Plays 5

by Tom Stoppard

  After a moment the scene fades out.

  SCENE ELEVEN

  Henry and Annie.

  Henry is alone listening to the radio, which is playing Bach’s Air on a G String.

  Annie enters from the bedroom, dressed to go out, and she is in a hurry.

  Henry (urgently, on seeing her) Listen –

  Annie I can’t. I’m going to be late now.

  Henry It’s important. Listen.

  Annie What?

  Henry Listen.

  She realizes that he means the radio. She listens for a few moments.

  What is it?

  Annie (pleased) Do you like it?

  Henry I love it.

  Annie (congratulating him) It’s Bach.

  Henry The cheeky beggar.

  Annie What?

  Henry He’s stolen it.

  Annie Bach?

  Henry Note for note. Practically a straight lift from Procul Harum. And he can’t even get it right. Hang on. I’ll play you the original.

  He moves to get the record. She, pleased by him but going, moves to him.

  Annie Work well.

  She kisses him quickly and lightly but he forces the kiss into a less casual one. His voice, however, keeps its detachment.

  Henry You too.

  Annie Last day. Why don’t you come?

  Henry shrugs.

  No, all right.

  Henry I’m only the ghost writer anyway.

  The phone rings.

  Annie If that’s them, say I’ve left.

  Henry (into the phone) She’s left … Oh … (to Annie) It’s your friend.

  She hesitates.

  Just go.

  Annie takes the phone.

  Annie (into phone) Billy …? Yes – what? – yes, of course – I’m just late – yes – goodbye – all right … Yes, fine. (She hangs up.) I love you. Do you understand?

  Henry No.

  Annie Do you think it’s unfair?

  Henry No. It’s as though I’ve been careless, left a door open somewhere while preoccupied.

  Annie I’ll stop.

  Henry Not for me. I won’t be the person who stopped you. I can’t be that. When I got upset you said you’d stop so I try not to get upset. I don’t get pathetic because when I got pathetic I could feel how tedious it was, how unattractive. Like Max, your ex. Remember Max? Love me because I’m in pain. No good. Not in very good taste.

  So.

  Dignified cuckoldry is a difficult trick, but it can be done. Think of it as modern marriage. We have got beyond hypocrisy, you and I. Exclusive rights isn’t love, it’s colonization.

  Annie Stop it – please stop it.

  Pause

  Henry The trouble is, I can’t find a part of myself where you’re not important. I write in order to be worth your while and to finance the way I want to live with you. Not the way you want to live. The way I want to live with you. Without you I wouldn’t care. I’d eat tinned spaghetti and put on yesterday’s clothes. But as it is I change my socks, and make money, and tart up Brodie’s unspeakable drivel into speakable drivel so he can be an author too, like me. Not that it seems to have done him much good. Perhaps the authorities saw that it was a touch meretricious. Meretrix, meretricis. Harlot.

  Annie You shouldn’t have done it if you didn’t think it was right.

  Henry You think it’s right. I can’t cope with more than one moral system at a time. Mine is that what you think is right is right. What you do is right. What you want is right. There was a tribe, wasn’t there, which worshipped Charlie Chaplin. It worked just as well as any other theology, apparently. They loved Charlie Chaplin. I love you.

  Annie So you’ll forgive me anything, is that it, Hen? I’m a selfish cow but you love me so you’ll overlook it, is that right? Thank you, but that’s not it. I wish I felt selfish, everything would be easy. Goodbye Billy. I don’t need him. How can I need someone I spend half my time telling to grow up? I’m … – what’s a petard?, I’ve often wondered.

  Henry What?

  Annie A petard. Something you hoist, is it, piece of rope?

  Henry I don’t think so.

  Annie Well, anyway. All right?

  Henry All right what? I keep marrying people who suddenly lose a wheel.

  Annie I don’t feel selfish, I feel hoist. I send out waves, you know. Not free. Not interested. He sort of got in under the radar. Acting daft on a train. Next thing I’m looking round for him, makes the day feel better, it’s like love or something: no – love, absolutely, how can I say it wasn’t? You weren’t replaced, or even replaceable. But I liked it, being older for once, in charge, my pupil. And it was a long way north. And so on. I’m sorry I hurt you. But I meant it. It meant something. And now that it means less than I thought and I feel silly, I won’t drop him as if it was nothing, a pick-up, it wasn’t that, I’m not that. I just want him to stop needing me so I can stop behaving well. This is me behaving well. I have to choose who I hurt and I choose you because I’m yours.

  Pause. The phone rings.

  Maybe it’s just me.

  Henry (into phone) Roger –? She’s left, about ten minutes ago – yes, I know, dear, but – don’t talk to me about unprofessional, Roger – you lost half a day shooting the war memorial with a boom shadow all over it – OK, scream at me if it makes you feel better –

  Annie takes the phone out of his hand.

  Annie (into phone) Keep your knickers on, it’s only a bloody play. (She hangs up and starts to go. Going) Bye.

  Henry Annie. (Pause.) Yes, all right.

  Annie I need you.

  Henry Yes, I know.

  Annie Please don’t let it wear away what you feel for me. It won’t, will it?

  Henry No, not like that. It will go on or it will flip into its opposite.

  What time will you be back?

  Annie Not late.

  He nods at her. She nods back and leaves. Henry sits down in his chair. Then he gets up and starts the record playing Procul Harum’s ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’‚ which is indeed a version of Air on a G String.

  He stands listening to it‚ smiling at its Bach, until the vocals start. Then the smile gets overtaken.

  Henry Oh, please, please, please, please, don’t.

  Then blackout, but the music continues.

  SCENE TWELVE

  Henry, Annie and Brodie.

  In the blackout the music gives way to recorded dialogue between Annie and Billy, who speaks with a Scottish accent.

  Billy (voice) Wait for me.

  Annie (voice) Yes, I will.

  Billy (voice) Everything’s got to change. Except you. Don’t you change.

  Annie (voice) No. I won’t. I’ll wait for you and for everything to change.

  Billy (voice) That could take longer, (laughs) I might have to do it myself.

  By this time, light has appeared starting with the faint glow from the television screen.

  Brodie, alone in the living-room, is twenty-five, wearing a cheap suit. He is holding a tumbler of neat scotch, his attention engaged by the television set and particularly by the accompanying video machine. From the television the dialogue has been followed by the echoing clang of a cell door, footsteps, credit music. Brodie turns the volume down.

  Henry enters from the kitchen carrying a small jug of water for Brodie’s scotch. In the room there is wine for Henry and another glass for Annie.

  Brodie speaks with a Scottish accent.

  Brodie Very handy, these machines. When did they come out?

  Henry Well, I suppose they were coming out about the time you were going in.

  Brodie You can set them two weeks ahead.

  Henry Yes.

  Brodie How much?

  Henry A few hundred. They vary.

  Brodie I’ll have to pinch one sometime.

  Henry If you leave it a bit, they’ll probably improve them so that you can have it recording concurrently with your sentence.

  Brodie looks at Henry without expr
ession.

  Brodie Annie looked nice. She’s come on a bit since Rosie of the Royal Infirmary. A good-looking woman.

  Henry doesn’t answer. Annie enters from the kitchen with a dip, peanuts, etc. on a tray. She puts the tray down. Henry pours wine into a third glass.

  Just saying you looked nice.

  Annie Oh, yes?

  Brodie The pretty one was supposed to be me, was he?

  Annie Well …

  Brodie He’s not a pansy, is he?

  Annie I don’t think so.

  Henry hands her the glass of wine.

  Thank you.

  Henry (to Brodie, indicating the TV) What did you think?

  Brodie I liked it better before. You don’t mind me saying?

  Henry No.

  Annie It did work.

  Brodie You mean getting me sprung?

  Annie No, I didn’t mean that.

  Brodie That’s right. I got sprung by the militarists.

  Henry I don’t think I follow that.

  Brodie Half a billion pounds for defence, nothing left for prisons. So you get three, four to a cell. First off, they tell the magistrates, for God’s sake go easy, fine the bastards. But still they keep coming – four, five to a cell. Now they’re frightened it’s going to blow up. Even the warders are going on strike. So: ‘Give us the money to build more prisons!’ ‘Can’t be done, laddie, we’re spending the money to keep the world free, not in prison.’ So they start freeing the prisoners. Get it? I’m out because the missiles I was marching against are using up the money they need for a prison to put me in. Beautiful. Can I have another?

  He holds up his empty glass for Annie. Slight pause. Henry stays still.

  Annie Please help yourself

  Brodie does so.

  Brodie Early release. There was eight of us just on my corridor, (to Henry) Not one of them a controversial TV author. I don’t owe you.

  Henry Is it against your principles to say thank you for anything, even a drink?

  Brodie Fair enough. You had a go. You did your best. It probably needed something, to work in with their prejudices.

  Henry Yes, they are a bit prejudiced, these drama producers. They don’t like plays which go ‘clunk’ every time someone opens his mouth. They gang up against soap-box bigots with no idea that everything has a length. They think TV is a visual medium, (to Annie, puzzled) Is this him?

  Brodie Don’t be clever with me, Henry, like you were clever with my play. I lived it and put my guts into it, and you came along and wrote it clever. Not for me. For her. I’m not stupid.

  Annie (to Henry) No, this isn’t him.

  Brodie Yes, it bloody is. That was me on the train, and this is me again, and I don’t think you’re that different either.

  Annie And that wasn’t him. (She points at the TV.) He was helpless, like a three-legged calf, nervous as anything. A boy on the train. Chatting me up. Nice. He’d been in some trouble at the camp, some row, I forget, he was going absent without leave. He didn’t know anything about a march. He didn’t know anything about anything, except Rosie of the Royal Infirmary. By the time we got to London he would have followed me into the Ku Klux Klan. He tagged on. And when we were passing the war memorial he got his lighter out. It was one of those big chrome Zippos – click, snap Private Brodie goes over the top to the slaughter, not an idea in his head except to impress me. What else could I do? He was my recruit.

  Henry You should have told me. That one I would have known how to write.

  Annie Yes.

  Brodie Listen – I’m still here.

  Annie So you are, Bill. Finish your drink, will you?

  Brodie Why not?

  Brodie finishes his drink and stands up.

  I can come back for some dip another time.

  Annie No time like the present.

  Annie picks up the bowl of dip and smashes it into his face. She goes to the hall door, leaving it open while she briefly disappears to get Brodie’s coat.

  Henry has stood up, but Brodie isn’t going to do anything. He carefully wipes his face with his handkerchief.

  Henry Well, it was so interesting to meet you. I’d heard so much about you.

  Brodie I don’t really blame you, Henry. The price was right. I remember the time she came to visit me. She was in a blue dress, and there was a thrill coming off her like she was back on the box, but there was no way in. It was the first time I felt I was in prison. You know what I mean.

  Annie stands at the door holding Brodie’s coat. He takes it from her, ignoring her as he walks out. She follows him, and the front door is heard closing. Annie returns.

  Henry I don’t know what it did to him, but it scared the hell out of me. Are you all right?

  She nods.

  Annie Are you all right?

  The phone rings. Henry picks it up.

  Henry Hello, (into the phone, suddenly uncomfortable) Oh, hello. Did you want to speak to Annie?

  Annie No.

  Henry (suddenly relaxes) Well, that’s fantastic, Max! (to Annie) It’s your ex. He’s getting married, (to phone) Congratulations. Who is she?

  Henry ferries this over to Annie with an expressive look, which she returns. Annie moves to Henry and embraces his shoulders from behind. She leans on him tiredly while he deals with the phone.

  Oh, I think you’re very wise. To marry one actress is unfortunate, to marry two is simply asking for it.

  Annie kisses him. He covers the mouthpiece with his hand.

  (Into phone) Really? Across a crowded room, eh?

  Annie I’ve had it. Look after me.

  He covers the mouthpiece.

  Henry Don’t worry. I’m your chap.

  (Into phone) Well, it’s very decent of you to say so, Max.

  (To Annie) ‘No hard feelings?’ What does he mean? If it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t be engaged now.

  Annie disengages herself from him with a smile and goes around turning out the lights until the only light is coming from the bedroom door.

  (Into phone) No. I’m afraid she isn’t … She’ll be so upset when I tell her … No, I mean when I tell her she missed you … No, she’ll be delighted. I’m delighted, Max. Isn’t love wonderful?

  Annie finishes with the lights and goes out into the bedroom. Henry is being impatiently patient with Max on the phone, trying to end it.

  Henry Yes, well, we look forward to meeting her. What? Oh, yes?

  Absently he clicks on the little radio, which starts playing, softly, ‘I’m a Believer’ by the Monkees. He is immediately beguiled. He forgets Max until the phone crackle gets back through to him.

  Sorry. Yes, I’m still here. (He turns the song up slightly.)

  NIGHT AND DAY

  To Paul Johnson

  Characters

  George Guthrie

  Ruth Carson

  Alastair Carson

  Dick Wagner

  Jacob Milne

  Geoffrey Carson

  President Mageeba

  Francis

  Notes on Characters

  Guthrie is in his forties; perhaps quite short; fit, can look after himself; wears tough clothes, blue denim, comfortable boots.

  Ruth is in her late thirties; probably tall; attractive in face, figure and, especially, voice; shoulder-length hair.

  Alastair is eight, English prep school; fair.

  Wagner is in his forties, a suit-and-tie man; big but not fat. An Australian; some accent.

  Milne is twenty-two or twenty-three and definitely attractive in a way that is called boyish; casually dressed.

  Carson, Ruth’s husband, is somewhat older than her but also in good shape; casually but well dressed.

  Mageeba, the President, is around fifty, a British-educated black African, a hard man if soft of voice; carefully dressed in freshly-laundered ‘informal’ army uniform.

  Francis, Carson’s black African servant and driver, is in his twenties; slacks and white clean short-sleeved shirt.

  A Note on
‘Ruth’

  The audience is occasionally made privy to Ruth’s thoughts, and to hers alone. This text makes no reference to the technique by which this is achieved. (It may be that – ideally – no technical indication is necessary.) When Ruth’s thoughts are audible she is simply called ‘Ruth’ in quotes, and treated as a separate character. Thus, Ruth can be interrupted by ‘Ruth’.

  This rule is also loosely applied to the first scene of Act Two, where the situation is somewhat different.

  The Set

  An empty stage with a cyclorama, representing the open air, and a living room share the stage in various proportions, including total occupancy by the one or the other. Thus, the living room is mobile. Herewith, a few dogmatic statements tentatively offered. The play begins with the empty stage (possibly a low skyline in front of the cyclorama). The room makes its first appearance by occupying about half the stage, the rest of the stage becoming garden. For Alastair’s entrance the room moves further round into view, leaving a corner of garden. The first act ends with a reverse transition to the empty stage. The second act presents the room in its position of total occupancy of the stage. There is, however, a limiting factor; we have to have a good view of the interior of an adjoining room, an office-study, which contains a telex machine. We see the machine through the door of the study, when the door is open; and the door can also shut it out of our view. When we first encounter the living room, the study door being open, we can see that the telex machine is operating, that is, the paper stuttering out of the machine. After Alastair’s entrance, our view of the machine does not have to be so direct. But, again, when the room is in its Act Two position we need a clear view of a man sitting at the telex. The telex is like a large modern typewriter, on a desk. It has to be ‘practical’ and operate on cue.

  We are in a fictitious African country, formerly a British Colony. The living room is part of a large and expensive house. The furniture is European with local colour. It looks comfortable and well used. Essentials include a telephone, marble-topped table or sideboard with bottles and glasses on it, and a large sofa. The verandah also has suitable furniture on it, including a small table and a couple of chairs at the downstage end. The garden will contain at least one long comfortable cane chair. The room should seat five people comfortably, possibly around a low table. This furniture might well be in a shallow well, so that people entering the room from further inside the house, or from the study, do so from a good vantage. The room could be connected with the rest of the house through a door, more likely double-doors, or it might continue out of sight into the wings.