Plays Extravagant

by Dan Laurence

  THE MAN. Isnt it what the Government paid at the beginning of the war when all the women were, called on to do their bit? Do you expect me to pay more than the British Government?

  THE WOMAN. I assure you it’s the regular and proper wage and always has been, maam.

  THE MAN. Like five per cent at the Bank of England it is. This is a respectable business, whatever your inspectors may say.

  EPIFANIA. Can a woman live on twelve shillings a week?

  THE MAN. Of course she can. Whats to prevent her?

  THE WOMAN. Why, maam, when I was a girl in a match factory I had five shillings a week; and it was a godsend to my mother. And a girl who had no family of her own could always find a family to take her in for four and sixpence, and treat her better than if she had been in her father’s house.

  THE MAN. I can find you a family what’ll do it today, in spite of all the damned doles and wages boards that have upset everything and given girls ideas above their station without giving them the means to pamper themselves.

  EPIFANIA. Well, I will work even for that, to prove that I can work and support myself. So give me work and have done talking.

  THE MAN. Who started talking? You or I?

  EPIFANIA. I did. I thank you for the information you have given me: it has been instructive and to the point. Is that a sufficient apology? And now to work, to work. I am in a hurry to get to work.

  THE MAN. Well, what work can you do?

  THE WOMAN. Can you sew? Can you make buttonholes?

  EPIFANIA. Certainly not. I dont call that work.

  THE MAN. Well, what sort of work are you looking for?

  EPIFANIA. Brain work.

  THE MAN. She’s dotty!

  EPIFANIA. Your work. Managing work. Planning work. Driving work. Let me see what you make here. Tell me how you dispose of it.

  THE MAN [to his wife] You had better get on with your work. Let her see it. [To Epifania, whilst the woman pulls out the pile of coats from under the table and sits down resignedly to her sewing] And when youve quite satisfied your curiosity, perhaps youll take that five shillings and go.

  EPIFANIA. Why? Dont you find my arrival a pleasant sort of adventure in this den?

  THE MAN. I never heard the like of your cheek, not from nobody. [He sits down to his accounts].

  EPIFANIA [to the woman, indicating the pile of coats] What do you do with these when they are finished?

  THE WOMAN [going on with her work] The man comes with his lorry and takes them away.

  EPIFANIA. Does he pay you for them?

  THE WOMAN. Oh no. He gives us a receipt for them. Mr Superflew pays us for the receipts at the end of the week.

  EPIFANIA. And what does Mr Superflew do with the coats?

  THE WOMAN. He takes them to the wholesaler that supplies him with the cloth. The lorry brings us the cloth when it takes away the finished clothes.

  EPIFANIA. Why dont you deal directly with the wholesalers?

  THE WOMAN. Oh no: that wouldnt be right. We dont know who they are; and Mr Superflew does. Besides, we couldnt afford a lorry.

  EPIFANIA. Does Mr Superflew own the lorry?

  THE WOMAN. Oh no: that wouldnt be right. He hires it by the hour from Bolton’s.

  EPIFANIA. Is the driver always the same man?

  THE WOMAN. Yes, of course: always old Tim Goodenough. EPIFANIA [to the man] Write those names for me: Superflew, Bolton’s, Goodenough.

  THE MAN. Here! I’m not your clerk, you know.

  EPIFANIA. You will be, soon. Do as I tell you.

  THE MAN. Well of all the cheek – ! [He obeys].

  EPIFANIA. When Goodenough comes round next tell him to tell Bolton’s that he has found somebody who will buy the lorry for fourteen pounds. Tell him that if he can induce Bolton’s to part from it at that figure you will give him a pound for himself and engage him at half a crown advance on his present wages to drive it just the same old round to the same places. He knows the wholesalers. Mr Superflew is superfluous. We shall collect not only our own stuff but that of all the other sweaters.

  THE MAN. Sweaters! Who are you calling sweaters?

  EPIFANIA. Man, know thyself. You sweat yourself; you sweat your wife; you sweat those women in there; you live on sweat.

  THE MAN. Thats no way to talk about it. It isnt civil. I pay the right wages, same as everybody pays. I give employment that the like of them couldnt make for themselves.

  EPIFANIA. You are sensitive about it. I am not. I am going to sweat Mr Superflew out of existence. I am going to sweat Mr Timothy Goodenough instead of allowing Mr Superflew to sweat him.

  THE MAN. See here. Does this business belong to me or to you?

  EPIFANIA. We shall see. Dare you buy the lorry?

  THE MAN. Wheres the money to come from?

  EPIFANIA. Where does all money come from? From the bank.

  THE MAN. You got to put it there first, havnt you? EPIFANIA. Not in the least. Other people put it there; and the bank lends it to you if it thinks you know how to extend your business.

  THE WOMAN [terrified] Oh, Joe, dont trust your money in a bank. No good ever comes out of banks for the likes of us. Dont let her tempt you, Joe.

  EPIFANIA. When had you last a holiday?

  THE WOMAN. Me! A holiday! We cant afford holidays. I had one on Armistice Day, eighteen years ago.

  EPIFANIA. Then it cost a world war and the slaughter of twenty millions of your fellow creatures to give you one holiday in your lifetime. I can do better for you than that.

  THE WOMAN. We dont understand that sort of talk here. Weve no time for it. Will you please take our little present and go away?

  The bell tinkles.

  THE MAN [rising] Thats Tim, for the clothes.

  EPIFANIA [masterfully] Sit down. I will deal with Tim.

  She goes out. The man, after a moment of irresolution, sits down helplessly.

  THE WOMAN [crying] Oh, Joe, dont listen to her: dont let her meddle with us. That woman would spend our little savings in a week, and leave us to slave to the end of our days to make it up again. I cant go on slaving for ever: we’re neither of us as young as we were.

  THE MAN [sullen] What sort of wife are you for a man? You take the pluck out of me every time. Dont I see other men swanking round and throwing money about that they get out of the banks? In and out of banks they are, all day. What do they do but smoke cigars and drink champagne? A five pound note is to them what a penny is to me. Why shouldnt I try their game instead of slaving here for pence and hapence?

  THE WOMAN. Cause you dont understand it, Joe. We know our own ways; and though we’re poor our ways have never let us down; and they never will if we stick to them. And who would speak to us? who would know us or give us a helping hand in hard times if we began doing things that nobody else does? How would you like to walk down Commercial Road and get nothing but black looks from all your friends and be refused a week’s credit in the shops? Joe: Ive gone on in our natural ways all these years without a word of complaint; and I can go on long enough still to make us comfortable when we’re too old to see what I’m sewing or you to count the pence. But if youre going to risk everything and put our money in a bank and change our ways I cant go on: I cant go on: itll kill me. Go up and stop her, Joe. Dont let her talk: just put her out. Be a man, darling: dont be afraid of her. Dont break my heart and ruin yourself. Oh, dont sit there dithering: you dont know what she may be doing. Oh! oh! oh! [She can say no more for sobbing].

  THE MAN [rising, but not very resolutely] There! there! Hold your noise: I’m not going to let her interfere with us. I’ll put her out all right. [He goes to the stairs. Epifania comes down]. Now, missis: lets have an understanding.

  EPIFANIA. No understanding is necessary. Tim is sure that Bolton’s will take ten pounds for the lorry. Tim is my devoted slave. Make that poor woman stop howling if you can. I am going now. There is not enough work here for me: I can do it all in half a day every week. I shall take a job as scullery maid at a hotel to fil
l up my time. But first I must go round to the address Tim has given me and arrange that we send them our stuff direct and collect just as Superflew did. When I have arranged everything with them I will come back and arrange everything for you. Meanwhile, carry on as usual. Good morning. [She goes out].

  THE MAN [stupefied] It seems to me like a sort of dream. What could I do?

  THE WOMAN [who has stopped crying on hearing Epifania’s allusion to her] Do what she tells us, Joe. We’re like children – [She begins crying again softly].

  There is nothing more to be said.

  ACT IV

  The coffee room of The Pig & Whistle, now transmogrified into the lounge of The Cardinal’s Hat, a very attractive riverside hotel. The long tables are gone, replaced by several tea-tables with luxurious chairs round them. The old sideboard, the stuffed fish, the signboards are no more: instead there is an elegant double writing desk for two sitters, divided by stationery cases and electric lamps with dainty shades. Near it is a table with all the illustrated papers and magazines to hand. Farther down the room, towards the side next the door, there is a long well cushioned seat, capable of accommodating three persons. With three chairs at the other side it forms a fireside circle. The old hatstand has gone to its grave with the sideboard. The newly painted walls present an attractive color scheme. The floor is parquetted and liberally supplied with oriental rugs. All the appurtenances of a brand new first class hotel lounge are in evidence.

  Alastair, in boating flannels, is sprawling happily on the long seat, reading an illustrated magazine. Patricia, in her gladdest summer rags, is knitting in the middle chair opposite, full of quiet enjoyment.

  It is a fine summer afternoon; and the general effect is that of a bank holiday paradise.

  ALASTAIR. I say, Seedy, isnt this jolly?

  PATRICIA. Yes, darling: it’s lovely.

  ALASTAIR. Nothing beats a fine week-end on the river. A pull on the water in the morning to give one a good stretch and a good appetite. A good lunch, and then a good laze. What more can any man desire on earth?

  PATRICIA. You row so beautifully, Ally. I love to see you sculling. And punting too. You look so well standing up in the punt.

  ALASTAIR. It’s the quiet of it, the blessed quiet. You are so quiet: I’m never afraid of your kicking up a row about nothing. The river is so smooth. I dont know which is more comforting, you or the river, when I think of myself shooting Niagara three or four times a day at home.

  PATRICIA. Dont think of it, darling. It isnt home: this is home.

  ALASTAIR. Yes, dear: youre right: this is what home ought to be, though it’s only a hotel.

  PATRICIA. Well, what more could anyone ask but a nice hotel? All the housekeeping done for us: no trouble with the servants: no rates nor taxes. I have never had any peace except in a hotel. But perhaps a man doesnt feel that way.

  The manager of the hotel, a young man, smartly dressed, enters. He carries the hotel register, which he opens and places on the newspaper table. He then comes obsequiously to his two guests.

  THE MANAGER [between them] Good afternoon, sir. I hope you find everything here to your liking.

  ALASTAIR. Yes, thanks. But what have you done to the old place? When I was here last, a year ago, it was a common pub called The Pig and Whistle.

  THE MANAGER. It was so until quite lately, sir. My father kept The Pig and Whistle. So did his forefathers right back to the reign of William the Conqueror. Cardinal Wolsey stopped once for an hour at The Pig and Whistle when his mule cast a shoe and had to go to the blacksmith’s. I assure you my forefathers thought a lot of themselves. But they were uneducated men, and ruined the old place by trying to improve it by getting rid of the old things in it. It was on its last legs when you saw it, sir. I was ashamed of it.

  ALASTAIR. Well, you have made a first rate job of it now.

  THE MANAGER. Oh, it was not my doing, sir: I am only the manager. You would hardly believe it if I were to tell you the story of it. Much more romantic, to my mind, than the old tale about Wolsey. But I mustnt disturb you talking. You will let me know if theres anything I can do to make you quite comfortable.

  PATRICIA. I should like to know about the old Pig if it’s romantic. If you can spare the time, of course.

  THE MANAGER. I am at your service, madam, always.

  ALASTAIR. Fire ahead, old man.

  THE MANAGER. Well, madam, one day a woman came here and asked for a job as a scullery maid. My poor old father hadnt the nerve to turn her out: he said she might just try for a day or two. So she started in. She washed two dishes and broke six. My poor old mother was furious: she thought the world of her dishes. She had no suspicion, poor soul, that they were ugly and common and old and cheap and altogether out of date. She said that as the girl had broken them she should pay for them if she had to stay for a month and have the price stopped out of her wages. Off went the girl to Reading and came back with a load of crockery that made my mother cry: she said we should be disgraced for ever if we served a meal on such old fashioned things. But the very next day an American lady with a boating party bought them right off the table for three times what they cost; and my poor mother never dared say another word. The scullery maid took things into her own hands in a way we could never have done. It was cruel for us; but we couldnt deny that she was always right.

  PATRICIA. Cruel! What was there cruel in getting nice crockery for you?

  THE MANAGER. Oh, it wasnt only that, madam: that part of it was easy and pleasant enough. You see all she had to do with the old crockery was to break it and throw the bits into the dustbin. But what was the matter with the old Pig and Whistle was not the old thick plates that took away your appetite. It was the old people it had gathered about itself that were past their work and had never been up to much according to modern ideas. They had to be thrown into the street to wander about for a few days and then go into the workhouse. There was the bar that was served by father and mother: she dressed up to the nines, as she thought, poor old dear, never dreaming that the world was a day older than when she was married. The scullery maid told them the truth about themselves; and it just cut them to pieces; for it was the truth; and I couldnt deny it. The old man had to give in, because he had raised money on his freehold and was at his wits’ end to pay the mortgage interest. The next thing we knew, the girl had paid off the mortgage and got the whip hand of us completely. ‘It’s time for you two to sell your freehold and retire: you are doing no good here’ she said.

  PATRICIA. But that was dreadful, to root them up like that.

  THE MANAGER. It was hard; but it was the truth. We should have had the brokers in sooner or later if we had gone on. Business is business; and theres no room for sentiment in it. And then, think of the good she did. My parents would never have got the price for the freehold that she gave them. Here was I, ashamed of the place, tied to the old Pig and Whistle by my feeling for my parents, with no prospects. Now the house is a credit to the neighborhood and gives more employment than the poor old Pig did in its best days; and I am the manager of it with a salary and a percentage beyond anything I could have dreamt of.

  ALASTAIR. Then she didnt chuck you, old man.

  THE MANAGER. No, sir. You see, though I could never have made the change myself, I was intelligent enough to see that she was right. I backed her up all through. I have such faith in that woman, sir, that if she told me to burn down the hotel tonight I’d do it without a moment’s hesitation. When she puts her finger on a thing it turns to gold every time. The bank would remind my father if he overdrew by five pounds; but the manager keeps pressing overdrafts on her: it makes him miserable when she has a penny to her credit. A wonderful woman, sir: one day a scullery maid, and the next the proprietress of a first class hotel.

  PATRICIA. And are the old people satisfied and happy?

  THE MANAGER. Well, no: the change was too much for them at their age. My father had a stroke and wont last long, I’m afraid. And my mother has gone a bit silly. Still, i
t was best for them; and they have all the comforts they care for.

  ALASTAIR. Well, thats a very moving tale: more so than you think, old boy, because I happen to know a woman of that stamp. By the way, I telegraphed for a friend of mine to come and spend the week-end with us here: a Mr Sagamore. I suppose you can find a room for him.

  THE MANAGER. That will be quite all right, sir, thank you.

  PATRICIA. Have you many people in the house this week-end?

  THE MANAGER. Less than usual, madam. We have an Egyptian doctor who takes his meals here: a very learned man I should think: very quiet: not a word to anybody. Then there is another gentleman, an invalid, only just discharged from the Cottage Hospital. The Egyptian doctor recommended our chef to him; and he takes his meals here too. And that is all, madam, unless some fresh visitors arrive.