POLTON (urgently). Madam –
MICHAEL BROWN comes in quickly on her heels. The conflict between his mother’s description of him as a small boy, and JOHN’s forecast of him as a young man is not resolved by his appearance, which could support either view.
MICHAEL. Hullo, Mum.
OLIVIA (with a joyous shout). Michael, darling! (Embraces him warmly.) You said late tonight. I wasn’t expecting you for hours.
JOHN sits up abruptly, looks around – sits down again quickly and begins hurriedly to fix his disarranged attire.
MICHAEL. I didn’t see why I should wait all day for a train. I cadged a lift from a ferry-pilot chap I know. He was taking an Anson down to Reading and I came on from there.
OLIVIA. I can hardly believe it. (Embraces him again.) Michael, darling, are you all right? You don’t look so much older but you look so thin. Didn’t they give you enough to eat over there?
MICHAEL. Of course they did.
OLIVIA. Oh, it’s wonderful to see you, Michael –
MICHAEL has become conscious of JOHN, who is now unobtrusively trying to change from his slippers back to his shoes. He has just succeeded in putting on one shoe, as MICHAEL turns towards him and waits to be introduced.
(Without embarrassment.) Oh, I’m sorry. This is Sir John Fletcher – my son, Michael.
JOHN. How do you do?
MICHAEL. How do you do, sir?
OLIVIA. You remember? I told you all about him in my letters. I want you to be particularly nice to him, Michael – because he’s a very old friend of mine – that’s to say, anyway, I want you to get on – (Tails off, suddenly embarrassed.)
MICHAEL (stiffly). Oh yes.
JOHN. That’s splendid.
There’s a pause. MICHAEL eyes the shoe in JOHN’s hand with some surprise.
OLIVIA (quickly). Poor man, his shoes were hurting him.
MICHAEL. Oh, really?
OLIVIA. So I told him to take them off if they were hurting him.
MICHAEL. Yes, I see.
JOHN (with a social laugh). Well, they’ve stopped hurting me now, so if you don’t mind, I’ll put them on again.
OLIVIA. Oh yes, do.
JOHN sits down again, and begins to put on his remaining shoe. MICHAEL watches him in puzzled silence.
JOHN. Did you have a good trip?
MICHAEL. Yes, thank you, sir.
OLIVIA. Oh, don’t call him ‘sir’, Michael. Call him – I know – call him ‘Uncle John’.
JOHN, straightening himself from his shoe, glares at OLIVIA.
MICHAEL. Why?
OLIVIA. Well – because it would – well – be nice.
MICHAEL (quickly). I agree with Michael. I don’t see why he should call me ‘Uncle John’ when I’m not his Uncle John.
OLIVIA (unhappily). Yes – but you’re such a very old friend.
JOHN. Quite so, but that’s hardly the point.
MICHAEL is looking round the room, taking it in for the first time.
OLIVIA. Do you like it, Michael?
MICHAEL. Yes, it’s not bad. Did you get it furnished?
OLIVIA. Well – yes – in a sort of way –
MICHAEL notices a picture over the mantelpiece and wanders over to look at it.
MICHAEL. Hello – you’ve still got the old Newton, I see.
OLIVIA. Yes, darling. Don’t you think it looks well there?
MICHAEL (doubtfully). Ye-es. I think it looked better in Barons Court, somehow. I know what it is, you’ve changed the frame, haven’t you?
OLIVIA. That’s right. The old one was so heavy, didn’t you think? How do you like the rest of the room?
MICHAEL. It’s a bit old-fashioned, after Canada, but it’s quite nice to look at. The landlady seems a decent old girl, anyway –
OLIVIA. Landlady?
MICHAEL. That old faggot I met in the hall, isn’t she the landlady?
OLIVIA. Well – no, darling. She’s more of a sort of – parlourmaid.
MICHAEL. She’s a funny old thing. (Pointing to sofa.) I suppose that becomes a bed, does it?
OLIVIA. Er – no, darling.
MICHAEL. Where do you sleep, then?
He looks around the room.
OLIVIA (faintly). Upstairs.
MICHAEL. You’ve got another room upstairs?
OLIVIA. Yes, darling –
MICHAEL. I thought this was a bedsit. It looks like one.
OLIVIA (looking round). Does it?
MICHAEL. Yes. Besides you told me it was a bedsit.
OLIVIA. Oh no, that was St John’s Wood… Swiss Cottage.
MICHAEL. Oh well, if you’ve got another room, I’ll sleep here tonight, then. (Points to the sofa.) I thought I’d probably have to go to the YMCA.
OLIVIA. Well – as a matter of fact, darling, there’s quite a nice little room for you upstairs.
MICHAEL. Another room?
OLIVIA. Yes, dear.
MICHAEL. Gosh!
He looks round the room again.
How much are you paying for all this?
OLIVIA. Oh – not an awful lot.
MICHAEL. Are you sure you can afford it?
OLIVIA. Darling – don’t let’s talk about such things just at the moment, do you mind. I’ll tell you all about it later. Remember there’s someone else in the room.
MICHAEL. Oh yes. Sorry. (To JOHN.) Can I get you a drink, sir?
JOHN. What? Oh no, thanks. Very kind of you, but I don’t think I’ll have another. (To OLIVIA.) Olivia – I know you two would like to be alone. On the other hand, I can’t very well leave until these papers come from the MOI. Would you mind if I went into – this room here – (Points to the study door.) and did a little work meanwhile?
OLIVIA. No, of course not, John.
JOHN. I’ll make myself scarce as soon as these papers arrive.
OLIVIA. Oh no, there’s no need to do that. Don’t forget we’re having dinner together.
JOHN. Yes, but surely wouldn’t you rather – ? (Glances at MICHAEL).
OLIVIA. Oh no. That’s all right. We’ll all three have dinner together. That’ll be fun, won’t it, Michael?
MICHAEL (without enthusiasm). Yes. Corking.
OLIVIA (with a triumphant look at JOHN). There you are, you see, John. It’ll be corking.
JOHN (meaningly). But are you sure you have time enough to say all you have to say to each other before dinner?
OLIVIA (glancing at her watch). Oh yes. Don’t worry about that.
JOHN. No? Oh, well, that’s fine. (To MICHAEL.) I’ll see you later, then.
MICHAEL. Yes, sir.
JOHN. How old are you, Michael?
MICHAEL. Seventeen and eight months.
JOHN. Really? As much as that? Well, well, well. One can’t very well describe you as a little boy then, can one?
MICHAEL (explosively). I should bloody well hope not.
OLIVIA (sharply and reprovingly). Michael, really!
JOHN (delighted). Splendid. Splendid. Goodbye.
He goes into the study.
MICHAEL (irritated). Now what was all that about my being a little boy? What did the silly old poop mean?
OLIVIA. Darling, he said you weren’t a little boy. Besides, he’s not a silly old poop.
MICHAEL. That’s what you say.
OLIVIA. Michael, you know who he is, don’t you?
MICHAEL. Oh yes. He’s Minister for Tank Production.
OLIVIA. That’s right, darling. He’s in the Cabinet.
MICHAEL. That doesn’t make him any the less of an old poop.
OLIVIA. Michael, really! You shouldn’t say things like that. He’s a very great friend of mine.
MICHAEL. I know, Mum, and I don’t think he should be.
OLIVIA (startled). What?
MICHAEL. He’s a stinking old reactionary.
OLIVIA. Michael!
MICHAEL. You should hear what they say about him in Canada.
OLIVIA. But, surely, they think very highly of him in Canada –
MICHAEL.
Oh no, they don’t. Not the sort of people I met, anyway. They say he’s a menace to world industrial reorganisation.
OLIVIA. Oh. Do they?
MICHAEL. Do you realise that he practically invented the Anglo-Canadian Steel cartel?
OLIVIA. Well, what’s wrong with that?
MICHAEL. What’s wrong with it? Mum – have you read his book, A Defence of Private Enterprise?
OLIVIA. No, I haven’t, I’m afraid. I’ve been meaning to for a long time.
MICHAEL. Well, I have, and I can tell you here and now it nearly made me sick. It’s nothing but rank, monopolistic reaction. Disgusting!
OLIVIA (smiling). Oh dear. Have I given birth to a Communist son?
MICHAEL. No, Mum. I don’t take the CP line. I’m just an antifascist. And that’s incidentally why I don’t think you ought to have too much to do with Sir John Fletcher. (Kindly.) I know you don’t understand much about these things, Mum, but believe me, he’s not an awfully good friend for you to have, and I really think the less you see of him the better.
OLIVIA is momentarily speechless. MICHAEL approaches her and puts an arm understandingly on her shoulder.
I’m sorry, Mum. I don’t want to be unkind.
OLIVIA (murmuring). Oh dear!
MICHAEL. Anyway, don’t let’s talk any more about him. We’ve got far too much else to talk about. Tell me all about yourself. How have you been?
OLIVIA. All right, thank you, Michael.
MICHAEL. You don’t look awfully well.
OLIVIA. Don’t I?
MICHAEL. No. A bit – sort of – haggard, somehow.
OLIVIA (faintly). Haggard?
MICHAEL. Well – I expect it’s just your being older.
OLIVIA. Yes – I expect it is. I mean – I am older.
MICHAEL (cheerfully). Oh, well – not so old as all that. You’ve still got plenty of time ahead of you.
OLIVIA. Yes, I hope so –
MICHAEL. Poor old Mum. I bet you’ve had a pretty rotten time of it. Still, it’s all going to be different now. Are you glad to have someone to take care of you at last?
OLIVIA, with a small sob, embraces him.
OLIVIA. Oh, Michael!
MICHAEL. What’s the matter?
OLIVIA (recovering herself). It’s nothing. I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re not quite how I expected you – somehow.
MICHAEL. I’m older, you know.
OLIVIA. Yes, of course you are. (Blows her nose and smiles.) And yet you don’t look so very much older –
MICHAEL. Oh, Mum, I must –
OLIVIA. No, you don’t. You still look my little Michael.
She takes both his hands and pulls him down on to the sofa beside her.
How was Canada?
MICHAEL. Corking.
OLIVIA. You haven’t got a Canadian accent, I’m glad to see.
MICHAEL. No. You see there were quite a lot of us English boys in the school, and we rather kept together. I can do a Canadian accent for you, if you like. Ask me how was Canada again.
OLIVIA. How was Canada?
MICHAEL (with a Canadian accent). Gee, Mum, I’m telling you that certainly is the greatest country on God’s earth. How’s that?
OLIVIA (smiling). I think I prefer you as an Englishman. They took care of you anyway?
MICHAEL. Take care of us? They were wonderful to us – they really were. I told you all about the house and everything, didn’t I?
Wasn’t I good about writing?
OLIVIA. Yes, you were marvellous.
MICHAEL. I bet you didn’t read any of them.
OLIVIA. I like that! I’ve kept every single one of your letters in a drawer upstairs, and I read them over and over again. I can tell you all about the house, and the Wilkinsons and the neighbours – what were they called – (Unprompted.) the Parkins and Professor Mason at the school who stammers and caught you imitating him one day – that was very naughty of you, darling – and the Wilburs who lived in the big house on the lake, and let you go fishing. There! You see?
MICHAEL. Not bad. I take it all back.
OLIVIA. I must say, they do seem to have been most terribly kind to you over there –
MICHAEL. You don’t know the half of it. They treated us like their own children – better really – we always got the biggest helping. Do you know that when Dad died, old Mrs Wilkinson, who didn’t know anything about him at all – except through me – of course I had talked about both of you quite a bit – well, she cried. She really cried. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that somehow –
OLIVIA (squeezing his hand). She wrote me an awfully nice letter.
MICHAEL (after a slight pause). Can you tell me anything more about it, or would you rather not?
OLIVIA. Well, darling, I don’t think there’s an awful lot to tell you that I haven’t told you already. You knew how ill he’d been before you went away. Well, the doctor said that if he didn’t give up work for three or four months he wouldn’t answer for the consequences. I tried to get him to, of course, but you know what your father was like about work, and besides he didn’t really believe there was anything wrong with him. He mistrusted doctors, and I think he always secretly believed that if your teeth were sound there couldn’t be anything much the matter with the rest of you. So, although I did manage to get him to the seaside for a bit, he insisted on coming back to London much too soon. And, then, because of the war, there was so much more work to do –
MICHAEL. With so many of the other dentists being called up, I suppose?
OLIVIA. Yes – and his work at the dental hospital. I tried – so hard, Michael – to get him to let up a bit. I suppose I should have tried more – I don’t know –
MICHAEL. I bet you did everything you could.
OLIVIA. I hope so, Michael. I do hope so. It only worries me that I never knew how ill he was until the very end. But then, no one else did, either, not even the doctor.
MICHAEL. Who was the doctor?
OLIVIA. Old Doctor Miles – you remember him, darling, don’t you? – From Sandringham Crescent. I’m afraid he wasn’t much good, but then of course we couldn’t afford Harley Street in those days.
MICHAEL. How do you mean, ‘in those days’?
OLIVIA. Nothing. I wasn’t thinking. Of course, if we’d known how ill he was it would have been different.
MICHAEL. Poor old Mum. I’m most awfully sorry.
OLIVIA. Thank you, darling.
He pats her sleeve, then strokes the material admiringly.
MICHAEL. By Jove – that’s a jolly nice bit of stuff. I bet you didn’t get that at Pontings.
OLIVIA. No, darling, I didn’t.
MICHAEL. I bet it was Derry & Toms –
OLIVIA. No, it wasn’t Derry & Toms either.
MICHAEL. Where was it then?
OLIVIA. Oh, a little shop – you wouldn’t know it –
MICHAEL. What’s it called?
OLIVIA. It’s called – Molyneux.
MICHAEL. No. Never heard of it. What’s the matter with Derry & Toms?
OLIVIA. Nothing, darling. Derry & Toms is very nice too – only Molyneux is a bit nearer –
Telephone rings.
Oh, damn! Excuse me, dear. (Lifts receiver.) Hullo – Oh, hullo, Freddy… No, I haven’t forgotten; it’s lunch tomorrow, isn’t it?… Yes, I met him at Bobby’s party… Yes, do bring him… sorry, Freddy, I can’t talk any more, do you mind?… Right. One-fifteen at The Dorchester… Goodbye.
She rings off. MICHAEL is staring at her.
(At length.) Penny for your thoughts?
MICHAEL. I was thinking how much you’ve changed.
OLIVIA (nervously). For the better or the worse?
MICHAEL. I don’t know. Just changed.
OLIVIA. Oh!
MICHAEL. Even your voice has changed. When you were speaking to that chap on the phone just now it might have been Aunt Ethel talking.
OLIVIA. Aunt Ethel has a nice voice.
MICHAEL. A bit Park Lane, isn
’t it?
OLIVIA (testily). Well, she lives in Park Lane.
MICHAEL. I know. Tell me – what made you leave Barons Court?
OLIVIA. Well – it was rather a gloomy flat, didn’t you think? Besides the blitz was on – so I took a little basement bedsit in – Swiss Cottage.
MICHAEL. And then you came on here. Did you ever manage to let the old flat?
OLIVIA. I’m not sure, darling. I don’t think so.
MICHAEL (shocked). But you don’t know whether you’ve let the flat or not?
OLIVIA. Well, it’s in the hands of agents and I haven’t heard from them for ages –
MICHAEL. But you must find out. After all, an extra two or three pounds a week would be very useful, wouldn’t it?
OLIVIA. Yes, darling. I suppose it would.
MICHAEL. I gather Dad didn’t leave very much, did he?
OLIVIA. It comes to about – (With an effort to remember.) a hundred and seventy-five pounds a year.
MICHAEL. Oh, well, that’s not too bad. (Looks round the room.) Still, I’m not sure you’re not being rather extravagant, having a place like this, with three rooms. I can see I shall have to make some money for you quickly.
OLIVIA (awkwardly). Darling – you remember all those letters you wrote to me about wanting to get a job between now and the time you’re called up?
MICHAEL (eagerly). Yes. Have you found me something?
OLIVIA. Well, I don’t approve, as I told you. But if you insist – well – I have found you something – and something rather good, too.
MICHAEL. How much money?
OLIVIA. I think it’s about seven or eight pounds a week.
MICHAEL. But that’s corking! We’ll be able to live in style. What is it?
OLIVIA. Well – it’s a job in the – Ministry of Tank Production.
MICHAEL. Oh.
OLIVIA (quickly). It’s an awfully good job, and I don’t think the hours are bad at all.
MICHAEL. Did you ask him for it? (Indicates the study.)
OLIVIA. No, no. He suggested it himself. He was very kind about it, and went to an awful lot of trouble to get it for you. You must thank him very nicely.
MICHAEL. Hm. Oh well, I suppose one can’t afford to be too choosy, if the job’s worth all that money. I can’t say I care for the thought of having him as a boss, all the same…
OLIVIA. Darling, after all, he is the Minister. I don’t suppose you’re likely to bump into him very much in your work.
MICHAEL. I shall take good care I don’t.
Love in Idleness / Less Than Kind Page 17