MICHAEL. Tea for the office?
JOHN (apologetically). I was just joking.
MICHAEL. Oh, I see.
JOHN. You mustn’t expect too much responsibility at first. We’ve all got to start somewhere, you know.
MICHAEL. Naturally.
JOHN. Anyway, you’ll be getting a lot of money for a boy of your age. Do you know bow much I got when I first started?
MICHAEL. No. How much?
JOHM. About seventeen bob a week. I started as an office boy.
MICHAEL (coldly). Really? According to my organisation you inherited Fletcher-Pratt from your father – Black Fletcher – who fought the Canadian Trades Unions.
Pause.
JOHN. Black Fletcher was not the name I knew my father by. However, it’s quite true that my father, James Fletcher, was chairman of the board of the Canadian branch at the time, but I had to work my way up like anyone else.
MICHAEL. Yes – but surely from slightly nearer the top than anyone else –
JON. No – no nearer the top than anyone else. Tell me, are you terribly left-wing?
MICHAEL. No, not more than most people. I’m just an anti-fascist.
JOHN. Aren’t we all, these days?
MICHAEL. I don’t know. Are we?
JOHN. I thought that was what we’re all fighting against.
MICHAEL. That’s what some of us are fighting against, all right.
JOHN. Oh. Only some of us?
MICHAEL. Well, what James P. Whitstable says is that, whereas the last war was fought on vertical lines of nationalistic imperialism, the present war is being fought on horizontal lines of proletarian realism.
JOHN. Tell me, who said this?
MICHAEL. James P. Whitstable. He’s the treasurer of our organisation.
JOHN. Oh. Only the treasurer?
MICHAEL. And another thing he says is that our real enemy is not so much the enemy as some of those who pretend to be the enemy’s enemy.
JOHN. A very sound man, this Mr Whitstable.
MICHAEL. He’s over nineteen.
JOHN. I see. Just tottering into his twenties.
MICHAEL. And again, he says that fascism doesn’t only wear a brown shirt. It can wear a black coat and a stiff white collar.
Pause.
JOHN (covering his collar with his hand). If James P. Whitstable were only here, Michael, I might, who knows, be able to answer him. But as a matter of fact, I’m a little out of practice at this sort of argument. You see, for the past three years I have been working on an average of fourteen hours a day trying to produce certain engines of war, designed to kill, with a maximum efficiency –
MICHAEL. Maximum efficiency?
JOHN. – as many of my country’s enemies as possible. So you see, Michael, I’m just a little tired –
MICHAEL. Gosh, Sir John, I should think that you would be. I hear that the new tank –
JOHN (pleadingly). No, Michael, not the new tank, if you don’t mind.
MICHAEL (remorselessly). Yes, I was reading about it only this morning.
JOHN. Michael, did you do much skating in Canada?
MICHAEL. A fair amount. I say it looks as if there is going to be a pretty good stink over the new tank, judging by the Evening Standard.
JOHN (desperately). Did you play any ice hockey while you were there?
MICHAEL. Yes, I did. (Whispering in JOHN’s ear.) Tell me, is it true that you can put your hand through the armour plating?
JOHN. No.
MICHAEL. A chap on the boat said you could.
JOHN (hoarsely). Olivia!
MICHAEL. She’s just gone to dress. And then I met another chap who said the turret was an absolute disgrace. Is it?
JOHN. No.
MICHAEL. And another thing I heard was that the only way it could go uphill was backwards. Is that true, too?
JOHN. No. Who told you this? That chap on the boat?
MICHAEL. No. Another chap who’d heard from his brother who knew a chap in a tank regiment. I must say it seems pretty odd to me if, after three years of preparation, that’s the best sort of tank you can produce. (Laughing.) And I’m jolly sure it isn’t inefficiency. Whatever else can be said about you big businessmen, no one can say you’re inefficient.
JOHN (through his hand, faintly). Thank you very much, Michael.
MICHAEL. It’s the folly of the whole system. Big businessmen running a public service. What happens? They cut each other’s throats, they line their own pockets, and then people are surprised when after three years they get a tank that can’t even go uphill in the ordinary way.
Something suspiciously like a sob comes from JOHN.
I see you have no answer. I can’t say I’m surprised.
OLIVIA comes in and looks with alarm at JOHN.
OLIVIA. Well, I’m all ready. John, John, dear, what is the matter?
JOHN (raising his head). Nothing, Olivia, nothing at all.
MICHAEL (off-handedly). I think a few things I said may have upset him a little bit.
OLIVIA. What were the things about?
JOHN (weakly). We were discussing the new tank, ice hockey –
OLIVIA. Oh! (To MICHAEL.) I thought I told you I wanted you to make friends with him.
MICHAEL. I know, Mum. But I get a bit worked up about politics. OLIVIA. I don’t care. Now say you’re sorry to Sir John for upsetting him.
MICHAEL (taking a step towards JOHN). I’m sorry, Sir John, for upsetting you.
JOHN. Quite all right.
MICHAEL. Truce for dinner?
JOHN. Yes, truce for dinner.
OLIVIA. That’s better – (Taking him towards the door.) Now go upstairs and get ready for dinner. Polton will show you your room.
MICHAEL. Polton?
OLIVIA. The parlourmaid.
MICHAEL. Oh, the parlourmaid.
He goes out.
OLIVIA. Well, John? You didn’t get on?
JOHN. I’m afraid we didn’t get on.
OLIVIA. Politics?
JOHN. Politics. He also accused me of nepotism, fraud, incompetence, peculation, and treachery.
OLIVIA. Did he really? Isn’t he naughty?
JOHN. At times, my darling, you have a positive genius for understatement.
OLIVIA. He is a problem, isn’t he?
JOHN. He’s a problem all right.
OLIVIA. You do understand now why I found it so terribly difficult to tell him?
JOHN. Darling, I understand perfectly.
OLIVIA. You see, you thought he’d be a grown young man and I thought he’d be a little boy, and he really isn’t either, is he?
JOHN. No, he’s too old to spank and too young to punch on the nose.
OLIVIA. No, I think it’s his being away from England for so long.
JOHN. Olivia, I was away from England for years and years and years.
OLIVIA. Yes, but you’re very different. No, I mean, his being away from his home and from me. He’s just got a lot of funny notions in his head that I shall have to get out, that’s all.
JOHN. If you should run out of ideas on that score, I’ll be delighted to cooperate.
OLIVIA. No, no, John. You mustn’t interfere.
JOHN. I was only going to suggest –
OLIVIA. Wait a minute, John, I’m trying to find the right approach.
JOHN. I beg your pardon.
OLIVIA. I know how to handle him.
JOHN. A couple of minutes ago, you said –
OLIVIA. I know, I know, something’s coming. I’ll wait until he’s in bed, then I’ll take him up a cup of nice hot Ovaltine.
JOHN. With a dash of something in it?
OLIVIA. No. I’ll sit on the side of his bed and talk to him as if he were about forty years old – you know, a real man of the world. He’ll love that. I’ll even ask his advice just as one would an elder brother, and in a few minutes the whole problem will be settled, for good and all. What do you think of that, John?
JOHN (despondently). It’s a ver
y pretty picture. You’ll probably spill the Ovaltine on his bed and spoil the whole thing.
OLIVIA (leaning over the back of sofa and kissing him). You’re a gloomy old thing, aren’t you, but you’re very sweet.
JOHN. Well, I don’t feel very sweet.
OLIVIA. Oh, John, you’ve always wanted a son.
JOHN. Not like that.
OLIVIA. He’s a darling, he always was.
JOHN. You mean he was born that way?
OLIVIA. Don’t worry, in a few weeks I shall be quite jealous of the way you two are getting on – I know it. (Crosses and looks in mirror.) He looks very young, don’t you think, John? Joan’s going to be at The Savoy tonight.
JOHN (busy with his box and papers). I fail to see the connection. (Suddenly.) Oh, God! Am I to be spared nothing?
OLIVIA. What’s the matter?
JOHN. They’ve sent the wrong report.
OLIVIA. Oh, darling! I am sorry.
JOHN (gets up from sofa and goes to the telephone). This is the last straw. The camel’s back is broken. (As he dials.) Idiots! Fools! Incompetent halfwits! They’d be sacked in a week from any decently run business. I don’t care if they’re all field marshals. I’ll tell them so myself.
OLIVIA. Yes, darling. Do.
JOHN (into receiver). Hullo. RMB3? Who’s that?… Oh, General Parker. This is John Fletcher. You remember a certain report I asked for from your office?… Yes, quite safely, thank you, only you see it happens to be the wrong report… Oh, the wrong envelope? Yes, of course. That would explain it… Not at all… Well, I’d be very grateful if you could have the right one sent to The Savoy in half an hour’s time… That’s right. Thank you. Goodbye. (Rings off.)
OLIVIA. That’s certainly one way of telling them.
JOHN. He got it from the tone of my voice.
Enter MICHAEL.
MICHAEL. Mum, do you mind leaving me alone with Sir John Fletcher a moment?
JOHN (retreating hastily). Oh, God!
OLIVIA (rising from sofa). But why, darling – and if it’s anything about the new tank –
MICHAEL. It isn’t about the new tank.
OLIVIA. Oh, God –
She joins JOHN by the fire, catching hold of his hand.
MICHAEL. I want him to give me an explanation of something jolly fishy that’s going on in this house –
OLIVIA. Surely there isn’t anything you can’t say in front of me?
MICHAEL. All right, then. I’ve just been having a talk with what’sher-name – Polton, and she told me that this house belongs to him, and every darned thing in it. Is that true?
JOHN. Yes, that is true.
MICHAEL. So then I went into Mum’s room, and, by gosh! In the wardrobe there, I found about fifty dresses which I’d never seen before –
OLIVIA (quickly). Michael, with clothes rationing, there couldn’t possibly be as many as that.
JOHN. Nothing like as many.
MICHAEL (furiously). Did you or did you not pay for them?
JOHN. Yes, I paid for them.
MICHAEL. And all those jewels and things on the dressing table?
JOHN. Yes, I paid for those, too.
MICHAEL. And the weighing machine in the bathroom?
OLIVIA (quickly). Oh no, Michael, I paid for that.
MICHAEL. With your money, or with the money he gave you?
OLIVIA. Well – (Looks at JOHN in doubt.)
JOHN. With the money I gave her.
MICHAEL. I don’t need to hear any more. I understand the situation perfectly.
He goes out quickly.
OLIVIA (following him). No, darling, you don’t understand, and I beg you to reserve judgement until you’ve heard the whole story.
MICHAEL (off). I don’t need to hear it. You’ve been weak, he’s been vile.
OLIVIA (off). Michael, really! Stop it at once. You’re not to talk to us like that – do you hear?
MICHAEL (off). Very well. I shan’t say another word until I’ve thought out what I’m going to do.
OLIVIA comes back. She looks despairingly at JOHN, then motions to him that she has decided what to do.
OLIVIA (calling sharply). Michael!
They both lean forward to see whether he is coming. She calls again, but this time in a gentle, loving voice.
Michael – Michael – darling –
MICHAEL comes back, and walks slowly to the chair.
Michael, darling, come here and sit down. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. (Sits on sofa.) We’ll all three go out, and over dinner John and I will tell you the whole story from beginning to end. How’s that?
MICHAEL. Very well. But on one condition. This dinner’s on me.
OLIVIA. Oh, but darling, wouldn’t it be better if –
MICHAEL. I’m not going to let him pay for dinner.
OLIVIA. But, darling, you can’t afford to take us to The Savoy.
MICHAEL. No, that’s quite true. We’ll have to go somewhere else. I know, The Tuck Inn.
OLIVIA and JOHN. The Tuck Inn?
MICHAEL. You remember it – in Puffin’s Corner, off Belvedere Road, Barons Court.
OLIVIA. Oh, yes. But, darling, are you sure that’s quite the best place –
MICHAEL. It’s a corking place.
JOHN rises and goes to the telephone.
We used to get a jolly good three-course meal there for one and four pence. Don’t you remember – you used to take me there on Annie’s afternoon out? Besides, they’ll know me there and we’ll get service.
OLIVIA. Yes, but, darling, wouldn’t it be better to go somewhere around here –
JOHN (who had been dialling). RMB3? Hullo, General Parker? This is John Fletcher. About that report. Instead of The Savoy, will you have it sent to Tuck Inn, Puffin’s Corner, off Belvedere Road, Barons Court… No, no, no, off Belvedere Road… Barons Court… Puffin’s Corner… Tuck Inn.
OLIVIA (to MICHAEL). It’s such an awfully long way.
MICHAEL. Not by Underground. We’ll be there inside half an hour.
OLIVIA (faintly). John’s car is outside –
MICHAEL. I’m sorry – I’m afraid we can’t use his car. (Firmly.)
We’ll go by Underground.
JOHN (with sudden defiance). Oh, no we won’t. We’ll go by bus.
MICHAEL (sullenly). I don’t think I know how to get there by bus.
JOHN. But I do. We’ll queue up and get a number 24 to Trafalgar Square. Then we’ll change and queue up for a number 96. At South Kensington we’ll change and queue up for a number 49. That’ll take us to the top of Belvedere Road. We can walk the rest.
Long pause.
OLIVIA (rising and crossing to the door). Well – if we’re going to walk, I’d better change my shoes.
JOHN (calling after her). And get a mackintosh. It looks like rain –
OLIVIA nods, sadly, and goes out. MICHAEL and JOHN are sitting, with arms folded, glaring belligerently at each other.
Curtain.
End of Act One.
ACT TWO
The same, a few days later.
Time: about 7 p.m.
OLIVIA is sitting at her desk, doing her accounts. JOHN is walking up and down, dictating a speech to MISS DELL.
JOHN (dictating). And now, in conclusion, let me turn for a few moments to a subject that is uppermost in all our minds these days – a vexed subject and one on which I am little qualified to speak – but a subject, nevertheless. (Breaking off.) Is that too many subjects, Miss Dell?
MISS DELL. I don’t think so, Sir John. We’ve often had more.
JOHN. Very well. (Dictating.) – But a subject, nevertheless, on which I have at least as much right to hold and express an opinion as any other subject –
MISS DELL. Subject.
JOHN. Quite so. (Dictating.) – As any other citizen of this Empire. I refer, of course, to the question of the future of British industry in the years immediately following the peace.
The telephone rings.
Now
, before I begin, I would like to make it quite clear –
The telephone rings again.
OLIVIA rises from her desk and crosses to answer it.
– that if that telephone rings again I shall go mad.
OLIVIA. Sorry, dear.
JOHN. Why can’t Polton answer it in the hall?
OLIVIA. It still wouldn’t stop it ringing in here, would it? Besides, it might be something important – you never know. (Into the receiver.) Hullo… Oh, hullo, Joan, darling…
JOHN (with a gesture of despair). That means half an hour at least, Miss Dell.
OLIVIA. Darling, I mustn’t talk for long, because John is in here working… Yes, I’m having his study redecorated, poor pet, and he’s got nowhere else to go… No, apple-green – it’s so much more restful for a study, don’t you think?… Sybil thinks it’s per–
She is about to sit on the sofa, but she catches JOHN’s eye, and rises abruptly.
–fect… Oh, she did, did she?… Darling, I really must stop or John’ll throw something at me.
JOHN gets up.
Was there anything important?… Michael?… Yes, he is rather a lamb, isn’t he?… Well, just over sixteen… No, it’s all right now. I’m glad to say he’s settling down very nicely… Of course, I had to talk to him for hours – you know how young he is…
JOHN coughs warningly to indicate that MISS DELL is in the room. MISS DELL is reading her notes, apparently oblivious of the conversation.
(Out of the corner of her mouth.) Darling, do you mind if I don’t talk at the moment. Il y a une personne ici… oui, c’est ça… Yes. Goodbye. (Rings off.) Sorry, John dear, only you know how that woman talks.
JOHN (meaningly). Quite so.
OLIVIA. Well, short of banging the receiver down in her face, I don’t see what I could have done. She thinks Michael’s adorable.
JOHN. Really?
OLIVIA. She said he was the most fetching thing she’d seen for months.
JOHN. Indeed?
OLIVIA (going back to her desk). All right, dear, go on with your speech. It sounds awfully good. Where are you making it?
JOHN. At Dumfries.
OLIVIA (busy with her accounts again). Oh. How nice.
JOHN. Why do you consider it nice for me to make a speech at Dumfries?
Love in Idleness / Less Than Kind Page 9
