The Complete Dramatic Works (39 page)

[
Pause.
]

A:
[
Groping
towards
B
’
s
torso.
]
Is all the rest there?

B:
You may stand up now and ask me a favour.

A:
Is all the rest there?

B:
Nothing else has been removed, if that is what you mean, [
A
’
s
hand,
groping
higher,
reaches
the
face,
stays.
]

A:
Is that your face?

B:
I confess it is. [
Pause.
]
What else could it be? [
A
’
s
fingers
stray,
stay.
]
That? My wen.

A:
Red?

B:
Purple. [
A
withdraws
his
hand,
remains
kneeling
.]
What hands you have!

[
Pause.
]

A:
Is it still day?

B:
Day? [
Looks
at
sky.
]
If you like. [
Looks.
]
There is no other word for it.

A:
Will it not soon be evening?

[
B
stoops
to
A
,
shakes
him.
]

B:
Come, Billy, get up, you’re beginning to incommode me.

A:
Will it not soon be night?

[
B
looks
at
sky.
]

B:
Day… night… [
Looks.
]
It seems to me sometimes the earth must have got stuck, one sunless day, in the heart
of winter, in the grey of evening. [
Stoops
to
 
A
,
shakes
him.
] Come on, Billy, up, you’re beginning to embarrass me.

A:
Is there grass anywhere?

B:
I see none.

A:
[
Vehement.
]
Is there no green anywhere?

B:
There’s a little moss. [
Pause,
A
clasps
his
hands
on
the
rug
and
rests
his
head
on
them.
]
Good God! Don’t tell me you’re going to pray?

A:
No.

B:
Or weep?

A:
No. [
Pause.
] I could stay like that for ever, with my head on an old man’s knees.

B:
Knee. [
Shaking him
roughly
.] Get up, can’t you!

A:
[
Settling
himself
more
comfortably
.]
What peace! [
B
pushes
him
roughly
away,
A
falls
to
his
hands
and
knees.
]
Dora used to say, the days I hadn’t earned enough, You and your harp! You’d do better
crawling on all fours, with your
father’s medals pinned to your arse and a money box round your neck. You and your
harp! Who do you think you are? And she made me sleep on the floor. [
Pause.
]
Who I thought I was… [
Pause.
]
Ah that … I never could… [
Pause.
He
gets
up.
]
Never could … [
He
starts
groping
again
for
his
stool,
halts,
listens.
]
If I listened long enough I’d hear it, a string would give.

B:
Your harp? [
Pause.
] What’s all this about a harp?

B:
I once had a little harp. Be still and let me listen.

[
Pause.
]

B:
How long are you going to stay like that?

A:
I can stay for hours listening to all the sounds.

[
They
listen.
]

B:
What sounds?

A:
I don’t know what they are.

[
They
listen.
]

B:
I can see it. [
Pause.
]
I can–

A:
[
Imploring.
]
Will you not be still?

B:
No! [
A
takes
his
head
in
his
hands.
] I can see it clearly, over there on the stool. [
Pause.
]
What if I took it, Billy, and made off with it? [
Pause.
]
Eh Billy, what would you say to that? [
Pause.
]
There might be another old man, some day, would come out of his hole and find you
playing the
mouth-organ
. And you’d tell him of the little fiddle you once had. [
Pause.
]
Eh Billy? [
Pause.
]
Or singing. [
Pause.
]
Eh Billy, what would you say to that? [
Pause.
]
There croaking to the winter wind [
rime
with
unkind
],
having lost his little
mouth-organ
. [
He
pokes
him
in
the
back
with
the
pole.
]
Eh Billy? [
A
whirls
round,
seizes
the
end
of
the
pole
and
wrenches
it
from
 
B
’
s
grasp.
]

Like
Rough
for
Theatre
I
, written in French in the late 1950s. First published in English translation by Grove
Press, New York, in 1976.

B:
Well!

A:
Hsst! Switch off. [
B
switches
off.
Long
pause.
Low.
]
What a night! [
Long pause.
Musing
]
I still don’t understand. [
Pause.
]
Why he needs our services. [
Pause.
]
A man like him. [
Pause.
]
And why we give them free. [
Pause.
] Men like us. [
Pause.
] Mystery. [
Pause.
]
Ah well … [
Pause.
He
switches
on.
] Shall we go? [
B
switches
on,
rummages
in
his
papers.
]
The crux, [
B
rummages.
]
We sum up and clear out. [
B
rummages.
] Set to go?

B:
Rearing.

A:
We attend.

B:
Let him jump.

A:
When?

B:
Now.

A:
From where?

B:
From here will do. Three to three and a half metres per floor, say twenty-five in
all.

[
Pause.
]

A:
I could have sworn we were only on the sixth. [
Pause.
]
He runs no risk?

B:
He has only to land on his arse, the way he lived. The spine snaps and the tripes
explode.

[
Pause.
A
gets
up,
goes
to
the
window,
leans
out,
looks
down.
He
straightens
up,
looks
at
the
sky.
Pause.
He
goes
back
to
his
seat.
]

A:
Full moon.

B:
Not quite. Tomorrow.

[
A
takes
a
little
diary
from
his
pocket.
]

A:
What’s the date?

B:
Twenty-fourth. Twenty-fifth tomorrow.

A:
[
Turning
pages.
]
Nineteen … twenty-two … twenty-four. [
Reads.
] ‘Our Lady of Succour. Full moon.’ [
He
puts
back
the
diary
in
his
pocket.
]
We were saying then … what was it … let him jump. Our conclusion. Right?

B:
Work, family, third fatherland, cunt, finances, art and nature, heart and conscience,
health, housing conditions, God and man, so many disasters.

[
Pause.
]

A:
[
Meditative
.]
Does it follow? [
Pause
.]
Does it follow? [
Pause
.]
And his sense of humour? Of proportion?

B:
Swamped.

[
Pause
.]

A:
May we not be mistaken?

B:
[
Indignant.
]
We have been to the best sources. All weighed and weighed again, checked and verified.
Not a word here [
brandishing
sheaf
of
papers
]
that is not cast iron. Tied together like a cathedral. [
He
flings
down
the
papers
on
the
table.
They
scatter
on
the
floor.
]
Shit!

[
He
picks
them
up.
A
raises
his
lamp
and
shines
it
about
him.
]

A:
Seen worse dumps. [
Turning
towards
window.
]
Worse
outlooks
. [
Pause.
]
Is that Jupiter we see?

[
Pause.
]

B:
Where?

A:
Switch off. [
They
switch
off
.]
It must be.

B:
[
Irritated
.]
Where?

A:
[
Irritated
]
There, [
B
cranes.
]
There, on the right, in the corner.

[
Pause
.]

B:
No. It twinkles.

B:
What is it then?

B:
[
Indifferent
.]
No idea. Sirius. [
He
switches
on.
]
Well? Do we work or play? [
A
switches
on.
]
You forget this is not his home. He’s only here to take care of the cat. At the end
of the month shoosh back to the barge. [
Pause.
Louder.
]
You forget this is not his home.

A:
[
Irritated.
]
I forget, I forget! And he, does he not forget? [
With
passion.
]
But that’s what saves us!

B:
[
Searching
through
his
papers.
]
Memory… memory… [
He
takes
up
a
sheet.
]
I quote: ‘An elephant’s for the eating cares, a sparrow’s for the Lydian airs.’ Testimony
of Mr Swell, organist at Seaton Sluice and lifelong friend.

[
Pause.
]

B:
[
Glum.
] Tsstss!

B:
I quote: ‘Questioned on this occasion’–open brackets–‘(judicial separation)’–close
brackets–‘regarding the deterioration of our relations, all he could adduce was the
five or six miscarriages which clouded’–open brackets–‘(oh through no act of mine!)’–close
brackets–‘the early days of our union and the veto which in consequence I had finally
to oppose’–open brackets–‘(oh not for want of inclination!)’–close brackets–‘to anything
remotely
resembling
the work of love. But on the subject of our happiness’–open brackets–‘(for it too
came our way, unavoidably, and here my mind goes back to the first vows exchanged
at Wootton Bassett under the bastard acacias, or again to the first fifteen minutes
of our wedding night at
Littlestone-on
-Sea, or yet again to those first long studious evenings in our nest on Commercial
Road East)’–close brackets–‘on
the subject of our happiness not a word, Sir, not one word.’ Testimony of Mrs Aspasia
Budd-Croker, button designer in residence, Commercial Road East.

A:
[
Glum
]
Tsstss!

B:
I quote again: ‘Of our national epos he remembered only the calamities, which did
not prevent him from winning a minor scholarship in the subject.’ Testimony of Mr
Peaberry, market gardener in the Deeping Fens and lifelong friend. [
Pause.
]
‘Not a tear was known to fall in our family, and God knows they did in torrents,
that was not caught up and piously preserved in that inexhaustible reservoir of sorrow,
with the date, the hour and the occasion, and not a joy, fortunately they were few,
that was not on the contrary irrevocably dissolved, as by a corrosive. In that he
took after me.’ Testimony of the late Mrs Darcy-Croker, woman of letters. [
Pause.
]
Care for more?

A:
Enough.

B:
I quote: ‘To hear him talk about his life, after a glass or two, you would have thought
he had never set foot outside hell. He had us in stitches. I worked it up into a skit
that went down well.’ Testimony of Mr Moore, light comedian, c/o Widow Merryweather-Moore,
All Saints on the Wash, and lifelong friend.

[
Pause
.]

A:
[
Stricken.
]
Tsstss! [
Pause.
] Tsstsstss!

B:
You see. [
Emphatic.
]
This is not his home and he knows it full well.

[
Pause
]

A:
Now let’s have the positive elements.

B:
Positive? You mean of a nature to make him think… [
hesitates,
then
with
sudden
violence
]
… that some day things might change? Is that what you want? [
Pause.
Calmer.
]
There are none.

A:
[
Wearily.
]
Oh yes there are, that’s the beauty of it.

[
Pause,
B
rummages
in
his
papers.
]

B:
[
Looking
up.
] Forgive me, Bertrand. [
Pause.
Rummages.
Looks
up.
] I don’t know what came over me. [
Pause.
Rummages.
Looks
up.
]
A moment of consternation. [
Pause.
Rummages.
]
There is that incident of the lottery …
possibly. Remember?

A:
No.

B:
[
Reading.
]
‘Two hundred lots … winner receives high class watch … solid gold, hallmark nineteen
carats, marvel of accuracy, showing year, month, date, day, hour, minute and second,
super chic, unbreakable hair spring, chrono escapement nineteen rubies, anti-shock,
anti-magnetic, airtight, waterproof, stainless, self-winding, centre seconds hand,
Swiss parts, de luxe lizard band.’

A:
What did I tell you? However unhopefully. The mere fact of chancing his luck. I knew
he had a spark left in him.

B:
The trouble is he didn’t procure it himself. It was a gift. That you forget.

A:
[
Irritated.
] I forget, I forget! And he, does he not–[
Pause.
] At least he kept it.

B:
If you can call it that.

A:
At least he accepted it. [
Pause.
] At least he didn’t refuse it.

B:
I quote: ‘The last time I laid eyes on him I was on my way to the Post Office to
cash an order for back-pay. The area before the building is shut off by a row of bollards
with chains hung between them. He was seated on one of these with his back to the
Thompson works. To all appearances down and out. He sat doubled in two, his hands
on his knees, his legs astraddle, his head sunk. For a moment I wondered if he was
not vomiting. But on drawing nearer I could see he was merely scrutinizing, between
his feet, a lump of dogshit. I moved it slightly with the tip of my umbrella and observed
how his gaze followed the
movement
and fastened on the object in its new position. This at three o’clock in the afternoon
if you please! I confess I had not the heart to bid him the time of day, I was overcome.
I simply slipped into his hip pocket a lottery ticket I had no use for, while silently
wishing him the best of luck. When two hours later I emerged from the Post Office,
having cashed my order, he was at the same place and in the same attitude. I sometimes
wonder if he is still alive.’ Testimony of Mr Feckman, certified accountant and friend
for better and for worse.

[
Pause.
]

A:
Dated when?

B:
Recent.

A:
It has such a bygone ring. [
Pause.
] Nothing else?

B:
Oh … bits and scraps … good graces of an heirless aunt … unfinished–

A:
Hairless aunt?

B:
… heirless aunt … unfinished game of chess with a
correspondent
in Tasmania … hope not dead of living to see the extermination of the species … literary
aspirations
incompletely
stifled … bottom of a dairy-woman in Waterloo Lane … you see the kind of thing.

[
Pause.
]

A:
We pack up this evening, right?

B:
Without fail. Tomorrow we’re at Bury St Edmunds.

A:
[
Sadly.
] We’ll leave him none the wiser. We’ll leave him now, never to meet again, having
added nothing to what he knew already.

B:
All these testimonies were new to him. They will have finished him off.

A:
Not necessarily. [
Pause.
]
Any light on that? [
Papers.
]
This is vital. [
Papers.
]
Something … I seem to remember … something … he said himself.

B:
[
Papers.
]
Under ‘Confidences’ then. [
Brief
laugh.
]
Slim file. [
Papers.
]
Confidences … confidences … ah!

A:
[
Impatient
] Well?

B:
[
Reading.
] ‘… sick headaches … eye trouble … irrational fear of vipers … ear trouble …’–nothing
for us there–‘… fibroid tumours … pathological horror of songbirds … throat trouble
… need of affection …’–we’re coming to it–‘… inner void … congenital timidity … nose
trouble …’–ah! listen to this!–‘…morbidly sensitive to the opinion of others …’ [
Looks
up.
] What did I tell you?

A:
[
Glum.
] Tsstss!