Alan Bennett: Plays, Volume 1

  WICKSTEED: This or my aunt in Stevenage. I suppose I’d better take it.

  MRS WICKSTEED: A wise decision. Now I think we might retire for a little nap.

  WICKSTEED: But I’m not tired.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Excellent. Neither am I.

  WICKSTEED: Muriel. I …

  MRS WICKSTEED: What?

  WICKSTEED: Nothing.

  MRS WICKSTEED: You see, innocence will always triumph in the end.

  WICKSTEED: Though if there was anybody I’d forgive you. I know.

  MRS WICKSTEED: No need. There was nobody. Nobody at all. Now, what were we talking about? The future.

  WICKSTEED: No. The past.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Then we must listen to the voice of the future. (Enter shanks.)

  SHANKS: Has anybody seen my trousers?

  WICKSTEED: Who is this?

  MRS WICKSTEED: Probably a patient left over from surgery.

  WICKSTEED: He is not my patient.

  SHANKS: I’m not anybody’s patient.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Then you’ve no business here. Get out.

  SHANKS: You again. No. Please don’t touch me. No. No. Keep off.

  WICKSTEED: Odd. He seems to know you.

  MRS WICKSTEED: In my voluntary work I rub shoulders with all sorts….

  SHANKS: Don’t let her touch me. You’ll protect me won’t you?

  WICKSTEED: Against what?

  SHANKS: Against her.

  MRS WICKSTEED: I don’t want to touch you.

  SHANKS: You did before.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Hold your tongue.

  WICKSTEED: Before? Before what, Muriel?

  MRS WICKSTEED: I don’t know. How am I supposed to know?

  SHANKS: She’s a monster.

  WICKSTEED: She is not a monster. She is my wife.

  SHANKS: She’s sex mad.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Listen, I wear the corsets in this house, so shut your cake-hole, before I give you a bunch of fives.

  WICKSTEED: Muriel. Is there something between you and this man?

  MRS WICKSTEED: Arthur. I am not friends if you say things like that. It’s quite plainly a delusion.

  SHANKS: A delusion? Is this a delusion?

  (He shows him the Polaroid snaps.)

  Or this? The camera cannot lie.

  WICKSTEED: What wonderful pictures. Who is it?

  SHANKS: Who? It’s her.

  WICKSTEED: Good God. So it is. Muriel, what have you got to say?

  MRS WICKSTEED: Damn. Damn. I am ruined.

  WICKSTEED: Is this your clear conscience? Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça, madame? Not to mention que ça?

  MRS WICKSTEED: Silliness, silliness. That was all it was.

  WICKSTEED: Is this your innocence?

  (He plucks at shanks’ shirt-tails.)

  Or this?

  SHANKS: Stop it.

  WICKSTEED: So. Now it’s my turn.

  MRS WICKSTEED: No. Arthur, please.

  WICKSTEED: Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. You’re not fit to touch me.

  MRS WICKSTEED: It was a mistake.

  WICKSTEED: And don’t grovel. I can’t abide a groveller. You see, I always thought no one else fancied her. I’ve always had this sneaking feeling that if I hadn’t married her, no one else would. But (he looks at the snaps) my goodness me! It’s Forever Amber all over again. Flower arrangements, cake decorating. All those long suburban afternoons…. It was lovers, lovers from all walks of life, like you. How long has this been going on?

  MRS WICKSTEED: This afternoon. Ten minutes. That’s all.

  WICKSTEED: I don’t believe it. I believe it’s been going on for years. Sex isn’t something that happens overnight, you know.

  MRS WICKSTEED: You’re wrong, so wrong.

  WICKSTEED: Go to your room. Pack one or two things, just in case. You may have to go to your mother’s. (To SHANKS.) And you, get out.

  SHANKS: I’d like to ex….

  WICKSTEED: Get out.

  MRS WICKSTEED: (Returning) Arthur.

  WICKSTEED: Yes.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Am I to be turned out of my own house?

  WICKSTEED: I was.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Can’t we forgive and forget? We can live on our memories.

  WICKSTEED: I have no memories, only scars.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Arthur, please.

  WICKSTEED: No, Muriel.

  (She exits.)

  WICKSTEED: The eyes, cool but kindly, looked back unflinchingly from the glass. There was pain in those eyes, a hint perhaps of some secret sorrow. He ran his lean brown fingers through his thinning hair and sighed. And yet, at the corner of his firm, yet sensitive mouth, there hovered the merest suspicion of a smile. ‘I’m still in the game’ he thought. (Exits.)

  (Enter SHANKS.)

  MRS SWABB: I see you’re still in your underpants. And the same pair too. Have you never heard of the dictum: undies worn twice are not quite nice?

  SHANKS: No. (Exits.)

  MRS SWABB: And they talk of comprehensive education.

  (Enter PURDUE.)

  PURDUE: That is the dirtiest gas oven I’ve ever put my head in.

  MRS SWABB: It’s not gas, it’s electric. (Exits.)

  (FELICITY and DENNIS enter.)

  DENNIS: Felicity.

  FELICITY: I gave her the slip. I had to see you again.

  DENNIS: Yes. I feel the same way. Except….

  FELICITY: Except what?

  DENNIS: Could you love me if I wasn’t going to die?

  FELICITY: But you are.

  DENNIS: I mean we all die sooner or later. So say it was later rather than sooner.

  FELICITY: How much later?

  DENNIS: Roundabout the time you’re supposed to die, three score years and ten.

  FELICITY: How much is that?

  DENNIS: Seventy.

  FELICITY: Another fifty years. No, my love, we must resign ourselves, there is no hope.

  DENNIS: No. I don’t think there is.

  SHANKS: At last.

  MRS SWABB: Oh no. Not again.

  (SHANKS approaches FELICITY.)

  SHANKS: I had rather an unpleasant experience earlier, so you’ll forgive me if I’m cautious.

  FELICITY: How do you do.

  SHANKS: I thought I must be losing my touch. But no. One look at you and I realize, those could never be real.

  (MRS SWABB, DR and MRS WICKSTEED, DENNIS, FELICITY, CANON THROBBING and CONNIE have come on to the stage and are watching, fascinated.)

  SHANKS: The line so crisp, the silhouette so pert. If that’s not our product I’ll go back to chicken farming.

  (He touches FELICITY’S breast and she slaps his face.)

  MRS WICKSTEED: I second that. (Fetches him another.)

  SHANKS: I can’t understand it. On the training course they teach you to tell blindfold.

  WICKSTEED: What are you doing here, anyway?

  SHANKS: I’m looking for my client.

  (FELICITY slaps him again.)

  DENNIS: Without your trousers?

  THROBBING: Is he a commercial traveller?

  (CONNIE slaps THROBBING.)

  SHANKS: In a sense.

  DENNIS: If he’s a commercial traveller, he must often be without his trousers.

  (WICKSTEED slaps DENNIS.)

  MRS WICKSTEED: Arthur!

  THROBBING: What do you travel in? (CONNIE slaps THROBBING, MRS WICKSTEED slaps WICKSTEED, SHANKS slaps DENNIS, WICKSTEED slaps MRS WICKSTEED as LADY RUMPERS enters.)

  MRS SWABB: Delia, Lady Rumpers.

  LADY RUMPERS: Out of my way, you pen slut. Is this what we were promised when we emerged from the Dark Ages? Is this Civilization? I’m only thankful Kenneth Clark isn’t here to see it.

  MRS SWABB: I’m not actually sure he isn’t.

  LADY RUMPERS: (To shanks) You.

  SHANKS: Good evening.

  LADY RUMPERS: Good evening. What has happened to your trousers?

  SHANKS: I don’t know.

  LADY RUMPERS: Well you’d be
tter find them. If I’d wanted to see people running about in their shirt-tails I should have stayed in Addis Ababa.

  CONNIE: Good evening.

  LADY RUMPERS: Good evening.

  THROBBING: Good evening.

  LADY RUMPERS: Good evening. Why should your face be familiar? Have you ever been called to serve the Lord in heathen parts?

  THROBBING: Well, I was for a short time a curate in Leeds.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Good evening.

  WICKSTEED: Good evening.

  LADY RUMPERS: All in all I can say quite confidently I have seen nothing like this even in the cesspots of Mespot. And Felicity, leave that dismal boy alone.

  WICKSTEED: Hear, hear.

  LADY RUMPERS: Shut up. Do you hear?

  FELICITY: No. I won’t. I love Dennis.

  DENNIS: We want to get married.

  LADY RUMPERS: Love, Madam. I do not want to hear that word. You talk of love with a body like yours. Time enough to fall back on love when the bloom begins to fade. I didn’t slave away bringing you up in a temperature of 115 in the shade for you to talk of love as soon as my back is turned.

  WICKSTEED: I quite agree.

  LADY RUMPERS: Shut up.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Hear, hear.

  lady rumpers: You too. The word marriage has been mentioned. It is out of the question. Felicity is far too young for a start….

  FELICITY: But Mother.

  LADY RUMPERS: And the young man.

  WICKSTEED: Keith.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Dennis.

  LADY RUMPERS: … far too ugly.

  WICKSTEED: True. A boy like that proposing marriage to a girl the strap of whose bra he is not worthy to undo.

  LADY RUMPERS: Don’t touch her.

  THROBBING: Could I say something?

  LADY RUMPERS: No.

  CONNIE:

  MRS WICKSTEED: May a mother have a voice?

  LADY RUMPERS: No.

  WICKSTEED:

  LADY RUMPERS: A girl like Felicity and a shrivelled thing like him. Think of the stock. Why you wouldn’t do it to a hyacinth.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Hyacinths don’t fall in love.

  WICKSTEED: If you ask me, he wants a kick up the arse.

  LADY RUMPERS: Come, Felicity. It’s time we were going. When I hear the word arse I know the way the wind is blowing.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Lady Rumpers. Arthur. One moment. May a mother speak? Fair dos. We’re all of us pretty well headed for the sere and yellow. It’s times hurrying footsteps all round these days, isn’t it? Now Dennis, he’s not a glamour puss. Never will be. Even though he is the fruit of our loins. Partly our fault. Funny boy. Difficult to love. Never liked touching him very much and quite frankly it makes a difference. Touching, looking, loving… without it which one of us would thrive? Look at your girl, Felicity. Stroked and cherished all her life. Lovely girl.

  LADY RUMPERS: Lovely girl.

  WICKSTEED: Lovely girl.

  MRS WICKSTEED: But that’s because she’s been worn next to the heart. Result: she blooms. Dennis, shoved away at the back of the drawer, result: drab, boring, spotty, nobody wants him.

  CONNIE: But that’s me too.

  MRS WICKSTEED: But I say this: love him, as your girl seems unaccountably to love him, and he’ll blossom.

  MRS SWABB: I think he’s looking better already.

  LADY RUMPERS: No, never. It’s quite right you should be kind to him. You are his mother. I am under no such handicap.

  CONNIE: Please.

  LADY RUMPERS: No.

  MRS SWABB: Please.

  LADY RUMPERS: No.

  DENNIS: Please.

  LADY RUMPERS: No.

  FELICITY: Please.

  LADY RUMPERS: No. My daughter….

  WICKSTEED: Oh, stuff your daughter.

  MRS SWABB: (Indicating DENNIS) He already has.

  LADY RUMPERS: What?

  (LADY RUMPERS gives a great cry and swoons.)

  MRS SWABB: Did I strike a wrong note?

  WICKSTEED: Excuse me, I’m a doctor.

  MRS WICKSTEED: We know you’re a doctor.

  WICKSTEED: She has fainted.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Dennis, is this true?

  MRS SWABB: Quite true. Between 15.10 and 15.25 this afternoon they carried out the docking procedure.

  WICKSTEED: You mean, you and her, her and you?

  DENNIS: Yes.

  THROBBING: What was it like?

  LADY RUMPERS: After all my precautions. Gone. Tossed away on him.

  FELICITY: No. It was love.

  LADY RUMPERS: Love. You don’t understand. No one understands. The shame. The waste. My own shameful story all over again.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Oh crumbs!

  LADY RUMPERS: Many years ago, when I was not much older than Felicity is now, I had just arrived in the colonies …I … you have to know this Felicity. I should have told you before. I had just arrived in the colonies when I found I was P-R-E-G-N-A-N-T.

  THROBBING: PRAGNANT?

  MRS WICKSTEED: Pegnat.

  LADY RUMPERS: PREGNANT. I was not married at the time.

  MRS WICKSTEED: What about General Rumpers?

  LADY RUMPERS: Tiger and I met soon afterwards. He loved me … I … respected him. We married. He was a gentleman but shy. He only went into the Army in order to put his moustache to good purpose. He was glad of a child for his life too had its secrets: a passing-out party at Sandhurst had left him forever incapable of having children. He threw the blanket of his name over Felicity and together we achieved respectability. Call me fool, call me slut, call me anything you like. But I vowed at that time that the same thing should never happen to Felicity. And now it has. My poor child. Oh Felicity, Felicity.

  WICKSTEED: And where is he now, her real father?

  LADY RUMPERS: Do you think I have not asked myself that question? Lying under mosquito nets in Government House do you think that question has not hammered itself into my brain?

  WICKSTEED: Have you any clues?

  LADY RUMPERS: One and one only. He was a doctor. Yes. That is why I despise your profession.

  MRS WICKSTEED: His name. Do you not know that?

  LADY RUMPERS: No. I suppose that shocks you.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Nothing could shock me any more.

  LADY RUMPERS: Picture the scene. Liverpool. The blitz at its height. I am bound for the Far East. Our convoy is assembled ready to go down the Mersey on the morning tide. Suddenly I am told I cannot sail.

  WICKSTEED: Yes?

  LADY RUMPERS: No. I had no vaccination certificate. The black-out. An air raid in progress. The docks ablaze. I set off alone to find a doctor. Buildings crashing all round me. Crash, crash, crash. Bombs raining down on the street. Boom, boom, boom. I see a brass plate. The surgery in darkness. The doctor under the table. He writes me a certificate. I am grateful. Think how grateful I was. We talk.

  THROBBING: Yes, yes, go on.

  LADY RUMPERS: Two voices in the darkness of the surgery as the storm rages outside. His hand steals into mine….

  THROBBING: Yes, then what did he do?…

  LADY RUMPERS: We cling to each other as the bombs fell.

  THROBBING: Yes?

  LADY RUMPERS: I need not tell you the rest.

  THROBBING: They always miss out the best bits.

  LADY RUMPERS: The All Clear sounds as I stumble back on board. Came the dawn we slipped out of the Mersey and headed for the open sea. Do you know the Atlantic at all?

  MRS WICKSTEED: No.

  LADY RUMPERS: It is very rough. I thought I was sea sick. Only when we docked did I realize I had a bun in the club.

  MRS WICKSTEED: Tragic.

  WICKSTEED: Wonderful.

  LADY RUMPERS: I blame the War.

  WICKSTEED: Ah the War, that was a strange and wonderful time.

  Oh Mavis and Audrey and Lilian and Jean Patricia and Pauline and NAAFI Christine Maureen and Myrtle I had you and more In God’s gift to the lecher the Second World War.

  MRS SWABB: In shelter
s and bunkers on Nissen hut floors, They wrestled with webbing and cellular drawers. From pillbox on headland they scoured the seas While pinching our bottoms and stroking our knees.

  LADY RUMPERS: Echoes of music drift into the night. Never in peace will it all seem so right.

  WICKSTEED: Oh Lost Generation where are you now?

  I still see Lemira, Yvonne’s in Slough.

  Mothers like you, with girls in their twenties.

  Fathers like me: we all share such memories.

  LADY RUMPERS: One mad magenta moment and I have paid for it all my life. Felicity ruined.

  MRS SWABB: We don’t know she is, do we? One swallow doesn’t make a summer.

  FELICITY: Never mind, Mummy. After all he wants to marry me.

  LADY RUMPERS: Yes. Go Felicity. Be happy.

  FELICITY: Happy. Oh Mummy, if you only knew.

  WICKSTEED: Such a waste.

  MRS WICKSTEED: At least somebody’s happy.

  WICKSTEED: Is she happy?

  MRS SWABB: She looks happy to me. But then I’m a behaviourist.

  MRS WICKSTEED: You’re a busybody.

  MRS SWABB: And I can make her happier still.

  FELICITY: Nobody can make me happier.

  MRS SWABB: I can. I want to explain about Dennis.

  DENNIS: No, Mrs Swabb, no.

  FELICITY: Such a short time we have together.

  MRS SWABB: But it isn’t.

  FELICITY: It’s three months.

  MRS SWABB: No.

  FELICITY: No?

  DENNIS: No.

  FELICITY: Longer?

  MRS SWABB: Yes.

  DENNIS: No.

  FELICITY: Much longer?

  MRS SWABB: Much, much longer.

  FELICITY: You mean … he’s not going to die at all?

  MRS SWABB: Strong as a horse.

  DENNIS: Oh, no.

  FELICITY:

  MRS SWABB: It’s all in the mind.

  WICKSTEED: This doctor in Liverpool, I’m interested. What did he look like?

  LADY RUMPERS: As I say there was a black-out. I saw his face only in the fitful light of a post-coital Craven A. He was small, but perfectly proportioned. In some respects more so. I don’t suppose I shall ever find him.

  MRS SWABB: Who knows. One day the doorbell will go and he will walk back into her life.

  (Bell.)

  THROBBING: Isn’t that the doorbell?

  WICKSTEED: Don’t lets jump to conclusions. It could be the man next door taking his first tentative steps on the xylophone.

  MRS SWABB: Sir Percy Shorter.