Snakes and Ladders
Page 40
I saw him move
again
behind the green
Elder Bush, green
with new born shoots.
The mist is risen now
and turned to rain,
soft rain.
My gun and hands
are one.
Are yours too, Man in
the Bush?
Why won’t he move?
This tree is my
protection,
pressed against
the roots I lie
and wait.
A pigeon
cried.
I think it was
a pigeon.
He moved again.
And now, with
stealthy hands,
he parts the greening
branches of the Elder.
I must not move.
Slowly his head,
in steel encasement
rises, gleaming with
the rain.
His face, pale and
haggard,
peers at me;
but I am not
seen;
this pine is my
protection.
Move my gun
slowly
O! so slowly
to the aim.
Stretching himself
yet crouching
he peers unseeing.
Watch his face,
white and muddied,
expressionless.
To the aim.
A crack!
Startled, a pigeon
blusters through the bushes.
A wisp of smoke
eddies in the damp
air.
He has rolled,
a sand bundle
amongst the Elder
branches, a huddled
lump,
with legs and arms
awry,
and the rain
glinting on his
helmet.
This is the first man
I have killed,
And blood, not
dew, bejewels
now the nettles,
rubies strung
on all the trembling
leaves.
And now, with
cautious fingers, the
sun peers amongst
the pillars of the
wood and sparkles
on the barrel of my
gun.
Sad Elder!
And sad the rubied nettle!
A thrush has sung.
It is the Morning.
D.B.
‘The Times Literary Supplement’, 1941
Steel Cathedrals
It seems to me, I spend my life in stations.
Going, coming, standing, waiting.
Paddington, Darlington, Shrewsbury, York.
I know them all most bitterly.
Dawn stations, with a steel light, and waxen figures.
Dust, stone, and clanking sounds, hiss of weary steam.
Night stations, shaded light, fading pools of colour.
Shadows and the shuffling of a million feet.
Khaki, blue, and bulky kitbags, rifles gleaming dull.
Metal sound of army boots, and smokers coughs.
Titter of harlots in their silver foxes.
Cases, casks, and coffins, clanging of the trolleys.
Tea urns tarnished, and the greasy white of cups.
Dry buns, Woodbines, Picture Post and Penguins;
and the blaze of magazines.
Grinding sound of trains, and rattle of the platform gates.
Running feet and sudden shouts, clink of glasses from the buffet.
Smell of drains, tar, fish and chips and sweaty scent, honk of taxis;
and gleam of cigarettes,
Iron pillars, cupolas of glass, girders messed by pigeons;
the lazy singing of a drunk.
Sailors going to Chatham, soldiers going to Crewe.
Aching bulk of kit and packs, tin hats swinging.
The station clock with staggering hands and callous face,
says twenty-five to nine.
A cigarette, a cup of tea, a bun,
and my train goes at ten.
D.B.
Poetry Review, 1943
Final Scene from: “I Could Go On Singing”
Casualty Dept. St George’s Hospital.
Small room off Consulting room.
Jenny in chair. One bandaged foot resting on stool.
JENNY. Don’t ever go to an exhibition of “Abstract Art for the Millions.”
DAVID. No. I won’t.
JENNY. And if you do go, don’t drink the Martinis.
DAVID. No.
JENNY. Because they’re half gasoline.
DAVID. And you’ve had enough.
JENNY. I’ve had enough to float Fire Island, does it show?
DAVID. Someone told me.
JENNY. Well, that’s pretty sneaky. Oh! there is a young Lord I must warn you about.
DAVID. Oh?
JENNY. Mmmm … Lord George Hell, whatever his name was. He asked me if he could take me home, and I said thank you and we got into a cab, and the next thing I knew, it was all fall down and I wound up with this. (Indicates bandaged ankle.) He knew where he lived all right, but I was out; I was out cold. I was out. Nobody asked me where I lived.
DAVID. How did you get here?
JENNY. Cab-driver named Gerald. Gerald brought me here. And they fixed my foot, and they gave me … coffee. Somebody asked for an autograph for their cousin Marilyn. (Covering face with hands) Oh! I feel AWFUL David. (David pours coffee.)
DAVID. Drink some of this, come on.
JENNY. (Waving it away.) No! No more coffee. I couldn’t drink anymore coffee; you’d have to feed me through a vein. I’m full … I’m full to the brim with the whole Goddamned world.
DAVID. Be good. Drink this. Come on.
JENNY. Have you come to take me home?
DAVID. No, I’ve come to take you to the Theatre.
JENNY. Oh no you haven’t! I’m not going back there. I’m not going back there ever, ever again.
DAVID. They’re waiting.
JENNY. (Furiously) I don’t care if they are fasting! You just give them their money back and tell them to come back next Fall.
DAVID. Jenny, it’s a Sell Out.
JENNY. I’m always a Sell-Out!
DAVID. You promised. They’re waiting. George and Ida …
JENNY. (Interrupting.) George and Ida and two-hundred thousand. I KNOW that! I KNOW! Well just let them wait … to hell with them all …
DAVID. Come on now …
JENNY. I can’t be spread so thin. I’m just one person. I don’t want to be rolled out like pastry so everyone can have a nice big bite of me! I’m me. I belong to myself. I can do whatever I damn well please with myself and nobody’s going to ask any questions!
DAVID. Now you know that’s not true, don’t you?
JENNY. Well I’m not going to do it any more, and that’s final. It’s not worth all the deaths that I have to die.
DAVID. (Kneeling beside her.) You have a show to do tonight. You have to do it, and I’m going to see that you do.
JENNY. Do you think you can MAKE me sing? Do you think you can? Do you think George can make me sing? Or Ida? You can GET me there, sure, but can you make me sing?
DAVID. No … no …
JENNY. (Voice rising.) I sing for myself! I sing when I want to. Just for me. I sing for my OWN pleasure, whenever I want. Do you understand that?
DAVID. (Taking her hands.) Yes, I do understand that; just hang on to that, will you? Hang on to that.
JENNY. I’ve hung on to every bit of rubbish there is to hang on to in this life. And I’ve thrown all the good bits away. Now can you tell me why I do that?
DAVID No, no I can’t tell you that. But I can tell you this. You’re going to be late.
JENNY. I don’t care!
DAVID. Darling. (
arms round her.) I don’t give a damn who you let down. But you’re not going to let You down.
(A long pause. When she speaks her voice is very low.)
JENNY. You haven’t called me that … for years …
DAVID. I haven’t been able to call you that for years. (She quickly averts her head.) Now come here, look at me … please … look at me. Are you listening?
JENNY. (Nods. Eyes brimming.) Mmmmm …
DAVID. There’s something else I haven’t been able to say to you in years …
JENNY. (Her hand swiftly covers his lips.) David, don’t. Don’t say it. Because if you said it now, and didn’t mean it … (weeping) I think I’d die … I think I’d die.
DAVID. I’ll mean it. I love you.
JENNY. (Sobbing.) Oh David! David!
(They hold each other close.)
DAVID. Help me! Help me!
JENNY. Help you?
DAVID. Help us. Help us!
JENNY. David, he didn’t want to go away with me. He didn’t want to. He made all kinds of excuses; he didn’t want to stay with me.
DAVID. Darling, darling … I know, I know. Help me, please help me …
JENNY. I want … I want to help you, but I don’t know how.
DAVID. Come with me now, come Jenny … please?
JENNY. David? You wouldn’t cheat me would you?
You wouldn’t pretend to me?
DAVID. Darling, I wouldn’t cheat you …
JENNY. You wouldn’t say those things to me …?
DAVID. I wouldn’t say I loved you if I didn’t.
JENNY. Tell me again David. Please tell me again … please?
DAVID. I’ll tell you as often as you want me to. I’ve always loved you.
(A long pause. She wipes her face wearily.)
JENNY. That’s where it ends, isn’t it?
DAVID. That’s where it ends. We were the right people, who met at the wrong moment. With all the right ideals. But we were both too strong to give up everything for each other.
JENNY. We just didn’t fit?
DAVID. We fitted. The rest didn’t though.
JENNY. It doesn’t make much sense …
DAVID. The loving does.
JENNY. Yes. The loving does. The loving always does.
DAVID. Are you all right now?
JENNY. (Small smile.) Mmmmm. All right.
(She tries to rise from the chair.)
JENNY. I think that your going to have to help me. With my foot …
DAVID. (Helping her.) Can you manage?
JENNY. Uhuh. (They face each other.) You know, there’s an old saying that when you go on stage, you don’t feel any pain at all. When the lights hit you, you don’t feel anything. It’s a stinking lie. Will you stay with me?
DAVID. I’ll stay.
JENNY. How long?
DAVID. Until you can stand on your feet … again.
(They stand in silence together. CUT.)
Filmography
The dates given are the approximate date of release
Dancing With Crime
1947
Esther Waters and
1948
Quartet
1948
Once A Jolly Swagman
Dear Mr Prohack
1949
Boys In Brown
The Blue Lamp
So Long At The Fair
The Woman In Question
1950
Blackmailed
Hunted
1951
Penny Princess
The Gentle Gunman
Desperate Moment
1952
Appointment In London
1953
They Who Dare
Doctor In The House
Simba
1954
The Sea Shall Not Have Them
Doctor At Sea
1955
Cast A Dark Shadow
The Spanish Gardener
1956
Ill Met By Moonlight
1956
Doctor At Large
and
Campbell’s Kingdom
1957
A Tale Of Two Cities
The Wind Cannot Read
1958
The Doctor’s Dilemma
1958
Libel
1959
Song Without End
The Angel Wore Red
The Singer Not The Song
1960
Victim
1961
H.M.S. Defiant
1962
The Password Is Courage
The Mind Benders
I Could Go On Singing
The Servant
Doctor In Distress
1963
Hot Enough For June
1964
King And Country
High Bright Sun
Darling
Modesty Blaise
1965
Accident
1966
Our Mother’s House
1967
Sebastian
1968
The Fixer
Oh! What a Lovely War
The Damned (La Caduta degli Dei)
1969
Justine
Death In Venice
1970
Films made AFTER 1970
Le Serpent (The Serpent)
1972
Il Portiere di Notte (The Night Porter)
1973
Permission To Kill
1975
Providence
1976
A Bridge Too Far
1977
Despair
1978
British Film Academy Award, 1963, for “The Servant”.
British Film Academy Award, 1965, for “Darling”.
Main Theatre Appearances
Director
Power Without Glory.
Fortune Theatre, 1947.
Chloe Gibson
With Beatrice Varley and Kenneth More.
Point of Departure. Duke of York’s, 1950.
Peter Ashmore
With Mai Zetterling.
The Shaughraun.
Bedford, Camden Town, 1952.
Judith Furse
With William Shine.
The Vortex. Lyric, Hammersmith, 1953.
Michael MacOwan
With Isobel Jeans.
Summertime. Apollo, 1955–56.
Peter Hall
With Geraldine McEwan.
Jezebel. Oxford Playhouse.
Frank Hauser
With Hermione Baddeley.
Films for Television
Little Moon Of Alban. Hallmark, U.S.A.
1965
With Julie Harris.
Blithe Spirit. Hallmark, U.S.A.
1966
With Rosemary Harris and Ruth Gordon.
The Epic That Never Was. Documentary. BBC
1963
Upon This Rock. Documentary. U.S.A.
1969
With Dame Edith Evans, Sir Ralph Richardson and Orson Welles.
Plate Section
44 Chester Row, 1947.
Provence, 1977.
Catterick Camp, Yorkshire, May 1941.
My mother, Elizabeth and my father at the cottage, Clayton, Sussex 1942.
As we are now: my sister Elizabeth, her husband George and their children, Mark and Sarah. Christmas Day at my house in Provence, 1977.
Bendrose House, Amersham, 1950.
Kay Kendall and Olive Dodds, Bendrose, July 1951. This was the day of Kate’s first visit.
Elizabeth Taylor in the cherry orchard, Bendrose, 1951.
Kate dressed for a Sunday walk, 1952.
Jean Simmons and Anouk Aimée in a heat-wave, Bendrose, 1951.
Beel House, Amersham, 1954, after demolition of the East Wing. The ‘Out-Patients’ Department’ on right.
The Green Study, Beel House, 1955.
Tea in the ‘Out-Patients’. Theo Cowan, Olive,
Rex Harrison, Kate, Julie Harris and self, 1956.
Natasha Parry and Luisa Parry, on the beach at Tamariu, Spain, 1955.
With Elizabeth and my brother Gareth. La Napoule, 1954.
With Betty E. Box and Ralph Thomas on Location at Cortina d’Ampezzo, March 1957.
Christmas day, Westbury, Long Island. Self, Rex, Kate, Tony Forwood and “June”, 1956.
Capucine and the dogs. Christmas Day, 1960.
With Elizabeth in a mistral at Cannes, 1961.
My mother and father, Cagnes, 1965.
‘The Palace’ near Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire, 1960.