Love in Idleness / Less Than Kind

by Terence Rattigan

  DIANA (protestingly). Darling – he only did that once – that night you came with us to The Four Hundred.

  MICHAEL. And you egged him on by laughing.

  DIANA. Well, dear, if you were a woman you’d understand that when one’s gentleman friend attempts to entertain one by sticking a plate of soup on his head, it isn’t polite to sit and stare at him with a great round po-face.

  MICHAEL. What would you say if I turned up at The Dorchester tonight?

  DIANA (momentarily taken aback). Well – of course – I’d be delighted to see you – but the only thing is, it’s Bojo’s party and –

  MICHAEL. You don’t think he’d pay for me? He did at The Four Hundred.

  DIANA. Yes, but that was because I’d particularly asked him to.

  MICHAEL. Couldn’t you ask him again?

  DIANA. Well – it’s just a little awkward, don’t you think, darling? Of course, if you could pay for yourself –

  MICHAEL (sulkily). Don’t be too sure I can’t. I may not have a rich profiteering landowner for a father, like Sprott-Williams, but I’m earning a good deal more money than he ever did.

  There is a pause, while DIANA makes her face up and MICHAEL watches her sullenly.

  You know that I’m in love with you, don’t you?

  DIANA. I know that you say you are.

  MICHAEL. Do you want me to prove it to you?

  DIANA (absently). How would you prove it to me?

  MICHAEL moves forward suddenly and clumsily attempts to kiss her. DIANA brushes him off impatiently.

  Darling, don’t try to be cute. It doesn’t suit you.

  She puts her arm casually round his shoulders.

  Goodbye, now. Have you forgiven me about the film?

  MICHAEL (unwillingly). You know I’ll forgive you anything.

  DIANA. That’s what I like to hear.

  OLIVIA, in a shabby old dressing gown, appears at the door, and looks in very cautiously. Seeing MICHAEL and DIANA apparently engrossed in each other by the window, she tiptoes very quietly towards a table on which she has left her bag. DIANA continues speaking meanwhile.

  Ring me up and ask me to another film some time. Only not another Russian film. A nice Joan Crawford, or Spencer Tracy. Goodbye, darling. I must fly.

  She kisses him on the cheek and turns in time to catch sight of OLIVIA tiptoeing out.

  Oh!

  OLIVIA (in gay, maternal tones). Don’t worry about me, children. Silly Mum forgot her bag – Oh!

  She too has recognised DIANA. There is a pause.

  MICHAEL. But – well – I told you, Mum –

  OLIVIA. You mean that the girl you were taking out tonight and whom you spoke to me about after dinner, was this – this lady?

  MICHAEL. Yes, Mum. That’s right.

  OLIVIA. I see. (With an icy stare at DIANA.) I hope you’ll forgive me for finding that just a little – surprising.

  DIANA (with an attempt at bravado). I’m so sorry, Mrs Brown, I had no idea you were in. In fact, Michael swore to me you were out.

  OLIVIA. I can well understand your reluctance to come up to this flat while I was in, Lady Fletcher.

  MICHAEL. Don’t go for Diana, Mum. There’s nothing –

  OLIVIA. Diana! (To DIANA.) You realise, I suppose, that my son claims to be in love with you?

  DIANA (with an embarrassed laugh). Oh yes, I know. It’s so silly of him. I’m always trying to discourage him –

  OLIVIA. I quite realise how hard you must have tried to discourage him. Don’t you think a more effective way in future might be to refuse any further invitations to spend an evening alone with him in Barons Court?

  MICHAEL. Oh – please don’t –

  OLIVIA (turning on him, viciously). You be quiet! (To DIANA.) After all, I gather that your life at Grosvenor House can’t be described as entirely empty at the moment. Apart from having to cope with half the Brigade of Guards, haven’t you also the job of duping and deceiving a poor misguided husband who is showing distinct signs – or am I wrong? – of wishing to return like a lamb to the slaughter?

  DIANA laughs.

  DIANA. Look. This is all getting us nowhere. I’ve a taxi waiting and I must go. (Goes to the door.) Goodbye, Michael. I understand your concern, Mrs Brown, but I can assure you, both your son and your lover are really quite safe in my hands.

  She goes out. MICHAEL follows.

  OLIVIA. Don’t go, Michael. I forbid you.

  MICHAEL. Mum – you shouldn’t have spoken to her like that.

  OLIVIA. She’s a very wicked woman, Michael, and you must promise me that you’ll never, never have anything more to do with her as long as you live.

  MICHAEL. Oh, Mum, I can’t promise that. How can I? I’m in love with her.

  OLIVIA. Yes, darling. I know you are. I know you think you are. But you’ll find out one day that she’s just been having a cruel little game with you – encouraging you and leading you on –

  MICHAEL (plaintively). But she hasn’t led me on enough. That’s just the trouble.

  OLIVIA. My poor darling, you’ll just have to try and forget all about it – wash her out of your mind altogether. That girl is an unparalleled huzzy, and if you want to know what a huzzy is, darling, I’ll tell you all about it later tonight. I’ve got a bath running now and I must go.

  She turns to the door, passing the wall mirror as she does so.

  (Furiously to herself.) She would catch me in this filthy old dressing gown.

  She goes out. MICHAEL, left alone, beats a cushion with his fist in repressed fury. The consulting-room door opens and JOHN comes out.

  JOHN (pleasantly). So you’re in love with my wife, are you, Michael?

  MICHAEL wheels round in stupor and amazement.

  MICHAEL. Gosh! What the heck were you doing in Dad’s consulting room?

  JOHN. Ah! Something told me that that was a question you were likely to ask me. I shall answer it truthfully. Sitting in a dentist’s chair, making it go up and down and round and round, listening to your conversation with Diana.

  MICHAEL. Spying on us, eh?

  JOHN. No, Michael. The walls of the flat are thin. I didn’t strain to overhear – I just heard.

  MICHAEL. But – but what the heck are you doing in this flat anyway?

  JOHN. That again I shall answer truthfully. I broke a solemn promise I once gave to you and came round to see your mother at a time when – don’t ask me how – I knew she’d be alone. She did her best to get me to go, but I refused. I told her I was in a position to ask her to marry me.

  MICHAEL. Oh, you did, did you? And what did she say?

  JOHN. She turned me down.

  MICHAEL. Did she? Good for her.

  JOHN. As you say – good for her. Then, after I’d said goodbye to her for ever, and was leaving the flat, I heard you coming up the stairs, so I got your mother to hide me in the consulting room, the idea being to slip out through the back way when you, and what was described to me as ‘your little girlfriend’, were safely ensconced in this room.

  MICHAEL. Gosh! It looks as though you’re pretty scared of me, I must say –

  JOHN. I think there’s only one person in the world I’d allow to say that to me, Michael, and you are that person.

  MICHAEL. Gosh!

  JOHN. Do you mind not looking so pleased about it?

  MICHAEL. Well, how can I help looking pleased about it when the great wolf of the steel cartel admits I scare the pants off him. JOHN. I said nothing about pants. You scare me, Michael, and that is all. Kindly be generous and let it pass at that.

  MICHAEL. Well, if I scare you, why didn’t you sneak off while the going was good?

  JOHN. A man may show momentary panic, and yet not be altogether a coward. In the dentist’s chair – symbol of so much human courage – I decided to face you and ask your pardon for breaking my promise.

  MICHAEL. Yes, that’s all very well but what about listening in to my conversation with Diana?

  JOHN. That unfortuna
tely couldn’t be helped.

  MICHAEL. Of course it could be helped. You could have shut your ears or something. (Indignantly.) I think it’s a pretty rotten trick for a chap to listen in to another chap trying to make love, especially when the other chap’s trying to make love to the first chap’s wife.

  JOHN (mildly). I see your point. I confess, until this moment it had not occurred to me. Not stopping my ears while you were trying to make love to my wife is yet one more transgression for which I have to ask your pardon. Now I am a busy man, so will you kindly pass sentence on me for the major crime, and let me walk out of your life for ever.

  MICHAEL. All right. Well – I think it was very wrong of you to break your promise about not seeing Mum. Very wrong indeed.

  He stops. JOHN, who is sitting patiently, as if awaiting a long tirade, looks up at length.

  JOHN. Yes, quite so. Is that all you’re going to say?

  MICHAEL. Yes, I think so. After all, since Mum turned you down, there was no harm done.

  JOHN. Exactly. Well, can I go now?

  MICHAEL. Yes, if you like.

  JOHN patiently gathers hat, stick and gloves.

  Only, if you’re not in an absolutely tearing hurry, don’t go for just a second – do you mind?

  JOHN. Not at all. (Puts his paraphernalia down and resumes his seat.)

  MICHAEL. I want to ask you a couple of things about Diana. After all, you were married to her and you must know her pretty well.

  JOHN. Precisely. How can I help you?

  MICHAEL. Well – tell me this. When you used to talk to her about – well – politics or the war or something like that – did she sometimes sit and stare at you for hours as if what you were saying was the most interesting thing she’d ever heard?

  JOHN. Yes. Frequently.

  MICHAEL. And then a second later you’d realise she hadn’t listened to a bloody word?

  JOHN. Precisely. That has always been exactly my experience of Diana.

  MICHAEL. Well, is she bored with one because she knows it all anyway, or is she just very silly.

  JOHN (thoughtfully). For myself I would say – she’s just very silly.

  MICHAEL. Good. I don’t mind that.

  JOHN. I quite agree. An engaging quality in any woman.

  MICHAEL. After all, one might always manage to educate her.

  JOHN. You might, Michael. I failed dismally.

  MICHAEL. Perhaps that’s just as well. You might have made her into a reactionary.

  JOHN. Wouldn’t even that be preferable to being – just very silly?

  MICHAEL (thoughtfully). I don’t know. I wouldn’t like to have to answer that. It’s rather a moot point. It’s quite true that if she were a reactionary we could at least argue away all day long.

  JOHN (nodding sagely). The basis of many a happy marriage.

  MICHAEL. Though I’d far rather she took my point of view – politically.

  JOHN. Your task then, as you see it, will be to educate her in antifascism and the crusade for a better world?

  MICHAEL. Yes, that’s right.

  JOHN. I wish you well of it, Michael. You’re a brave boy.

  MICHAEL. Well – this chap Bojo Sprott-Williams – I suppose he was going on while you and she were still together, wasn’t he?

  JOHN. He was. To my certain knowledge, Bojo Sprott-Williams has been going on since Election Night, 1935.

  MICHAEL. Gosh!

  JOHN. It was during a tipsy celebration of the National Government’s victory that she first met him.

  MICHAEL. Typical!

  JOHN. I understand he approached her in the lounge of The Dorchester, emitted a blast on a hunting horn, gave vent to a ‘view halloo’ and made an unsuccessful attempt to stand on his head. This conduct so intrigued her that she accepted an invitation to have supper with him the same night at a spot known as The Bronze Monkey, and, I understand, continued the celebration later in a manner of which even the most ardent supporter of Mr Baldwin could scarcely have approved.

  MICHAEL. What were you doing while all this was going on?

  JOHN. I was in the north of England, making a short address to some of my operatives on the happy outcome of the election result.

  MICHAEL (sadistically). That’ll teach you!

  JOHN. If anything could have taught me, that would, I agree, Michael. However, despite Bojo Sprott-Williams, I remained loyal to my political beliefs and even attempted to distract myself from my marital disappointment by writing a book in justification of the Conservative policy.

  MICHAEL. I know. I read it. It stank.

  JOHN. Quite so. Many people thought so. Personally I found it cogent.

  MICHAEL. Cogent my fanny! However, don’t let’s argue politics now. (Leaning confidentially towards JOHN.) Don’t you hate Bojo Sprott-Williams?

  JOHN. I loathe and detest Bojo Sprott-Williams.

  MICHAEL. What about that awful moustache? Doesn’t it make you sick?

  JOHN. I retch every time I see it.

  MICHAEL. And that awful voice! (Imitating.) ‘I say, old girl, I was just passin’ Asprey’s this afternoon and so I popped in and bought you this little bit of nothing much. How do you like it, eh? All right?’

  JOHN. An admirable imitation, Michael. If I closed my eyes it might be Bojo himself. Tell me, does he still do that ludicrously unfunny trick with the penny and two forks?

  MICHAEL. Oh, gosh, yes. He does it all day long. You should hear Diana laugh at him, too, although she must have seen it a million and more times. Honestly, it makes me go shivery all over from sheer rage.

  JOHN (patting MICHAEL’s knee sympathetically). I know, my dear boy, I know. I’ve been through it myself. I sympathise with you more than I can say.

  MICHAEL. Well, what’s the answer to it – that’s what I’d like to know.

  JOHN. I’d tell you the answer, Michael, only I’m afraid you wouldn’t care to hear it.

  MICHAEL. Oh, I can take it. I can take almost anything by now. I’ve known her three months. Go on, tell me.

  JOHN. Well, I think it’s mainly a question of being in a position to go poppin’ into Asprey’s from time to time.

  MICHAEL. Oh, gosh, I know that. You’re not telling me anything. A fat chance I’ve got on eight pounds a week to go poppin’ in anywhere but Woolworths.

  JOHN. Yes, of course. Our positions are a little different there. I popped constantly, but to no avail.

  MICHAEL. If it didn’t help you, why should it help me?

  JOHN. My dear Michael, I’m a middle-aged man, with a paunch. You have youth and vigour on your side. (Looking at him appraisingly.) Yes. I’d say in a year or so’s time, you’ll be more than a match for Bojo Sprott-Williams – moustache and all.

  MICHAEL. Always providing I can go poppin’.

  JOHN. Precisely. Poppin’, I fear, is the nub of the whole matter.

  There is a pause, while MICHAEL ponders deeply.

  MICHAEL. What are the chances of the Ministry giving me a rise?

  JOHN. None at all, I’m afraid, Michael. I haven’t told you yet. The Ministry is finished.

  MICHAEL (appalled). Oh, gosh! Does that mean I’m going to be out of a job?

  JOHN. I’m afraid it may mean that.

  MICHAEL. Oh, Lord! What a time for a thing like that to happen.

  JOHN. I’m extremely sorry, my dear boy.

  MICHAEL. Thanks. Gosh – to be out of a job now –

  There is a pause, broken at length by JOHN.

  JOHN. Of course, you could – I hesitate to suggest it, Michael, knowing your views – but you could come and work for me.

  MICHAEL. In Fletcher-Pratt?

  JOHN. Exactly. In Fletcher-Pratt.

  MICHAEL. Doing what?

  JOHN. Well – I’d start you off doing more or less the same job that I did when I first joined the firm.

  MICHAEL. Do you think I’d be any good at it?

  JOHN. My dear Michael, if you come to work for us, and in twenty years’ time are not ear
ning your fifteen thousand pounds a year, I shall publicly eat this hat. You have all the makings of a remarkable industrialist.

  MICHAEL. Fifteen thousand pounds a year, eh?

  JOHN. Much poppin’ can be done on that.

  MICHAEL. I don’t suppose Bojo Sprott-Williams has any more, has he?

  JOHN. Considerably less, I should imagine.

  MICHAEL. It’s quite a thought.

  He ponders for a moment, while JOHN watches him keenly.

  Oh, but what’s the use! Fletcher-Pratt is finished anyway! The whole industry’s going to be nationalised after the war.

  JOHN. Well, of course, one would have to take that risk.

  MICHAEL. It’d be a damn good thing if it is, too. A damn good thing. Fletcher-Pratt and all the other heavy industrial concerns have been exploiting this country long enough. It’s time they were all finished for good. (Has risen and is walking about agitatedly.) Fifteen thousand a year! Who in the world can be worth a salary the size of that?

  JOHN. Oh, some people. Not many, but some.

  MICHAEL. No one’s worth that much. No one. It’s merely taking the bread and butter out of the mouths of hundreds and hundreds of underpaid workers, just so that some top-hatted reactionary cigar-smoking big businessman can –

  JOHN. Go poppin’ into Asprey’s.

  MICHAEL. Exactly. Talking of bread and butter’s made me hungry. (Opens the kitchen door.) Oh, Lord! Mum’s left the washing up. I suppose I’d better do it.

  JOHN (rising). No, I’ll do it. You appease your hunger.

  MICHAEL. Oh, thanks awfully.

  JOHN joins MICHAEL in the visible part of the kitchen. MICHAEL disappears out of sight as JOHN begins to wash up.

  JOHN. Do I take it, then, that you won’t come and work for me?

  MICHAEL reappears, buttering himself a piece of bread.

  MICHAEL. Gosh, I don’t know. May I think it over?

  JOHN. Certainly.

  MICHAEL. After all – even though I firmly believe that the firm is going to be – and, what’s more, damn well ought to be – liquidated, it doesn’t really mean it’s wrong for me to work in it until it is, does it?

  JOHN. I agree. That’s good left-wing realism.

  MICHAEL. You mind having a red revolutionary working for you?

  JOHN. Far from it. You’ll be a useful link. When we’re liquidated, will you see I get a small if subordinate job in the new set-up?