Coral is still busy measuring.
Coral At least you’ve found a friend.
Burgess Tolya? Yes. Except I’m not sure whether I’ve found him or been allotted him. I know what I’ve done to be given him. But what has he done to be given me? Am I a reward or a punishment? He plays the balalaika. I play the pianola. It’s fun. He’s an electrician with the ballet. Of course he may be a policeman. If he is a policeman he’s a jolly good actor. Forster lived with a policeman, didn’t he? You know him?
Coral shakes her head.
Nice man. Getting on now, I suppose.
Coral I feel I’m somewhat of a disappointment in the friends department. I gather Paul Robeson is coming here. Now I know him.
Burgess Do you? He’s a big favourite with the comrades. What with being black, and red. I remember when I was posted to the Washington Embassy the Secretary of State, dear old Hector McNeill, had me in his room and gave me a lecture about what I should and shouldn’t do when I got there: I mustn’t be too openly left-wing, mustn’t get involved in the colour question, and above all I must avoid homosexual incidents. I said, To sum up, Hector, what you’re saying is, “Don’t make a pass at Paul Robeson”.’
Coral I wouldn’t either.
Nobody will believe me when I go home. ‘What did you do in Moscow, darling?’ ‘Nothing much, I measured Guy Burgess’s inside leg.’
Burgess I shouldn’t think one’s inside leg alters, do you? It’s one of the immutables. ‘The knee is such a distance from the main body, whereas the groin, as your honour knows, is upon the very curtain of the place.’
Coral Come again.
Burgess Tristram Shandy. Lovely book. Of course, you wouldn’t do that.
Coral Do what?
Burgess Go round telling everybody. My people here wouldn’t like that.
Coral (looking up from her knees) No?
Burgess No. A hat would be nice. I’ve written down the name of my hatters. And my bootmaker.
Coral It’s a trousseau.
Burgess Yes. For a shotgun marriage.
Coral How do you know he won’t say no, your tailor?
Burgess Why should he say no? It would be vulgar to say no.
Coral Well, I’ll see what I can do.
She prepares to go. Burgess doesn’t make any move.
Burgess Don’t go yet. I don’t want you to go yet. You mustn’t go yet.
Coral Can’t we go somewhere? You could show me the sights.
Burgess In due course. But we can’t go yet. I have to wait for a telephone call. When the telephone call comes I’m permitted to leave.
Coral Who from?
Burgess Oh … you know … my people. It’s generally around four.
Coral That’s another two hours.
Burgess Yes. ‘What then is to be done?’ as Vladimir Ilyitch almost said. I know. I can play you my record.
He puts a record on the gramophone. It is Jack Buchanan singing ‘Who stole my heart away?’. They listen to this in its entirety.
Good, isn’t it? It’s Jack Buchanan.
Coral Yes.
Burgess Is he still going?
Coral Yes.
Burgess Did you ever come across him?
Coral Yes. I did actually. We nearly got married.
Burgess And?
Coral He jilted me.
Burgess Oh. Small world. Still. It’s a good record. (He puts it on again.)
Coral And so we sat there in that dreary flat all through that long afternoon waiting for the telephone to ring. From time to time he played his record and I had to listen to my ex-beau. I was puzzled as to how he had managed to get all his books there.
Burgess Someone sent them. A well-wisher. The desk belonged to Stendhal.
Coral Did you have that in London? Burgess Yes.
Coral Couldn’t the same person who sent you your books get you the suits?
Burgess No.
Coral No?
Burgess No.
Coral When I came into the flats I noticed a boy sitting on the stairs playing chess.
Burgess Police. When I first came I used to be shadowed by rather grand policemen. That was when I was a celebrity. Nowadays they just send the trainees. I wish I could lead them a dance. But I can’t think of a dance to lead them.
Mind you, they’re more conscientious than their English counterparts. All that last week before we left we were tailed. Maclean lived in Sussex so on the Friday evening we went to Waterloo, dutifully followed by these two men in raincoats. They saw us as far as the barrier and then went home. On the very civilized principle, I suppose, that nothing happens at the weekend. It was the only reason we got away. (Pause.) Waterloo the same, is it?
Coral Yes. (Pause.) What do you miss most?
Burgess Apart from the Reform Club, the streets of London, and occasionally the English countryside, the only thing I truly miss is gossip. The comrades, though splendid in every other respect, don’t gossip in quite the same way we do or about quite the same subjects.
Coral Pardon me for saying so, dear, but the comrades seem to me a sad disappointment in every department. There’s no gossip, their clothes are terrible and they can’t make false teeth. What else is there?
Burgess (gently) The system. Only, being English, you wouldn’t be interested in that. (Pause.) My trouble is, I lack what the English call character. By which they mean the power to refrain. Appetite. The English never like that, do they? Unconcealed appetite. For success. Women. Money. Justice. Appetite makes them uncomfortable. What do people say about me in England?
Coral They don’t much any more.
She gets up and starts tidying the room. Folding clothes, washing dishes. Burgess watches.
I thought of you as a bit like Oscar Wilde.
Burgess laughs.
Burgess No, no. Though he was a performer. And I was a performer. Both vain. But I never pretended. If I wore a mask it was to be exactly what I seemed. And I made no bones about politics. My analyses of situations, the précis I had to submit at the Foreign Office, were always Marxist. Openly so. Impeccably so. Nobody minded. ‘It’s only Guy.’ ‘Dear old Guy.’ Quite safe. If you don’t wish to conform in one thing, you should conform in all the others. And in all the important things I did conform. ‘How can he be a spy? He goes to my tailor.’ The average Englishman, you see, is not interested in ideas. You can say what you like about political theory and no one will listen. You could shove a slice of the Communist Manifesto in the Queen’s Speech and no one would turn a hair. Least of all, I suspect, HMQ. Am I boring you?
Coral It doesn’t matter. (She investigates the bookshelves. Takes a book out. Puts it back.)
Burgess I’ll think of a hundred and one things to ask you when you’ve gone. How is Cyril Connolly?
Coral You’ve asked me that. I don’t know.
Burgess You won’t have come across Anthony Blunt then?
Coral No. Isn’t he quite grand?
Burgess Very grand. That’s art. Art is grand. Art and opera. It’s the way to get on.
Coral Is he nice?
Burgess Not particularly. Though nice is what you generally have to be, isn’t it? ‘Is he nice?’ So little, England. Little music. Little art. Timid, tasteful, nice. But one loves it. Loves it. You see, I can say I love London. I can say I love England. But I can’t say I love my country. I don’t know what that means. Do you watch cricket?
Coral No. Anyway, it’s changed.
Burgess Cricket?
Coral London.
Burgess Why? I don’t want it to change. Why does anybody want to change it? They’ve no business changing it. The fools. You should stop them changing it. Band together.
Coral Listen, darling. I’m only an actress. Not a bright lady, by your standards. I’ve never taken much interest in politics. If this is communism I don’t like it because it’s dull. And the poor dears look so tired. But then Australia is dull and that’s not communism. And look at Leeds. Only it occurs to me that we have sat here
all afternoon pretending that spying, which is what you did, darling, was just a minor social misdemeanour, no worse – and I’m sure in certain people’s minds much better – than being caught in a public lavatory the way gentlemen in my profession constantly are, and that it’s just something one shouldn’t mention. Out of politeness. So that we won’t be embarrassed. That’s very English. We will pretend it hasn’t happened because we are both civilized people.
Well, I’m not English. And I’m not civilized. I’m Australian. I can’t muster much morality, and outside Shakespeare the word treason to me means nothing. Only, you pissed in our soup and we drank it. Very good. Doesn’t affect me, darling. And I will order your suit and your hat. And keep it under mine. Mum. Not a word. But for one reason and one reason only: because I’m sorry for you. Now in your book … in your real book … that probably adds my name to the list of all the other fools you’ve conned. But you’re not conning me, darling. Pipe isn’t fooling pussy. I know.
The telephone rings.
Burgess Pity. I was enjoying that. (He picks up the phone.) You spoiled the lady’s big speech. Da. Da. Spassibo. (He puts the phone down.) Finished?
Coral I just want to be told why.
Burgess It seemed the right thing to do at the time. And solitude, I suppose.
Coral Solitude?
Burgess If you have a secret you’re alone.
Coral But you told people. You told several people.
Burgess No point in having a secret if you make a secret of it. Actually the other thing you might get me is an Etonian tie. This one’s on its last legs.
They have got up ready to go when Tolya, a young Russian, comes in.
Ah, here’s Tolya.
He kisses him.
Tolya. This is Miss Browne. She is an actress. From England.
Tolya (pronouncing it very carefully) How do you do? How are you?
Burgess Very good. If you give him an English cigarette he’ll be your friend for life.
Coral does so. Tolya takes a cigarette but is then fascinated by the packet and takes that also. He examines it carefully then hands it back.
Coral No, please. Feel free.
Coral lights his cigarette with her lighter.
Tolya Thank you.
But now her lighter has caught his eye and he takes that too, flicking it on and off, fascinated.
Tolya Chudyessna!
Burgess Oh dear. Sorry.
Reluctantly Tolya offers the lighter back.
Coral (resigned) No, please.
Burgess (taking the lighter and handing it back to Coral) No, you mustn’t. He’ll take anything. He’s a real Queen Mary. But you … wouldn’t be able to order him a suit, would you? Off the peg. He’d look so nice.
Coral (desperately) Anything. Anything.
Tolya (in Russian) Ya hotyel bwi eegrat dlya nyeyo.
Burgess Da? Samnoy?
Tolya Konyeshna.
Burgess Tolya wants us to play you a tune. Let him. He’d be so pleased. Just five minutes.
They embark on the duet ‘Take a pair of sparkling eyes’ from Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Gondoliers. Burgess shouts above the music.
What do you think? Reward or punishment?
The music continues as the lights fade, hiding the room.
Coral When we left the flat he took me to a church not far from where he lived. I’ve since been told that it was kept open just to indicate that there still were such places. The singing was very good. Apparently it was where the opera singers went to warm up for the evening’s performance.
As a rule I don’t have much time for men’s tears. It’s like blowing smoke rings, crying is a facility some men have. And it wasn’t as if there was anything particularly English about the service. It wasn’t like church or school, and yet when I looked at him the tears were rolling down his cheeks. He left me outside my hotel.
Coral goes stage right, leaving Burgess in the spot, stage left.
Burgess Something else you could do for me when you get back. Ring the old mum. Tell her I’m all right. Looking after myself. She’s been here once. Loved it. Too frail now. I would come back to see her but apparently it’s not on. Still got to stand in the corner, I suppose.
‘Let him never come back to us.
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain.
Forced praise on our part, the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again.’
Good old Browning. Goodbye. Dosvidanya.
The light fades on Burgess as Coral comes on, right, in a different coat and hat. A Tailor enters, left, wearing a tape measure and carrying a swatch of samples.
Coral I’d like to order some suits.
Tailor Certainly madam.
Coral You’ve made suits for the gentleman before, but he now lives abroad.
Tailor I see.
Coral hands him her bit of paper.
Coral I took his measurements. I’m not sure they’re the right ones.
The Tailor looks at the paper.
Tailor Oh yes. These are more than adequate. Could one know the gentleman’s name?
Coral Yes. Mr Burgess.
Tailor We have two Mr Burgesses. I take this to be Mr Burgess G. How is Mr Burgess? Fatter, I see. One of our more colourful customers. Too little colour in our drab lives these days. Knowing Mr Guy he’ll want a pinstripe. But a durable fabric. His suits were meant to take a good deal of punishment. I hope they have stood him in good stead.
Coral Yes. They have indeed.
Tailor I’m glad to hear it. Always getting into scrapes, Mr Guy. And your name is …?
Coral Browne.
Tailor There is no need for discretion here, madam.
Coral Truly.
Tailor My apologies. (He looks at her in recognition.) Of course. And this is the address. I see. We put a little of ourselves into our suits. That is our loyalty.
Coral And mum’s the word.
Tailor Oh, madam. Mum is always the word here. Moscow or Maidenhead, mum is always the word.
The Tailor exits left leaving Coral in the spot right
Coral And so it was with all the shops I went into, scarcely an eyebrow raised. When the parcels arrived he wrote to me, the letter dated 11 April 1958, Easter Sunday, to which he adds, ‘a very suitable day to be writing to you, since I also was born on it, to the later horror of the Establishment of the country concerned’.
Burgess, left, now takes over the letter.
Burgess I really find it hard to know how to thank you properly. Everything fits. No need for any alterations at all. Thank you. Thank you. In spite of your suggestion – invitation, to visit your friend Paul Robeson, I find myself too shy to call on him. Not so much shy as frightened. The agonies I remember on first meeting with people I really admire, Ε. Μ. Forster (and Picasso and Winston Churchill). H. G. Wells was quite different, but one could get drunk with him and listen to stories of his sex life. Fascinating. How frightened one would be of Charlie Chaplin.
One more thing. What I really need, the only thing more, is pyjamas. Russian ones can’t be slept in, are not in fact made for the purpose. What I would like if you can find it is four pairs of white or off-white pyjamas …
A Shop Assistant brings on a chair, right.
Assistant If you could take a seat, madam, I’ll just check.
Coral ‘… Four pairs. Quite plain and only those two colours. Then at last my outfit will be complete and I shall look like a real agent again.’ (She looks twice.) ‘Then I shall look like a real gent again.’
The Shop Assistant returns.
Assistant I’m afraid, madam, that the gentleman in question no longer has an account with us. His account was closed.
Coral I know. He wishes to open it again.
Assistant I’m afraid that’s not possible.
Coral Why?
Assistant Well … we supply pyjamas to the Royal Family.
Coral So?
Assistant The gentleman is
a traitor, madam.
Coral So? Must traitors sleep in the buff?
Assistant I’m sorry. We have to draw the line somewhere.
Coral So why here? Say someone commits adultery in your precious nightwear. I imagine it has occurred. What happens when he comes in to order his next pair of jim- jams. Is it sorry, no can do?
Assistant I’m very sorry.
Coral (her Australian accent gets now more pronounced as she gets crosser) You keep saying you’re sorry, dear. You were quite happy to satisfy this client when he was one of the most notorious buggers in London and a drunkard into the bargain. Only then he was in the Foreign Office. ‘Red piping on the sleeve, Mr Burgess – but of course.’ ‘A discreet monogram on the pocket, Mr Burgess?’ Certainly. And perhaps if you’d be gracious enough to lower your trousers, Mr Burgess, we could be privileged enough to thrust our tongue between the cheeks of your arse. But not any more. Oh no. Because the gentleman in question has shown himself to have some principles, principles which aren’t yours and, as a matter of interest, aren’t mine. But that’s it, as far as you’re concerned. No more jamas for him. I tell you, it’s pricks like you that make me understand why he went. Thank Christ I’m not English.
Assistant As a matter of fact, madam, our firm isn’t English either.
Coral Oh? What is it?
Assistant Hungarian. (He exits right)
Coral Oh, I said, and thinking of the tanks going into Budapest a year or two before, wished I hadn’t made such a fuss. So I went down the street to Simpsons and got him some pyjamas there. Guy wrote to thank me and sent a cheque for £6 to treat myself to supper at the Caprice. Which one could, of course, in those days. In those days. Anyway, that was the last I heard of him. He never did come back, of course, dying in 1963. Heart attack.
This comedy I was in at the Cambridge, Affairs of State – I played the wife of an elderly statesman. ‘Your friends were great men in their time,’ I had to say, ‘only those who’ve managed to stay alive can now hardly manage to stay awake.’ And that, of course, would have been the solution for Burgess, to live on to a great age. Had he been living now he would have been welcomed back with open arms, just as Mosley was a few years back. He could have written his memoirs, gone on all the chat shows, done Desert Island Discs … played his Jack Buchanan record again. In England, you see, age wipes the slate clean. (She gets up.) If you live to be ninety in England and can still eat a boiled egg they think you deserve the Nobel Prize.