A Voyage Round My Father

by John Mortimer

  FATHER. Pearson Dupray, K.C. who is agin me in this case is not a foeman worthy of my steel. He will no doubt fumble his cross-examination and may even fail to prove my adultery … although God knows … I have had inclination and opportunity to spare.

  JAPHET starts to sing softly to his ukelele.

  JAPHET (sings).

  ‘Hallelujah I’m a bum

  Hallelujah Bum again

  Hallelujah gives us a hand out …

  To revive us again …’

  FATHER. Like you, I shall today be rubbing up against a second-rate mind …

  The SON (as a boy) comes up to JAPHET just as JAPHET is starting the chorus again. The FATHER and MOTHER remain seated on their bench during the following scene.

  SON (grown up). Japhet, the second master, did his unsuccessful best to impart polish.

  JAPHET (sings). ‘Hallelujah … I’m a bum …’

  You know what a bum is?

  BOY. Yes, sir.

  JAPHET (sings).

  ‘Hallelujah. Bum again …

  Hallelujah, gives us a hand out …’

  Look. No one’s going to laugh if you do three simple chords. See? Three simple chords. Like this. Always. For every tune. Take my advice, and look as if you know what you’re doing. No one’s going to laugh. (Looks at the BOY.) You don’t tie that tie of yours properly. Remind me to teach you to tie your tie. (He plays a chord on the ukelele.) Take my tip, sing in the back of your nose – so it sounds as if you’d crossed the States by railroad … (He starts to sing through his nose to the ukelele.)

  ‘Why don’t you go to work

  Like all the other men do?

  How the hell are we going to work

  When there’s no fit work to do … ?

  Hallelujah. I’m a bum!’

  Just three simple chords. Don’t get ambitious.

  BOY. No, I won’t, sir.

  JAPHET. And remember about your tie. Twice over and then up. That way you get the big knot. Like HE wears it.

  BOY. He?

  JAPHET. The King, of course.

  BOY. Oh yes, sir – of course.

  JAPHET. The King and I – we’ve got a lot in common.

  BOY. Yes, sir.

  JAPHET. Same tie … same trouble.

  BOY. What trouble’s that, sir?

  JAPHET. Woman trouble … Deep, deep trouble. Just like the jolly old King …

  JAPHET goes sadly, carrying his ukelele. The BOY takes a letter out of his pocket, reads it.

  SON (grown up). I knew what he was talking about. He was talking about Lydia, a pale red-headed girl who smelt vaguely of moth balls and who made our beds. The King and Japhet were tussling with the problems from which my father made his living.

  FATHER (dictating to the MOTHER). You will be pleased to hear that I won Jimpson v Jimpson, the wife being found guilty of infidelity in the front of a Daimler parked in Hampstead Garden Suburb. A vital part of the evidence consisted of footprints on the dashboard …

  MOTHER. Is that really suitable?

  FATHER (ignoring her). Footprints on the dashboard!

  REIGATE comes in, bored, his hands in his pockets, and wanders near the BOY. The BOY reading the letter doesn’t notice him.

  FATHER. The co-respondent was condemned in costs. My final speech lasted two hours and I made several jokes. At home we have been pricking out Korean chrysanthemums and making marmalade. Unusually large plague of earwigs this year …

  REIGATE (to the BOY). Do you get many letters from home?

  The FATHER and MOTHER get up and the MOTHER leads the FATHER out.

  The BOY puts the letter hurriedly back in the envelope.

  BOY. Hullo, Reigate. Once a week, I expect …

  REIGATE. Keep the envelopes …

  BOY. For the stamps … ?

  REIGATE. To put the fish in, on Sunday nights. The fish is disgusting. Put it in envelopes and post it down the bogs.

  BOY. Why in envelopes?

  REIGATE. Well you just can’t put bits of fish, not straight in your pocket.

  Pause.

  Is your mother slim?

  BOY. Fairly slim.

  Pause. REIGATE takes out a yo-yo and starts to play with it.

  REIGATE. Is your father good at golf?

  BOY. Pretty good.

  REIGATE (winding up the string of his yo-yo and putting it away in his pocket). My mother’s slim as a bluebell.

  BOY. Well, mine’s quite slim too really. She goes to cocktail parties.

  REIGATE. Slim as a bluebell! With yellow eyes.

  BOY. Yellow?

  REIGATE. Like a panther.

  BOY. Oh, I see.

  REIGATE. Very small feet. High heels of course. Does your mother wear high heels?

  BOY. Whenever she goes to cocktail parties. She wears them then.

  REIGATE. My mother wears high heels. Even at breakfast. Of course she’s slim as a bluebell …

  SON (grown up). But Armistice Day brought embarrasing revelations. We were able to see those from whose loins, as Noah would say, we had actually sprung.

  The SON and REIGATE part end move to opposite sides of the stage. On his side, the BOY is met by the MOTHER and the FATHER, come down for the Armistice Day service. REIGATE is met by his own MOTHER, a short dumpy woman in a hat and rimless spectacles, and his own FATHER, a nondescript grey-haired man played by JAPHET. Upstage a Union Jack descends. The HEADMASTER, to the sound of a bugle playing the Last Post, mounts an open-air pulpit wearing on his gown a row of medals.

  HEADMASTER. Let us pray …

  The parents and the boys form a congregation. MRS REIGATE closes her eyes in an attitude of devotion. The FATHER blows his nose loudly. REIGATE stares across at him. The BOY looks at his FATHER in an agony of embarrassment, and then continues a close and somewhat surprised study of REIGATE’S MOTHER.

  Oh Lord, inasmuch as we are paraded now on Lower School Field on this, the Armistice Day, November the Eleventh 1936, help us to remember those O.C.’s who fell upon alien soil in the late Great Match. Grant us their spirit, we beseech thee, that we may go ‘over the top’ to our Common Entrance and our Football Fixtures, armed with the ‘cold steel’ of Thy Holy Word. Give us, if Thy will be done, the Great Opportunity to shed our Blood for our Country and our Beloved School, and fill us with that feeling of Sportsmanship which led our fathers to fix bayonets and play until the last whistle blew.

  THE CONGREGATION (singing). ‘Lord God of Hosts be with us yet Lest we forget … Lest we forget …’

  REIGATE’s MOTHER is singing in a rich patriotic contralto. The FATHER is singing, and his mouth seems to be moving in a different time from the rest of the congregation. Gradually what he is singing becomes painfully clear over and above the reverberation of the hymn.

  FATHER (singing).

  ‘She was as bee-eautiful as a butterfly

  And as proud as a queen

  Was pretty little Polly Perkins

  Of Paddington Green’.

  Both the FATHER’S song and the hymn come to an end at the same time. The HEADMASTER has descended from his pulpit and is saying goodbye, shaking parents’ hands. The parents and the HEADMASTER go. REIGATE and the BOY come downstage: chattering idly, REIGATE’s hands in his pockets, the BOY now playing with the yo-yo.

  SON (grown up). Our parents, it was obvious, needed a quick coating of romance.

  BOY. She didn’t look much like a panther.

  REIGATE. Who?

  BOY. And your mother wasn’t exactly a bluebell either …

  REIGATE. My mother? You’ve never seen my mother …

  BOY. Of course I have.

  REIGATE. When?

  BOY. On Armistice Day …

  REIGATE. Don’t be so simple. That good, honest woman isn’t my real mother.

  BOY (puzzled). Noah called her ‘Mrs Reigate’. I heard him distinctly.

  REIGATE. Noah only knows what’s good for him to know. That was no more my mother than you are.

  BOY. Who wa
s she then?

  REIGATE. Just the dear, good, old soul who promised to look after me.

  BOY. When?

  REIGATE. When they smuggled me out of Russia, after the revolution. They smuggled me out in a wickerwork trunk. I was ten days and nights on the rack in the carriage of the Siberian Railway. Then we got to Paris …

  BOY. I thought …

  REIGATE. They tried to shoot us in Paris. Me and my brother.

  But we got away, across the frozen river.

  BOY. I thought Siberia was in the other direction.

  REIGATE. And escaped to England. This honest chemist and his wife took care of us. Swear you won’t tell anyone?

  BOY. All right.

  REIGATE. By the blood of my father?

  BOY. If you like. I just heard from my parents actually. Something pretty sensational.

  REIGATE. Oh yes?

  BOY. I think they’re probably … getting divorced.

  REIGATE (interested). Honestly?

  BOY. Honestly.

  REIGATE. Why? Are they unfaithful?

  BOY. Oh, always. And I told you. My mother goes to cocktail parties …

  REIGATE (admiringly). You’ll be having a broken home, then?

  BOY (casual). Oh yes. I expect I will …

  The two boys go together. Projection of the garden, trees and flowers.

  SON (grown up, to the audience). But when I got home, nothing had changed. My home remained imperturbably intact. And, in the bracken on the common, Iris had built me a house.

  Light on another part of the stage where IRIS is kneeling, her skirt up high, her thighs scratched and stained with blackberry juice. She is arranging a handful of dead wild flowers in a chipped Coronation mug. The SON (as a boy) comes in. He stands beside her, aloof.

  IRIS. What do you learn at school?

  BOY. We learn Latin.

  IRIS. What else?

  BOY. Greek.

  IRIS. Say ‘Good morning, what a very nice morning’ in Latin.

  BOY. I don’t know how.

  IRIS. All right. In Greek …

  BOY. I can’t.

  IRIS. Why not?

  BOY. They’re not those sort of languages.

  IRIS. What’s the point of them then?

  BOY. They train … the mind …

  IRIS. Do you still whistle?

  BOY. Not at school.

  IRIS. Why not?

  BOY. It’s just one of those things you don’t do. Like putting your hands in your pockets. You don’t whistle, and you don’t put your hands in your pockets.

  IRIS. Why not?

  BOY. You don’t. That’s all.

  IRIS. How’s your mum and dad?

  BOY. Quarrelling.

  IRIS. I never see them quarrel.

  BOY. It’s life … They come back from parties, and they quarrel.

  IRIS. I shouldn’t like that.

  BOY. Perhaps they’re not my parents, anyway …

  IRIS. What did you say?

  BOY. I said perhaps they’re not my parents. Don’t ask me to explain.

  IRIS. I didn’t.

  BOY. Well – don’t.

  IRIS. I shan’t.

  BOY. It’s just possible, they’re not my parents. A very honest couple, but not …

  IRIS. Of course they’re your parents. Don’t be ignorant.

  BOY. I’m not ignorant.

  IRIS. What do you know?

  BOY. I know the gerund and the gerundive.

  IRIS. What are they?

  BOY. Something you have. In Latin. And I know the second person plural future passive of rogo.

  IRIS. What is it?

  BOY. Rogebamini.

  IRIS. What’s that mean?

  BOY. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just the future passive of rogo – that’s all it is …

  Pause.

  IRIS. This is our house.

  BOY (shrugs his shoulders). Is it?

  IRIS. Shall we be Mothers and Fathers?

  BOY. I think I might find that a bit painful, what with the situation at home. Anyway, I haven’t got time.

  IRIS. Haven’t you … ?

  BOY. Someone’s coming over to see me today.

  IRIS. Someone … ?

  BOY. From school. His name’s Reigate actually.

  IRIS. Don’t you want to be Mothers and Fathers … (Gets up eagerly.) Tell you what. I’ll let you see … (She pulls up her skirt over her head, showing her knickers and a small white stomach.)

  BOY (backing away from her). I have to get back. Reigate’s coming to stay …

  Upstage a sofa. The FATHER is sitting on it. REIGATE is on a long stool holding tea and cakes. The MOTHER crosses to the FATHER with a cup of tea, kisses him lovingly on the head and puts the cup of tea into his hand. The SON (as a boy) moves into the upstage area, collects a cup of tea and a bit of cake and goes and sits by REIGATE on the stool.

  MOTHER. There’s your tea, darling. Be careful now.

  She sits down beside the FATHER on the sofa.

  REIGATE (suspiciously to the BOY). Can’t see much sign of divorce in this family.

  BOY. They’re putting on a show – for the visitor.

  FATHER. What’s going on?

  MOTHER. It’s the boy talking to Reigate.

  FATHER. To who?

  MOTHER. To Reigate … His friend.

  FATHER (incredulous). The boy has a friend? (Sudden bellow.) Welcome, Reigate! What’s Reigate like, eh? Paint me the picture …

  MOTHER. He’s quite small, and …

  BOY. He’s really Russian …

  FATHER (impressed). Russian, eh? Well, that’s something of an achievement … (Pause.) When I was a boy at school I never minded the lessons. I just resented having to work terribly hard at playing. (Pause.) They don’t roast you at schools now, I suppose? I can’t imagine what I’m paying all that money for if they don’t roast you from time to time …

  MOTHER. Do you like the school, Reigate?

  REIGATE. It’s all right. The headmaster makes us call him Noah.

  BOY. And his son is Shem.

  REIGATE. And we have to call Mr Pearce and Mr Box Ham and Japhet. And we’re the animals.

  BOY. And Mr Bingo Ollard is Mr Bingo Ollard.

  FATHER (gloomily). Didn’t I warn you? Second-rate minds.

  REIGATE and the BOY whisper to each other. Then the BOY gets up and goes.

  REIGATE (to the MOTHER). We’re going to do something to keep you from thinking of your great unhappiness.

  MOTHER (giggles gently). Our unhappiness … Oh … Whatever will they think of …

  FATHER. What’re you laughing at?

  MOTHER. At Reigate!

  FATHER. Who on earth’s Reigate?

  MOTHER. I told you, dear. The boy’s friend.

  FATHER. Is this Reigate, then, something of a wit?

  MOTHER. He does come out with some killing suggestions.

  REIGATE (dignified). We’re going to do a play.

  FATHER. What’s that?

  MOTHER. They’re going to put on an entertainment.

  The BOY comes in, dragging an old dressing-up box from which he pulls an old tin hat, a khaki cap, a khaki jacket, a Sam Browne belt, a revolver holster, a water bottle and a bayonet: the FATHER’S uniform equipment from the 1914 war which he and REIGATE proceed to share between them.

  FATHER. I like entertainment. When’s it to be?

  BOY. This afternoon.

  MOTHER. Better hurry. Mr Lean’s coming to drive you back to school at four.

  FATHER. What is it? Something out of the Boys’ Own?

  BOY. I wrote it.

  FATHER. What?

  MOTHER. The boy said he wrote it. I’m sure Reigate helped. Didn’t you, Reigate?

  BOY. He didn’t help.

  MOTHER. Whatever are you? Two little clowns?

  REIGATE. Actually we’re two subalterns. Killed on the Somme.

  FATHER. Hm. They’ll soon be giving us war again. When it comes, remember this. Avoid the te
mptation to do anything heroic.

  REIGATE goes out of the room, wearing a tin hat and a khaki jacket and the bayonet. The BOY is wearing the khaki cap and the Sam Browne.

  Tell me what’s going on. Make it vivid.

  MOTHER. They’ve got your barbed wire.

  REIGATE returns pulling a roll of barbed wire which he leaves in the middle of the floor.

  FATHER. My what?

  MOTHER. Barbed wire.

  FATHER. Put it back, won’t you? We don’t want the cows in.

  MOTHER. Reigate’s got your tin hat. And the boy’s wearing your old Sam Browne.

  FATHER. How killing!

  REIGATE and the BOY take green flashlights from the dressing-up box, turn out the lights in the room and approach each other shining green lights in each other’s faces and moaning in a ghostly fashion.

  MOTHER. We can see Reigate’s artistic! He’s giving a lively performance …

  REIGATE. Actually we’re ghosts.

  FATHER. Ghosts eh? What’re they doing now.

  BOY. We’re meeting after the bombardment.

  MOTHER. They’re meeting after the bombardment, dear.

  FATHER. How very killing!

  BOY. Bill …

  REIGATE. Who is it … ?

  BOY. It’s me, Bill … It’s Harry.

  REIGATE. Harry! I can’t see you, old fellow. (Coughs.) It’s this damn gas everywhere. Take my hand.

  BOY. Where are you?

  REIGATE. Out here – by the wire. Listen.

  BOY. What?

  REIGATE. They’ve stopped straffing. I say, if ever we get back to the old country –

  BOY. What?

  REIGATE. I want you to marry Helen.

  BOY. You said you’d never let Helen marry a chap who’d funked the top board at Roehampton …

  REIGATE. Never mind what I said, Harry. I saw you today on the North redoubt; you were in there, batting for England! You shall have my little sister, boy. My hand on it.