Love in Idleness / Less Than Kind

by Terence Rattigan

  MICHAEL (sullenly). It’s not fair – to talk of him like that, after he’s dead.

  OLIVIA. Are you play-acting now, Michael?

  MICHAEL (miserably). Yes, I suppose so. It’s only because I know what’s coming.

  OLIVIA. If you know, tell me.

  MICHAEL. You’re going on to say that when you met Sir John Fletcher, you fell in love for the first time in your life.

  OLIVIA (quietly). Yes, I was going to say that, because it’s true.

  MICHAEL. You’re going to say that all this – grandeur – doesn’t really mean anything to you, because you’d be just as happy with him in a slum as you are here.

  OLIVIA. No. I wasn’t going to say that. All this grandeur – as you call it, is very important to me. I sometimes think I only began to live when I moved into this house. It’s hard to separate that feeling from my love for John; and if, in falling in love with John, I’ve become a Dorchester society woman and therefore you no longer recognise me, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

  MICHAEL. Nothing?

  OLIVIA. Nothing at all.

  MICHAEL. I see. (Rises and goes towards the drink table.) Can I have a glass of sherry?

  OLIVIA. Go ahead.

  MICHAEL. Well, that settles that, doesn’t it?

  OLIVIA (firmly). Yes, Michael. That settles that.

  MICHAEL. And what’s going to happen to me, meanwhile?

  OLIVIA. You’ll go on living here with us, of course –

  MICHAEL (quietly). No, I won’t.

  OLIVIA (sharply). Michael – are you trying a little blackmail?

  MICHAEL. Oh, no, I’m not play-acting now – if that’s what you think.

  OLIVIA. You realise what it would mean to me if you went away?

  MICHAEL. I don’t think you realise what it would mean to me if I stayed.

  OLIVIA. Where do you think you’ll go to?

  MICHAEL. I can get digs. I won’t go far away. We’ll still see each other.

  OLIVIA. That will be nice for both of us, won’t it?

  MICHAEL (miserably). I’m sorry, Mum. I can’t think of anything else to do.

  OLIVIA (in a hard voice). Oh, well – after all, you’re nearly eighteen. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t go off on your own, if you feel you must.

  MICHAEL. None at all.

  He is standing by the drink table, but has not taken a drink. He is facing OLIVIA. Now he takes out his pipe.

  OLIVIA. All right, then, I’ll go out with you tomorrow and we’ll look for digs.

  MICHAEL. Yes, tomorrow’s a good chance. It’s my day off.

  There is a pause.

  OLIVIA (violently). Stop smoking that ridiculous pipe. (Recovering herself.) You’d better go now, Michael. My friends will be arriving in a minute.

  MICHAEL. All right – Mum.

  He moves towards the door.

  OLIVIA. Michael – you don’t think you might grow to dislike him a little less?

  MICHAEL. I’m sorry, Mum, but I can’t help what I feel.

  OLIVIA. I see. Well, we’re still friends, aren’t we?

  Pause. MICHAEL suddenly collapses onto her lap and sobs like a small child.

  MICHAEL. Don’t go on with it, Mum! Please don’t! Please! I can’t bear it.

  OLIVIA, bewildered, strokes his head.

  JOHN (in the hall). No, he’s not in his room, Polton.

  POLTON (also outside). Then he must be in the drawing room, sir.

  MICHAEL gets up quickly, and moves to the fire as JOHN comes in.

  JOHN. It’s nearly half-past eight, you know.

  There is a pause.

  Michael, it occurred to me that if you really have nothing to do this evening, I’m fairly sure that Symonds –

  MICHAEL (his back to JOHN). Are you worrying about me?

  JOHN. No, Michael. I thought I might save you from a dull evening, that’s all. However, you can please yourself.

  MICHAEL. Thanks, I shall.

  He goes out.

  After he has gone there is a pause.

  JOHN. Will you make the cocktails or shall I?

  OLIVIA (crossing to the drink table). I will.

  She begins absently to mix the ingredients.

  JOHN, from the opposite side of the room, by the fire, watches her, puzzled and anxious.

  JOHN. Am I dressed smartly enough for your party?

  OLIVIA. What, darling?

  JOHN (lighting a cigarette). Am I dressed smartly enough for your party?

  OLIVIA. Yes. (With an effort at recovery.) That’s a new suit, isn’t it?

  JOHN. Oh no. It’s an old one. I’ve had it for years. In fact, I’m not sure I wasn’t wearing it at your sister Ethel’s that night we first met –

  OLIVIA (quietly). No. That was a grey one.

  JOHN. Yes, of course. I should have remembered that.

  There is another pause, while OLIVIA continues to mix the cocktails.

  OLIVIA. John, dear?

  JOHN. Yes?

  OLIVIA. He’s won, you know.

  JOHN. Michael?

  OLIVIA. Yes. It’s either you or him.

  JOHN. And you’re choosing him?

  OLIVIA. Yes.

  There is another pause.

  JOHN. I’ve been expecting this.

  OLIVIA. I know you have.

  JOHN. Does it mean you’re going to leave me?

  OLIVIA. Yes.

  Pause.

  JOHN. I don’t know what to say, Olivia. If I told you that your love for me is the one good thing that ever happened to me, and that if you left me it will be the hardest blow I’ve ever had to bear, would that make any difference?

  OLIVIA. It would be very nice to hear, darling, but it wouldn’t make any difference –

  JOHN. If I resigned tomorrow, got my divorce, and asked you to marry me?

  OLIVIA. It would still be you or Michael –

  JOHN. I just can’t see life ahead without you – I’m not threatening suicide or trying to get your sympathy, but it’s a plain and simple fact that, if you leave me, life will not be worth living –

  OLIVIA. Don’t go on, darling. No matter however much I cry, it won’t make any difference.

  POLTON comes in.

  POLTON (announcing). Miss Wentworth.

  POLTON goes out.

  OLIVIA (going up to greet her guest). Oh, Miss Wentworth. How charming of you to come.

  MISS WENTWORTH. I’m delighted to be here.

  OLIVIA. You do know Sir John Fletcher?

  The telephone rings and JOHN picks up the receiver.

  MISS WENTWORTH. Of course I do.

  OLIVIA. Of course, you met him at Bobby’s party.

  MISS WENTWORTH. It’s a long time since we met.

  JOHN (answering the telephone). Yes, that’s quite all right. I’m so looking forward to seeing you.

  OLIVIA (to MISS WENTWORTH). May I say before the others come how much I enjoyed your last book?

  MISS WENTWORTH. I’m so glad.

  OLIVIA (with a ‘society’ laugh). I cry even now when I think of it. Most moving! Most moving!

  JOHN (putting the receiver down). The Randalls have been delayed at the theatre; they’ll be late.

  MISS WENTWORTH. Oh, are the Randalls coming? Delightful.

  OLIVIA. I hear they’re rehearsing a new comedy.

  POLTON comes in.

  POLTON (announcing). Sir Thomas and Lady Markham.

  OLIVIA (over her shoulder to MISS WENTWORTH). I do think that in times like these it’s far better to make people laugh than to make them cry.

  The curtain begins to fall as OLIVIA goes forward to greet SIR THOMAS and LADY MARKHAM.

  Darling, you haven’t been for ages –

  Curtain.

  End of Act Two.

  ACT THREE

  The sitting room of a flat in Barons Court, about three months later.

  The late Mr Brown’s taste is more in evidence than OLIVIA’s, and Mr Brown’s taste was not good. Th
e flat comprises the top floor of a tall Victorian mansion, and consists of the large living room, a kitchen, part of which is visible when the door is open (back centre), and OLIVIA’s and MICHAEL’s bedrooms, the two doors of which are left, OLIVIA’s above the fireplace and MICHAEL’s below it. The door leading to the hall is upstage right. A Gothic window shows a line of Gothic roofs across the street.

  The stage is empty when the curtain rises. The radio is playing. MICHAEL comes in, throws his hat, gloves, a copy of the Labour Monthly and a copy of the Tatler in a wrapper on the couch, and sits down. He rises to turn off the radio and sits down again to read the Labour Monthly.

  OLIVIA (coming out of the kitchen and kissing him). Hullo, darling. Had a nice day?

  MICHAEL. Hullo, Mum. All right, thanks. What about you?

  OLIVIA. Not so bad. You want your food at once, don’t you?

  MICHAEL. If you don’t mind awfully. I’ve got a date at a quarter to.

  OLIVIA (going into the kitchen). All right, darling. I won’t be a second.

  MICHAEL rises and goes to sit at the table, still reading his Labour Monthly.

  OLIVIA comes back from the kitchen with an omelette and a tureen of vegetables. Now that we get a better view of her we see that her appearance has undergone a transformation. She is wearing a plain grey skirt and a gay apron.

  It’s a dried-egg omelette again, I’m afraid.

  MICHAEL. It looks jolly good. Aren’t you going to eat?

  OLIVIA. It’s too early for me, darling. I’ll make myself something later.

  MICHAEL. That means bread and cheese and a cup of tea – if I know you.

  OLIVIA. I never feel hungry at night.

  MICHAEL. I wish you’d eat more. I’m getting quite worried about you.

  OLIVIA (going to the kitchen). I can’t stand my own cooking, that’s the trouble. Even so, I eat like a horse. I’ve put on five pounds since we came here.

  MICHAEL. That’s not from eating.

  OLIVIA (coming down again from the kitchen with another tureen and the bread). What is it from, then? A good conscience? You may be right, darling. Eat your nice omelette.

  MICHAEL begins to eat.

  What’s your date?

  MICHAEL. I’m going to a film at the Forum.

  OLIVIA. Who with?

  MICHAEL (gloomily). Sylvia.

  OLIVIA. Sylvia Hart? I thought that was all over.

  MICHAEL (forlornly). So did I – only she went and rang up and apologised, and now it’s all on again. (Sighs deeply.)

  OLIVIA. You don’t look very pleased about it, darling.

  MICHAEL. Well – the thing is – she only rang up because Sparky Stevens has gone back from his leave, and with Bill Evans being away she had no one else to take her out.

  OLIVIA (going back to the kitchen with the tea cloth). I see. Why don’t you take out one of the nice girls from the office?

  MICHAEL. Good Lord, no, Mum! They’re ninety in the office. The youngest is twenty-eight.

  OLIVIA (as she comes down again from the kitchen). The poor old things! It’s a wonder they can work.

  MICHAEL (who is still reading his Labour Monthly). Smashing! Here’s another article by Laski. I love him, don’t you?

  OLIVIA (vaguely). I don’t think I know him, darling.

  MICHAEL. Oh yes, you do, Mum. Don’t you remember I gave you that article of his to read in the last Labour Monthly? It was on ‘Exchange Equalisation and the Export Problem’.

  OLIVIA (not listening). Oh yes, of course. Charming.

  MICHAEL. This one’s on ‘Inflation and the Standardisation of Wages’. I’ll let you read it later. Oh, by the way, your Tatler’s come. (Gives her the wrapped periodical from the sofa.)

  OLIVIA. Oh, my Tatler. Good old Joan, she never forgets.

  There is a pause, during which OLIVIA unwraps her Tatler.

  MICHAEL. Gosh! Did you know that in 1926 the average wage of the non-skilled industrial worker in England was only twenty-eight and threepence?

  OLIVIA. Good Lord! What has Laura Ryde-Davis done to her hair?

  MICHAEL (chuckling). Oh, corking! He’s certainly letting the Government have it this month – old Laski.

  OLIVIA. I didn’t know Ciro’s had opened again, did you?

  MICHAEL. What? No, I didn’t.

  OLIVIA. Darling – eat your omelette, it’ll get cold.

  MICHAEL. I’ve finished, thanks.

  OLIVIA. Was it as bad as that?

  MICHAEL. No, it was delicious. I’m just not hungry, that’s all.

  OLIVIA (going to the table for the plate). I do it exactly the way the man says on the wireless, but it never seems to come out right. (Goes up to the kitchen.) I made you an austerity gateau, but it sat down. So I had to open a tin. One day I’ll use a real egg and see what happens. (Comes back with a plate of fruit.)

  MICHAEL. Thanks awfully. (Begins to eat again, while still reading.) Gosh, this is interesting.

  OLIVIA goes back to her Tatler.

  (Reading.) ‘The budget deficit which led to the artificially created crisis of 1931 could have been totally liquidated by wartime counter-inflationary methods in less than a month.’

  OLIVIA (sharply). My God!

  MICHAEL. What’s the matter?

  OLIVIA. Nothing, darling. Just something in the Tatler –

  MICHAEL. What?

  OLIVIA. It’s not important.

  MICHAEL. Let’s have a look. (Crossing to OLIVIA and reading over her shoulder.) ‘Sir John Fletcher and his beautiful wife enjoying a joke at Ciro’s.’ Gosh, it is her, too.

  OLIVIA. Well – why not? They were still quite friends – I hope he has gone back to her. It would settle everything very nicely. Go on with your dinner, darling, or you’ll be late.

  MICHAEL goes back to the table. OLIVIA studies the photograph again.

  My God, she’s still wearing that same idiotic hat she had on the day you brought her round!

  MICHAEL. It was a jolly nice hat. You admired it yourself.

  OLIVIA. I admired it because when a woman sticks a thing like that on her head you’ve got to say something or burst. Poor darling, what does she look like – a sort of agitated peahen. (Examining the picture more closely.) John never did photograph very well.

  MICHAEL. I thought it was rather good of him.

  OLIVIA. Oh no, it’s awful. He’s much better-looking than that. What’s it say? ‘Enjoying a joke’! Hm. I should think he was, laughing at that hat.

  MICHAEL. Oh, Mum, don’t worry about it.

  OLIVIA. I don’t. It’s nothing to do with me, anyway – if he does go and make an idiot of himself again.

  MICHAEL. You still mind about it, don’t you?

  OLIVIA (collecting the tureens and taking them to the kitchen). I’ve far too much on my hands trying to feed you and keeping this flat clean to worry about whether I’m happy or not. (Defiantly.) As a matter of fact, I’ve been perfectly happy these last three months.

  MICHAEL (wistfully). Gosh! Is that true?

  OLIVIA (coming back from the kitchen). Of course it is. It’s a clear conscience. I know my omelettes are uneatable and my gateaus sit down, but at least I try and cope – which is more than some people do. Enjoying a joke at Ciro’s! In a happy mood at The Dorchester! I wonder if that crowd realises how ridiculous they all are. What does your paper say about them?

  MICHAEL (delighted). Oh, Laski says that in the New World everyone will have to work his passage or be pushed overboard.

  OLIVIA. He’s right.

  MICHAEL. He says that crowd’s absolutely finished, even though they don’t know it yet.

  OLIVIA (vehemently). He’s absolutely right. Pushed overboard – every one of them! I must read that article. Where is it?

  MICHAEL (eagerly). It comes in the one on ‘Inflation and the Standardisation of Wages’. Here we are.

  OLIVIA (less eagerly). Oh. Yes, yes. Well, I’ll take it to bed with me. (Picks up her handkerchief from the chair, and then goes back to the
kitchen.)

  MICHAEL. Mum – don’t you ever feel bored here sometimes, all by yourself –

  OLIVIA (from the kitchen). No. Not often. Why?

  MICHAEL. I just wondered. Tell me – has that man who lives downstairs, Mr Dangerfield, been up to see you lately? (Taking his dirty plate to the kitchen.)

  OLIVIA. Mr Dangerfield is constantly up to see me, especially when you leave the front door unlocked, as you nearly always do, darling.

  MICHAEL. Don’t you like Mr Dangerfield?

  OLIVIA (coming out of the kitchen). I detest Mr Dangerfield.

  MICHAEL. Oh! Pity!

  OLIVIA. Why ‘pity’?

  MICHAEL. I have just thought – well – he’s rather a nice chap in many ways and now he’s retired from his job, with quite a nice pension –

  OLIVIA (as she folds the cloth and puts it in the drawer of the chest). Darling, I know quite well that you are doing your best to marry me off to Mr Dangerfield, but I must warn you that your efforts, which I’m sure are very well meant, are doomed to bitter disappointment. I find Mr Dangerfield a cracking old bore. (Bangs the drawer.)

  MICHAEL. Oh.

  OLIVIA. Aren’t you going to be late for Sylvia?

  MICHAEL (putting his hand on his stomach as though Sylvia’s name gave him a pain). Ah, yes. I’d better tidy up.

  OLIVIA. You like her?

  MICHAEL. A bit more than that.

  OLIVIA (crossing to him). Darling! Are you in love?

  MICHAEL. Sometimes I am and sometimes I’m not.

  OLIVIA. Which are you at the moment?

  MICHAEL. I am.

  OLIVIA. Oh, you poor little lamb! (Taking his face in her hands.) Is she in love with you?

  MICHAEL. Gosh, no! She’s not in love with anyone. I’m only about fifth or sixth on her list. I can’t afford to take her to The Savoy.

  OLIVIA. I must say she really doesn’t sound awfully nice. Why do you love her so much?

  MICHAEL (sadly). We men can’t help our feelings.

  He goes out.

  OLIVIA. No, of course not.

  MICHAEL (off). I’d ask you to come along – only –

  OLIVIA (crossing to the desk). Yes, darling, I quite understand.

  MICHAEL (off). I hate leaving you alone all the time.

  OLIVIA. That’s all right, darling. As a matter of fact, I’ve found myself a lovely new hobby. I’m teaching myself to type on your typewriter.

  She begins to type, with great concentration.