The Retreat from Moscow

by William Nicholson

  ALICE: You must admit there’s something odd about you living alone in that flat at your age.

  JAMIE: I don’t admit anything of the sort.

  ALICE: You know Edward envies you.

  JAMIE: Oh?

  ALICE: He’d love to live in your flat and do the same things at the same time every day. That’s what I rescued him from.

  JAMIE: Well, don’t try rescuing me.

  ALICE: I do worry about you.

  JAMIE: I worry about you.

  ALICE: Why? Because Daddy and I have these little rows? These things happen in a marriage. We’re working things out in our own way.

  JAMIE: I’m just keeping well out of the line of fire.

  ALICE: You know I love him, don’t you? I love him even when I’m going for him, as you call it. After all these years it’s got so that I can’t imagine life without him. So you mustn’t mind if we quarrel from time to time.

  JAMIE: How did the breakfast things end up on the floor?

  ALICE: I tipped the table up. I had to do something.

  JAMIE: I thought maybe you’d thrown them at him.

  ALICE: Oh, no. I wouldn’t do that. Not cutlery.

  JAMIE: I’m relieved to hear it.

  (He rises, replacing the last item on the table.)

  ALICE: I would have cleared it all up if you hadn’t done it.

  JAMIE: Well, it’s done now.

  ALICE: Thank you, darling.

  JAMIE: So I’ll see you in the morning, then.

  ALICE: I think I may go to the early mass after all. Do you want me to wake you?

  JAMIE: No. Let me sleep.

  ALICE: Good night, then, darling.

  (She kisses him.)

  You have such a beautiful face. Can I tell you the poem I always think of when I look at you?

  JAMIE: Go on, then.

  ALICE: It’s by Edwin Muir. I think he actually wrote it for his wife, but it always makes me think of you.

  Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face.

  I in my mind had waited for this long,

  Seeing the false and searching for the true,

  Then found you as a traveller finds a place

  Of welcome suddenly amid the wrong

  Valleys and rocks and twisting roads. But you,

  What shall I call you? A fountain in a waste,

  A well of water in a country dry,

  Or anything that’s honest and good, an eye

  That makes the whole world bright…

  JAMIE: It’s not at all like me.

  ALICE: Yes, it is. Mother knows best.

  (She kisses him again. Lights go down on ALICE.)

  (JAMIE sits at the table.)

  (Lights come up on EDWARD, who also takes a place at the table. Father and son proceed to have breakfast.)

  EDWARD: When do you have to go?

  JAMIE: After lunch.

  EDWARD: Right away after lunch?

  JAMIE: Three-ish.

  EDWARD: I don’t suppose you could stay a little longer?

  JAMIE: Well, no, I can’t, really. Why?

  EDWARD: It’s just that things are rather coming to a head. I thought it might be better for Alice, if you were here.

  JAMIE: I have to go out this evening.

  EDWARD: Oh, well then.

  JAMIE: Does it have to be today?

  EDWARD: No, not really. It’s just what we agreed.

  JAMIE: What do you mean, things are coming to a head?

  EDWARD: You know how it’s been with Alice. For, oh, a long time now. Years. There was an incident a few weeks ago, at school. Maybe she told you about it.

  JAMIE: No.

  EDWARD: She found me in the staffroom. There was something I’d forgotten, or failed to do, something very minor. She went for me in front of my colleagues, which I consider unacceptable. What could I do? I walked out of the staffroom. To avoid the embarrassment of it. She came after me, saying, “Talk to me. Answer me. Look at me.” I walked faster and faster, not really thinking where I was going. She followed. “Talk to me. Answer me. Look at me.” I went out onto the playing fields. She followed. “Turn and face me, you coward. You can’t run for ever.” And of course, the playing fields don’t go on for ever. So I turned back, and there she was. I tried to walk past her, but she kept in my way, shouting at me. “Talk to me. Answer me. Look at me.” Then she started to take off her clothes. She took off her jersey, and threw it at me. She was wearing a T-shirt underneath, like a teenager. She took that off, threw it at me. Then her skirt. Then her bra. It was unbearable. She looked pitiful, standing there, trembling, in the middle of the playing field. So of course I had to turn and face her. And she said, “There. I’ve made you look at me at last.”

  (Silence.)

  JAMIE: I didn’t know it was that bad.

  EDWARD: Sometimes I think she’s mad. And then, at other times … It’s not simple, somehow.

  JAMIE: She’s not mad.

  EDWARD: No, of course not. But you must admit she’s not like most people.

  JAMIE: Isn’t that why you married her?

  EDWARD: Yes, I suppose it is.

  JAMIE: I sometimes wonder why you did marry her.

  EDWARD: Well, really she married me.

  JAMIE: But you must have wanted it.

  EDWARD: Yes. Oh, yes. She was dazzling. She dazzled me. She was like a brilliant light. She made me see things I’d never seen. India! Nobody took their honeymoon in India back then. We saw the Taj Mahal together. It doesn’t sound much now, but it was like a miracle to me. There I was, standing looking at the Taj Mahal by moonlight, with this dazzling girl beside me, holding my hand, reciting poetry by heart. She didn’t know any poems about the Taj Mahal, so she recited “Ozymandias.” “I met a traveller from an antique land …” I was so proud of her.

  She could recite whole poems, on any subject, hundreds of them. It was like a trick, only it wasn’t a trick, it was a passion. Alice taught me to love poetry. It rubbed off on me by sheer proximity. I’ve always been grateful for that.

  JAMIE: I like it when you talk about the good times.

  EDWARD: Yes, well …

  (Silence.)

  EDWARD: I’m going to leave.

  (Silence.)

  JAMIE: I knew it.

  EDWARD: I’m sorry. I can’t make Alice happy. I’ve tried, but I’m the wrong person. Also, ridiculous as it may sound, I’ve fallen in love.

  JAMIE: What!

  EDWARD: Yes. It’s not what I expected, either.

  JAMIE: Who is it?

  EDWARD: Her name’s Angela. She’s the mother of a boy at school. He’s been having problems, and I’ve been helping him.

  JAMIE: Oh, God … Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Only, what’s going to happen to Ma?

  EDWARD: I’ve given that a lot of thought. I’ve come to the conclusion that in the long run she’ll be better off without me. I don’t give her what she wants. I didn’t realise it until I got to know Angela. With Angela, it’s easy. The way I am seems to suit her. With Alice, everything I do is wrong. I’m nervous, and clumsy. I annoy her.

  JAMIE: Does she know anything?

  EDWARD: Not about Angela. No.

  JAMIE: So it’ll come out of nowhere?

  EDWARD: Hardly nowhere. It’s been getting worse and worse. Several times she’s talked about separation.

  JAMIE: She doesn’t mean it.

  EDWARD: Then why does she say it?

  JAMIE: She feels there’s something not real about her marriage.

  EDWARD: Well, you see, she could be right.

  JAMIE: I don’t think she wants to be right.

  EDWARD: That’s why I was hoping you could stay on a bit.

  JAMIE: Does it have to be today?

  EDWARD: Well, it’s what we’ve agreed. We’ve got everything ready.

  JAMIE: Mightn’t you change your mind?

  EDWARD: No.

  JAMIE: Once she sees you really might leave, she’ll act differently with you.
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  EDWARD: I’m sorry. It’s all gone too far.

  JAMIE: Oh, God.

  EDWARD: She’ll still have you.

  JAMIE: Look, I really don’t know that I can do this.

  EDWARD: I have to tell her soon.

  JAMIE: What are you going to do? Move out?

  EDWARD: Yes.

  JAMIE: When?

  EDWARD: Well, the plan was, soon. Very soon.

  JAMIE: You don’t mean today?

  EDWARD: Angela felt, why drag it out?

  JAMIE: You can’t. You have to break it to her more gently.

  EDWARD: Yesterday she asked me to say I loved her, and I couldn’t speak the words. I can’t go on like this.

  JAMIE: Yes, but …

  EDWARD: She’ll be back from church soon. I’m going to tell her right away, and then I’m going to leave. You can be with her for a while, and still get off by four. You’ll be in town by five-thirty. You don’t have to go through Tunbridge Wells.

  JAMIE: You planned this for when I was down.

  EDWARD: Yes.

  JAMIE: Have you packed a bag?

  EDWARD: Just the basics.

  JAMIE: So it’s already happened.

  EDWARD: Yes. It’s just a matter of saying the words.

  (Silence.)

  JAMIE: How long will it take? I don’t want to be here when you do it.

  EDWARD: Give me half an hour.

  JAMIE: I’ll go for a walk, or something.

  EDWARD: Right.

  (They both look at their watches, at the same time.)

  JAMIE: Half an hour, then.

  EDWARD: Right.

  (Lights go down on JAMIE.)

  (EDWARD finishes eating his breakfast.)

  (Lights come up on ALICE.)

  ALICE: Jamie not up?

  EDWARD: He’s gone out for a walk.

  ALICE: A walk? He never goes out for a walk.

  EDWARD: Cup of tea?

  (EDWARD gets up and goes to make tea. ALICE sits at the breakfast table)

  ALICE: Poor old Father Conlon produced a classic Connie sermon about women priests.

  He said he couldn’t make head or tail of the matter, but if the Pope says it’s wrong then it’s wrong, and that’s why we’re all in the Catholic Church. Wonderful.

  EDWARD: What will you do about your printer?

  ALICE: Try and get it fixed, I suppose.

  EDWARD: You’d better buy yourself a new one.

  ALICE: Edward, the money.

  EDWARD: You can’t do your anthology without one.

  ALICE: Can we afford it?

  EDWARD: I think we must, don’t you?

  ALICE: Maybe it could be my anniversary present.

  EDWARD: If you like.

  ALICE: After all, it is really for both of us. For your reports, and things. I promise not to drop it again.

  EDWARD: Did the car start alright?

  ALICE: Yes. First time.

  EDWARD: It should go in for a service before the cold weather comes.

  ALICE: I wonder what it is about going to mass. It’s a dreary little building, really, and poor old Connie is such an ass. The language isn’t beautiful any more. The congregation smells of wet socks. They all seem to wear nylon windcheaters these days, very bright colours, but somehow dismal.

  The hymns are as hopeless as ever, as if the English Catholics got a job lot cheap when the Protties were throwing out the ones they no longer wanted. There’s no sense of mystery any more, or the presence of God. And yet I always come away feeling better. Do you?

  EDWARD: I think it’s just one of those things I’ve got used to. I’m not sure I’d know what effect it was having unless I stopped.

  ALICE: Maybe it’s a sort of maintenance thing, like cleaning your teeth. Not very exciting in itself, but if you stop doing it your mouth tastes wrong.

  EDWARD: Quite.

  ALICE: Then of course whether you mean it or not you do say things like, “Lord have mercy on us.” I found myself counting. We asked for mercy seventeen times. Nine times in the Kyrie alone, of course. Three times in the Agnus Dei. And it kept popping up everywhere else. I think it may have a sort of hypnotic effect, all that asking for mercy. After a while it begins to strike you that maybe you need it.

  EDWARD: Yes, I suppose we all do, really.

  (He brings over a mug of tea and puts it before ALICE.)

  ALICE: I’m sorry I hit you last night.

  EDWARD: I expect it was my fault.

  ALICE: I know I go for you sometimes. I’ll try to stop. Really all I want is reassurance.

  EDWARD: Right.

  ALICE: Just to know that we’re going through this thing together.

  (Silence.)

  After nearly thirty-three years.

  (Silence.)

  EDWARD: It’s not really working, is it?

  ALICE: What did you say?

  EDWARD: It’s not really working.

  ALICE: Oh, thank God!

  EDWARD: Why do you say that?

  ALICE: That’s the first time you’ve said it for yourself I’ve been feeling as if it’s only me, as if I’m going mad. But you do see it, don’t you? We have to do something.

  EDWARD: Yes. I see it.

  ALICE: What’s happened to us?

  EDWARD: I think what you said is true. I’ve been walking away. I’ve been avoiding things.

  ALICE: Oh, thank God! You’re saying it at last!

  EDWARD: I suppose I’ve felt I can’t give you what you want. So I’ve felt like I’m not a very useful person, for you at least. I seem to annoy you, and do things wrong. That makes me feel, well, not much good, really, so I try not to talk about it. Which only makes it worse.

  ALICE: Oh, thank God! You understand. I’ve been praying for this.

  EDWARD: I think the truth is we’re different kinds of people. It may just be that we don’t work very well together.

  ALICE: But we can! If we understand each other, and are real with each other, and if we have the will to make it work, then it’ll work. I know it.

  EDWARD: I’m not sure I have the will.

  ALICE: You have to. Marriages only work because both people want them to work.

  EDWARD: I’m not sure I want that.

  ALICE: You’re not sure you want our marriage to work?

  EDWARD: I’m not sure.

  ALICE: Edward, listen to me. This is terribly important. You must will our marriage, or it’ll die. Do you understand that?

  EDWARD: Yes.

  ALICE: There’s no in-between. It’s either alive, or it’s dead.

  EDWARD: What if it’s dead?

  ALICE: Then we go our separate ways. No one can live in a dead marriage.

  EDWARD: Maybe that’s what we should do. Go. Our separate ways.

  ALICE: But our marriage isn’t dead.

  EDWARD: Look at it, Alice. Look at us. Listen to us.

  ALICE: Do you think it’s dead?

  (EDWARD hesitates, ALICE answers for him.)

  Well, I don’t. It’s not dead for me. It’s struggling to be born. It wants to breathe, and cry, and run about, and grow strong. It’s our child, Edward, it’s you and me, the best of you and me, the part that loves each other. All we have to do is give it a chance. So long as we love each other, we don’t have to be afraid. I’m your wife. You’re my husband. You see how simple it can be. You can say anything you want to me. Anything in the whole world.

  (Silence.)

  EDWARD: I want to leave.

  ALICE: Leave?

  EDWARD: Yes.

  ALICE: Leave to go where?

  EDWARD: There’s someone else.

  ALICE: Someone else?

  EDWARD: I’m sorry.

  (Silence.)

  ALICE: How can there be someone else? What someone else?

  EDWARD: A parent at school. You don’t know her.

  ALICE: What parent at school?

  EDWARD: Her name’s Angela Walker.

  (Silence, ALICE is struggling to take i
n what she’s hearing.)

  I didn’t mean it to happen. It was an accident. But it’s happened.

  ALICE: An accident? How was it an accident?

  EDWARD: I met her to talk over her son’s problems. She told me about the situation at home. The boy’s father left a year or so ago. She became quite emotional. I said what I could. And that’s how we—became close.

  ALICE: Became close?

  EDWARD: Yes.

  ALICE: How close? No, I don’t want to hear it. I can see it on your face. Oh, you traitor. You traitor. Was it as easy as that?

  EDWARD: Yes.

  ALICE: When did this “accident” happen?

  EDWARD: About two months ago.

  ALICE: And you went on just the same? I don’t understand. Are you someone else?

  EDWARD: I should have told you before—

  ALICE: It’s not an accident. You’re doing it. You don’t have to do it. You can stop doing it. You have to stop doing it.

  EDWARD: I’m sorry. I can’t.

  ALICE: You’re not free. Don’t you realise that? This woman may have lost her husband, but that doesn’t give her the right to take mine. Edward, this is ridiculous. You must see that. Or are you just doing this to give me a fright, and make me behave better?

  EDWARD: No.

  ALICE: Does Jamie know?

  EDWARD: Some of it. I told him at breakfast.

  ALICE: So he could console me?

  EDWARD: Yes.

  ALICE: You told Jamie?

  EDWARD: I know this is all a shock. But I do truly think you’ll come to see it’s for the best.

  ALICE: Of course I won’t. What rot you talk.

  EDWARD: I’m no good for you, Alice. I don’t give you what you want.

  ALICE: Of course not. You don’t give me what I want because you’re not even trying. You’ve found a way to sneak out of it. Well, you can’t. I won’t let you.

  EDWARD: I’m sorry. I’ve made up my mind.

  ALICE: Then you’ll have to unmake it, won’t you? This decision involves me. You have to consult me.

  EDWARD: Don’t do this, Alice. It’ll only make it worse.

  ALICE: You think I’m going to let you walk out of my life after thirty-three years because you can’t be bothered to make an effort?

  EDWARD: I have made an effort. For the last thirty-three years.

  ALICE: What!

  (She starts to weep.)

  Don’t say that. Not all of it. You don’t mean that. Please, Eddie, don’t take it all.

  EDWARD: No, I don’t mean that. But you know how it’s been.

  ALICE: We had India. You said you’d never forget India. We had those years when Jamie was little, in Maidstone. They were good years. Say they were good years, Edward.