Love in Idleness / Less Than Kind

by Terence Rattigan

  OLIVIA. Oh dear!

  JOHN. What’s the matter?

  OLIVIA. I’ve just thought of something. Darling –

  JOHN. Yes?

  OLIVIA comes and sits beside him on the sofa.

  OLIVIA. I’m afraid, if you really insist on sitting up all night, it won’t be here, but at your Club.

  JOHN. Why?

  OLIVIA. Michael’s arrived in England and he’ll be home in a few hours.

  JOHN. Michael? Your son?

  OLIVIA nods.

  I’m very glad.

  OLIVIA. You don’t look very glad.

  JOHN. For your sake, I mean.

  OLIVIA. Thank you, darling.

  She kisses the top of his head.

  You’ll love him, you know.

  JOHN. Do you think he’ll love me?

  OLIVIA. Of course he will.

  JOHN. What makes you so certain?

  OLIVIA. I do, so he will.

  JOHN. A typical Olivia non sequitur. What about the Oedipus complex?

  OLIVIA (vaguely). Oh, he’s far too young for all that. Besides, that’s all a lot of nonsense.

  JOHN. So much for Freud. How old is he, by the way?

  OLIVIA. Over sixteen.

  JOHN. I thought he’d come back to join up.

  OLIVIA. Yes, he has.

  JOHN. Then he must be over seventeen.

  OLIVIA. Perhaps he is.

  JOHN. Don’t you know the age of your own son?

  OLIVIA. No, darling, not exactly. Let me see now – he was twelve when we sent him away at the beginning of the war –

  JOHN. When’s his birthday?

  OLIVIA. You’ve got a horrible statistical mind, haven’t you? October the fourteenth.

  JOHN. Then he’s exactly seventeen and eight months.

  OLIVIA (relieved). Is that all? Oh, then he’s really quite a baby still.

  JOHN. I doubt if he’ll think so.

  OLIVIA. You know, Polton was perfectly sweet when I told her how old he was. She simply didn’t believe it.

  JOHN. If it’s any comfort to you, I don’t believe it either. However, as the papers say, we have to face facts, and the facts are, apparently, that you have a grown-up son –

  OLIVIA opens her mouth to speak.

  – or a nearly grown-up son, descending on you at any minute to confront a situation which I gather you have not yet had the courage to tell him in any of your letters.

  OLIVIA (protestingly). Darling, it’s not a thing you can write about in a letter. Besides, the censor wouldn’t have passed it –

  JOHN. There seems to be some confusion in your mind between the Department of War censorship and the Lord Chamberlain. Anyway, whatever your excuse, it is true, isn’t it, that you’ve told your son nothing whatever about me?

  OLIVIA. Oh, I’ve told him something about you.

  JOHN. What?

  OLIVIA. That I’d met you, and that you were very nice.

  JOHN. Thank you. When did you tell him that?

  OLIVIA. Well – when did I meet you – when was it – about two years ago.

  JOHN. Three years ago. Anything since?

  OLIVIA. Well, I occasionally told him I’d been to a theatre with you or something –

  She ponders a moment.

  – or that I’d had dinner with you – or something.

  JOHN. I see. In this case ‘or something’ appears to cover quite a wide field.

  OLIVIA. Darling – he’s only a little boy. How could I tell him things he couldn’t possibly understand?

  JOHN. Olivia, dearest, he is not a little boy –

  OLIVIA. Yes, he is. Just because he’s nearly eighteen doesn’t mean he’s grown up. I’ll show you his letters – they’re absolutely crammed with ‘corking’ and ‘top-hole’ and – white mice and catapults. He’s just a little boy and he wouldn’t understand.

  JOHN. Well, then – what are you going to tell him when you see him?

  OLIVIA. The truth, I suppose.

  JOHN. But you’ve just said he’s too concerned with white mice and catapults to understand the truth.

  OLIVIA. Then I’ll tell him as much of the truth as he can understand. JOHN. And how much is that?

  OLIVIA. Oh, you are maddening! You know perfectly well what I mean.

  JOHN. I’m sorry to catechise you like this, Olivia, only this is quite a crisis in your life that’s arisen – in my life too, I suppose, come to that – and I haven’t lived with you for three years without knowing that if left to deal with it yourself, the chances are a hundred to one on your making an utter muck of it. Darling, be fair now. Isn’t that true?

  OLIVIA. No, it isn’t. Not this time. After all, this is my own son and I know exactly how to deal with him.

  JOHN. Well, all I’m asking is that you give me some indication of how you intend to deal with him. Come on, now – have a little rehearsal. What are you going to tell him?

  OLIVIA paces up and down for a moment before speaking.

  OLIVIA (at length). Well – I’ll say: ‘Three years ago your father died, and I went to live in St John’s Wood.’

  JOHN. Four years ago and Swiss Cottage.

  OLIVIA. Don’t interrupt.

  JOHN. I was being Michael. We can assume that, unlike his mother, he has some slight idea of space and time. By the way, was he very fond of his father?

  OLIVIA. No, I don’t think he was awfully. Anyway, he was always much fonder of me –

  JOHN. Good. Go on.

  OLIVIA. Well, then I’ll say: ‘One day I went to a cocktail party given by your Aunt Ethel who married the Gas Light and Coke man, and lives in Park Lane, and there I met a charming person called John Fletcher whom I didn’t know was the John Fletcher, in spite of his Canadian accent, because anyway he seemed much too amusing and young to be a Captain of Industry and a Cabinet Minister and all the rest of it, and who seemed to like me.’

  JOHN. You understate. Go on.

  OLIVIA. ‘Well – he asked me to lunch a couple of times and then one night I had dinner with him – ’

  JOHN. Or something.

  OLIVIA. Shut up. ‘And he told me he was in love with me.’

  JOHN. He didn’t say anything as direct as that. He was much more cautious.

  OLIVIA. ‘Well – in a sort of roundabout politician’s way he gave me to understand that he didn’t find me altogether repulsive, but that he was unable to proceed further in the matter because he had already a wife from whom he was separated and who was anyway a bit of a bitch – ’

  JOHN. What’s that?

  OLIVIA. ‘Never mind, dear. Anyway, he was separated from his wife – who didn’t understand him, but from whom he couldn’t divorce until after the war, on account of Dr Goebbels. So – ’

  JOHN. Just a minute. This is the crux of the whole problem you’re skating over here. I think Michael will probably ask you to expand this Goebbels theme –

  OLIVIA. ‘Well – he couldn’t divorce his wife – who God knows had given him every opportunity for it because meanwhile he’d been called into the Government to help make more tanks, and a nice juicy divorce case involving a British Cabinet Minister wouldn’t look too well on the front pages of the Berlin papers and might lead to stories of Babylonian orgies in the Cabinet Room at 10, Downing Street.’ How’s that?

  JOHN. Better. Go on.

  OLIVIA. ‘Well, then he asked me – very comme il faut – to wait for him until he was free to ask for my hand in marriage, and I said no, that’s silly. We’re neither of us getting any younger and the war might go on for years and years and years, and it certainly looked as if it would then, do you remember?’

  JOHN. I do.

  OLIVIA. ‘So then he said – again very comme il faut – in that case he would resign from the Cabinet and go ahead with his divorce and I said no, you’re far too useful making tanks, and anyway that would make me a sort of femme fatale, and I’m much too much in love with you to want to be that – ’

  JOHN. Did you say that?

>   OLIVIA. Of course I said it, and it made you more comme il faut than ever. You said you would continue to exert every endeavour and explore every avenue and leave no stone unturned in order to find a formula satisfactory to all parties concerned, so I just simply packed my things and moved in that night. Since when not a ripple has marred the calm surface of our domestic bliss – as Celia Wentworth would say.

  She takes the empty glass of whisky from his hand and goes to fill it.

  JOHN. Who’s Celia Wentworth?

  OLIVIA. The novelist. She’s dining here on Thursday. So’s Tom

  Markham. There’s the list on that table beside you.

  JOHN picks up the list and studies it.

  I’ve got the Randalls too.

  JOHN. Who are the Randalls?

  OLIVIA (shocked). Darling, really! They’re only the most famous theatrical couple in the world, that’s all. They never dine out at all –

  JOHN. They’re dining here on Thursday.

  OLIVIA (proudly). I know.

  JOHN reads through the list and puts it down.

  JOHN. How do you do it?

  OLIVIA. It’s a gift.

  She hands him his new drink.

  JOHN. Thank you. And what would you say if I asked you – why do you do it?

  OLIVIA (puzzling). I suppose because I think it’s fun. Don’t you?

  JOHN (gently). No.

  OLIVIA. Of course not. I know you don’t.

  She sits on a cushion by his feet.

  Then I suppose it’s because I’m a bit of a snob.

  JOHN. No, I don’t think that’s true.

  OLIVIA. Well, in a way, it is. I think I must resent a little not being Lady Fletcher, so perhaps I’m a bit too eager to anticipate my wifely privileges. Do you see what I mean?

  JOHN (contrite). Yes. (Kisses the top of her head.) It was stupid of me to ask. I’m sorry.

  OLIVIA. That’s all right. I know it must seem awfully silly – this ambition of mine to ‘found a salon’. I laugh at myself sometimes – especially when I’ve had a rebuff from some awful little pipsqueak of a film star or writer or politician. But then the next minute I get furious and go all out to get someone even grander to make up for it and – I must admit – usually succeed.

  JOHN (tapping the list). Yes, it’s quite a pretty little list for Thursday.

  OLIVIA. It isn’t bad, is it? I don’t know what we’ll do for food, but doubtless Fate will provide.

  JOHN. Under the counter, as usual, I imagine.

  OLIVIA (taking his hand). Do you forgive me for being a snob?

  JOHN. I’ll forgive you anything.

  OLIVIA. No, seriously – do you?

  JOHN. Seriously – anything in the world that gives you pleasure gives me as much for just that reason. If that sounds pompous, I’m sorry, but I mean it.

  He kisses the top of her head.

  OLIVIA (with a sigh). What a man! (Looking up at him.) I’m quite fond of you, Sir John, do you know that?

  JOHN. I’m quite fond of you, Mrs Brown.

  OLIVIA. Like another whisky?

  JOHN. No, thanks. I’d love a little more water in this, though.

  OLIVIA takes the glass from him and goes to fill it. JOHN closes his eyes wearily.

  OLIVIA. Just your slave girl, that’s all I am. Sorry – slave woman.

  JOHN (drowsily). Slave girl.

  OLIVIA. Well – what about my story for Michael? Do you think it’ll do?

  JOHN. It’ll have to do. It’s the truth.

  OLIVIA (returning with the drink). Of course I shan’t tell him anything like that at all.

  She hands him the glass and wrinkles her brows in thought. JOHN opens his eyes and starts up with a jerk.

  All right, John dear, go to sleep if you want to.

  JOHN. How can I go to sleep if you say things calculated to give me heart failure?

  OLIVIA. Darling, there’s simply no point in telling Michael all that long rigmarole – it just won’t be necessary.

  JOHN. Well then, what, might I ask, was the idea of that rehearsal just now?

  OLIVIA. Oh, just to get my mind clear on the salient facts. Besides, you asked me to do it.

  JOHN. So you’re not going to tell Michael any of the salient facts?

  OLIVIA. I don’t know about any. Some salient facts I shall have to tell him.

  JOHN sighs. OLIVIA continues impatiently.

  If you want to know, I shall simply say that you’re a very old friend, and that we’re going to get married some time after the war.

  JOHN. What about – description of(Sweeps his hand round the room.) all this?

  OLIVIA. Oh, I shall say that you’ve made me a present of one of your houses.

  JOHN. I see. Very generous of me.

  OLIVIA. Oh yes. For an old friend you’re very generous.

  She glances momentarily at a bracelet she is wearing.

  JOHN. So I’m to stay at my Club for as long as Michael’s in the vicinity?

  OLIVIA. Oh no. Of course not. Just for tonight – so as to give him time to settle down.

  JOHN. But I can come back tomorrow?

  OLIVIA. Yes, of course.

  JOHN. I see. Isn’t it rather odd of me to make you a present of a house and then come and sleep in it myself.

  OLIVIA. Oh no, it isn’t. You’ll be here as my guest.

  JOHN. Thank you.

  OLIVIA. Not at all. Stay as long as you like.

  JOHN. Very kind.

  OLIVIA (thoughtfully). Or on second thoughts, I wonder if it’s better if I were your confidential secretary. What do you think, John?

  JOHN. You know quite well what I think. I think that anything short of the full unvarnished truth is likely to prove disastrous, and I tell you here and now that I steadfastly refuse to abet the peculiar stratagem by which I’m apparently to become a generous but patently batty and lecherous old friend. As for your being my confidential secretary, I would imagine that Michael knows enough about his mother to realise that it is a post for which she is almost uniquely unqualified.

  OLIVIA. Confidential secretary no good?

  JOHN. No good at all.

  OLIVIA. And the generous friend.

  JOHN. And the generous friend.

  OLIVIA. Then I don’t see what’s left.

  JOHN. The truth, woman. The truth.

  OLIVIA. But surely the truth isn’t the sort of thing one should tell one’s sixteen-year-old son.

  JOHN. Your son is nearly eighteen, madam, and it’s better he should hear the truth from his mother than from one of his bar cronies.

  OLIVIA. It’s horribly embarrassing, isn’t it? I’ve never been embarrassed by the situation before, and now suddenly I find myself blushing whenever I think of it. I feel like a bad, bad woman.

  JOHN. In the eyes of many people, that’s just what you are.

  OLIVIA. Oh, surely not, John. Not in this day and age.

  JOHN. In this day and age.

  OLIVIA. Then some people would think that you were a bad, bad man. JOHN (sleepy again). A vile seducer!

  OLIVIA (laughing). You – a vile seducer!

  JOHN (opening one eye). What’s so funny about that?

  OLIVIA. A pompous old thing like you – you couldn’t seduce a fly.

  JOHN. That’s all you know. I was a devil as a young man.

  OLIVIA. Yes, I bet you were. The madcap of the Toronto Elks.

  JOHN. You’d be surprised. I’ve seduced hundreds of women in my time.

  OLIVIA. Just name me one. That’s all I ask. Just one.

  Pause. JOHN stays with his eyes closed, pondering.

  JOHN. Well, anyway, I seduced you.

  OLIVIA. Oh no, you didn’t. If there was any seducing to be done, I was the one that did it.

  JOHN ponders again.

  JOHN (at length, sleepily). Yes, I think that’s true.

  OLIVIA. You bet it’s true.

  She sits by his side again and strokes his face. He takes her hand and kisses it. />
  Go on, go to sleep.

  JOHN. Not until you’ve promised to tell Michael the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  OLIVIA. All right. I promise.

  He nods, contented.

  Did you have a very tiring day?

  JOHN. Pretty tiring. I was bullied at Question Time.

  OLIVIA (angrily). Who by?

  JOHN. Aneurin Bevan.

  OLIVIA. Oh, he bullies everyone. I’ll get him here and bully him one day.

  JOHN. Yes, do.

  OLIVIA. I will. You see if I don’t.

  POLTON comes in. Neither OLIVIA nor JOHN relaxes their very intimate position.

  POLTON. I’ve packed your bag, sir.

  JOHN. What? Oh yes. Thank you, Polton. ( To OLIVIA.) Damn! OLIVIA. I know, darling, and I’m very sorry, but it’s only for tonight.

  POLTON. Did you want me to put any papers in, sir?

  JOHN. I’ll have to take some papers with me, but they’re not arriving until later. I’ll put them in myself. All right, Polton, thank you.

  POLTON. Yes, sir. Shall I ring up The Savoy and book a table, madam?

  JOHN. Are we dining out?

  OLIVIA. Yes, dear. Saving up for Thursday. ( To POLTON.) Yes, Polton. Ask for our usual table, will you?

  POLTON. Very good, madam.

  She goes out.

  OLIVIA (at length). Darling, you are naughty not to have told me about the Board of Trade.

  JOHN (sleepily). What about the Board of Trade?

  OLIVIA. Now don’t be maddening. And what about Freddy being the new Under-Secretary for War?

  JOHN. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  OLIVIA. Oh, I could strangle you sometimes. What’s the use of being a Cabinet Minister’s – attachment – if one has to hear all one’s gossip from one’s girlfriends? Hm?

  She is answered by a grunt.

  It was really the end the other day when I had to hear all about the new tank from Joan of all people; it was so humiliating. With a lesser woman it would have been an excuse for divorce – or whatever the equivalent is.

  Again there is a grunt. She looks up at him.

  (Gently.) Go on, sleep away, you great baby. I’ll write some letters.

  She kisses him gently on the forehead. Then she gets up and goes to the writing desk, sits down and begins to write. After a moment, POLTON enters in some agitation.