Harold Pinter

by Harold Pinter

  JAKE

  You mean Kellaway.

  FRED

  Kellaway? I don’t know Kellaway.

  JAKE

  You don’t?

  FRED

  Yours was the name they gave me.

  JAKE

  What name was that?

  FRED

  Saunders.

  JAKE

  Oh quite.

  FRED

  They didn’t mention Kellaway.

  JAKE

  When you say ‘they’ I take it you don’t mean ‘they’?

  FRED

  I mean a man called Sims.

  JAKE

  Jim Sims?

  FRED

  No.

  JAKE

  Well, if it isn’t Jim Sims I can’t imagine what Sims you can possibly be talking about.

  FRED

  That’s no skin off my nose.

  JAKE

  I fervently hope you’re right.

  JAKE examines papers.

  Oh by the way, Manning’s popping in to see you in a few minutes.

  FRED

  Manning?

  JAKE

  Yes, just to say hello. He can’t stay long. He’s on his way to Huddersfield.

  FRED

  Manning?

  JAKE

  Huddersfield, yes.

  FRED

  I don’t know any Manning.

  JAKE

  I know you don’t. That’s why he’s popping in to see you.

  FRED

  Now look here. I think this is getting a bit out of court. First Kellaway, now Manning. Two men I have not only never met but have never even heard of. I’m going to have to take this back to my people, I’m afraid. I’ll have to get a further briefing on this.

  JAKE

  Oh I’m terribly sorry – of course – you must know Manning by his other name.

  FRED

  What’s that?

  JAKE

  Rawlings.

  FRED

  I know Rawlings.

  JAKE

  I had no right to call him Manning.

  FRED

  Not if he’s the Rawlings I know.

  JAKE

  He is the Rawlings you know.

  FRED

  Well, this quite clearly brings us straight back to Kellaway. What’s Kellaway’s other name?

  JAKE

  Saunders.

  Pause.

  FRED

  But that’s your name.

  RALPH to JAKE and FRED.

  RALPH

  Were you keen on the game of soccer when you were lads, you boys? Probably not. Probably thinking of other things. Kissing girls. Foreign literature. Snooker. I know the form. I can tell by the complexion, I can tell by the stance, I can tell by the way a man holds himself whether he has an outdoor disposition or not. Your father could never be described as a natural athlete. Not by a long chalk. The man was a thinker. Well, there’s a place in this world for thinking, I certainly wouldn’t argue with that. The trouble with so much thinking, though, or with that which calls itself thinking, is that it’s like farting Annie Laurie down a keyhole. A waste of your time and mine. What do you think this thinking is pretending to do? Eh? It’s pretending to make things clear, you see, it’s pretending to clarify things. But what’s it really doing? Eh? What do you think? I’ll tell you. It’s confusing you, it’s blinding you, it’s sending the mind into a spin, it’s making you dizzy, it’s making you so dizzy that by the end of the day you don’t know whether you’re on your arse or your elbow, you don’t know whether you’re coming or going. I’ve always been a pretty vigorous man myself. I had a seafaring background. I was the captain of a lugger. The bosun’s name was Ripper. But after years at sea I decided to give the Arts a chance generally. I had tried a bit of amateur refereeing but it didn’t work out. But I had a natural talent for acting and I also played the piano and I could paint. But I should have been an architect. That’s where the money is. It was your mother and father woke me up to poetry and art. They changed my life. And then of course I married my wife. A fine woman but demanding. She was looking for fibre and guts. Her eyes were black and appalling. I dropped dead at her feet. It was all go at that time. Love, football, the arts, the occasional pint. Mind you, I preferred a fruity white wine but you couldn’t actually say that in those days.

  Third area.

  Jake (18), Fred (17), Bridget (14).

  BRIDGET and FRED on the floor. JAKE standing.

  A cassette playing.

  FRED

  Why can’t I come?

  JAKE

  I’ve told you. There isn’t room in the car.

  BRIDGET

  Oh take him with you.

  JAKE

  There’s no room in the car. It’s not my car. I’m just a passenger. I’m lucky to get a lift myself.

  FRED

  But if I can’t come with you what am I going to do all night? I’ll have to stay here with her.

  BRIDGET

  Oh God, I wish you’d take him with you. Otherwise I’ll have to stay here with him.

  JAKE

  Well, you are related.

  FRED

  That’s the trouble.

  BRIDGET (To FRED)

  You’re related to him too.

  FRED

  Yes, but once I got to this gig I’d lose him. We wouldn’t see each other again. He’s merely a method of transport. Emotion or family allegiances don’t come in to it.

  BRIDGET

  Oh well go with him then.

  JAKE

  I’ve told you, he can’t. There isn’t any room in the car. It’s not my car! I haven’t got a car.

  FRED

  That’s what’s so tragic about the whole business. If you had a car none of this would be taking place.

  BRIDGET

  Look, I don’t want him to stay here with me, I can assure you, I actually want to be alone.

  FRED

  Greta Garbo! Are you going to be a film star when you grow up?

  BRIDGET

  Oh shut up. You know what I’m going to be.

  FRED

  What?

  BRIDGET

  A physiotherapist.

  JAKE

  She’ll be a great physiotherapist.

  FRED

  She’ll have to play very soothing music so that her patients won’t notice their suffering.

  BRIDGET

  I did your neck the other day and you didn’t complain.

  FRED

  That’s true.

  BRIDGET

  You had a spasm and I released it.

  FRED

  That’s true.

  BRIDGET

  You didn’t complain then.

  FRED

  I’m not complaining now. I think you’re wonderful. I know you’re wonderful. And I know you’ll make a wonderful physiotherapist. But I still want to get to this gig in Amersham. That doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re wonderful.

  BRIDGET

  Oh go to Amersham, please! You don’t think I need anyone to stay with me, do you? I’m not a child. Anyway, I’m reading this book.

  JAKE

  You don’t want to be all on your own.

  BRIDGET

  I do want to be all on my own. I want to read this book.

  FRED

  I don’t even have a book. I mean – I have books – but they’re all absolutely unreadable.

  JAKE

  Well I’m off to Amersham.

  FRED

  What about me?

  BRIDGET

  Oh for God’s sake take him with you to Amersham or don’t take him with you to Amersham or shut up! Both of you!

  Pause.

  JAKE

  Well I’m off to Amersham.

  He goes. BRIDGET and FRED sit still.

  Music plays.

  Andy’s room.

  ANDY and BEL.

  BEL

  I’m giving you a mushroom omelette today and
a little green salad – and an apple.

  ANDY

  How kind you are. I’d be lost without you. It’s true. I’d flounder without you. I’d fall apart. Well, I’m falling apart as it is – but if I didn’t have you I’d stand no chance.

  BEL

  You’re not a bad man. You’re just what we used to call a loudmouth. You can’t help it. It’s your nature. If you only kept your mouth shut more of the time life with you might just be tolerable.

  ANDY

  Allow me to kiss your hand. I owe you everything.

  He watches her embroider.

  Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you, what are you making there? A winding sheet? Are you going to wrap me up in it when I conk out? You’d better get a move on. I’m going fast.

  Pause.

  Where are they?

  Pause.

  Two sons. Absent. Indifferent. Their father dying.

  BEL

  They were good boys. I’ve been thinking of how they used to help me with the washing-up. And the drying. The clearing of the table, the washing-up, the drying. Do you remember?

  ANDY

  You mean in the twilight? The soft light falling through the kitchen window? The bell ringing for Evensong in the pub round the corner?

  Pause.

  They were bastards. Both of them. Always. Do you remember that time I asked Jake to clean out the broom cupboard? Well – I told him – I admit it – I didn’t ask him – I told him that it was bloody filthy and that he hadn’t lifted a little finger all week. Nor had the other one. Lazy idle layabouts. Anyway all I did was to ask him – quite politely – to clean out the bloody broom cupboard. His defiance! Do you remember the way he looked at me? His defiance!

  Pause.

  And look at them now! What are they now! A sponging parasitical pair of ponces. Sucking the tit of the state. Sucking the tit of the state! And I bet you feed them a few weekly rupees from your little money-box, don’t you? Because they always loved their loving mother. They helped her with the washing-up!

  Pause.

  I’ve got to stretch my legs. Go over the Common, watch a game of football, rain or shine. What was the name of that old chum of mine? Used to referee amateur games every weekend? On the Common? Charming bloke. They treated him like shit. A subject of scorn. No decision he ever made was adhered to or respected. They shouted at him, they screamed at him, they called him every kind of prick. I used to watch in horror from the touchline. I’ll always remember his impotent whistle. It blows down to me through the ages, damp and forlorn. What was his name? And now I’m dying and he’s probably dead.

  BEL

  He’s not dead.

  ANDY

  Why not?

  Pause.

  What was his name?

  BEL

  Ralph.

  ANDY

  Ralph? Ralph? Can that be possible?

  Pause.

  Well, even if his name was Ralph he was still the most sensitive and intelligent of men. My oldest friend. But pathologically idiosyncratic, if he was anything. He was reliable enough when he was sitting down but you never knew where you were with him when he was standing up, I mean when he was on the move, when you were walking down the street with him. He was a reticent man, you see. He said little but he was always thinking. And the trouble was – his stride would keep pace with his thoughts. If he was thinking slowly he’d walk as if he was wading through mud or crawling out of a pot of apricot jam. If he was thinking quickly he walked like greased lightning, you couldn’t keep up with him, you were on your knees in the gutter while he was over the horizon in a flash. I always had a lot of sympathy for his sexual partner, whoever she may have been. I mean to say – one minute he’d be berserk – up to a thousand revolutions a second – and the next he’d be grinding to the most appalling and deadly halt. He was his own natural handbrake. Poor girl. There must be easier ways of making ends meet.

  Pause.

  Anyway, leaving him aside, if you don’t mind, for a few minutes, where is Maria? Why isn’t she here? I can’t die without her.

  BEL

  Oh of course you can. And you will.

  ANDY

  But think of our past. We were all so close. Think of the months I betrayed you with her. How can she forget? Think of the wonder of it. I betrayed you with your own girlfriend, she betrayed you with your husband and she betrayed her own husband – and me – with you! She broke every record in sight! She was a genius and a great fuck.

  BEL

  She was a very charming and attractive woman.

  ANDY

  Then why isn’t she here? She loved me, not to mention you. Why isn’t she here to console you in your grief.

  BEL

  She’s probably forgotten you’re dying. If she ever remembered.

  ANDY

  What! What!

  Pause.

  I had her in our bedroom, by the way, once or twice, on our bed. I was a man at the time.

  Pause.

  You probably had her in the same place, of course. In our bedroom, on our bed.

  BEL

  I don’t ‘have’ people.

  ANDY

  You’ve had me.

  BEL

  Oh you. Oh yes. I can still have you.

  ANDY

  What do you mean? Are you threatening me? What do you have in mind? Assault? Are you proposing to have me here and now? Without further ado? Would it be out of order to remind you that I’m on my deathbed? Or is that a solecism? What’s your plan, to kill me in the act, like a praying mantis? How much sexual juice does a corpse retain and for how long, for Christ’s sake? The truth is I’m basically innocent. I know little of women. But I’ve heard dread tales. Mainly from my old mate, the referee. But they were probably all fantasy and fabrication, bearing no relation whatsoever to reality.

  BEL

  Oh, do you think so? Do you really think so?

  Fred’s room.

  FRED and JAKE, at the table.

  JAKE

  The meeting is scheduled for 6.30. Bellamy in the chair. Pratt, Hawkeye, Belcher and Rausch, Horsfall attending. Lieutenant-Colonel Silvio d’Orangerie will speak off the record at 7.15 precisely.

  FRED

  But Horsfall will be attending?

  JAKE

  Oh, Horsfall’s always steady on parade. Apart from that I’ve done the placement myself.

  FRED

  What are you, the permanent secretary?

  JAKE

  Indeed I am. Indeed I am.

  FRED

  Funny Hawkeye and Rausch being at the same table. Did you mention Bigsby?

  JAKE

  Why, did Hawkeye tangle with Rausch at Bromley? No, I didn’t mention Bigsby.

  FRED

  They were daggers drawn at Eastbourne.

  JAKE

  What, during the Buckminster hierarchy?

  FRED

  Buckminster? I never mentioned Buckminster.

  JAKE

  You mentioned Bigsby.

  FRED

  You’re not telling me that Bigsby is anything to do with Buckminster? Or that Buckminster and Bigsby –?

  JAKE

  I’m telling you nothing of the sort. Buckminster and Bigsby are two quite different people.

  FRED

  That’s always been my firm conviction.

  JAKE

  Well, thank goodness we agree about something.

  FRED

  I’ve never thought we were all that far apart.

  JAKE

  You mean where it matters most?

  FRED

  Quite. Tell me more about Belcher.

  JAKE

  Belcher? Who’s Belcher? Oh, Belcher! Sorry. I thought for a moment you were confusing Belcher with Bellamy. Because of the B’s. You follow me?

  FRED

  Any confusion that exists in that area rests entirely in you, old chap.

  JAKE

  That’s a bit blunt, isn’t it? Are you alway
s so blunt? After all, I’ve got a steady job here, which is more than can be said for you.

  FRED

  Listen son. I’ve come a long way down here to attend a series of highly confidential meetings in which my participation is seen to be a central factor. I’ve come a very long way and the people I left to man the bloody fort made quite clear to me a number of their very weighty misgivings. But I insisted and here I am. I want to see Bellamy, I want to see Belcher, I need to see Rausch, Pratt is a prat but Hawkeye is crucial. Frustrate any of this and you’ll regret it.

  JAKE

  I can only hope Lieutenant-Colonel Silvio d’Orangerie won’t find you as offensive as I do. He’s an incredibly violent person.

  FRED

  I know Silvio.

  JAKE

  Know him? What do you mean?

  FRED

  We were together in Torquay.

  JAKE

  Oh. I see.

  Pause.

  What about Horsfall?

  FRED

  Horsfall belongs to you.

  Andy’s room.

  ANDY and BEL.

  ANDY

  Where is she? Of all the people in the world I know she’d want to be with me now. Because she I know remembers everything. How I cuddled her and sang to her, how I kept her nightmares from her, how she fell asleep in my arms.

  BEL

  Please. Oh please.

  Pause.

  ANDY

  Is she bringing my grandchildren to see me? Is she? To catch their last look of me, to receive my blessing?

  BEL sits frozen.

  Poor little buggers, their eyes so wide, so blue, so black, poor tots, tiny totlets, poor little tiny totlets, to lose their grandad at the height of his powers, when he was about to stumble upon new reserves of spiritual zest, when the door was about to open on new ever-widening and ever-lengthening horizons.

  BEL

  But darling, death will be your new horizon.

  ANDY

  What?

  BEL

  Death is your new horizon.

  ANDY

  That may be. That may be. But the big question is, will I cross it as I die or after I’m dead? Or perhaps I won’t cross it at all. Perhaps I’ll just stay stuck in the middle of the horizon. In which case, can I see over it? Can I see to the other side? Or is the horizon endless? And what’s the weather like? Is it uncertain with showers or sunny with fogpatches? Or unceasing moonlight with no cloud? Or pitch black for ever and ever? You may say you haven’t the faintest fucking idea and you would be right. But personally I don’t believe it’s going to be pitch black for ever because if it’s pitch black for ever what would have been the point of going through all these enervating charades in the first place? There must be a loophole. The only trouble is, I can’t find it. If only I could find it I would crawl through it and meet myself coming back. Like screaming with fright at the sight of a stranger only to find you’re looking into a mirror.