Tom Stoppard Plays 2 Read online

  DOMINIC: (A desperate man) Vivian!

  VIVIAN: Ssssh …. (Whispering) For goodness’ sake, what’s the matter?

  DOMINIC: (A desperate man whispering) Oh sorry. I say Vivian …

  VIVIAN: Have you brought the books at last?

  DOMINIC: Books? Oh—look, Vivian, please help me, you get paid today don’t you? I’ve got to pay off that taxi, you see …

  VIVIAN: Oh, Dominic—I’m very cross with you—we’re saving to get married and you keep taking taxis everywhere. It’s not fair, Dominic. Now you come running to me. Honestly.

  DOMINIC: (The desperate man, cracked and yelling) OH, YOU STUPID COW, SHUT UP AND GIVE ME TEN POUNDS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!

  Cut. Interior.

  DRIVER: Well, frankly, you couldn’t have paid much for it, could you?

  DOMINIC: It’s a very fine engagement ring. Ten guineas.

  DRIVER: See that? Scratched. Four pound ten.

  DOMINIC: It’s a diamond. Six pounds.

  DRIVER: Five and I’m taking a chance.

  DOMINIC: Done. What about the rest of the stuff?

  DRIVER: Well it’s a bit of a mess isn’t it? I don’t know how you can live like this, I don’t really. I mean, it’s really junk, isn’t it? I’ll give you ten bob for the desk, and another ten for the mirror. The bed’s had it really—I mean six books isn’t the same as a castor, is it? Thirty bob with the mattress. Now over here. Not a bad wardrobe—fifteen bob—gas stove—couple of pounds if you like. That’s about it, isn’t it? OK, Dom? Look, someone’s bust up your gas meter.

  DOMINIC: What about the clothes? There’s some good stuff there.

  DRIVER: Can’t move it, you see. I’ll give you ten bob to take it away, and that makes us square, doesn’t it?

  (Doorbell.)

  Oh, that’ll be my brother with the van.

  DOMINIC: Mr Melon.

  DRIVER: Lemon.

  DOMINIC: Mr Lemon, I’ve got to get back to the office before six. You couldn’t throw that in, could you?

  DRIVER: Can’t do it, Dom. Company checks the mileage, you see. That’s a seven and a tanner drive, that is. Tell you what, I’ll cut my throat and do it for the suit.

  DOMINIC: What suit?

  DRIVER: That one you got on.

  DOMINIC: But that only leaves me with a pair of pyjamas and a raincoat. I can’t go to the office like that. Can I?—Can I?

  Cut. Door flung open.

  DOMINIC: Is he back yet?

  MISS BLIGH: Hello, Mr Boot. Is it still raining? Oh, you are wet. I do like your pyjamas Mr Boot. What’s the matter Mr Boot, you seem awfully upset. Mr Cartwright seems upset too.

  (Door opens.)

  CARTWRIGHT: Well, Mr Boot—Good God, man, what are you wearing? Have you gone mad?

  DOMINIC: I don’t think so, Mr Cartwright.

  CARTWRIGHT: Get out of here. I’m giving you a week’s notice. And stop crying.

  DOMINIC: Yes, Mr Cartwright.

  (Door slams.)

  MISS BLIGH: (Always tender, soft, remote) Come on, Mr Boot. I think you ought to go home. Come on … I’m going your way, Mr Boot.

  DOMINIC: (Weeping) Oh … oh …

  (They go through door into street.)

  MISS BLIGH: It’s raining again. Haven’t you got an umbrella, Mr Boot? Don’t cry, Mr Boot. Your pyjamas are getting awfully wet … I should do up your front, Mr Boot, you’ll catch cold…. Pull your socks up, Mr Boot. (Up)

  Taxi! … come on, Mr Boot. Come on, you can drop me off….

  ‘M’ IS FOR MOON AMONG OTHER THINGS

  CHARACTERS

  CONSTANCE

  ALFRED

  Silence—a man grunts and shakes his paper—a woman flips over the pages of a book and sighs.

  NB A married couple, ALFRED and CONSTANCE—middle class, childless, aged 45 and 42.

  CONSTANCE: (Sighs—thinks:) Macbeth …

  (Flip.)

  Macedonia …

  (Flip.)

  Machine-gun …

  (Flip.)

  Magna Carta …

  (Flip.)

  Measles …

  (Flip.)

  Molluscs … molluscs …

  ALFRED: (Grunts—thinks:) ‘… the girl, wearing a red skirt and black sweater, asked the court that her name should not be continued in column five, continued in column five …’

  (Shakes paper.)

  CONSTANCE: (Thinks:)… Invertebrate animal … discovered that marine varieties …

  (Slams book shut.)

  I think enough for tonight—I wish the print wasn’t so small … Have you seen my pills anywhere?

  ALFRED: Mmmm … (Thinks:) ‘… “anything like it in my thirty years on the Bench,” he added. “While young louts like you are roaming the streets no girl is safe from …”’

  (Impatiently) Oh …

  (Turns page.)

  CONSTANCE: (Thinks:) February the fifth, March the fifth, April, May, June, July, August … six.

  ALFRED: (Thinks:) ‘A Smooth-as-Silk Beauty as Fast as they Come!’

  CONSTANCE: (Thinks:) The Friday before last must have been the twenty-seventh, that’s right, because the Gilberts came to dinner and that was a Friday because of Mrs Gilbert not eating the meat, and the Encyclopaedia always comes on the twenty-seventh, and it was just when the M to N came when I phoned Alfred at the office about what to give the Gilberts, so it must have been Friday the twenty-seventh. So last Sunday was the twenty-ninth, so today is twenty-nine plus seven makes thirty-six, so it must be the sixth, unless July has thirty-one, in which case it’s the seventh, no, the fifth. Thirty days hath April, June, is it? Wait a minute, the Friday before last was the twenty-seventh …

  ALFRED: (Thinks:) ‘I found her to be a smooth-as-silk beauty with the classic lines of thrust of …’

  CONSTANCE: Alfred, is it the fifth or the sixth?

  ALFRED: Mmm? (Thinks:) ‘… surging to sixty mph in nine seconds …’

  CONSTANCE: Fifth?

  ALFRED: Fifth what?

  CONSTANCE: What’s today?

  ALFRED: Sunday … (Thinks:) ‘… the handbrake a touch stiff and I’d like to see an extra ashtray for the passenger but otherwise …’ (Up) Oh for goodness’ sake—you know I hate people looking over my shoulder.

  (Turns page.)

  CONSTANCE: (Thinks:) August the fifth, nineteen sixty-two. (Up) Alfred, in half an hour I’ll be exactly forty-two-and-a-half years old. That’s a thought, isn’t it?

  ALFRED: Mmmm … (Thinks:) ‘Little old grey-haired Mrs Winifred Garters wept last night as …’

  CONSTANCE: What time were you born, Alfred?

  ALFRED: What?

  CONSTANCE: I was born just as the clock struck half-past ten at night—what time were you born?

  ALFRED: I can’t remember.

  CONSTANCE: Didn’t anyone tell you?

  ALFRED: That’s what I can’t remember.

  (Hall clock chiming ten.)

  Oh, what’s that?—ten? We haven’t had the news today. I think there’s one now, isn’t there? Turn on the box—hang on, where’s the Radio Times?—ah—is this this week’s?

  CONSTANCE: Forty-two-and-a-half, and all I’ve got is a headache.

  ALFRED: Is this the new one? ‘August five to twelve’—what’s today?

  CONSTANCE: Sunday.

  ALFRED: No–no–no—what’s—oh never mind—yes, this is it—News at five-past ten.

  (Turns on TV.)

  ‘Dial M for Murder’—oh, that might have been good.

  CONSTANCE: It’s an awful thing, you know. When you start worrying about the halves. I mean there’s no purpose to make sense of it, is there? Every time it’s half-past ten, it’s another day older, and all I’ve done with it is to get up and stay up. Where’s it all going?

  (Bring in finish of ‘Dial M for Murder’—hold it and fade it low.)

  (Thinks:) They used to call me Millie … my

  middle name was my favourite till I was—how old was I? 17? Happy Birthday Millie
, it used to be … Then I went over to Constance, it sounded more grown-up. Seventeen from forty-two. Twenty-five. A quarter of a century, constant Constance…. (Up) If I had a choice, perhaps I’d choose what I’m doing now. I don’t care about that. But I want the choice. I don’t want the moon, Alfred, all I want is the possibility of an alternative, so that I know I’m doing this because I want to instead of because there’s nothing else.

  ALFRED: Sshssh—hang on, Constance, let me hear the News …

  (Bring in opening of tape (if there is one) of the 10.05 pm News—5 August 1962.)

  NEWS: The News … Marilyn Monroe, the actress, was found dead in her Los Angeles home today …

  (Fade out.)

  ALFRED: (Fading in with ‘oh’s’ used as a sort of dirge—thinks:) Oh … oh … oh … oh … oh … poor Marilyn … poor poor thing … What have they done? … God, poor little thing … She must have been so unhappy. Oh Marilyn …

  CONSTANCE: She seemed so full of life, didn’t she?

  ALFRED: (Thinks:) Abandoned … no love … like a child …

  CONSTANCE: Poor thing, it’s awful.

  ALFRED: (Thinks:) Marilyn … you shouldn’t have trusted them, they’re all rotten …

  CONSTANCE: Do you suppose she meant it? Oh, wasn’t she lovely, I mean a lovely person, she made you feel it. Doesn’t it go to show?

  ALFRED: Oh, do shut up.

  CONSTANCE: Alfred!

  ALFRED: Oh, I’m sorry. I’m just tired … and upset.

  CONSTANCE: It’s all right, Alfred.

  ALFRED: Of course she meant it. By God, you’ve only got to use your imagination. It’s such a cold shallow world she was living in. No warmth or understanding—no one understood her, she was friendless.

  CONSTANCE: Do you think so?

  ALFRED: Of course. Hangers-on. People didn’t appreciate her. Just using her. A girl like that. It’s a crime …

  CONSTANCE: Fate.

  ALFRED: Fate! Don’t be absurd!

  CONSTANCE: Please don’t shout, Alfred.

  ALFRED: (Wearily) Oh damn them, dammit … Oh, let’s go to bed. I’m tired.

  CONSTANCE: Yes. I’m worn out—hope I’ll be able to sleep.

  ALFRED: I can never stay awake, and you can never get to sleep—what’s the matter with you?

  CONSTANCE: I don’t know—can’t sleep with this headache.

  ALFRED: You know, you read too much, you’re always complaining of eye strain and headaches, well it’s no wonder.

  CONSTANCE: The print’s too small, really.

  (Flip flip flip of pages:)

  ALFRED: The Universal Treasury of People, Places and Things: Illustrated. M to N … A lot of useless knowledge.

  CONSTANCE: I’ve got as far as Molluscs, but I’m skipping madly.

  ALFRED: You forget it all anyway.

  CONSTANCE: No I don’t, not all of it.

  ALFRED: Well, you forgot about Catholics, didn’t you? There must have been something about them under C.

  CONSTANCE: (Unhappy, offensive-defensive, a little desperate) Oh Alfred, please—not now again …

  ALFRED: Catholics! Catholics-don’t-eat-meat-on-Fridays. Or under M—Meat!, what-Catholics-don’t eat-on-a-Friday. Or F—Friday!, the-day-Catholics-don’t-eat-meat-on. Oh my God, you could probably have found it under G—Mrs Gilbert!, wife to Alfred’s boss Mr Gilbert and a staunch Catholic who does not eat meat on a Friday! (Pause.) D is for Débâcle—that which occurs when Mrs Gilbert is offered meat by her husband’s chief accountant’s wife on a Friday!

  CONSTANCE: (Crying) Well, I wouldn’t have forgotten if you hadn’t been so awful on the phone—I phoned you to ask you what to get for dinner and you wouldn’t give me a chance—Alfred—you were—you behaved …

  ALFRED: Oh, don’t cry—I couldn’t talk to you then … You had to call up just as Mr Gilbert, Anglican, was hovering round my neck with my monthly report … Oh, what does it matter anyway …

  (Pages turned.)

  M is for Money … Universal Treasury all right … Two guineas a volume, a guinea per letter of the alphabet. How can you get a guinea’s worth out of X? Or Z?

  CONSTANCE: It was a lovely birthday present.

  ALFRED: Well, I’m sorry I haven’t got as much money as your rich brother Stanley.

  CONSTANCE: Oh, you know I didn’t mean that. But it’s lovely to know that every month there’s another volume coming. That’s the seventh, counting the A to B I got on the actual day. It’s O to P this month. Oranges and Orang-utans. I don’t know—it’s just that the time isn’t all a waste, somehow, do you know what I mean?

  ALFRED: What’s the capital of Mongolia?

  CONSTANCE: The point isn’t to know the capital of Mongolia, Alfred—the point is to … Alfred, at half-past ten I’ll be forty-two-and-a-half years old and it’s all slipping by.

  ALFRED: Well, I’m blessed—do you know they haven’t even got her in here.

  CONSTANCE: Who?

  ALFRED: ‘Monroe Doctrine … Monroe, James, President of the United States …’ Universal ruddy Treasury.

  CONSTANCE: Well, they can’t have everything. I remember my first ABC book—everything was so simple then. I thought that each letter only stood for the one word they gave, you know? A is for Apple, B is for Baby, C is for Cat … M was for Moon. It was ages before I knew that M was for anything else … like Millie … She was 36, he said, didn’t he?

  ALFRED: Did he? Poor dear … What I meant was that it needn’t have happened. That’s why you can’t call it fate.

  CONSTANCE: It’s all right, I wasn’t thinking.

  ALFRED: It was just that she had no one to recognize her needs, you see. No one to turn to, I mean. No wonder the poor girl got desperate. Those actors—people like that—they’ve got no humanity, no understanding—self, self, it’s such a selfish society. A girl like that, dying with a telephone in her hand—who did she have to call who would have done her any good? No one. Perhaps that’s fate.

  CONSTANCE: Yes, I suppose so.

  ALFRED: Well, let’s go up. I’ll lock up—you have the bathroom first.

  CONSTANCE: I wonder who she was trying to phone, though …

  (Fade out—sound of CONSTANCE getting into bed—or near offer.)

  Oooooh, bed. I feel quite worn out.

  ALFRED: You got up too early again.

  CONSTANCE: I couldn’t drop off once I woke up. It’s getting very tiresome.

  ALFRED: Don’t those pills work?

  CONSTANCE: I suppose they must help. I think I’ll take an extra one tonight.

  ALFRED: Yes, I should.

  CONSTANCE: Oh—Alfred—I forgot my glass of water. Do you mind, while you’re still up.

  ALFRED: Oh, gosh, where is it?

  CONSTANCE: On the wash-stand. (Thinks:) Oh God, if I’d been in her place I would have eaten the bloody meat and gone to confession … Bitch … I shouldn’t have phoned Alfred at the office, though …

  ALFRED: Here you are. Got the pills?

  (Clock chiming half-past ten—ALFRED getting into bed.)

  CONSTANCE: (Thinks:) Half-past ten, August the fifth, nineteen sixty-two. Well—Cheers! (Gulps pill and drink.) Happy anniversary, Millie.

  (Puts glass down.)

  ALFRED: Should I turn the light off?

  CONSTANCE: Yes.

  (Click.)

  (Thinks:) Maple tree, Mozambique … Mandragora …

  Marzipan … Mother … Moon … Melon … Menopause … Mongolia …

  ALFRED: (Thinks:) Marilyn … don’t worry, I’m glad you phoned, … Don’t be unhappy, love, tell me all about it and I’m sure I’ll think of something … Do you feel better already?—Well, it’s nice to have someone you know you can count on any time, isn’t it? … Don’t cry, don’t cry any more … I’ll make it all right … (Up—sigh) Poor old thing …

  CONSTANCE: Oh, you mustn’t worry about me, Alfred, I’ll be all right … (Thinks:) Marshmallow … Mickey Mouse … Marriage … Moravia … Mule … Market … Mumps �
�

  IF YOU’RE GLAD I’LL BE FRANK

  CHARACTERS

  GLADYS

  FRANK

  1ST PORTER

  MYRTLE TRELAWNEY

  MR MORTIMER

  MR COURTENAY-SMITH

  SIR JOHN

  LORD COOT

  BERYL BLIGH

  OPERATOR

  IVY, A BUS CONDUCTRESS

  2ND PORTER

  From her first words it is apparent that GLADYS is the ‘TIM’* girl, and always has been.

  As such, she has two columns to herself.

  The right-hand column is for the Speaking Clock, and as such it is ostensibly continuous. But of course we hear her voice direct, not through a telephone unless otherwise indicated.

  The left-hand column is for her unspoken thoughts, and of course this one has the dominant value.

  It should be obvious in the script when her ‘TIM’ voice is needed in the background as counterpoint, and when it should be drowned altogether by the rising dominance of her thoughts.

  When her ‘TIM’ voice intrudes again I have indicated this not by the actual words she uses, because the actual time she announces should be related to the number of minutes or seconds that have passed (i.e. depending on the pace of the broadcast) but by suggesting the space of time that her speaking voice should take up, and this appears in the script in this form: (3–4 seconds).

  GLADYS operates the pips too, and these are indicated thus: (PIP PIP PIP).

  Some of GLADYS’s sustained passages fall into something half way between prose and verse, and I have gone some way to indicate the rhythms by line-endings, but of course the effect should not be declamatory.

  SCENE 1

  FRANK, who turns out to be a bus driver, is heard dialling ‘TIM’.

  GLADYS (through phone): At the third stroke it will be eight fifty-nine precisely.

  FRANK (amazed disbelief): It can’t be….

  (PIP PIP PIP.)

  … At the third stroke it

  will be eight fifty-nine and

  ten seconds….

  (PIP PIP PIP.)

  (Fearful hope): It’s not…?

  … At the third stroke it