by Alan Bennett
Took the dogs up the hill later on. They’re next I suppose. Bloody psychiatrist.
GO TO BLACK.
Come up on Muriel in a plain boarding-house room. Evening.
Crack of dawn this morning I routed out my trusty green cossy and spent a happy half-hour breasting the billows. The old cossy’s seen better days and the moth has got into the bust but as the only people about were one or two brave souls walking the dog I didn’t frighten the troops.
Came back hungry as a hunter so boiled myself an egg on the ring and had it with a slice of Ryvita, sitting in the window. Sun just catches it for an hour then, lovely. I tidied the room, did one or two jobs, and then toddled along to the library and had a walk round Boots by which time it was getting on for lunchtime, it’s surprising how time does go. When I think of the things I used to get through in the old days I wonder how I did it.
Been here about a month now. Got onto it via an advert in The Lady. Sledmere it’s called, ‘Holiday flatlets’. Off season, of course, and quite reasonable. I haven’t quite got the town sorted out yet. I feel sure there must be a community here if only I can put my finger on it. I had a word with a young woman at the Town Hall. Blue fingernails but civil enough otherwise. Said was I interested in Meals On Wheels. I said, ‘Rather. I was 2 i/c Meals on Wheels for the whole of Sudbury,’ a fund of experience. Brawn not too good but brains available to be picked at any time. She looked a bit blank. Turns out she meant did I want to be on the receiving end. I said, ‘Not on your life.’ But message received and understood. The old girl’s past it. Hence the swim, I suppose.
Still, I soldier on and it’s not quite orphans of the storm time. I look round the shops quite a bit and if I’m lucky I run into Angela Gillespie who’s got her mother in a home here and comes over from time to time. We have coffee and a natter about the old days. Though I can’t do that too often. Morning coffee these days seems to cost a king’s ransom. And with me there doesn’t have to be coffee. I can talk to anybody. The other morning I got chatting to one of these young men in orange who bang their tambourines in the precinct. Came up to me rattling his bowl, shaven head but otherwise quite sensible. His view is that life is some kind of prep. Trial run. Thinks we’re being buffed up for a better role next time. As sensible as anything else I suppose. I said, ‘Well, I just hope it’s not in Hunstanton.’ (She laughs.)
The big bright spot on the horizon is Margaret. Heaps better, lost a lot of weight, got rid of that terrible cardigan and now is quite a good-looking young woman. In a hostel up to pres. but planning on getting a small flat. Came down last week and says next time it could be under her own steam, takes her driving test in ten days. Miracle. She took me out to lunch just like a normal girl. Talked about Ralph etc. Doesn’t blame him, wishes he were alive. I don’t know what I think. Sorry for him, I suppose. She paid the bill and left a tip, just as if she’d been doing it all her life. Of course she’ll be nicely off now, Ralph tied it all up so tight even Giles couldn’t get his hands on it, the rascal.
Don’t see him and Pippa much, not a peep out of them for over a month now. Doesn’t like to come down, says it upsets him. Don’t know why. Doesn’t upset me. Miss the tinies. Not so tiny, Lucy’ll be twelve now. And twelve is like fifteen. Married next. I’d seen myself as a model grandmother, taking them to Peter Pan and the Science Museum. Not to be. Another dream bites the dust.
My big passion now is the telly box. Never bothered with it before. These days I watch it all the time. And I’m not the discerning viewer. No fear. Rubbish. Australian series in the afternoons, everything. Glued to it all. Fan.
The dialogue is more broken up now.
I sometimes wonder if I killed Ralph. All those death-dealing breakfasts. We haven’t had much weather to speak of. Eat less now. A buttered scone goes a long way.
She picks up a Walkman and headphones.
This is my new toy. Seen children with them, never appreciated what they were. Asked a young man for a listen in the precinct. Revelation. Saved up and bought one. Get the cassettes out of the library. Worth its weight in gold. Marvellous.
She puts it on and henceforth speaks in bursts and too loudly.
I wouldn’t want you to think this was a tragic story.
Pause.
I’m not a tragic woman.
Pause.
I’m not that type.
FADE OUT to the faint sound of the music, possibly Johann Strauss.
A Cream Cracker under the Settee
Doris:Thora Hird
Policeman: Steven Beard
PRODUCED BY INNES LLOYD
DESIGNED BY TONY BURROUGH
DIRECTED BY STUART BURGE
MUSIC BY GEORGE FENTON
DORIS IS IN HER SEVENTIES AND THE PLAY IS SET IN THE LIVING-ROOM AND HALLWAY OF HER SEMI-DETACHED HOUSE. SHE IS SITTING SLIGHTLY AWKWARDLY ON A LOW CHAIR AND RUBBING HER LEG. MORNING.
It’s such a silly thing to have done.
Pause.
I should never have tried to dust. Zulema says to me every time she comes, ‘Doris. Do not attempt to dust. The dusting is my department. That’s what the council pay me for. You are now a lady of leisure. Your dusting days are over.’ Which would be all right provided she did dust. But Zulema doesn’t dust. She half-dusts. I know when a place isn’t clean.
When she’s going she says, ‘Doris. I don’t want to hear that you’ve been touching the Ewbank. The Ewbank is out of bounds.’ I said, ‘I could just run round with it now and again.’ She said, ‘You can’t run anywhere. You’re on trial here.’ I said, ‘What for?’ She said, ‘For being on your own. For not behaving sensibly. For not acting like a woman of seventy-five who has a pacemaker and dizzy spells and doesn’t have the sense she was born with.’ I said, ‘Yes, Zulema.’
She says, ‘What you don’t understand, Doris, is that I am the only person that stands between you and Stafford House. I have to report on you. The Welfare say to me every time, “Well, Zulema, how is she coping? Wouldn’t she be better off in Stafford House?”’ I said, ‘They don’t put people in Stafford House just for running round with the Ewbank.’ ‘No,’ she says. ‘They bend over backwards to keep you in your own home. But, Doris, you’ve got to meet them halfway.You’re seventy-five. Pull your horns in. You don’t have to swill the flags.You don’t have to clean the bath. Let the dirt wait. It won’t kill you. I’m here every week.’
I was glad when she’d gone, dictating. I sat for a bit looking up at me and Wilfred on the wedding photo. And I thought, ‘Well, Zulema, I bet you haven’t dusted the top of that.’ I used to be able to reach only I can’t now. So I got the buffet and climbed up. And she hadn’t. Thick with dust. Home help. Home hindrance. You’re better off doing it yourself. And I was just wiping it over when, oh hell, the flaming buffet went over.
Pause.
You feel such a fool. I can just hear Zulema. ‘Well, Doris, I did tell you.’ Only I think I’m all right. My leg’s a bit numb but I’ve managed to get back on the chair. I’m just going to sit and come round a bit. Shakes you up, a fall.
Pause.
Shan’t let on I was dusting.
She shoves the duster down the side of the chair.
Dusting is forbidden.
She looks down at the wedding photo on the floor.
Cracked the photo. We’re cracked, Wilfred.
Pause.
The gate’s open again. I thought it had blown shut, only now it’s blown open. Bang bang bang all morning, it’ll be bang bang bang all afternoon.
Dogs coming in, all sorts.You see Zulema should have closed that, only she didn’t.
Pause.
The sneck’s loose, that’s the root cause of it. It’s wanted doing for years. I kept saying to Wilfred, ‘When are you going to get round to that gate?’ But oh no. It was always the same refrain. ‘Don’t worry, Mother. I’ve got it on my list.’ I never saw no list. He had no list. I was the one with the list. He’d no system at all, Wilfred. ‘When I get a minute, Doris
.’ Well, he’s got a minute now, bless him.
Pause.
Feels funny this leg. Not there.
Pause
Some leaves coming down now. I could do with trees if they didn’t have leaves, going up and down the path. Zulema won’t touch them. Says if I want leaves swept I’ve to contact the Parks Department.
I wouldn’t care if they were my leaves. They’re not my leaves. They’re next-door’s leaves. We don’t have any leaves. I know that for a fact. We’ve only got the one little bush and it’s an evergreen, so I’m certain they’re not my leaves. Only other folks won’t know that. They see the bush and they see the path and they think, ‘Them’s her leaves.’ Well, they’re not.
I ought to put a note on the gate. ‘Not my leaves.’ Not my leg either, the way it feels. Gone to sleep.
Pause.
I didn’t even want the bush, to be quite honest. We debated it for long enough. I said, ‘Dad. Is it a bush that will make a mess?’ He said, ‘Doris. Rest assured. This type of bush is very easy to follow,’ and fetches out the catalogue. “‘This labour-saving variety is much favoured by retired people.” Anyway,’ he says, ‘the garden is my department.’ Garden! It’s only the size of a tablecloth. I said, ‘Given a choice, Wilfred, I’d have preferred concrete.’ He said, ‘Doris. Concrete has no character.’ I said, ‘Never mind character, Wilfred, where does hygiene come on the agenda?’ With concrete you can feel easy in your mind. But no. He had to have his little garden even if it was only a bush. Well, he’s got his little garden now. Only I bet that’s covered in leaves. Graves, gardens, everything’s to follow.
I’ll make a move in a minute. See if I can’t put the kettle on. Come on leg. Wake up.
GO TO BLACK.
Come up on Doris sitting on the floor with her back to the wall. The edge of a tiled fireplace also in shot.
Fancy, there’s a cream cracker under the settee. How long has that been there? I can’t think when I last had cream crackers. She’s not half done this place, Zulema.
I’m going to save that cream cracker and show it her next time she starts going on about Stafford House. I’ll say, ‘Don’t Stafford House me, lady. This cream cracker was under the settee. I’ve only got to send this cream cracker to the Director of Social Services and you’ll be on the carpet. Same as the cream cracker. I’ll be in Stafford House, Zulema, but you’ll be in the Unemployment Exchange.’
I’m en route for the window only I’m not making much headway. I’ll bang on it. Alert somebody. Don’t know who. Don’t know anybody round here now. Folks opposite, I don’t know them. Used to be the Marsdens. Mr and Mrs Marsden and Yvonne, the funny daughter. There for years. Here before we were, the Marsdens. Then he died, and she died, and Yvonne went away somewhere. A home, I expect.
Smartish woman after them. Worked at Wheatley and Whiteley, had a three-quarter-length coat. Used to fetch the envelopes round for the blind. Then she went and folks started to come and go. You lose track. I don’t think they’re married, half of them. You see all sorts. They come in the garden and behave like animals. I find the evidence in a morning.
She picks up the photograph that has fallen from the wall.
Now, Wilfred.
Pause.
I can nip this leg and nothing.
Pause.
Ought to have had a dog. Then it could have been barking of someone. Wilfred was always hankering after a dog. I wasn’t keen. Hairs all up and down, then having to take it outside every five minutes. Wilfred said he would be prepared to undertake that responsibility. The dog would be his province. I said, ‘Yes, and whose province would all the little hairs be?’ I gave in in the finish, only I said it had to be on the small side. I didn’t want one of them great lolloping, lamppost-smelling articles. And we never got one either. It was the growing mushrooms in the cellar saga all over again. He never got round to it. A kiddy’d’ve solved all that. Getting mad ideas. Like the fretwork, making toys and forts and whatnot. No end of money he was going to make. Then there was his phantom allotment. Oh, he was going to be coming home with leeks and spring cabbage and I don’t know what. ‘We can be self-sufficient in the vegetable department, Doris.’ Never materialised. I was glad. It’d’ve meant muck somehow.
Hello. Somebody coming. Salvation.
She cranes up towards the window.
Young lad. Hello. Hello.
She begins to wave.
The cheeky monkey. He’s spending a penny. Hey.
She shouts.
Hey. Get out. Go on. Clear off. You little demon. Would you credit it? Inside our gate. Broad daylight. The place’ll stink.
A pause as she realises what she has done.
He wouldn’t have known what to do anyway. Only a kiddy. The policeman comes past now and again. If I can catch him. Maybe the door’s a better bet. If I can get there I can open it and wait while somebody comes past.
She starts to heave herself up.
This must be what they give them them frame things for.
GO TO BLACK.
Come up on Doris sitting on the floor in the hall, her back against the front door, the letter-box above her head.
This is where we had the pram. You couldn’t get past for it. Proper prams then, springs and hoods. Big wheels. More like cars than prams. Not these fold-up jobs. You were proud of your pram. Wilfred spotted it in the Evening Post. I said, ‘Don’t let’s jump the gun, Wilfred.’ He said, ‘At that price, Doris? This is the chance of a lifetime.’
Pause.
Comes under this door like a knife. I can’t reach the lock. That’s part of the Zulema regime. ‘Lock it and put it on the chain, Doris.You never know who comes. It may not be a bona fide caller.’ It never is a bona fide caller. I never get a bona fide caller.
Couple came round last week. Braying on the door. They weren’t bona fide callers, they had a Bible. I didn’t go. Only they opened the letter-box and started shouting about Jesus. ‘Good news,’ they kept shouting. ‘Good news.‘They left the gate open, never mind good news. They ought to get their priorities right. They want learning that on their instruction course. Shouting about Jesus and leaving gates open. It’s hypocrisy is that. It is in my book anyway. ‘Love God and close all gates.’
She closes her eyes. We hear some swift steps up the path and the letter-box opens as a leaflet comes through. Swift steps away again as she opens her eyes.
Hello, hello.
She bangs on the door behind her.
Help. Help. Oh stink.
She tries to reach the leaflet.
What is it? Minicabs? ‘Your roof repaired’?
She gets the leaflet.
‘Grand carpet sale.’ Carpet sales in chapels now. Else Sikhs.
She looks at the place where the pram was.
I wanted him called John. The midwife said he wasn’t fit to be called anything and had we any newspaper? Wilfred said, ‘Oh yes. She saves newspaper. She saves shoeboxes as well.’ I must have fallen asleep because when I woke up she’d gone. I wanted to see to him. Wrapping him in newspaper as if he was dirty. He wasn’t dirty, little thing. I don’t think Wilfred minded. A kiddy. It was the same as the allotment and the fretwork. Just a craze. He said, ‘We’re better off, Doris. Just the two of us.’ It was then he started talking about getting a dog.
If it had lived I might have had grandchildren now. Wouldn’t have been in this fix. Daughters are best. They don’t migrate.
Pause.
I’m going to have to migrate or I’ll catch my death.
She nips her other leg.
This one’s going numb now.