FRENCH: That is not an expression which I would have associated with you, Mrs. Ebury.
MRS. EBURY: I don’t need you to tell me my problems.
WITHENSHAW (aside to MADDIE): The Committee deliberated.
FRENCH: I find the Committee’s silence on this point significant.
WITHENSHAW: Well, we all thought it was you.
FRENCH: I left for my constituency on Friday evening and returned this morning. The only meal I’ve had this weekend in a London restaurant was tea on Friday at the Golden Egg in Victoria Street.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: L’Oeuf d’Or?
MCTEAZLE: Were you with a woman?
FRENCH: I was with the Dean of St. Paul’s.
MCTEAZLE: Is she titian-haired?
CHAMBERLAIN: Come off it McTeazle. (Kindly to FRENCH.) French, can anyone corroborate your story?
FRENCH: The Dean of St. Paul’s can.
CHAMBERLAIN: Apart from her.
FRENCH: We had Jumbo Chickenburgers Maryland with pickled eggs and a banana milkshake. The waitress will remember me.
CHAMBERLAIN: Why?
FRENCH: I was sick on her shoes.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Your story smacks of desperation. Even so you have done us the honour of volunteering your account, so let me reciprocate. I was at various times at Crockford’s, Claridges and the Golden Cock, Clock, the Old Clock in Golden Square, not the Coq d’Or.
CHAMBERLAIN: I was at the Crock of Gold, Selfridges and the
Green Cockatoo.
MCTEAZLE: I was at the Cockatoo, too, and the Charing Cross,
the Open Door, the Golden Ox and the Cuckoo Clock.
WITHENSHAW: I was at the Cross Cook, the Fighting Cocks, the Green Door, the Crooked Grin and the Golden Carriages. (What is happening is difficult to explain but probably quite easy to recognize: the four of them have instinctively joined in an obscuration, each for his own defence. By the time the CHAIRMAN speaks they have all begun to send FRENCH up.)
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: I forgot—I was at the Golden Carriages as well as Claridges, and the Odd Sock and the Cocked Hat.
WITHENSHAW: I didn’t see you at the Cocked Hat—I went on to the Cox and Box.
MCTEAZLE: I was at the Cox and Box, and the Cooks Door, the Old Chest, the Dorchester, the Chesty Cook and—er—Luigi’s.
ALL: Luigi’s?
MCTEAZLE: At King’s Cross.
CHAMBERLAIN: I was at King’s Cross; in the Cross Keys and the Coal Hole, the Golden Goose, the Coloured Coat and the Côte d’Azur.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: I was at the Côte d’Azur——
WITHENSHAW: SO was I.
MRS. EBURY: I was at the Coq d’Or.
CHAMBERLAIN (incautiously): I was at the Coq d’Or too.
(Short pause but everybody comes to his rescue.)
MCTEAZLE: So was I.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: The Coq d’Or, oh yes, I was at the Coq d’Or.
WITHENSHAW: I saw you there—I was there with a voluptuous young woman.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Good heavens, I hope you didn’t see me with mine.
CHAMBERLAIN: Fantastic woman I took there—titian hair, green
eyes, dress cut down to here.
MCTEAZLE: We held hands under the table—(with a crude gesture)
voluptuous, you’ve no idea.
WITHENSHAW: Don’t talk to me about voluptuous—mine was titian like two Botticellis fighting their way out of a hammock.
(During the above speech FRENCH is becoming increasingly agitated, and MADDIE increasingly angry. She gets out her copy of the Sun and opens it to the centre page spread.)
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Wonderful figure of a woman——
FRENCH (shouts): One of you is telling the truth! Where’s the Mail!
(MADDIE gets up and crosses to FRENCH, holding the Sun. MADDIE slams the Sun down on the table in front of FRENCH, open at the centre page spread and stands back to await his reaction.)
WITHENSHAW: That’s the Sun.
(FRENCH does an enormous double-take at the pin-up.)
FRENCH (shrieks): Aagh!—it’s you!!
MADDIE: Yes.
(FRENCH grabs MADDIE by the back of the blouse as she moves to go back to her desk; buttons pop and fly leaving FRENCH holding her blouse and MADDIE in her bra.)
ALL (looking at MADDIE): Strewth!
(MADDIE walks to her seat, taps her pencil on the desk.)
MADDIE (reading): Paragraph 6.
FRENCH: Maddie Takes It Down!
’Madeleine Gotobed, twenty-one, is a model secretary in Whitehall where she says her ambition is to be Permanent Under Secretary. Meanwhile, titian-haired, green-eyed Maddie loves being taken out, but says the men tend to look down on a figure like hers—whenever they get the chance!’—disgusting—‘Matching bra and suspender belt, Fenwicks £5.35. French knickers, Janet Reger £8.95.’ (To MADDIE.) You were in the Coq d’Or! (The Division Bell goes off.)
MADDIE: I was in the Coq d’Or, the Golden Ox, Box Hill,
Claridges and Crockford’s——
WITHENSHAW: Division bell, Mr. French.
MADDIE:—and the Charing Cross, the Dorchester, the Green Cockatoo, Selfridges and the Salt Beef Bar in Rupert Street with Deborah and Douglas and Cockie and Jock.
(MADDIE has pointed to these four. Pause— WITHENSHAW looks relieved.)
And with Malcolm in the Metropole——
(The Committee’s next words are just rattled off underneath MADDIE’s speech which continues without pause.)
WITHENSHAW: Move to adjourn.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Second.
WITHENSHAW: All in favour.
ALL (except FRENCH): Aye.
WITHENSHAW: Meeting adjourned for ten minutes.
(The Committee hurriedly shuffle a few pieces of paper together, leaving all the newspapers behind, and arrange themselves to make their exits in a body, ignoring MADDIE, who chants on.)
MADDIE (continuing until all but FRENCH have left):… and in the Mandarin, the Mirabelle and the Star of Asia in the Goldhawk Road. I was with Freddie and Reggie and Algy and Bongo and Arthur and Cyril and Tom and Ernest and Bob and the other Bob and Pongo at the Ritz and the Red Lion, the Lobster Pot and Simpson’s in the Strand—I was at the Poule au Pot and the Coq au Vin and the Côte d’Azur and Foo Luk Fok and the Grosvenor House and Luigi’s and Lacy’s and the Light of India with Johnny and Jackie and Jerry and Joseph and Jimmy, and in the Berkeley, Biancis, Blooms and Muldoons with Micky and Michael and Mike and Michelle—I was in the Connaught with William and in the Westbury with Corkie and in the Churchill with Chalky. I was at the Duke of York, the Duke of Clarence and the Old Duke and the King Charles and the Three Kings and the Kings Arms and the Army and Navy Salad Bar with Tony and Derek and Bertie and Plantagenet and Bingo.
(During the above speech the Committee all exit through the wrong door, return and re-exit. The door closes, leaving only FRENCH with MADDIE.)
(Yells after them.) And I wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known it was supposed to be a secret—who needs it? (Normal voice.) I sometimes wonder if it’s worthwhile trying to teach people, don’t you Mr. French?
FRENCH: Miss Gotobed, this is going to teach them a lesson they’ll never forget.
MADDIE: I hope so.
FRENCH: I have to go and vote. Please be here in about ten minutes. (He approaches her with the blouse still in hand.)
MADDIE: Excuse me … (She takes the blouse.) … Somebody’s coming.
(At this moment a loud voice is heard approaching.) Could you show me the ladies cloakroom.
(She grabs the rest of her clothes and her handbag. FRENCH takes her coat from the rack and puts it over her shoulders and opens the door, MADDIE exits, FRENCH follows. As soon as the door closes, the other opens and two men enter—but they are in another play.)
NEW-FOUND-LAND
A play in one act
Characters
ARTHUR A very junior Home Office Official
BERNARD A very senior Home Of
fice Official
The House of Commons overspill meeting room in the tower of Big Ben, set as for Dirty Linen. A lot of newspapers and reports are lying around on the main committee table.
(ARTHUR appears carrying a file of papers and shouts loudly into the door through which he enters, as though calling to someone at a distance.)
ARTHUR (shouts): Here’s an empty one!
(BERNARD enters immediately. ARTHUR shouts at him at the same volume. Everything ARTHUR says has to be shouted, throughout.)
It’s the only one. The Minister said up here—he’ll find us all right.
(They approach the table and sit at it.)
BERNARD: Frightful mess.
(ARTHUR shuffling newspapers comes across something.)
ARTHUR: Strewth!!
(An appallingly loud noise as Big Ben strikes four from just over their heads. ARTHUR flinches. BERNARD looks around vaguely. The last stroke finally dies away.)
BERNARD: What was that?
ARTHUR: Four o’clock.
(Considerable pause. BERNARD takes out his wallet and an envelope containing a very old £5 note.)
BERNARD: I bet you have not seen one of these for a while. … It’s a fiver I once won off Lloyd George, you know.
ARTHUR: Yes.
BERNARD: It’s a good story. …
ARTHUR: Very, very good.
BERNARD: I was a green young man at the time, and he was …
whatdoyoucallit …?
ARTHUR: Prime Minister.
BERNARD: Prime Minister. Even so, I knew him quite well, or rather my father did.
ARTHUR: Your father knew Lloyd George, yes.
BERNARD: He’d come to our house in Queen Anne Place. You could hear Big Ben from there. That’s what reminded me.
ARTHUR: Yes.
This is the file on that applicant for British citizenship. What do you think? (He moves to sit next to BERNARD so that he can speak loudly into his ear. He has a bulky file, including a photograph, to show BERNARD.)
BERNARD: What?
ARTHUR: These naturalization papers. We’re supposed to be advising the Minister.
(BERNARD examines the document at considerable length.)
ARTHUR: I’d like to have your opinion.
(Finally BERNARD raps the document authoritatively.)
BERNARD: This is an application for British naturalization.
ARTHUR: Yes. Does he look all right to you?
BERNARD: He’s got a beard. The Minister won’t like that.
ARTHUR (nods): No, then.
(ARTHUR closes the file decisively.)
BERNARD: He asked me for my views about French, you know.
ARTHUR: French?
BERNARD: Poor French. Out of touch. Do you know what he said to me about French?
ARTHUR: Who—the Minister?
BERNARD: Know what he said?
ARTHUR: What?
BERNARD (shouts): Do you know what he said about French?
(Normal voice.) Called him a booby.
ARTHUR (gives up): Really.
(Considerable pause.)
BERNARD: I was in Belgium, having a look round the village church of Etienne St.-Juste, when I had the good fortune to receive a slight injury. The morning after my return to London, I remember, was one of those rare February days when winter seems to make an envious and premature clutch at the spring to come. I breakfasted by the window. The panes of glass in the window suddenly pulsed (makes the sound)—woomph-woomph—as though alive to the shock-waves of distant guns. I started to sob. But it was only a motor coming up the road. It stopped. The doorbell jangled below stairs, and then there was a knock at the morning room. Lloyd George was shown in. My father had already left for the City, as he liked to put it. He owned an emporium of Persian and oriental carpets in Cheapside, which was indeed in the City, and that is where he had gone. So there I was, a young lieutenant, barely blooded, talking to the Prime Minister of the day, and receiving ribald compliments on the shell splinter lodged in my lower abdomen. The shell itself had made a rather greater impact on the church of Etienne St.-Juste. I explained my father’s absence, but Lloyd George was in no hurry to leave. It was then that he made his remark about French. ‘What do they say in the field?’ he asked me. ‘Were they glad to see him go?’ I replied tactfully that we all felt every confidence in Field-Marshal Haig. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Haig’s the man to finish this war. French was a booby.’ That is what he said. (Pause.) Presently, Big Ben was heard to strike ten o’clock. Lloyd George at once asked me whether it was possible to see Big Ben from the upstairs window. I said that it was not. ‘Surely you’re wrong,’ he said, ‘are you absolutely certain?’ ‘Absolutely certain, Prime Minister.’ He replied that he found it difficult to believe and would like to see for himself. I assured him that there was no need. The fact was, my mother was upstairs in bed making out her dinner table: she had the understandable, though to me unwelcome, desire to show me off during my leave. Lloyd George pressed the point, and finally said, ‘I will bet you that I can see Big Ben from Marjorie’s window.’ ‘Very well,’ I said, and we went upstairs. I explained to my mother that the Prime Minister and I had a bet on. She received us gaily, just as though she were in her drawing room, Lloyd George went to the window and pointed.
‘Bernard,’ he said, ‘I see from Big Ben that it is four minutes past the hour. The £5 which you have lost,’ he continued, ‘I will spend on vast quantities of flowers for your mother by way of excusing this intrusion. It is small price to pay,’ he said, ‘for the lesson that you must never pit any of the five Anglo-Saxon senses against the Celtic sixth sense.’ ‘Prime Minister,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid Welsh intuition is no match for English cunning. Big Ben is the name of the bell, not the clock.’ He paid up at once …
… and that was a fiver which I can tell you I have never spent. (He shows the note to ARTHUR.)
How they laughed. ‘Marjorie,’ he said, ‘that boy of yours does not miss a trick.’ I left then, to take a cab to Dr. Slocombe in Pall Mall. When I returned I saw Lloyd George alone for the last time. He was coming down the steps. Nervousness caused me to commit the social solecism of trying to return him his money, ‘Keep it,’ he said, ‘I never spent a better £5.’ He got into the back of the motor and waved cheerily and called, ‘You will go far in the Army.’ Well, he was wrong about that. And he was not entirely right about Haig either. It was the Americans who saved him.
ARTHUR: This applicant is American.
(Pause.)
BERNARD: An American with a beard? Oh dear … of course, in those days it was the other way round. It was difficult to get British nationality without a beard. A well bearded and moustachioed man stood an excellent chance with the Home Secretary. A man with a moustache but no beard was often given the benefit of the doubt. A man with a beard and no moustache, on the other hand, was considered unreliable and probably fraudulent, and usually had to remain American for the rest of his life. Does he have property?
(From here on ARTHUR refers to the file.)
ARTHUR: He is associated with a stable in Kentish Town.
BERNARD: Epsom Downs?
ARTHUR: No—Kentish Town.
BERNARD: A racing stable?
ARTHUR: It seems to be more of a farm really. …
(Considerable pause.)
BERNARD: Did you say he farms in Kentish Town?
ARTHUR: Yes.
BERNARD: Arable or pasture?
ARTHUR: It does seem odd doesn’t it?
BERNARD: I imagine that good farming land would be at a premium in North London. Is he prosperous?
ARTHUR: He has an income of £10.50 per week.
BERNARD: Hardly a pillar of the community, even with free milk and eggs.
ARTHUR: No.
BERNARD: He is either a very poor farmer indeed, or a farmer of genius—depending on which part of Kentish Town he farms.
ARTHUR: He’s not exactly a farmer I don’t think … he has other interests. Publishin
g. And he runs some sort of bus service.
BERNARD: Publishing and buses? And a farm. Bit of a gadfly is he?
ARTHUR: Yes. And community work.
BERNARD: They all say that.
ARTHUR: Yes.
BERNARD: Anything else?
ARTHUR: There’s a theatrical side to him.
BERNARD: Do you mean he waves his arms around?
ARTHUR: No—no—he writes plays, and puts them on and so on.
He seems to have some kind of theatre.
BERNARD: Oh dear, yes. A theatrical farmer with buses on the side, doing publishing and community work in a beard … are we supposed to tell the Minister that he’s just the sort of chap this country needs? Does he say why he wants to be British?