Harold Pinter

by Harold Pinter

  VOICE 2

  I hear your father’s step on the stair. I hear his cough. But his step and his cough fade. He does not open the door.

  Sometimes I think I have always been sitting like this. I sometimes think I have always been sitting like this, alone by an indifferent fire, curtains closed, night, winter.

  You see, I have my thoughts too. Thoughts no one else knows I have, thoughts none of my family ever knew I had. But I write of them to you now, wherever you are.

  What I mean is that when, for example, I was washing your hair, with the most delicate shampoo, and rinsing, and then drying your hair so gently with my soft towel, so that no murmur came from you, of discomfort or unease, and then looked into your eyes, and saw you look into mine, knowing that you wanted no one else, no one at all, knowing that you were entirely happy in my arms, I knew also, for example, that I was at the same time sitting by an indifferent fire, alone in winter, in eternal night without you.

  VOICE 1

  Lady Withers plays the piano. They were sitting, the three women, about the room. About the room were bottles of a vin rosé, of a pink I shall never forget. They sipped their wine from such lovely glass, an elegance of gesture and grace I thought long dead. Lady Withers wore a necklace around her alabaster neck, a neck amazingly young. She played Schumann. She smiled at me. Mrs Withers and Jane smiled at me. I took a seat. I took it and sat in it. I am in it. I will never leave it.

  Oh mother, I have found my home, my family. Little did I ever dream I could know such happiness.

  VOICE 2

  Perhaps I should forget all about you. Perhaps I should curse you as your father cursed you. Oh I pray, I pray your life is a torment to you. I wait for your letter begging me to come to you. I’ll spit on it.

  VOICE 1

  Mother, mother, I’ve had the most unpleasant, the most mystifying encounter, with the man who calls himself Mr Withers. Will you give me your advice?

  Come in here, son, he called. Look sharp. Don’t mess about. I haven’t got all night. I went in. A jug. A basin. A bicycle.

  You know where you are? he said. You’re in my room. It’s not Euston Station. Get me? It’s a true oasis.

  This is the only room in this house where you can pick up a caravanserai to all points West. Compris? Comprende? Get me? Are you prepared to follow me down the mountain? Look at me. My name’s Withers. I’m there or thereabouts. Follow? Embargo on all duff terminology. With me? Embargo on all things redundant. All areas in that connection verboten. You’re in a diseaseridden land, boxer. Keep your weight on all the left feet you can lay your hands on. Keep dancing. The old foxtrot is the classical response but that’s not the response I’m talking about. Nor am I talking about the other response. Up the slaves. Get me? This is a place of creatures, up and down stairs. Creatures of the rhythmic splits, the rhythmic sideswipes, the rums and roulettes, the macaroni tatters, the dumplings in jam mayonnaise, a catapulting ordure of gross and ramshackle shenanigans, openended paraphernalia. Follow me? It all adds up. It’s before you and behind you. I’m the only saviour of the grace you find yourself wanting in. Mind how you go. Look sharp. Get my drift? Don’t let it get too mouldy. Watch the mould. Get the feel of it, sonny, get the density. Look at me.

  And I did.

  VOICE 2

  I am ill.

  VOICE 1

  It was like looking into a pit of molten lava, mother. One look was enough for me.

  VOICE 2

  Come to me.

  VOICE 1

  I joined Mrs Withers for a Campari and soda in the kitchen. She spoke of her youth. I was a right titbit, she said. I was like a piece of plum duff. They used to come from miles to try their luck. I fell head over heels with a man in the Fleet Air Arm. He adored me. They had him murdered because they didn’t want us to know happiness. I could have married him and had tons of sons. But oh no. He went down with his ship. I heard it on the wireless.

  VOICE 2

  I wait for you.

  VOICE 1

  Later that night Riley and I shared a cup of cocoa in his quarters. I like slender lads, Riley said. Slender but strong. I’ve never made any secret of it. But I’ve had to restrain myself, I’ve had to keep a tight rein on my inclinations. That’s because my deepest disposition is towards religion. I’ve always been a deeply religious man. You can imagine the tension this creates in my soul. I walk about in a constant state of spiritual, emotional, psychological and physical tension. It’s breathtaking, the discipline I’m called upon to exert. My lust is unimaginably violent but it goes against my best interests, which are to keep on the right side of God. I’m a big man, as you see, I could crush a slip of a lad such as you to death, I mean the death that is love, the death I understand love to be. But meet it is that I keep those desires shackled in handcuffs and leg-irons. I’m good at that sort of thing because I’m a policeman by trade. And I’m highly respected. I’m highly respected both in the force and in church. The only place where I’m not highly respected is in this house. They don’t give a shit for me here. Although I’ve always been a close relation. Of a sort. I’m a fine tenor but they never invite me to sing. I might as well be living in the middle of the Sahara Desert. There are too many women here, that’s the trouble. And it’s no use talking to Baldy. He’s well away. He lives in another area, best known to himself. I like health and strength and intelligent conversation. That’s why I took a fancy to you, chum, apart from the fact that I fancy you. I’ve got no-one to talk to. These women treat me like a leper. Even though I am a relation. Of a sort.

  What relation?

  Is Lady Withers Jane’s mother or sister?

  If either is the case why isn’t Jane called Lady Jane Withers? Or perhaps she is. Or perhaps neither is the case? Or perhaps Mrs Withers is actually the Honourable Mrs Withers? But if that is the case what does that make Mr Withers? And which Withers is he anyway? I mean what relation is he to the rest of the Witherses? And who is Riley?

  But if you find me bewildered, anxious, confused, uncertain and afraid, you also find me content. My life possesses shape. The house has a very warm atmosphere, as you have no doubt gleaned. And as you have no doubt noted from my account I talk freely to all its inhabitants, with the exception of Mr Withers, to whom no one talks, to whom no one refers, with evidently good reason. But I rarely leave the house. No one seems to leave the house. Riley leaves the house but rarely. He must be a secret policeman. Jane continues to do a great deal of homework while not apparently attending any school. Lady Withers never leaves the house. She has guests. She receives guests. Those are the steps I hear on the stairs at night.

  VOICE 3

  I know your mother has written to you to tell you that I am dead. I am not dead. I am very far from being dead, although lots of people have wished me dead, from time immemorial, you especially. It is you who have prayed for my death, from time immemorial. I have heard your prayers. They ring in my ears. Prayers yearning for my death. But I am not dead.

  Well, that is not entirely true, not entirely the case. I’m lying. I’m leading you up the garden path, I’m playing about, I’m having my bit of fun, that’s what. Because I am dead. As dead as a doornail. I’m writing to you from my grave. A quick word for old time’s sake. Just to keep in touch. An old hullo out of the dark. A last kiss from Dad.

  I’ll probably call it a day after this canter. Not much more to say. All a bit of a sweat. Why am I taking the trouble? Because of you, I suppose, because you were such a loving son. I’m smiling, as I lie in this glassy grave.

  Do you know why I use the word glassy? Because I can see out of it.

  Lots of love, son. Keep up the good work.

  There’s only one thing bothers me, to be quite frank. While there is, generally, absolute silence everywhere, absolute silence throughout all the hours, I still hear, occasionally, a dog barking. I hear this dog. Oh, it frightens me.

  VOICE 1

  They have decided on a name for me. They call me Bobo. Good
morning, Bobo, they say, or, See you in the morning, Bobo, or, Don’t drop a goolie, Bobo, or, Don’t forget the diver, Bobo, or, Keep your eye on the ball, Bobo, or, Keep this side of the tramlines, Bobo, or, How’s the lead in your pencil, Bobo, or, How’s tricks in the sticks, Bobo, or, Don’t get too much gum in your gumboots, Bobo.

  The only person who does not call me Bobo is the old man. He calls me nothing. I call him nothing. I don’t see him. He keeps to his room. I don’t go near it. He is old and will die soon.

  VOICE 2

  The police are looking for you. You may remember that you are still under twenty-one. They have issued your precise description to all the organs. They will not rest, they assure me, until you are found. I have stated my belief that you are in the hands of underworld figures who are using you as a male prostitute. I have declared in my affidavit that you have never possessed any strength of character whatsoever and that you are palpably susceptible to even the most blatant form of flattery and blandishment. Women were your downfall, even as a nipper. I haven’t forgotten Françoise the French maid or the woman who masqueraded under the title of governess, the infamous Miss Carmichael. You will be found, my boy, and no mercy will be shown to you.

  VOICE 1

  I’m coming back to you, mother, to hold you in my arms.

  I am coming home. I am coming also to clasp my father’s shoulder. Where is the old boy? I’m longing to have a word with him. Where is he? I’ve looked in all the usual places, including the old summerhouse, but I can’t find him. Don’t tell me he’s left home at his age? That would be inexpressibly skittish a gesture, on his part. What have you done with him, mother?

  VOICE 2

  I’ll tell you what, my darling. I’ve given you up as a very bad job. Tell me one last thing. Do you think the word love means anything?

  VOICE 1

  I am on my way back to you. I am about to make the journey back to you. What will you say to me?

  VOICE 3

  I have so much to say to you. But I am quite dead. What I have to say to you will never be said.

  A KIND OF ALASKA

  A Kind of Alaska was inspired by Awakenings by Oliver Sacks M.D., first published in 1973 by Gerald Duckworth and Co.

  In the winter of 1916–17, there spread over Europe, and subsequently over the rest of the world, an extraordinary epidemic illness which presented itself in innumerable forms – as delirium, mania, trances, coma, sleep, insomnia, restlessness, and states of Parkinsonism. It was eventually identified by the great physician Constantin von Economo and named by him encephalitis lethargica, or sleeping sickness.

  Over the next ten years almost five million people fell victim to the disease of whom more than a third died. Of the survivors some escaped almost unscathed, but the majority moved into states of deepening illness. The worst affected sank into singular states of ‘sleep’ – conscious of their surroundings but motionless, speechless, and without hope or will, confined to asylums or other institutions.

  Fifty years later, with the development of the remarkable drug L-DOPA, they erupted into life once more.

  A Kind of Alaska was presented with Victoria Station and Family Voices as part of the triple bill, Other Places, first performed at the National Theatre, London, on 14 October 1982 with the following cast:

  DEBORAH Judi Dench

  HORNBY Paul Rogers

  PAULINE Anna Massey

  Directed by Peter Hall

  It was subsequently presented with Victoria Station and One for the Road at the Duchess Theatre, London, on 7 March 1985 with the following cast:

  DEBORAH Dorothy Tutin

  HORNBY Colin Blakely

  PAULINE Susan Engel

  Directed by Kenneth Ives

  It was produced by Central Television in December 1984 with the following cast:

  DEBORAH Dorothy Tutin

  HORNBY Paul Scofield

  PAULINE Susan Engel

  Directed by Kenneth Ives

  A woman in a white bed. Mid-forties. She sits up against high-banked pillows, stares ahead.

  A table and two chairs. A window.

  A man in a dark suit sits at the table. Early sixties.

  The woman’s eyes move. She slowly looks about her.

  Her gaze passes over the man and on.

  He watches her.

  She stares ahead, still.

  She whispers.

  DEBORAH

  Something is happening.

  Silence.

  HORNBY

  Do you know me?

  Silence.

  Do you recognise me?

  Silence.

  Can you hear me?

  She does not look at him.

  DEBORAH

  Are you speaking?

  HORNBY

  Yes.

  Pause.

  Do you know who I am?

  Pause.

  Who am I?

  DEBORAH

  No one hears what I say. No one is listening to me.

  Pause.

  HORNBY

  Do you know who I am?

  Pause.

  Who am I?

  DEBORAH

  You are no-one.

  Pause.

  Who is it? It is miles away. The rain is falling. I will get wet.

  Pause.

  I can’t get to sleep. The dog keeps turning about. I think he’s dreaming. He wakes me up, but not himself up. He’s my best dog though. I talk French.

  Pause.

  HORNBY

  I would like you to listen to me.

  Pause.

  You have been asleep for a very long time. You have now woken up. We are here to care for you.

  Pause.

  You have been asleep for a very long time. You are older, although you do not know that. You are still young, but older.

  Pause.

  DEBORAH

  Something is happening.

  HORNBY

  You have been asleep. You have awoken. Can you hear me? Do you understand me?

  She looks at him for the first time.

  DEBORAH

  Asleep?

  Pause.

  I do not remember that.

  Pause.

  People have been looking at me. They have been touching me. I spoke, but I don’t think they heard what I said.

  Pause.

  What language am I speaking? I speak French, I know that. Is this French?

  Pause.

  I’ve not seen Daddy today. He’s funny. He makes me laugh. He runs with me. We play with balloons.

  Pause.

  Where is he?

  Pause.

  I think it’s my birthday soon.

  Pause.

  No, no. No, no. I sleep like other people. No more no less. Why should I? If I sleep late my mother wakes me up. There are things to do.

  Pause.

  If I have been asleep, why hasn’t Mummy woken me up?

  HORNBY

  I have woken you up.

  DEBORAH

  But I don’t know you.

  Pause.

  Where is everyone? Where is my dog? Where are my sisters? Last night Estelle was wearing my dress. But I said she could.

  Pause.

  I am cold.

  HORNBY

  How old are you?

  DEBORAH

  I am twelve. No. I am sixteen. I am seven.

  Pause.

  I don’t know. Yes. I know. I am fourteen. I am fifteen. I’m lovely fifteen.

  Pause.

  You shouldn’t have brought me here. My mother will ask me where I’ve been.

  Pause.

  You shouldn’t have touched me like that. I shan’t tell my mother. I shouldn’t have touched you like that.

  Pause.

  Oh Jack.

  Pause.

  It’s time I was up and about. All those dogs are making such a racket. I suppose Daddy’s feeding them. Is Estelle going to marry that boy from Townley Street? The ginger boy? Pauline says he’s got
nothing between his ears. Thick as two planks. I’ve given it a good deal of rather more mature thought and I’ve decided she should not marry him. Tell her not to marry him. She’ll listen to you.

  Pause.

  Daddy?

  HORNBY

  She didn’t marry him.

  DEBORAH

  Didn’t?

  Pause.

  It would be a great mistake. It would ruin her life.

  HORNBY

  She didn’t marry him.

  Silence.

  DEBORAH

  I’ve seen this room before. What room is this? It’s not my bedroom. My bedroom has blue lilac on the walls. The sheets are soft, pretty. Mummy kisses me.

  Pause.

  This is not my bedroom.

  HORNBY

  You have been in this room for a long time. You have been asleep. You have now woken up.

  DEBORAH

  You shouldn’t have brought me here. What are you saying? Did I ask you to bring me here? Did I make eyes at you? Did I show desire for you? Did I let you peep up my skirt? Did I flash my teeth? Was I as bold as brass? Perhaps I’ve forgotten.

  HORNBY

  I didn’t bring you here. Your mother and father brought you here.

  DEBORAH

  My father? My mother?

  Pause.

  Did they bring me to you as a sacrifice? Did they sacrifice me to you?

  Pause.

  No, no. You stole me … in the night.

  Pause.

  Have you had your way with me?

  HORNBY

  I am here to take care of you.

  DEBORAH

  They all say that.

  Pause.

  You’ve had your way with me. You made me touch you. You stripped me. I cried … but … but it was my lust made me cry. You are a devil. My lust was my own. I kept it by me. You took it from me. Once open never closed. Never closed again. Never closed always open. For eternity. Terrible. You have ruined me.

  Pause.

  I sound childish. Out of … tune.

  Pause.

  How old am I?

  Pause.

  Eighteen?

  HORNBY

  No.

  DEBORAH