The Real Inspector Hound and Other Plays
Page 10
MCTEAZLE: You go then. No, I’ll go. I’ll tell you what, Miss Gotobed, why don’t you come with me, I’ll show you round the lavatories, round the House, show you the Chamber, the lavatories——
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: She doesn’t want to go trudging round the House inspecting the toilets like a deputation from the Water Board. Let the poor girl alone—she didn’t get a wink of sleep all night. (He ushers MCTEAZLE out and closes the door. He turns and addresses MADDIE immediately. In the following speech the italicized words coincide with MCTEAZLE’s brief re-appearance to take his bowler hat off the hatstand.) Maddie my dear, you look even more ravishing this morning than the smallest specified number of members of that committee of which we will have to be very very careful—it is a cruel irony that our carefree little friendship, which is as innocent and pure as the first driven snowdrop of spring, is in danger of being trampled by the hobnailed hue-and-cry over these absurd rumours of unbuttoned behaviour in and out of both trousers of Parliament—I think I can say, and say with confidence, that when the smoke has cleared from the Augean stables, the little flame of our love will still be something no one else can hold a candle to so long as we can keep our heads down. In other words, my darling girl, if anyone were to ask you where you had lunch on Friday, breakfast on Saturday or dinner on Sunday, best thing is to forget Crockford’s, Claridges and the Coq d’Or.
MADDIE (concentrating): Crockford’s—Claridges—the Coq d’Or.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Forget—forget.
MADDIE: Forget. Forget Crockford’s, Claridges, Coq d’Or. Forget Crockford’s, Claridges, Coq d’Or. (To herself.) Forget Crockford’s, Claridges, Coq d’Or. Forget Crockford’s, Claridges, Coq d’Or. (COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE sees that this is achieving the opposite.)
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: All right—tell you what—say you had breakfast at Claridges, lunch at the Coq d’Or, and had dinner at Crockford’s. Meanwhile I’ll stick to——
MADDIE (concentrating harder than ever): Claridges, Coq d’Or, Crockford’s. Forget Crockford’s, Claridges, Coq d’Or. Remember Claridges, Coq d’Or, Crockford’s. Remember Claridges, Coq d’Or, Crockford’s. Claridges, Coq d’Or, Crockford’s, Claridges, Coq d’Or, Crockford’s.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: But not with me.
MADDIE: Not with you. Not with Cockie at Claridges, Coq d’Or, Crockford’s. Never at Claridges, Coq d’Or, Crockford’s with Cockie. Never at Claridges, Coq d’Or, Crockford’s with Cockie. (Her concentration doesn’t imply slowness: she is fast, eager, breathless, very good at tongue twisters. Her whole attitude in the play is one of innocent, eager willingness to please.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE sees that he is going about this the wrong way.)
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Wait a minute. (Rapidly.) The best thing is forget Claridges, Crockford’s and the Coq d’Or altogether.
MADDIE: Right. Forget Claridges, Crockford’s, Coq d’Or—forget Claridges, Crockford’s, Coq d’Or——
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: And if anyone asks you where you had lunch on Friday, breakfast on Saturday and dinner last night, when you were with me, tell them where you had dinner on Friday, lunch on Saturday and breakfast yesterday.
MADDIE: Right! (Pause. She closes her eyes with concentration.) (Rapidly.) The Green Cockatoo, the Crooked Clock, the Crock of Gold—and Box Hill.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Box Hill?
MADDIE: To see the moon come up—forget Crockford’s, Claridges, Coq d’Or—remember the Crock of Gold, Box Hill, the Crooked Clock and the Green Door——
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Cockatoo——
MADDIE: Cockatoo. Crock of Gold, Crooked Clock, Green Cockatoo and Box Hill. When was this?
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: When you were really with me.
MADDIE: Right. With Cockie at the Green Cockatoo—
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: No not with Cockie at the Green Cockatoo.
MADDIE:—not with Cockie at the Green Cockatoo, the Old Cook, the Crooked Grin, Gamages and Box Hill.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE (wildly): No—look. The simplest thing is to forget, Claridges, the Old Boot, the Golden quorum can be any number agreed upon by (This is because MCTEAZLE is back.)
MCTEAZLE: Douglas is on his way back. (Hanging up his hat.)
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: I’ve got to have a drink. (He leaves, forgetting his bowler hat, as MCTEAZLE closes the door, MCTEAZLE starts speaking at once. The italicized words correspond to COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE’s momentary reappearances, in the first case to take a bowler hat off the hatstand and in the second case to change hats because he has taken out MCTEAZLE’s hat the first time.)
MCTEAZLE: Maddiening the way one is kept waiting for ours is a very tricky position, my dear. In normal times one can count on chaps being quite sympathetic to the sight of a Member of Parliament having dinner with a lovely young woman in some out-of-the-way nook—it could be a case of constituency business, they’re not necessarily screw-oo-ooge is, I think you’ll find, not in ‘David Copperfield’ at all, still less in ‘The Old Curiosity Sho’-eking though it is, the sight of a Member of Parliament having some out-of-the-way nookie with a lovely young woman might well be a case of a genuine love match destined to take root and pass through ever more respectable stages—the first shy tentative dinner party in a basement flat in Pembridge Crescent for a few trusted friends—Caxton Hall—and a real friendship with the stepchildren—people are normally inclined to give one the benefit of the doubt. But the tragedy is, as our luck would have it, that our gemlike love which burns so true and pure and has brought such a golden light into our lives, could well become confused with a network of grubby affairs between men who should know better and some bit of fluff from the filing department—so I suggest, my darling, if any one were to enquire where you may or may not have spent Friday night or indeed Saturday lunch time or Sunday tea time, forget Charing Cross, the Coq d’Or and the Golden Ox.
MADDIE: Charing Cross, Coq d’Or, Golden Ox. Charing Cross, Coq d’Or, Golden Ox. Charing Cross, Old Door, and the Golden Cock——
MCTEAZLE:—Ox——
MADDIE: Ox.
MCTEAZLE: The Coq d’Or and the Golden Ox. Not the Golden Cock and the Old Door.
MADDIE: Not the Golden Cock and the Old Door but the Golden Ox and the Coq d’Or.
MCTEAZLE: And don’t forget: Charing Cross.
MADDIE: Don’t forget Charing Cross.
MCTBAZLB: I mean forget Charing Cross.
MADDIE: Forget Charing Cross——
MCTEAZLE: Plucky girl——
MADDIE: Plucky girl—Charing Cross—Olden cocks.
MCTEAZLE: But not with me.
MADDIE: Not with Jock at the Old Cock——
MCTEAZLE: Door. (This is because the door has opened.)
MADDIE: Old Coq d’Or—not with Jock. (CHAMBERLAIN has entered.)
MCTEAZLE (hurriedly): Hello, Douglas.
(CHAMBERLAIN is repellently full of zest and heartiness. He also carries an armful of papers which he dumps on the table. He treats MADDIE with open, crude lechery.)
CHAMBERLAIN: Hello!
MCTEAZLE: This is Mr. Chamberlain. Miss Gotobed is going to be our clerk. (CHAMBERLAIN advances on MADDIE who backs off behind her desk and starts opening drawers to look busy.)
CHAMBERLAIN: What?!—that luscious creature is our clerk! Impossible! Where’s her moustache? Her dandruff? Her striped pants? (MADDIE reflexively slams shut her hacker drawer.) What an uncommonly comely clerk you are! My name’s Douglas. I hope you don’t mind me saying that you’re a lovely girl—I don’t mind telling you that if I wasn’t married to a wonderful girl myself with two fine youngsters down in Dorking and an au pair to complicate my life, I’d be after you and no mistake, (During the rest of this speech, MADDIE pushes past CHAMBERLAIN, goes over to her coat and takes a copy of the Sun from her pocket. She returns towards her desk.) my goodness yes, it would be private coaching in a little French restaurant somewhere, a few hints on parliamentary procedure over the boeuf bourgignon, and then off in the Volvo while I mutter sweet definitions in
your ear and test your elastic with the moon coming up over Box Hill. (As MADDIE passes the steps, he gooses her so thoroughly that she goes straight up them, still holding the Sun. CHAMBERLAIN slaps a sheet of paper on her desk.) Have you an order of business? (He turns aside.) Well, well, here we are without a quorum and I thought I was going to be late. (To MADDIB.) You’ll know, of course, that a quorum is a specified number of members of a committee whose presence—God bless them—is necessary for the valid transaction of business by that committee—got it? Good. (CHAMBERLAIN opens the Daily Mirror to the pin-up page. MCTEAZLE helps MADDIE down the steps; her skirt comes away in his hand.) Strewth! (After the freeze MCTEAZLE tries to shove the skirt at MADDIE who has sat down primly behind her desk, but
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE enters so
MCTEAZLE sits on the skirt.)
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: DO we have a quorum?
CHAMBERLAIN: Hello, Cocklebury-Smythe.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: SO glad you could come, Chamberlain. You know Miss Gotobed?
CHAMBERLAIN (over-reacts): No.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Mr. Chamberlain—Miss Gotobed.
CHAMBERLAIN: I meant I didn’t know her.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Of course you don’t know her. All we need now is our Chairman. I wish he’d get his clogs on. (The door opens and
WITHENSHAW, the Chairman, enters. He is a Lancastrian. He also carries newspapers and a brief case.)
WITHENSHAW: There’s trouble in t’Mail.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Mill.
WITHENSHAW: Mail. (He throws the papers and his brief case on to the table.)
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Oh yes.
WITHENSHAW (at MADDIE): And who have we got here?
MADDIE: I’m the clerk. Miss Gotobed.
WITHENSHAW: And I’m Malcolm Withyou! (He laughs uproariously.) Malcolm Withyou!—’ee you’ve got to be quick—Malcolm Withenshaw, Chairman of Select Committee on Promiscuity in High Places. Have you got an order of business? (He snatches Chamberlain’s piece of paper off her desk.) ‘Forget Golden Goose, Selfridges——’ (MADDIE snatches the paper out of his hand and hands him in the same movement a sealed envelope from her bag.)
MADDIE: This is for you.
WITHENSHAW (generally): Before I saw bloody paper I was going to congratulate you all on a clean bill of health. You can’t have a committee washing dirty linen in the corridors of power unless every member is above suspicion. (On which he produces from the envelope a large pair of Y-front pants which he immediately shoves back into the envelope.) The wheres and Y-fronts, the whys and wherefores of this Committee are clear to you all. Our presence here today is testimony to. the trust the House has in us as individuals and that includes you Maddiemoiselle. (To MADDIE.) Though you have been completely unaware of it your private life has been under intense scrutiny by top man in Security Service, a man so senior that I can’t even tell you his name——
MADDIE: Fanshawe.
WITHENSHAW: Fanshawe—and you passed test. (He has been looking around for a place to put his pants, and decides on MADDIE’s desk drawer.) Indeed the fact that you’ve jumped over heads of many senior clerks indicates that you passed with flying knickers. (This slip of the tongue is because he has discovered the knickers in the drawer; he drops them back and slams the drawer.) So it is all the more unfortunate to find stuff in the press like following: Thank you Cockie. (COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE reads from the Daily Mail.)
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: ‘On the day the Select Committee on Moral Standards in Public Life is due to reconvene I ask—was it wise for one of the members to be seen holding hands under the table with a staggeringly voluptuous, titian-haired green eyed beauty in a West End restaurant at the weekend? And if so, was it modest to choose the Coq d’Or?’ (Meanwhile, WITHENSHAW has finished scribbling a note.)
WITHENSHAW: Right. Bloody smart alec. Still, least said soonest mended. (He tosses the note, which is on white paper the size of an old-fashioned £5 note, on to MADDIE’S desk.) Now then, I think you have received prior copies of my draft report, and we’ll go through it paragraph by paragraph in the usual way——
MCTEAZLE: Excuse me. Are we now in session?
WITHENSHAW: What’s quorum Miss Gotobed?
MADDIE: Is it a specified number of——
CHAMBERLAIN (hurriedly): Four, Mr. Chairman.
WITHENSHAW: Then we’ll kick off. Get your pencil out, lass.
MADDIE: DO I have to write down what you say?
WITHENSHAW: I can see you know your way around these committees, Miss Gotobed. You do speedwriting I suppose?
MADDIE: Yes, if I’m given enough time.
WITHENSHAW: That’s all right. You just tell us if we’re going too fast. Here’s a copy of my draft report, and appendix A, B, C, and D … (He is giving her these things out of his brief case, into which he puts the envelope containing his pants.) … so it’ll just be a matter of keeping a record of amendments, if any.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Excuse me, Withenshaw, but isn’t it rather unusual to have a report by a Select Committee before the Committee has had the advantage of considering the evidence?
WITHENSHAW: Yes, it is unusual, Mr. Cocklebury-Smythe, but this is an unusual situation. As you know sexual immorality unites all parties. This Committee isn’t here to play politics. You’ll have your chance with amendments, for which you can have all the time in the world. In fact the P.M. insists on it—he doesn’t want us to rush into print, he wants a thorough job which he can present to the House the day before the Queen’s Silver Jubilee, along with trade figures.
MCTEAZLE: Isn’t that going to cause rather a lot of flak in the 1922 Committee and the P.L.P.?
WITHENSHAW: Very likely, but by that time, I’m happy to say, I’m going to be well out of it in the Lords—life peerage for services to arts.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Services to the arts?
WITHENSHAW: I’ll have you bloody know Mrs. Withenshaw and I have personally donated the Botticelli-style painted ceiling in the Free Church Assembly Hall. I’ve bought and paid for more naked bums than you’ve had hot dinners.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: I’m glad to say I’ve had more hot dinners.
WITHEKSHAW: I speak sub-cathedra of course—no one else knows except Mrs. Withenshaw, and I shouldn’t have told her—she’s taken to wearing white gloves up to elbows to greyhounds. Anyway, what the P.M. wants is a unanimous report, if possible declaring—(as if remembering)—that there is no evidence that Members have engaged in scandalous conduct above the national average, or alternatively that they may have done in isolated cases, but are we going to judge grown responsible men in this day and age by the standards of Mrs. Grundy—whoever she may be—is it that old bag from Chorleywood South?
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: But what’s the report based on if we aren’t going to call any witnesses?
WITHENSHAW: What witnesses do you want to call?
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Well… I personally wouldn’t wish to call any——
MCTEAZLE: Hear, hear!
CHAMBERLAIN: Absolutely!
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: I’ve no time for stool pigeons admittedly——
MCTEAZLE: Hear, hear!
CHAMBERLAIN: Absolutely!
WITHENSHAW: There aren’t any bloody witnesses. No one has seen anything. It’s all bloody innuendo to sell newspapers in slack period.
ALL: Hear, hear!
WITHENSHAW: What with all the giant killers knocked out of Cup, and Ceylon versus Bangladesh—I don’t call that a bloody test match—the papers naturally resort to sticking their noses into upper reaches of top drawers looking for hankie panties, etcetera. …
ALL: Hear, hear!
WITHENSHAW: I tell you, if those bloody pandas had got stuck in and produced a cuddly black and white nipper for London Zoo, it wouldn’t be us in spotlight——
ALL: Hear, hear!
WITHENSHAW: Or Mark and Anne for that matter.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Steady on, Malcolm.
WITHENSHAW: I don’t mean it would be black an
d white.
COCKLEBURY-SMYTHE: Can we move on?
WITHENSHAW: I was just making the point that there’s nothing to witness just because a member of this Committee is so bowed down with the burden of representing his constituency, while trying to make a decent living in his spare time, that he has to take his—homework—to lunch in a West End restaurant.
ALL: Hear, hear!