Love in Idleness / Less Than Kind

by Terence Rattigan

  JOHN. The Empire is a family whose branches are spread over a quarter of the known earth. Just as a son is bound to his mother by eternal yet invisible ties of blood and affection, and woe betide any interloper who tries to break them, so in the larger sphere of world economics the sanctity of family life –

  MICHAEL, his back to JOHN, emits a short, sharp laugh. JOHN turns to OLIVIA.

  (To OLIVIA.) Olivia, may we go into the dining room?

  OLIVIA. Oh, darling, I’m most terribly sorry, but I’m afraid the servants are in there, laying the table for the party tonight –

  JOHN. Very well. Thank you, Miss Dell. That’ll be all for today. I’ll have to try and get it done tomorrow morning.

  MISS DELL (rising). Yes, Sir John.

  MICHAEL. If I’m disturbing you, don’t worry. I was going upstairs anyway.

  He gets up and goes out. MISS DELL looks enquiringly at JOHN.

  JOHN. No, thank you, Miss Dell. It’s hardly worth going on now. I’m rather out of the mood.

  MISS DELL. Very well, Sir John. Goodbye.

  JOHN. Goodbye, Miss Dell.

  MISS DELL goes out. JOHN pours himself out a whisky.

  OLIVIA. Poor John! Don’t worry, darling. Your study will be ready for you tomorrow.

  She puts her arm round his shoulder lovingly. MICHAEL, who has come back through the open door to collect something from the desk, watches them expressionlessly.

  JOHN. It’s all right. I’m dead tired, really. That’s the trouble.

  OLIVIA. Poor pet!

  JOHN (nuzzling her cheek). Is that a new scent you have on?

  OLIVIA. Yes, darling. Do you like it?

  JOHN. I love it.

  OLIVIA. Come and lie down and have a little rest.

  She moves towards the sofa, with her arm still round JOHN’s shoulder, then stops as she notices MICHAEL.

  Hullo, Michael. I thought you were upstairs –

  MICHAEL. Can I borrow this?

  He holds up a pencil and a few sheets of paper. JOHN continues to the sofa alone.

  OLIVIA. Yes, darling. Going to write a letter?

  MICHAEL. No, some notes.

  OLIVIA. What on?

  MICHAEL. This book I’m reading.

  OLIVIA. What is the book? (Takes it from under his arm and glances at the title.) Diagnosis and Treatment of Poisoning! Darling – what are you reading this for?

  MICHAEL (with a glance at the sofa). Because I’m interested in the subject.

  He goes out. OLIVIA comes down to the sofa where JOHN is relaxing.

  OLIVIA. Is he going to poison you, do you think?

  JOHN. I shouldn’t be surprised. The only thing is, he’d better watch out I don’t get in first.

  OLIVIA settles herself in her usual position by JOHN’s head.

  OLIVIA (worried). Do you think he’s still terribly unhappy about it all?

  JOHN. Unhappy? Of course not. He’s having the time of his life.

  OLIVIA. I’m not so sure.

  JOHN. He’s enjoying every second of it.

  OLIVIA. I don’t know, darling. I thought at first he’d got over it, but the last day or so he’d been so – sort of moody.

  JOHN. Moody – exactly. He’s playing Hamlet.

  OLIVIA. What do you mean?

  JOHN. Haven’t you noticed? You watch him.

  OLIVIA (thoughtfully). Well, now you mention it, I have noticed an odd look about him at moments. Do you think that’s what it is?

  JOHN. Certainly. That’s his ‘antic disposition’. He does it at the office too, so Symonds tells me. He’s always giving the typists a demoniac glare. It scares them out of their wits. And then what about that black tie?

  OLIVIA. Isn’t there an office rule about that?

  JOHN. Oh no. He can wear any damn tie he likes. It’s his ‘inky cloak’.

  OLIVIA. Oh, the poor little lamb! Then he must be upset about it.

  JOHN. Nonsense. You told me yourself he never cared for his father. Besides, it’s well over three years ago that he died. It’s just sheer play-acting – for our benefit.

  OLIVIA. Now I come to think of it, I believe his school did do Hamlet once.

  JOHN (triumphantly). There you are! And I bet you he played the Prince.

  OLIVIA. No, I don’t think so. I think he played one of the ladies-in-waiting.

  JOHN. Well, it doesn’t matter. He knows the play anyway. You’d better look out for a closet scene, Olivia. He’ll be telling you to throw away the worser part of your heart and live the purer with the other half.

  OLIVIA. I’ll smack his bottom for him, if he does. (Laughs.) Oh, it really is rather sweet, isn’t it?

  JOHN. It’s not awfully sweet if you remember how the play ends. Oh, my Lord! Of course. (Slaps his knee and sits bolt upright as a sudden thought strikes him.) That book! Don’t you see?

  OLIVIA. No, what?

  JOHN. In default of a ghost he’s trying to find out how I poisoned his father.

  OLIVIA. Oh, darling! Really!

  JOHN. But of course that’s what it is. Don’t you remember how he tried to get me to admit I’d known his father?

  OLIVIA. Yes, that’s true. I had to deny it too, you know. Then he suggested that Jack had probably been your dentist without my knowing it – as if Jack wouldn’t have boasted to high heaven if he’d had you for a patient.

  JOHN. Still, at least it mean he absolves you from complicity in the crime. (Chuckling.) ‘Nor let thy soul contrive against thy mother aught.’ I’m the villain – the ‘bloody, bawdy villain. Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain. Oh, vengeance’! By Jove! I’ve scared myself now.

  OLIVIA. Oh, but it’s too absurd! I’m sure he couldn’t really believe –

  JOHN. You don’t know your own son, my dear. He has a lively imagination.

  OLIVIA (severely). I’ll just have to give him a good straight talking-to, that’s all.

  JOHN. Ha!

  OLIVIA. What’s so funny about that?

  JOHN. Nothing. Darling, if you’re going past the whisky decanter, you might replenish this.

  OLIVIA (taking his glass). Did your wife wait on you hand and foot as I do?

  JOHN. Oh no. I had to wait on her.

  OLIVIA. Is that why you left her?

  JOHN. Partly. And partly because she preferred the embraces of a certain Young Guards’ officer to my own.

  OLIVIA. How long were you in love with her?

  JOHN (thoughtfully). About – ten days.

  OLIVIA. And how long was she in love with you?

  She returns with his drink and hands it to him.

  JOHN. You’re very inquisitive this evening, aren’t you?

  OLIVIA. No, darling. Not specially.

  She rests her head against her shoulder again.

  Have I asked you that question before?

  JOHN. Certainly.

  OLIVIA. Well – I forget the answer.

  JOHN. You don’t forget it. You just like to hear it, that’s all. She was never in love with me. She married me for my money.

  OLIVIA. Oh – that reminds me. Did you do anything about that racing debt of hers?

  JOHN. No.

  OLIVIA. Are you going to?

  JOHN. No.

  OLIVIA. What’ll happen then?

  JOHN. Barton and Burgess will just have to write off five hundred pounds. Or post her at Tattersall’s.

  OLIVIA. You’re a hard man, aren’t you? Have you ever thought that I’m living with you for your money?

  JOHN (ironically). That thought is always with me.

  OLIVIA (looking up at him). Seriously, though. Have you ever thought that?

  JOHN. I decline to answer such a lunatic question seriously.

  OLIVIA. It’s not so lunatic. Michael thinks I am.

  JOHN. Michael thinks I poisoned his father.

  OLIVIA. Yes, but he may be right about me.

  JOHN. You’re not putting on an antic disposition yourself, are you?

  OLIVIA. No, dar
ling. I mean it. I’ve never bothered about it before, but Michael’s put the idea into my head.

  JOHN. Well, kindly cease bothering about it, will you?

  OLIVIA. It’s not that I don’t love you. I know I love you. But – (Points vaguely round the room.) I love all this too.

  JOHN. Who wouldn’t?

  OLIVIA. Lots of people. Michael for one.

  JOHN (viciously). Oh, damn Michael!

  OLIVIA. He thinks I’m a useless parasite.

  JOHN. Does it really matter what a Gollancz-crazed adolescent thinks of you?

  OLIVIA (unhappily). He’s my son.

  MICHAEL strolls in and stares moodily at OLIVIA and JOHN. OLIVIA gets up quickly and JOHN sits up on the sofa, the better to watch him.

  Hullo, darling.

  MICHAEL. Hullo.

  He walks slowly downstage, hands thrust deep in pockets and with an air of intense gloom. OLIVIA and JOHN watch him carefully.

  JOHN (at length). Made some nice notes?

  MICHAEL. Yes, thanks.

  JOHN. Good.

  MICHAEL walks slowly to the window, still in the same attitude of gloomy introspection. Finally, he finds a perch on an armchair by the window, and stares thoughtfully into the street.

  (Murmuring.) To be or not to be.

  OLIVIA shakes her head disapprovingly at JOHN, but MICHAEL has evidently not heard. He continues to stare out of the window, chin on hand.

  OLIVIA (at length, over-cheerfully). Well, Michael, what about a nice glass of sherry?

  MICHAEL, with a weary wave of the hand, dismisses the suggestion.

  MICHAEL. No, thank you, Mum. Not at the moment.

  There is another pause. MICHAEL heaves a deep sigh, then goes slowly towards the door.

  OLIVIA. Where are you going, darling?

  MICHAEL (wearily). Upstairs.

  OLIVIA. But you’ve only just come downstairs.

  MICHAEL. Yes, I know. (Continues towards the door.)

  OLIVIA. Well, before you disappear again, tell me – what are you going to do about tonight?

  MICHAEL. Tonight?

  OLIVIA. Yes, darling. I told you I was giving a dinner party tonight for twelve people, don’t you remember, and –

  MICHAEL. Oh yes. And I would make the thirteenth. I do remember.

  OLIVIA. Well, don’t be so vague and tiresome about it, dear. Did you manage to fix anything up for yourself?

  MICHAEL. No, no, I didn’t. I forgot, as it happens. Anyway, I’d rather be alone.

  OLIVIA. But haven’t you any nice friend you’d like to take out to a cinema or something?

  MICHAEL. No, Mum. I haven’t got any nice friend.

  OLIVIA (sharply). Well, you should have. What are you going to do, then?

  MICHAEL (listlessly). I’ll go out by myself.

  OLIVIA. All right, darling – only you’d better take some money – (Picks up her bag.)

  MICHAEL. I shan’t need any money, thanks.

  OLIVIA (crossly). Oh well – you’ll have to tell me how much it comes to, and I’ll pay you tomorrow.

  MICHAEL. Very well.

  He reaches the door when JOHN gets up from the sofa.

  JOHN. Michael.

  MICHAEL. Yes?

  JOHN. You don’t need to go upstairs again, I’m going out.

  OLIVIA. Have you got to, dear?

  JOHN. Yes, I’ve got to go over to my office and settle a couple of things.

  MICHAEL. Don’t go on my account.

  JOHN. I can assure you, Michael dear, I wouldn’t go across the street on your account. (To OLIVIA.) I’ve got to, as it happens.

  OLIVIA. Well, don’t be late for dinner, darling. Which reminds me – I’d better get a move on myself.

  MICHAEL (sharply). You’re not going out, are you?

  OLIVIA. No, darling. Just upstairs, to dress, that’s all. Why?

  MICHAEL. Nothing. By the way, are either of you doing anything tomorrow night?

  OLIVIA and JOHN exchange a puzzled glance.

  OLIVIA. I’m not. Are you, John?

  JOHN. No, I don’t think so. (Suspiciously.) Why?

  MICHAEL. How would you both like to come and see a show with me?

  OLIVIA and JOHN exchange another glance. OLIVIA is patently delighted.

  OLIVIA. But that would be lovely, Michael. How sweet of you. (Suddenly cautious.) Oh, but you know, darling, you mustn’t expect John the queue for the gallery –

  MICHAEL. Oh no, that’s all right. I’ve already got the seats, as it happens. They’re jolly good ones, too – in the front row of the stalls.

  OLIVIA (with a triumphant glance at JOHN). Darling – what an awfully nice thought! Thank you so much.

  JOHN. What is the show, Michael?

  MICHAEL. Well – it’s a sort of thriller, I think. It’s called Murder in the Family.

  JOHN guffaws suddenly, with evident huge enjoyment.

  JOHN. The play scene! I hadn’t thought of that.

  MICHAEL. What do you mean?

  JOHN. You’re a very ingenious boy, Michael. I congratulate you. That’s very good. (Laughs again.) ‘The play’s the thing, wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.’ Brilliant. Well done. Go up top of the class. Murder in the Family! That’s marvellous.

  He goes out still laughing. MICHAEL glares after him furiously. OLIVIA stares at MICHAEL, a little nonplussed.

  OLIVIA (at length, sharply). Michael, you’ve got to stop this nonsense at once, do you hear?

  MICHAEL (sulkily). What nonsense?

  OLIVIA. This Hamlet nonsense.

  MICHAEL. I don’t know what you mean.

  OLIVIA. Yes, you do, and I’m warning you, Michael, it’s getting beyond a joke. (Pointing to his tie.) And take that ridiculous thing off.

  MICHAEL. What ridiculous thing?

  OLIVIA. That ridiculous black tie. (As to a small child.) Go on, take it off this minute.

  MICHAEL pulls his tie off quickly and gives it to her.

  That’s better. And in future I’ll want you to behave less like a moonstruck little halfwit and more like a human being. Is that understood.

  MICHAEL. Yes, Mum.

  OLIVIA. Good.

  OLIVIA has achieved the door in a stern and dignified exit when she suddenly relents.

  Darling, I didn’t mean to be unkind. Here – you can have this back.

  She holds out the tie. MICHAEL makes no move to take it.

  MICHAEL. I don’t want it, thanks.

  OLIVIA. Go on, take it.

  MICHAEL. No, you keep it.

  OLIVIA, with a sigh, withdraws her outstretched arm.

  OLIVIA. Darling –

  MICHAEL. Yes?

  OLIVIA. Smile at me.

  She is smiling at him. MICHAEL, at first reluctant, finally cannot help himself. He smiles back at her. OLIVIA embraces him.

  There, take it back.

  She hands him back his tie. This time he takes it.

  You can dress in black silk tights for all I care. Only you’d better not – because it might annoy John.

  She goes out quickly. MICHAEL stands for a second with the tie in his hand then he goes quickly to the waste-paper basket and throws it in. POLTON enters.

  POLTON. Oh, Mr Michael, is your mother in?

  MICHAEL. She’s just gone upstairs.

  POLTON (making to go). It’s about the napkins –

  MICHAEL. Don’t go for a second. Do you mind if I ask you a question?

  POLTON. Well, no, sir – if it isn’t too awkward –

  MICHAEL. Well, it may be a bit awkward. I just wanted to know what you felt about what’s going on in this house.

  POLTON. You mean – Sir John and your mother, sir?

  MICHAEL. Yes.

  POLTON. Well, sir, I look at it like this. Mind you, I wouldn’t have no truck, in the normal way of things, with two people who carried on without being married. Living in sin, you might call it – begging your pardon, sir, if I’m taking a liberty –

  MICHAEL. No. Aft
er all, that’s what it is –

  POLTON. Oh no, sir, it’s not. Not with Sir John and Mrs Brown. It’s different with them. There’s nothing underhand or dirty about what goes on in this house – that I can assure you. They behave just like two people who’ve been lawfully married for years and years, and to see them together you wouldn’t know they hadn’t been, bless ’em.

  MICHAEL. But don’t you find that wrong?

  POLTON. Wrong? Lor! Bless you, no, sir. I wouldn’t be staying on in this house if I did, I can tell you that straight. (Defiantly.) I don’t hold with no immorality or unlicensed carrying-on in any shape or form, and I don’t hold with those who do, neither. Would that be all, sir?

  MICHAEL. Yes, that’s all. Thank you.

  POLTON. Thank you, sir.

  She goes out. MICHAEL shakes his head, as though puzzled. Then he goes to the window and stares out – no longer in the role of Hamlet, but eagerly, as though he were looking for something. Suddenly he darts out of the room and simultaneously we can hear a ring at the front door.

  MICHAEL (off. Calling). All right, Polton. Don’t bother. It’s for me.

  There is a pause, then DIANA FLETCHER comes in, followed by MICHAEL. She is about twenty-five, and very decorative. She looks faintly puzzled at the moment, as MICHAEL takes a quick furtive look round the hall, before closing the door behind him.

  (Pointing to a chair.) Won’t you sit down?

  DIANA. Thank you.

  She sits down. MICHAEL studies her carefully. DIANA looks round the room, then at MICHAEL.

  Are you the mysterious Mr Brown?

  MICHAEL. That’s right.

  DIANA. You sounded older on the telephone.

  MICHAEL. I’m much older than I look. (After a pause.) Just in case of accidents, you are Lady Fletcher, aren’t you?

  DIANA. Yes.

  MICHAEL. The wife of Sir John Fletcher?

  DIANA (with a faint smile). In a manner of speaking – yes.

  She looks at him enquiringly, evidently waiting for him to begin. MICHAEL seems to be wondering how to do so. He extends a peculiar wooden cigarette case.

  MICHAEL. Cigarette?

  DIANA. No, thank you.

  There is another pause, while MICHAEL continues to stare at her. DIANA regards him with faint impatience.

  Look, would you mind awfully telling me what all this is about? I have rather an important engagement.