by Angus Wilson
RUPERT [to audience]: Prove that I can act! I’ve had one feeble line since the curtain went up. And now I’m to play the butler. [Exit as MOUSE speaks.]
MOUSE: Why has Margaret given up her ballet?
MRS MATTHEWS junior: If anything, ballet’s given her up. Look at her. We’ve always known that if she grew too much …
MARGARET: That’s not fair. We agreed that if I outgrew Pavlova …
MRS MATTHEWS junior: Outgrew Pavlova! Outgrew Pavlova! I’m sick to death of hearing that parrot cry. Oh, not you, Mr Polly. You’ve been very good. He’s lost almost all that shrieking, Mouse. He’s quite a grown-up parrot, now. Outgrown Pavlova! Anyone would think Pavlova was a bad habit like nail-biting instead of a very great dancer and a very beautiful woman.
MOUSE: But if it’s really so, Clara, does the girl want to go on with dancing? Do you, Margaret – ordinary ballroom dancing?
MRS MATTHEWS junior: Now, Mouse darling, you mustn’t judge everyone by yourself. Not all girls are blue stockings. Why, at seventeen I could have danced all night. In any case she’s got to think of earning her living. We can’t support these children forever. That’s why I jumped at Miss Lamont’s offer.
MOUSE: What offer?
MRS MATTHEWS junior: For her to do a little teaching.
MOUSE: I don’t think that’s quite straight of Miss Lamont. I’m surprised at her. She receives my Banker’s Orders regularly and then … [RUPERT reappears with drinks, bottles and a shaker on tray.]
MRS MATTHEWS junior: Oh, darling heart, heaven sent boy. And with a perfect Bronx! Isn’t he clever, Mouse? Give Mouse a sherry. And so handsome! And the silly boy’s covering those wonderful features with yellow paint when he ought to be a hussar with glorious whiskers.
MARGARET: Aunt Mouse, I think you ought to know …
MRS MATTHEWS junior: Don’t be so egotistical, Mag. For once the conversation wasn’t about you. But now you’ve begun, we’d better tell Mouse, shall we?
MARGARET: Please, Mother.
MRS MATTHEWS junior: She’s embarrassed, Mouse, because after all the money you’ve spent on her dancing, she’s been wasting a lot of time writing stories.
MARGARET [interrupting]: But that isn’t it … my writing’s nothing to do … you know very well …
MRS MATTHEWS junior: But Mouse won’t mind. She might even make a little pin money by it, mightn’t she, Mouse? Who knows? [MARGARET has tried to interrupt her hut her Mother has talked over her.]
MOUSE: Perhaps the girl would prefer to take some course in writing, or what about going to the University if she’s too tall for ballet? I should like my great niece to be a writer. It’s a fulfilled life. Mrs Belloc Lowndes …
MRS MATTHEWS junior: Oh, really, Mouse. She’s got to earn her living. Why, Billy can hardly make a living out of writing.
MOUSE: He’s almost made one out of not writing.
MRS MATTHEWS junior: Now, that’s not nice. Just because he’s a perfectionist like you, Mouse. I won’t have my poor Billy abused in his absence. [She goes to the door, opens it, and calls.] Billy! Billy! Leave your old books and come down and talk to Mouse.
MOUSE: It’s Miss Lamont I’ve got to talk to. She has no right to take full fees and then use the gel as a teacher. It’s very near to false pretences…. [As MOUSE talks, MRS MATTHEWS, who is beginning to despair of deflecting her from the fatal subject, makes a last desperate effort, by addressing her remarks to the parrot.]
MRS MATTHEWS junior: Well, Mr Polly, I hope you’re taking a nice supply of nuts to Constantinople. Or will they convert you to Turkish Delight? Will they, Poll? Will they? [She puts out her finger and withdraws it only just in time.] You bloody bird! No, no, Mouse. Mr Polly and I were just talking Pygmalion talk! Swear at you, Mr Polly. Not bloody likely!
MOUSE: Has Miss Lamont given you no explanation, Clara?
MRS MATTHEWS junior [at the door, calling]: Billy! Billy!
MOUSE: Will you listen to me, Clara, please?
MRS MATTHEWS junior [apparently defeated, in a resigned voice]: Yes,
MOUSE. [The front door bell rings.] Saved by the bell. [She sinks on to the piano stool exhausted and, as BILLY POP appears at the door, she begins to play and sing with imitated piety, ‘Safe into the haven guide, oh, receive my soul at last.’ The others form a tableau of astonishment on which the curtain descends.]
Hearing the front door bell, Quentin laid aside his book. ‘Second Act, beginners please,’ he said. Marcus painted a great eye to the peacock’s feather that Narcissus held in his hand as he gazed into the pool; then he laid down the brush. ‘We’re on,’ he said, getting up from his chair.
Gladys too put aside her writing. But before leaving her room she took Alfred’s snapshot from behind the photograph of her parents which stood in a red Morocco frame on top of the trunks. She kissed it. ‘Wish the Matthews brood good luck, old man,’ she said, ‘we’re going over the top.’
Sukey put aside her mending. ‘I suppose I must go and make myself beautiful for Granny.’ She looked up and caught a sudden glimpse of Regan’s eye that recalled the young Stoker of their early years, but that placid eye was set now in such disgusting and grotesque contours of sagging grey flesh and deeply scored wrinkles beaded with blackheads that she felt a momentary terror of being alive beside such a memorial to the corruption of the flesh. Then, ashamed, she put her hand on Regan’s shoulder for a moment as she went out to the kitchen. She felt an impulse to bend down and kiss the mole-marked cheek. ‘Dear Regan,’ was all she would say, or rather, whisper; and then, perhaps, ‘Dear Regan, do you remember the slide we made at High Bank and Gladys splitting her knickers?’ As suddenly she felt that she had no right to organize Regan’s memories.
As she came up the basement stairs the bell sounded loudly again. She called up to the drawing-room ‘Can’t somebody let Granny in? I’m not tidy yet.’ But only chatter and the piano replied. She went to the front door herself. As she opened it the wind blew a strong smell of camphor from her grandmother’s sables into her face; but almost as though in revenge a strong smell of rich gravies drew the greedy old woman eagerly indoors, yet set her black Pomeranian bitch, less gross in her tastes, yapping frantically at her heels. She said ‘Gran,’ and kissed the old woman’s veil-netted cheek. She murmured, ‘Noise and kitchen smells and not properly ready,’ but the old lady turned to the uniformed man still at the door of the Packard with its swelling gas balloon top. ‘That will be all right now, Colyer. You’ll see to your own ale, won’t you?’
‘Colyer will be welcome below stairs,’ Sukey said. But as though in answer, a whiff of pheasant, too gamey almost for the old lady, made Sukey wince, Pom yelp, and Colyer touch his cap respectfully. ‘Thank you, Madam,’ he said, ‘about three.’ Then, as Regan’s voice came droning, ‘The little nipper turned to me. Aint mother goin to av none?’ Mrs Matthews senior said, ‘Stoker fidgets Colyer, my dear. He’s a bit of an old maid. He likes everything just so.’ Sukey frowned at the justice of the implied criticism and turned away to shut out her grandmother’s distaste for their home. Mrs Matthews drew her hand out of her muff and put it gently on her granddaughter’s shoulder, impelling herself and Pom finally and irrevocably into No. 52. She bent down and kissed Sukey’s cheek. ‘Dear Sukey, do you remember, “Ise made scrambubbled eggs”? Oh dear, all those lovely farmhouse eggs wasted. But you had made toast, darling. How is the cookery, Sue?’
THE FAMILY SUNDAY PLAY
ACT 2
The curtain goes up on the same drawing room scene. It is ten minutes later. The whole household, except for REGAN, is present to meet their two intimate visitors. Down left MISS RICKARD (Mouse), sits upright with Mr Polly on her shoulder and a sherry in her hand. Near her stands MARGARET MATTHEWS. Then towards backstage MRS MATTHEWS JUNIOR at the piano with a re-filled Bronx; backstage RUPERT MATTHEWS, leaning on the piano. Central backstage MR MATTHEWS junior, a handsome, boyish, curly headed man in tweeds; only a slight pot belly, over-rosy cheeks and constant suppressed
belching reveal how sedentary is the life of this outdoor-looking man; he is seated in an armchair, whisky and soda in one hand, the other hand held dramatically to his forehead. Down centre stage QUENTIN MATTHEWS stands, his back to the audience, addressing the family. His loose old tweed jacket is bound with leather at the elbows. His thin body is stooped at the shoulders. By him MARCUS MATTHEWS sits cross-legged, looking up at QUENTIN, his back to the audience (all we may see is his black curly hair above his grubby Eton collar). Down right GRANNY MATTHEWS, a tall, handsome, ample old woman, all sables and black velour hat, sits in an armchair holding a handkerchief to her eyes with one hand and a glass of sherry in the other. On her lap sits Pom. By her side stands SUKEY MATTHEWS, an upright flaxen haired girl. The whole grouping should be reminiscent of (i.e. not exactly like) a conventional family photograph. As the curtain rises QUENTTN is speaking, but his voice is drowned by MRS MATTHEWS JUNIOR’S loud playing of the chords up and down the length of the keyboard.
MOUSE [half rising, angrily]: Be quiet, Clara. Control your temper. We want to hear what the boy has to say.
MRS MATTHEWS junior: We! I have no intention of listening to another word of his priggish conceit.
GRANNY MATTHEWS: How can you talk of your own son like that? When he’s been wounded too.
MRS MATTHEWS junior: And haven’t his words wounded me? His own parents cheats and liars. Those are the sort of wounds that don’t heal.
QUENTIN: Now, Granny, my wounds have nothing to do with it all. We must keep to the point.
GRANNY MATTHEWS: But we’re so proud of you, Quintus.
QUENTIN: Thank you, dear, but what’s more important is that Rupert and Marcus and the girls shouldn’t have their lives crippled from the start.
MRS MATTHEWS junior: Crippled! [She plays a loud chord in the bass.] We’ve clothed and fed and educated you. What more do you want? [She addresses the audience.] Every year when they were children I made them give to the Barnardo’s homes out of their money box. But the lesson’s been wasted.
MR MATTHEWS junior [rising and crossing over to his wife, he puts his hand with dramatized affection on her shoulder]: No, old dear. They believe that we’ve hurt them somehow. God knows how they’ve come to think it. But they must say their say. Wounds are bad enough, but festering wounds!
MARCUS [turning to the audience]: If only one of my sisters were ambitious to be a field hospital nurse, she could learn from all this.
QUENTIN: We’ve absolutely no wish to be unfair, Father. We know you and Mother find it difficult to live on your income. How you deal with that is, of course, entirely your own affair. But we have a right to defend ourselves, to consider our own lives. Careers, professions, what we’re going to make of life.
MRS MATTHEWS junior: Careers! Professions! I don’t want to hear another word about it. Is that what my children think life means? Then we have failed.
MR MATTHEWS junior: She’s right, you know, as usual. Getting and spending! It’s not enough.
MOUSE: Spending alone seems to have been enough for their parents. And money that they had no right to [she puts her arm round MARGARET’s waist]. This poor girl’s precious feet ruined!
GRANNY MATTHEWS: My little Sukey no better than an unpaid kitchen maid! [She puts her hand on SUKEY’s arm.]
MOUSE: It’s being made a fool of that I shall never forgive, Clara.
GRANNY MATTHEWS: It’s the lies, Will, that have hurt me so. The unspoken lies. [The twins disengage themselves from the two old women.]
MRS MATTHEWS junior: Unspoken lies! What nonsense all this is. You’ve condemned Billy unheard, Granny. On the basis of a lot of spiteful children’s tittletattle.
MARGARET [to herself]: If he had been heard, the lies would have been spoken.
MRS MATTHEWS junior: What did you say? What was it? Come on! Some more of your spinsterish spite. Get out of here! Go on! We’ve no place here for malicious old maids. No wonder your father can’t work with all this stifling sourness around him. What children for a creative man! Get out of here, all of you. Do you hear me?
MR MATTHEWS junior: No, no, my dear girl. Don’t let their hysteria touch you. You’re too clearheaded for that.
MOUSE: Their hysteria!
MR MATTHEWS junior: Yes, Mouse, I’m afraid so. But of course Clara and I are to blame. We’ve let them live in a fairy tale nest up there in the nursery for far too long. We should have pushed them out into real life long ago.
RUPERT [to audience]: Mr Darling reproves Wendy.
GRANNY MATTHEWS: Oh, Will, how can you say that about Quintus? All the best years of his youth spent out there in the horror of the trenches.
MR MATTHEWS junior: My dear Mother, Quentin’s been a hero. God help me, how do you think I feel criticizing him? An old crock like myself that they wouldn’t take. But it has to be faced that in a sense, in an important sense too, he’s only just learning what reality is. War has its fineness, its heroism and its horror. Young chaps like Quentin must plan to see that it doesn’t happen again. But everyday reality’s much more grim. It has neither heroism nor horror. And Maggy wren, leave wit to your mother, my dear. You’re a hedgerow bird.
GLADYS [roaring with laughter]: Maggie a wren! Do you know what a wren looks like, Pop? Go on, be a wren, Mag.
[MARGARET stands on one kg pretending to be a stork.]
RUPERT [joining her, does the same]: Where shall we make our nest, Mrs Wren?
[They make a giant one-legged tableau centre stage.]
GLADYS: Let’s hope there aren’t any nature passages in your memoirs, Pop.
[The children laugh and are joined by the smiles of MOUSE and even GRANNY MATTHEWS.]
MRS MATTHEWS junior: How can you encourage them in these feeble, childish jokes? You say you want them to grow up. What sort of example are you setting them, Mouse? And you, Granny? [Laughter continues and she bangs the keys.] Will you stop it at once, you stupid children?
[The noise sets Pom yapping.]
Get that old bitch out of the room.
RUPERT: Now, really, you go too far, Countess. Poor Granny!
MRS MATTHEWS junior: You think every woman uses a harlot’s language. There’s the sort of career your precious grandson wants. On the stage with tarts. [She shouts at GRANNY MATTHEWS and Pom yaps again.] I said, put that old bitch out, did you hear me? Sukey? Put the dog out. [Aroused by the shouting and Pom’s yapping Polly begins to shriek.] And that filthy bird! There’ll be fur and feather flying all over my Wilton carpet any moment. I will not have animals fighting in my drawing-room.
MOUSE: They are not fighting, Clara. And no one says what Polly must or must not do but me.
GRANNY MATTHEWS: I’m sure you wouldn’t fight with pretty Polly parrot, would you, Pom? And you’re not old, are you? Though your mistress may be.
MRS MATTHEWS junior: Well if she’s not old she’s got mange and I won’t have that in my drawing-room. Will you take those creatures out Sukey? You’re so famous for your kindness to animals.
GRANNY MATTHEWS: Sukey wouldn’t put a little dog out of the room, would she, Pom? Please, Sukey, Pom says, don’t put me out.
MOUSE: My dear Mrs Matthews, don’t encourage Clara to act like a spoiled hysteric. There’s no question of anyone touching our pets unless we wish it.
MARGARET: But do wish it, Aunt Mouse. This is so important to us and we shall never be able to discuss it while the Countess is issuing royal decrees.
QUENTIN: I think Mag’s right, Granny. Pom’ll be all right on her own while we thrash all our problems out.
GRANNY MATTHEWS: Well, I don’t know really. I don’t see why poor Pom should suffer. But if you think it will help, Quintus. Tuck her little handkerchief under her collar, Sukey, before you leave her. How our little mouth does water nowadays, doesn’t it, since we lost our teeth?
MOUSE: I’m not at all happy, Quentin, at giving way to your Mother’s ridiculous moods. But since it was my spoiling her as a girl that’s at the root of the trouble, I mustn’t let you chi
ldren suffer. Don’t put him on any family heirloom, Sukey. He’s a bit erratic where he does his biggies, now he’s a grown up parrot.
SUKEY [with Polly on her shoulder and Pom in her arms]: But where shall I put them, Countess?
MRS MATTHEWS junior: Oh, on the landing, anywhere. They’re such good friends it seems. I suppose they can manage the stairs, being so young and agile.
[SUKEY puts the parrot and the Pomeranian dog outside the door and returns to her place by GRANNY MATTHEWS.]
MOUSE: Well, now that you’ve spent your ugly temper on dumb animals that can’t help themselves, Clara, perhaps you’ll let us hear what Quentin has to say.
[QUENTIN is about to speak when MR MATTHEWS junior feels that he should assert his place as pater famílias.]
MR MATTHEWS junior: Fire ahead, old man. Give us the glorious revolution. I’ll promise not to chuck the Great Seal into the Thames.
QUENTIN: Look, Father, you fought a battle to be a writer. You’ve said yourself how grandfather opposed …
GRANNY MATTHEWS: Oh, Will, how could you say that? Your father took the greatest interest when your first story came out in the Strand.
MR MATTHEWS junior: Oh, yes, when the meagre allowance he greeted my marriage with forced me to write for popular magazines, the old boy was delighted. But I would remind you, Mother, that my first published story appeared in the Savoy alongside something of Lionel Johnson’s. That was the sort of promise that the Guvnor’s meanness nipped in the bud. If he had ever heard of the Savoy you may be sure that he’d have thrown any copy he found on the drawing-room fire even at the risk of putting it out. To give him his due his prudery always defeated his parsimony if only by a short head.
[GRANNY MATTHEWS subsides into tears.]
QUENTIN: Well, whatever the rights or wrongs, Pater, can’t you listen to our hopes and ambitions with sympathy? Three of us are grown up now, and the twins and Marcus soon will be. We’re trying to understand what that means, what life is.