Pause.
She was tired. She sat down. She was tired. The journey. The rush hour. The weather, so unpredictable. She’d put on a woollen dress because the morning was chilly, but the day had changed, totally, totally changed. She cried. You jumped up like a . . . those things, forgot the name, monkey on a box, jack in a box, held her hand, made her tea, a rare burst. Perhaps the change in the weather had gone to your head.
Pause.
I loved her body. Not that, between ourselves, it’s one way or another a thing of any importance. My spasms could be your spasms. Who’s to tell or care?
Pause.
Well . . . she did . . . can . . . could . . .
Pause.
We all walked, arm in arm, through the long grass, over the bridge, sat outside the pub in the sun by the river, the pub was shut.
Pause.
Did anyone notice us? Did you see anyone looking at us?
Pause.
Touch my body, she said to you. You did. Of course you did. You’d be a bloody fool if you didn’t. You’d have been a bloody fool if you hadn’t. It was perfectly normal.
Pause.
That was behind the partition.
Pause.
I brought her to see you, after you’d pissed off to live in Notting Hill Gate. Naturally. They all end up there. I’ll never end up there. I’ll never end up on that side of the Park.
Pause.
Sitting there with your record player, growing bald, Beethoven, cocoa, cats. That really dates it. The cocoa dates it. It was your detachment was dangerous. I knew it of course like the back of my hand. That was the web my darling black darling hovered in, wavered in, my black moth. She stuttered in that light, your slightly sullen, non-committal, deadly dangerous light. But it’s a fact of life. The ones that keep silent are the best off.
Pause.
As for me, I’ve always liked simple love scenes, the classic setups, the sweet . . . the sweet . . . the sweet farewell at Paddington Station. My collar turned up. Her soft cheeks. Standing close to me, legs under her raincoat, the platform, her cheeks, her hands, nothing like the sound of steam to keep love warm, to keep it moist, to bring it to the throat, my ebony love, she smiles at me, I touched her.
Pause.
I feel for you. Even if you feel nothing . . . for me. I feel for you, old chap.
Pause.
I keep busy in the mind, and that’s why I’m still sparking, get it? I’ve got a hundred per cent more energy in me now than when I was twenty-two. When I was twenty-two I slept twenty-four hours a day. And twenty-two hours a day at twenty-four. Work it out for yourself. But now I’m sparking, at my peak, up here, two thousand revolutions a second, every living hour of the day and night. I’m a front runner. My watchword is vigilance. I’m way past mythologies, left them all behind, cocoa, sleep, Beethoven, cats, rain, black girls, bosom pals, literature, custard. You’ll say I’ve been talking about nothing else all night, but can’t you see, you bloody fool, that I can afford to do it, can’t you appreciate the irony? Even if you’re too dim to catch the irony in the words themselves, the words I have chosen myself, quite scrupulously, and with intent, you can’t miss the irony in the tone of voice!
Pause.
What you are in fact witnessing is freedom. I no longer participate in holy ceremony. The crap is cut.
Silence.
You should have had a black face, that was your mistake. You could have made a going concern out of it, you could have chalked it up in the book, you could have had two black kids.
Pause.
I’d have died for them.
Pause.
I’d have been their uncle.
Pause.
I am their uncle.
Pause.
I’m your children’s uncle.
Pause.
I’ll take them out, tell them jokes.
Pause.
I love your children.
Family Voices
Family Voices was first broadcast on BBC Radio 3 on 22 January 1981. The cast was as follows:
VOICE 1 Michael Kitchen
VOICE 2 Peggy Ashcroft
VOICE 3 Mark Dignam
Directed by Peter Hall
It was presented in a ‘platform performance’ by the National Theatre, London, on 13 February 1981. Cast and director were the same. The decor was by John Bury.
Family Voices was subsequently presented with A Kind of Alaska and Victoria Station as part of the triple bill, Other Places, first performed at the National Theatre, London, on 14 October 1982. The cast was as follows:
VOICE 1 Nigel Havers
VOICE 2 Anna Massey
VOICE 3 Paul Rogers
Directed by Peter Hall
VOICE 1 I am having a very nice time.
The weather is up and down, but surprisingly warm, on the whole, more often than not.
I hope you’re feeling well, and not as peaky as you did, the last time I saw you.
No, you didn’t feel peaky, you felt perfectly well, you simply looked peaky.
Do you miss me?
I am having a very nice time and I hope you are glad of that.
At the moment I am dead drunk.
I had five pints in The Fishmongers Arms tonight, followed by three double Scotches, and literally rolled home.
When I say home I can assure you that my room is extremely pleasant. So is the bathroom. Extremely pleasant. I have some very pleasant baths indeed in the bathroom. So does everybody else in the house. They all lie quite naked in the bath and have very pleasant baths indeed. All the people in the house go about saying what a superb bath and bathroom the one we share is, they go about telling literally everyone they meet what lovely baths you can get in this place, more or less unparalleled, to put it bluntly.
It’s got a lot to do with the landlady, who is a Mrs Withers, a person who turns out be an utterly charming person, of impeccable credentials.
When I said I was drunk I was of course making a joke.
I bet you laughed.
Mother?
Did you get the joke? You know I never touch alcohol.
I like being in this enormous city, all by myself. I expect to make friends in the not too distant future.
I expect to make girlfriends too.
I expect to meet a very nice girl. Having met her, I shall bring her home to meet my mother.
I like walking in this enormous city, all by myself. It’s fun to know no one at all. When I pass people in the street they don’t realise that I don’t know them from Adam. They know other people and even more other people know them, so they naturally think that even if I don’t know them I know the other people. So they look at me, they try to catch my eye, they expect me to speak. But as I do not know them I do not speak. Nor do I ever feel the slightest temptation to do so.
You see, mother, I am not lonely, because all that has ever happened to me is with me, keeps me company; my childhood, for example, through which you, my mother, and he, my father, guided me.
I get on very well with my landlady, Mrs Withers. She tells me I am her solace. I have a drink with her at lunchtime and another one at teatime and then take her for a couple in the evening at The Fishmongers Arms.
She was in the Women’s Air Force in the Second World War. Don’t drop a bollock, Charlie, she’s fond of saying, Call him Flight Sergeant and he’ll be happy as a pig in shit.
You’d really like her, mother.
I think it’s dawn. I can see it coming up. Another day. A day I warmly welcome. And so I shall end this letter to you, my dear mother, with my love.
VOICE 2 Darling. Where are you? The flowers are wonderful here. The blooms. You so loved them. Why do you never write?
I think of you and wonder how you are. Do you ever think of me? Your mother? Ever? At all?
Have you changed your address?
Have you made friends with anyone? A nice boy? Or a nice girl?
There are so many nice boys and nice girls about. Bu
t please don’t get mixed up with the other sort. They can land you in such terrible trouble. And you’d hate it so. You’re so scrupulous, so particular.
I often think that I would love to live happily ever after with you and your young wife. And she would be such a lovely wife to you and I would have the occasional dinner with you both. A dinner I would be quite happy to cook myself, should you both be tired after your long day, as I’m sure you will be.
I sometimes walk the cliff path and think of you. I think of the times you walked the cliff path, with your father, with cheese sandwiches. Didn’t you? You both sat on the clifftop and ate my cheese sandwiches together. Do you remember our little joke? Munch, munch. We had a damn good walk, your father would say. You mean you had a good munch munch, I would say. And you would both laugh.
Darling. I miss you. I gave birth to you. Where are you?
I wrote to you three months ago, telling you of your father’s death. Did you receive my letter?
VOICE 1 I’m not at all sure that I like the people in this house, apart from Mrs Withers and her daughter, Jane. Jane is a schoolgirl who works hard at her homework.
She keeps her nose to the grindstone. This I find impressive. There’s not too much of that about these days. But I’m not so sure about the other people in this house.
One is an old man.
The one who is an old man retires early. He is bald.
The other is a woman who wears red dresses.
The other one is another man.
He is big. He is much bigger than the other man. His hair is black. He has black eyebrows and black hair on the back of his hands.
I ask Mrs Withers about them but she will talk of nothing but her days in the Women’s Air Force in the Second World War.
I have decided that Jane is not Mrs Withers’ daughter but her grand-daughter. Mrs Withers is seventy. Jane is fifteen. That I am convinced is the truth.
At night I hear whispering from the other rooms and do not understand it. I hear steps on the stairs but do not dare go out to investigate.
VOICE 2 As your father grew closer to his death he spoke more and more of you, with tenderness and bewilderment. I consoled him with the idea that you had left home to make him proud of you. I think I succeeded in this. One of his last sentences was: Give him a slap on the back from me. Give him a slap on the back from me.
VOICE 1 I have made a remarkable discovery. The old man who is bald and who retires early is named Withers. Benjamin Withers. Unless it is simply a coincidence it must mean that he is a relation.
I asked Mrs Withers what the truth of this was. She poured herself a gin and looked at it before she drank it. Then she looked at me and said: You are my little pet. I’ve always wanted a little pet but I’ve never had one and now I’ve got one.
Sometimes she gives me a cuddle, as if she were my mother.
But I haven’t forgotten that I have a mother and that you are my mother.
VOICE 2 Sometimes I wonder if you remember that you have a mother.
VOICE 1 Something has happened. The woman who wears red dresses stopped me and asked me into her room for a cup of tea. I went into her room. It was far bigger than I had expected, with sofas and curtains and veils and shrouds and rugs and soft material all over the walls, dark blue. Jane was sitting on a sofa doing her homework, by the look of it. I was invited to sit on the same sofa. Tea had already been made and stood ready, in a china teaset, of a most elegant design. I was given a cup. So was Jane, who smiled at me. I haven’t introduced myself, the woman said, my name is Lady Withers. Jane sipped her tea with her legs up on the sofa. Her stockinged toes came to rest on my thigh. It wasn’t the biggest sofa in the world. Lady Withers sat opposite us on a substantially bigger sofa. Her dress, I decided, wasn’t red but pink. Jane was in green, apart from her toes, which were clad in black. Lady Withers asked me about you, mother. She asked me about my mother. I said, with absolute conviction, that you were the best mother in the world. She asked me to call her Lally. And to call Jane Jane. I said I did call Jane Jane. Jane gave me a bun. I think it was a bun. Lady Withers bit into her bun. Jane bit into her bun, her toes now resting on my lap. Lady Withers seemed to be enjoying her bun, on her sofa. She finished it and picked up another. I had never seen so many buns. One quick glance told me they were perched on cakestands, all over the room. Lady Withers went through her second bun with no trouble at all and was at once on to another. Jane, on the other hand, chewed almost dreamily at her bun and when a currant was left stranded on her upper lip she licked it off, without haste. I could not reconcile this with the fact that her toes were quite restless, even agitated. Her mouth, eating, was measured, serene; her toes, not eating, were agitated, highly strung, some would say hysterical. My bun turned out to be rock solid. I bit into it, it jumped out of my mouth and bounced into my lap. Jane’s feet caught it. It calmed her toes down. She juggled the bun, with some expertise, along them. I recalled that, in an early exchange between us, she had told me she wanted to be an acrobat.
VOICE 2 Darling. Where are you? Why do you never write? Nobody knows your whereabouts. Nobody knows if you are alive or dead. Nobody can find you. Have you changed your name?
If you are alive you are a monster. On his deathbed your father cursed you. He cursed me too, to tell the truth. He cursed everyone in sight. Except that you were not in sight. I do not blame you entirely for your father’s ill humour, but your absence and silence were a great burden on him, a weariness to him. He died in lamentation and oath. Was that your wish? Now I am alone, apart from Millie, who sometimes comes over from Dover. She is some consolation. Her eyes well with tears when she speaks of you, your dear sister’s eyes well with tears. She has made a truly happy marriage and has a lovely little boy. When he is older he will want to know where his uncle is. What shall we say?
Or perhaps you will arrive here in a handsome new car, one day, in the not too distant future, in a nice new suit, quite out of the blue, and hold me in your arms.
VOICE 1 Lady Withers stood up. As Jane is doing her homework, she said, perhaps you would care to leave and come again another day. Jane withdrew her feet, my bun clasped between her two big toes. Yes of course, I said, unless Jane would like me to help her with her homework. No thank you, said Lady Withers, I shall help her with her homework.
What I didn’t say is that I am thinking of offering myself out as a tutor. I consider that I would make an excellent tutor, to the young, in any one of a number of subjects. Jane would be an ideal pupil. She possesses a true love of learning. That is the sense of her one takes from her every breath, her every sigh and exhalation. When she turns her eyes upon you you see within her eyes, raw, untutored, unexercised but willing, a deep love of learning.
These are midnight thoughts, mother, although the time is ten twenty-three, precisely.
VOICE 2 Darling?
VOICE 1 While I was lying in my bath this afternoon, thinking on these things, there was apparently a knock on the front door. The man with black hair apparently opened the door. Two women stood on the doorstep. They said they were my mother and my sister, and asked for me. He denied knowledge of me. No, he had not heard of me. No, there was no one of that name resident. This was a family house, no strangers admitted. No, they got on very well, thank you very much, without intruders. I suggest, he said, that you both go back to where you come from, and stop bothering innocent hardworking people with your slanders and your libels, these all too predictable excrescences of the depraved mind at the end of its tether. I can smell your sort a mile off and I am quite prepared to put you both on a charge of malicious mischief, insulting behaviour and vagabondage, in other words wandering around on doorsteps knowingly, without any visible means of support. So piss off out of it before I call a copper.
I was lying in my bath when the door opened. I thought I had locked it. My name’s Riley, he said, How’s the bath? Very nice, I said. You’ve got a wellknit yet slender frame, he said, I thought you only a snip, I never imag
ined you would be as wellknit and slender as I now see you are. Oh thank you, I said. Don’t thank me, he said, it’s God you have to thank. Or your mother. I’ve just dismissed a couple of imposters at the front door. We’ll get no more shit from that quarter. He then sat on the edge of the bath and recounted to me what I’ve just recounted to you.
It interests me that my father wasn’t bothered to make the trip.
VOICE 2 I hear your father’s step on the stair. I hear his cough. But his step and his cough fade. He does not open the door.
Sometimes I think I have always been sitting like this. I sometimes think I have always been sitting like this, alone by an indifferent fire, curtains closed, night, winter.
You see, I have my thoughts too. Thoughts no one else knows I have, thoughts none of my family ever knew I had. But I write of them to you now, wherever you are.
What I mean is that when, for example, I was washing your hair, with the most delicate shampoo, and rinsing, and then drying your hair so gently with my soft towel, so that no murmur came from you, of discomfort or unease, and then looked into your eyes, and saw you look into mine, knowing that you wanted no one else, no one at all, knowing that you were entirely happy in my arms, I knew also, for example, that I was at the same time sitting by an indifferent fire, alone in winter, in eternal night without you.
VOICE 1 Lady Withers plays the piano. They were sitting, the three women, about the room. About the room were bottles of a vin rosé, of a pink I shall never forget. They sipped their wine from such lovely glass, an elegance of gesture and grace I thought long dead. Lady Withers wore a necklace around her alabaster neck, a neck amazingly young. She played Schumann. She smiled at me. Mrs Withers and Jane smiled at me. I took a seat. I took it and sat in it. I am in it. I will never leave it.
Oh mother, I have found my home, my family. Little did I ever dream I could know such happiness.
Complete Works, Volume IV Page 13