LADY MATHESON (getting up). Yes. Good idea. The newsreel will be nearly over now – but I think that dear Philip Harben is on, after. Such a pity I’ll never have the chance of following any of his recipes.
MR. FOWLER (as they go out). I agree. One suffers the tortures of Tantalus, and yet the pleasure is intense. Isn’t that what is today called masochism?
They go out. The room is empty for a moment, and then MAJOR POLLOCK tentatively appears at the open french windows. He peers cautiously into the room, and, satisfying himself that it is empty, comes in. He goes quickly to the table on which are MRS. RAILTON-BELL’s journals. He sees at once that the ‘West Hampshire Weekly News’ is no longer where he left it. Frantically he rummages through the pile, and then begins to search the room. He is standing, in doubt, by the fireplace, when the door opens quietly and SIBYL comes in. As she sees him she stands stock still. He does not move either.
MAJOR POLLOCK (at length, with pathetic jauntiness). Evening, Miss R.B. And how’s the world with you, eh?
SIBYL. Were you looking for Mummy’s paper?
MAJOR POLLOCK. What? No, of course not. I’ve got the other copy –
SIBYL. Don’t pretend any more, please. She’s read it, you see.
MAJOR POLLOCK. Oh.
There is a long pause. The MAJOR’s shoulders droop, and he holds the table for support.
MAJOR POLLOCK. Did she show it to you?
SIBYL. Yes.
MAJOR POLLOCK. Oh.
SIBYL. And to all the others.
MAJOR POLLOCK. Miss Cooper too?
SIBYL. Mummy’s gone to tell her.
The MAJOR nods, hopelessly.
MAJOR POLLOCK (at length). Well – that’s it, then, isn’t it?
SIBYL. Yes.
MAJOR POLLOCK. Oh God!
He sits down, staring at the floor. She looks at him steadily.
SIBYL (passionately). Why did you do it? Why did you do it?
MAJOR POLLOCK. I don’t know. I wish I could answer that. Why does anyone do anything they shouldn’t? Why do some people drink too much, and other people smoke fifty cigarettes a day? Because they can’t stop it, I suppose.
SIBYL. Then this wasn’t – the first time?
MAJOR POLLOCK (quietly). No.
SIBYL. It’s horrible.
MAJOR POLLOCK. Yes, Of course it is. I’m not trying to defend it. You wouldn’t guess, I know. but ever since school I’ve always been scared to death of women. Of everyone, in a way, I suppose, but mostly of women. I had a bad time at school – which wasn’t Wellington, of course – just a Council school. Boys hate other boys to be timid and shy, and they gave it to me good and proper. My father despised me, too, He was a sergeant-major in the Black Watch. He made me join the Army, but I was always a bitter disappointment to him. He died before I got my I commission. I only got that by a wangle. It wasn’t difficult at the beginning of the war. But it meant everything to me, all the same. Being saluted, being called sir – I thought I’m someone, now, a real person. Perhaps some woman might even – (He stops.) But it didn’t work. It never has worked. I’m made in a certain way, and I can’t change it. It has to be the dark, you see, and strangers, because –
SIBYL (holding her hands to her ears). Stop, stop. I don’t want to hear it. It makes me ill.
MAJOR POLLOCK (quietly). Yes. It would, of course. I should have known that. It was only that you’d asked me about why I did such things, and I wanted to talk to someone about it. I never have, you see, not in the whole of my life. (He gets up and gently touches her sleeve.) I’m sorry to have upset you, of all people.
He goes to a table and collects two books.
SIBYL. Why me, so especially? Why not the others?
MAJOR POLLOCK. Oh, I don’t give a hang about the others. They’ll all take it in their various ways, I suppose – but it won’t mean much more to them than another bit of gossip to snort or snigger about. But it’ll be, different for you, Sibyl, and that makes me unhappy.
SIBYL. That’s the first time you’ve ever called me Sibyl.
MAJOR POLLOCK. Is it? Well, there’s not much point in all that Miss R.B. stuff now, is there?
SIBYL. What makes me so different from the others?
The MAJOR has gathered another book from a corner of the room, and a pipe. He turns now and looks at her.
MAJOR POLLOCK. Your being so scared of – well – shall we call it life? It sounds more respectable than the word which I know you hate. You and I are awfully alike, you know. That’s why I suppose we’ve drifted so much together in this place.
SIBYL. How can you say we’re alike? I don’t – (She stops, unable to continue.)
MAJOR POLLOCK. I know you don’t. You’re not even tempted and never will be. You’re very lucky. Or are you? Who’s to say, really? All I meant was that we’re both of us frightened of people, and yet we’ve somehow managed to forget our fright when we’ve been in each other’s company. Speaking for myself, I’m grateful and always will be. Of course I can’t expect you to feel the same way now.
SIBYL. What are you doing?
MAJOR POLLOCK. Getting my things together. Have you seen a pouch anywhere?
SIBYL. It’s here.
She goes to a table and collects it. He takes it from her.
MAJOR POLLOCK (with a wry smile). Old Wellingtonian colours.
SIBYL. Why have you told so many awful lies?
MAJOR POLLOCK. I don’t like myself as I am, I suppose, so I’ve had to invent another person. It’s not so harmful, really. We’ve all got daydreams. Mine have gone a step further than most people’s – that’s all. Quite often I’ve even managed to believe in the Major myself. (He starts.) Is that someone in the hall?
SIBYL (listening). No. I don’t think so. Where will you go?
MAJOR POLLOCK. I don’t know. There’s a chap in London might put me up for a day or two. Only I don’t so awfully want to go there –
SIBYL. Why not?
MAJOR POLLOCK (after a slight pause). Well – you see – it’s rather a case of birds of a feather.
SIBYL. Don’t go to him. You mustn’t go to him.
MAJOR POLLOCK. I don’t know where else.
SIBYL. Another hotel.
MAJOR POLLOCK. It can’t be Bournemouth or anywhere near here. It’ll have to be London, and I don’t know anywhere there I can afford –
SIBYL. I’ll lend you some money.
MAJOR POLLOCK. You certainly won’t.
SIBYL. I will. I have some savings certificates. You can have those. I can get more too, if you need it.
MAJOR POLLOCK (holding her hand, gently). No, Sybil. No. Thank you – but no.
SIBYL. But you’ll go to this man.
MAJOR POLLOCK. No, I won’t. I’ll find somewhere else.
SIBYL. Where?
MAJOR POLLOCK. Don’t worry. I’ll be all right.
MISS COOPER comes in, and closes the door behind her.
MISS COOPER (brightly). There you are, Major Pollock. Can I see you in my office a moment?
MAJOR POLLOCK. We don’t need to talk in your office, Miss Cooper. I know what you have to say. I’m leaving at once.
MISS COOPER. I see. That’s your own choice, is it?
MAJOR POLLOCK. Of course.
MISS COOPER. Because I would like to make it perfectly plain to you that there’s no question whatever of my requiring you to leave this hotel. If you want to stay on here you’re at perfect liberty to do so. It’s entirely a matter for you.
Pause.
MAJOR POLLOCK. I see. That’s good of you. But of course, I have to go.
MISS COOPER. I quite understand that you’d want to. I shan’t charge the usual week’s notice. When will you be going? Before dinner?
MAJOR POLLOCK. Of course.
MISS COOPER. Do you want me to help you find some place to stay until you can get settled?
MAJOR POLLOCK. I can hardly expect that, Miss Cooper.
MISS COOPER. Why on earth not? There are two hotels in
London run by the Beauregard group. One is in West Kensington and the other in St. John’s Wood. They’re both about the same price. Which would you prefer?
MAJOR POLLOCK (after a pause). West Kensington, I think.
MISS COOPER. I’ve got their card here somewhere. Yes, there’s one here.
She goes to the mantelpiece and takes a card from a small holder. She hands it to him.
Would you like me to ring them up for you?
MAJOR POLLOCK. Thank you, but I think perhaps I’d better ring them myself. In case of – further trouble, I don’t want to involve you more than I need. May I use the phone in your office?
MISS COOPER. Certainly.
MAJOR POLLOCK. I’ll pay for the call of course.
He goes to the door and looks to see if anyone is about in the hall.
Sibyl, if I don’t have a chance of seeing you again, I’ll write and say good-bye.
He goes out. MISS COOPER turns to SIBYL.
MISS COOPER. Your mother’s gone up to dress for dinner, Miss Railton-Bell. She told me I’d find you in the writing-room lying down and I was to tell you that you can have your meal upstairs tonight, if you’d rather.
SIBYL. That’s all right.
MISS COOPER (sympathetically). How are you feeling now?
SIBYL (brusquely). All right.
MISS COOPER approaches her.
MISS COOPER (quietly). Is there anything I can do to help you?
SIBYL (angrily). No. Nothing. And please don’t say things like that. You’ll make me feel bad again, and I’ll make a fool of myself. I feel well now. He’s going and that’s good. I despise him.
MISS COOPER. Do you? I wonder if you should.
SIBYL. He’s a vile, wicked man, and he’s done a horrible beastly thing. It’s not the first time, either. He admits that.
MISS COOPER. I didn’t think it was.
SIBYL. And yet you told him he could stay on in the hotel if he wanted to? That’s wicked too.
MISS COOPER. Then I suppose I am wicked too. (She puts her hand on her arm.) Sibyl, dear –
SIBYL. Why is everyone calling me Sibyl this evening? Please stop. You’ll only make me cry.
MISS COOPER. I don’t mean to do that. I just mean to help you.
SIBYL breaks down suddenly but now quietly and without hysteria. MISS COOPER holds her.
That’s better. Much better.
SIBYL. It’s so horrible.
MISS COOPER. I know it is. I’m very sorry for you.
SIBYL. He says we’re alike – he and I.
MISS COOPER. Does he?
SIBYL. He says we’re both scared of life and people and sex. There – I’ve said the word. He says I hate saying it even, and he’s right. I do. What’s the matter with me? There must be something the matter with me.
MISS COOPER. Nothing very much, I should say. Shall we sit down?
She gently propels her on to the sofa and sits beside her.
SIBYL. I’m a freak, aren’t I?
MISS COOPER (in matter-of-fact tones). I never know what that word means. If you mean you’re different from other people, then, I suppose, you are a freak. But all human beings are a bit different from each other, aren’t they? What a dull world it would be if they weren’t.
SIBYL. I’d like to be ordinary.
MISS COOPER. I wouldn’t know about that. dear. You see, I’ve never met an ordinary person. To me all people are extraordinary. I meet all sorts here, you know, in my job, and the one thing I’ve learnt in five years is that the word normal, applied to any human being, is utterly meaningless. In a sort of a way it’s an insult to our Maker, don’t you think, to suppose that He could possibly work to any set pattern.
SIBYL. I don’t think Mummy would agree with you.
MISS COOPER. I’m fairly sure she wouldn’t. Tell me – when did your father die?
SIBYL. When I was seven.
MISS COOPER. Did you go to school?
SIBYL. No. Mummy said I was too delicate. I had a governess some of the time, but most of the time Mummy taught me herself.
MISS COOPER. Yes. I see. And you’ve never really been away from her, have you?
SIBYL. Only when I had a job, for a bit. (Proudly.) I was a sales-girl in a big shop in London – Jones & Jones. I sold lampshades. But I got ill, though, and had to leave.
MISS COOPER (brightly). What bad luck. Well, you must try again, some day, mustn’t you?
SIBYL. Mummy says no.
MISS COOPER. Mummy says no. Well, then, you must just try and get Mummy to say yes, don’t you think?
SIBYL. I don’t know how.
MISS COOPER. I’ll tell you how. By running off and getting a job on your own. She’ll say yes quick enough then.
She pats SIBYL’s knee sympathetically and gets up.
I have my menus to do. (She goes towards the door.)
SIBYL (urgently). Will he be all right, do you think?
MISS COOPER. The Major? I don’t know. I hope so.
SIBYL. In spite of what he’s done, I don’t want anything bad to happen to him. I want him to be happy. Is it a nice hotel – this one in West Kensington?
MISS COOPER. Very nice.
SIBYL. Do you think he’ll find a friend there? He told me just now that he’d always be grateful to me for making him forget how frightened he was of people.
MISS COOPER. He’s helped you too, hasn’t he?
SIBYL. Yes.
MISS COOPER (after a pause). I hope he’ll find a friend in the new hotel.
SIBYL. So do I. Oh God, so do I.
The MAJOR comes in.
MAJOR POLLOCK (quickly, to MISS COOPER). It’s all right. I’ve fixed it. It might please you to know that I said Mr. Pollock, and didn’t have to mention your name, or this hotel. I must dash upstairs and pack now.
He turns to SIBYL and holds out his hand.
Good-bye, Sybil.
SIBYL takes his hand, after a second’s hesitation.
SIBYL. Good-bye.
She drops his hand and runs quickly to the door.
(Without looking back.) God bless you.
She goes out.
MAJOR POLLOCK. Very upset? (MISS COOPER nods.) That’s the part I’ve hated most, you know. It’s funny. She’s rather an odd one – almost a case – she’s got a child’s mind and hardly makes sense sometimes – and yet she means quite a lot to me.
MISS COOPER. I think you mean quite a lot to her too.
MAJOR POLLOCK. I did, I think. Not now, of course. It was the gallant ex-soldier she was fond of – not – (He stops.) I told her the whole story about myself. I thought it right. There’s just a chance she might understand it all a bit better one day. I’m afraid, though, she’ll never get over it.
MISS COOPER. No. I don’t suppose she will.
MAJOR POLLOCK. One’s apt to excuse oneself sometimes by saying: Well, after all, what I do doesn’t do anybody much harm. But one does, you see. That’s not a thought I like. Could you have a squint in the hall and see if anyone’s around?
MISS COOPER half-opens the door.
MISS COOPER. Miss Meacham’s at the telephone.
MAJOR POLLOCK. Damn.
MISS COOPER. What train are you catching?
MAJOR POLLOCK. Seven forty-five.
MISS COOPER. You’ve got time.
MAJOR POLLOCK. I’ve got a tremendous lot of packing to do. Four years, you know. Hellish business. I’m dreading the first few days in a new place. I mean dreading, you know – literally trembling with funk at the thought of meeting new people. The trouble is I’ll probably be forced by sheer terror to take refuge in all that Major stuff again.
MISS COOPER. Try not to.
MAJOR POLLOCK. Oh, I’ll try all right. I’ll try. I only hope I’ll succeed.
He goes cautiously to the door and turns.
Still there. Damn. (Coming back.) Thank you for being so kind. God knows why you have been. I don’t deserve it – but I’m grateful. Very grateful.
MISS COOPER. T
hat’s all right.
MAJOR POLLOCK. You’re an odd fish, you know, if you don’t mind my saying so. A good deal more goes on behind that calm managerial front of yours than anyone would imagine. Has something bad ever happened to you?
MISS COOPER. Yes.
MAJOR POLLOCK. Very bad?
MISS COOPER. I’ve got over it.
MAJOR POLLOCK. What was it?
MISS COOPER. I loved a man who loved somebody else.
MAJOR POLLOCK. Still love him?
MISS COOPER. Oh yes. I always will.
MAJOR POLLOCK. Any hope?
MISS COOPER (cheerfully). No. None at all.
MAJOR POLLOCK. Why so cheerful about it?
MISS COOPER. Because there’s no point in being anything else. I’ve settled for the situation, you see, and it’s surprising how cheerful one can be when one gives up hope. I’ve still got the memory, you see, which is a very pleasant one – all things considered.
MAJOR POLLOCK (nodding). I see. Quite the philosopher, what? (To himself.) I must give up saying what. Well, Meacham or no Meacham, I’m going to make a dash for it. or I’ll miss that train.
He turns back to the door.
MISS COOPER. Why don’t you stay?
MAJOR POLLOCK (turning, incredulously). Stay? In the hotel, you mean?
MISS COOPER. You say you dread the new hotel.
MAJOR POLLOCK. I dread this one a damn sight more, now.
MISS COOPER. Yes, I expect you do. But at least you couldn’t be forced by terror into any more Major stuff, could you?
Pause.
MAJOR POLLOCK. I might be forced into something a good deal more – conclusive – cleaning my old service revolver, perhaps – you know the form – make a nasty mess on one of your carpets and an ugly scandal in your hotel.
MISS COOPER (lightly). I’d take the risk, if you would.
MAJOR POLLOCK. My dear Miss Cooper, I’m far too much of a coward to stay on here now. Far too much.
MISS COOPER. I see. Pity. I just thought it would be so nice if you could prove to yourself that you weren’t.
Separate Tables Page 14
