Love in Idleness / Less Than Kind

by Terence Rattigan

  OLIVIA. Oh, thank you.

  MICHAEL is immersed in his Laski article. OLIVIA unwraps her paper. It proves to be the Tatler. She spreads it out in front of her with a sigh of satisfaction.

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

  OLIVIA (immersed in her own journey). Really?

  There is a pause.

  Good Lord, what has Laura Ryde-Davies done to her hair?

  MICHAEL. Gosh, this is interesting. (Quoting.) ‘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 (absently). Fancy.

  There is another pause.

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

  MICHAEL (equally absently). What? No, I didn’t.

  Further pause.

  OLIVIA. Darling – eat your omelette or 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 (examining the omelette unhappily). I do it just like that man tells one on the wireless, but it never seems to come out right. (Defiantly.) One day I’ll use a real egg and see what happens.

  She disappears into the kitchen reappearing a second later with a plate of tinned fruit.

  I tried to make you a Gateau Lord Woolton, but it sat down, so I’ve had to open a tin.

  MICHAEL. Thanks so much.

  He begins to eat again, while still reading. OLIVIA settles down to her Tatler.

  (Chuckling.) That’s corking! He’s certainly letting the Government have it this month – old Laski.

  There is no answer from OLIVIA, as she turns over the pages, fascinated. She suddenly stops with a gasp.

  OLIVIA. My God!

  MICHAEL. What’s the matter?

  OLIVIA (quickly). Nothing, darling. Just something in the Tatler –

  MICHAEL. What?

  OLIVIA. It’s not important –

  MICHAEL (suspiciously). Let’s have a look. (Gets up and looks over her shoulder. Reading.) ‘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 –

  MICHAEL (violently). Oh no, they weren’t. She couldn’t bear him.

  OLIVIA. How do you know?

  MICHAEL. She told me so.

  OLIVIA. Well – she could bear his money, if not him.

  MICHAEL. Oh no, Mum, I’m sure that’s not true.

  OLIVIA. Anyway, what does it matter? I hope he has gone back to her. It would settle everything very well. Go on with your dinner, darling, or you’ll be late.

  MICHAEL goes back to his food. OLIVIA studies the photograph again.

  (With sudden fury.) My God, she’s wearing that same idiotic hat she had on that day you brought her round.

  MICHAEL. It wasn’t an idiotic hat; it was a jolly nice hat. You admired it yourself.

  OLIVIA. It was an obscene hat. I admired it because when a woman sticks a thing like that on her head you’ve got to say something about it or burst. (Laughing.) 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. (Musingly.) Enjoying a joke! Hm. I should think he was just 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.

  She turns over the pages angrily. MICHAEL gets up and puts an arm round her shoulder.

  MICHAEL. Poor Mum!

  OLIVIA. Why ‘poor Mum’?

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

  OLIVIA. Oh no. (Looking up at him.) Yes, of course I do.

  MICHAEL. Do you ever feel angry with me for having been responsible.

  OLIVIA (quietly). Yes, Michael. Quite often.

  MICHAEL. I know you do, and I’m sorry. I suppose you’ve a perfect right to hate me –

  OLIVIA (with a faint smile). I don’t think I could ever quite do that, darling. (Getting up.) Don’t let’s talk any more about it, shall we?

  MICHAEL. A little more – do you mind?

  OLIVIA, halfway to the kitchen, turns.

  I know that, as you look on it, it was a straight choice between him and me.

  OLIVIA. Isn’t that how you look on it?

  MICHAEL. No. Oh no, Mum. If I did I’d be miserable. I didn’t want you to sacrifice yourself for me.

  OLIVIA (impatiently). I’ve never mentioned the word sacrifice, Michael. I was in love with a man whom you hated. So I gave him up, that’s all.

  MICHAEL. But it’s not all. At the same time as you gave him up you gave up something else which I hated even more than him –

  OLIVIA (with a smile). You mean – my life as a rich man’s parasite.

  MICHAEL. Yes, if you like to put it like that. I suppose you think I’m an awful prig, but I know that sort of life you were living is wrong for these days.

  OLIVIA. You mean, Mr Laski wouldn’t approve of it?

  MICHAEL. No one, except a tiny little minority who don’t matter, would approve of it. Mum – don’t you realise that after this war there’s not going to be any place for those sort of people anywhere? Enjoying a joke at Ciro’s – in happy mood at The Dorchester, that crowd’s finished – only they don’t know it yet. After the war everyone – every single one of us will jolly well have to work his passage or be pushed overboard –

  OLIVIA (with a wry smile). Am I working my passage now?

  MICHAEL. Yes, of course you are, Mum.

  OLIVIA. In spite of that horrible omelette?

  MICHAEL. I love the way you suddenly turn things into a joke like that. I wish I could.

  OLIVIA (seriously). I wish you could too, Michael.

  She goes into the kitchen and disappears from view. MICHAEL follows her to the door.

  MICHAEL (diffidently). Mum – you aren’t feeling quite so unhappy about things as you were, are you?

  OLIVIA reappears with a tray.

  OLIVIA (briskly). I’m not feeling unhappy about things at all, Michael. (Begins to clear away the things.) I’m a bit bored sometimes, when you’re away at the office, and I’ve got no more work to do – but otherwise I’ve got nothing to complain of.

  MICHAEL (contrite). Yes. I’m sorry about that. Has that man who lives downstairs – what’s his name – Mr Dangerfield, been up to see you lately?

  OLIVIA. Mr Dangerfield is constantly up to see me – especially when you’ve forgotten to lock the front door – as you nearly always do, darling. I must have an automatic lock fitted.

  MICHAEL. Don’t you like Mr Dangerfield?

  OLIVIA. I detest Mr Dangerfield.

  MICHAEL. Oh, pity.

  OLIVIA. Why, ‘pity’?

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

  OLIVIA. Darling, I know quite well that you are doing your very best to marry me off to Mr Dangerfield, but I must warn you here and now that your efforts – which I’m sure are well meant, are doomed to bitter disappointment. I find Mr Dangerfield a cracking old bore.

  She goes out with a loaded tray. MICHAEL stands in doubt until his mother reappears.

  Aren’t you going to miss your date?

  MICHAEL. No. I’ve got ten minutes. Mum – is there anything I can do about your feeling bored.

  OLIVIA. No, thank you, darling. As a matter of fact I’m doing something myself. I’m teaching myself to type on your typewriter.

  MICHAEL (delighted). Oh,
Mum, you’re not. But that’s wonderful –

  OLIVIA. Mr Laski would approve?

  MICHAEL. You bet he would. So do I. Would you like to take a proper course. I could afford it.

  OLIVIA. No, thank you, darling. It might lead to a liaison with my teacher. You know what I am.

  MICHAEL (hurt). You’re very jumpy this evening, aren’t you? I know what it is. It’s that picture in the Tatler that’s upset you –

  OLIVIA. It hasn’t upset me at all. I haven’t thought of it –

  MICHAEL. Poor old Mum!

  OLIVIA turns on him.

  (Quickly.) I’m sorry. I meant – (Nervously.) I’ll just dash and wash my hands.

  He goes out. OLIVIA immediately picks up the Tatler and examines the picture carefully. Then she wanders over to a particularly hideous wall mirror and looks at herself. She sighs and goes into the kitchen where we can see her begin to wash up. MICHAEL comes back and takes out a hairbrush, comb and hair lotion from a drawer in a desk. He begins to brush his hair.

  (Calling.) Mum – don’t wait up for me. I may be rather late.

  OLIVIA (calling back). Why late? The Forum’s always over by ten.

  MICHAEL. Yes – only we might go on afterwards and have something to eat –

  OLIVIA. So that’s what you think of your poor old Mother’s cooking, is it?

  MICHAEL. Oh no. I won’t be hungry – only she might. I’m off now, Mum.

  OLIVIA comes out of the kitchen, drying her hands.

  OLIVIA. Michael, darling – why have you slicked your hair back in that horrid way? Do you think it looks attractive?

  MICHAEL. Not particularly.

  OLIVIA. Does she, then?

  MICHAEL. I don’t know.

  OLIVIA. I think it looks revolting.

  She ruffles his hair. He smoothes it down quickly.

  (Sharply.) Michael, what have you got on?

  MICHAEL (nervously). What do you mean?

  OLIVIA (sniffing). You’re smelling of something. What is it?

  MICHAEL. Oh, just hair oil.

  OLIVIA. Brylcreem never smelt like that. Come on now, what is it?

  MICHAEL. Well, as a matter of fact, I bought some eau de Cologne stuff in a shop. Of course, it’s not eau de Cologne, but it smells like it.

  OLIVIA (her hands round his neck). I’m glad you think so, darling. I say – you are cutting a dash tonight, aren’t you? I hope she’ll be impressed.

  MICHAEL. So do I.

  OLIVIA. Do you like her very much.

  MICHAEL. A bit more than that.

  OLIVIA. Darling! Are you in love?

  MICHAEL. I don’t know. Sometimes I am and sometimes I’m not.

  OLIVIA. Which are you at the moment?

  MICHAEL. I am.

  OLIVIA. Is she very nice?

  MICHAEL (without enthusiasm). Yes.

  OLIVIA. You sound a bit doubtful for a man in love.

  MICHAEL. Well – I wish I could be sure she wasn’t just leading me up the garden. (Firmly.) As a matter of fact, I think the time has come for me to take a firm line with her.

  OLIVIA. That’s right, darling. Anaesthetise her first with your eau de Cologne and then give her a good sound talking-to. Run along now. Have a good time.

  MICHAEL. Thanks, Mum. (At door.) Sorry about the lecture just now.

  OLIVIA. That’s all right, darling. I’m sure it was very good for me to be reminded of my place in the New World. (Smiles at him.) Give your girlfriend my love.

  MICHAEL. I will. Goodnight, Mum.

  He goes. OLIVIA goes briskly into the kitchen and through the open door we can see her washing up. She does this only for a few moments, then, appearing to become bored with it, leaves the dishes still in the sink and, drying her hands, comes out into the living room again. She goes directly to the Tatler and for yet a third time examines the picture, this time grimly and with evident distaste. Finally she grimaces in a silly smile – in what we can only presume is an imitation of DIANA FLETCHER – and throws the Tatler carelessly away. She stretches herself idly, then wanders to a small table in a corner on which is a typewriter. She sits down before it, slips in a piece of paper and with immense care and concentration begins to type, mostly with one finger, though at certain bolder moments, with two.

  JOHN appears noiselessly in the doorway behind her. He is breathing heavily but soundlessly, and leans for a second against the wall to recover his breath, gazing meanwhile at the back of OLIVIA’s head. Finally, he tiptoes to OLIVIA’s table and looks over her shoulder.

  JOHN (reading quietly). ‘Now is the time for all good men to say

  Diana Fletcher is a silly bitch.’ Really, Olivia!

  OLIVIA, with a gasp of pure terror, has jumped up and away from him.

  OLIVIA. John! Go away! Go away at once!

  JOHN. Please let me recover my breath first. (Sits down.) You ought to warn your visitors to bring their alpenstocks with them.

  OLIVIA. How did you get in?

  JOHN. Through what I gathered was the front door.

  OLIVIA. That little idiot must have left it unlocked again.

  JOHN. Why do I find you engaged in typing obscenities about my wife?

  OLIVIA (furiously). How dare you break in here like this? Go away at once. Go away, or I’ll get – I’ll get Mr Dangerfield to throw you out.

  JOHN. Who’s Mr Dangerfield?

  OLIVIA. He lives in the flat below. He’s as strong as a bull –

  JOHN. Go and get him. I need exercise.

  OLIVIA (changing her tactics). Oh, John, please go. Please. You gave me your sacred, solemn word of honour not to try and see me again.

  JOHN. Yes, I did, didn’t I?

  OLIVIA. Well, aren’t you ashamed of yourself.

  JOHN. Yes, I am. Bitterly ashamed of myself.

  OLIVIA (frantically). Then why don’t you go?

  JOHN. Ah. I have, as you point out, already broken my sacred, solemn word of honour. If I go away at once, I’d have endangered my immortal soul for no purpose whatever – and given myself a heart attack into the bargain from climbing your confounded stairs. (Cheerfully.) If I’m to be damned, at least let me be damned properly.

  OLIVIA. But, John, don’t you see, every second you stay makes it worse –

  JOHN. Yes, I do. Much worse.

  OLIVIA (menacingly). I warn you – Michael’s in that room there – (Points to the consulting room.)

  JOHN. Oh no, he isn’t. It’s not for nothing that I’ve been sitting in my car for the last half-hour in Puffin’s Corner waiting for him to come out. It was rather exciting. Like a gangster film. My driver was most intrigued. I told her I was watching a hotbed of international spies –

  OLIVIA. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, playing such silly schoolboy pranks.

  JOHN (without looking it). I’ve told you, Olivia, I am ashamed of myself – bitterly, bitterly ashamed of myself.

  OLIVIA. Anyway, Michael’s only gone round the corner to buy a packet of cigarettes. He’ll be back any second.

  JOHN. Oh no, he won’t. He’s gone to the cinema and he’ll be away for hours.

  OLIVIA (with a scornful laugh). If you saw him go into the Forum, it doesn’t mean that he’s going to see the film. That’s where he buys his cigarettes.

  JOHN. Really? Nevertheless, I happen to know he has gone to see a film and with a certain young woman –

  OLIVIA (wildly). If you saw a girl waiting for him it doesn’t mean –

  JOHN. I did not see a girl waiting for him. Nor did I wait to see him go into the Forum. I used other methods.

  OLIVIA. What methods?

  JOHN. My dear Olivia, the British Secret Service –

  OLIVIA (furiously). Well, really! That’s pretty, I must say! You – the Minister of Tank Production – having a little boy in your Ministry spied upon by secret agents, just to find out when his mother’s going to be alone. That’s very nice! The Prime Minister’s going to be awfully pleased when I write and tell him that little titbit –


  JOHN (snapping his fingers). A fig for the Prime Minister!

  OLIVIA. All right. You can sit there and say ‘a fig for the Prime Minister’. But I bet you won’t say ‘a fig for the Prime Minister’ when he slings you on your ear out of his Cabinet.

  JOHN. I say ‘a fig for the Prime Minister’ for one reason and one reason only. I have already – one hour ago precisely – been slung on my ear out of his Cabinet.

  OLIVIA (appalled). What?

  She dives onto the sofa and clutches his hand warmly.

  Oh, John, no. I’m terribly sorry. You poor darling –

  JOHN. Thank you, Olivia, but you needn’t waste your sympathy on me, much as I love to have it. ‘Slung out on my ear’ was a rather misleading description of the interview. ‘Warmly congratulated on a temporary war job successfully concluded’ would be a little more accurate.

  OLIVIA rises again, a little annoyed at having been tricked into showing her feelings.

  OLIVIA. You mean – the Ministry’s finished?

  JOHN. I’m glad to say, yes.

  OLIVIA. What are you going to do, then?

  JOHN. Marry you.

  OLIVIA. Oh no, you’re not. You can get that idea right out of your head. Aha, so that’s why you came round to see me, was it?

  JOHN. That is why I made the trek from 10 Downing Street to Puffin’s Corner.

  OLIVIA. I see. (Looks round, sees JOHN’s hat lying on a table, picks it up and hands it to him.) I’m not going to marry you, John, and that’s final. Now will you kindly go back to Westminster and to your wife who, I’m sure, is waiting for you with open arms and leave me in peace.

  JOHN. My wife? What do you mean?

  OLIVIA. You’re not the only one who has ways of finding things out. Enjoying a joke! That’s charming; I suppose the joke was the thought of that poor old cow, Olivia Brown, tucked safely away in Barons Court –

  JOHN. But you don’t seriously think I’ve gone back to Diana, do you?

  OLIVIA. I don’t care whether you have or you haven’t. I don’t care what you do with your life any more. I’m finished with you, John, can’t you understand that? I’m finished with you for good and all.

  JOHN. Do you mean that?

  OLIVIA. Of course I mean it. I’ve made my decision, and I’m not going back on it. I never want to see you again. I’ve told you so. You stick to your part of the town and I’ll stick to mine and I’d be grateful if in future you don’t come slumming.