Tom Stoppard Plays 2 Page 5

  DAD: I’m not your dad. Keep off the wet—work down the slope to the middle—and watch your feet.

  (Everyone climbing down, the distance between them closing.) Going down for good, oh yes, I’m not facing that again. Ten coats I’ve done, end to end, and now I’m done all right. I had ambitions, you know….

  CHARLIE (nearer): Mind my head, Dad.

  DAD: Watch my feet, Charlie—comin’ down——

  CHARLIE: I’ll watch your feet—you mind my head. Watch your head, Bob——

  BOB (nearer): Watch your feet, Charlie——

  CHARLIE: Mind my feet, Bob—watch my head, Dad….

  DAD: I’m not your dad, and mind my feet—that’s my head, Albert.

  ALBERT: Comin’ down…. Doesn’t she look beautiful?

  DAD: Looks the same as always. There’s no progress. Twenty years, twenty thousand pots of paint … yes, I had plans.

  CHARLIE: I thought we’d never see the end of it.

  BOB: It’s not the bleeding end.

  CHARLIE: There’s no end to it.

  DAD: Ten coats non-stop, one after the other, and it’s no improvement, no change even, just holding its own against the weather—that’s a long time, that’s a lot of paint. I could have made my mark.

  ALBERT: Continuity—that’s hard to come by.

  DAD: I’ve spread my life over those girders, and in five minutes I could scrape down to the iron, I could scratch down to my prime.

  ALBERT: Simplicity—so … contained; neat; your bargain with the world, your wages, your time, your energy, your property, everything you took out and everything you put in, the bargain that has carried you this far—all contained there in ten layers of paint, accounted for. Now that’s something; to keep track of everything you put into the kitty, to have it lie there, under your eye, fixed and immediate—there are no consequences to a coat of paint. That’s more than you can say for a factory man; his bits and pieces scatter, grow wheels, disintegrate, change colour, join up in new forms, which he doesn’t know anything about. In short, he doesn’t know what he’s done, to whom.

  DAD: Watch your feet, Albert. Mind your head, Charlie.

  CHARLIE: You mind my head. Take care my feet, Bob——

  BOB: Watch your feet, Charlie——

  CHARLIE: Mind your feet, Dad——

  DAD: That’s my head, Albert——

  ALBERT: Coming down….

  Ah, look at it up there criss-crossed and infinite, you can’t see where it ends—I could take off and swing through its branches screaming like a gibbon!

  DAD: Mind where you’re putting your feet, Albert.

  CHARLIE: Watch my head, Dad.

  BOB: Train coming, Charlie.

  (Distant train coming.)

  CHARLIE: I’ve seen it.

  BOB (jumping down on to gravel): And down.

  CHARLIE: Mind where you jump, Dad.

  DAD: Seen it.

  CHARLIE (jumping down): None too soon.

  DAD: Train coming, Albert.

  ALBERT: I’m with you.

  DAD (jumps down): Finished.

  CHARLIE: Like hell.

  BOB: Well, that’s another two years behind you.

  DAD: A feller once offered me a half share in a very nice trading station in the China Seas. I had it in me.

  ALBERT: Mind your toes.

  (He jumps. Climbing down ends. All are now on mike.)

  Now that’s a good way to end a day—ending so much else.

  CHARLIE: All right for some. Students.

  BOB: Slummers.

  CHARLIE: Pocket-money holiday lads, oh yes.

  ALBERT: One bridge—freshly painted—a million tons of iron thrown across the bay—rust brown and even to the last lick—spick and span, rust-proofed, weather-resistant—perfect!

  DAD: Other end needs painting now. A man could go mad.

  (The train arrives and goes screaming past.)

  (Set CHAIRMAN over end of train, cutting bridge.)

  CHAIRMAN: Let us not forget, gentlemen, that Clufton Bay Bridge is the fourth biggest single-span double-track shore-to-shore railway bridge in the world bar none——

  DAVE: Hear, hear, Mr. Chairman——

  CHAIRMAN: Thank you, Dave—

  GEORGE: I’ve been studying these figures, Mr. Chairman–

  CHAIRMAN: Just a moment, George. We’ve got an amenity here in Clufton, that bridge stands for the whole town, quite apart from the money earned in railway dues——

  DAVE: Hear, hear, Mr. Chairman——

  CHAIRMAN: Thank you, Dave.

  GEORGE: According to the City Engineer’s figures, Mr. Chairman——

  CHAIRMAN: Just a moment, George. When my grandfather built this bridge he didn’t spare the brass—and I for one, as chairman of the Clufton Bay Bridge Sub-Committee—entrusted as we are with the upkeep and responsibility of what is a symbol of Clufton’s prosperity—I for one do not begrudge the spending of a few extra quid on a lick of paint.

  DAVE: Hear, hear, Mr. Chairman.

  CHAIRMAN: Thank you, Dave.

  GEORGE: I know it’s a symbol of your prosperity, Mr. Chairman, but——

  CHAIRMAN: That’s a highly improper remark, George. Clufton’s prosperity is what I said.

  DAVE: Hear, hear, Mr. Chairman.

  CHAIRMAN: Thank you, Dave.

  GEORGE: My mistake, Mr. Chairman—but if Mr. Fitch’s figures are correct——

  FITCH (distinctive voice; clipped, confident; rimless spectacles): My figures are always correct, Mr. Chairman.

  CHAIRMAN: Hear that, George? The City Engineer’s figures are a model of correctitude.

  DAVE: Hear, hear, Mr. Chairman.

  CHAIRMAN: Thank you, Dave.

  GEORGE: Then this new paint he’s recommending is going to cost us four times as much as the paint we’ve been using up to now.

  (Pause.)

  CHAIRMAN: Four times as much? Money?

  DAVE: Hear, hear, Mr. Chairman.

  CHAIRMAN: Just a moment, Dave. I don’t think your figures are correct, George. Mr. Fitch knows his business.

  GEORGE: What business is he in—paint?

  CHAIRMAN: That’s a highly improper remark, George—er, you’re not in the paint business, are you, Mr. Fitch?

  FITCH: No, Mr. Chairman.

  CHAIRMAN: No, no, of course you’re not. You should be ashamed, George.

  DAVE: Hear, hear, Mr. Chairman.

  CHAIRMAN: Shut up, Dave. Now what about it, Mr. Fitch—is this right what George says?

  FITCH: Well, up to a point, Mr. Chairman, yes. But in the long run, no.

  CHAIRMAN: Don’t fiddle-faddle with me, Fitch. Does this new-fangled paint of yours cost four times as much as the paint we’ve got, and if so, what’s in it for you?

  GEORGE: Hear, hear, Mr. Chairman.

  CHAIRMAN: Thank you, George.

  FITCH: To put the matter at its simplest, Mr. Chairman, the new paint costs four times as much and lasts four times as long.

  CHAIRMAN: Well, there’s your answer, George. It costs four times as much but it lasts four times as long. Very neat, Fitch—I thought we’d got you there.

  GEORGE: What’s the point, then?

  FITCH: Apart from its silvery colour, Mr. Chairman, which would be a pleasanter effect than the present rusty brown, the new paint would also afford a considerable saving, as you can no doubt see.

  CHAIRMAN: Everybody see that? Well, I don’t.

  GEORGE: Nor do I.

  DAVE: Hear, hear, George.

  GEORGE: Shut up, Dave.

  FITCH: If I might explain, gentlemen. As you know, in common with other great bridges of its kind, the painting of Clufton Bay Bridge is a continuous operation. That is to say, by the time the painters have reached the far end, the end they started at needs painting again.

  DAVE: I never knew that!

  CHAIRMAN AND GEORGE: Shut up, Dave.

  FITCH: This cycle is not a fortuitous one. It is contrived by relating the area of the surfaces
to be painted—call it A—to the rate of the painting—B—and the durability of the paint—C. The resultant equation determines the variable factor X—i.e. the number of painters required to paint surfaces A at speed B within time C. For example——

  CHAIRMAN: E.g.

  FITCH: Quite. Er, e.g. with X plus one painters the work would proceed at a higher rate—-i.e. B, plus, e.g. Q. However, the factors A and C, the surface area and the lasting quality of the paint remain, of course, constant. The result would be that the painters would be ready to begin painting the bridge for the second time strictly speaking before it needed re-painting. This creates the co-efficient—Waste.

  CHAIRMAN: W.

  FITCH: If you like. This co-efficient belies efficiency, you see.

  CHAIRMAN: U.C. You see, George?

  GEORGE: OK, I see.

  FITCH: To continue. Furthermore, the value of the co-efficient—Waste—is progressive. Let me put it like this, gentlemen. Because the rate of painting is constant, i.e. too fast to allow the paintwork to deteriorate, each bit the men come to requires re-painting even less than the bit before it. You see, they are all the time catching up on themselves progressively, until there’ll come a point where they’ll be re-painting the bridge while it’s still wet! (Pause.) No that can’t be right….

  CHAIRMAN: Come to the point Fitch. Wake up, Dave.

  DAVE (waking up): Hear, hear, Mr. Chairman.

  FITCH: To put it another way, gentlemen, that is to say, conversely. With one too few painters—X minus one—the rate of progress goes down to let us say, B minus Q. So what is the result? By the time the painters are ready to start re-painting, the end they started at has deteriorated into unsightly and damaged rust—a co-efficient representing the converse inefficiency.

  CHAIRMAN: Pull yourself together, Fitch—I don’t know what you’re drivellin’ about.

  GEORGE: In a nutshell, Fitch—the new paint costs four times as much and lasts four times as long. Where’s the money saved?

  FITCH: We sack three painters.

  (Pause.)

  CHAIRMAN: Ah….

  FITCH: You see, to date we have achieved your optimum efficiency by employing four men. It takes them two years to paint the bridge, which is the length of time the paint lasts. This new paint will last eight years, so we only need one painter to paint the bridge by himself. After eight years, the end he started at will be just ready for re-painting. The saving to the ratepayers would be £3,529 15s. 9d. per annum.

  GEORGE: Excuse me, Mr. Chairman——

  CHAIRMAN: Just a moment, George. I congratulate you, Mr. Fitch. An inspired stroke. We’ll put it up to the meeting of the full council.

  GEORGE: Excuse me——

  CHAIRMAN: Shut up, George.

  DAVE: Hear, hear, Mr. Chairman.

  FITCH: Thank you, Mr. Chairman.

  CHAIRMAN: Thank you, Mr. Fitch.

  (Fade.)

  MOTHER: Aren’t you getting up, Albert? It’s gone eleven…. Are you listening to me, Albert?

  ALBERT (in bed): What?

  MOTHER: I’m talking to you, Albert.

  ALBERT: Yes?

  MOTHER: Yes-what?

  ALBERT: Yes, Mother.

  MOTHER: That’s better. Oh dear, what was I saying?

  ALBERT: I don’t know, Mother.

  MOTHER (sighs): I was against that university from the start.

  ALBERT: The country needs universities.

  MOTHER: I mean it’s changed you, Albert. You’re thinking all the time. It’s not like you, Albert.

  ALBERT: Thinking?

  MOTHER: You don’t talk to me. Or your father. Well, I’m glad it’s all behind you, I hope it starts to wear off.

  ALBERT: I wanted to stay on after my degree, but they wouldn’t have me.

  MOTHER: I don’t know what you want to know about philosophy for. Your father didn’t have to study philosophy, and look where he is, Chairman of Metal Alloys and Allied Metals. It’s not as if you were going to be a philosopher or something…. Yes, you could have been a trainee executive by now. As it is you’ll have to do your stint on the factory floor, philosophy or no philosophy. That university has held you back.

  ALBERT: I’ll have to get myself articled to a philosopher…. Start at the bottom. Of course, a philosopher’s clerk wouldn’t get the really interesting work straight off, I know that. It’ll be a matter of filing the generalizations, tidying up paradoxes, laying out the premises before the boss gets in—that kind of thing; but after I’ve learned the ropes I might get a half share in a dialectic, perhaps, and work up towards a treatise…. Yes, I could have my own thriving little philosopher’s office in a few years.

  (Pause.)

  MOTHER: Would you like to have some coffee downstairs?

  ALBERT: Yes.

  MOTHER: Yes-what?

  ALBERT: Yes please.

  (Pause.)

  MOTHER: I still think it was mean of you not to let us know you had a summer vacation.

  ALBERT: I thought you knew. I’ve had one every year.

  MOTHER: You know I’ve no head for dates. You could have come home to see us.

  ALBERT: I’m sorry—there was this temporary job going….

  MOTHER: Your father would have given you some money if you’d asked him.

  ALBERT: I thought I’d have a go myself.

  MOTHER: You’ll have to get up now.

  ALBERT: It was fantastic up there. The scale of it. From the ground it looks just like a cat’s cradle, from a distance you can take it all in, and then up there in the middle of it the thinnest threads are as thick as your body and you could play tennis on the main girders.

  MOTHER: Kate will be up in a minute to make the beds.

  ALBERT: It’s absurd, really, being up there, looking down on the university lying under you like a couple of bricks, full of dots studying philosophy——

  MOTHER: I don’t want you getting in Kate’s way—she’s got to clean.

  ALBERT: What could they possibly know? I saw more up there in three weeks than those dots did in three years. I saw the context. It reduced philosophy and everything else. I got a perspective. Because that bridge was—separate—complete—removed, defined by principles of engineering which makes it stop at a certain point, which compels a certain shape, certain joints—the whole thing utterly fixed by the rules that make it stay up. It’s complete, and a man can give his life to its maintenance, a very fine bargain.

  MOTHER: Do you love me, Albert?

  ALBERT: Yes.

  MOTHER: Yes-what?

  ALBERT: Yes please.

  (Cut to a gavel banged on table.)

  MAYORAL VOICE: Number 43 on the order paper, proposal from Bridge sub-committee….

  VOICE1: Move….

  VOICE2: Second.

  MAYORAL VOICE: All in favour.

  (Absent-minded murmur of fifty ‘Ayes’.)

  Against. (Pause.) Carried. Number 44 on the order paper.

  (Fade.)

  (Fade up knock on door off. Door opens.)

  KATE: Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Albert.

  ALBERT: Hello, I was just thinking of getting up.

  (Cut to.)

  BOB: What—by myself? It would take years.

  FITCH: Eight years, yes.

  BOB: No. I demand a transfer.

  FITCH: I thought I’d give you first refusal.

  BOB: I want to go back to painting the Corporation crest on the dustcarts.

  FITCH: I could fit you in on the magenta.

  BOB: On the what?

  FITCH: It’s one man to a colour nowadays. Efficiency.

  (Cut.)

  CHARLIE: You must be joking.

  FITCH: It’s an opportunity for you.

  CHARLIE: I’d go mad. What’s it all about?

  FITCH: Efficiency.

  CHARLIE: I’m not doing that bridge on me tod.

  FITCH: It’s no more work than before.

  CHARLIE: I’d jump off within a month.

  FITCH: Oh. Well,
we couldn’t have that. That would be only one ninety-sixth of it done.

  (Cut.)

  DAD: You mean it’s a cheaper way of doing it.

  FITCH: More efficient.

  DAD: We’ve been doing a good job.

  FITCH: Efficiency isn’t a matter of good and bad, entirely. It’s a matter of the optimum use of resources—time, money, manpower.

  DAD: You mean it’s cheaper. I’m an old man.

  FITCH: You’ve got eight years in you.

  DAD: It might be my last eight. I haven’t done anything yet—I’ve got a future.

  FITCH: Well, I could put you on yellow no-parking lines.

  DAD: Yes, all right.

  (Cut.)

  FITCH: … But do you have any qualifications?

  ALBERT: I’ve got a degree in philosophy, Mr. Fitch.

  FITCH: That’s a little unusual.

  ALBERT: I wouldn’t say that. There were lots of us doing it.

  FITCH: That’s all very well if you’re going to be a philosopher, but what we’re talking about is painting bridges.

  ALBERT: Yes, yes, I can see what you’re driving at, of course, but I don’t suppose it did me any harm. Almost everyone who didn’t know what to do, did philosophy. Well, that’s logical.

  FITCH: You’re an educated man.

  ALBERT: Thank you.

  FITCH: What I mean is, you’re not the run-of-the-mill bridge painter, not the raw material I’m looking for.

  ALBERT: Well, I did it in the vacation.

  FITCH: Yes … yes, I did have reports of you. But surely….

  ALBERT: I know what you mean, but that’s what I want to do. I liked it. I don’t want to work in a factory or an office.

  FITCH: Is it the open air life that attracts you?

  ALBERT: No. It’s the work, the whole thing—crawling round that great basket, so high up, being responsible for so much that is visible. Actually I don’t know if that’s why I like it. I like it because I was happy up there, doing something simple but so grand, without end. It doesn’t get away from you.

  FITCH: The intellectual rather than the practical—that’s it, is it?