Tom Stoppard Plays 2

by Tom Stoppard

  BLAIR: For God’s sake—she nearly kicked over my American Townsend.

  PAMELA: Well, hold her still.

  (Tense silence, marked by an orchestra of ticks and tocks.)

  How long have I got before they all go off?

  BLAIR: About a minute.

  PAMELA: I don’t see why they have to be going all the time.

  BLAIR: If they weren’t going they wouldn’t be clocks, they’d be bric-à-brac. The long delay in the invention of the clock was all to do with the hands going round. If the hands didn’t have to go round, the Greeks could have had miniature Parthenons on their mantelshelves with clock faces stuck into the pediments permanently showing ten past two or eight thirty-five …

  MRS RYAN: Were you expecting a clock today, sir? A package came for you, special delivery, sender’s name Purvis.

  BLAIR: Oh yes. Do you remember Purvis, Pamela?

  PAMELA: Don’t talk to me while I’m stitching; Isn’t Empy being brave? Good girl.

  BLAIR: I introduced you to him at the Chief’s Christmas drinks. You said there was something funny about him. Pretty sharp. He tried to kill himself the other night. He killed a dog instead. He’s sent me a family heirloom. I suppose I’ll have to send it back now.

  PAMELA: That must be what the note from Security was about. They opened your parcel in transit. They thought it was suspicious.

  BLAIR: No, no I know all about it. Purvis has sent me an old sea captain’s wooden peg-leg.

  PAMELA: No he hasn’t, he’s sent you a stuffed parrot.

  BLAIR: That’s what I meant. There’s one just like it on the piano in the trophy room at Cork Castle. That reminds me, there’s a serious problem with the obelisk on the tower. It’s going to look lop-sided depending on where one is standing, even though it’s in the middle.

  PAMELA: That’s because of the corners. You should have had a round tower.

  BLAIR: Why didn’t you tell me?

  PAMELA: I didn’t think it mattered. The whole thing is fairly loopy anyway.

  BLAIR: It’s the old story—never change anything that works! I had in mind the obelisk at Plumpton Magna where they have a round tower but I thought I would go octagonal. It’s entirely my own fault.

  PAMELA: You mean your own folly. Can you reach the forceps?

  BLAIR: Where are they?

  PAMELA: On the grate.

  BLAIR: Right.

  (BLAIR yelps as he drops the forceps. He yelps louder as the donkey kicks him. The donkey brays. All the clocks starts to chime and strike. The donkey gallops across the wooden floor and then out of earshot.)

  She kicked me!

  PAMELA: I know just how she felt.

  BLAIR: Well, the forceps were red hot.

  (The clocks are still going strong.)

  MRS RYAN: Is it all right if I get on now, dear?

  PAMELA: Yes, all right, Mrs Ryan. Good job the french windows were open.

  (MRS RYAN switches on a vacuum cleaner.

  PAMELA fades out calling for Empy as she leaves the room.)

  MRS RYAN: Can you lift your leg, dear?

  BLAIR: No, I can’t. The knee is swelling visibly.

  MRS RYAN: Don’t you worry, dear. I’ll vacuum round you.

  (The clocks continue to strike.)

  SCENE 6

  Exterior. City park (St James’s). Day.

  Big Ben is striking.

  BLAIR: Good morning. I see the tulips are fighting fit.

  HOGBIN: There’s no need for that, sir.

  BLAIR: No, no, just a passing remark. I thought you were keen on the things. Anyway, what’s up?

  HOGBIN: You remember that letter Purvis wrote you?

  BLAIR: Yes?

  HOGBIN: It’s been on my mind.

  BLAIR: You really do worry too much.

  HOGBIN: Didn’t it worry you, Mr Blair?

  BLAIR: Well, some of it of course … but every family has occasional problems.

  HOGBIN: You mean about Mrs Blair?

  BLAIR: No, I don’t mean anything of the sort. I really don’t understand how some people’s minds work. I was talking about Q6. We’re a small department with, I like to think, a family feeling, and we have occasional problems, that’s all.

  HOGBIN: I’m sorry. I didn’t believe a word of it, of course. The whole letter was raving mad. I never read anything so obviously off its trolley. That’s what worries me about it, as a matter of fact. That’s why it’s on my mind.

  BLAIR: What do you mean, Hogbin?

  HOGBIN: Well, sir—the opium den in Eaton Square, the belly dancer at Buckingham Palace, the sea captain’s piano leg—

  BLAIR: Parrot—it was a stuffed parrot.

  HOGBIN: Well, whatever. And some scandal with an entire male-voice choir.

  BLAIR: I asked Purvis about that. He said it involved a Welsh rarebit.

  HOGBIN: You see what I mean.

  BLAIR: No.

  HOGBIN: I think the letter smells. I think he overdid it. I think he’s shamming, Mr Blair.

  BLAIR: Shamming what?

  HOGBIN: I think Purvis wanted you to think he’d gone off his trolley.

  BLAIR: But Hogbin … he did jump off Chelsea Bridge.

  HOGBIN: At high tide. The absolute top. To the minute.

  BLAIR: Exactly.

  HOGBIN: When there was the shortest possible distance to fall.

  BLAIR: Everybody goes too fast for me nowadays.

  HOGBIN: Think about it, sir. There he is in the Soviet safe house in Highgate. What he’s doing there I leave an open question for the minute. He makes a conspicuous departure, practically begging to be followed. He walks all the way home just to make it easy. He comes out flashing a letter which he posts, and then off to the bridge and over he goes—just as a handy barge is there to pick him up.

  BLAIR: But he landed on the barge.

  HOGBIN: It went slightly wrong. Especially for the dog.

  BLAIR: You’re not serious?

  HOGBIN: No, I’m not. It’s just not on. Apart from anything else the bargee and his family have been scudding about the river for three generations, real Tories, can’t abide foreigners, wouldn’t even eat the food. So that one is a non-starter. I’m just showing that the facts would fit more than one set of possibilities. There’s something wrong with that letter. I know there is. You wouldn’t like to tell me what Purvis was doing up in Highgate?

  BLAIR: He was discussing political theory.

  HOGBIN: I suppose you people know what you’re doing.

  BLAIR: Well, one tries.

  HOGBIN: Where is Purvis now?

  BLAIR: Convalescing. We maintain a house on the Norfolk coast, as a rest-home for those of our people who … need a rest. Sea breezes, simple exercise, plain food, TV lounge, own grounds, wash-basins in every room … It’s like an hotel, one of those appalling English hotels. So I’m told—I’ve never been there.

  HOGBIN: A rest-home tor people who crack up?

  BLAIR: You could put it like that. Or you could say it’s a health farm.

  HOGBIN: A funny farm?

  BLAIR: I think that’s about as much as I can help you, Hogbin.

  HOGBIN: How is Purvis now?

  BLAIR: I’m going to go and see him in a day or two. I’ll let you know how I find him.

  HOGBIN: If you find him. Is there a gate to this place?

  BLAIR: No, as far as I know Purvis could make a dash for it in his wheelchair any time he chooses.

  HOGBIN: I’m sorry if I seem to be obstinate. But there is something funny about that letter, sir. I don’t know what it is.

  BLAIR: Well, I’m afraid I must be getting back.

  HOGBIN: Thank you for coming out to meet me … You seem to have been in the wars.

  BLAIR: Got kicked on the kneecap, nothing serious. Goodbye—careful with my hand, burned my fingers … Oh, how I love this view!—what a skyline! All the way up Whitehall from Parliament Square, Trafalgar Square, St James’s … It’s like one enormous folly.

  SCENE 7<
br />
  Exterior. Car arriving on gravel. Motor mower at work in background.

  The car draws up and comes to a halt. The car door opens and slams.

  ARLON is an old buffer who is mowing the lawn not far off.

  ARLON: Ahoy there!

  BLAIR: Er—good afternoon.

  ARLON: (Approaching) Spanking day!

  BLAIR: Yes, indeed. Where would I find …?

  ARLON: Quite a swell.

  BLAIR: Thank you.

  ARLON: Force three, south-sou’-west, running before the wind all the way down from London, just the ticket.

  BLAIR: Where would I find Dr Sed—?

  ARLON: Hang on, let me turn this thing off.

  (The engine of the mower is cut to idling speed.)

  That’s better. Welcome aboard.

  BLAIR: I don’t want to interrupt your mowing.

  ARLON: Glad of the excuse to heave to, been tacking up and down all morning.

  BLAIR: You’re doing an excellent job here.

  ARLON: Good of you to say so.

  BLAIR: Deeply satisfying, I should think.

  ARLON: Well, it’s not everybody’s idea of fun, running a bin for a couple of dozen assorted nervous wrecks and loonies, but I suppose it’s better than cleaning spittoons in the fo’c’sle—even when London won’t give us the money to pay a proper gardener. Still, there we are—you must be Blair. What happened to your fingers? Ice in the rigging?

  BLAIR: How do you do? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize … You are the warden here?

  ARLON: I prefer the term keeper, just as I prefer the term loony. Let’s call things by their proper name, eh?

  BLAIR: Yes … Dr Seddon, isn’t it?

  ARLON: Commodore.

  BLAIR: Commodore Seddon?

  ARLON: You’ve come about Purvis, the scourge of the tidal bestiary, the one-man mission to keep the inland waterways dog-free, correct?

  BLAIR: Well, yes.

  ARLON: These secret service types, once they crack they can’t stop babbling. Are you a member of the Naval and Military Club?

  BLAIR: I don’t recall.

  ARLON: I used to be. But after certain words exchanged between myself and a brother officer in the card room it was not possible for me to remain. I said to the secretary—look chum, I said, the Arlons have been gentlefolk in Middlesex for five generations. We kept our own carriage when Twickenham was a hamlet and the Greenslades were as dust under our wheels, and I will not be called a jumped-up suburban card-sharp by a man whose grandfather bought a baronetcy from the proceeds of an ointment claiming to enlarge the female breast—a spurious claim moreover as an old shipmate of mine, now unhappily gone to her Maker, might have attested. Her Maker having made her the shape of an up-ended punt. Wouldn’t you have done the same—?

  BLAIR: I …

  ARLON: I know you would. As far as that nine of hearts was concerned I accept that salting it away behind one’s braces for a rainy day does not fall within the rules of Grand National Whist as the game is understood on land, I accept that without reservation, but certain words were uttered and cannot be unuttered, they are utterly and unutterably uttered, Blair, and if you want to do a chap a favour the next time you find yourself in Pall Mall, I’d like you to take out your service revolver and go straight up to Greenslade and—

  BLAIR: Absolutely. Consider it done.

  ARLON: Thank you, Blair. I shall sleep easier.

  BLAIR: Don’t mention it. By the way, do you happen to know where I might find Dr Seddon?

  MATRON: (Approaching across the gravel) Good afternoon!

  ARLON: I expect Matron will know. Say nothing about this. Take in a couple of reefs and batten the hatches.

  BLAIR: Thank you very much.

  MATRON: Mr Blair?

  BLAIR: Good afternoon.

  MATRON: Thank you, Commodore—please continue with the mowing.

  ARLON: I don’t take orders from you, you’re just a figure-head and I’ve seen better ones on the sharp end of a dredger.

  MATRON: Now, Commodore, do you want your rum ration with your cocoa or don’t you?

  ARLON: If I mow the lawn it is because it pleases me to do so.

  (The mowing continues.)

  MATRON: Welcome to Clifftops, Mr Blair. I saw you talking to the Commodore from the window. He’s one of our more difficult guests. I do hope it wasn’t too awkward for you.

  BLAIR: It’s all right. He caught me on the wrong foot for a moment.

  MATRON: You’ll be wanting Dr Seddon. Let’s go inside.

  BLAIR: Thank you.

  (They walk a few yards of gravel and then they are in interior.)

  MATRON: He’s probably looking in on the ping-pong players in the library.

  BLAIR: Ping-pong in the library? Isn’t that rather disturbing?

  MATRON: I suppose it is but most of them are already rather disturbed when they get here. See that one over there? He’s dangerous. Let me take your coat.

  BLAIR: I haven’t got a coat.

  MATRON: Never mind—in here—quick!

  (BLAIR is pushed through a door which then closes.)

  BLAIR: What—?

  MATRON: Sssh.

  BLAIR: (Whispering) Where are we?

  MATRON: In the coat cupboard. We haven’t got long so don’t waste a minute.

  BLAIR: Really, Matron …

  MATRON: Don’t Matron me, I blew your cover the moment you showed your limp. I’m match fit and ready to go—parachute, midget submarine, you name it. The last show wasn’t my fault, the maps were out of date.

  BLAIR: Will you please open the—

  (The door is opened.)

  SEDDON: Who is in there?

  BLAIR: Ah, good afternoon—I’m looking for Dr Seddon.

  MATRON: (Sweetly) And this, of course, is the coat cupboard.

  BLAIR: Awfully nice.

  SEDDON: Thank you, Bilderbeck. You may leave our visitor to me now.

  MATRON: Matron to you, if you don’t mind.

  SEDDON: Have you had your tablets?

  MATRON: (Receding) Mind your own business.

  SEDDON: That’s Bilderbeck. She used to dress up as a matron to oblige a chap she got mixed up with in Washington. When she was confronted with the photographs she insisted that she was giving him first aid and she’s been sticking to her story ever since. It’s the only uniform we allow here. We found that they tended to set people off. So we’re all in civvies. Not even a white coat, as you see. You must be Blair. I’m Dr Seddon.

  BLAIR: How do you do. Giles Blair. Look, don’t take this amiss but would you have any form of identification?

  SEDDON: First sensible remark I’ve heard today, counting the ones by the staff. Let’s go to my office and have a cup of tea.

  BLAIR: Thanks very much.

  SEDDON: This way. How are things in London?

  BLAIR: Relatively sane.

  SEDDON: I know what you mean. My time with the firm was excellent preparation for Clifftops.

  BLAIR: Oh … were you—?

  SEDDON: Q10.

  BLAIR: Code-breaking?

  SEDDON: Code-making. You may have heard of consonantal transposition. Scramble your own telephone. That was my contribution to the fun and games.

  BLAIR: Really? No, I …

  SEDDON: We go up these stairs now. Yes, they never took it up. Said it was too difficult, or too simple, one or the other.

  BLAIR: How did it work?

  SEDDON: Posetransing stantocons, titeg?

  BLAIR: Sorry?

  SEDDON: Transposing consonants—get it?

  BLAIR: (Faintly) Ingenious.

  SEDDON: The trick was that there were no rules as such. You had to do it like improvising music. It just needed a little tackpris but cos fork the cuffing ditios dookn’t tag the feng tif of.

  BLAIR: What?

  SEDDON: Moo yee sot I wean; tackpris! Well too yot, Blair …

  BLAIR: Yot?

  SEDDON: You see—pick it up in no time! Come up to the be
lfry, I’ve got something up there which will interest you.

  BLAIR: What?

  SEDDON: Bats.

  BLAIR: Bats in the belfry?

  SEDDON: Had them for years without knowing it. I say, not that way …

  BLAIR: Excuse me—I’ve got to find someone.

  (BLAIR starts hurrying back down the stairs.)

  SEDDON: Blair—?

  BLAIR: Terribly sorry—I really have to go.

  (He gallops down the stairs. We go with him.)

  SEDDON: (Distantly) Blair …!

  (At the bottom of the stairs there is a collision.)

  BLAIR: I’m terribly sorry!

  PURVIS: Blair!

  BLAIR: Purvis! Thank goodness.

  PURVIS: I’m very glad to see you.

  BLAIR: I’m not sorry to see you. I’m damned if I can flush out anyone in authority. Where’s the chap who’s supposed to be running this show?

  PURVIS: You mean Dr Seddon? I’ll see if I can raise him for you.

  BLAIR: Just as a courtesy … It was you I came to see, of course.

  PURVIS: Really? That’s awfully nice of you. I was about to have my constitutional. Care to accompany me?

  BLAIR: Glad to give you a shove. Front door?

  PURVIS: Can’t do the steps. This way is better.

  BLAIR: How do you feel?

  PURVIS: Like a mermaid on wheels. Did I hurt your leg?

  BLAIR: That wasn’t you. Burnt my fingers pulling Pamela’s chestnuts out of the fire, nearly knocked my Hilderson lantern clock off the mantel and got kicked by the donkey for my pains.

  PURVIS: I’m awfully grateful to you for coming. It’s impossible to have a sensible conversation with anyone in this place.

  (They move to the exterior, garden.)

  There’s a path through the rhododendrons to a view of the sea.

  BLAIR: Tip me off if we run into Seddon.

  PURVIS: He’s probably up in the bell tower collecting guano for the rose-beds.

  BLAIR: Quite a decent clock up there. Reminds me a little of St Giles’s in Cambridge. If it’s a turret movement, I’d like to have a look at it. Did you say guano?

  PURVIS: Yes. Seddon discovered a colony of bats up there the other day.

  BLAIR: Bats in the belfry? Oh dear.

  PURVIS: What’s up?

  BLAIR: Perhaps it would be better if I didn’t see him. I’ll drop him a note.

  PURVIS: This is my favourite path. You can follow the top of the cliffs all the way round nearly to Cromer. At least you could if it wasn’t for the wheelchair because of the boundary fence. Whoa!