by David Lodge
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Also by David Lodge
Author’s Note
Dramatis Personae
Title Page
Act One
Act Two
Copyright
About the Book
The Writing Game was first performed at the Birmingham Repertory Theatre on 12 May 1990. It was directed by John Adams and designed by Roger Butlin, with lighting by Mark Pritchard. The cast was as follows:
JEREMY DEANE John Webb
LEO RAFKIN Lou Hirsch
MAUDE LOCKETT Susan Penhaligon
PENNY SEWELL Lucy Jenkins
SIMON ST CLAIR Patrick Pearson
Voice of HENRY LOCKETT Timothy West
Also by David Lodge
NOVELS
The Picturegoers
Ginger, You’re Barmy
The British Museum is Falling Down
Out of the Shelter
Changing Places
How Far Can You Go?
Small World
Nice Work
CRITICISM
Language of Fiction
The Novelist at the Crossroads
The Modes of Modern Writing
Working With Structuralism
After Bakhtin
ESSAYS
Write On
AUTHOR’S NOTE
It would be embarrassing to list all the people who read the script of this play at various stages of its evolution, and made valuable comments and suggestions for its improvement, but I should like to acknowledge the assistance and encouragement of three persons in particular: Patrick Garland, Mike Ockrent and John Adams.
DL
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
(in order of appearance)
JEREMY DEANE
LEO RAFKIN
MAUDE LOCKETT
PENNY SEWELL
SIMON ST CLAIR
Also: Voice of HENRY LOCKETT
The action takes place at the Wheatcroft Centre, a seventeenth-century farmhouse and barn in Dorset, converted to accommodate short residential courses in creative writing. The time is a recent summer.
ACT ONE
Act One Scene One. Early afternoon.
A converted seventeenth-century barn. An open-plan sitting-room, with door stage left giving direct access to the outside, and two interior doors leading to a bedroom and a bathroom on the ground floor. An open (preferably spiral) staircase leads to a gallery landing, with a door leading to a second bedroom. The bedrooms, insofar as their interiors are visible, are austerely furnished with single beds, upright chairs, chests of drawers, pegs on walls. The sitting room is furnished with well-worn, non-matching furniture: a sofa, an armchair, and a coffee table centre stage; a trestle table that serves as a desk, with a battered swivel-chair, and a couple of wooden folding chairs, stage right. Downstage left there is a small L-shaped sink unit and work-surface, with electric kettle, instant coffee and teabags on it, and storage for cups, glasses, etc., underneath, and a high stool beside it. Downstage right is an answerphone, with monitor facility and volume control, on a small table with drawer. Rush matting on the stone floor. A small bookshelf mounted on the wall near the downstairs bedroom door contains some well-worn reference books, dictionaries, etc., and a random selection of literary paperbacks. The general effect should be rustic, improvised, and not particularly comfortable. Mounted on the rear wall stage left there is a bust of a distinguished-looking elderly man made some time in the last thirty years.
The outside door opens.
JEREMY (off)
Here we are.
JEREMY, wearing cardigan and corduroy trousers, comes in, carrying a suitcase, followed by LEO, in sports jacket and lightweight trousers, carrying a portable computer in a case. JEREMY is a middle-aged bachelor, slightly fussy in manner. LEO is about fifty, American-Jewish, quite handsome in a grizzled, furrowed way. He looks somewhat depressed and apprehensive.
JEREMY
It’s a converted barn, as you can see. (He puts down the suitcase) There are two bedrooms, one up, one down. (He points) Bathroom and loo in here. (He indicates the second door on the ground floor) Maude hasn’t arrived yet, so you can take your pick of the bedrooms.
LEO
Which one do you recommend?
JEREMY
Well, some people in the upstairs room do complain of the birds in the eaves.
LEO
I’ll take the downstairs one. (He puts the computer on the coffee table, and picks up suitcase) It’s a pretty old building, isn’t it?
JEREMY
Seventeenth-century. Like the farmhouse.
LEO
Stone floors. Must be cold as hell in the winter.
LEO carries his case into the ground-floor bedroom. JEREMY follows him to the door, and leans against the door frame.
JEREMY
Ah, we close from December to March.
LEO throws case onto bed, opens it and unpacks a few items.
LEO (projects voice)
So what do you do then, Jeremy?
JEREMY
I usually go to Morocco. I sit in the sun and write poetry.
LEO
You’re a poet, huh? As well as running this place?
JEREMY
Well, I have published a slim volume or two … I could show you some of my work if you’re interested.
JEREMY takes a slim volume from the bookshelf.
LEO
I don’t know anything about poetry. I don’t really understand why people go on writing the stuff. Nobody reads it anymore, except other poets. (Comes to doorway) I don’t mean to be personal.
JEREMY conceals his book behind his back.
JEREMY
Oh, point taken! The audience is minuscule. But I suppose one goes on because one is obsessed with the music of language.
LEO
Music?
JEREMY
Sounds, rhythms, cadences.
LEO
Well, you can get those things into prose.
JEREMY
Oh yes, I agree, absolutely. Your short stories – they’re just like poems, I always think.
LEO
I hope not.
JEREMY
I mean –
LEO (smiles faintly)
Sure, I know what you mean, Jeremy.
LEO comes out into the sitting-room. JEREMY covertly replaces his book on the bookshelf.
LEO
We share this room – Maude Lockett and I?
JEREMY
Yes, it’s a place where you can read the students’ work, or see them individually. (Smiles) Or just get away from them for a bit.
LEO looks slightly anxious.
LEO
How many are there in this course?
JEREMY
Sixteen.
LEO
Is that all?
JEREMY
Twenty is our maximum, and I’m afraid a few cancelled when Maurice Denton had to withdraw. He has rather a following here. It was ever so good of you to step in at such short notice.
LEO
How did you know I was in England?
JEREMY
There was an interview in the Guardian, a few weeks ago.
LEO
Oh yeah.
JEREMY
It mentioned that you taught creative writing at the University of Illinois. I thought you might find it interesting to compare British students.
LEO (doubtfully)
If they’re all fans of Maurice Denton … I tried one of his books. Never finished it.
JEREMY
Oh, I’m sure you’ll have them eating out of your hand in no time.
LEO
Where do I eat, since we’re on the s
ubject?
JEREMY
In the main house. You forage for breakfast and lunch. The students take turns to prepare the evening meal, and wash up afterwards. You and Maude don’t have to, of course.
LEO
I’m glad to hear it.
JEREMY
Though some tutors muck in and the students rather like it if they do.
A pause. LEO does not rise to the hint. JEREMY goes over to the sink.
JEREMY
You can make yourself a cup of tea or coffee here. (He pulls the plug out of the sink and peers in) Oh Gawd!
LEO
What’s the matter?
JEREMY
Last week’s community playwrights seem to have clogged up the sink with their Lapsang Suchong. I told them to use teabags.
LEO
D’you have a, whaddyacallit, plumber’s helper?
JEREMY
I think we call it a plumber’s mate. There’s one over in the farmhouse. (Pokes sink outlet) Ugh. I suppose one could call this a particularly unpleasant form of writer’s block.
JEREMY chuckles at his own joke, but LEO seems to think that writer’s block is no laughing matter.
JEREMY
Would you like a cup of tea?
LEO
I could use a cup of coffee.
JEREMY
It’s only instant, I’m afraid.
JEREMY fills the kettle and switches it on. LEO begins unpacking the word processor.
JEREMY
I see you’ve brought your typewriter with you.
LEO
It’s not a typewriter, it’s a portable word processor. Where can I plug it in?
JEREMY
There’s a socket over there. I may have to get you an adaptor. It’s a rather eccentric wiring system, with a special sort of plug that you can’t buy any more … Were you hoping to do some writing yourself, then?
LEO
You mean I won’t have time?
JEREMY
Well the students will bring their unpublished novels with them, though we tell them not to, and expect the tutors to read them. (LEO looks unhappy) You just have to be firm.
LEO
Firm?
JEREMY
Ration them. Only one magnum opus per person.
LEO
I’m beginning to think this was a very bad idea.
JEREMY (cheerfully)
Oh, you’ll love it! Everybody does, in the end. There’s such an atmosphere at the end of a successful course.
LEO
What about unsuccessful courses? Do they have an atmosphere too?
JEREMY
A course taught by Leo Rafkin and Maude Lockett has to be a success … Have you met her?
LEO
No.
JEREMY
She’s charming. No side at all. Have you read her novels?
LEO
One or two.
JEREMY
To tell you the truth, I don’t care awfully for them, myself. I can take just so much about periods and miscarriages and breast-feeding and so on.
LEO
I know what you mean.
JEREMY
After a while it gets on my tits … But she’s awfully nice. Awfully good with the students.
LEO
Is she married?
JEREMY
Very much so. To an Oxford don. They have four children, I believe. And you?
LEO
I have three children by two wives, to neither of whom I am married at the moment.
JEREMY
Ah.
JEREMY goes over to the sink unit. He lays his hand on the side of the kettle.
JEREMY
If the kettle doesn’t seem to be warming up, give it a bang like this. (He gives the kettle a blow.)
LEO
You don’t seem to be into hi-tech here.
JEREMY
No. But we do have an answerphone. (He goes over to the telephone to point it out.)
LEO (ironically)
Terrific.
JEREMY
The tutors were always complaining because they couldn’t telephone from here, and then, when we had one put in last year, they complained because they kept getting interrupted. So we bought an answerphone. It’s brand new.
LEO
The students – who are they?
JEREMY
Oh, all kinds. Housewives, retired people, unemployed.
LEO
How do you select them?
JEREMY
Oh, we don’t select them. They just apply. First come, first served.
LEO
So how do you know they can write?
JEREMY
Well, we don’t. (LEO looks dismayed) That’s what makes the Wheatcroft such fun.
LEO
Fun?
JEREMY
It’s so unpredictable.
The kettle boils. JEREMY spoons coffee and pours water into two cups.
JEREMY
Milk and sugar? Sterilised milk, I’m afraid.
LEO
No, just black.
LEO takes the coffee from JEREMY.
LEO
Why Wheatcroft?
JEREMY gestures towards the bust.
JEREMY
After our founder. Aubrey Wheatcroft.
LEO
Who was he?
JEREMY
A rather idealistic minor poet with a private income. He left all his money to endow this place. He believed that there are untapped reserves of creativity in everyone, which can be released in the right environment.
LEO
You mean, like stone floors and birds in the eaves?
JEREMY
Well, yes, he did specify a rural setting. But the social situation is more important. Bringing together people who want to be writers with people who are writers, in an isolated farmhouse, for four or five days. Having them eat together, work together, relax together. Readings, workshops, tutorials, informal discussions. It has to have a stimulating effect. It’s like a pressure cooker.
A pause, while LEO ponders this metaphor. He puts down his coffee.
LEO
I’m leaving.
LEO goes back into the bedroom, and begins hastily repacking his case. JEREMY follows him to the bedroom door.
JEREMY (aghast)
Leaving? But why? You can’t.
LEO
I’m sorry. I should never have agreed to come here.
JEREMY
But what have I said?
LEO
Nothing but the truth, Jeremy.
JEREMY
I don’t understand.
LEO brings his suitcase out of the bedroom and puts his computer back into its case.
LEO
I got the wrong idea. I thought I would be giving a few regular classes to regular students, and otherwise be free to get on with my own work. I didn’t know it was going to be … a pressure cooker.
JEREMY
But what about the students? They’ve paid money.
LEO
Not for me. For Maurice Denton. Or Maude Lockett.
JEREMY
You can’t ask Maude to do the whole thing on her own.
LEO has both cases in his hands, ready to go.
LEO
Oh, I’m sure she can handle it. A woman who has brought up four children, writes a weekly book review in The Times, seems to be on TV or radio every other day, and has published ten bestselling novels –
During this speech, MAUDE appears at the door, suitcase in hand. She is a good-looking, confident woman in her forties, dressed casually but expensively.
MAUDE
Nine, actually.
JEREMY (turns)
Maude! (He hastens forward to greet her) I didn’t hear your car. (He takes her hand and kisses her on the cheek.)
MAUDE
Jeremy, how nice to see you. (Advances towards LEO and extends her hand) And you must be Leo Rafkin.
>
LEO (shaking her hand)
Hallo.
MAUDE
It’s nine novels, actually, and number nine was published rather longer ago than I like to think about, no doubt because of all those book reviews and TV shows.
LEO (embarrassed)
I’m sorry. I, um, I didn’t mean …
MAUDE (smiling)
It doesn’t matter.
JEREMY
Maude, Leo says he’s leaving. Do persuade him to stay.
MAUDE looks enquiringly at LEO, who is already beginning to change his mind.
LEO
Well, the more Jeremy told me about the course …
MAUDE
Goodness, Jeremy, whatever did you tell him?
LEO
He said it was a pressure cooker.
JEREMY
That was just a metaphor, for heaven’s sake!
LEO
It sounds too intimate. A class is a class as far as I’m concerned, not an encounter group.
JEREMY (plaintively)
You don’t have to be chummy with the students. As long as you comment on their work.
MAUDE
That’s right. It might make us a rather effective team. You could be very mean and hard on them, and then I could come along and be constructive and sympathetic. Isn’t that how interrogators work?
LEO looks uncertain whether she is mocking him or not.
JEREMY
Oh, do please stay. Everybody will be so disappointed if you don’t.
MAUDE
There’s no point forcing Mr Rafkin, Jeremy. If he doesn’t feel up to it …
LEO (bridling)
It’s not a question of being ‘up to it’.
JEREMY
Give it a trial, at least. One day.
Pause. LEO glances at MAUDE, hoping she will second this appeal. She is silent.
LEO
Well, all right.
JEREMY
Oh, super.
MAUDE
That’s settled, then. Where am I sleeping?
LEO (quickly)
I took the downstairs bedroom.
MAUDE
Oh, how kind of you.
LEO (disconcerted)
Kind?
MAUDE
Yes, it’s rather damp, haven’t you noticed? And you get a lot of beetles in there.
LEO gives a sickly smile.
JEREMY
Let me take your bag upstairs, Maude.
MAUDE
Thanks, Jeremy.
JEREMY takes MAUDE’S case up the staircase and into the upper bedroom.
LEO
You’ve obviously been here before.
MAUDE
Many times. I’m dying for a cup of tea. What about you?
LEO
No thanks.
