STELLA. My God, to think that a murderess could go free just because a jurywoman overloves a son who doesn’t give a damn for her.
Pause.
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.
MRS DAVENPORT. You did.
STELLA. Tony rang me, this afternoon. We had a talk. A long one –
MRS DAVENPORT. In which he told you he didn’t love me?
STELLA (trying to embrace her). Oh my God, darling. I only said that because I was so damn angry with you.
MRS DAVENPORT. Tell me what he said.
STELLA. Well, his father’s got him a hundred per cent. It’s a love affair.
MRS DAVENPORT. What does he want to do?
STELLA. Live with him, of course.
MRS DAVENPORT. For ever?
STELLA. Yes.
MRS DAVENPORT. Supposing I fight?
STELLA. They’ll fight back.
MRS DAVENPORT. How?
STELLA. Tony will tell the Judge he prefers his father to you… Do you really want that? Of course, he said he’d spend some of his holidays with you.
MRS DAVENPORT. How kind…
STELLA. Darling, I do know how dreadful all this is for you. But you must try and forget about it, at least until this awful trial’s over. Now, why don’t you put your feet up, let me get you a drink. Darling, I know it’s difficult for you, but you’ve a big responsibility tomorrow. You’re not going to let this terrible business here cloud your judgement about that woman, are you?
MRS DAVENPORT. No. I’m not.
Fade out.
Before the lights come on again we hear the voice of CASSWELL.
Then a spot illuminates his face, while another focuses on ALMA’s.
CASSWELL. …When this boy met the woman, he was an ordinary innocent English boy, four months later, what do we find? A confessed adulterer, a confessed thief, a confessed cocaine addict, utterly under the influence of an hysterical, lying, drunken woman of abnormal sexual appetites and apparently of no moral conscience whatever…
The voice merges smoothly into CROOM-JOHNSON’s.
CROOM-JOHNSON. … Can you believe a single word that such a woman says – self-confessed liar, self-confessed adulteress, self-confessed seducer of a tender youth of seventeen?… A woman who, by her own admission, robs her husband of a considerable sum, in order to indulge herself in a four-day sexual orgy at the Royal Palace Hotel, with a boy young enough to be her son…
The voice is merged with that of O’CONNOR.
O’CONNOR. Ladies and gentlemen. One of your number – I cannot, of course, mention her name, which would be most improper, but I suppose I can say that she must be one of the foremost among you, a lady, evidently, of great moral courage and strength of character – she objected to serving on this case. ‘Why?’ asked his lordship. ‘Because,’ she replied, ‘I am so prejudiced against Mrs Rattenbury’s moral character that I cannot be expected to give her a fair trial.’ But how could she not be prejudiced against this woman? How could any one of you fail to feel disgust and nausea at the ensnaring and degradation of a helpless youth by a middle-aged woman of licentious and degenerate habits? But that is not the offence with which she is charged here in this court.
The voice merges into that of the JUDGE, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone to the jury.
JUDGE. Well, there it is. That is the woman. It is indeed difficult to find words in the English language in which you may see fit to describe her. But, members of the jury – the natural disgust you may feel for this woman must not – I repeat that – must not make you any more ready to convict her of the crime of murder. In fact it should, if anything, make you less ready to do so. Prejudice, dislike, disapproval, disgust, must have no part in your verdict. Well, that is all I have to say to you. You will now retire…
The lights have faded to a blackout. A spot picks up the quiet white face of ALMA, which, during the whole of the foregoing judicial onslaught on her character, has shown no sign of emotion whatever. Nor does it now as the lights come up in her cell. JOAN is with her. ALMA is sitting in a hard chair, immobile.
JOAN. Look, dear, they may be a long time. Would you like to lie down? It’ll have to be the floor – but I’ve had two blankets sent in, and a pillow – and I can make you quite comfy.
There is no reply from ALMA. It is as if JOAN had never spoken.
Or I’ve brought some cards. How about a little game?
ALMA (at length). Beg your pardon?
JOAN (showing the cards). A little game, dear. We could have much longer to wait.
ALMA. No, thank you.
JOAN. Anything at all? Coffee? Tea?
ALMA. No.
JOAN. Not with a drop of something in it?
Pause.
ALMA’s stare continues, unseeing.
Try not to fuss, dear. What I always tell my ladies –
MONTAGU comes in.
MONTAGU (with a cheerfulness he doesn’t feel). Well, Mrs Rattenbury – how are you feeling?
ALMA seems unconscious of his presence…
(To JOAN, in a low voice.) Is she all right?
JOAN (indignantly). How could she be, after all that was said about her upstairs?
MONTAGU. I should have warned her.
He pulls a chair alongside ALMA’s and touches her arm.
ALMA (quite brightly). Oh, hullo, Mr Montagu –
MONTAGU. You must try to understand why Mr O’Connor had to say those things about you. They must have been horrible to hear –
ALMA. Not particularly.
MONTAGU. But, you see, both Mr O’Connor and the Judge, by saying all those foul things about you, forced the jury to concentrate their minds on only one thing – did you or did you not commit murder? Well, as we all know, you didn’t –
ALMA. Do you?
MONTAGU. Of course. So does Mr O’Connor.
ALMA. And Christopher?
MONTAGU. And Christopher, most certainly.
ALMA. Then it really doesn’t matter what the jury think, does it?
Pause.
MONTAGU. Mrs Rattenbury, I have every hope that in a matter of hours – or even minutes – you will walk out of this place a free woman. If you do, what plans have you made?
ALMA says nothing.
JOAN. Her friend Irene Riggs is taking her to her home for a few days –
MONTAGU. Oh. That’s good.
JOAN. She’ll be all right there – she’s fond of Irene.
MONTAGU. And then you must think of taking up your career again –
ALMA. My career?
MONTAGU. As a songwriter.
ALMA. Oh, that –
JOAN (eagerly). Yes, dear, you must. Just imagine how your songs will sell now.
ALMA laughs harshly. MONTAGU gives JOAN a silencing look.
WARDER (off). Jury coming back.
ALMA. Mr Montagu, I want to thank you –
MONTAGU. Don’t. You have, and always will have, my admiration.
ALMA. Oh, that’s nice. That’s the way men used to speak to me.
As they go out, fade into blackout. In the darkness we hear the sound of the lawyers returning to court. The CLERK OF THE COURT enters.
The lights come up on MRS DAVENPORT and dimly on the CLERK OF THE COURT.
CLERK OF THE COURT. Members of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?
MRS DAVENPORT. We are.
The lights come up on ALMA and WOOD, standing in the dock.
CLERK OF THE COURT. Do you find the prisoner Percy George Wood guilty or not guilty of murder?
MRS DAVENPORT. Guilty, but we should like to add a rider to that. A recommendation to mercy.
CLERK OF THE COURT. Do you find the prisoner Alma Victoria Rattenbury guilty or not guilty of murder?
MRS DAVENPORT. Not guilty.
The court hears a storm of booing, hissing and shouts of ‘Shame!’ – but we do not hear it. Light fades up on the JUDGE.
CLERK OF THE COURT (hardly heard). And those verdicts
are the verdicts of you all?
MRS DAVENPORT. They are.
The storm of booing is apparently renewed. The light fades out on MRS DAVENPORT.
JUDGE. This will not be tolerated.
The storm subsides.
CLERK OF THE COURT. Percy George Wood, you stand convicted of murder: have you anything to say why the court should not pass judgement on you?
WOOD (with a smile at ALMA). Nothing at all.
JUDGE. Percy George Wood, the jury have convicted you of murder, with a recommendation to mercy. That recommendation will be forwarded by me to the proper quarter, where it will doubtless receive consideration.
They hear cries from the gallery of ‘Don’t worry, boy! We won’t let them do it!’, etc.
Meanwhile, my duty is to pass upon you the only sentence which the law knows for the crime of which you have been convicted.
The black triangle is placed upon the JUDGE’s wig by the CLERK OF THE COURT.
The sentence of the court upon you is that you be taken from this place to a lawful prison, and thence to a place of execution, and that you there be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and that your body be afterwards buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall have been confined before your execution. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul.
The JUDGE nods for WOOD to be taken down. ALMA fiercely grabs his arm as if she would stop him.
WOOD. Goodbye, you silly cow.
WOOD goes off.
JUDGE. Let Alma Victoria Rattenbury be discharged.
The light fades out on the JUDGE.
The lights fade up on the court.
O’CONNOR is warmly shaken by the hand by MONTAGU, less warmly by CASSWELL, not warmly at all by CROOM-JOHNSON.
ALMA stands meanwhile, bewildered, in the dock.
ALMA is approached by IRENE, her face wreathed in an ecstatic smile. She too embraces her.
IRENE. I knew it! I never had a moment’s doubt. Now, here you are, darling. (Unfolds a mackintosh.) Just slip into this. That’s right. Now, we’d better have the scarf.
ALMA takes it off obediently, to have it replaced with a simple beret.
Now, just till we get home –
She slips on to ALMA’s nose a large pair of horn-rimmed glasses.
There’s a policeman waiting going to show us out of a special door.
O’CONNOR (turning). Ah, Mrs Rattenbury. I’m so very pleased –
IRENE. Come on, dear. That policeman’s waiting.
ALMA and IRENE leave the court.
O’CONNOR. Well, Croom-Johnson, may I congratulate you on an admirable performance. Of course, you had a hopeless case – but you fought it very well.
CROOM-JOHNSON. Thank you – I must warn you that I intend to raise the matter elsewhere of your directly appealing to a member of the jury by name –
O’CONNOR. ‘By name’?
CROOM-JOHNSON. Forewoman?
O’CONNOR. Foremost, dear fellow. Foremost. Your hearing’s letting you down.
CROOM-JOHNSON. It was, in my view, unpardonable – and I will say so.
O’CONNOR. Really! You mustn’t let a little setback sour you, dear fellow. Been playing much golf lately?
CROOM-JOHNSON. Not much. Excuse me. (Goes.)
O’CONNOR (gleefully). Bad loser. I’ve always said so.
CASSNVELL (approaching). Well, O’Connor. Magnificent. The boldness of it staggered me.
O’CONNOR (chuckling). Yes. I took a risk or two.
CASWELL. There was a moment when I actually thought you were pleading with the jury to have the woman burned as a witch.
IRENE has appeared, breathless.
IRENE. Mr O’Connor – she’s disappeared – Alma’s disappeared –
O’CONNOR (his mind elsewhere). Alma?
IRENE. She suddenly ran right across the street and disappeared –
MONTAGU. What happened?
IRENE. Just now. There was this bus, I thought she was going under it. I shouted to her – but she didn’t seem to hear. She just ran and ran.
MONTAGU. She knows your address. She’s probably going there.
IRENE. But she doesn’t.
MONTAGU. Well, the best thing to do is to go back to where she left you. She’s bound to come back when there’s no one else around –
IRENE. No one recognised her, I’m sure. Shouldn’t I tell the police?
MONTAGU. There’s not much they can do. I’ll come with you.
They exit.
O’CONNOR. Really, women of that class do panic so easily.
The lights come up on MRS DAVENPORT’s flat. STELLA’s standing belligerently facing the door through which MRS DAVENPORT has just entered.
STELLA. Well? What happened? Edie?
MRS DAVENPORT has gone straight to the drink tray, and poured herself out a large whisky.
MRS DAVENPORT. Didn’t you hear it on the news?
STELLA. Come on, Edith. I’ve only got a few minutes. I mean, how did you let it happen? What was the voting?
MRS DAVENPORT. Let’s think… I was at the head of the table, which is where they put the Forewoman.
STELLA. What’s the matter with you? Are you drunk?
MRS DAVENPORT. Yes, I am a bit. (Takes a long swig.) Well, each person spoke up, and I took the votes down. That was my job, you see.
STELLA. The voting. How was the voting?
MRS DAVENPORT (suddenly brisk). Five for guilty, and six for not.
She replenishes her drink.
STELLA. So your vote made it six all.
MRS DAVENPORT. No. My vote made it seven-five. Then all the others gave way.
STELLA. Gave way to you?
MRS DAVENPORT. Yes.
STELLA. In God’s name, why?
MRS DAVENPORT. Because she was innocent.
STELLA. Innocent?
MRS DAVENPORT. Of murder.
STELLA. Innocent! Who was it who said that nothing was too bad for that woman, that she deserved lynching?
MRS DAVENPORT. She may deserve that. She does not deserve hanging for a murder she didn’t commit.
STELLA. What does that matter, for God’s sake?
MRS DAVENPORT. It matters to me.
STELLA. Well, what price your pretty little house in Bournemouth now.
MRS DAVENPORT. But – but no one in Bournemouth knows that I was on the –
STELLA. Oh, of course they did.
MRS DAVENPORT. I see. Well, I’ll have to stay on in this flat.
STELLA. Looks like it.
MRS DAVENPORT. And I hate it.
STELLA. I know. I must go – (At the door.) Poor Saint Edith, what’s to become of you?
She goes out. The lights on the flat partially fade, as MRS DAVENPORT pours herself a large neat whisky and then slowly sits.
Meanwhile, ALMA stumbles to centre stage. She sits, and at length she gets a pencil and a few crumpled envelopes from her pocket.
She starts to write.
The lights come up on a little man, the CORONER, sitting at an insignificant desk. He reads quietly from a folder in front of him.
CORONER. Coroner’s report in the matter of Alma Rattenbury deceased. William Mayfield, labourer, of this parish of Christchurch, stated that at about 8.30 p.m. on June fourth he was walking across a meadow through which ran a stream. On the bank of the stream he saw a lady sitting and writing. He crossed the stream by a bridge and went down the bank the other side. As he did so, he looked towards her and saw the lady standing, a knife in her hand. He ran back towards her but before he could reach her she had stabbed herself in the body five or six times, three of the wounds penetrating the heart. When he reached her she was dead, her head lying in one foot of water… I do not propose to read all the documents found beside the body. Mostly they appear to be random thoughts scribbled in pencil on the backs of envelopes and suchlike – but here is one. It begins: ‘I want to make it perfectly clear that no one is responsible for my action. I made up my mind during the trial th
at if George was sentenced to death I would not survive him – ’
He looks up at an unseen court.
In this context I might mention as an unhappy chance that had Mrs Rattenbury lived only a few more days she would have heard of the reprieve accorded to George Wood by the Home Secretary.
He turns to his folder.
Now, here are what must be her very last words as the paper was found under her body with the pencil still on it.
ALMA. Eight o’clock. After so much running and walking I have got here. I should find myself just at this spot, where George and I once made love. It is beautiful here. What a lovely world we are in, if only we would let ourselves see it. It must be easier to be hanged than to have to do the job oneself. But that’s just my bad luck. Pray God nothing stops me. God bless my children and look after them. One has to be bold to do this thing. But it is beautiful here, and I am alone. Thank God for peace at last.
MRS DAVENPORT gets up unsteadily, carrying her whisky. We now see she is really very drunk.
MRS DAVENPORT (suddenly shouting). But I gave you life! I gave you life!…
She sips her drink, shaking her head.
(In her most Kensington voice.) And, might I say, at some considerable cost to my own?… Really, there’s no justice…
She laughs and drinks. ALMA takes out CHRISTOPHER’s Scout knife. As she looks at it, the lights fade out.
The End.
Terence Rattigan
Born in 1911, a scholar at Harrow and at Trinity College, Oxford, Terence Rattigan had his first long-running hit in the West End at the age of twenty-five: French Without Tears (1936). His next play, After the Dance (1939), opened to euphoric reviews yet closed under the gathering clouds of war, but with Flare Path (1942) Rattigan embarked on an almost unbroken series of successes, with most plays running in the West End for at least a year and several making the transition to Broadway: While the Sun Shines (1943), Love in Idleness (1944), The Winslow Boy (1946), The Browning Version (performed in double-bill with Harlequinade, 1948), Who is Sylvia? (1950), The Deep Blue Sea (1952), The Sleeping Prince (1953) and Separate Tables (1954). From the mid-fifties, with the advent of the ‘Angry Young Men’, he enjoyed less success on stage, though Ross (1960) and In Praise of Love (1973) were well received. As well as seeing many of his plays turned into successful films, Rattigan wrote a number of original plays for television from the fifties onwards. He was knighted in 1971 and died in 1977.
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