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No Laughing Matter

Page 14

by Angus Wilson


  QUENTIN: No, Mother, this is not good enough. I’m sorry if Regan’s upset you, but don’t you see that this is only part of a situation that cannot go on. We must bring some order into this squalid chaos.

  MRS MATTHEWS junior: If you’re not man enough to do what your mother asks when she’s been so horribly insulted, then you may do what you like. I’m going to forget all these vulgar melodramatics and remember my duty to my guests.

  QUENTIN: I’m sure Granny and Aunt Mouse …

  MOUSE: Well, Quentin, dear, I am a little hungry. And I’m certain we’ll all discuss better for Regan’s delicious cooking. [Whispers to QUENTIN.] If I know anything of your greedy parents they’ll be much more amenable when feeding time’s over.

  MR MATTHEWS junior: Have you uncorked the Pouget, Regan?

  MRS MATTHEWS junior: Billy, don’t speak to the wretched creature!

  REGAN: Pouget! Parrot’s piss more like by the time you get it. From what’s goin on down there. [She throws open the door and a confused noise of animals fills the room – then she sinks to the floor in a drunken haze.]

  MRS MATTHEWS junior [to audience]: Thank heavens for the distraction. [To Rupert] Come, my dear boy, take me down. If the others have lost all sense of the convenable let us at least keep our manners.

  RUPERT [bowing low to her and offering his arm]: Contessa. [As they walk out with stately formality, he turns his head and winks broadly to the audience.]

  MR MATTHEWS junior [to the audience]: A very tricky corner turned, I think. At least we may save the wine from the general debacle. Marcus, come and help me with the Pouget. No, on second thoughts I prefer Maggie for my cup bearer, my little Hebe.

  [MARGARET takes his arm and they exit. But she drops her handkerchief by the door, and, returning, addresses the audience.]

  MARGARET [imitating BILLY POP]: My little Hebe! His actions are dross, but his words are pure gold. Such may be said to be the compensations of living chez Carmichael. [Exit.]

  GLADYS: All right, old boy, I’ll give you a hand with her.

  [GLADYS and QUENTIN lift REGAN on to a chair, where she opens one eye and looks at them like a malevolent Mr Polly.] What ho! she bumps.

  QUENTIN: Now come on, Gladys, let’s get this time-wasting meal over and pin them down to a definite and satisfactory arrangement before they all become drowsy. Sunday gorging! Disgusting Victorian institution!

  GLADYS: Oh, I don’t know. [She pats her plump stomach.] My turn’s rumbling for a slice of pheasant. [Seeing QUENTIN’s expression.] Sorry old boy, I didn’t mean to fool. Come on, Marcus, time to be fed, if you want to grow up to beat the Hun. [Exit QUENTIN and GLADYS.]

  MARCUS [to audience]: Grow up to beat the Hun! I really must apologize for the language used this afternoon but you can’t slice life up without making some sort of indecent mess. [To REGAN, all little boy.] Do I have to grow up, Regan? It’s not a process that’s encouraged by example. [She merely smiles vaguely.] What do you think life is, Regan? [She does not answer – he shakes her by the shoulder.] What do you think growing up means?

  REGAN [sleepily and drunkenly]: Always keep in with the nobs and the upper ten. Go where the splosh is. Dont mix yerself up with the muck.

  [REGAN nods off for a moment, then wakes herself up with a peculiarly loud snore, then nods off again. Exit MARCUS in a reflective mood. The lights go out and light up again immediately upon the lower half of the divided stage to show a few minutes later the dining-room in wild chaos. MOUSE, standing behind the dining-room table, is with some difficulty holding a shrieking parrot with one hand, while with the other she dabs its head with a table napkin which she deliberately souses in vinegar from a bottle on the sideboard. GRANNY MATTHEWS, seated on a dining-room chair moved away from the table, has Pom on her lap while she binds up her small paw with her handkerchief Pom also bleeds from the head. BILLY POP on hands and knees mops up with a table napkin the wine from a broken bottle and squeezes it through a handkerchief spread over the top of a decanter. GLADYS has the tortoiseshell kitten on her ample lap; MARGARET holds the white one in her arms; they are both stroking and calming their charges. RUPERT holds the black and white kitten and dabs at its bleeding eye with the tip of a handkerchief dipped in water. MARCUS is kneeling at GLADYS’ feet and talking to the tortoiseshell kitten; QUENTIN stands behind MARGARET and every now and again strokes the white kitten’s ear. Centre stage stands SUKEY, white faced and trembling as she holds out towards the audience the ginger kitten, bloody and lifeless. Next to her and in even more dramatic posture, the COUNTESS holds out the kittens’ basket with its scarlet lining.]

  MRS MATTHEWS junior: Poor little objects! The home we provided has hardly proved a castle.

  MOUSE: What I shall never forgive or forget is that you all thought of nothing but yourselves! Mr Polly came down here – poor innocent – to a den of little hell cats. Mr Polly who always goes his own little ways and isn’t a bother to anyone! And now look at his poor tail!

  GRANNY MATTHEWS: And Pom says, ‘Please, Mother, I’m trying to be a very brave little dog but those kittens have hurt me!’ Never mind, Mother’ll give her a little VC all to herself. I don’t know that I oughtn’t to go straight to the vet. Nasty high smelling little things. Heaven knows where their claws may have been.

  GLADYS: I’m sure you needn’t worry about that, Granny. The kittens haven’t been out of the house since they were born. They can’t possibly be dirty.

  MOUSE: Good heavens, Girl! Where’s your nose? The smell in this house!

  GRANNY MATTHEWS: A lot of stray kittens from heaven knows where. I’m surprised at you, Will, having them in here.

  MR MATTHEWS junior: For various reasons not too subtle even for you to understand, Mother, the house is somewhat dilapidated, but shabby as we are, we don’t turn away strangers from the door.

  GRANNY MATTHEWS: Look after your own, my dear. That was your father’s motto. He never trusted vagrants – men or animals – not one of them if they hadn’t a place to call their own. Your father and I always took pride in what was ours. I didn’t want to let little Pom out of my sight, only your children knew better.

  QUENTIN: Granny, how can you? That’s why the world’s like it is. Because grandfather’s generation couldn’t see further than their own property and their fat noses. Beware of a closed heart, Granny. No government debentures will make up for that.

  MOUSE: Good Heavens! Stop moralizing boy. And you talk about Victorians!

  MARGARET: Quentin was talking about false moralizing, Aunt Mouse. Weeping over little Nell and then letting little matchsellers die. Like Grandfather’s generation.

  GRANNY MATTHEWS: What a wicked thing to say, girl. How can you speak like that? Your grandfather was the kindest of men.

  MARGARET: Oh, I didn’t mean grandfather himself, of course. It was an attitude of mind of a whole generation.

  MOUSE: You should be more careful of what you say, Margaret. Uttering generalities about something you know nothing of. And all because two lonely old women object when their pets are savaged by wild cats.

  GRANNY MATTHEWS: Anyone of sense would have had them put away.

  QUENTIN: That sort of sense decided on the use of mustard gas.

  MOUSE: Oh, don’t be so absurd, Quentin. First Margaret accuses your grandfather of being sentimental and now you accuse your grandmother of being without heart. Use a little logic.

  RUPERT [dramatically]: He does, Aunt Mouse. Easy tears and a stony heart are not strangers. Empty postures. Hypocrisy. That’s what we charge the past with.

  MOUSE: You charge! My dear boy, you want to watch your words. I thought you were seeking our help. You don’t go about it very wisely.

  QUENTIN: But Aunt Mouse, you can’t ask us to let self-interest affect what’s right and wrong. Every one knows where secret diplomacy led to.

  MOUSE: Secret diplomacy! It wouldn’t do you any harm to learn a little tact. Tact is only another name for kindness you know. [The parrot shrieks.] Oh, shut up, Mr Polly, I�
�m talking. [The parrot shrieks again.] Now look what you’ve done. You’ve made cross words between me and Mr Polly, when the poor old man’s in pain. And all over a bunch of beastly stray cats.

  MARCUS: The kittens were not stray. They were Leonora’s. This is their house. Mr Polly and Pom are only visitors. Uninvited visitors, too.

  GRANNY MATTHEWS: Pom uninvited! Did you hear what the little boy said, Pom? That to the little dog, Marcus, who let you pull her tail when you were only a baby. I’m sure if Pom’s unwelcome, her mistress is too.

  MARCUS: Anyone’s unwelcome who savages our kittens. If I had my way I should put a millstone – if I knew where to find one – round Mr Polly’s strong neck and little Miss Pom’s slender one. And I’d cast them into the uttermost depths. And then pull the flush. And yet when one thinks that the beautiful Elagabulus suffered a similar doacal death, it seems too good for them.

  MOUSE: You use too many big words for a small boy, my lad. That’s the trouble with all you children. Too many words.

  SUKEY [stepping forward and holding out the dead ginger kitten]: You complain of our words. What about your actions? You don’t seem to realize what’s happened. This kitten is dead, Granny. Savagely killed, Aunt Mouse. Murdered by both of you. And you complain of our words. [She lays the dead kitten reverently in the basket.]

  GRANNY MATTHEWS: Poor little thing! But I dare say it’s just as well, Sukey. Motherless kittens, you know. Nobody wants them these days, living in flats and all the contrivance that’s asked of one. Anyway, even if it wasn’t for Pom, I could never have a cat in the house. They upset me.

  SUKEY: We shouldn’t let the cats come to your house, or to anyone else’s. This is their home.

  MOUSE: I can tell you this, my dear, if this house is going to be filled with cats you won’t see your Aunt Mouse here. Though that can hardly be important as long as she stumps up with cheques when asked.

  [There is a silence as no one answers.]

  MOUSE: That’s clear enough. As long as I know. [Again there is a silence] I’m surprised you don’t show more spirit, Mrs Matthews. We’re evidently not wanted here.

  QUENTIN: Aunt Mouse, you’ve no right to blackmail us.

  MARGARET: My dear Aunt Mouse, of course you’re wanted. But so are these poor unwanted kittens.

  GRANNY MATTHEWS: I’m afraid, my dear, Miss Rickard is right. At any rate as far as I’m concerned. I can’t come to a house where there are cats. Apart from Pom, they give me asthma. But I dare say they’re only a passing fancy – what do they call it nowadays? – a craze. They’ll be gone the next time I come, I expect.

  SUKEY: I’m afraid they won’t be, Granny. We’re sorry about your asthma, of course. But you can’t ask us to turn the kittens out into the street because you don’t like them.

  MOUSE: Of course not. Take them to a vet and have them put away. The Poor People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals will do it free. There’s one in Fulham Road, if not nearer.

  ALL THE YOUNG MATTHEWS: Put away?

  MOUSE: Yes, put away. I’m not an old sentimentalist as you think. If it’s Mr Poll this time, it may be me the next. They’re dangerous. Clara, are you going to bring these young idiots to their senses? I hope you all clearly understand: if those cats remain in this house, I do not set foot in it. [Silence again.] Well, Clara, are they going to be got rid of?

  MRS MATTHEWS junior: Now children, do you hear that? Remember, your Aunt and your Grandmother are used to having things their own way. They can afford to. Shall I tell them the kittens are to go to kingdom come? [An embarrassed silence.] Very well. My dear Mouse, whatever else I do with the children, I do not bully or blackmail them. They’ve decided, and so it must be. But I hear Regan’s footsteps. And steady footsteps at that. You’ve obviously done wonders with her, Quentin. I knew it needed a man’s hand. Forget all this nonsense, Mouse, and remember there’s your favourite crême brûlé.

  MOUSE: I’m not to be blackmailed through my stomach, thank you, Clara. Mr Polly and I can do perfectly well with barley water at the Club.

  [She goes to the door. It opens and REGAN totters in bearing at last the roast ducks and pheasants on a vast dish.]

  REGAN: Well, you children are a fine lot. If I adent woken up from my snooze, there’d ave been no luncheon on the table at all today. Madam comin all the way ere. And Miss Rickard too tho shees used to travel. But no arm done. [In a loud stage whisper to MRS MATTHEWS senior.] Ave the duck, Madam, I should. The pheasant’s a bit on the dry side. [To MOUSE who has heard and taken more offence.]

  Now sit down, Miss Rickard. I shant be a jiffy gettin the etcetterars with Miss Sukey’s elp, and then you can tuck into a nice slice of breast of pheasant. [Exit.]

  MR MATTHEWS junior: Yes, do that, Mouse, tuck in instead of flouncing out. You’ll forgive the sartorial pun. [MOUSE turns and stares at him with disgust. She goes to the door, opens it, then turns back.]

  MOUSE: If I get an apology, Clara, before I leave the country on Friday, I shall forget the whole incident. An apology and a promise that those animals will be disposed of. Goodbye, Mrs Matthews. If you take my advice, you’ll back me up. You should have remembered, my dears, that who touches an old maid’s pet touches her. And old maids like cats have got sharp claws.

  [As she goes out, Mr Polly shrieks, ‘Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye!’ A moment later, REGAN comes in with vegetables, sauces and plates.]

  REGAN [to GRANNY MATTHEWS]: Now, Madam, turn around and sit up to table. Miss Rickard’ll be back in a jiffy, that’s for sure. Just gone to you know where. All these old maids are the same. No sooner is food on the table than they must excuse theirselves.

  GRANNY MATTHEWS: Thank you, Regan, I don’t fancy anything. My asthma’s come on and I don’t feel at all well.

  MR MATTHEWS junior: Now, Mother, don’t fuss. A piece of gamey toast from under the bird.

  GRANNY MATTHEWS: Gamey toast for asthma! Really, Will. And I don’t know what you mean – fuss! Miss Rickard is quite right. The least you can do is to get rid of those nasty little creatures. I don’t ask much. You ought to tell the children, Will.

  MR MATTHEWS junior: My dear Mother, we’re not living in the pater’s autocratic times. We don’t set up to be respectable here but it is a place of freedom. The children have turned their thumbs up. I’m certainly not going to play Emperor and turn them down just to give you a Roman holiday.

  GRANNY MATTHEWS: I don’t want any sort of holiday. The children get me here to ask for my help, though heaven knows an annuity’s difficult enough. They show no feeling for poor little Pom. It’s all those horrid creatures who nearly took her eye out that they care about. I don’t say it’s not for the best either. If there’s not your aunt and me to pay for you all you’ll have to make shift for yourselves like your grandfather and I did. And many’s the laugh you’ll have together when you look back on the so called hard times. [Then taking a tin from her muff she places it on the table.]

  I’ll leave the toffees I brought. I know Quintus likes Mackintosh’s. Well, if they can’t do the little thing I ask…. Oh, I do wish Colyer hadn’t gone off. I want to go home. No, don’t try to persuade me, Will. I shall go and sit outside in the hall until he comes. Come on, my little unwelcome Pom. [Exit MRS MATTHEWS senior. QUENTIN makes to follow her and then returns.]

  QUENTIN: Oh Lord! That ought to make me feel bad. But we can’t possibly give way. Anyhow Colyer and Edith will fuss over her and she’ll get over it in time. If they hadn’t been so self-righteous …

  GLADYS: Poor old things! Did you hear Mouse say ‘lonely old women’? But really if they will go on as if they owned the earth, what do they expect?

  MARGARET: Poor Aunt Mouse! I know she says sharp things. But I never throught her heart had shrivelled up so.

  SUKEY: Of course Granny was upset about Pom, after all she’s her dog. But to act as though this wasn’t the kittens’ home.

  RUPERT: If only they hadn’t relished making a scene so much.

  MARCUS: And being so sol
emn and self-important and rich.

  MRS MATTHEWS junior [sitting down to table]: So you’ve learnt about the rich man and the camel and the eye of a needle. My dears, that really is growing up.

  MR MATTHEWS junior [sitting opposite her]: I couldn’t be quite sure how it would go. My heart was in my mouth once or twice. But I should never have been in doubt, I ought to have known that my children would follow their hearts as soon as something touched them deeply enough.

  MRS MATTHEWS junior: How could one be sure, Billy? After all that horrid talk upstairs when everything was plans and careers? I felt stifled by self-importance and office desks.

  QUENTIN: Everything we said upstairs was completely serious, Mother.

  GLADYS: And important.

  MR MATTHEWS junior: Of course, Podge. Your Mother and I learned a great deal from it. We’ve improvised, you know, all our lives. We’ve had to. Always avoided Gladstone and speechmaking where a little bit of bright chatter would get us by. Perhaps you’ve seen something of the reasons for that today. We, too, were children once and made our own rebellions. Little Nell and the starving matchseller – I liked that, Mag. But you’re asking us to learn a new seriousness, my dears. I laughed with Oscar, you must remember. Or with those who had known him. He must have a heart of stone, who cannot laugh at the death of little Nell…. But now it seems we must learn new ways, your Mother and I.

  MRS MATTHEWS junior: No, not new ways, Billy. New objects. The children’s lives are not going to be ours. Their ambitions are bound to be post-war ambitions. New to us. Not that I’m exactly an antimacassar mother.

  MR MATTHEWS junior: No, my dear, you’re rag-time. [Seeing MARCUS and RUPERT smiling.] Or whatever’s the new thing.

  MRS MATTHEWS junior: We respect you so much, Quentin, dear boy. But you mustn’t be too sane, darlings. It really won’t do in this family. Surely we can all get these things, the real essence of life for you all, in our old happy-go-lucky stick-it-together-with-Secotine way. Surely we don’t have to go back to ‘mine is mine’ and gilt-edged securities and ‘money talks’ and all those horrors. And please, Quentin, darling, specially not a lot of smugness and pretending.

 

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