Love in Idleness / Less Than Kind

by Terence Rattigan

  JOHN gets up slowly. There is a pause.

  JOHN. Very well. We won’t say any more about it then.

  OLIVIA. No, indeed we won’t. And now, will you kindly go?

  JOHN. All right. (Goes slowly to the door.) But Olivia – do be reasonable. Surely Michael can no longer have any possible grounds for objecting –

  OLIVIA. Certainly he has grounds for objecting, and extremely good ones, too.

  JOHN. Precisely what grounds, might I ask?

  OLIVIA. All right, then. Don’t you realise that in the world that’s coming every one of us – every single one of us – is going to have to work his passage or be pushed overboard?

  JOHN. Yes, I do realise that.

  OLIVIA. Very well, then. And don’t you realise that your crowd – the crowd that enjoys a joke at Ciro’s and is snapped in happy mood at The Dorchester – is finished – even though they don’t know it yet –

  JOHN. Well – we won’t go to Ciro’s and The Dorchester, then. We’ll go to The Tuck Inn.

  OLIVIA. That won’t save you. It makes no difference whether it’s The Tuck Inn or The Dorchester –

  JOHN. Why? Is the crowd that goes to The Tuck Inn going to be finished too?

  OLIVIA. No. No. No! It’s because in the New World there’s going to be no place for people like you, with your stocks and shares and your dividends and your – your wily schemes for exploiting other people for your own private profit. You’re all going to be swept aside like so much – so much –

  JOHN. Chaff?

  OLIVIA. Yes, chaff. And what’s more, it’s going to be a better, cleaner, healthier world without you. (Satisfied.) There! Have I said enough, or do you want more?

  JOHN. You’ve said enough. I take it then, that your reasons for not wanting to marry me are ideological rather than sentimental?

  OLIVIA (a shade tearfully). I don’t know what ideologicathing means, and you know it, but I’m not going to marry you and that’s flat.

  JOHN (quietly). I see. Well – as this is obviously going to be the last time I shall ever see you, do you mind if I just stay long enough to smoke one cigarette?

  OLIVIA. Oh, all right? (Warningly.) But when that’s finished out you go, and for good.

  JOHN. Agreed.

  He looks in a box on the table for cigarettes.

  OLIVIA. No, there aren’t any there. Unlike some people, we can’t afford to have cigarettes lying about all over the place. Here.

  She hoists her apron up, and takes out a battered-looking carton from a pocket, which she proffers to JOHN.

  JOHN. Thank you.

  OLIVIA takes one herself, and he lights it for her.

  I suppose now there’s no alternative for me but to go back to my wife.

  OLIVIA. It’s of no interest to me, John, what plans you make for the future. It’s your life and you can wreck it as you please.

  JOHN (regarding the end of his cigarette). She’s really not such a bad sort – in many ways –

  OLIVIA. I thought her charming the only time I met her.

  JOHN. And anyway she’s hardly the type to bother about how she’s going to work her passage in the New World.

  OLIVIA. Really? Funny. I’d have thought she was exactly the type.

  JOHN. You misjudge her, Olivia.

  OLIVIA. Not at all. I told you I found her delightful.

  Pause.

  (Casually.) I understood that she was suing you for five hundred pounds. You don’t think that perhaps her apparent eagerness to go back to you may have some slight connection…

  JOHN (laughing easily). Oh no, no, Olivia. There your suspicions are entirely unfounded. The Barton and Burgess affair has been settled some time ago –

  OLIVIA. You don’t really mean you gave way over that and paid it –

  JOHN. That was what you asked me to do, don’t you remember? You said it would avoid unpleasantness.

  OLIVIA. Unpleasantness is one thing. Mere idiotic sugar-daddyness is another.

  JOHN (mildly). Sugar-daddyness is not, I feel, a term that can properly be applied to a girl’s lawful husband.

  OLIVIA (controlling herself, with dignity). Sugar-daddyness I said and sugar-daddyness I meant. However, as I told you, I’m sure it’s none of my affair.

  Pause.

  (Casually.) As a matter of fact, I’m not entirely without plans for the future myself.

  JOHN. You mean – learning to type?

  OLIVIA. No. I meant plans of a more domestic nature.

  JOHN. Oh, really? May I ask the name of the lucky man?

  OLIVIA. Certainly. I think I mentioned him. Mr Dangerfield.

  JOHN. Ah. Mr Dangerfield. The bull-like gentleman from the floor below.

  OLIVIA. He’s an extremely intelligent, cultured and amusing person, as a matter of fact. The only thing against him is that he is perhaps – just a little – on the young side. Twenty-nine. Still, a difference in our ages of six years needn’t be fatal.

  JOHN. No. (After a pause.) A difference of eight years needn’t be fatal either. I’m sure I wish you every happiness.

  OLIVIA. Thank you. I wish you exactly the same.

  Pause.

  JOHN (diffidently). Well – seeing that we both know our own minds now, do you think there would be any particular harm in our having a little dinner together.

  OLIVIA. Certainly not, it would be highly immoral.

  JOHN. I didn’t add ‘or something’, you know –

  OLIVIA. I’m quite aware of that. There are other kinds of immorality. Have you forgotten that we have both given Michael our solemn –

  JOHN (interrupting). – word of honour. Yes, I know. But I personally do not consider a promise given under duress as binding.

  OLIVIA. What duress?

  JOHN (losing his calm). You know perfectly well what duress. God! That boy thinks I’m a fascist. Well, I can think of far worse names for him.

  OLIVIA. You do realise you’re speaking about my son, I suppose?

  JOHN. Yes, I do, and I’ll thank you to drop the wounded-mother attitude.

  OLIVIA rises with dignity.

  Yes, and the icy dignity, and the left-wing belligerence. Face facts for a moment, madam. Our lives have been split and blasted to atoms by a little moral gangster with a mother-fixation and a passion for self-dramatisation.

  OLIVIA. You can blackguard Michael as much as you like but it won’t help your case –

  JOHN. Possibly not – but I want to remind you of something, that’s all. That afternoon – the fatal one – when Michael was acting Hamlet all over the house, did I or did I not warn you to look out for a closet scene?

  OLIVIA. Did you? I don’t remember.

  JOHN. I do remember. What’s more I remember exactly what you said. You said that if he tried anything like that you’d smack his bottom for him. Well, by God, within a few minutes he’d given you the closet scene, practically line for line, and not only did you not smack his bottom for him, madam, you calmly and deliberately put a match to the charge he had so carefully laid, blew up both our lives, and disappeared to spend the rest of your days in a penurious and hideous eyrie in Barons Court.

  OLIVIA (with dignity). I’m quite aware that the flat is not looking its best at the moment. And as for the closet scene, I must tell you you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re merely putting up a smokescreen to conceal the fundamentals of the situation, which are perfectly simple. You are Sir John Fletcher, Bt., multimillionaire steel magnate, with hundreds of houses here and in Canada and all over the world, and a beautiful wife whom you enjoy jokes with at Ciro’s and I am a dentist’s widow, living in a hideous eyrie in Barons Court, with a duty to my only son.

  JOHN (wearily). All right, you win, Olivia. (Sinks back into a chair. At length, in a society voice.) What a charming place you have here!

  OLIVIA. There’s no need to be patronising about it. What you said first was correct. It is a hideous eyrie. But you see, I’m afraid I have neither the time nor the money to mak
e it less hideous, no longer being a member of the idle rich.

  JOHN. Rich you may have been. I never noticed that you were particularly idle.

  OLIVIA (bravely). Of course I was idle – lying on my back all day long, gossiping with my friends – giving idiotic dinner parties. Michael was quite right. I was a mere useless parasite. If I’d gone on like that what sort of place do you think I’d have had in the New World?

  JOHN (wearily). Since you ask me, I’d say just about the same place you had in the old.

  OLIVIA (belligerently). There you are, you see. Cynicism! Cold-blooded, reactionary cynicism! You don’t think there’s going to be a New World, do you?

  JOHN. I think it’ll be the same old world – spring-cleaned a bit – they’ll call it new.

  OLIVIA. And that’s simply because you don’t want a New World. You don’t, do you?

  JOHN. I want you, Olivia, that’s all I want, and if I could get you, I’d take a New World, an old world, a middle-aged world or any damn world at all. And now I’ve finished my cigarette, exhausted my patience, feel remarkably hungry and could do with a drink. I’ll go. (Gets up.) I’m going back to Canada in a week, Olivia, probably for a long time. Goodbye.

  He stretches out his hand. OLIVIA makes no move to take it.

  OLIVIA (politely). I’m sorry I can’t offer you a drink, only –

  JOHN. You can’t afford to keep it. I quite understand.

  OLIVIA (casually). Who will you dine with?

  JOHN. No one.

  OLIVIA. Why don’t you ring up your wife? I’m sure she’d be delighted –

  JOHN. I would, but I have an idea she’s engaged this evening –

  OLIVIA. Yes. I imagine one would need to book her a long way ahead.

  JOHN. I tell you, you misjudge her, Olivia.

  OLIVIA. I neither judge nor misjudge her. I take her as she is. If you can’t get her, then, isn’t there someone else you can have dinner with?

  JOHN. There is, as you well know, only one person in the world I want to have dinner with tonight. Since she’s not available, I shall dine alone, at my Club.

  OLIVIA. I see. (After a faint pause.) Don’t you hate dining alone?

  JOHN. I’m not particularly fond of it, I must admit.

  OLIVIA. I hate it, too.

  There is another pause, while they stare at each other. OLIVIA’s firm attitude is palpably slipping.

  (At length.) When I dine alone, I usually slip out to a little restaurant quite near here called Antoine’s.

  JOHN (politely). Antoine’s? Really?

  OLIVIA. Yes. It’s a funny little place practically next door to Barons Court Station.

  JOHN. Indeed?

  OLIVIA. Yes. (After a pause.) It’s French, you know.

  JOHN. Yes. It – er – sounds French.

  Pause.

  Practically next door to Barons Court Station?

  OLIVIA. That’s right. There are always very few people there – that’s why it’s so nice for dining alone –

  JOHN. Of course it would be. (Casually.) You dine alone most evenings, I suppose?

  OLIVIA. Yes, usually. It depends whether I feel strong enough to face my own cooking, or not.

  JOHN. I see.

  OLIVIA (with a social laugh). I can’t really imagine why I’m standing here chattering to you about Antoine’s. It couldn’t conceivably be of any interest to you – living so far away from Barons Court – and going to Canada in a week’s time.

  JOHN. Well, it’s always nice to hear of these amusing little places, you know. Still, I mustn’t keep you any longer from your household duties. I expect you’ve got all sorts of things to do, like dusting the place and doing the beds and – cooking your evening meal.

  OLIVIA. Well, as a matter of fact I was just thinking, it’s a little hot for cooking, tonight.

  JOHN (agreeing warmly). Yes, indeed, it is a little hot tonight, isn’t it? Remarkably close for the time of year. Remarkably.

  He turns to the door.

  (With intense seriousness.) Well – goodbye, then, Olivia. I don’t know when, if ever, I shall see you again. Good luck, and God bless you.

  He goes out. OLIVIA smiles, evidently highly delighted with herself. She hums a little tune, takes off her apron and goes towards the door of her bedroom. As she reaches it, JOHN reappears in some agitation.

  (Gasping.) I’m trapped.

  OLIVIA. What do you mean?

  JOHN. Michael’s on the stairs. I heard him coming up.

  OLIVIA. Are you sure?

  JOHN. Positive. Where can I hide?

  OLIVIA. In the consulting room.

  JOHN. Where’s that?

  OLIVIA. In here.

  She opens the door of the consulting room and pushes him through as MICHAEL appears.

  Hullo, darling. You’re back very early. What happened? Didn’t she turn up?

  MICHAEL (glumly). Oh yes. She turned up all right.

  OLIVIA. What was wrong then?

  MICHAEL. Well, we had a sort of a row, and so now she’s going home.

  OLIVIA. Oh dear!

  MICHAEL. It was all because she’d seen the film already and didn’t want to see it again. I said she ought to and that’s what the row was about. Look, Mum, she wants to use the telephone, so may I bring her up?

  OLIVIA (doubtfully). Yes, darling. Do. I should be delighted to meet her.

  MICHAEL (embarrassed). Yes – well – the only thing is – she’s not awfully keen to meet you.

  OLIVIA. Oh, really?

  MICHAEL. Well, it’s only that she’s a bit shy, you see, Mum, and she wouldn’t come upstairs until I’d made quite sure you were out. I told her you were, you see.

  OLIVIA. You want me to disappear, is that it?

  MICHAEL. Well – yes, Mum. Do you mind awfully?

  OLIVIA. No, darling. That’s all right. I was going to change, anyhow. She won’t be here for long, will she?

  MICHAEL. Oh no, I’m afraid not. She’s got a taxi waiting.

  OLIVIA. Extravagant little girl! Very well, darling – if you’re ashamed of your poor old mother…

  MICHAEL. Oh, Mum – you know it isn’t that –

  OLIVIA (with a smile). Go on, bring her up. I’ll go and have a bath.

  MICHAEL goes. OLIVIA goes quickly to the consulting room door.

  John?

  JOHN (appearing at the door). Yes.

  OLIVIA. He’s bringing his little girlfriend up. Wait until they’re safely in this room – you’ll be able to hear them – then go out through that other door – (Points off.) which leads through the waiting room into the hall. Then you can slip out down the stairs and no one will see you. Is that clear?

  JOHN. Yes. Through that door there, through the waiting room, into the hall, down the stairs.

  OLIVIA. That’s right.

  She closes the door and goes out. After a brief pause, DIANA comes in followed by MICHAEL. They are arguing.

  DIANA. I’m awfully sorry, darling, but really nothing on earth would have induced me to sit through it again.

  MICHAEL. But all I’m asking is, are you absolutely sure you have seen it before?

  DIANA. But, my precious, it’s not exactly the sort of film one would forget, is it?

  MICHAEL. Well – I’ve seen it three times, and I was quite prepared to see it a fourth –

  DIANA. Well – you probably understand the Russian, and I don’t.

  MICHAEL. I don’t understand the Russian. The subtitles tell you all you need to know.

  DIANA. Well, anyway, at least you know who Maxim Gorky was, which is more than I do.

  MICHAEL. But are you sure it was Part Six you saw?

  DIANA. Yes, positive. Now don’t let’s say any more about it, because I’m getting bored with the subject. Just run downstairs, like an angel, and keep the taxi while I phone. I won’t be a second.

  MICHAEL (sullenly). You treat me like some sort of fag at school.

  MICHAEL goes to the door. DIANA has already begun to dial
.

  I don’t know why you ever bother to come out with me at all. What does our relationship mean to you?

  DIANA. Let’s not get too introspective, just at the moment, shall we? Run along now. There’s a good boy.

  MICHAEL (suspiciously). Who are you ringing up? Bojo Sprott-Williams?

  DIANA. No. My Auntie Mabel.

  MICHAEL. I didn’t know you had an Auntie Mabel.

  DIANA. Well, I have. Run along now, or you’ll lose that taxi.

  MICHAEL (furiously). Oh, all right.

  He goes.

  DIANA (into telephone). Hullo. Can I speak to Captain Sprott-Williams, please…

  While waiting, she glances appraisingly round the room.

  Bojo darling?… Diana. Look, the ordeal is over already… No, he’s downstairs, keeping the taxi… Well, it was Maxim Gorky, Part Six, and my kindness of heart which is enormous, isn’t quite as enormous as that… No, darling, really. Just kindness of heart. Nothing else… Well, what else could it be?… (Laughs.) No, no. My type is Clark Gable, not Mickey Rooney… Ulterior motive? Oh no, darling… Well, perhaps one day I’ll explain it to you. What are you doing now? Have you started dinner yet?

  MICHAEL appears in the door.

  Where are you going to?… All right, I’ll join you there. Goodbye, darling. See you in about twenty minutes. (Makes a kissing noise down the receiver and rings off.)

  MICHAEL (accusingly). That wasn’t your Auntie Mabel.

  DIANA. What? Hey, what are you doing there? I told you to keep the taxi.

  MICHAEL. The taxi’s all right. I shouted to it from the bathroom window. That wasn’t your Auntie Mabel, that was Bojo Sprott-Williams. I know that voice you put on when you talk to him. You were arranging to meet him tonight.

  DIANA. Well, I haven’t had any food yet.

  MICHAEL. Why don’t you let me take you out for supper then?

  DIANA. Well, that’s very sweet of you, darling, but you see, I’ve fixed it with Bojo now and –

  MICHAEL. Where’s he taking you to?

  DIANA. The Dorchester.

  MICHAEL (contemptuously). The Dorchester!

  DIANA. What’s wrong with that?

  MICHAEL. Everything. Oh, I’ve never been there, but I bet it’s simply crammed with great oafs like Bojo Sprott-Williams, all shouting ‘tally-ho’ and balancing things on their heads.