MICHAEL. Because I hate him.
OLIVIA. No, darling. You think he’s a fascist – you think he’s a crook and a swindler – I believe you even have a faint idea he’s a murderer – you think all sorts of ridiculous things about him. But you don’t hate him. You’ve only persuaded yourself that you do.
MICHAEL. I hate him more than anything on earth.
OLIVIA. Oh, darling, you don’t. Really you don’t. You imagine it.
MICHAEL. I hate him for what he’s done to you.
OLIVIA (after a pause). What do you mean?
MICHAEL (passionately). Don’t you know what he’s done to you? He’s changed you – so that you’re no more like my mother than – than any one of a hundred society women I could pick out for you any day of the week in The Dorchester. You’re not you any more. That’s why I hate him.
OLIVIA (quickly). That’s a bad thing to say, you know, Michael. Are you sure it’s true?
MICHAEL. Don’t you know it’s true? Think back to Sandringham Crescent, when Dad was alive and I was with you and you didn’t have a big house and four servants and lots of famous people coming in for dinner, and men ringing up all the time, and Dad was doing all right and there were just the three of us. How can you say you haven’t changed?
There is a pause. MICHAEL has turned away from OLIVIA to conceal incipient tears.
OLIVIA (after a pause, very gently). Darling, will you listen to me, if I tell you a story about myself?
MICHAEL (busy with a surreptitious handkerchief). All right, Mum.
OLIVIA. I met your father when I was seventeen. He was very good-looking and quite a famous rugger player – did you know?
MICHAEL. Oh yes. There were all those photos in the sitting room – don’t you remember? Besides he was always talking about that time he nearly played for England –
OLIVIA. Yes, of course. It was stupid of me. Well, when I married him, it was considered quite a good match. I was the youngest of a very large family – mostly daughters – your grandfather was a KC – but he never made much money – and I’m sure that he and Mother were really very glad to get me off their hands so young.
MICHAEL. But you were in love with Dad, weren’t you?
OLIVIA. Yes. I thought I was.
MICHAEL (quickly). But, Mum –
OLIVIA. Well, perhaps I was in love with him, then. I don’t know. It’s hard to remember how one felt twenty years ago.
MICHAEL (shocked). You mean – you didn’t stay in love with him?
OLIVIA. Shall we just say that I settled down, quite contentedly and peacefully to married life at Sandringham Crescent. Your father wasn’t a very successful man, Michael. I watched his practice dwindling steadily, year by year, and year by year it became more of an effort to make both ends meet. Still, we managed all right until the end. I never resented his failure. I never asked for or expected another sort of life. With him – and you – (With a faint smile.) it was probably you that turned the scales – I’d have been quite content to have lived the rest of my life as the wife of an incompetent dentist in Sandringham Crescent, Barons Court.
MICHAEL (hotly). He wasn’t incompetent. He was jolly good at his job.
OLIVIA. Then perhaps he had bad luck. I only saw the bank returns.
MICHAEL (getting up). It’s unfair to talk of him like that, after he’s dead –
OLIVIA. Are you play-acting now, Michael?
MICHAEL returns to the sofa, with a faintly hangdog look.
MICHAEL (miserably). Yes, I suppose so. It’s only because I know what’s coming.
OLIVIA. If you know, tell me.
MICHAEL. You’re going to say that when you met Sir John Fletcher, you fell in love for the first time in your life.
OLIVIA. Yes, I was going to say that. It’s true.
MICHAEL. And you were going to say that all this – grandeur – doesn’t really matter to you, because you’d be just as happy with him in a slum as you are here.
OLIVIA (quietly). No. I wasn’t going to say that. This – grandeur – as you call it, is very important to me. I love it. I sometimes feel that I only began to live when I moved into this house. I was going to say that I can’t separate that feeling from my love for John. The two go together, and if, in falling in love with John, I’ve changed and become a Dorchester society woman – and enjoy giving dinner parties for famous people and having a big house with four servants and therefore you can no longer recognise me as your mother, I’m sorry, Michael, but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it.
MICHAEL. Nothing?
OLIVIA. Nothing at all.
MICHAEL. I see. (Gets up.) Can I have a glass of sherry?
OLIVIA. Go ahead.
MICHAEL pours himself out a glass.
MICHAEL. Well, that settles that, doesn’t it?
OLIVIA (firmly). Yes, Michael. That settles that.
MICHAEL helps himself to a cigarette out of the silver box and lights it himself.
MICHAEL. And what happens to me, meanwhile?
OLIVIA (sharply). You’ll go on living here with us, of course.
MICHAEL (quietly). No, I won’t.
OLIVIA (getting up). Don’t be ridiculous, Michael.
MICHAEL. I’ll be all right. Don’t worry. I’m making quite enough money to look after myself.
OLIVIA. Michael – are you trying a little blackmail?
MICHAEL. Oh no, I’m not play-acting – if that’s what you think.
OLIVIA. You realise what it would mean to me if you went away.
MICHAEL. I don’t think you realise what it would mean to me if I stayed.
OLIVIA stares at MICHAEL in silence for a moment.
OLIVIA. Where do you think you’re going to go to?
MICHAEL. I can get digs. I won’t go far away. We’ll still see each other.
OLIVIA. That’ll be nice for both of us, won’t it?
MICHAEL. I’m sorry, Mum. I can’t think of anything else to do.
There is another pause. Finally OLIVIA shrugs her shoulders.
OLIVIA (in a hard voice). Oh well – after all, you’re nearly eighteen. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t go off on your own, if you feel you must.
MICHAEL. None at all.
OLIVIA. And if you’re working in London, I suppose I shall see quite a lot of you.
MICHAEL. Of course.
OLIVIA. You’ll find it hard to get good digs, with London as crowded as it is.
MICHAEL. I’ll manage somehow.
OLIVIA. We’d better go round tomorrow then, and have a look.
MICHAEL. Yes, tomorrow’s my day off. It’ll be a good chance.
There is another pause. Both seem to wait for the other to say something.
OLIVIA (violently). Stop smoking that absurd cigarette! Put it out!
MICHAEL obediently flicks the end off his cigarette with his thumb and puts the stub in his breast pocket.
All right, then, Michael, that’s settled. It’s time you went out now. I’ve got my dinner guests arriving in a moment.
MICHAEL. Yes, Mum.
He puts his sherry glass down and goes to the door. OLIVIA follows him suddenly, puts her arm on his shoulder and turns him round to face her. He does so unwillingly. She takes a cigarette out of the box and sticks it in his mouth, and remains with her arms around him now.
OLIVIA. There.
MICHAEL. Thanks. (Puts the cigarette away in his pocket.)
OLIVIA. You know it’s going to make me miserable, your going away, don’t you?
MICHAEL. I’m not going to be awfully happy about it myself.
OLIVIA. You don’t think you might grow to dislike him, perhaps, just a little bit less.
MICHAEL. I’m afraid not, Mum.
OLIVIA. Is there really no hope at all?
MICHAEL. No. None at all. I’m awfully sorry, but I can’t help what I feel.
OLIVIA. I never said you could.
MICHAEL. Besides, it’s not only him – (Glances round the room.)
OLIVIA. I see. (With a faint smile.) I suppose this is what comes of having a Communist son.
MICHAEL. I’m not a Communist – I told you. I don’t take the CP line.
OLIVIA. Oh yes, of course. You’re just an anti-fascist, aren’t you?
MICHAEL. That’s right.
OLIVIA. I see you’re still wearing that silly old black tie.
MICHAEL. Yes, I haven’t had time to put on another yet.
OLIVIA. It ought to be a red one really. Smile at me, Michael.
There is no response.
Go on, Michael. Smile at me.
This time she succeeds in producing a faint reaction.
That’s better. We’re still friends, aren’t we?
He suddenly buries his face in her shoulder and cries like a small boy.
MICHAEL (his voice muffled). Don’t go on with it, Mum. Please don’t. Please. I can’t bear it.
JOHN comes in. MICHAEL, concealing his face from him, runs past him and out.
JOHN (at length). Well?
OLIVIA. Well, what?
JOHN. Did you tell him off?
OLIVIA (in a flat voice). Yes, I told him off.
JOHN. Good. Will you make the cocktails, or shall I?
OLIVIA (getting up). I will.
She goes to the drink table and begins to pour ingredients into a cocktail shaker.
JOHN. He seemed quite upset just now. For once you must have been firm with him.
OLIVIA. I was.
JOHN. I congratulate you.
OLIVIA (turning with the cocktail shaker in her hand). John, dear?
JOHN (absently, deep in an evening paper). Yes?
OLIVIA. He’s won, you know.
JOHN. Who’s won.
OLIVIA. Michael. I’ve got to leave you.
JOHN (getting up quickly). What do you mean?
OLIVIA. There’s no way out. It’s you or him.
Pause. JOHN walks slowly forward up to her, as she begins to shake the cocktail.
JOHN. And you’re choosing him?
OLIVIA. Yes, I’m choosing him.
Pause. OLIVIA pours out a cocktail into a glass and hands it to him. He puts it down on a table. She pours one absently for herself and tastes it. Then she puts the glass down.
JOHN. I’ve been expecting this.
OLIVIA. I know you have.
JOHN. Olivia – if I told you that your love for me is the only worthwhile thing that’s ever happened to me, and that your leaving me will be the greatest shock I’ve ever had to bear, would that make any difference?
OLIVIA. It would be very nice to hear, darling, but it wouldn’t make any difference.
JOHN. If I resigned tomorrow, got my divorce and asked you to marry me?
OLIVIA. It would still be you or Michael.
JOHN. And your choice would be the same.
OLIVIA. Yes.
There is a pause. Then JOHN takes OLIVIA’s arm violently.
JOHN. Olivia, you’ve got to believe me when I say that everything in my life – my work, my money, my home, everything – will be meaningless without you. I’m not threatening suicide, or trying to get your sympathy. But if you leave me, it’s a plain and simple fact that my life will not be worth living. I tell you –
OLIVIA. Don’t go on, darling. Do you mind? However much I cry, it can’t make any difference.
JOHN (urgently). Olivia – you can’t leave me – you must remember what –
POLTON comes in.
POLTON (announcing). Miss Wentworth.
OLIVIA comes forward with a welcoming smile.
OLIVIA. Oh, Miss Wentworth! How charming of you to come. You know Sir John Fletcher, of course, don’t you?
JOHN bows politely.
Would you care for a cocktail? It’s our own private brand and we’re really rather proud of it, considering all the difficulties. It’s John’s invention, really, although I do take a little credit for it. (Shakes the cocktail.)
MISS WENTWORTH. Thank you so much.
OLIVIA. Miss Wentworth, I would like to take this opportunity of telling you how very much I enjoyed your last book. You loved it too, didn’t you, John?
JOHN. Yes, indeed. I thought it was admirable.
MISS WENTWORTH. Really, I’m so glad.
OLIVIA. And John’s so terribly difficult to please, you know, too. It’s really a great compliment for him to praise any novel since David Copperfield. (Handing her a cocktail.) There, just taste that and see.
MISS WENTWORTH. Excellent.
OLIVIA. It is rather nice, isn’t it? Yes, I simply worshipped that book. The scene where the hero – the young Belgian pilot – meets his fiancée after all those years in the farmhouse, I thought was really beautiful and most moving – most moving.
POLTON comes in.
POLTON (announcing). Mr and Mrs Randall.
OLIVIA goes quickly towards the hall.
OLIVIA (as she goes into the hall to greet them). Oh, it is charming of you both to come. My dear, what a simply ravishing dress.
Their voices are audible in the hall for a second and then MR and MRS RANDALL enter, with OLIVIA behind. They are a highly distinguished-looking couple.
I don’t think you’ve met Sir John Fletcher, have you? This is – (To MRS RANDALL.) My dear, I never know whether I ought to say Mrs or Miss. Anyway, these two dear people are the Randalls, and surely I needn’t say more than that.
JOHN and the RANDALLS exchange murmured how do you do’s.
And this is Celia Wentworth, whose novels I know you’ve read. I’m just mixing our own peculiar brand of cocktails. (To MRS RANDALL.) My dear, I’m so glad to see in my Express that you’re going to play comedy again. It may be very stupid and insensitive of me, but I do believe that in times like these, it’s much better to make people laugh than to make them cry. Don’t you agree, John?
JOHN. Yes, indeed. Far better.
OLIVIA. Surely we all have quite enough to feel sad about these days without you clever people making us cry in the theatre –
POLTON enters.
POLTON. Sir Thomas Markham.
SIR THOMAS MARKHAM, an elderly man, in formal clothes, enters.
OLIVIA. Oh, Sir Thomas, how good of you to come. Now, let me see, who do you know? John, of course. This is Mrs Randall, Mr Randall, Miss Wentworth –
At some moment during the introduction of SIR THOMAS and the consequent bustle of greetings, the curtain falls.
End of Act Two.
ACT THREE
The sitting room of a flat in Barons Court, about three months later. The late Mr Brown’s taste is less in evidence than OLIVIA’s, but – instanced by one or two group photographs of rugger teams – it was evidently in some contrast to hers. The flat comprises the top floor of a tall Victorian mansion, and consists of the large living room, a kitchen, part of which is visible when the door is open, and Mr Brown’s consulting room, the door leading to which is downstage. Another door at the back leads to the hall, front door, OLIVIA’s bedroom and bathroom. Gothic windows show a line of Gothic roofs across the street.
The stage is empty on the rise of the curtain. Then we hear the front door bang and, after a pause, MICHAEL appears, panting slightly from the exertion of climbing six flights of stairs. He throws his hat on to a divan (which is also his bed), and goes to the kitchen door, which he opens.
MICHAEL. Hullo, Mum.
OLIVIA (off). Hullo, darling. Had a nice day?
MICHAEL. All right, thanks. What about you?
OLIVIA (off). Not so bad. You want your food at once, don’t you?
MICHAEL. If you don’t mind awfully. I’ve got a date at a quarter to.
OLIVIA (off). All right, darling. I won’t be a second.
MICHAEL. Thanks so much.
He sits down at the table and opens a periodical which has just come through the post, and which turns out to be the Labour Monthly. Another periodical, still in its wrapping, he puts down unopened on the table. MICHAEL is deep in the Labour Mo
nthly as OLIVIA comes in from the kitchen with a loaded tray. Her appearance has undergone a transformation. Her hair is untidy and her attire is sensible rather than aesthetic. She puts the tray down in front of MICHAEL.
OLIVIA. It’s dried-egg omelette again, I’m afraid.
MICHAEL (raising the dish cover). It looks jolly good.
He helps her to lay out the plates.
Aren’t you going to eat?
OLIVIA. It’s too early for me, darling. I’ll make myself something later.
MICHAEL. That means bread and cheese and a cup of tea – if I know you.
OLIVIA. I never feel hungry at night.
MICHAEL. I wish you’d eat more. I’m getting quite worried about you.
OLIVIA. I can’t stand my own cooking, that’s all. Even so, I eat like a horse. I’ve put on five pounds since we came here.
MICHAEL. That’s not from eating.
OLIVIA. What is it from then? Drinking?
MICHAEL (with a smile). No.
OLIVIA. From a good conscience?
MICHAEL nods.
You may be right, darling. Eat your nice omelette.
MICHAEL begins to eat.
What’s your date?
MICHAEL. I’m going to a film at the Forum.
OLIVIA. Who are you going with?
MICHAEL (vaguely). Oh – well – you don’t know her –
OLIVIA. Oh. I see. Is she nice?
MICHAEL. Frightfully nice.
OLIVIA. From your office?
MICHAEL. Good lord, no. They’re all ninety in the office. The youngest is twenty-eight.
OLIVIA. The poor old things. It’s a wonder they can work.
MICHAEL. Oh, it’s not their being older I mind, Mum. I didn’t mean that. I like women of a certain age.
OLIVIA. Do you, darling?
MICHAEL. Yes. I just meant that they were either all married with bags of children, or they’re dried-up old spinsters (Turns over the page of the Labour Monthly.) Whizzo! There’s another article by Laski. I love him, don’t you?
OLIVIA. I don’t think I know him, darling.
MICHAEL. Oh yes, you do, Mum. Don’t you remember I gave you that article of his to read in the last Labour Monthly? It was on ‘Exchange Equalisation and the Export Problem’.
OLIVIA. Oh yes, of course. Charming.
MICHAEL. This one’s on ‘Inflation and the Standardisation of Wages’. I’ll let you read it later. Oh, by the way, your paper’s come. (Pushes across the wrapped-up periodical he had brought in.)
Love in Idleness / Less Than Kind Page 22