by David Lodge
MAUDE
I’ll come with you. You don’t want to start the bleeding off again.
MAUDE escorts SIMON to the bathroom. They go in, leaving the door ajar. LEO, looking unhappy, sits slumped in a chair with his drink. The door of the bathroom closes, softly, but with a perceptible click. LEO spins round, stares at the bathroom door. There is a knock on the outside door, and JEREMY, dressed in a corduroy jacket, enters hurriedly, carrying a first-aid box.
JEREMY (looking round)
Where’s Simon? Penny told me he had a frightful nosebleed.
LEO
He’s all right.
JEREMY
She said he was stretched out on the sofa like ‘The Death of Chatterton’. I wonder what caused it?
LEO
Picking his nose.
JEREMY
What?
LEO
He banged into something.
JEREMY
Oh dear, I do hope he doesn’t claim against the insurance. The premium is overdue. Where is he, anyway? I’ve got some gauze and cotton wool in here.
LEO
He’s in the bathroom, cleaning up.
JEREMY moves towards the bathroom.
LEO
Maude’s with him.
JEREMY stops in his tracks.
JEREMY
Oh, well, I’ll just leave the box, in case he needs it.
LEO
You can go in.
JEREMY
No, it’s all right. (He puts the box down on the table and moves towards the outside door) I won’t disturb them.
LEO
Wait!
LEO comes across to JEREMY.
LEO
‘Disturb them’? What the hell d’you think they’re doing?
JEREMY (titters)
I don’t know, I’m sure.
JEREMY moves towards the outside door. LEO, beside himself with jealous suspicion, grabs his arm and turns him round.
LEO
But you do have some idea?
JEREMY
Would you mind letting go of my sleeve? (LEO releases his grip) The material creases rather easily. (Smooths sleeve) If you must know, I think she fancies him.
LEO
Maude fancies that wimp?
JEREMY
She has a reputation for collecting young writers, you know.
LEO
No, I didn’t know.
JEREMY
Yes.
The bathroom door opens. JEREMY starts guiltily, and moves away from LEO. MAUDE comes out of the bathroom. There is a smear of blood on her bosom.
MAUDE
Oh, hallo, Jeremy.
JEREMY
I gather Simon’s been in the wars. I brought the first-aid box over.
MAUDE
Thanks, but he seems to be all right now.
JEREMY
Oh, good.
MAUDE
He’s just washing the blood out of his shirt.
LEO
Some of it seems to have rubbed off on you.
MAUDE (looks down at her bosom)
Oh, dear. Never mind, it’s an old dress. I thought the reading went rather well, didn’t you, Jeremy?
JEREMY
Yes, the students were intrigued. And the fact that Simon’s piece … what was it called?
LEO
Confessions of an Asshole.
MAUDE
Instead of a Novel.
JEREMY
Yes. I think the very fact that it was incomplete, a kind of conscious failure, as it were, made it reassuring to them.
LEO grunts derisively.
JEREMY
It’ll be interesting to see what they produce themselves, tomorrow evening. Well, goodnight.
MAUDE
Goodnight, Jeremy.
JEREMY goes out, shutting the door behind him.
LEO
I’m sorry, Maude.
MAUDE
Apologise to Simon, not me.
LEO
I hardly touched him. That wasn’t the punch I promised him.
MAUDE
You mean you’re going to have another try?
LEO
There’s no satisfaction in hitting a wimp who won’t fight back.
MAUDE
I thought Simon was remarkably brave, as a matter of fact.
LEO
Brave?
MAUDE
He didn’t even flinch when you rushed up to him like some great snorting bull.
LEO
Yes, I fell right into his trap.
MAUDE
What trap?
LEO
I made a fool of myself, and embarrassed you. I’m sorry.
SIMON comes out of the bathroom in time to hear this last phrase. He is stripped to the waist.
SIMON
If you’re really sorry, Leo, you could make amends by swapping rooms tonight.
LEO
Why?
SIMON
Maude thinks I might suffer some after-effects. She wants to be on hand if I need help.
LEO looks at MAUDE.
MAUDE
I think it would be best.
LEO
Jeremy can take care of him.
SIMON
I don’t think Leo is going to take a hint, Maude …
MAUDE (dissociating herself from the wrangle)
I’m going to bed.
MAUDE goes to the staircase and begins to ascend it, watched by LEO.
SIMON (to LEO)
It’s quite a nice little room in the main house. At the top of the second flight of stairs, on the left.
LEO watches MAUDE reach the landing and go into her bedroom. SIMON fetches the whisky bottle from the sink unit.
SIMON
A nightcap before you leave?
LEO
I’m not leaving.
SIMON
Actually, it’s not your room we need, Leo, or even your bed. It’s your mattress.
LEO
Go to hell.
SIMON (sighs)
Very well, we’ll just have to shift as best we can. I hope we don’t disturb your sleep. (Glances speculatively at door of MAUDE’s bedroom) It could be noisy. I’d heard that she rather fancied younger men, but I didn’t know she was quite so … ravenous.
Taking the whisky bottle with him, SIMON goes to the stairs, humming ‘One More Night’.
LEO
Not just younger men.
SIMON stops on the stairs, turns and looks down at LEO.
SIMON
Did you say something?
LEO
I said, not just younger men. I had her last night.
SIMON
Really?
LEO
You don’t believe me?
SIMON
Give me some details. Make it convincing.
LEO
In the shower. Covered with soap.
SIMON (shakes head sceptically)
Too derivative, I’m afraid.
SIMON proceeds up the stairs.
LEO
St Clair! I’m not bullshitting you!
SIMON
A little O.T.T., as we say in the trade. Goodnight, Leo.
SIMON goes into MAUDE’s bedroom and shuts the door behind him. LEO goes to the sink unit and leans against the counter, trembling, undecided what to do. The sound of low, erotic laughter from the room above. LEO goes quickly into his bedroom and snatches up pyjamas, dressing-gown, sponge bag. He comes out of his bedroom and strides towards the outside door. His eye falls on PENNY’s folder, and he checks and picks it up. He strides to the door, opens it, turns back and addresses the bust of Aubrey Wheatcroft.
LEO (to bust)
And up yours, too.
LEO goes out, slamming the door behind him.
Blackout.
Act Two Scene Four. The following morning.
The barn. The sitting-room is empty. The outside door opens and LEO comes in, carrying his p
yjamas, dressing-gown, sponge bag and PENNY’s pink folder. He puts the folder on the table. He takes the rest of the stuff into his bedroom, pausing on the threshold to register surprise at the fact that his bed has been slept in, and the mattress is in place. He comes out of the bedroom and goes to the table to pack up his computer. The bathroom door opens and MAUDE, in dressing-gown and carrying her sponge bag, comes out.
MAUDE (demurely)
Good morning.
LEO does not reply. He takes the lead from the socket and begins to coil it.
MAUDE
No word processing today?
LEO
I’m leaving.
MAUDE
Oh? When?
LEO
As soon as possible.
MAUDE
The students will be disappointed if you’re not here for the last evening.
LEO
Too bad.
MAUDE
Simon’s gone.
Beat.
I’m afraid we all behaved rather badly last night.
LEO
All of us?
MAUDE
Well, you did hit Simon in a rather unchivalrous fashion.
LEO
And you?
MAUDE
And me? Oh, dear, yes. Well, I’m not normally as bad as that, you know. It was Simon I was interested in when I agreed to come on this course. Your standing in for Maurice Denton was an unexpected distraction.
LEO
What about Henry?
MAUDE
Henry?
LEO
Doesn’t he come into your calculations at all?
MAUDE
Oh, Henry has his adoring young women. He gives them special coaching in his college rooms.
LEO
And you have your adoring young men?
MAUDE
Why shouldn’t I?
LEO
It’s just … Your novels are full of such fine moral scruple.
MAUDE
That’s a rather nice phrase. I must remember to suggest it to my editor for the blurb of Dissuasion.
LEO
Dissuasion?
MAUDE
Yes, that’s what I’m going to call my new novel. Lying in bed this morning I suddenly thought of how to go on with it.
LEO
Is that why you’re so perky?
MAUDE
Am I? Then I expect it is. It’s going to be a novel about how young people are shocked if their parents claim the same freedoms as themselves. Marion falls for Hamish of course, but it turns out that he’s unhappily married to a Catholic who won’t divorce him, so they have to –
LEO (interrupting her)
Are your children shocked at the way you behave?
MAUDE
No, I’m very discreet. You do persist in reading fiction autobiographically, don’t you?
LEO
I have a naive, old-fashioned idea that there should be some moral consistency between the life and the work.
MAUDE
I’ll let you into a secret, Leo. I was a repressed, unfulfilled young woman, just like my heroines, the ‘sleeping beauties’ as you call them. Married to the first man I slept with, who happened to be my tutor. It was years before I realised I wasn’t the last of his special tutees. I didn’t have a lover till I was thirty-five.
LEO
You’ve been making up for lost time since then?
MAUDE
Perhaps. A few years ago I wrote a novel about a woman’s sexual awakening. It was quite explicit by my standards. Even had erections in it.
LEO
What’s it called?
MAUDE
It was never published. My editor advised me not to.
LEO
Why?
MAUDE
He said it didn’t work. I think really he was afraid it would upset my readership.
LEO
I’d like to read it.
MAUDE
I’m afraid I destroyed it. I went back to my sleeping beauties, which everybody admits I do rather well.
LEO (genuinely shocked)
You should never destroy anything you’ve written.
MAUDE (amused)
Why not?
LEO
It’s part of your life’s work. Critics in the future will have an incomplete picture.
MAUDE
Do you think people will be reading your books after you’re dead?
LEO
I wouldn’t go on writing otherwise.
MAUDE
Really? I think that’s rather noble. Personally I shall be content if they write on my grave, ‘She gave pleasure to her contemporaries.’ (Yawns) I must get dressed. You know, I’m rather sorry you’re leaving early, Leo. I’ve enjoyed these arguments we’ve had about writing and so on. So did Simon, I do believe.
LEO
That argument had nothing to do with ideas. It was just a literary version of the old Oedipal two-step: waste Dad and hump Mom.
MAUDE
If it’s any consolation to you, he was rather a disappointment in that department.
LEO
You mean he was impotent?
MAUDE
Oh no, not as consoling as that. But it was all over rather quickly.
LEO
That why he slept in my bed?
MAUDE (reflectively)
I’m not sure Simon really likes women. That’s really what his story was about.
LEO
Who’s reading autobiographically now?
MAUDE
Well, Simon did rather invite it, didn’t he? That was part of the game.
LEO
Ah, yes, the game. The writing game.
MAUDE
You must admit Simon’s rather clever at it. (She moves towards the stairs) You’re sure you won’t change your mind about leaving? Penny Sewell will be terribly disappointed.
LEO
You know that piece she gave me to read last night? It’s very good.
MAUDE
Really?
LEO
It restored my faith in what I do for a living.
MAUDE
Well, there’s an achievement for a little primary-school teacher.
LEO
It’s such an incredible advance on the first piece she showed me.
MAUDE
I think you owe it to her to stay for the reading tonight.
LEO broods on this. MAUDE begins to ascend the stairs.
MAUDE
Don’t misunderstand me. My concern is purely for a happy conclusion to the course.
MAUDE goes into her room. Almost at once there is a knock on the door. PENNY opens it and stands on the threshold.
LEO
Oh, hi Penny. Come in.
PENNY
I know it isn’t half-past ten yet, but somebody said you were leaving.
LEO
I wasn’t going to leave without giving you back your piece.
PENNY
What did you think of it.
LEO
Sit down.
PENNY sits. LEO picks up the pink folder, opens it and leafs through the contents.
LEO
I don’t know quite how to say this.
PENNY
It’s no good.
PENNY holds out her hand for the manuscript. LEO retains it.
LEO
It’s very good.
PENNY
Really?
LEO
It’s a terrific improvement on that other piece you showed me.
PENNY
Gosh. Thanks very much.
LEO
But.
PENNY
But what?
LEO
You’re not quite there yet. Nearly, but not quite. One day you could be a writer, a real writer. But probably not with this book. Probably in the end it will be a near miss. You’ll have to put it in a drawer and start another. And maybe another.
&
nbsp; While LEO is speaking, MAUDE, now dressed, opens the door of her bedroom silently, and stands at the threshold, listening to the conversation, unobserved by LEO and PENNY.
LEO
If you can face that, you’ll get a book published eventually. And you’ll think that’s the summit of your ambition achieved. Publication! Wow! But maybe your book won’t be noticed much, or you’ll get some hostile reviews, and you’ll discover that just being published is not enough after all – you also want success. Acclaim. So it’s back to the desk and the typewriter again. It’s a hard, lonely road, Penny. You sure you want to go down it?
Pause. PENNY reflects.
PENNY
No.
LEO (disconcerted)
No?
PENNY
No. I don’t want to go down it.
LEO
But you’ve got talent, you know. I mean it. What I said to you just now, I don’t say to many students.
PENNY
Yes, I appreciate that, and I’m grateful. But coming on this course has sort of cured me of wanting to be a writer.
LEO
You make it sound like some kind of disease.
PENNY
Well, it is, isn’t it? A sort of fever. I see it in the other students. The way they look at you and Maude and Simon …
LEO
What way?
PENNY
A kind of mixture of awe and envy, because you’re all published. And their desperate yearning to be published themselves. It’s eating them away from inside, like cancer.
LEO
That’s because they haven’t got any talent. You have. You could be like us one day.
PENNY
I’m not sure I want to be.
Beat.
I’m sorry. That’s really rude of me.
LEO (waves the apology aside)
It’s all right. But tell me why.
PENNY
Well, you don’t seem to be very happy.
LEO
Happy?
PENNY
No. And there’s a sort of jealousy between you all the time. When Maude did her repeat reading, I was watching you, and during your reading I was watching Maude, and last night when Simon was reading I was watching both of you. I noticed that whenever the rest of us laughed at something in the reading, the other one or two of you looked unhappy. The most you could do was to force a thin smile. It was as if you begrudged each other the tiniest success. And then I heard you complimenting Maude on her reading …
LEO
The world is full of insincere compliments, Penny.
PENNY
The infants’ class isn’t.
Beat.
It seems to me that writers are a bit like sharks.
LEO
Sharks?
PENNY
Yes. I read somewhere that sharks never sleep and never stop moving. They have to keep swimming, and eating, otherwise they would get waterlogged and drown. It seems to me that writers are like that. They have to keep moving, devouring experience, turning it into writing, or they would cease to be recognised, praised, respected – and that would be death for them. They don’t write to live, they live to write. I don’t really want to be like that.