OLIVIA. Make sense, John. Do make sense.
JOHN. Your son, madam, is growing up.
OLIVIA. Where’s the hope for the world in that?
JOHN. On the horizon. A little speck of light that may one day become a sunrise.
OLIVIA. John, have you been drinking?
JOHN. Yes, I’ve been drinking gin. With your son.
OLIVIA. I didn’t know there was any gin in the flat.
JOHN. What mothers don’t know would fill a book.
OLIVIA. John! Really!
JOHN. Would you care to dance?
OLIVIA. John!
Nevertheless, she rises and they begin to dance.
JOHN. I’d forgotten how well you dance.
OLIVIA. I’m a little out of practice.
JOHN. Even practice can’t improve perfection.
They have each done an isolated turn and are back in each other’s arms when MICHAEL comes back. He glares at them for a moment while they continue to dance. He then turns off the radio and is going back to his own room, when he changes his mind, stopping at the door.
MICHAEL (at length). I suppose we can get a table for three, can’t we, Sir John?
OLIVIA (joyously). Michael, darling! Why, are you coming, too?
MICHAEL. Gosh, I’m giving the dinner.
JOHN goes to the telephone.
OLIVIA. You are? How wonderful. John, you don’t have to telephone
Antoine’s. There’s always plenty of room there.
MICHAEL. We’re going to The Savoy.
OLIVIA (shocked). The Savoy – oh, no – certainly not The Savoy! Antoine’s is much nicer.
MICHAEL. No, Antoine’s is no good.
OLIVIA. Antoine’s is charming.
JOHN. I’d love to go to Antoine’s, but I’m afraid Michael is right, it’s got to be The Savoy.
OLIVIA. No, no, not The Savoy.
MICHAEL. Oh, Mum, do come. Sir John’s car is outside.
JOHN. Yes, in Puffin’s Corner.
MICHAEL. We can go in style.
OLIVIA. His car? (Firmly.) If we must go to The Savoy, I shall certainly not go in a car. We’ll walk.
JOHN and MICHAEL. What!
MICHAEL. But why, when we’ve got a car?
OLIVIA. We’ll walk, or take a bus.
JOHN. Are you sure you know how to get there by bus?
OLIVIA. Of course I do. We’ll take a number 72 – or is it a 73?
JOHN. Or number 74?
OLIVIA. No. You go to Notting Hill Gate, and then you change. Or does a number 72 go to Notting Hill Gate?
JOHN. Perhaps it would if we asked it nicely.
OLIVIA. Well, wherever it does go to you change and take a number – anyway, we’ll get to The Savoy, somehow.
JOHN. Some day.
OLIVIA. Michael, darling, go and put the cover on my typewriter.
MICHAEL crosses from where he has been sitting on the sofa, and JOHN crosses to get his hat and gloves from the sofa. OLIVIA rises and moves upstage, catching sight of the unwashed dishes as she does so.
Oh, I’ve forgotten the washing up.
There is a moment’s awful silence.
Well, we could all do that later, couldn’t we? You are a fine pair, you two. You’ll have a lot to answer for, over dinner. Michael, dear, go and put the light on the stairs.
MICHAEL (kissing her). All right, Mum.
OLIVIA. Get my mackintosh, John.
MICHAEL. Only do hurry.
He goes out.
OLIVIA It might rain, you never can tell.
JOHN takes her mackintosh from where it is hanging on the wall outside the kitchen and puts it round her. He takes her in his arms.
JOHN. Oh, darling, I do love you so much. (Taking the mackintosh off and throwing it on the sofa.) I don’t think you’ll need this. It’s going to be a lovely evening.
MICHAEL (off). Come on, you two, for heaven’s sake, get cracking!
JOHN (calling after him). All right, in a minute. You must remember,
Michael, your mother and I are getting on.
He kisses her.
Curtain.
The End.
LESS THAN KIND
Characters
OLIVIA BROWN
POLTON
MISS DELL
SIR JOHN FLETCHER
MICHAEL BROWN
DIANA FLETCHER
MR RANDALL
MRS RANDALL
SIR THOMAS MARKHAM
ACT ONE
A house in Westminster, London
ACT TWO
The same, four days later
ACT THREE
A flat in Barons Court, London, three months later
ACT ONE
The sitting room of a house in Westminster.
The furniture and decoration give an impression of tasteful opulence.
There are two doors – one in the back wall, leading into the hall, and the other leading to a small room used as a study by SIR JOHN FLETCHER, the owner of the house. There are large windows through which we can catch a glimpse of the street – a quiet little Georgian backwater. The time is about 9 p.m. of a summer’s day.
On the rise of the curtain, OLIVIA BROWN is lying on the sofa, telephoning. She is in a negligee of sorts, has the evening papers piled on her stomach and looks comfortable and happy.
OLIVIA (into telephone). … Oh, darling, do come… Well, come after the ballet then… half-past eight. I can’t leave it any later because John may have to go back to the Ministry… Well, you’ll just have to cut the last ballet, that’s all. What is it?… Oh, my dear, you don’t want to see that again – all those great swans chasing that absurd young man… Good. That’s angelic of you. Thursday eight-thirty. Don’t forget.
She rings off, refers to her private telephone book and dials a number.
Treasury? Extension 10356 please… Hullo, Dicky? Olivia. Is there a chance of a word with his nibs? Don’t give me that. If I know him he’s in the middle of a nice game of Battleships with you at this moment… Well, I won’t keep him a second. Are you afraid I’ll make him drop a stitch in his budget or something?… Go on, Dicky, put me through, there’s a sweetie… All right, you can take me out on Friday week… Right. (After a pause.) Sir Thomas? This is Olivia Brown. I’m so sorry to disturb you when I know you must be so busy. It’s about Thursday night. You can come, can’t you?… Oh, that is a shame. I’m so disappointed. Celia Wentworth, the novelist is simply aching to meet you, and she’s coming specially – just because I told her you were expected… Celia Wentworth… Oh yes, you have, I’m sure… Oh, she’s a dear and she’s simply mad about your memoirs. She says she thinks you’ve wasted your talents as a politician. You ought to have been a writer… Oh, that is sweet of you. Thank you so much. She would have been heartbroken… Yes, eight-thirty. I’m very grateful. Goodbye.
She rings off. Refers again to her private telephone book and dials another number.
Hullo… Is that Miss Wentworth? This is Olivia Brown. Could you dine on Thursday night? I’ve got the Chancellor of the Exchequer coming, and he’s such an admirer of yours… Oh dear, couldn’t you put it off? It’s the only day he can manage… Yes, he absolutely worships your Resplendent Valley… You will? Splendid. Eight-thirty. You know the address, don’t you? You’ll find it in the book under Fletcher – John Fletcher… That’s right. Goodbye.
She rings off and begins to write in a notebook. The telephone goes off and she takes receiver off, still writing.
Hullo… Who wants her? Oh, hullo, Joan darling, I didn’t recognise your voice… No, really?… Oh, John never tells me a thing. I rely on you for all my information. The Board of Trade? Are you sure? There’s nothing in the papers – not even the Sketch… Well, who’ll be the new Under-Secretary for War?… No! Not poor old Freddy?… Oh, I am glad. Off the dust heap at last. How delighted Laura will be. I’ll give her a ring… It just shows how right he’s been to have sat there all those years looking stern and saying nothing… Oh no,
darling. I’m sure you’re wrong. He was never a Liberal. He was super’d from Eton… Super’d… Removed for not being in a high enough form… Oh no, that’s all right. I challenge you to name me one Cabinet Minister who doesn’t boast of never having reached the top form at his public school, especially when they’re giving prizes away at speech days. I always feel so sorry for the little boys who get the prizes – marked for failure before they start…
POLTON, a middle-aged and highly respectable-looking parlourmaid, comes in with a telegram on a salver. OLIVIA takes it, nods her thanks and opens it casually while still speaking. POLTON goes out.
Oh well, of course, John’s different. He went to one of those Canadian co-educational establishments and he graduated, or whatever they call it, wonderfully high: but then, he did play ice hockey very well and, of course, he doesn’t really count, being only a wartime Cabinet Minister…
She has read the telegram and now gives a shriek.
Oh!… Sorry, darling, it’s the most wonderful news. (Calling.) Polton! (Into receiver.) It’s a wire from Michael… my little son. He’s arrived in England. (Reading.) ‘Arrived safely. See you late tonight.’ I knew he was on his way from Canada, but I didn’t know he’d sailed – they never tell you a thing… Yes, isn’t it wonderful?… Where would it be, do you think? Glasgow? Liverpool?… No, I haven’t seen him for five years. I sent him over there in ’39… Darling, I must ring off, do you mind? I feel too excited… I’ll ring you tomorrow morning.
She rings off and jumps up from the sofa. POLTON has come in.
Polton, my son has arrived in England.
POLTON (smiling benignly). Yes, madam, I heard you saying so on the telephone. I’m so glad.
OLIVIA. Thank you, Polton. It really is wonderful news.
OLIVIA re-reads the telegram.
I didn’t think he’d be here for weeks yet. I know how long it takes. Silly boy! Why didn’t he say which station he was arriving at, and I could have gone to meet him –
POLTON. I suppose there’ll be someone with the little chap to look after him, won’t there, madam?
OLIVIA. Oh no, I don’t think so.
POLTON (appalled). You don’t mean he’s come all that way from Canada all by his little self?
OLIVIA laughs gaily.
OLIVIA. It’s charming of you to think so, Polton, but he’s not quite such a little self as all that, you know. He’s – well, let me see – he was over twelve when he went away, so now he must be – anyway, quite old enough to look after himself.
POLTON ( gazing at OLIVIA). Mercy! I’d never have believed it, I will say.
OLIVIA (smiling). Thank you, Polton.
POLTON. Which room shall I get ready, madam.
OLIVIA. The little one, next to mine. Late tonight probably means very late, so you’d better ask Cook to have something cold left out for him. I’ll wait up, of course.
POLTON. Very good, madam.
POLTON turns to go, and is stopped by OLIVIA.
OLIVIA. Oh, and Polton –
POLTON. Yes, madam?
OLIVIA (with slight constraint). I think Sir John will be sleeping at his Club tonight. You’d better pack a bag for him.
POLTON. Very good, madam. Just for the one night?
OLIVIA. Er – yes, I think so.
POLTON goes. OLIVIA reads her telegram a third time, then puts it away in her pocket. She looks at a silver-framed photograph of a small boy which is on a table, then puts it down and glances round the room with a half-smile. She seems pleased at what she sees.
MISS DELL comes out of the study. She is a severe, poker-faced woman of highly efficient appearance.
MISS DELL. Good evening, Mrs Brown.
OLIVIA. Oh, good evening, Miss Dell.
MISS DELL. Would you tell Sir John that I’ve left some letters on his desk to sign, and that if he wishes to work late tonight I shall be free from eight-thirty onwards.
OLIVIA. Oh, I do hope he won’t have to work late again. Don’t you think he’s looking tired, Miss Dell?
MISS DELL. I was going to say, Mrs Brown, that I think it would be a good thing if you could exert your influence on him and try to get him to let up just a little. After all, we don’t want him cracking up on us, do we?
OLIVIA. No indeed, we don’t, Miss Dell. I’ll try to exert my influence on him.
MISS DELL. Would you tell him, too, that RMB3 have been through twice, and want him to ring them most urgently.
OLIVIA. RMB3. I’ll remember that.
MISS DELL. Oh – and his wife’s solicitors want an answer by tomorrow morning.
OLIVIA. Oh yes. What about?
MISS DELL. The Barton and Burgess affair.
OLIVIA. What’s that?
MISS DELL. Sir John will know. It’s not at all important. You won’t forget RMB3, will you? It’s vital he rings them as soon as he comes in.
OLIVIA (absently). I’ll see he does.
MISS DELL. I’m off to the MOI to collect a report he particularly wants tonight. In case I don’t see you again tonight, goodnight, Mrs Brown.
OLIVIA (still absently). Goodnight, Miss Dell.
MISS DELL goes out. OLIVIA, still looking rather preoccupied, picks up her pencilled list and studies it for a second. She rings the bell. After a pause, POLTON comes in.
Oh, Polton. I was too excited just now to tell you. I’ve managed to make up the table for Thursday.
POLTON. There’ll be twelve, madam?
OLIVIA. Yes. I’ll see Cook about it tomorrow. We’d better start saving up rations – so Sir John and I will be dining out tonight.
POLTON. Very good, madam.
The telephone rings. OLIVIA answers it. POLTON goes out.
OLIVIA (into phone). Hullo… No, he’s out at the moment. Who wants him?… Well, have you tried him at the Ministry?… Oh, I see. Well, I’m expecting him in any minute. He usually comes in about this time… No, I’m afraid his secretary has just gone out… Can I give him a message?… No, this isn’t Lady Fletcher… I see. If he comes in before six-thirty you want him to ring you…
SIR JOHN FLETCHER has come in in time to hear OLIVIA’s last words. He is a man of about forty-five, dressed in formal clothes which, for a Cabinet Minister, are exceptionally well cut. He carries a briefcase in one hand and some spring flowers in the other. He puts the briefcase down and takes the receiver from OLIVIA’s hand before she notices his presence.
JOHN. Fletcher here –
OLIVIA. Oh, hello, darling.
She gives him an affectionate peck on the cheek and then wanders over to a tray, on which is a decanter of whisky and some glasses. She is pouring out a drink while JOHN continues on the telephone.
JOHN. I see… Yes, well, I’m afraid I can’t give the specifications until I’ve read the report from the MOI which I should have had this afternoon… No, but one of my secretaries is fetching it now. I’ll read it tonight and get in touch with you first thing tomorrow morning. Thank you… Goodbye.
OLIVIA (from the drink table). Darling, you’re not to work tonight.
JOHN. Why not?
OLIVIA. Miss Dell thinks you’re looking very tired and I agree with her.
She hands him his whisky. He returns the kiss she gave him and hands her the flowers.
JOHN. I’ve brought you some flowers.
OLIVIA (surprised). Why?
JOHN. Why not? (Sits on the sofa and begins to take his shoes off.)
OLIVIA. It’s not an anniversary or anything, is it?
JOHN. Does it have to be an anniversary before I can buy you some flowers?
OLIVIA. Darling, it’s very naughty of you. You know perfectly well I never have flowers in this house. Why did you suddenly go and buy these?
She rings the bell.
JOHN (unloosening his collar). On the way from the Ministry it occurred to me it was spring.
OLIVIA. It’s been spring for weeks.
JOHN. Possibly, but it hadn’t previously occurred to me.
OLIV
IA. But why did it suddenly occur to you tonight?
JOHN. I wish I’d never bought the goddam things.
POLTON comes in.
OLIVIA. Oh, Polton – put these in some water, would you?
JOHN. Good evening, Polton.
POLTON. Good evening, Sir John. (Taking the flowers.) Oh, aren’t these lovely? There are no flowers like spring flowers, are there, sir?
JOHN. No, Polton. There aren’t.
POLTON goes out.
You see, Polton has the soul that you lack. She can appreciate beautiful things.
OLIVIA. I can appreciate beautiful things too, but not when they cost the earth and there’s a war on. (Kisses him gently.) Thank you, darling, but you’re very naughty.
JOHN. All right. I’m very naughty. Did Miss Dell leave any messages for me?
OLIVIA. Oh yes, and one most important one. Your wife’s solicitors rang you up.
JOHN. Oh yes?
OLIVIA. You’re to give them an answer tomorrow morning on the Barton and Burgess affair.
JOHN. I see.
OLIVIA (after a pause). Darling, what is the Barton and Burgess affair?
JOHN. Barton and Burgess are my wife’s bookmakers. She incurred a very large debt with them, mostly after the time we were separated. Her solicitors think I should pay. I don’t. That is the Barton and Burgess affair. Were there any other messages?
OLIVIA. I don’t remember any. Darling, I think you ought to pay that debt, don’t you?
JOHN. Frankly, no. She has a handsome settlement, and can well afford to pay her own racing debts. Are you sure there weren’t any other messages?
OLIVIA. Wait a minute, now. There was a thing you had to ring up. Three letters and a number. R something. Darling, don’t you think if you paid the bill it would avoid a lot of unpleasantness?
JOHN. That is not my view. Can you possibly remember what the other two letters and the figure were of the thing that I have to ring up?
OLIVIA. Now let me think. There was an R and a B, I think.
JOHN. RBY4?
OLIVIA. That’s right. You’re to ring them up at once.
JOHN reaches a hand for the telephone.
Or was in RMB3?
JOHN (patiently). Or possibly BRF6?
OLIVIA. Yes. No. It’s no good. I can’t remember.
JOHN. Well, doubtless whatever letters or numbers the thing had, it will probably ring me again. I shall be sitting up all night working, anyway.
Love in Idleness / Less Than Kind Page 15
