by Simon Gray
SIMON GRAY
Cell Mates
Contents
Title Page
Premiere Productions
Characters
Cell Mates
Act One
Scene One
Scene Two
Scene Three
Act Two
Scene One
Scene Two
Scene Three
About the Author
Also by Simon Gray
Copyright
Cell Mates was first presented at the Yvonne Arnaud Theatre, Guildford, on 17 January 1995 and transferred to the Albery Theatre, London, on 16 February 1995. The cast, in order of appearance, was as follows:
Sean Bourke Rik Mayall
George Blake Stephen Fry
Philip / Viktor Paul Mooney
Miranda / Zinaida Carole Nimmons
Sparrow / Stan Sam Dastor
Directed by Simon Gray
Lighting Designer Mick Hughes
Set Designer Eileen Diss
Cell Mates was revived at Hampstead Theatre, London, on 30 November 2017. The cast, in order of appearance, was as follows:
Sean Bourke Emmet Byrne
George Blake Geoffrey Streatfeild
Philip / Viktor Danny Lee Wynter
Miranda / Zinaida Cara Horgan
Sparrow / Stan Philip Bird
Director Edward Hall
Designer Michael Pavelka
Lighting Designer Rick Fisher
Sound Designer John Leonard
Composer Simon Slater
Characters
Sean Bourke
George Blake
Philip
Miranda
Sparrow
Zinaida
Stan
Viktor
CELL MATES
Act One
SCENE ONE
Bourke’s office in Wormwood Scrubs. There are boxes of magazines on the floor. Bourke has his feet on the table, looking through a pile of typescripts. He has a pot of tea beside him, a mug in his hand. He picks out one typescript, begins to read.
Bourke (aloud)
‘Oh, spare a thought ye people there
For all of us who dwell in here.
Sinners all, we must endure
Until again our souls are pure.
And then the gates will open wide
And out we’ll go from dark inside …’
Blake enters, unseen by Bourke. Stands watching him.
‘To dash about the valleys green
And by our loved ones brightly seen
As we clasp them to our pounding hearts
Our wives and children, those better parts
Whom we left in shame, our heads held low,
But now return to, though the healing’s slow.
And listen judges, juries all –’
Bourke breaks off with a laugh, drops typescript back on table.
And listen judges, juries all –
Listen when my heart does call!
Oh pray don’t sentence me to poems so bad
That listening at them makes me –
He is suddenly aware of Blake.
Blake Glad? Mad?
Bourke No, sad, I think it was going to be. It was written by a young house-burglar. Doing five years for grievous bodily harm. If I publish it he’ll be able to show it to his wife and two daughters – it’ll give him and them a lot of pleasure and pride, more than anything else he’s done in his life, almost. That’s what’s sad.
Blake So you’ll publish it?
Bourke I’m the editor of the Wormwood Scrubs magazine, sir! The world expects the highest literary standards from me – I can’t let my personal feelings get in the way of true judgement, can I?
Blake In other words, you’re going to publish it.
Bourke He’s six foot three, he has a violent temper, he believes on the basis of this that he has a great, great talent – would you care to deliver the rejection slip yourself, sir?
Blake No. But then I wouldn’t be fool enough to reject it, my standards not being as high as yours.
Bourke Then I compromise! I publish it as long as he changes the title.
Blake Which is?
Bourke (picks up typescript) ‘All is Not Lost if All is Forgiven’.
Blake And what would you change it to?
Bourke (thinks) What about ‘An Unpublishable Poem by Steve Lewis’.
Blake I think that tells the whole story.
Bourke Good. Because that’s what we care about – telling the whole story.
Blake These are the rejects, are they?
Bourke They are indeed, sir.
Blake Ah, well, in that case …
Bourke It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Mr Blake. You’re something of a celebrity in this institution, I expect you realise. To my knowledge almost every fellow convict thinks you’re a national disgrace.
Blake Thank you, Mr Bourke. Becoming a national disgrace is the reward of a lifetime’s endeavour. I’ve earned every one of my forty years.
Bourke (laughs) I think you know what I meant, that your sentence – is – a national disgrace. A disgrace to this nation, anyway. It’s not my nation, thank God – but to what do I owe the – the privilege?
Blake I asked my custodian if I could pop in for a moment. To pick up a copy of the last issue. He’s having a cup of coffee with a colleague. If he wants me he’ll blow on his whistle. I wanted to pick up a copy of the last issue.
Bourke You don’t want to read it. But why not consider writing for it? Autobiographical piece. Telling your side of the story. Then I might enjoy reading it myself.
Blake Thank you, but you’d be disappointed. I write badly. Very stilted. Over-guarded, probably. A habit acquired in my profession.
Bourke Then tell me about the Turk.
Blake Oh, the Turk! There’s nothing much to tell there.
Bourke It’s made you a legend.
Blake A legend and a celebrity. With thirty-three years to go. If I keep up this level of achievement –
Bourke You could end up editing the in-house magazine. Your own teapot. A table to put your feet on. Peace and quiet. A room with a view, But what happened with the Turk, Mr Blake? Is it true you disarmed him, threw him over your shoulder, pinned him to the wall while you talked to him in Turkish –
Blake Only the last bit’s true. He ran amok in the canteen – he had a sudden fit, you see, at the thought that he’d never see his family again, never see Turkey again. So while he was shouting and baying and swearing and threatening and waving his knife I tried to explain to him in his own language that if he calmed down and gave me the knife, all was not lost, all might be forgiven. Anyway, that he’d have a decent chance of getting home eventually.
Bourke So he gave you the knife – and went quietly over to the guards.
Blake Who’d maintained a respectful distance between themselves and his knife. He bowed in submission –
Bourke – whereupon they probably kicked and beat and throttled the – bejesus out of him.
Blake I expect so. But that he’ll survive.
Bourke I’ve seen you walking with the other two – Dick and Nigel – the other prisoners of conscience, as you’re called. Also a national disgrace – thrown in jail for marching against the bomb! And Nigel married, with children – (Suddenly realising.) Sorry. I was forgetting. You’re married yourself, aren’t you? And with children.
Blake (briskly) I’ve told my wife to get a divorce as soon as possible. Anyway, I won’t be walking with them much longer, he’s out in a few months, Nigel. Home to his wife, Annie. And so’s Dick too. I don’t mean that Dick’s off home to Nigel’s wife Annie.
Bourke It’s a lovely thought, though – and you can just see he
r, their Annie, without ever having seen her – the type – so English –
Blake – the two short-term prisoners of conscience sharing –
Bourke – and her fitting them both in in the middle of the bed, Nigel on one shoulder, Dick on the other – then off on their marches, their picnics. God, I love the middle-class English.
Blake Careful. I was almost one myself, remember. (Laughs again.)
Bourke Makes a change to have someone to enjoy a harmless joke with.
Blake And it is harmless! Nobody could have more respect –
Bourke – for Annie –
Blake – and her jailbird lovers. Perhaps when you’re out you’ll join them. But will she wait for me?
Bourke You know, the odd thing is, Mr Blake, I’ve been expecting this kind of conversation with you. Imagining it, even.
Blake Yes, that is an odd thing. Because so have I, Mr Bourke.
Bourke You know, I’ve seen you often in the cafeteria, in the courtyard –
Blake I’ve seen you seeing me. But it’s been difficult to make the approach. A matter of – of – (then with surprise) shyness, perhaps.
They laugh again. There is a pause.
Bourke Will you have a cup of tea?
Blake I’d love one but I don’t think I’ll be allowed the time. Tell me, Mr Bourke, when do you get out?
Bourke Not soon enough. A year or so.
Blake That means I have a friend for a year or so. So I hope.
Bourke You have a friend for at least a year. Count on it.
Blake And Nigel’s wife aside, what will you do when you’re out and about again?
Bourke Try my hand at writing. I’m already trying my hand but – (Shakes his head.) The atmosphere here isn’t conducive. So the first thing I’ll do is get myself home. Back to Dublin, and among my own people again. And who knows – perhaps being there’ll help me to become a fine and successful author, the genuine article. So there I’ll be, strutting along the streets of Dublin – laughing, joking, singing songs in the pub – a famous book or two behind me – another one in my head – (Laughs.)
Blake Well, why not? It could happen. If you make it happen.
Bourke Yes, well – it’s a hope I have to cling to. I’ve wasted too many years of myself. On what? Being a petty criminal. What’s worse, a failed petty criminal. Well, there’s going to be no more of that, because I’ll tell you something, Mr Blake, whatever my record shows, I’m a man of intelligence. Resources and intelligence. Believe me.
Blake I do. I know it. From what I’ve heard about you. From what I’ve heard from you.
Bourke Thank you. (Little pause.) Well, as for you, Mr Blake – I know what you want, of course.
Blake Yes.
Bourke Any idea how to get it? I mean, what about your, um, foreign friends?
Blake Oh, the Russians, you mean? What can they do? Fly down in a helicopter, pluck me up and away to my freedom? Well, they haven’t done it so far, have they? And I don’t think I can wait around for them too much longer. (Little pause.) It did cross my mind that someone with outside contacts might find me some sort of – of professional group –
Bourke A gang you’re after, are you? How much could you pay them?
Blake I could raise a little – not much. There’s my family to provide for – the mortgage, children’s education –
Bourke So you’re looking for a gang to spring you, with almost no money to pay them.
Blake Yes, it does seem preposterous, doesn’t it, when you put it like that. They don’t exist –
Bourke Oh yes they do. And you wouldn’t have to pay them – the government would pay them for you. In return for information received. The Home Office would know about your plans before you did. Then you’d be off to a maximum security prison where you’d never get a chance at a human conversation again. Not once in the rest of your thirty-five years.
Blake I see. Thank you. Thank you for telling me.
Bourke What you need is a single fella. One who knows the insides here, and a bit about the workings of the outsides, too.
Blake I see. But – well, how do I find this fella? This single fella.
Bourke I don’t know, Mr Blake. He’d have to be a fella you could trust. But I tell you what – I’ll keep an eye – my mind and my memory and my eye – open.
Blake That’s very good of you, Mr Bourke. Thank you. My name’s George, by the way. George Blake.
He holds out his hand.
Bourke And mine’s Sean. Sean Bourke. Sean Alphonsus Bourke.
Taking hand. A whistle sounds.
Blake Ah, I’m being summoned. I’ll be seeing you, Sean.
Bourke You will, George. You’ll be seeing me.
Blake Thank you.
Blake exits.
Bourke Well, why not, Sean? Why not?
Lights.
SCENE TWO
Winter 1966. About eight in the evening. Bedsitter in London: a bed, a kitchenette, door to bathroom off.
Blake is sitting in his underwear, slumped. Clothes are scattered around him. Other clothes neatly piled beside him. The television is on. From television, ballroom dancing, music. Commentator’s voice.
Commentator And this is Linda and Sidney from Luton, third in last year’s finals. And now Frederick and Alison from Purley – this is the first time they’ve competed. Frederick’s a schoolteacher and Alison is a social worker. Ah, and here’s Herbert with his new partner Daphne from Sidcup. Daphne has taken over from Marguerite, who has given birth to twins since last year’s competition – but doesn’t she look cool? Not a sign of nerves – ah, and now Harold and Lynette, in some ways the most remarkable couple on the floor –
Blake gets up, totters to set, turns it off. Commentator’s voice fades down.
Lynette is a deft mover – (Voice becomes almost inaudible, vanishes.)
Blake (stands unsteadily, staring at television) What, deaf mute? Lynette is a deaf mute? That can’t be right. It must be my head, Sean. (Looks around, sees room is empty.) I must be hearing things – (Begins to make his way back to chair.) Sean, Sean, where are you?
Bourke enters.
Where have you been, where have you been, Sean? Why did you leave me?
Bourke George, George, I’ve been stashing the car. I told you I was going to. Don’t you remember? I’ve put it in Harvist Road, looks like all the others in the street, it could be there for years and –
Blake What? What are you talking about, Sean?
Bourke The car, George. It’s in Harvist Road, George –
Blake Why was that on television?
Bourke Television? There’s been something about you on television?
Blake No, no, not me, the music. And the grinning faces in chiffon. And a voice like treacle telling us about a deaf mute. In a ballroom competition. That sort of thing.
Bourke You’ve gone feverish. I was afraid you would. Come on, George, let’s get you to bed.
Blake No, no, Sean – (Pushing Bourke away.) Something I haven’t finished. Something I have to do. (Stares around agitatedly, then looks down at himself.) Oh yes. Get dressed. I’ve got to get myself out of uniform – into decent clothes. Street clothes. Where are my decent street clothes? I need them.
Bourke They’re here, George, on the bed. (Picks up pile of neatly folded clothes.) So let’s get to it, eh? (Picks up trousers.) Lift your leg – and the other one – that’s a good fit now, that’s a good fit, George, considering they’re from off the peg and guesswork. Arm now, sleeve a bit short – and the other one – (Buttoning up shirt.) Well, the collar’s all right, a little snug – (Stands back, surveying him.) What’s it like, too snug, George?
Blake Yes, snug. Nice and snug. Thank you, Sean. Togging me up –
Bourke Time to tog you up inside. Here. Wrap yourself around this.
He opens bottle, hands it to Blake.
Blake Do you think I should?
Bourke Not if you don’t want to.
Blake I don’
t know what I want, Sean. There’s something – something I always want. But I don’t think it’s this. (Lifts bottle to lips, takes a swig.)
Bourke No, no, steady, George –
He snatches bottle back from Blake.
A few sips, a few careful sips –
Blake Mmm?
He stands swaying, lurches sideways suddenly.
Bourke Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus!
Catches Blake. There is a ring on the doorbell.
Oh, Jesus! That’s not the signal! Three short and one long is –
Another ring.
(Dragging Blake towards lavatory door.) Come on. Let’s get you to the toilet.
Blake (stumbling eagerly towards it) Oh, the toilet! Yes. Yes, please – that’s what I need.
There are three short rings. One long.
Bourke Ah, that’s it! Thank God. Don’t worry, it’s only Nigel and Annie – or Dick –
Puts Blake into a chair, hurries to door, opens it.
Blake Who is it? Who is it?
Bourke Actually, it’s Philip!
Blake (in feeble alarm) Philip? Who’s Philip?
Philip Gosh, sorry, Nigel told me the signal but I forgot –
Bourke I wasn’t expecting you just yet.
Philip I know, but I couldn’t resist. So, there you are, Mr Blake … Mr George Blake himself. What a great moment for true British justice … Miranda’s not here yet, then?
Bourke Miranda’s just your wife, Philip.
Blake Miranda – Miranda – who’s Miranda? Sean – Sean, I thought nobody knew where we were except Nigel and Annie. And Dick.
Bourke Philip’s a great friend of Nigel’s and Annie’s and Dick’s too. In fact, he gave some money to the cause.