He kisses her cheek awkwardly. Then he sees Sara.
JAMES: Sara (he makes an odd movement of apology), I didn’t mean to be a nuisance. I just thought if Father …
MRS. CALLIFER: Of course you’re not a nuisance. We telegraphed for you.
Anne looks up at this lie.
JAMES: Anne telegraphed for me (nodding at Anne).
MRS. CALLIFER: I told her to, James.
Anne, with a flurry of anger, goes back into the garden.
JAMES: I see.
MRS. CALLIFER: This is Frederick Baston, James. You remember Dr. Baston.
JAMES: It’s so many years … (They shake hands with constraint.) How’s Father?
MRS. CALLIFER: It will be any moment now.
JAMES: Can I see him?
MRS. CALLIFER: Better not—at present. He’s unconscious.
There is a pause. He stands there as though surrounded by strangers as ill-at-ease as himself. Then Sara breaks the circle and goes to his side.
SARA: How are you, James?
JAMES: Oh, well, very well, Sara. And you?
SARA: Oh, I’m well, too.
JOHN: How’s the paper, old man?
JAMES: That’s well. And the bank?
JOHN: Oh—flourishing.
BASTON: How’s the weather up north?
JAMES: It was raining when I left.
A pause.
MRS. CALLIFER: I must go to Henry. (She leaves the room.)
SARA: Well, let’s sit down.
JOHN: If you don’t mind, I want to have a word with Fred—about the ceremony.
John and Baston leave.
JAMES: The ceremony! What a cold word.
SARA: Dr. Baston is reading an oration. (She points to the table.) There it is.
JAMES: My mother didn’t even let me know.
SARA: You heard what she said.
JAMES: It wasn’t true. I had the true story from Anne. I was to be left out. Why? One’s father’s death is usually supposed to be important.
SARA: Perhaps it’s not very important if you believe in nothing afterwards. Or do you? I ought to know. We were married for five years, but it’s the tea you had for breakfast I remember. You liked it strong. Otherwise you said you couldn’t taste it. Does your landlady make good tea?
JAMES: I suppose so. Sara, what’s wrong with me? Why do they keep me away? I wasn’t much of a husband to you, I know, but I wasn’t bad, was I?
SARA: No. You weren’t bad, James. It was just you weren’t interested. You pretended very well and very kindly. Even in bed you pretended. I used to think there was another woman somewhere. Someone like the tea, strong enough for you to taste. You couldn’t taste me. What do you think about when you are alone?
JAMES: Think about?
SARA: I used to imagine you were thinking of someone else. But when you went away—there was nobody. How bored you must have been with me.
JAMES: No, I wasn’t bored. I knew I made you unhappy. There seemed no point in going on. I wish you had married again, Sara. John’s a born widower, but you …
SARA: I took a lover after you went. He didn’t pretend. And then one night I woke and saw him sleeping beside me, content—and I remembered you with your eyes open, thinking of something else, and I didn’t want him any more. I didn’t love him any more.
JAMES: What’s the good of talking importantly about love? It doesn’t last like a book or a tune. It goes out with the breath, and we can always snuff that out, can’t we? We’re not worth loving.
SARA: Then nothing is.
JAMES: And I love nothing.
SARA (bitterly): You do indeed. In the night you’d wake loving Nothing. You went looking for Nothing everywhere. When you came in at night I could see you had been with Nothing all day. I was jealous of Nothing as though it was a woman; and now you sleep with Nothing every night. Oh hell, give me a cigarette.
JAMES: I don’t smoke. (Pause.) Sara, what’s wrong with me?
SARA: You’re not alive. Sometimes I wanted to make you angry or sorry, to hurt you. But you never felt pain. Why did you marry me? (James makes a gesture.) I believe it was curiosity to see if you could feel. You didn’t feel.
JAMES: I thought if I saw my father now, at the end, he’d tell me. Tell me what’s wrong.
SARA: I thought I knew what it was.
JAMES: Yes?
SARA: When your mother heard about the telegram she was afraid.
JAMES: Afraid of what I’d do?
SARA: Afraid of what you are.
JAMES: A middle-aged newspaper man. I go to the office at four and usually get away by one in the morning. I sleep till nine—I mean, I stay in bed. I take the dog for a walk in the park and have a meal with Corner.
SARA: Corner?
JAMES: He shares my lodgings—a reporter on the Globe. My landlady has a penchant for tinned salmon. My dog likes it, but it often makes him sick. He’s not a very good dog—parents unknown.
SARA: You shouldn’t have brought him here. Your mother hates dogs.
JAMES: Yes, I know. I forgot. You see, our acquaintance has not been very continuous.
SARA: Don’t be bitter. She’s very unhappy now.
JAMES: I’m not bitter. I want to know, that’s all. What’s your earliest memory, Sara?
SARA: Driving a pony cart.
JAMES: I can remember nothing. Absolutely nothing. Until I was ill, just before they sent me away to school at fourteen. Lying in bed with a sore throat. A dim light burning, and a nurse—a very kind nurse, bringing me soup. I thought she was an angel—I’d seen a picture of one once, I suppose, in a shop.
SARA: I’d come and live with you at Nottingham if you wanted me.
JAMES: What about the house in Richmond?
SARA: I’d sell it. I only came here because I thought I’d see you. But I didn’t dare to ask why you weren’t here. (A slight pause.) You know, I love you, James.
JAMES: Sara—(He comes behind her and puts his hands over her eyes.) I could always talk to you better in the dark. Sara, I simply don’t know what love is. What is it?
SARA: It’s what I feel now.
JAMES: But if I took my hands away and we saw each other, I’d see—a want. Isn’t there a love that just exists and doesn’t want? My father’s dying. He has nothing to hope for, any more, forever. When he looks at me, don’t you think I might see—just love? No claim, no hope, no want. Whisky taken neat.
SARA: The strong taste.
JAMES: Yes. (He takes away his hands. The noise of feet on the ceiling above.) Listen. Perhaps he’s woken up. I haven’t seen him for fifteen years, Sara. (She puts her head against him.)
SARA: How your heart’s beating!
JAMES: Perhaps he’ll speak.
He moves a little towards the door. Mrs. Callifer’s voice calls from the stairs: “John! Fred!” The noise of quick footsteps, and Mrs. Callifer enters.
MRS. CALLIFER: Where’s Anne?
SARA: In the garden.
MRS. CALLIFER: Please fetch her quickly.
Sara goes out into the garden.
JAMES: Father?
MRS. CALLIFER: Yes.
JAMES: Can I go up?
MRS. CALLIFER: Please wait. The nurse has to let me know.
JAMES: There’s not much time, is there?
MRS. CALLIFER: He mustn’t have a shock—now. (Sara comes in with Anne.) Go upstairs quickly, dear. Both of you. (She steps aside for them and they go out.)
JAMES: I thought we had to wait for the nurse?
MRS. CALLIFER (slowly, bracing herself for the plain truth): James, I don’t want you to see him.
JAMES: But why? I’ve come for that.
MRS. CALLIFER: I didn’t send the telegram.
JAMES: I know. I’m going to see him, though.
He moves towards the open door, but Mrs. Callifer shuts it and stands with her fingers on the handle.
MRS. CALLIFER: I don’t want to be harsh. That’s why I wanted to let you know afterwards. But he’s
got to die in peace.
JAMES: Why should I destroy his peace?
MRS. CALLIFER (pleadingly): I love him, James. I want so much to see the last of him. Promise me you won’t move from here.
JAMES: No! (He shakes his head.)
MRS. CALLIFER: Then I stay. (She leans wearily against the door.)
JAMES: Mother, if you love me—
MRS. CALLIFER: I love him more.
JAMES: Give me one reason. (She doesn’t answer, but she is crying.) All right. You’ve won, Mother. I promise not to come.
As she goes through the door, the curtain begins slowly to fall on him alone, facing the door. He raises his head a little as though trying to hear the sounds overhead.
CURTAIN
Act One
SCENE TWO
Late evening, two days later.
Baston, John, and James are drinking whisky in a group round a table on which a number of manuscripts and books are piled. John is going through them. Sara and Anne sit on the other side of the room, reading, but in Anne’s case the reading is an excuse for sitting up and listening.
JOHN: Look at this. Strange the things he kept—an invitation to a college dinner in 1910. (He drops it into a wastepaper basket.) Do you know what all these books are? Old visitors’ books.
JAMES (ironically): Perhaps he thought the signatures might become valuable.
JOHN (taking him seriously): I hadn’t thought of that. Wells came several times. And here is Bertrand Russell for lunch. Do you think I ought to keep them?
JAMES: No. (He takes one at random and opens it.) Ah, here is Dr. Baston’s autograph.
BASTON: You’ll find me on a lot of pages, I’m afraid.
JAMES: August third to eighth, 1919. Do you remember that visit?
BASTON: As a matter of fact, I do. The first summer after the war. It was beautiful weather. We played cricket in the Long Meadow. You children too.
JAMES: I don’t remember. (But he is trying hard.)
BASTON: It was before they built the dye factory. You could understand then why the house was called Wild Grove. There was a wood of beech and wild-nut trees where the housing development is. I remember I hit a six into the River Wandle.
JAMES: I must have been nearly eight that summer. (He sits with the book on his knees, thinking.)
John discards more papers into the wastepaper basket.
SARA (closing her book): I think I’ll go to bed. Are you coming, Anne?
ANNE: No, I want to finish the chapter.
SARA: It’s long past your bedtime.
BASTON: It was so hot we all played in bathing drawers. What happy times those were!
ANNE: I won’t be long, Aunt Sara.
SARA (pauses by the men as she goes out): I thought your oration was spoken very well, Dr. Baston.
BASTON: Thank you, my dear.
SARA: Are you really going tomorrow, James?
JAMES: Yes, I have to.
SARA: I’ll see you in the morning?
JAMES: I’m leaving very early.
SARA: I’ll get up. (She touches his hair with her hand.) Good night, dear.
JAMES: Good night, Sara. (He stares down at the visitors’ book without looking up. She goes slowly out.)
BASTON: I thought of that game this afternoon. We were in the same field. You children called your father the demon bowler. He bowled underarm, but very fast.
JOHN: Yes, I remember. With a tennis ball!
JAMES (after a pause): I don’t remember.
JOHN: Poor Father! Here are the expenses of a holiday in France in 1910. Bottle of red wine, one franc fifty centimes. Filed for future reference.
JAMES (opening another of the books): Nineteen twenty-five—that was the year I was ill, the year I went away to school. Who’s William Callifer?
BASTON: Don’t you even remember your own uncle?
JAMES: No. Didn’t he get a telegram either—or is he dead?
Anne looks sharply up.
JOHN: Father never had much to do with him.
JAMES (turning the pages): He was here for three days that autumn.
BASTON: It was the last time. He behaved rather badly.
JOHN: It was bad enough to have a convert in the family—but when he became a priest …
JAMES: I’m glad I’m not the only pariah among the Callifers. (He puts the book down.)
JOHN: Bertrand Russell again. I hope he was worth his meal ticket.
Anne closes her book and comes over.
BASTON: How are the vows, Anne?
ANNE (she pointedly ignores so silly a question): Uncle James, if I put out some water in the hall, will you take it to the potting shed?
JAMES (uneasy): The potting shed?
ANNE: To your dog, stupid.
JAMES: Couldn’t you do it for me? You’ve been looking after him.
ANNE: I think Spot would prefer you, after what happened this afternoon. If I go now, he’ll think he’s still in disgrace. Granny was so angry.
JAMES: But I don’t where it is, Anne.
ANNE: You’ve seen me going there often enough. Down the path by the laurels. You can’t miss it. Good night, Daddy. (She kisses her father.) Good night, Dr. Baston (stiffly).
BASTON: Good night, Anne. (Sententiously): It’s a good thing when a sad day ends.
ANNE: Oh, it wasn’t all sad, was it? I thought it was awfully funny when Spot came bounding along looking for Uncle James, and you dropped the ashes.
BASTON: It wasn’t very nice for your grandmother. It spoiled the ceremony.
ANNE: You were just saying, “I now consign to the river …” You could have altered it quickly and said, “I now consign to Long Meadow.”
JOHN: Do go to bed, Anne.
ANNE (pausing at the door): You won’t forget the water, Uncle James?
He shakes his head. Anne leaves.
BASTON: How heartless children are.
JOHN: Oh, I don’t think she meant it that way. She was being practical, that’s all. Her mother was the same. Help yourselves to whisky.
BASTON: Thanks. It was unfortunate you brought that dog.
JAMES: I know. I forgot. (They help themselves.) Was Mother asleep when you went upstairs?
JOHN: She seemed to be.
JAMES: You’ll say good-bye for me, won’t you? Say I’m sorry I butted in.
BASTON: You exaggerate.
JAMES: Do I? (A pause while he looks at the visitors’ book again.) Fancy a Callifer being a priest.
BASTON: As a priest he hasn’t been exactly a success.
JAMES: People believe, don’t they, some of them, that the spirits of the dead will pass over a glass of wine, rippling the surface? (He regards his whisky.) Will whisky do? Can you invoke the dead with whisky?
JOHN: What nonsense you talk, James.
BASTON (dryly): It’s the method your uncle is said to use.
JAMES: You mean he drinks?
BASTON: Inordinately.
JAMES: How unlike a Callifer. Well, I’m going to bed.
BASTON: Don’t forget the dog.
JAMES: Oh, the dog. (Something disturbs him.) Surely he can do without water just tonight. (He goes to the garden window and looks out at the dark.) He’s asleep. And it’s late. It will do in the morning.
JOHN: So long as he doesn’t wake Mother with his howling.
JAMES: Couldn’t you do it, John? It’s very dark outside. You know the way.
JOHN: And be bitten at the end of it? Look after your own dog, James.
JAMES: I’ve forgotten where the potting shed is.
JOHN: Anne told you. Down the laurel walk. You can’t miss it. And there’s a flashlight on the hall table.
A distant howl.
BASTON: Listen. He is howling.
JOHN: You’d better let him out and keep him in your room. (Another howl.) Oh, for God’s sake, James, do something. He’ll keep everybody awake. (James goes unwillingly out to the hall. A door closes.) He hasn’t changed. Always difficult. Do you think I
ought to look through all these books, Fred?
BASTON: I wouldn’t bother. They wouldn’t fetch much.
JOHN: We did have some distinguished visitors. How do you pronounce C-Z-E-C-H-W-Y-I-C-Z?
BASTON: Oh, that was the Polish delegation. A disappointing lot. Very unsound on evolution.
Mrs. Callifer enters. She is in her dressing-gown.
MRS. CALUFER: I didn’t mean to interrupt. …
JOHN: Can’t you sleep, Mother?
MRS. CALLIFER: I did, for a little. Has James gone to bed?
JOHN: Yes. And we are just going. (He drops the books into the basket.) Try to sleep.
MRS. CALUFER: A book will help. (Sadly): You’ve done a lot of tidying already, John. You and Fred have been very helpful. (She goes over to the bookcase and picks almost at random.) Well, this ought to send me to sleep. Oh, I’m sorry, it’s one of yours, Fred. (She opens it and reads the dedication.) “To Henry Callifer, a great leader and a great friend.” Strange, that doesn’t sound true any longer.
BASTON: I don’t follow you.
MRS. CALLIFER: How could you, Fred? But for nearly fifty years I’ve looked after his laundry. I’ve seen to his household. I’ve paid attention to his—allergies. He wasn’t a leader. I can see that now. He was someone I protected. And now I’m unemployed. Please go to bed both of you, and leave me alone.
JOHN (standing up): You have your family, Mother.
MRS. CALLIFER: You don’t need protection, John. You’re like me, a professional protector. It wasn’t what I intended to be. But men either form us with their strength, or they form us with their weakness. They never let us be.
BASTON: Mary, you mustn’t—
MRS. CALLIFER: Poor James had to suffer. We did him a great wrong, Henry and I. Why shouldn’t he know—as much as we know?
BASTON: It would be a mistake. After all these years. And what do we know?
MRS. CALLIFER (ignoring him): I don’t want your empty spaces, Fred. I don’t want anything except Henry. Henry alive. Somehow. Somewhere.
BASTON (with a gesture of comfort): Mary—
MRS. CALLIFER: I’ve often talked so harshly of him to you, and yet I loved him.
The Potting Shed Page 2