Love in Idleness / Less Than Kind

by Terence Rattigan

  MICHAEL. So I see, but what the dickens are you doing in this flat, anyway.

  He moves towards the kitchen.

  JOHN. I came round to ask your mother to marry me, Michael.

  MICHAEL. Oh, you did, did you?

  JOHN. Yes.

  MICHAEL. Have you seen her yet?

  JOHN. Yes.

  MICHAEL. What did she say?

  JOHN. She said ‘No’.

  MICHAEL. Good for her!

  JOHN. Yes. Well, your mother’s refusal of me, Michael, at least has one compensation. It has relieved me of the bitter obligation of having to be polite to you. So from now on, young man, one more crack out of you will end in tears, and the tears, this time, will not be mine –

  MICHAEL. So – you’d assault a chap in his own flat, would you?

  JOHN. No. I’d take the chap by the seat of his pants, down six flights of stairs, and assault him on the pavement in front of his own flat.

  MICHAEL (nervously). You could get six months for that.

  JOHN (gently). You underestimate my feeling towards you, Michael.

  I could hang for it.

  MICHAEL. Gosh! Oh, well, I’m not surprised you feel like that – all things considered.

  JOHN. I’m glad you realise that.

  MICHAEL. Still, it seems to me there’s no reason why we should be uncivilised about things. You dislike me, I dislike you. Well, that’s too bad, but we needn’t behave like primeval apes about it.

  JOHN. Possibly not. Nevertheless, I reserve the right to behave like one the minute I feel myself sufficiently provoked.

  MICHAEL. Don’t worry. If you can be a good loser, I can be a good winner. Won’t you sit down?

  JOHN. What did you say?

  MICHAEL. Won’t you sit down?

  JOHN (moving towards the chair above the table). Thank you.

  MICHAEL. Sit on the sofa. It’s more comfortable.

  JOHN (sitting). I’ll be quite comfortable here, thank you.

  MICHAEL (looking round). I’m afraid the flat isn’t quite looking its best at the moment.

  JOHN. What did you say?

  MICHAEL. The flat isn’t looking its best at the moment.

  JOHN. I thought that’s what you said. It’s funny, you sounded so much like your mother.

  MICHAEL. Oh, really? Tell me – what do you think of it?

  JOHN. The flat? I think it’s charming.

  MICHAEL. Oh no, it isn’t. You’re just being polite. I’m afraid it’s pretty ghastly – really.

  JOHN. What’s the matter with it?

  MICHAEL (sitting). It’s so inconvenient, having no lift. I’m thinking seriously of moving, as a matter of fact.

  JOHN. Oh, really, where to?

  MICHAEL. I’ve seen quite a nice little flat in Montpelier Square – ground floor – Adamses’ house.

  JOHN. Adamses’?

  MICHAEL. That’s what Mum says. She doesn’t think we can afford it.

  JOHN. And you think you can?

  MICHAEL. Oh yes. I don’t see why not. Can I get you a drink?

  JOHN. Your mother said there wasn’t anything in the house.

  MICHAEL rises, taking a bottle out of his hip pocket and going into the kitchen.

  MICHAEL. What mothers don’t know would fill a book. It’s only gin, I’m afraid. Awful muck, I think, but I was hoping to entertain a girlfriend here tonight, and this is the only thing she’ll drink.

  JOHN. I see. What happened to your girlfriend, Michael? Why aren’t you still at the cinema?

  MICHAEL (off). Oh – we had a row. When she got to the cinema and saw what the film was, she said she didn’t want to see it.

  MICHAEL comes back with two glasses of gin which he has filled in the kitchen.

  JOHN. I see. What was the film?

  MICHAEL. The Life of Maxim Gorky – Part VI.

  JOHN. Oh, I see.

  MICHAEL. Jolly good film. I’ve seen it twice. Of course, you’d hate it.

  JOHN. Why should I hate it?

  MICHAEL. It’s very anti-fascist.

  There is an awkward pause. MICHAEL backs slightly. He raises his glass.

  Well – bung-ho!

  JOHN. Bung-ho!

  They both take a sip. MICHAEL, evidently unused to the taste, splutters slightly and makes a wry face. It is plain from JOHN’s expression that the gin is very strong, and perhaps not as authentic as it might be.

  MICHAEL (scornfully). Woman’s drink!

  JOHN. I quite agree.

  MICHAEL. Is it all right?

  JOHN. Oh yes, very good gin.

  MICHAEL. It had better be. I paid sixteen and fourpence for it, in the black market.

  JOHN (astounded). The – black market?

  MICHAEL. Yes. I don’t approve of it, of course, but – well – she likes gin, you see.

  JOHN. Tell me a little more about this girlfriend of yours, Michael.

  MICHAEL. Sylvia Hart?

  JOHN. Yes. Is she pretty?

  MICHAEL (mournfully). She’s the most beautiful girl in the whole world. She’s an actress, too.

  JOHN. Oh? What’s she playing?

  MICHAEL. She doesn’t actually act, if you see what I mean – not on the stage, anyway –

  JOHN. But like the dickens off it?

  MICHAEL. She’s just left dramatic school –

  JOHN. Hasn’t got a job, yet?

  MICHAEL. No, but she nearly saw Korda last week, and now she treats me like a little boy. The only time she was even human to me was one night when I took her to Oddenino’s.

  JOHN. Why didn’t you go on taking her to Oddenino’s?

  MICHAEL. I couldn’t afford it.

  JOHN. Ah, I see.

  MICHAEL. Besides, Sparky Stevens takes her to The Savoy.

  JOHN. Do you think he’s taken her there tonight?

  MICHAEL. I’m sure of it. Of course, tomorrow she’ll lie like blazes, and I’ll never know one way or the other.

  JOHN. Would you like me to find out?

  MICHAEL. I certainly would.

  JOHN goes to the telephone.

  JOHN. This Sparky Stevens, I take it, has substance?

  MICHAEL. Oh, yes. He’s a Flight Lieutenant. He’s a chap in the RAF she’s rather keen on, who’s suddenly come up to town.

  JOHN. Tell me, what’s this fine feathered friend of yours wearing? (Dialling a number.)

  MICHAEL. A green dress with a red thingummy on the collar.

  JOHN (into receiver). Restaurant please, Mr Gondolfo? (To MICHAEL.) Anything on her head.

  MICHAEL. A sort of veil pinned on top.

  JOHN (into receiver). Hullo, Mr Gondolfo? This is John Fletcher. I wonder, could you tell me, has a Flight Lieutenant Sparky Stevens a reservation for tonight?… Coming in now?… With a young lady?

  JOHN and MICHAEL. In a green dress with a red thingummy on the collar?

  JOHN. I see. Thank you very much, Mr Gondolfo. No, not tonight. I’m dining elsewhere… Goodnight. (Rings off.) I’m afraid, Michael, your suspicions are only too correct.

  MICHAEL (gloomily). Isn’t that just typical of her?

  JOHN. From what you’ve told me of Miss Sylvia Hart, I should say it was.

  MICHAEL. What’s the answer to it – that’s what I want to know?

  JOHN. I’m not sure if there is one, Michael. I know from my own experience that if one is unlucky enough to fall in love with one of the Sylvia Harts of this world there’s nothing to do but sit back, take what comes, and pray for a quick release.

  He takes a sip of the gin, which proves to be as potent as it was before.

  There is a pause.

  MICHAEL. You’re speaking of your wife, I suppose. Did she have a Sparky Stevens?

  JOHN (with a sadly reminiscent nod). Only his name was Loopy Buckeridge.

  MICHAEL (interested). Tell me, did he have a moustache?

  JOHN. Oh, yes, sported a vast, silky affair – Guards type.

  MICHAEL. Sparky has one, too. An enormous one, RAF type.
/>   JOHN. What an extraordinary coincidence! Tell me, does Sparky make hunting noises?

  MICHAEL. Aeroplane noises.

  JOHN. Equally irritating. Is he inclined to stand on his head in public places?

  MICHAEL. He once did a thing he called a victory roll in the Regent Palace.

  JOHN. I suppose that made Sylvia laugh?

  MICHAEL (bitterly). Laugh? She screamed and screamed. She’s talked about it ever since.

  JOHN (moved). I know, old boy, I know. I feel for you very deeply.

  MICHAEL. How did you get away from Diana?

  JOHN. I was lucky. She got away from me.

  MICHAEL. Even then, how did you stop being in love with her?

  JOHN. Again I was lucky. I fell in love with someone else – someone far, far nicer.

  There is a pause.

  MICHAEL (rising). Have another drink? (Goes into the kitchen with the two glasses.)

  JOHN. No, I don’t think I will, thank you, Michael.

  MICHAEL (off). I think I will.

  JOHN. I wouldn’t if I were you.

  MICHAEL (off). Perhaps I’d better not. I want to keep my head.

  JOHN. You’re welcome to it, I’m sure.

  MICHAEL either does not hear this or chooses to ignore it.

  MICHAEL. I don’t believe you ever were in love with Mum.

  JOHN. I know you don’t.

  MICHAEL. After all, she’s nothing like Diana.

  JOHN. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I’m so much in love with her.

  MICHAEL. Even then, it doesn’t make sense. After all, Mum’s getting on.

  JOHN. So am I.

  MICHAEL (coming into the room). But – but – well, I just don’t believe you’re in love with her, that’s all.

  JOHN (urgently). Michael – when you walk into a room and you find Sylvia in there, do you suddenly feel as though someone has hit you very hard, right here? (Thumps his stomach.)

  MICHAEL. Well – yes – I do.

  JOHN. Do you say the wrong things when you talk to her?

  MICHAEL. Oh yes, often.

  JOHN. Do you find yourself stammering and blushing?

  MICHAEL. Yes.

  JOHN. And, at night, when you try to remember what she looks like, and then when you finally do, do you feel as if someone had hit you very hard here again, then there’s a flutter of doves – ?

  MICHAEL. Gosh, yes! I do.

  JOHN. Those are your symptoms, Michael. I’m more than twice your age. Double their intensity and you’ll know what I feel for your mother.

  MICHAEL (disturbed, but recovering himself). Oh, well, she couldn’t feel anything like that about you.

  JOHN. Why do you say that, Michael?

  MICHAEL. I know it; that’s all.

  JOHN (rising and taking off his apron). All right, Michael, we won’t say any more. I’m sorry I raised the subject. As you said a minute ago, you’ve won and I’ve lost. Let it rest at that. But you will admit that your mother is a very beautiful and charming woman.

  MICHAEL. Well, yes. I suppose so.

  JOHN. Well – thanks to you – she’s decided to work her passage through the New World. Very right, very proper. Only – tell me this – is there no better use to be made of beauty and charm – austerity age though this may be – than to consign them to a hermit’s life in a kitchen? I’m only asking for information, Michael. It’s going to be your world – you and your generation are going to administer it.

  MICHAEL (hotly). And we’re jolly well going to administer it, too – without the help of any reactionary old fogies –

  JOHN. All right, all right. Only remember this. Ten years from now, when you’re a successful commissar, living in an enormous mansion in Park Lane, with huge Adams ceilings, and Sylvia Hart as your paramour, drinking bottle after bottle of black-market gin, I shall have a very good chuckle, as I pass by, selling my state-owned matches in the street.

  MICHAEL (scornfully). That’s mere deviationism –

  JOHN. Now what the hell is that?

  MICHAEL (a little surprised by this question). Deviationism?

  JOHN. Yes, deviationism?

  MICHAEL. Well, it’s – er – well –

  JOHN. Well?

  MICHAEL (with surprising candour). It’s a word I usually say in an argument when I can’t think of anything else.

  JOHN. Even to Sylvia?

  MICHAEL (rising at the name like a rocketing pheasant). Sylvia!

  JOHN (mimicking him). Sylvia!

  MICHAEL (in agony). Oh, gosh! Just think of her at The Savoy with that great baboon, Sparky Stevens!

  JOHN (sadistically). He’s probably sending her into hysterics with vocal imitations of a Spitfire.

  MICHAEL. You know – I’ve a jolly good mind to go along there and surprise them.

  JOHN. Well, why don’t you?

  MICHAEL. Oh, the usual.

  JOHN. Well, here –

  JOHN deliberately takes out his wallet and removes from it a five-pound note.

  MICHAEI. Oh no – I couldn’t.

  JOHN. Why not?

  MICHAEL. I – I wouldn’t be able to pay you back for ages –

  JOHN. That’s all right. I don’t mind.

  MICHAEL. It mightn’t be for months.

  JOHN. Years if you like.

  MICHAEL. I couldn’t, really – thanks all the same –

  JOHN. Just as you please.

  MICHAEL (taking the note). Well, perhaps I will. Thanks awfully. Do you think they’ll give me a table?

  JOHN (rising). Do you want me to use my influence? (Crosses to the telephone.)

  MICHAEL. Oh yes, do. Try and get me one dead opposite theirs, where I can sit and glare –

  JOHN (picking up the receiver). You know – I’m beginning to feel quite sorry for this Miss Sylvia Hart –

  MICHAEL. Just a minute. I’ve got an even better idea.

  JOHN. What?

  MICHAEL (awkwardly). Are you doing anything for dinner?

  JOHN. Well – er why, exactly?

  MICHAEL. Would you dine with me?

  JOHN. At The Savoy?

  MICHAEL. Of course, at The Savoy.

  JOHN. Well, that’s very kind of you, Michael. The only thing is –

  MICHAEL (excitedly). Oh, please, do. Please. It’d make all the difference. Gosh! Just think of her face when I walk in with you. Oh, boy! She’ll have a fit.

  JOHN. Why should she have a fit?

  MICHAEL. Me – with a Cabinet Minister! She’d never forget it as long as she lives. She’s the most terrible snob.

  JOHN (practical as ever). Do you think she’d know who I am?

  MICHAEL. Gosh, I hadn’t thought of that.

  JOHN (replacing the receiver). Well, wait a minute. I tell you what we can do. We’ll have the head waiter walk in front of us, and just as we go past their table he can say in a very loud voice, ‘Table for the Right Honourable Sir John Fletcher, Bt., and his friend, Mr Michael Brown’.

  MICHAEL (gleefully). Don’t you think just plain ‘Mr Michael Brown’?

  JOHN. No, no, I think ‘his friend’ is nicer, don’t you? Less formal, somehow.

  MICHAEL. Maybe you’re right.

  JOHN (with his arm round MICHAEL’s shoulder). Then we might dally for a moment just within earshot of them, and I can be heard saying to you in a fairly loud voice just what the Prime Minister said to me about the new tank.

  MICHAEL. That’s a good idea!

  JOHN. Then you might pretend to recognise Sylvia suddenly, give her a polite but frigid bow, and another to Sparky, and then we’ll pass on to our table – with me still talking about the Prime Minister in a fairly loud voice.

  MICHAEL. That’s a wonderful idea!

  JOHN. Do you think you can do it? I know from experience that you’re a very facile actor, but do you think you can do it?

  MICHAEL. Yes. Just let me try.

  JOHN. All right, all right. Let’s pretend – (Spreading out his arms.) this is The Savoy. See if you can
get some music on the radio.

  MICHAEL goes to the radio.

  Little Carrot Gibbons is usually playing his head off. Sparky and Sylvia will be sitting over there – and our table will be there. There’s a flight of stairs at The Savoy, now don’t fall down them.

  They are now ready to make their entrance into The Savoy.

  MICHAEL is in front of JOHN, and just a little nervous.

  Let yourself go. Pretend you know everybody. Are you ready?

  They begin to walk.

  The Prime Minister, blah, blah, blah –

  MICHAEL gives a start and pretends to see Sylvia and Sparky. He bows stiffly and very formally twice, with his arms sticking out from his sides. JOHN begins to laugh. MICHAEL looks uncomfortable.

  Yes. I was afraid of that. You know, if you don’t mind my saying so, you have rather a quaint and florid style. Perhaps you’d better watch me. Now I’ll be you and you be me. Start again.

  They return to their starting point, and prepare to come in again, JOHN leading the way, this time, which he does with a great deal of assurance and swagger. MICHAEL follows close on his heels, with more concentration than assurance. They walk right round the sofa, as before, but this time round the table as well and sit at it.

  (As he walks.) You said that to the Prime Minister, Sir John? Well, fancy…

  This line takes them round the table and to their seats at it. JOHN leans forward the better to see the supposed table at which Sylvia and Sparky are sitting.

  That young lady hasn’t fainted over there, by any chance? Gosh, corking!

  MICHAEL. Corking –

  OLIVIA comes in.

  JOHN ( to OLIVIA, in a ‘society’voice). Oh, hullo, won’t you join us? Let me give you the idea. This is The Savoy. That young lady you see being carried out unconscious is Miss Sylvia Hart – OLIVIA (in acute alarm). John, John, don’t you think it would be an even nicer idea if you were to put your feet up on this lovely sofa just for a few minutes?

  MICHAEL (going to door). Don’t worry, Mum –

  OLIVIA. It’s overwork, you know…

  MICHAEL (as he goes out). Sir John’s all right. I’ll be back in a minute. I’ll just brush up a bit.

  He goes out.

  JOHN. Won’t you join us?

  OLIVIA. Is this still The Savoy?

  JOHN. Still The Savoy.

  OLIVIA. Would you care to tell me, what the hell is going on here?

  They sit at the table.

  JOHN. Well, a little gleam of hope has appeared on the horizon – hope not only for you and me, but for the world as well.