by Alan Bennett
MAM and DAD are a couple in their sixties. They are discovered in the middle of their marriage.
DAD: sits in the easy chair by the fire. MAM stands.
DAD: (Answering a question, with controlled anger) Sweden.
MAM: Sweden?
DAD: Sweden. (MAM goes into the scullery and DAD roots in the depths of the chair for a magazine, which he holds close to his face as his eyes are bad.
MAM starts singing ‘Fly Home Little Heart’ (Novello, King’s Rhapsody). She sings well and knows all the words. She stops singing, abruptly, comes back, whereupon dad puts the magazine away.)
MAM: This room’s upside down. (Pause) Where? Dad.
DAD: Sweden.
MAM: Sweden. It’s news to me is that. (Pause) What if anybody comes?
DAD: Feel my arm.
MAM: It’s like a tip.
DAD: Two minutes.
MAM: It’s where they commit suicide and the king rides a bicycle, Sweden.
DAD: Mam.
MAM: I don’t want to feel your arm. What do I want to feel your arm for? I’m always feeling your arm. Feel your own arm. (She feels his arm.) You use this arm, you.
DAD: That’s the point: I don’t use it. I can’t use it. I can’t feel it.
MAM: It’s an excuse. You curry sympathy. Do you feel that?
(DAD shakes his head.)
This?
(DAD shakes his head again.)
DAD: Don’t stop.
MAM: I’m bored.
DAD: You’ve nothing better to do.
MAM: I have. I’ve the milk bottles to put out. (MAM goes back into the scullery.)
DAD: It wants a different environment. The new flats have this underfloor central heating.
MAM: (Off) You’ve let it beat you, that arm. You want to make it a challenge, something to be overcome. That’s today’s philosophy with handicaps. You see it on TV all the time. There’s people with far worse than your arm gone on to not bad careers.
DAD: I’ve no feeling in one arm; I’ve got a steel plate in my head; I can hardly see and you talk about a career. I thought I was retired.
MAM: (Off) I wish women could retire. (Pause) What have I come in here for?
DAD: I haven’t lost my gift for responsibility. That’s something you never lose, the ability to command respect. Milk bottles. I had six men under me.
MAM: (Returning with the bottles) Well it’s not a bad little biscuit barrel. Women don’t get biscuit barrels choose how long they work.
DAD: Once we get shifted I plan to take an active part in the community association; I was thinking in bed last night I might take up French.
MAM: As the victim of a hit-and-run driver I think you’re entitled to put your feet up. (She is at the door putting the milk bottles out.) Smoke rising from the Grasmeres. The toll of destruction goes on. I’ve no tears left. (She sits down again.) Where did you say Linda’s gone?
(DAD groans.)
I felt your arm.
DAD: Sweden. Sweden. Linda has gone to Sweden.
MAM: I won’t ask you again.
DAD: You will.
MAM: I won’t. I’ll think about something else. (Pause) My mother lost her memory. I think.
(Pause)
(Looking at a magazine.) They’re bonny curtains. Only they’re nylon. I wouldn’t have nylon. Smells, nylon. I wouldn’t have any man-made fibres. Wool, cotton, you can’t go wrong.
‘Try these easy to make prepared in advance menus and be a relaxed and carefree hostess when the doorbell rings.’
(Pause)
Have I asked you where Linda has gone?
DAD: Yes.
MAM And have you told me?
dad: Yes.
MAM: I know then? (She looks miserable.)
DAD: Sweden, Sweden, Sweden, Sweden. Sweden.
(Pause)
MAM: We’re under siege here. Pulling down good property. It’s a sin.
DAD: I think of the future.
MAM: When I was a girl there were droves and droves of houses like these. You’d see them from the railway, streets of them, the stock of every town and city in the country. What’s become of the old estates? Streets were played in when we were little, courted in when we were young … Harringtons, Hawkesworths, Gilpins, Grasmeres … groves deserted, drives emptied, terraces reaped of every house. Rubble.
DAD: Light! Air!
MAM: We’re a relic. An ancient monument. We are living in the last back-to-backs in Leeds. (She goes into the scullery singing ‘Bless This House’ (Brake).)
DAD: I have high hopes of the maisonette, Mam. I mean it to be a new start. A different going on.
(MAM sings on.)
I’m looking forward to the chrome-plated handles on the bath. That’ll transform my life. And non-slip vinyl. Vinyl throughout. There’s even vinyl in the lifts.
MAM: (Returning) It’s best not to expect too much. The worst is the most I intend to expect. Then I shan’t be disappointed.
DAD: No more trailing to the bin. Just chuck it down the chute. It’s the last word in waste disposal.
MAM: They pee in those lifts. It takes more than a bit of vinyl to alter human nature.
DAD: It’s south facing so I was thinking in bed last night I can go in for a few tomatoes.
MAM: They found a baby down one of those chutes.
DAD: We could be self-sufficient where tomatoes are concerned. I shall sit out on that bit of grass.
MAM: Another mecca for dogs.
DAD: It’s a new life beginning! (He opens his arms wide in an expansive gesture.) Come, bulldozer, come!
MAM: What’s she doing going to Sweden? I bumped into her in the scullery last night and I don’t remember anything about Sweden. She didn’t look like someone going to Sweden. I wonder where she does go sometimes.
DAD: She’s a personal secretary. She goes where she’s told. That’s the nature of her employment.
MAM: She’s just this minute come back from some other place abroad. West Germany was it? Now it’s Sweden.
DAD: That’s the contemporary world.
MAM: She didn’t have any luggage. You have luggage if you’re going to Sweden.
DAD: Not in this day and age. It’s like popping across the road. A new world. And don’t go calling our Linda.
MAM: I’m not calling her. I’m only saying you don’t waltz out of the house empty-handed last thing at night saying, ‘I’m going to Sweden’, even if it is the twentieth century.
DAD: What do you know about the twentieth century? I know one thing. She’d feel my arm. She loves me does Linda.
MAM: If we’re talking of love I know somebody else who’d have liked Sweden, somebody else with whom it’d ’ve struck a chord.
DAD: Guide-books, street-plans: she’ll have Stockholm at her fingertips.
MAM: I admit the person in question generally made a bee-line for the Mediterranean, but given the right circumstances he wouldn’t have said No to Scandinavia. Talking of love.
DAD: If I know her boss it’ll be one long round of conferences, our Linda there at his elbow. Still she’ll generally manage to snatch an hour or two from her gruelling schedule to take in the principal sights. She might even get to a sauna. It’s where saunas originated, Sweden.
MAM: They’ve spread to Leeds now, talking of love.
DAD: Sweden boasts some fine modern architecture plus a free-wheeling attitude towards personal morality. But our Linda’s a sensible girl: she won’t be bowled over by that.
MAM: He always had a level head. Only he was quite happy to stay at home. He was the stay-at-home type. Talking of love.
DAD: Then why didn’t he?
MAM: Why didn’t he what?
DAD: Stop at home.
(Pause)
MAM: Dad.
DAD: What?
MAM: How will anybody find us when we move?
DAD: Who?
MAM: Anybody anxious to locate us. With the house pulled down where will they start?
D
AD: Who?
MAM: A casual visitor, say. A one-off caller. Anybody.
DAD: You send out cards. They give you cards to send out.
MAM: That’s nice.
(Pause)
Dad. What if it’s someone you can’t send a card to because you’ve lost touch?
DAD: Too bad.
MAM: The Corporation’s bound to keep a schedule. You’ll be able to walk into the Town Hall and find out where we’ve been put. They’ll keep track—we pay rates.
DAD: It won’t happen. He’ll not come.
MAM: Who?
DAD: I won’t say his name.
MAM: How do I know to whom you’re referring then? Who, Dad?
DAD: You won’t get his name out of me.
MAM: I wonder if he’s famous: he went to London.
DAD: Yes, we know what for.
MAM: Its institutions and libraries. Its public buildings, the concerts, art galleries and places of interest.
DAD: Not forgetting its superb toilet facilities. The dimly lit charms of its public conveniences. Purlieus of that nature. Talking of love.
(Silence)
MAM: Sweden was where Mr and Mrs Broadbent went last year. One of these winter-break things. Very reasonable apparently: they couldn’t get over the public transport.
DAD: You want to forget about him.
MAM: Who?
DAD: You’re losing your memory, capitalize on it and forget him. Because I do not want his name mentioned. You will never see him again. He is dead. He does not exist.
MAM: Why am I sitting on this chair? I never sit on this chair. I don’t remember ever sitting on this chair before. (A knock on the door.) That must be Linda. She can’t have gone to Sweden. She must just have forgotten her key.
(mam looks out of the window.)
It’s not Linda. It’s a young woman.
DAD: What sort of young woman?
MAM: A young woman. She looks like a total stranger.
DAD: They tell you not to open the door. They put out leaflets.
MAM: Professional type. Little grey costume—blondeish.
DAD: There’s all sorts now. The women are worse than the men. They’re devoid of conscience. She’ll go away. (A loud knock.)
MAM: Very slim. Looks as if she keeps off the carbohydrates.
DAD: Be still.
(They wait.
Another knock.
DAD gets up. Looks. Goes to the door. Shouts through the letter-box.)
DAD: Listen. We’re on the telephone and there’s an Alsatian within earshot. So get lost.
(DAD is coming away from the door when there is another knock.)
Be told. You have come to the wrong house.
MAM: She may be from the Corporation, it’s a smart little costume. (Shouting through the letter-box.) If it’s about the new flat we’re waiting to be allocated; we’re an oldish couple; we don’t have that many visitors.
(A piece of paper is put through the letter-box.
They let it lie for a moment, looking at it, then MAM picks it up.)
(Reading) ‘This neighbourhood is shortly to be demolished.’ Well, we know that. ‘In the past, redevelopment has often ignored many valuable elements in the social structure of traditional communities such as this. Their sense of identity has been lost and with it the virtues of self-reliance, neighbourliness and self-help.’ This is going to take some studying out. ‘Your council is anxious to avoid the mistakes of the past and preserve those qualities.’ What qualities? Oh, self-reliance, neighbourliness and self-help. ‘It is therefore undertaking a social study of selected families in this area…’ They do this sort of thing now. It’s the sort of thing they do. ‘This card will be shown to you by a qualified sociologist. Kindly admit him/her to your home as an observer. The observer will not speak.’ (Oh.) ‘Try not to engage him/her in conversation as this may falsify the true picture of your home life he/she needs if this project is to succeed. The name of your observer is Ms Craig. Your co-operation is appreciated. R. S. Harman. Projects Director.’ I’ve seen his picture in the Evening Post, cutting a ribbon.
DAD: No.
MAM: We must have been selected; they’ve picked us out down at the Town Hall.
DAD: It’s an intruder.
MAM: They couldn’t go to twenty-six with him being black: they’ll know we’re a bit more classy. Fasten your trousers. (Through the letter-box.) We shan’t keep you a moment. (She tidies the already tidy room.)
DAD: It’s been on the wireless: don’t open your door.
MAM: She’s only going to observe us. They put a premium on consultation nowadays. We ought to be flattered. And she’s a striking woman. Of course, it’s a goodish salary now, local government.
DAD: She’s come to kill me.
MAM: She’s not above twenty-five.
DAD: She’ll kill me.
MAM: Kill you? She’s got one of these new briefcases, I’ve seen them in Schofields. She’s from the Council. They don’t kill you from the Council: what with social workers, meals on wheels and one thing and another all their efforts are the other way. They want to keep you alive. Come to kill you! Take one of your tablets.
DAD: There’ll be murder.
(Another knock.)
I’m telling you. Don’t open it.
MAM: Don’t. Don’t. It’s always don’t. The doors I could have opened if it hadn’t been for you. My voice would have opened any door. I could have been in the Choral Society, sung on the stage of the Victoria Hall. I could have been rubbing shoulders with doctors’ wives, solicitors, people with their own transport. I could have been going out to coffee mornings in select neighbourhoods, mixing with all sorts. I could have blossomed half a dozen times over. But no. Why? You. You, Dad, you.
DAD: Connie.
(DAD rises from the chair, MAM pushes him back.)
MAM: Sit down. We’ll see if she kills you. Coming. (She unlocks the door. There is a slight pause, long enough for one to begin to wonder if there is still anybody there, then the door is pushed smartly back and to the strains of ‘Waltz of My Heart’ (Novello, The Dancing Years) MS CRAIG comes in, walks straight across the room with no hesitation at all, sits on an upright chair down stage, puts down her handbag at one side of the chair, takes out a pad and waits, pen in hand.
MS CRAIG is a man. Not a man in outrageous drag, a man who is a woman perhaps but nevertheless a man.
Silence.
MAM looks at him/her for a long time.
DAD keeps looking and looking away. He can’t see MS CRAIG all that clearly.)
MAM: How do you do. Pleased to meet you.
(MS CRAIG looks coolly at them with no response whatsoever.)
This is my husband, Mr Craven. And I’m Mrs Craven. We’re The Cravens.
(Pauie)
DAD: I’m frightened, Mam.
MAM: Then have one of your tablets. He gets over-anxious. It’s not mental. He’s the victim of a hit-and-run driver. Don’t start yet, this isn’t typical yet. I’m sorry the place is upside down, I haven’t had a chance to get round this morning, that’s not typical either. Haven’t we been having some weather?
DAD: Mam!
MAM: She’s starting.
DAD: Connie.
MAM: Shut up.
(Silence.)
Our visitor hasn’t picked the most comfortable chair, has she, Dad? (Pause) Though I’ve read that a straight back is better for you. (Pause) Bad backs seem to be on the increase. (Pause) It must be to do with sitting habits. One way and another. (Desperately) My sister-in-law had a terrible back and they put that down to lolling about in easy chairs, only then it turned out that she had a progressive disease of the spine. Which she died of. Unfortunately. (Pause)
DAD: It was a slipped disc.
MAM: It wasn’t a slipped disc. It was a long-term illness.
DAD: How do you know? You can’t remember.
(MS CRAIG makes a note.)
Mam. She’s just made a note. What did I say?
&
nbsp; (MS CRAIG writes something else down.)
Look, Mam.
MAM: I’m taking no notice. (Whispering) Dad, what is the survey about again?
(DAD hands her the schedule and MAM reads it again.)
I have a tendency to forget: one of the penalties of getting older. I take after my mother; she suffered with her memory. Is it to do with us being happy? Is that the gist of it? We are.
DAD: And if we’re not, we shouldn’t let on to you.
MAM: We are anyway, by and large. Put down happy. Not discontented.
DAD: We will be happy once we’re out of this midden.
MAM: It used to be one of the better streets, this. You were always thought to be a bit more refined if you lived in this street. It was that bit classier. None of them are very classy now.
DAD: Course they’re not classy. How can they be classy when they’re flattened?
MAM: Mr Craven’s always been on the side of progress: he had false teeth when he was twenty-seven. Notice too that this is an end house, giving us three downstairs windows as opposed to two in the other houses. I don’t know whether that’s relevant.
DAD: I had six men under me.
MAM: We’ve been very happy all in all. I’d offer you a cup of tea but if we’re meant to behave as if you’re not here I can’t, can I?
(MS CRAIG writes something down.)
Don’t put me on record as not having offered though. If you were an ordinary run-of-the-mill visitor I would.
DAD: We never have any visitors.
MAM: Only because we’re not well served by public transport. I’d like to have gone in for these coffee mornings. You read about them in magazines: functions in the home in aid of one thing and another. Like-minded people. Only Mr Craven’s not keen on company. One of the big might-have-beens. I’ll make some tea. You go on behaving normally, Dad.
(MAM goes into the scullery singing ‘I Can Give You the Starlight’ (Novello, The Dancing Years). She calls from the scullery.)
We’re waiting for our Linda. (Pause) We think she may have gone somewhere. (Pause) Where is it we think she’s gone, Dad?
DAD: Sweden.
MAM: Mr Craven worships Linda. (Pause) Tell her about Linda, Dad.
