don�
�t do that, Jean. I’m in the middle of the trickiest duct in the whole human body.

  JEAN. What did you tell him?

  CHARLES (angrily). Oh, for God’s sake – that we were in love with each other and were going to get married.

  He pulls the book back and furrows his brows over it again.

  JEAN. You told him a dirty lie, then, didn’t you – I mean about us going to get married?

  CHARLES. What? Oh yes. I had to put it like that. Otherwise he wouldn’t have understood. Now shut up for God’s sake.

  JEAN. You’d better stop now. If you go on much longer you know you won’t sleep and it’ll make you old before your time.

  He allows her to take the book from him.

  CHARLES. I suppose you’re right. Don’t lose the place. (He stretches.) My God – to be old before one’s time. What a fate! I wonder if all old people are as miserable as these.

  JEAN. They’re not miserable. Look at old Dream-girl. She’s as happy as a sandgirl communing with her spirits and waiting for the racing results. The Bournemouth Belle’s quite happy, too, queening it around here in her silver fox, and with her daughter to look after her.

  CHARLES. Has she got a daughter?

  JEAN. Don’t you listen to anything? She never stops trilling away about her dear Sibyl, and how they’re really more like good pals than mother and daughter, and how dear Sibyl can’t live without her –

  CHARLES. You mean the daughter lives with her here? My God, what a fate! I haven’t seen her –

  JEAN. She’s escaped for a couple of weeks, I gather, to an aunt. Anyway, the Bournemouth Belle’s too self-centred an old brute to be anything but happy. Minnie Mouse is a bit grey and depressed, I grant. But she’s got her music, and Mr. Chips has got his ex-pupils, even if he doesn’t ever see them. As for Karl Marx – well –

  CHARLES. Now you can’t say Karl Marx isn’t miserable. I’ve never seen a more miserable-looking wreck –

  JEAN. Oh, I don’t know. He’s got his booze and his articles in the New Outlook and his vague air of a murky past, and his hints of former glories. (With seriousness.) No, Charles. Do you know who I think is the only one in this hotel who really is miserable?