The Dog It Was That Died and Other Plays

  SLACK: It looks odd enough to me, sir.

  BLAIR: I’m not convinced, Mr Slack. I do like the mullioned window between the Doric columns—that has a quality of coy desperation, like a spinster gate-crashing a costume ball in a flowered frock . . . and the pyramid on the portico is sheer dumb insolence. All well and good. I think it’s the Gothic tower that disappoints. It isn’t quite there. It’s Gothic but not Gothick with a ‘k’. Should we ruin one of the buttresses?

  SLACK: Ruin it, sir?

  BLAIR: Mm . . . Make it a bit of a ruin. Or should we wait for the ivy to catch up?

  SLACK: I should wait for the ivy, sir. We’re going to have our hands full with the obelisk. Is it all right to lower away?

  BLAIR: Yes, lower away.

  SLACK: (Calls out) Lower away!

  BLAIR: The crane has to swing it over slightly to the right.

  SLACK: No, sir, it’s centred on top of the tower.

  BLAIR: But it’s lop-sided.

  SLACK: Only from where we’re standing.

  BLAIR: But surely, Mr Slack, if it’s centred on top of the tower, it should look centred from everywhere.

  SLACK: That would be all right with a round Norman tower, sir, but with your octagonal Gothic tower the angles of the parapet throw the middle out.

  BLAIR: Throw the middle out—?

  SLACK: The obelisk will look centred from the terrace, sir.

  BLAIR: But it has to look centred from my study window as well.

  SLACK: Can’t be done now—you’d have had to have one side of the tower squared up with the window.

  BLAIR: Hold everything.

  SLACK: (Shouts) Hold everything!

  BLAIR: This obviously needs the superior intelligence of Mrs B. I’ll go and fetch her from the paddock.

  SLACK: She’s in the drawing room, sir.

  BLAIR: I thought she was operating on one of the donkeys.

  SLACK: That’s right, sir.

  SCENE 5

  Interior.

  Modest donkey noises.

  BLAIR: (Entering) Pamela . . .

  (The donkey brays and kicks the floor.)

  PAMELA: Hang on, Mrs Ryan.

  BLAIR: I say, do be careful of my clocks.

  (The room is going tick-tock rather a lot.)

  PAMELA: You’ve come just at the right moment. Mrs Ryan, you’re doing very well but I can’t do the stitches if there’s so much movement.

  MRS RYAN: Right-ho, dear.

  PAMELA: Giles, you hang on to her legs.

  BLAIR: I haven’t really got time for all this.

  PAMELA: Not Mrs Ryan’s legs, Giles, Empy’s.

  BLAIR: Sorry.

  PAMELA: There, there, Empy. Soon be over.

  BLAIR: Look, Pamela, the donkey sanctuary is supposed to be the paddock. The drawing room is supposed to be sanctuary from the donkeys.

  PAMELA: This is the only fire lit today and I needed it to sterilize the instrument. Hold her neck, Mrs Ryan.

  MRS RYAN: Right-ho, dear.

  PAMELA: Poor Empy got into a fight with Don Juan. It’s only a couple of stitches . . . here we go, everybody . . .

  (Silence, except for the ticking and tocking. Then the donkey brays and kicks.)

  BLAIR: For God’s sake—she nearly kicked over my American Townsend.

  PAMELA: Well, hold her still.

  (Tense silence, marked by an orchestra of ticks and tocks.)

  How long have I got before they all go off?

  BLAIR: About a minute.

  PAMELA: I don’t see why they have to be going all the time.

  BLAIR: If they weren’t going they wouldn’t be clocks, they’d be bric-à-brac. The long delay in the invention of the clock was all to do with the hands going round. If the hands didn’t have to go round, the Greeks could have had miniature Parthenons on their mantelshelves with clock faces stuck into the pediments permanently showing ten past two or eight thirty-five . . .

  MRS RYAN: Were you expecting a clock today, sir? A package came for you, special delivery, sender’s name Purvis.

  BLAIR: Oh yes. Do you remember Purvis, Pamela?

  PAMELA: Don’t talk to me while I’m stitching. Isn’t Empy being brave? Good girl.

  BLAIR: I introduced you to him at the Chief's Christmas drinks. You said there was some-thing funny about him. Pretty sharp. He tried to kill himself the other night. He killed a dog instead. He’s sent me a family heirloom. I suppose I’ll have to send it back now.

  PAMELA: That must be what the note from Security was about. They opened your parcel in transit. They thought it was suspicious.

  BLAIR: No, no I know all about it. Purvis has sent me an old sea captain’s wooden peg-leg.

  PAMELA: No he hasn’t, he’s sent you a stuffed parrot.

  BLAIR: That’s what I meant. There’s one just like it on the piano in the trophy room at Cork Castle. That reminds me, there’s a serious problem with the obelisk on the tower. It’s going to look lop-sided depending on where one is standing, even though it’s in the middle.

  PAMELA: That’s because of the corners. You should have had a round tower.

  BLAIR: Why didn’t you tell me?

  PAMELA: I didn’t think it mattered. The whole thing is fairly loopy anyway.

  BLAIR: It’s the old story—never change anything that works! I had in mind the obelisk at Plumpton Magna where they have a round tower but I thought I would go octagonal. It’s entirely my own fault.

  PAMELA: You mean your own folly. Can you reach the forceps?

  BLAIR: Where are they?

  PAMELA: On the grate.

  BLAIR: Right.

  (BLAIR yelps as he drops the forceps. He yelps louder as the donkey kicks him. The donkey brays. All the clocks starts to chime and strike. The donkey gallops across the wooden floor and then out of earshot.)

  She kicked me!

  PAMELA: I know just how she felt.

  BLAIR: Well, the forceps were red hot.

  (The clocks are still going strong.)

  MRS RYAN: Is it all right if I get on now, dear?

  PAMELA: Yes, all right, Mrs Ryan. Good job the french windows were open.

  (MRS RYAN switches on a vacuum cleaner.

  PAMELA fades out calling for Empy as she leaves the room.)

  MRS RYAN: Can you lift your leg, dear?

  BLAIR: No, I can’t. The knee is swelling visibly.

  MRS RYAN: Don’t you worry, dear. I’ll vacuum round you.

  (The clocks continue to strike.)

  SCENE 6

  Exterior. City park (St James’s). Day.

  Big Ben is striking.

  BLAIR: Good morning. I see the tulips are fighting fit.

  HOGBIN: There’s no need for that, sir.

  BLAIR: No, no, just a passing remark. I thought you were keen on the things. Anyway, what’s up?

  HOGBIN: You remember that letter Purvis wrote you?

  BLAIR: Yes?

  HOGBIN: It’s been on my mind.

  BLAIR: You really do worry too much.

  HOGBIN: Didn’t it worry you, Mr Blair?

  BLAIR: Well, some of it of course . . . but every family has occasional problems.

  HOGBIN: You mean about Mrs Blair?

  BLAIR: No, I don’t mean anything of the sort. I really don’t understand how some people’s minds work. I was talking about Q6. We’re a small department with, I like to think, a family feeling, and we have occasional problems, that’s all.

  HOGBIN: I’m sorry. I didn’t believe a word of it, of course. The whole letter was raving mad. I never read anything so obviously off its trolley. That’s what worries me about it, as a matter of fact. That’s why it’s on my mind.

  BLAIR: What do you mean, Hogbin?

  HOGBIN: Well, sir—the opium den in Eaton Square, the belly dancer at Buckingham Palace, the sea captain’s piano leg—

  BLAIR: Parrot—it was a stuffed parrot.

  HOG
BIN: Well, whatever. And some scandal with an entire male-voice choir.

  BLAIR: I asked Purvis about that. He said it involved a Welsh rarebit.

  HOGBIN: You see what I mean.

  BLAIR: No.

  HOGBIN: I think the letter smells. I think he overdid it. I think he’s shamming, Mr Blair.

  BLAIR: Shamming what?

  HOGBIN: I think Purvis wanted you to think he’d gone off his trolley.

  BLAIR: But Hogbin . . . he did jump off Chelsea Bridge.

  HOGBIN: At high tide. The absolute top. To the minute.

  BLAIR: Exactly.

  HOGBIN: When there was the shortest possible distance to fall.

  BLAIR: Everybody goes too fast for me nowadays.

  HOGBIN: Think about it, sir. There he is in the Soviet safe house in Highgate. What he’s doing there I leave an open question for the minute. He makes a conspicuous departure, practically begging to be followed. He walks all the way home just to make it easy. He comes out flashing a letter which he posts, and then off to the bridge and over he goes—just as a handy barge is there to pick him up.

  BLAIR: But he landed on the barge.

  HOGBIN: It went slightly wrong. Especially for the dog.

  BLAIR: You’re not serious?

  HOGBIN: No, I’m not. It’s just not on. Apart from anything else the bargee and his family have been scudding about the river for three generations, real Tories, can’t abide foreigners, wouldn’t even eat the food. So that one is a non-starter. I’m just showing that the facts would fit more than one set of possibilities. There’s something wrong with that letter. I know there is. You wouldn’t like to tell me what Purvis was doing up in Highgate?

  BLAIR: He was discussing political theory.

  HOGBIN: I suppose you people know what you’re doing.

  BLAIR: Well, one tries.

  HOGBIN: Where is Purvis now?

  BLAIR: Convalescing. We maintain a house on the Norfolk coast, as a rest-home for those of our people who . . . need a rest. Sea breezes, simple exercise, plain food, TV lounge, own grounds, wash-basins in every room . . . It’s like an hotel, one of those appalling English hotels. So I’m told—I’ve never been there.

  HOGBIN: A rest-home for people who crack up?

  BLAIR: You could put it like that. Or you could say it’s a health farm.

  HOGBIN: A funny farm?

  BLAIR: I think that’s about as much as I can help you, Hogbin.

  HOGBIN: How is Purvis now?

  BLAIR: I’m going to go and see him in a day or two. I’ll let you know how I find him.

  HOGBIN: If you find him. Is there a gate to this place?

  BLAIR: No, as far as I know Purvis could make a dash for it in his wheelchair any time he chooses.

  HOGBIN: I’m sorry if I seem to be obstinate. But there is something funny about that letter, sir. I don’t know what it is.

  BLAIR: Well, I’m afraid I must be getting back.

  HOGBIN: Thank you for coming out to meet me . . . You seem to have been in the wars.

  BLAIR: Got kicked on the kneecap, nothing serious. Goodbye—careful with my hand, burned my fingers . . . Oh, how I love this view!—what a skyline! All the way up Whitehall from Parliament Square, Trafalgar Square, St James’s . . . It’s like one enormous folly.

  SCENE 7

  Exterior. Car arriving on gravel. Motor mower at work in background.

  The car draws up and comes to a halt. The car door opens and slams.

  ARLON is an old buffer who is mowing the lawn not far off.

  ARLON: Ahoy there!

  BLAIR: Er—good afternoon.

  ARLON: (Approaching) Spanking day!

  BLAIR: Yes, indeed. Where would I find . . . ?

  ARLON: Quite a swell.

  BLAIR: Thank you.

  ARLON: Force three, south-sou’-west, running before the wind all the way down from London, just the ticket.

  BLAIR: Where would I find Dr Sed—?

  ARLON: Hang on, let me turn this thing off.

  (The engine of the mower is cut to idling speed.)

  That’s better. Welcome aboard.

  BLAIR: I don’t want to interrupt your mowing.

  ARLON: Glad of the excuse to heave to, been tacking up and down all morning.

  BLAIR: You’re doing an excellent job here.

  ARLON: Good of you to say so.

  BLAIR: Deeply satisfying, I should think.

  ARLON: Well, it’s not everybody’s idea of fun, running a bin for a couple of dozen assorted nervous wrecks and loonies, but I suppose it’s better than cleaning spittoons in the fo’c’sle—even when London won’t give us the money to pay a proper gardener. Still, there we are—you must be Blair. What happened to your fingers? Ice in the rigging?

  BLAIR: How do you do? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize . . . You are the warden here?

  ARLON: I prefer the term keeper, just as I prefer the term loony. Let’s call things by their proper name, eh?

  BLAIR: Yes . . . Dr Seddon, isn’t it?

  ARLON: Commodore.

  BLAIR: Commodore Seddon?

  ARLON: You’ve come about Purvis, the scourge of the tidal bestiary, the one-man mission to keep the inland waterways dog-free, correct?

  BLAIR: Well, yes.

  ARLON: These secret service types, once they crack they can’t stop babbling. Are you a member of the Naval and Military Club?

  BLAIR: I don’t recall.

  ARLON: I used to be. But after certain words exchanged between myself and a brother officer in the card room it was not possible for me to remain. I said to the secretary—look chum, I said, the Arlons have been gentlefolk in Middlesex for five generations. We kept our own carriage when Twickenham was a hamlet and the Greenslades were as dust under our wheels, and I will not be called a jumped-up suburban card-sharp by a man whose grandfather bought a baronetcy from the proceeds of an ointment claiming to enlarge the female breast—a spurious claim moreover as an old shipmate of mine, now unhappily gone to her Maker, might have attested. Her Maker having made her the shape of an up-ended punt. Wouldn’t you have done the same—?

  BLAIR: I . . .

  ARLON: I know you would. As far as that nine of hearts was concerned I accept that salting it away behind one’s braces for a rainy day does not fall within the rules of Grand National Whist as the game is understood on land, I accept that without reservation, but certain words were uttered and cannot be unuttered, they are utterly and unutterably uttered, Blair, and if you want to do a chap a favour the next time you find yourself in Pall Mall, I’d like you to take out your service revolver and go straight up to Greenslade and—

  BLAIR: Absolutely. Consider it done.

  ARLON: Thank you, Blair. I shall sleep easier.

  BLAIR: Don’t mention it. By the way, do you happen to know where I might find Dr Seddon?

  MATRON: (Approaching across the gravel) Good afternoon!

  ARLON: I expect Matron will know. Say nothing about this. Take in a couple of reefs and batten the hatches.

  BLAIR: Thank you very much.

  MATRON: Mr Blair?

  BLAIR: Good afternoon.