Alan Bennett: Plays, Volume 1
Page 19
WICKSTEED: I am going to the open session of the BMA Conference.
MRS WICKSTEED: Indeed? The house will be empty.
WICKSTEED: I’ll put an end to this duplicity …
But not before I’ve had Felicity.
Then take, oh take this itch away
Lest my ruin end this play.
(The telephone rings.)
MRS SWABB: Telephone. Telephone. Telephone.
MRS WICKSTEED: Hello, Dr Wicksteed’s residence. Yes.
Speaking. Percy!
MRS SWABB: That will be Sir Percy Shorter to whom some reference has already been made.
MRS WICKSTEED: After all these years! Longing to. Longing to. Well, why not here? Yes. Thursday afternoon. No. He’s going out. Yes. How exciting. Yes. Mum’s the word. Goodbye. Kiss, Kiss, Kiss.
MRS SWABB: It is the afternoon of the Thursday in question, and lunch, cooked by the fair hands of guess who is just over. I started them off with a little clear soup with scattered croûtons, followed by a fricassee of lamb with just a hint of rosemary. This I garnished with diced carrots and pommes duchesses. Then they had apple charlotte or the cheese board, followed by wafer-thin mints and a choice of beverages. I think they enjoyed it.
WICKSTEED: It was disgusting. (MRS WICKSTEED wears a dashing hat with perky feathers.)
MRS WICKSTEED: I think this hat suits me. Of course, it needs someone who can carry it off. You can’t skulk about in a hat like this.
CONNIE: (In her cub mistress’s uniform) Has anyone seen my woggle?
MRS SWABB: When did you have it last?
MRS WICKSTEED: I should look in what is inappropriately in your case called your breast pocket.
MRS SWABB: Here’s another picture of Sir Percy addressing the conference.
WICKSTEED: He hasn’t grown an inch in twenty years.
MRS WICKSTEED: Size isn’t everything.
(The door bell rings.)
DENNIS: (Aside) She’s early!
MRS WICKSTEED: (Aside) He’s early!
DENNIS: I’ll go.
MRS WICKSTEED:
MRS SWABB: Stand back! I am the door. It’s not a person. It’s a parcel.
WICKSTEED: A parcel?
MRS WICKSTEED: A parcel!
MRS SWABB: A parcel! For Miss Wicksteed.
CONNIE: For me?
MRS WICKSTEED: Yes.
CONNIE: I’m expecting it.
MRS WICKSTEED: Who’s it from?
CONNIE: I don’t know.
MRS WICKSTEED: You’re expecting it and you don’t know who it’s from? I’ve never heard of that before.
WICKSTEED: I have. My surgery’s full of girls expecting something and they don’t know who it’s from.
MRS WICKSTEED: Most mysterious. Not that I’m in the least bit curious. (Exits.)
CONNIE: I think it’s them.
MRS SWABB: Open it.
CONNIE: I shan’t dare wear them.
MRS SWABB: Come on.
CONNIE: But it’s time for cubs.
MRS WICKSTEED: Mrs Swabb, you may take the afternoon off.
MRS SWABB: But I have an enormous backlog of dusting.
MRS WICKSTEED: I insist … all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. And talking of dull boys, what are your plans?
DENNIS: A long walk in the fresh air.
MRS WICKSTEED: Splendid. And you?
CONNIE: Cubs. Why?
MRS WICKSTEED: Just asking. I’m going to my cake-decorating class. I don’t really want to, but we’re electing a new secretary and it’s like anything else: if the rank and file don’t go the militants take over. (Exits.)
(They open the parcel.)
MRS SWABB: ‘I was a spinster for fifteen years,’ writes Miss P.D. of Carshalton. ‘Three years ago I invested in your appliance and since then I have been engaged four times.’
DENNIS: ‘The Rubens, in sensitized Fablon, as used on Apollo space missions.’ Try it on.
CONNIE: No. It’s too late.
MRS SWABB: It’s never too late. Listen. ‘In reply to yours. … Etc., etc. … They are easily fitted without assistance but to forestall any difficulties our fitter Mr Shanks will call on Thursday May 29th.’
DENNIS: That’s today.
CONNIE: But he can’t. I’m not here. I’m at cubs.
(MRS WICKSTEED claps hands offstage.)
MRS SWABB: Look out. Heads down.
CONNIE: What shall I do?
MRS SWABB: Say you’re ill.
MRS WICKSTEED: Still hanging about? You should have been at the toadstool half an hour ago! A scout is punctual at all times. That was the rule when I was a scout.
DENNIS: She’s ill.
MRS WICKSTEED: She’s late. Come along, clear the decks. Off, off, off. Out, out, out.
Goodbye house, goodbye chairs … goodbye.
WICKSTEED: What’s all the hurry? Anybody’d think you wanted us out of the way.
MRS WICKSTEED: Wanted you out of the way? What a ridiculous idea! What an absurd idea! Why, the idea is absurd. It is ridiculous, relax. There’s plenty of time. It’s only 2.30.
WICKSTEED: 2.30. My God. 2.30. Plenty of time! Don’t be ridiculous. There’s not a moment to lose.
(He rushes out and they all follow.)
MRS SWABB: Quiet, isn’t it? Gone quiet. It won’t last. It will not last. Give them five minutes and they’ll be in and out of here like dogs at a bazaar. Sniffety sniffety sniff. On the fruitless quest of bodily pleasures. And it is all a waste of time. After all as I tell my husband what is the body but the purse of the soul? What is the flesh but the vest of the spirit? Me, I don’t bother with sex. I leave that to the experts.
(DENNIS and FELICITY come in.)
DENNIS: Hello.
FELICITY: Hello, Dennis.
DENNIS: You remembered my name, Penelope.
FELICITY: Felicity.
DENNIS: I’m supposed to be out for a long walk in the fresh air.
FELICITY: I’m supposed to be meeting your father. What are you staring at?
DENNIS: Nothing. You.
FELICITY: Me? What for?
DENNIS: You’re so nice looking, firm and full whereas. …
FELICITY: Your poor hands. All those long thin fingers.
DENNIS: See all the veins. Horrible.
FELICITY: I don’t mind.
DENNIS: Don’t you honestly?
FELICITY: Girls don’t. They don’t expect all that much. That’s the first lesson you’ve got to learn. Most men don’t bear close examination.
DENNIS: You seem to know a lot about it. I know nothing. I’ve got such a lot to learn.
FELICITY: And so little time to learn it.
DENNIS: And nobody to teach me. I was wondering …
FELICITY: Yes?
DENNIS: Could we go for a walk?
FELICITY: It’s too hot for walking.
DENNIS: Yes. I suppose it is.
FELICITY: Of course, we could walk a little … then throw ourselves down in some lush warm summer-scented meadow.
DENNIS: I get hay fever.
FELICITY: Or pause by a sparkling stream and perch together on some cool moss-grown rock.
DENNIS: I get piles.
FELICITY: Nature is hard.
DENNIS: I could take my raincoat.
FELICITY: What a brilliant idea.
DENNIS: Felicity.
FELICITY: What?
DENNIS: I feel very peculiar. I think I may be catching something.
(They take hands and go.)
MRS SWABB: Bless them! I think they’ve clicked. Scorpio and Sagittarius. Lovely combo. Well, I think I’ll just have a glance at the Lancet.
(Enter MRS WICKSTEED.)
MRS WICKSTEED: You!
MRS SWABB: The mistress of the house! I wasn’t expecting your return.
MRS WICKSTEED: No, I have returned unexpectedly. An unforeseen hitch at my cake-decorating class! A shortage of hundreds and thousands put paid to the proceedings. Anyway, I thought I gave you the afternoo
n off.
MRS SWABB: I am an indefatigable worker.
MRS WICKSTEED: You are a Nosy Parker. If you’re so anxious to be doing something, there’s one or two groceries waiting to be picked up.
MRS SWABB: Where?
MRS WICKSTEED: Sainbury’s, where else? That takes care of her for the next two hours.
(Exit MRS WICKSTEED and MRS SWABB.
Sea sounds.)
WICKSTEED: (Alone) Break, break, break
On thy cold grey stones, Ο Sea
And would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
Would that it could, but you see Felicity I’m rather a shy person.
Are you Doctor?
Don’t call me Doctor. Call me Arthur.
Are you Arthur?
Now you mention it, Felicity, I suppose I am. But you Felicity … you somehow restore my faith in human kind, remind me of what perfection the human body is capable. And spirit, oh yes, and spirit, Felicity. To think I was already qualified when you were born. I might have brought you into the world, felt the first flutter of your fragrant life. I could have cradled you in my arms, touched your little face. …
Arthur.
Yes, Felicity?
Arthur, you could still.
Could I? Oh, Felicity. (Exits.)
(The door chimes go.)
(Enter MR SHANKS.)
MRS WICKSTEED: Percy. … Oh, good afternoon.
SHANKS: I’m looking for someone by the name of Wicksteed.
W-I-C-K-S-T-E-E-D. Wicksteed. Yes.
MRS WICKSTEED: Yes?
SHANKS: And I think I’ve found her. Mr Shanks is the name.
Full marks. Ten out of ten. They are wonderful. Wonderful.
MRS WICKSTEED: You think so?
SHANKS: They are outstanding. Out-standing.
MRS WICKSTEED: Golly. Appreciation after all these years.
SHANKS: What a charming home, and my goodness, don’t they enhance it. The balance, dear lady, almost perfect. Almost, but not quite. Still, that’s what I’m here for. May I?
MRS WICKSTEED: This is what they must mean by the Permissive Society.
SHANKS: I believe this one is a fraction bigger than the other.
MRS WICKSTEED: To hell with symmetry. How that touch revives me.
SHANKS: It will not have escaped your notice that the customer, Miss Wicksteed, is becoming a little excited.
MRS WICKSTEED: At last! A tenant for my fallow loins.
SHANKS: However, rest assured. This excitement is not mutual. I am an expert. A crash course at Leather head, the firm’s training centre, set in the heart of Surrey’s famous rural surroundings, lays down a standard procedure for every eventuality. Mind you, these are exceptional. I’ve only seen one pair to rival these, and she’s now the manageress of the only cinema in Fleetwood. Look, you’re such an outstanding example, we often compare notes, my colleagues and I … and since I’ve got my little Polaroid handy. …
MRS WICKSTEED: I was wondering when you were going to mention that. Your Polaroid, your lovely little Polaroid. …
SHANKS: Some snaps … just for the record. …
MRS WICKSTEED: Yes, yes, a record. Music!
(The stage is flooded with sensual music.)
Muriel Wicksteed, what are you doing? Can this be you? Yes. Yes, it is me. The real me. The me I’ve always been deep down. Suddenly the body reasserts itself, breaks through the dead crust of morality, and from the chrysalis convention bursts the butterfly, freedom.
(The telephone rings.)
I will see to that. Dr Wicksteed’s residence. Oh, it’s you Mr Purdue. No, you cannot speak to Dr Wicksteed. This is his afternoon off. You’re about to commit suicide? I see. If you must choose to commit suicide on doctor’s afternoon off, that’s your funeral. Au revoir. Or I suppose I should say goodbye. Now where was I … Oh yes.
(She embraces SHANKS.)
SHANKS: I repeat there is nothing to be ashamed of. This is all in a day’s work to me.
MRS WICKSTEED: I don’t think he should throw his promiscuity in my face. One doesn’t like to think one is simply a convenience.
SHANKS: A client not a convenience.
MRS WICKSTEED: Client? I’m not going to have to pay you for this?
SHANKS: It’s all included in the five pounds.
MRS WICKSTEED: Five pounds! That’s wicked.
SHANKS: There’s nothing more I can do.
MRS WICKSTEED: He comes in here, goes for my bust like a bull at a gate and then says there’s nothing more he can do. There is more. ‘The bust is but the first port of call on the long voyage of love.’
SHANKS: I have other ladies to see.
MRS WICKSTEED: Other ladies. The idea!
SHANKS: stop. Take them off. They are a sacred trust. You are not fit to wear them.
(He slaps her bust.)
SHANKS: It’s the … it’s the real thing, isn’t it? Flesh.
MRS WICKSTEED: Of course it’s flesh. What did you think it was – blancmange?
SHANKS: Is there anywhere I could wash my hands?
MRS WICKSTEED: Time enough to wash your hands when we’ve been to Paradise and back.
SHANKS: No!
MRS WICKSTEED: No. That means yes. So much at least Freud has taught us.
(She drags SHANKS off.
Sea sounds.)
WICKSTEED: It shocks you, I’m afraid, me a respectable, middle-aged doctor waiting like a fool on the end of Brighton Pier. Ludicrous? But listen.
Say nobody saw and nobody heard
Say no one at all would breathe a word
Say nobody knew the you that was you
And your secret dreams could all come true.
Picture the scene, figurez-vous,
You could have whoever you wanted to:
Felicity Rumpers, Omar Sharif,
Julie Andrews, Mr Heath.
Orgies of swapping, five in a bed.
You, me and Omar, Julie and Ted.
Don’t tell me you wouldn’t, given the choice
Old men with schoolgirls, ladies with boys
If she’s what I fancy you really can’t quarrel,
’Cos given the chance you’d be just as immoral.
Nobody’s perfect: I’m fifty-three.
And the tide’s going out, Arthur Wicksteed, M.D.
(Exits. Enter SHANKS pursued by MRS WICKSTEED.)
SHANKS: No, no, please, no.
MRS WICKSTEED: I am Diana. You are my quarry. I am stalking you with all the lithe grace of a panther.
SHANKS: Does anyone know the dialling code for Leatherhead?
MRS WICKSTEED: I close in for the kill, my haunches taut, my flanks rippling. …
SHANKS: No, no.
MRS WICKSTEED: My head goes down and I pounce.
SHANKS: Yee-ow.
(SHANKS makes a run far it, straight into the arms of SIR PERCY.)
SIR PERCY: I’m looking for Mrs Wicksteed.
MRS WICKSTEED: Percy! Don’t you recognize me?
SIR PERCY: Muriel. You haven’t changed. She’s enormous.
MRS WICKSTEED: Do you know each other?
SIR PERCY: No.
SHANKS: How do you do.
SIR PERCY: How do you do. I was wondering whether. …
MRS WICKSTEED: I suppose I ought to. … together
SIR PERCY: Perhaps you would tell me. … together
MRS WICKSTEED: In case you’re wondering. …
SHANKS: Nothing.
SIR PERCY: Muriel, this man isn’t your husband?
MRS WICKSTEED: Yes! No.
SIR PERCY: Ah. I saw no resemblance but twenty years is a long time.
MRS WICKSTEED: It is, it is.
SIR PERCY: If he is not your husband, what is he doing in his shirt tails?
MRS WICKSTEED: He’s a patient.
SIR PERCY: A patient.
MRS WICKSTEED: What did you think he was … my lover, ha ha ha.
SIR PERCY: Ha ha ha.
/>
SHANKS: Ha ha ha.
SIR PERCY: What are you laughing at? You’ve got no trousers on.
SHANKS: I can explain that.
SIR PERCY: Did anyone ask you?
SHANKS: No.
SIR PERCY: Are you a private patient?
SHANKS: No.
SIR PERCY: Then shut up. Unbalanced?
MRS WICKSTEED: Mad. He only called for his tranquillizers.
SIR PERCY: Don’t worry. I have some with me.
SHANKS: You have to padlock your underpants when she’s around, I can tell you.
SIR PERCY: Really?
SHANKS: She’s man mad.
MRS WICKSTEED: Me. Ha. She laughed her scornful laugh.
SIR PERCY: Here, take these.
SHANKS: No.
SIR PERCY: I am President of the British Medical Association.
Take them.
SHANKS: No.
SIR PERCY: Very well Muriel, we must go intravenous.
(MRS WICKSTEED prepares a hypodermic.)
SHANKS: She took my trousers off.
SIR PERCY: What for?
SHANKS: What for? What do people usually take other people’s trousers off for?
SIR PERCY: You tell me.
SHANKS: She wanted my body.
SIR PERCY: Your body. Your body? Thank you Muriel. In case of doubt, just knock them out.
SHANKS: What?
SIR PERCY: When hackles rise, I tranquillize.
MRS WICKSTEED: They do less harm if you keep them calm.
SIR PERCY: Hold him, Muriel.
SHANKS: No. No. All I want is to telephone Leatherhead.
(SIR PERCY injects him.)
SIR PERCY: This is the way we generally telephone Leatherhead. That’s it. Up you get.
SHANKS: Please. Does anyone know the dialling code for Leatherhead?
(SHANKS collapses.)
SIR PERCY: Typical of your husband.
MRS WICKSTEED: Arthur?
SIR PERCY: Leaving a patient running loose about the place.
MRS WICKSTEED: It wasn’t really his fault.
SIR PERCY: Slapdash. Inconsiderate. Don’t suppose he’s changed.
MRS WICKSTEED: You haven’t changed either. Have I?
SIR PERCY: I never liked him. He once said I was small. You were a fool, Muriel.
MRS WICKSTEED: What?
SIR PERCY: To throw yourself away on that little nobody. Still I suppose he makes you happy.
MRS WICKSTEED: Arthur? He falls asleep as soon as his teeth hit the glass. Oh Percy.
SIR PERCY: Is he about, your husband? I’d quite like to see him. The years have doubtless taken their toll?