by Tom Stoppard
(The rivets are starting to pop.)
ALBERT: —good head for heights——
FRASER: —they don’t know, or don’t believe it, but the physical laws are inviolable—
(Cracking and wrenching.)
ALBERT: What’s happening?
FRASER: —and if you carry on like that, a bridge will shiver, the girders tensed and trembling for the release of the energy being driven through them—
ALBERT: —it’s breaking up!
FRASER: —until the rivets pop—
ALBERT (screams): What are they doing to my bridge!
FRASER: —and a forty-foot girder moans like a Jew’s harp—
(Twang.)
—and one’s enough—
ALBERT: To go to such lengths! I didn’t do them any harm! What did I have that they wanted?
(The bridge collapses.)
WHERE ARE THEY NOW?
CHARACTERS
In addition, a small group of 13-year-olds is required to chorus one line; and a large number of Old Boys are heard singing the School Song with a piano accompaniment.
NOTE: The play is set entirely in two inter-cut locations, School Dinner (1945) and Old Boys’ Dinner (1969). Part of the idea is to move between the two without using any of the familiar grammar of fading down and fading up; the action is continuous. For the sake of absolute clarity I have scored a line across the page at the points where the location changes but the hope is that these points are in fact self-evident, both on the page and on the air.
The OLD BOYS are heard taking their places at the tables. The scrapes and murmurs die down to an expectant silence.
HEADMASTER: For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful.
OLD BOYS: Amen.
(The OLD BOYS take their seats.)
* * *
GROUCHO: Eurgh!
DOBSON: Pass it along, boy, and be your age.
GROUCHO: I don’t like dogfish, sir.
DOBSON: It is not dogfish, it is salmon, rock salmon, finest rock salmon, caught, quite possibly, off the rocky coasts of our Canadian allies, what is it, Chico?
CHICO: Rock salmon, sir.
DOBSON: Exactly. Why is Harpo weeping?
GROUCHO: He’s not weeping, he’s praying. It’s double French today, isn’t it, Harpo?
DOBSON: That will do, boy.
CHICO: Can I have yours, Groucho? You can have some of my strawberry jam at tea.
GROUCHO: I don’t want your rotten turnip jam, Brindley, I’ve got Mexican honey my mother sent from Mexico.
DOBSON: Enough! Who’s on tucker today?
CHORUS: Harpo, sir!
DOBSON: Serve the Pom, then, Harpo, and do cheer up. Eat your salmon, boy.
GROUCHO: It’s what we had in biology yesterday—fried in batter.
DOBSON: Four C’s by tomorrow morning.
GROUCHO: Oh, sir!
DOBSON: Even with your parents in Mexico it cannot have escaped your attention for the last five years that there’s a war on.
GROUCHO: I think it’s off, sir.
DOBSON: You mean the Germans have surrendered?
GROUCHO: The dog salmon, sir.
DOBSON: Rock salmon.
GROUCHO: It’s off.
DOBSON: Two helpings for you then, Groucho.
GROUCHO: Ugh!
CHICO: He’s right, sir.
DOBSON: None for you then, Chico.
CHICO: Oh sir!
GROUCHO: That’ll teach you, Brindley.
DOBSON: I may look old but I’m not senile. Root, boy!
CHICO: Senex—senis—old man!
* * *
DOBSON: Splendid, Brindley, old man! Splendid to see you! Can I help you to wine—ah, waiter!
(A gavel bangs. The hubbub is dying down, BRINDLEY speaks quietly.)
BRINDLEY: Oh, thank you, Mr. Dobson.
(Gavel. DOBSON is, apparently, a little deaf now.)
DOBSON: Does everybody know everybody? What—Oh!—Ah! Headmaster …
(The HEADMASTER is some way off mike, at first.)
HEADMASTER: Gentlemen, it would not be appropriate to let the whole evening pass before bidding you welcome, and yet I would not wish to belabour you with that welcome while your salmon lies untasted on the plate—so for the moment I will restrict my remarks to expressing my pleasure at seeing so many Old Boys here tonight, and later while you are digesting not only the smoked salmon but also the turkey and the apple pie, I shall have more to tell you of the School and the events of the past year. Until then, as Monsieur Leblanc would wish me to say, bon appetit!
(He desists amid dutiful chuckles, and the murmur re-establishes itself.)
MARKS: Leave the bottle, waiter, we’ll look after that, there’s a good fellow. Pretty unimaginative menu, what, Brindley?
BRINDLEY: Do you think so, Marks?
DOBSON: I don’t suppose you know Leblanc, do you?
BRINDLEY: No—Mr. Jenkins taught French in my day.
DOBSON: Leblanc is French, of course. I don’t really see the point of that. After all I have taught Latin adequately for fifty years without so much as crossing the Rubicon, eh-eh …? Still, Leblanc looks better on the prospectus than Jenkins. The boys call him Chalky, so he must have taught them something.
MARKS: We used to call Jenkins Paddy.
BRINDLEY: Taffy.
MARKS: I mean Taffy. Taffy Jenkins.
DOBSON: Yes, you were an inspired lot.
MARKS: Good of you to say so, sir. I thought we were a cut above the average. I think most of us have done pretty well—except Reverend Brindley here, of course—no offence, old chap—some things are worth more than gold, eh?
BRINDLEY: The correct usage is Mr. Brindley. I do wish you would get these things right. You may refer to me in full, if you like, as ‘the Reverend Jonathan Brindley’, or ‘The Reverend Mr. Brindley’ but to say Reverend Brindley is as silly as saying Corpulent Marks. Besides, your assumption may be premature—after all, the Archbishop of Canterbury gets seven and a half thousand a year.
MARKS: Did you look that up?
BRINDLEY: Certainly not! It’s … it’s common knowledge, isn’t it?
DOBSON: And what about Mr. Gale here? I’ve often wondered what became of you.
BRINDLEY: What! You don’t read the right paper! Our friend Gale is a journalist of considerable repute—a crusading journalist, I think one might call you, eh Gale?
DOBSON: Oh, I’m very sorry. But your failure to contribute to the Magazine’s ‘Where Are They Now?’ page does not leave you entirely blameless, Gale. Nevertheless, it is very good to see you after so many years. And what do you crusade for?
(Small pause.)
BRINDLEY: Mr. Gale has lately returned from Lagos.
DOBSON: Really? How very interesting! What is happening on the Ivory Coast nowadays?
(A small embarrassed silence.)
MARKS (jovially): I say, are you going to keep that bottle to yourself, Gale? It’s pretty poor chablis but I’ll have another crack at it. Thanks very much … Talking of Jenkins, do you remember his famous Bruiser?
BRINDLEY: My goodness yes, the fearsome Jenkins and his Bruiser—I hope that sort of thing no longer exists, Mr. Dobson?
MARKS: Nonsense, Brindley—never did us any harm—a few thumps with the end of a rope to keep us up to scratch. No good sending a bunch of ninnies into the world, what say you, Gale?
JENKINS: My name’s Jenkins, as a matter of fact.
DOBSON: Ah, that explains it.
JENKINS: Explains what?
DOBSON: That chair you are sitting in was meant for Jenkins the French, as I understood it—indeed Mr. Gale wrote to ask that he might sit at the same table—but then it transpired that Jenkins the French had in point of fact died——
MARKS: Died?
DOBSON: Quite so. Every master dies in the twelve months preceding one Old Boys’ Dinner or another—except for that appalling man Grimes who actually died during one. I shall be no exception
. Where was I?
MARKS: Poor chap.
BRINDLEY: Yes indeed. He seemed indestructible. It was part of his fearsomeness.
MARKS: I don’t think I was actually afraid of him …
JENKINS: It does say Jenkins on this place-card.
DOBSON: Exactly. Everything is explained. The chair was not for Jenkins the French, it was for you. What year did you leave, boy?
JENKINS: 1918.
DOBSON: What! You were below me! What house?
JENKINS: I wasn’t in any particular house as such.
DOBSON: Nonsense! Everyone was in a house. I was in Routledge, as it was then.
JENKINS: Oh. I can’t honestly remember now. I was only a weekday boarder, wetlegs they called us, I forget why.
DOBSON: Weekday boarder? No such thing.
JENKINS: There was then. The war, I expect.
DOBSON: I remember the war perfectly well. I was in Routledge.
JENKINS (helpfully): I remember I had a colour.
DOBSON: Got your pink? Batting or bowling?
JENKINS: No, no—we were all split up into colours. I was maroon.
DOBSON (forgetting himself): You’re mad! I may be senile but I’m not completely loco!
JENKINS (stiffly): Just as you like. As a matter of fact, I don’t remember you either.
DOBSON: Don’t remember me?! I’ve been at the School man and boy longer than anyone alive! Did you subscribe to my clock?
JENKINS: Clock?
DOBSON: Obviously not!
JENKINS: I’m afraid I’ve been out East more or less since I was twenty one … Ever been to Malaya, by any chance?
DOBSON (witheringly): You mean in the summer holidays? I see they’ve sewn the slices of lemon into little muslin bags this year. Why do you suppose that is?
MARKS: It’s to stop it squirting in your eye.
DOBSON: We’ve never had muslin bags at the Royal Derby Hotel before. Perhaps there were cases of temporary blindness after last year’s dinner.
BRINDLEY: I believe that Mr. Marks was temporarily blind after last year’s dinner.
(The table laughs loudly at this, until CRAWFORD, to his embarrassment, is left laughing all by himself.)
DOBSON: Oh—I don’t suppose you know Mr. Crawford, do you?
CRAWFORD: How do you do?
DOBSON: Crawford, on your left, round the table, that’s Mr. Gale, Mr. Jenkins, Mr. Brindley, and this is Mr. Marks on my right.
MARKS: You’re an Old Boy, Mr. Crawford?
CRAWFORD: Yes, sir.
DOBSON: Mr. Crawford left school last term. He was head boy.
MARKS: Good lord!—sorry, Crawford, it’s just that in my day the top cap was always a swaggering young blood with a five o’clock shadow and a world-weary manner. How old are you?
CRAWFORD: Eighteen, sir.
MARKS: Children! The Upper Henty must be full of children!
CRAWFORD: Yes, sir.
BRINDLEY: Mr. Marks is being heavily ironic, old chap.
CRAWFORD: Sorry, sir.
MARKS: Yes, sir—sorry, sir … Do you remember Runcible? And Grant-Menzies? They were kings? Grant-Menzies used a cane with a silver knob and kept a pre-war Lagonda garaged in town. They could reduce the lockers to trembling silence with one look.
DOBSON: Runcible is here—at the Headmaster’s table. Do you approve of the new seating arrangements? We’ve always had the Old Boys’ Dinner at long tables in the past, Gale, in the Chatsworth Room downstairs, but we managed to arrange a swap.
MARKS: Speaking for myself I think the change was long overdue. Let the lower decks have the long tables, say I. I like a round table, we’ve always had a round table at home. I suppose you have a rectory table, Brindley.
BRINDLEY: I think you mean refectory.
MARKS: Long tables always remind me of school, (jocularly)
Who’s on tucker today, eh?
* * *
CHORUS: Harpo, sir!
DOBSON: So you are—well, jump to it, lad, let’s have the pudding in—Oh! Why haven’t you been eating? Do you hear me, boy? … What did he say?
CHICO: He says he’s not feeling well.
DOBSON: Not feeling well? Why should anybody expect to feel well? Has he got a mog chit?
GROUCHO: He’s just got the frits, haven’t you, Harpo?
CHICO: It’s all right for you, Groucho—he got as far as you this morning.
DOBSON: All right, all right—do stop crying and take your plate away. You really shouldn’t get into such a state over Mr. Jenkins. He no doubt has a thankless task trying to educate you in a subject that will prove invaluable to you in later life should you join the Foreign Legion, which most of you will probably have to … No, you can’t leave yours, Anderson; I’m not having any more waste.
ANDERSON: I don’t feel well, sir.
DOBSON: If you don’t feel well why didn’t you go to Staggers this morning?
ANDERSON: I don’t know, sir.
DOBSON: Oh, don’t be stupid, boy! I will not tolerate stupid replies. Very well, go to matron immediately after lunch, and if she can’t find anything wrong with you I’m going to put you on tunky for the whole weekend—Have you been reading at table?!
ANDERSON: No, sir.
DOBSON: No?—what do you mean, no? Is that a book or isn’t it?
ANDERSON: Yes, sir. I wasn’t actually reading, sir.
DOBSON: Give it to me at once … What’s this? Ah! Very well, since you find this so fascinating, let me have page sixteen translated into Latin by the morning, as far as ‘dit le boulanger’.
ANDERSON (dumbfounded): French into Latin?
DOBSON: Now isn’t that interesting? It has never occurred to Anderson that one foreign language can be translated into another. He assumes that every strange tongue exists only by virtue of its not being English. Ah—milk pudding!
CHICO: Dried milk.
GROUCHO: Frogspawn.
DOBSON: Put it down then. Thank you.
HARPO: Yes, sir.
DOBSON: Ah! Harpo speaks! You’re not mute after all. You just have nothing to say.
GROUCHO: You can have mine, Brindley.
CHICO: No, thanks, Groucho. It’s not milk, it’s Klim, I bet you.
DOBSON: Nothing wrong with Klim. Fresh from the Ministry of Food’s prize herd of Jersey woes. I have just said something extremely risible—Root, boy!
CHICO: Rido—ridere—risi, I laugh!
* * *
(CRAWFORD laughing solo, slightly inebriated.)
CRAWFORD: Very good! Very good!
DOBSON (reprovingly): It wasn’t that funny, Crawford.
CRAWFORD (stops laughing): Oh, sorry, sir.
DOBSON: Perhaps you had better pass the wine on.
CRAWFORD: Yes, sir, sorry, sir.
MARKS: There you are, Brindley.
BRINDLEY: Oh, I don’t think I should have any more …
MARKS: Can’t say I blame you, old man. I only care for French wines, myself.
BRINDLEY: It does say Burgundy on the bottle.
MARKS: It’s the old wine ramp, vicar! Cheapish, reddish and Spanish, marks my word or my name’s not Mark—or rather—
(BRINDLEY giggles.)
I say, Brindley, you’ve had enough!
BRINDLEY: Gale has imbibed most of it, with respect——
MARKS: You’re welcome to it, Gale, and as for the turkey, I wouldn’t give it to my chow.
DOBSON: Your char?
MARKS: No, my chow—an absolute brute, he is, but one needs to have a guard dog about the place—got a bit of decent silver, you know …
JENKINS (quietly, under MARKS): I hope that fellow Marks isn’t the typical Old Boy nowadays, eh Gale? I’ll tell you one thing, he wouldn’t have lasted long up country, certainly not in the old days. The Christmas turkey came out of a tin, if you were lucky, my goodness yes. Suited me, though. I’ll tell you quite frankly, Gale, after the war I didn’t bother with home leave at all. It wasn’t home any more, you see, not as I kne
w it. Spent my leaves in K.L. or Singapore. Mind you, here I am again, and for good. I’ll tell you what it was, Gale. Once I’d retired and life was all leave, well I began to feel I was abroad again. Dammit, I was homesick. (Chuckles.) Or schoolsick. I think I came back just to attend this dinner, for the first time. Like you, I believe. Perhaps your reasons were similar? I gather you have been working in foreign climes …? The old school was my England, you see; at least it was the part I knew best and thought about, and missed. I had a fine time … good friends. We all seemed to belong to each other, you know. Do you know what I mean?
GALE (quietly): No.
JENKINS (unhearing): I was hoping I might see one or two survivors … Bunny Sullivan especially, he was a close friend. And the younger Robertson—his brother was killed in my last year, he was in destroyers. But I don’t think I know anybody … Mr. Dobson! What happened to Bunny Sullivan, do you know?
DOBSON: You mean Bunty Sullivan—and anyway, it wasn’t Sullivan. I forget his name but it wasn’t Sullivan. I expect you’ve got mixed up with Seligman.
JENKINS: He was captain of squash.
DOBSON: Fives, you mean.
JENKINS: Was it?
DOBSON: We have never been a squash school. (Quietly, to MARKS) You realize, Marks, that that fellow isn’t really Jenkins at all?
MARKS (a quarter drunk): ’Course not. Jenkins is dead, God rest his soul. (Piously.) I’ll never forget you, Tommy Jenkins, here’s to you, old chap!
DOBSON: No—no—I mean he isn’t even the Jenkins he claims to be. There may have been a Jenkins, but I don’t know this chap.
MARKS: Well, it must be fifty years …
DOBSON: I never forget a boy. Besides, he’s made several elementary mistakes. I don’t know what his game is but he’s an imposter.
JENKINS (to GALE): He must have been a complete nonentity. If he was there at all. I mean, there’s something damned odd about the man—what is he trying to prove with this rigmarole? Dammit, I played squash. Personally, I think the old boy is just past it, he’s obviously mixing up this school with some other school he was at. His mind’s gone. I should know—I had my first cigarette in the squash court! Bunty and I were sick as dogs. Bunny. Oh yes … where are they now, the snows of yesteryear? Life was simpler then. And England was such a pretty place. I swear people were nicer. I don’t remember such desperation over … winning the next trick. Yes, the old school was damned good to me. And it was all pasture-land then, you know. On long summer evenings when we were all in bed and almost asleep, we’d hear the farmer’s boy on the hill, calling the cattle home, singing them home … God, yes.