Complete Works, Volume IV

by Harold Pinter

  He turns to Briggs.

  Why am I bothering? Tell me. Eh?

  He turns back to Spooner.

  Listen chummybum. We protect this gentleman against corruption, against men of craft, against men of evil, we could destroy you without a glance, we take care of this gentleman, we do it out of love.

  He turns to Briggs.

  Why am I talking to him? I’m wasting my time with a nonstarter. I must be going mad. I don’t usually talk. I don’t have to. Normally I keep quiet.

  He turns back to Spooner.

  I know what it is. There’s something about you fascinates me.

  SPOONER It’s my bearing.

  FOSTER That’s what it must be.

  BRIGGS I’ve seen Irishmen chop his balls off.

  FOSTER I suppose once you’ve had Irishmen you’ve had everything. (To Spooner.) Listen. Keep it tidy. You follow? You’ve just laid your hands on a rich and powerful man. It’s not what you’re used to, scout. How can I make it clear? This is another class. It’s another realm of operation. It’s a world of silk. It’s a world of organdie. It’s a world of flower arrangements. It’s a world of eighteenth-century cookery books. It’s nothing to do with toffeeapples and a packet of crisps. It’s milk in the bath. It’s the cloth bellpull. It’s organisation.

  BRIGGS It’s not rubbish.

  FOSTER It’s not rubbish. We deal in originals. Nothing duff, nothing ersatz, we don’t open any old bottle of brandy. Mind you don’t fall into a quicksand. (To Briggs.) Why don’t I kick his head off and have done with it?

  SPOONER I’m the same age as your master. I used to picnic in the country too, at the same time as he.

  FOSTER Listen, my friend. This man in this chair, he’s a creative man. He’s an artist. We make life possible for him. We’re in a position of trust. Don’t try to drive a wedge into a happy household. You understand me? Don’t try to make a nonsense out of family life.

  BRIGGS (to Foster) If you can’t, I can.

  He moves to Spooner and beckons to him, with his forefinger.

  BRIGGS Come here.

  HIRST Where are the sandwiches? Cut the bread.

  BRIGGS It’s cut.

  HIRST It is not cut. Cut it!

  Briggs stands still.

  BRIGGS I’ll go and cut it.

  He leaves the room.

  HIRST (to Spooner) I know you from somewhere.

  FOSTER I must clean the house. No one else’ll do it. Your financial adviser is coming to breakfast. I’ve got to think about that. His taste changes from day to day. One day he wants boiled eggs and toast, the next day orange juice and poached eggs, the next scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, the next a mushroom omelette and champagne. Any minute now it’ll be dawn. A new day. Your financial adviser’s dreaming of his breakfast. He’s dreaming of eggs. Eggs, eggs. What kind of eggs? I’m exhausted. I’ve been up all night. But it never stops. Nothing stops. It’s all fizz. This is my life. I have my brief arousals. They leave me panting. I can’t take the pace in London. Nobody knows what I miss.

  Briggs enters and stands, listening.

  I miss the Siamese girls. I miss the girls in Bali. You don’t come across them over here. You see them occasionally, on the steps of language schools, they’re learning English, they’re not prepared to have a giggle and a cuddle in their own language. Not in Regent Street. A giggle and a cuddle. Sometimes my ambitions extend no further than that. I could do something else. I could make another life. I don’t have to waste my time looking after a pisshound. I could find the right niche and be happy. The right niche, the right happiness.

  BRIGGS We’re out of bread. I’m looking at the housekeeper. Neurotic poof. He prefers idleness. Unspeakable ponce. He prefers the Malay Straits, where they give you hot toddy in a fourposter. He’s nothing but a vagabond cock. (To Spooner.) Move over.

  Spooner moves out of his way.

  BRIGGS (to Hirst) Get up.

  Hirst slowly stands. Briggs leads him to the door.

  BRIGGS (to Hirst) Keep on the move. Don’t look back.

  HIRST I know that man.

  Briggs leads Hirst out of the room.

  Silence.

  FOSTER Do you know what I saw once in the desert, in the Australian desert? A man walking along carrying two umbrellas. Two umbrellas. In the outback.

  Pause.

  SPOONER Was it raining?

  FOSTER No. It was a beautiful day. I nearly asked him what he was up to but I changed my mind.

  SPOONER Why?

  FOSTER Well, I decided he must be some kind of lunatic. I thought he would only confuse me.

  Foster walks about the room, stops at the door.

  Listen. You know what it’s like when you’re in a room with the light on and then suddenly the light goes out? I’ll show you. It’s like this.

  He turns the light out.

  BLACKOUT

  ACT TWO

  Morning.

  Spooner is alone in the room. The curtains are still closed, but shafts of light enter the room.

  He is sitting.

  He stands, goes slowly to door, tries handle, with fatigue, withdraws.

  SPOONER I have known this before. Morning. A locked door. A house of silence and strangers.

  He sits, shivers.

  The door is unlocked. Briggs comes in, key in hand. He is wearing a suit. He opens the curtains. Daylight.

  BRIGGS I’ve been asked to inquire if you’re hungry.

  SPOONER Food? I never touch it.

  BRIGGS The financial adviser didn’t turn up. You can have his breakfast. He phoned his order through, then phoned again to cancel the appointment.

  SPOONER For what reason?

  BRIGGS Jack spoke to him, not me.

  SPOONER What reason did he give your friend?

  BRIGGS Jack said he said he found himself without warning in the centre of a vast aboriginal financial calamity.

  Pause.

  SPOONER He clearly needs an adviser.

  Pause.

  BRIGGS I won’t bring you breakfast if you’re going to waste it.

  SPOONER I abhor waste.

  Briggs goes out.

  I have known this before. The door unlocked. The entrance of a stranger. The offer of alms. The shark in the harbour.

  Silence.

  Briggs enters carrying a tray. On the tray are breakfast dishes covered by silver lids and a bottle of champagne in a bucket.

  He places the tray on a small table and brings a chair to the table.

  BRIGGS Scrambled eggs. Shall I open the champagne?

  SPOONER Is it cold?

  BRIGGS Freezing.

  SPOONER Please open it.

  Briggs begins to open bottle. Spooner lifts lids, peers, sets lids aside, butters toast.

  SPOONER Who is the cook?

  BRIGGS We share all burdens, Jack and myself.

  Briggs pours champagne. Offers glass. Spooner sips.

  Pause.

  SPOONER Thank you.

  Spooner begins to eat. Briggs draws up a chair to the table and sits, watching.

  BRIGGS We’re old friends, Jack and myself. We met at a street corner. I should tell you he’ll deny this account. His story will be different. I was standing at a street corner. A car drew up. It was him. He asked me the way to Bolsover Street. I told him Bolsover Street was in the middle of an intricate one-way system. It was a one-way system easy enough to get into. The only trouble was that, once in, you couldn’t get out. I told him his best bet, if he really wanted to get to Bolsover Street, was to take the first left, first right, second right, third on the left, keep his eye open for a hardware shop, go right round the square, keeping to the inside lane, take the second mews on the right and then stop. He will find himself facing a very tall office block, with a crescent courtyard. He can take advantage of this office block. He can go round the crescent, come out the other way, follow the arrows, go past two sets of traffic lights and take the next left indicated by the first green filter he comes ac
ross. He’s got the Post Office Tower in his vision the whole time. All he’s got to do is to reverse into the underground car park, change gear, go straight on, and he’ll find himself in Bolsover Street with no trouble at all. I did warn him, though, that he’ll still be faced with the problem, having found Bolsover Street, of losing it. I told him I knew one or two people who’d been wandering up and down Bolsover Street for years. They’d wasted their bloody youth there. The people who live there, their faces are grey, they’re in a state of despair, but nobody pays any attention, you see. All people are worried about is their illgotten gains. I wrote to The Times about it. Life At A Dead End, I called it. Went for nothing. Anyway, I told him that probably the best thing he could do was to forget the whole idea of getting to Bolsover Street. I remember saying to him: This trip you’ve got in mind, drop it, it could prove fatal. But he said he had to deliver a parcel. Anyway, I took all this trouble with him because he had a nice open face. He looked like a man who would always do good to others himself. Normally I wouldn’t give a fuck. I should tell you he’ll deny this account. His story will be different.

  Spooner places the lid on his plate.

  Briggs pours champagne into Spooner’s glass.

  When did you last have champagne for breakfast?

  SPOONER Well, to be quite honest, I’m a champagne drinker.

  BRIGGS Oh, are you?

  SPOONER I know my wines. (He drinks.) Dijon. In the thirties. I made many trips to Dijon, for the wine tasting, with my French translator. Even after his death, I continued to go to Dijon, until I could go no longer.

  Pause.

  Hugo. A good companion.

  Pause.

  You will wonder of course what he translated. The answer is my verse. I am a poet.

  Pause.

  BRIGGS I thought poets were young.

  SPOONER I am young. (He reaches for the bottle.) Can I help you to a glass?

  BRIGGS No, thank you.

  Spooner examines the bottle.

  SPOONER An excellent choice.

  BRIGGS Not mine.

  SPOONER (pouring) Translating verse is an extremely difficult task. Only the Rumanians remain respectable exponents of the craft.

  BRIGGS Bit early in the morning for all this, isn’t it?

  Spooner drinks.

  Finish the bottle. Doctor’s orders.

  SPOONER Can I enquire as to why I was locked in this room, by the way?

  BRIGGS Doctor’s orders.

  Pause.

  Tell me when you’re ready for coffee.

  Pause.

  It must be wonderful to be a poet and to have admirers. And translators. And to be young. I’m neither one nor the other.

  SPOONER Yes. You’ve reminded me. I must be off. I have a meeting at twelve. Thank you so much for breakfast.

  BRIGGS What meeting?

  SPOONER A board meeting. I’m on the board of a recently inaugurated poetry magazine. We have our first meeting at twelve. Can’t be late.

  BRIGGS Where’s the meeting?

  SPOONER At The Bull’s Head in Chalk Farm. The landlord is kindly allowing us the use of a private room on the first floor. It is essential that the meeting be private, you see, as we shall be discussing policy.

  BRIGGS The Bull’s Head in Chalk Farm?

  SPOONER Yes. The landlord is a friend of mine. It is on that account that he has favoured us with a private room. It is true of course that I informed him Lord Lancer would be attending the meeting. He at once appreciated that a certain degree of sequesteredness would be the order of the day.

  BRIGGS Lord Lancer?

  SPOONER Our patron.

  BRIGGS He’s not one of the Bengal Lancers, is he?

  SPOONER No, no. He’s of Norman descent.

  BRIGGS A man of culture?

  SPOONER Impeccable credentials.

  BRIGGS Some of these aristocrats hate the arts.

  SPOONER Lord Lancer is a man of honour. He loves the arts. He has declared this love in public. He never goes back on his word. But I must be off. Lord Lancer does not subscribe to the view that poets can treat time with nonchalance.

  BRIGGS Jack could do with a patron.

  SPOONER Jack?

  BRIGGS He’s a poet.

  SPOONER A poet? Really? Well, if he’d like to send me some examples of his work, double spaced on quarto, with copies in a separate folder by separate post in case of loss or misappropriation, stamped addressed envelope enclosed, I’ll read them.

  BRIGGS That’s very nice of you.

  SPOONER Not at all. You can tell him he can look forward to a scrupulously honest and, if I may say so, highly sensitive judgement.

  BRIGGS I’ll tell him. He’s in real need of a patron. The boss could be his patron, but he’s not interested. Perhaps because he’s a poet himself. It’s possible there’s an element of jealousy in it, I don’t know. Not that the boss isn’t a very kind man. He is. He’s a very civilised man. But he’s still human.

  Pause.

  SPOONER The boss . . . is a poet himself?

  BRIGGS Don’t be silly. He’s more than that, isn’t he? He’s an essayist and critic as well. He’s a man of letters.

  SPOONER I thought his face was familiar.

  The telephone buzzes. Briggs goes to it, lifts it, listens.

  BRIGGS Yes, sir.

  Briggs picks up the tray and takes it out.

  Spooner sits still.

  SPOONER I have known this before. The voice unheard. A listener. The command from an upper floor.

  He pours champagne.

  Hirst enters, wearing a suit, followed by Briggs.

  HIRST Charles. How nice of you to drop in.

  He shakes Spooner’s hand.

  Have they been looking after you all right? Denson, let’s have some coffee.

  Briggs leaves the room.

  You’re looking remarkably well. Haven’t changed a bit. It’s the squash, I expect. Keeps you up to the mark. You were quite a dab hand at Oxford, as I remember. Still at it? Wise man. Sensible chap. My goodness, it’s years. When did we last meet? I have a suspicion we last dined together in ‘38, at the club. Does that accord with your recollection? Croxley was there, yes, Wyatt, it all comes back to me, Burston-Smith. What a bunch. What a night, as I recall. All dead now, of course. No, no! I’m a fool. I’m an idiot. Our last encounter—I remember it well. Pavilion at Lord’s in ‘39, against the West Indies, Hutton and Compton batting superbly, Constantine bowling, war looming. Surely I’m right? We shared a particularly fine bottle of port. You look as fit now as you did then. Did you have a good war?

  Briggs comes in with coffee, places it on table.

  Oh thank you, Denson. Leave it there, will you? That will do.

  Briggs leaves the room.

  How’s Emily? What a woman. (Pouring.) Black? Here you are. What a woman. Have to tell you I fell in love with her once upon a time. Have to confess it to you. Took her out to tea, in Dorchester. Told her of my yearning. Decided to take the bull by the horns. Proposed that she betray you. Admitted you were a damn fine chap, but pointed out I would be taking nothing that belonged to you, simply that portion of herself all women keep in reserve, for a rainy day. Had an infernal job persuading her. Said she adored you, her life would be meaningless were she to be false. Plied her with buttered scones, Wiltshire cream, crumpets and strawberries. Eventually she succumbed. Don’t suppose you ever knew about it, what? Oh, we’re too old now for it to matter, don’t you agree?

  He sits, with coffee.

  I rented a little cottage for the summer. She used to motor to me twice or thrice a week. I was an integral part of her shopping expeditions. You were both living on the farm then. That’s right. Her father’s farm. She would come to me at tea-time, or at coffee-time, the innocent hours. That summer she was mine, while you imagined her to be solely yours.

  He sips the coffee.

  She loved the cottage. She loved the flowers. As did I. Narcissi, crocus, dog’s tooth violets, fuchsi
a, jonquils, pinks, verbena.

  Pause.

  Her delicate hands.

  Pause.

  I’ll never forget her way with jonquils.

  Pause.

  Do you remember once, was it in ‘37, you took her to France? I was on the same boat. Kept to my cabin. While you were doing your exercises she came to me. Her ardour was, in my experience, unparalleled. Ah well.

  Pause.

  You were always preoccupied with your physical . . . condition . . . weren’t you? Don’t blame you. Damn fine figure of a chap. Natural athlete. Medals, scrolls, your name inscribed in gold. Once a man has breasted the tape, alone, he is breasting the tape forever. His golden moment can never be tarnished. Do you run still? Why was it we saw so little of each other, after we came down from Oxford? I mean, you had another string to your bow, did you not? You were a literary man. As was I. Yes, yes, I know we shared the occasional picnic, with Tubby Wells and all that crowd, we shared the occasional whisky and soda at the club, but we were never close, were we? I wonder why. Of course I was successful awfully early.

  Pause.

  You did say you had a good war, didn’t you?

  SPOONER A rather good one, yes.

  HIRST How splendid. The RAF?

  SPOONER The Navy.

  HIRST How splendid. Destroyers?

  SPOONER Torpedo boats.

  HIRST First rate. Kill any Germans?

  SPOONER One or two.

  HIRST Well done.

  SPOONER And you?

  HIRST I was in Military Intelligence.

  SPOONER Ah.

  Pause.

  HIRST You pursued your literary career, after the war?

  SPOONER Oh yes.

  HIRST So did I.

  SPOONER I believe you’ve done rather well.

  HIRST Oh quite well, yes. Past my best now.

  SPOONER Do you ever see Stella?

  Pause.

  HIRST Stella?

  SPOONER You can’t have forgotten.

  HIRST Stella who?

  SPOONER Stella Winstanley.

  HIRST Winstanley?

  SPOONER Bunty Winstanley’s sister.