DAD: Our Linda knows nothing about cars.
ANTHONY: It’s Linda.
DAD: Linda’s a personal secretary.
ANTHONY: You old tosser. Your own daughter and you don’t recognize her.
DAD: It’s not her. I’d know if it was her.
ANTHONY: There’s something wrong with your brain, Dad, if you don’t recognize your own daughter. I’m going to have to lift up your steel plate and find out.
DAD: No. Leave my head alone. Stop him. Help me.
(GREGORY and MS CRAIG rise.)
ANTHONY: Now, Greg. Remember your brief. Knock, knock. Anybody there.
(He bangs on DAD’s head, DAD slumps in the chair.)
Shit. He’s passed out. Dad? Come on, Dad. Come on. Joke over.
Well whose fault was that? You saw what happened. I was making this big effort to behave normally and he wasn’t even trying. He was allowing his conduct to be influenced by the presence of onlookers. He gets bashful, resists and naturally he gets hurt. I’m really depressed now. I like him. Up to a point we’re intimate friends, only when somebody’s watching the barriers go up. Though why I can’t imagine. What is there to be ashamed of? We’re all human basically.
(ANTHONY shows GREGORY the magazine then goes back.)
He’s not coming round. Wake up, Wilfred! He doesn’t look well. What about it, Greg?
(GREGORY comes over slowly, looks at MR CRAVEN and says nothing. He is back in his position when MAM comes in with her shopping.)
MAM: I’d forgotten we’d got company. I couldn’t remember what it was I went for but I got one or two things that’ll come in. Our usual greengrocer’s been knocked down. It was a pleasant little parade: butchers, confectioners, ladies’ knitwear shop. Catered for just about everything and made a nice little outing. Now there’s one shop selling used office furniture and the rest is a garden centre. They want their heads examining. Has Anthony been behaving himself? Hello, Anthony. (What’s happened to your green hair?) Hello? (To GREGORY.) The bulldozers are knocking on. No trace of the Grasmeres. Dad asleep? You asleep, Dad?
(MAM takes the shopping, toilet-rolls, into the scullery.
ANTHONY jerks his head to GREGORY and goes. GREGORY pauses.)
GREGORY: (To MS CRAIG) That bugger looks dead to me. Something anyway.
(GREGORY shakes his head and maybe ruffles ANTHONY’s hair as they go.)
MAM: (From the scullery) I’ve just remembered I went for a tin of salmon. My mother went like this, you know. She lost her memory. I didn’t see anybody I knew. I got a bit of a smile from one woman but that’s all; there weren’t many people about. They’re curtailing the buses now. Scarcely a building as far as the eye can see and then they say we’re short of open spaces. (Coming in.) Are you all right, Dad? You haven’t been having an argument? He’s not sulking again? Sat there with your mouth open. Dad. Dad. DAD. I think he’s had a funny do. Dad. Wake up. He’s had a turn. Have you noticed anything?
(MS CRAIG is impassive.)
Say something. There must be a case for waiving the rules now and again. Dad. Dad. It’s Mam. Wilf! Wilf!
(Pause. MAM goes out hurriedly.
MS CRAIG gets up slowly and goes over to MR CRAVEN. She looks at him without touching him, then picks up ANTHONY’s magazine and glances at it. She hears MAM returning and goes back unhurriedly to her chair.
MRS CRAVEN returns with MRS CLEGG, her next-door neighbour, a woman of the same age and some pretensions to refinement.
MRS CLEGG takes in MS CRAIG and listens to MR CRAVEN’s chest.
As she is doing so another observer (ADRIAN) comes in, pad and pencil in hand and hovers about watching her.)
MAM: Has he gone? (MRS CLEGG listens to MR CRAVEN’s chest, while watching MS CRAIG to whom she addresses sot to voce remarks.)
MRS CLEGG (Mouthing) How do you do?
MAM: He’s not gone, Nora?
MRS CLEGG: Mrs Clegg. From next door.
MAM: He was right as rain when I went out. Has he gone?
MRS CLEGG: (Still addressing MS CRAIG) They always turn to me. First sign of a crisis, it’s ‘fetch Nora’.
MAM: I’d call Dr Sillitoe but I’d want to change him first. And this place is upside down.
MRS CLEGG: You don’t want him trailing all the way over here on a wild-goose chase. And you can’t ring up. The kiosk’s been vandalized. The insides have been ripped out again. I’d rip their insides out. He’s got a good colour and he’s not cold. If he has gone we’ve only just missed him. Was he constipated at all?
MAM: I’m not sure. It’s not something he’d ever discuss.
MRS CLEGG: Is he dead, that’s the question? We could burn some feathers under his nose, that’s a traditional method. Have you got a pillow?
MAM: Yes, but they’re all foam filled.
MRS CLEGG: With polystyrene? Burn that and it gives off a deadly poison.
MAM: Nora, what’s happening to the world?
MRS CLEGG: I don’t know. I’d castrate them.
MAM: Would he help? (Indicating the new observer.)
MRS CLEGG: Out of the question.
MAM: Mine won’t even converse.
MRS CLEGG: Nor mine. But if he did I’ve a feeling he’d be very nicely spoken.
MAM: But Nora is he dead? Till I know I’m not sure what to do. Should I be showing grief? Do I mourn or what? I don’t want to jump the gun. Isn’t there somebody at the Council we could ring?
MRS CLEGG: No. (Sotto voce.) Not with them watching us. We’ve got to manage. Not fall back on outside agencies.
MAM: Is this death? I’d like an official view.
MRS CLEGG: Be brave, Connie. I think you must resign yourself to the fact that your beloved hubby has passed on.
MAM: Oh, Wilf. Are you sure?
MRS CLEGG: Ninety-nine per cent.
MAM: Wilf! Wilf! He never used to call me by name. Never Connie. Always Mam. Never my name except one stage when he used to call it out when ejaculating. I think I was meant to be touched. When he saw it cut no ice he desisted. I don’t think he’s said my name since.
MRS CLEGG: Now. The first thing to do is to lay him out in the customary manner, wash the body and dress it in the clean clothes traditionally set aside for this purpose. (All this is directed towards the observers.)
MAM: Can’t Chippendales do that? The undertakers.
MRS CLEGG: Chippendales has changed hands. It’s now a patio-paving centre. There is no Chippendales.
MAM: No Chippendales? Oh, Nora.
MRS CLEGG: I know. I’d bastinado them.
MAM: I’m not sure he’s got a clean vest. I was going to wash it. That was one of the jobs I’d got lined up for today. What must they think? My mother could have done all this by instinct.
MRS CLEGG: You’ll have the coffin here, of course. Not at the Chapel of Rest. So impersonal. You want to be grateful it happened at home. I had Clifford at home.
MAM: It’s a good job we haven’t got into the horrible new flats. They wouldn’t get coffins into the lift.
MRS CLEGG: Another example of shortsighted planning. I’d strangle them at birth.
MAM: I keep forgetting what it is they’re looking for.
MRS CLEGG: Survivors, that’s what they’re looking for. People who haven’t gone under. I don’t think I disappointed them. It’s a nice change for me. I haven’t had somebody dogging my every footstep since Clifford died.
MAM: Will it get written up?
MRS CLEGG: I imagine in the form of a report.
(MAM goes into the scullery for some water.)
I know I shall figure, albeit anonymously. We’re a dying breed, women like me. I could probably deliver a baby if I was ever called upon and I can administer an enema at a moment’s notice. Birth or death I’m an asset at any bedside. I don’t dislike this carpet.
MAM: (Returning) I forget, you see, that’s my trouble. I think I’d have more of the qualities they’re looking for if only I could remember. My mother was like that.
/>
They’re writing all this down and none of it’s normal. Cocktails in a Rolls Royce. Linda flying off in Concorde and now Dad dead. None of it run of the mill.
MRS CLEGG: You’re lucky to have had such an action-packed day. I had some baking to do and one or two things to rinse through but nothing dramatic. Nothing to stretch me, nothing that demanded the whole of my personality.
MAM: You’re getting some spin-off from this though.
MRS CLEGG: And that is what they’re looking for, of course. Coping, mutual support. The way this cheek-by-jowl existence brings out the best in us.
MAM: I wish I could show more grief. I don’t want you to think I’m heartless. We were inseparable, only I’ve got lots to do. Poor Dad. He had everything to live for, basically. I’m sorry I’m not crying. I feel grief-stricken even though I don’t show it.
MRS CLEGG: A brave face. They’ll understand.
MAM: I do care, deep down.
MRS CLEGG: It’ll mean an increased pension.
MAM: Will it?
MRS CLEGG: Plus the death grant.
MAM: Do they give you a death grant?
MRS CLEGG: Provided there’s been a death. I put Clifford’s towards some loose covers.
MAM: And I suppose I’ll still get his disability pension.
MRS CLEGG: What with one thing and another the horizon’s far from gloomy.
MAM: He used to have a fine body, right up until his accident. He’d no feeling in this arm.
MRS CLEGG: He’s no feeling in it now.
MAM: I suppose we’ve got to wash him all over.
MRS CLEGG: Of course.
MAM: His eyebrows want cutting.
MRS CLEGG: Never mind his eyebrows. Let’s get his trousers off. Do you find this distasteful?
MAM: I’d find it more distasteful if he were alive, bless him! You’re such a help, Nora. You should have been a nurse. So calm.
MRS CLEGG: I try to be warm, but clinical. It’s a fine line. I’ll loosen his trousers.
MAM: I haven’t seen some of this for years. (She weeps.)
MRS CLEGG: Let it come, love. Let it come.
MAM: I did love him, Nora. I did. I loved him like a child. Only now it’s too late.
MRS CLEGG: What’s the best way to get his trousers off? You get his legs, and I’ll pull.
MAM: Nora.
MRS CLEGG: What?
MAM: Would you be bitterly offended if I took his trousers off by myself?
MRS CLEGG: You can’t do it without help.
MAM: I’ve got to try. He was a shy man, Nora.
MRS CLEGG: Connie. He’s not here. He’s gone. This is just the shell. The husk. If you’re not conscious you can’t be self-conscious. I’m thinking of your back.
MAM: You’ve been so good. So understanding.
MRS CLEGG: I’ve just been a neighbour, Connie. It’s what neighbours are for. Anyway, please yourself. Give us a shout if there’s anything you can’t manage.
(MS CRAIG approaches.)
You don’t want her watching if you don’t want me.
MAM: But isn’t she official? She’s got to be here.
(MRS CLEGG talks quietly to her observer while MAM gets on with washing DAD.)
MRS CLEGG: You’ll probably think I’m old-fashioned, Adrian, but my view is that when death occurs in the home, tragic though it is, we should try to think of it as a privilege. So many of the fundamental experiences of our lives have passed beyond our personal control. Passed into the hands of doctors, social workers, nurses and the like so we are denied that contact with birth, sickness and death, with poverty, with suffering and all those areas of human experience…
MAM: Nora! (Awestruck)
MRS CLEGG: … which were the birthright of our parents …
MAM: Nora! (Alarm).
MRS CLEGG: … and gave their lives meaning and nourishment …
MAM: NORA!
(MRS CLEGG goes over.)
Look.
MRS CLEGG: Good garden rhubarb! What’s that? Oh, Connie.
(They cling to one another, gazing at MR CRAVEN’s body and at one part in particular.)
MAM: And you said he was dead.
MRS CLEGG: He may still be dead.
MAM: That’s not dead. That’s alive. That’s life, that is.
MRS CLEGG: It may not be. It may just be a side effect. The muscles contract. The body plays tricks. The dead often seem to grin. This doesn’t mean they are happy.
MAM: One touch of the flannel. The sly bugger. And me thinking he was all dead and decent.
MRS CLEGG: Don’t leap to conclusions.
MAM: I don’t know where to look. And of course we would have company.
MRS CLEGG: Adrian. You’ll have been to university. Would you say he was dead?
(ADRIAN takes a look but says nothing. MS CRAIG has gone back to her chair.)
MAM: I blame you.
MRS CLEGG: Me?
MAM: You would wash him. You would make out that’s what it is we do. Traditionally. Normal procedure. For their benefit. Folks don’t wash the dead and lay them out. Not in this day and age. It’s what my mother used to do. This is the twentieth century. You call in an expert.
MRS CLEGG: She’s forgotten. You see how it is. Love, Chippendales has changed hands. It’s a patio-paving centre.
MAM: The Co-op hasn’t changed hands. That’s not a patio-paving centre. The Co-op does a perfectly adequate funeral. I’ve attended several and they couldn’t be faulted. Besides which they’d come along with all this at their fingertips. They’d know if it was normal or not. Tie it down. Tether it. They’ll be past masters, with diplomas. They wouldn’t turn a hair. But oh no. It had to be Do It Yourself. We’re supposed to behave normally.
MRS CLEGG: It’s no problem for you. You can behave normally. You forget they’re there half the time and when you remember you don’t know what it is they’re there for.
MAM: Well what are they there for? I don’t know.
MRS CLEGG: What difference does it make. It’s an unlooked for situation, this. Stuck in a room with a corpse that’s not fit to be seen. I know one thing. If it were in my house I could rise to it magnificently.
MAM: You keep saying corpse. Corpse. We don’t know if he is a corpse. I’ve only got your word for it. And all the evidence points the other way. The blighter. It’s the same as when he was alive. Always trying to spring it on you. And don’t keep looking at him. That’s my husband. Saying you bake. You never bake. She never bakes. It’s all bought stuff in her house. It always has been. You were always running on to the end, you, when there was an end to run on to. That’s what killed your Clifford. Chips and bought cakes. What do you do for your dinner now they’ve pulled down the chip shop?
MRS CLEGG: She’s under stress. Only you see what I have to put up with. I don’t think we can do any more good here, Adrian. I’ll see if I can find you a few home-made scones and some of my own preserves. And perhaps when he’s made up his mind whether he’s coming or going I’ll bob in again. It’s no joke being a tower of strength round here, I can tell you.
(MRS CLEGG and ADRIAN leave, MAM and MS CRAIG are alone.)
MAM: Give me that towel. I said give me that towel.
(MS CRAIG does so.) Thank you. Now. I’m not leaving him stuck here. We’d better get him back in the chair. Come on. Frame.
(MAM and MS CRAIG move him on to the chair.) Watching. Not feeling. And what if anybody comes? This is what children are designed for, this. Buckling to. Rallying round. And where are they? One’s marrying a blackie and I don’t know where the other is. Our Terry. I loved him. He can’t have loved me, I’ve never had a postcard. I had a record played for him on Family Favourites on the off-chance he was in Australia. There’s a limit to what you can do.
I had visions of him going to university. I can just see him in a scarf opening a bank account. He’s married probably now. Kiddies. I could be stood here and all the time I’m a grandmother with cartloads of snaps to catch up on.
Instead of which I’m alone. Nobody to turn to. No kids. Nobody. (‘I Can Give You the Starlight’ (Novello, The Dancing Years) begins quietly and it seems as if
MS CRAIG is about to speak when there is a bang on the door.) Oh, company!
(She opens the door and LINDA comes in, lugging two suitcases, exhausted.)
(Brightly) Hello, Linda love. Have you come back?
LINDA: No. This is a mirage. I’m at this moment sitting under a palm tree in one of the OPEC countries. (She goes to the door which she has left open.) Come in if you’re coining.
(There is a pause and a large man (SID) in working clothes enters.)
MAM: Hello. Are you another one? They seem to be doing a very thorough job. Sit down. Make yourself at home.
SID: Thank you.
MAM: Oh, quite talkative. What happend to your fiance, love? Did you not hit it off?
LINDA: I never saw him.
MAM: You were all set to marry him.
LINDA: Well I didn’t, did I?
(Pause)
Though I got shortlisted.
MAM: Shortlisted? For his bride? How many of you were there?
LINDA: Twenty-five.
MAM: Twenty-five prospective brides? What sort of a man is that?
LINDA: It wasn’t him. He wasn’t even there. He’d had to fly off to Vienna. It was his agent, somebody from Lloyds Bank.
MAM: Lloyds? That’s one of the classier banks. I’d go there if I had any money.
LINDA: I got as far as the last six then got eliminated.
MAM: What did you fall down on? Your shorthand?
LINDA: No! My tits!
MAM: Don’t be bitter. I’m sure that’s not the kind of thing he was looking for, not if he was from Lloyds Bank.
LINDA: Listen, we had to parade up and down the Wharfedale Room in our bra and panties!
MAM: At the Queen’s Hotel? And it’s where Sir Malcolm Sargent used to stay!
LINDA: He said that although I’d done very well in the oral examination my tits fell short of the standard required.
MAM: Fell short?
LINDA: He said they were small and a bit on the old side.
MAM: The cheek.
LINDA: What do they know about tits at Lloyds Bank?
MAM: Quite. Still I’m glad you’ve come back because we’ve had a bit of bad news about your father.
LINDA: I thought he was quiet. Is he dead?