Love in Idleness / Less Than Kind

by Terence Rattigan

  MICHAEL (off). Oh, Mum, you’re not? But that’s wonderful.

  OLIVIA. Mr Laski would approve?

  MICHAEL (off). You bet he would. So do I.

  OLIVIA. ‘The time has come for all good men to – ’ I’m getting very good at it, you’d be surprised. Except that I can never find the Y. I love to hear the bell. How much does a typist earn, Michael?

  MICHAEL (coming back). Not much, I’m afraid, Mum.

  OLIVIA. Oh, well. Enough to keep me in my old age, I expect. Michael, darling, why have you got your hair slicked down in that horrid way?

  MICHAEL. Don’t you like it?

  OLIVIA. No. Does Sylvia?

  MICHAEL. I don’t know.

  OLIVIA. I think it’s revolting. (Kisses him, then starts back.) Michael, what have you got on?

  MICHAEL. What do you mean?

  OLIVIA. You’re smelling of something. What is it?

  MICHAEL. Well, as a matter of fact, I bought some eau de Cologne stuff in a shop. Of course, it’s not eau de Cologne, but it smells like it.

  OLIVIA. I’m glad you think so, darling. My, you are cutting a dash this evening, aren’t you? I hope she’ll be impressed.

  MICHAEL. So do I. I think the time has come for me to take a firm line with her.

  OLIVIA. That’s right.

  MICHAEL. I’ll do that tonight.

  OLIVIA. That’s right, darling. You asphyxiate her with your eau de Cologne, and then give her a good sound talking-to.

  MICHAEL (worried). Is it too much?

  OLIVIA. No, darling, I’m only joking. It’s lovely. Run along, now. Have a good time.

  MICHAEL. Thanks, Mum. Goodnight.

  OLIVIA. Goodnight, dear.

  He goes out.

  OLIVIA goes to the desk, picks up the Tatler, and looks at it. She makes a face in imitation of Diana Fletcher and throws the magazine in the waste-paper basket. She goes to the kitchen and puts one or two of the things in the cupboard, and after looking at the washing up decides to leave it. She then enters as though she were a typist coming into her office. At the door:

  (To an imaginary gentleman on the left.) Good morning, Mr Jones. (To a similar gentleman downstage left.) Good morning, Mr Peters. (An answer to an imaginary question downstage centre.) Am I late? No? Yes? Oh!

  She then sits at the desk and with care and concentration begins to type, mostly with one finger, though at certain bolder moments, with two.

  JOHN appears noiselessly in the doorway. He is breathing heavily, but soundlessly, and leans for a second against the wall to recover his breath, gazing meanwhile at the back of OLIVIA’s head. Finally, he takes out his glasses, tiptoes up to OLIVIA, and looks over her shoulder.

  JOHN (reading). ‘Now is the time for all good men – ’

  OLIVIA (appalled). John!

  JOHN. ‘ – to say that Diana Fletcher is a silly bitch.’ Really, Olivia!

  OLIVIA. John! Go away! Go away at once.

  JOHN. Please let me recover my breath first. You ought to warn your visitors to bring their alpenstocks with them.

  OLIVIA. How did you get in?

  JOHN. Through what I gathered was the front door.

  OLIVIA (rising). That little idiot left it unlocked again. Go away, John! I’ll get Mr Dangerfield to throw you out.

  JOHN. Who’s Mr Dangerfield?

  OLIVIA. He lives in the flat below, and he’s as strong as a bull.

  JOHN. Go and get him. I need exercise.

  OLIVIA (imploringly). Oh, John, please go. Please. You gave me your sacred solemn word of honour not to try and see me again.

  JOHN. Yes, I did, didn’t I?

  OLIVIA. Well, then, aren’t you ashamed of yourself?

  JOHN. Yes, I am.

  OLIVIA. Then why don’t you go? Don’t you see, every second you stay makes it worse.

  JOHN. Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Much worse.

  OLIVIA. I warn you – Michael’s in that room there –

  JOHN. Oh no, he isn’t. It’s not for nothing I’ve been sitting in my car at Puffin’s Corner for the last half-hour waiting for him to come out. It was rather exciting. Like a gangster film. My driver was most intrigued. I told her I was watching a hotbed of international spies –

  OLIVIA. Anyway, he’s just gone round the corner for a packet of cigarettes. He’ll be back in a minute.

  JOHN. Oh no, he won’t. He’s gone to the cinema with his girlfriend – Miss Sylvia Hart – and he’ll be away for hours.

  OLIVIA. How do you know?

  JOHN. You forget he works in my Ministry.

  OLIVIA. Really, John! You, the Minister, spying on a little boy to find out when his mother’s going to be alone. That’s pretty, I must say.

  JOHN. I can only repeat – Olivia, I’m bitterly, bitterly ashamed of myself.

  OLIVIA. Well, you don’t look it.

  JOHN. It would never do for a Cabinet Minister to look ashamed of himself. Oh, darling, I’m so glad to see you again. Have you – or is it my imagination, have you put on a little weight?

  OLIVIA. Certainly not. As a matter of fact, I’ve taken it off.

  JOHN. Well, whatever you’ve done, it certainly suits you. (Looking round.) What a charming place you have here!

  OLIVIA. You needn’t be patronising. I know it isn’t looking its best at the moment.

  JOHN is gazing at a pair of oars over the kitchen door.

  JOHN. No, I think it’s delightful. (Reading the inscription.) ‘J. F. Brown, Guy’s Hospital, Rowing Club – Stroke, 1922 to 1923.’ Charming!

  OLIVIA (furiously). Well, where the hell else can I put them?

  JOHN. Nowhere else. I think they look delightful there. (Pointing to sofa.) I suppose that becomes a bed. (Notices the Sickert above the fireplace.) Ah, so that’s where the Sickert got to, is it?

  OLIVIA. It’s mine, you know. Only the frame was yours, and I left you that.

  JOHN (quietly). Yes, you left me the frame. (Begins to laugh.)

  OLIVIA. What are you laughing at?

  JOHN. That apron.

  OLIVIA. What’s the matter with it?

  JOHN. Nothing, nothing. I’ve never seen you in an apron before, that’s all. It looks charming.

  OLIVIA. Thank you. I don’t wear it for that reason, you know.

  JOHN. I know you don’t.

  OLIVIA (enraged). Have you come here to taunt me?

  JOHN. No, no, Olivia. I don’t mean to taunt you.

  OLIVIA. Oh yes, you do. You mock at the flat, you jeer at those – (Pointing at the oars.) you accuse me of pinching the Sickert, you tell me I’m looking as fit as a barrel, and finally you sneer at my apron. I want you to know, John, that this apron is an article of clothing that I’m very proud to wear.

  JOHN. But, of course you are. I understand that perfectly.

  OLIVIA. Oh no, you don’t. You don’t understand at all – how could you – you and your crowd – understand what a wonderful feeling it gives me to know that I’m working my passage at last? As for your crowd, John, they’re finished – absolutely finished! In the New World they’re all going to be – what’s the phrase?

  JOHN. Swept aside like so much chaff?

  OLIVIA. No, no… not swept…

  JOHN. Pushed overboard?

  OLIVIA (triumphantly). That’s it, pushed overboard – they’re all going to be pushed overboard. You should read what the Labour Monthly has to say about them. You should read that article by – er – by –

  JOHN. Ivor Montagu?

  OLIVIA. No, no.

  JOHN. Palme Dutt?

  OLIVIA. No, no, no – Professor something –

  JOHN. Laski?

  OLIVIA. That’s right. Professor Laski. You should read what Professor Laski says about the New World –

  JOHN. I do.

  OLIVIA. You do?

  JOHN. Yes. Very forceful stuff, I think. I agree with a lot of it. I admit I’m not absolutely sure of his views on the exchange and monetary problems. Now what do you think about those?


  OLIVIA (a shade tearfully). What do I think about them? I think they’re all absolutely wonderful –

  JOHN. Really? Then how do you reconcile them with his views on the retroactive nature of the inflationary tendency –

  OLIVIA (tearfully). I don’t know what the retroactive whatnot of the inflationary thingummy is, John, and you know it – anyway, it’s got nothing to do with my apron. Now will you please, please go back to Westminster and to your wife – who I’m sure is waiting for you with open arms – (Backs away from him.)

  JOHN (moving after her). What are you talking about?

  OLIVIA. You’re not the only one who has ways and means of finding out things.

  JOHN. You don’t really think I’ve gone back to Diana, do you?

  OLIVIA. I don’t care whether you have or you haven’t, John. I’ve finished with you, can’t you understand that? I’ve finished with you for good and all.

  JOHN. Do you mean that?

  OLIVIA. Of course I mean it. I’ve made my decision, and I’m not going back on it, and I’d be grateful if in future you don’t come slumming.

  There is a pause. JOHN seems at a loss to know what to do. He crosses to the mantelpiece for a cigarette.

  No, there are none there. Unlike some people, we can’t afford to have cigarettes lying about all over the place. Here. (Takes a tattered carton from the pocket of her apron and gives him one cigarette from it.)

  JOHN. Thank you.

  OLIVIA. But once that’s smoked, out you go, for good and all. Is that understood?

  JOHN. Yes.

  She looks keenly at his hair.

  What’s the matter?

  OLIVIA. You’ve gone awfully grey these last three months.

  JOHN. Yes, I know.

  OLIVIA. Have you been working terribly hard?

  JOHN. Pretty hard. That’s not the reason for the grey hair, though.

  OLIVIA (snapping). What, then? Too many late nights at Ciro’s?

  JOHN. Since you left me, Olivia, I’ve been out one night, and one night only. I took Diana to Ciro’s to discuss a matter of business.

  OLIVIA. Funny business?

  JOHN. Serious business. The Barton and Burgess affair.

  OLIVIA. I thought she was suing you for that.

  JOHN. She was.

  OLIVIA. You don’t mean to say you’ve given way and paid her?

  JOHN. Isn’t that what you wanted me to do? You said it would avoid unpleasantness – don’t you remember?

  OLIVIA. It’s nothing to do with me, John, anyway, what you do. It’s your life, and you can wreck it as you please.

  Pause.

  JOHN. Olivia, will you marry me?

  OLIVIA. What?

  JOHN. I said, will you marry me?

  OLIVIA. How – why – what do you mean?

  JOHN. I’ve left the Ministry.

  OLIVIA. John! Not because of me?

  JOHN. No, Olivia. I promise you that. I’ve been turned out.

  OLIVIA. Oh no! That’s dreadful. No, John!

  JOHN. No. Don’t give me your sympathy – much as I like to have it. My job’s finished, and with it, the Ministry. I left Number 10 only half an hour ago.

  OLIVIA. Oh, was he – nice about it?

  JOHN. Very.

  From his breast pocket he takes out a large cigar.

  OLIVIA. I see. The new tank was a success, wasn’t it?

  JOHN. Yes, it was.

  OLIVIA. I always knew it would be. I always knew all those wicked things they said about it weren’t true. What else did he say to you?

  JOHN. I would like to tell you some time, only just now I’ve too much on my mind. I’m asking you to marry me.

  OLIVIA. John, you have a wife.

  JOHN. She’s agreed to a divorce.

  OLIVIA. How do you know?

  JOHN. I’ve seen to that.

  OLIVIA. The Barton and Burgess affair? You are a wily old fox, really. You never do anything without a motive. You’re ruthless.

  JOHN. Will you marry me?

  OLIVIA. You know I can’t.

  JOHN. Why not?

  OLIVIA. You know why not.

  JOHN. Still Michael?

  OLIVIA. Still Michael.

  JOHN. He has no right to object –

  OLIVIA. Right doesn’t enter into it. It’s still a question of you or him, and unfortunately he hates you.

  JOHN. Well, I hate him.

  OLIVIA. Don’t say that!

  JOHN (rising). Well, it’s true. Our lives have been split and blasted apart by a little moral gangster with an Oedipus complex and a passion for self-dramatisation.

  OLIVIA. Calling him names won’t help.

  JOHN. It helps me. What’s he acting now? Young Woodley, or the Mad Casanova of Fulham?

  OLIVIA. So that’s why you came round to see me, is it?

  JOHN. Yes, that’s why I trekked from 10 Downing Street to Puffin’s Corner.

  OLIVIA. Why didn’t you say so straight away?

  JOHN. I needed a little time to gain courage.

  OLIVIA. What made you think I’d say yes?

  JOHN. I had hoped against hope that three months of Barons Court would have weakened that iron resolution a little –

  OLIVIA. It’s not an iron resolution, John. It’s an instinct. And three months of Barons Court hasn’t weakened it. It’s confirmed it. I’m happy here.

  JOHN. Weren’t you happy with me?

  OLIVIA. What’s that got to do with it?

  JOHN. I wanted to know, that’s all.

  OLIVIA. Of course I was happy with you, John – gloriously happy, and you know it. But Michael was right about me, all the same. It was a silly, idle life to live. If I’d gone on like that, what sort of place would I have had in the New World?

  JOHN. Look, Olivia. I’ll resign from Fletcher-Pratt tomorrow, I’ll give all my money – to the Labour Monthly, I’ll take a tenth-floor flat in Bethnal Green – with no lift, no sofa, no telephone – I’ll conform in any way you like to this New World of yours and Michael’s.

  OLIVIA (pathetically). It’s no good, John. You don’t want a New World.

  JOHN. I want you, Olivia, and if I can get you I’ll take a New World, an Old World, a Middle-aged World, or any damn world at all. Don’t I stand the faintest glimmer of a chance?

  OLIVIA. As long as Michael is with me, none at all.

  JOHN. Suppose he marries this girl of his?

  OLIVIA. Don’t be absurd. He’s much too young. Besides, she’s an unparalleled hussy.

  JOHN. Is he very much in love with her?

  OLIVIA. He thinks he is.

  JOHN. She’s giving him a bad time?

  OLIVIA. Horrible, poor lamb.

  JOHN (with relish). Good!

  OLIVIA. It’s very unbecoming in you to be unkind, John.

  There is a pause.

  JOHN. I think I’d better go. (Picks up his hat from the sofa.)

  OLIVIA. I think you had. I wish I could offer you a drink, only –

  JOHN. Only you can’t afford to keep it. I quite understand.

  OLIVIA. I believe I have got some whisky in a medicine bottle somewhere –

  JOHN. I really don’t want a drink. I’m leaving for Canada tomorrow, Olivia.

  OLIVIA. Canada?

  JOHN. Yes.

  OLIVIA. Oh? For long?

  JOHN. Quite some time.

  OLIVIA. I see. Permanently. I suppose you’ll be settling down there one day and getting married.

  JOHN. I don’t think I’ll marry again.

  OLIVIA. Oh yes, you will. Only don’t let it be another Diana.

  JOHN. I thought you didn’t care what happened to me.

  OLIVIA. Well, perhaps I do, a little.

  JOHN. Have you any plans for the future?

  OLIVIA. Don’t worry about me, John. I’ll be all right.

  JOHN. I’m sure I wish you every happiness.

  OLIVIA. I wish you exactly the same.

  They make a move towards each other.


  JOHN. Goodbye. (Turns abruptly away.)

  OLIVIA. Where are you going now, back home to Westminster?

  JOHN. Yes, I’ve a few things to do.

  OLIVIA (going up to the door). You shouldn’t work late at night, John. Aren’t you even going to have any dinner?

  JOHN. No, why should I?

  He goes out.

  OLIVIA comes back to the sofa, and begins to cry. After a pause JOHN comes back.

  You know, Olivia, I might have some if you’ll dine with me.

  OLIVIA. No – that would be highly immoral.

  JOHN. Well, I didn’t say ‘or something’, you know.

  OLIVIA. There are other kinds of immorality.

  JOHN. Oh, do come, Olivia. It will be our last dinner together. (Pause.) I promise not to mention marriage.

  OLIVIA. Or Michael?

  JOHN. Or Michael.

  OLIVIA. Well, what would we talk about, then?

  JOHN (eagerly). We could talk about the new tank, and what the Prime Minister said to me.

  OLIVIA. Oh yes, I do want to hear about that. Where would we go, supposing we did go? –

  JOHN. The Savoy?

  OLIVIA. Oh no, John. Not The Savoy. If we went anywhere, we could go to a little place I know, next to Barons Court Station – Antoine’s. It’s French, you know.

  JOHN. Sounds French.

  OLIVIA. It’s very quiet there – very good value for money.

  JOHN. It sounds delightful.

  OLIVIA. It is.

  JOHN. Delightful.

  She rises and moves towards the door. He follows her.

  OLIVIA. Oh, I’ve forgotten the washing up. Oh, well, I could leave that until later. This is our last dinner together. You must stick to your bargain. The new tank, what the Prime Minister said. No marriage, no Michael.

  He crosses his heart.

  All right, I’ll go and slip on a dress. I won’t be a second.

  She goes out. JOHN glances round the room, and then turns on the radio. He takes off his jacket and, going into the kitchen, puts on an apron which is hanging on the cupboard and begins to wash up.

  MICHAEL comes in, looking very sour and sullen. He throws his hat, gloves, and Labour Monthly on the couch, and is just going into his own room when he realises that the radio is on, and returns to turn it off. He has got to the door of his own room again when JOHN puts his head round the kitchen door.

  JOHN. You’re back early, Michael?

  MICHAEL (after a second’s speechless astonishment). What the dickens do you think you’re doing?

  JOHN. Washing up.