unfortunately.
To avoid unnecessary boredom, jump-
cut the above after it is established what
SLEEPER is doing: and some slogans
may just pop on.
PRIVATE joins in at this point,
abandoning his measuring, with his
black felt-tip. The following are joint
efforts between the two:
5) Change is the only constant.
6) We are eggs in the hands of a blind
juggler.
7) Society is a carnivorous flower.
8) All periods are transitional ones.
9) Contradiction is worth more than
yea-saying.
Finally, standing together, they both
independently but at the same time
write: I am beside myself.
They look at one another, stare each
other out.
PRIVATE is the first to break away, rubs
elbow.
PRIVATE: I think I’ve got rid of my
tennis elbow at last.
SLEEPER: Yes? (pause) How?
PRIVATE: By not playing tennis for
three years.
The two men stare at each other again.
This time it is SLEEPER who breaks.
He turns deliberately, walks slowly
towards front wall.
PRIVATE equally slowly walks to left
side wall.
Change to full shot of set.
PRIVATE reaches side wall, SLEEPER
reaches front wall. Both remain facing
walls.
Then SLEEPER turns and, at the same
time as he begins speaking, camera
begins slow movement in on him
SLEEPER: It seems he always existed,
finishing tight where indicated below.
or alternatively he created himself.
There’s no doubt he claims to have
created the world, however, which must
be understood in context to mean the
universe as well. Or universes. There’s
no doubt, too, that games are one of his
chief diversions. Into this world he
places various other creations, roughly
inter-dependent though a certain amount
of jockeying for position is evident in the
early stages. Amongst these creations is
Man and, shortly afterwards, Woman.
He gives this couple something called
free will, which means they can act as
they like. If they act in a way he doesn’t
like, however, they will get thumped.
Practically the first thing they do he
doesn’t like! It turns out that he knew
this was going to happen, because he is
(slowly, didactically) omniscient. It also
turns out that he could have stopped it,
too, since he is (slowly again)
omnipotent. (pause) The couple are of
course quite baffled. But they take the
Fully tight in BCU
thumping in reasonably good grace, and
even go on to procreate three sons.
That’s that, you must be thinking, end of
story, incest not being allowed by the
rules the family must die out. But no:
he’s been making it all up as he goes
along, like certain kinds of novelists,
and he now reveals the parallel existence
of some tribes who have (pause)
women. Two of the sons thereupon mate
and his game can be carried on. It’s
important that the game carries on. The
Suddenly, as from inside the court, the
game is everything.
sound of squash being played: the
explosive detonations of the ball on the
various surfaces.
Wide shot of front wall: PRIVATE has,
while camera was off him, moved up to
stand about two yards away from
SLEEPER.
Both men react to the sounds as though
the squash ball were hitting them: and as
though it were a bullet.
PRIVATE is more active, acting out the
part of a wounded man energetically,
even over-reacting.
SLEEPER does not react with the whole
of his body, only with those parts which
may be supposed to have been hit, in
turn.
Neither falls.
After between five and ten seconds of
this, fade up SUPERIMPOSITION of
two women squash players (the same
two as in the 8mm film earlier) playing
on the same court/set. The women must
mime to wild sound: use of an actual
ball is impractical in the studio since all
four walls could not be made solid
enough to produce the genuine sound. In
any case, the ball is so small and is hit
so hard that it would not generally be
seen on television: hence no coverage of
the sport.
The women are not, of course, aware of
the men since the two shots are distinct.
Both men and women mime to the same
wild, actuality sound. Both shots are
from the same wide, locked-off camera:
they can conveniently be taped on after
the other before or after the rest of the
play, and superimposed in the final
editing.
SUPERIMPOSE end credits over
continuation of above.
Down Red Lane
A lunchtime theatre play
EDITORS’ NOTE
Down Red Lane was written towards the end of Johnson’s life, and first performed after his death, in a lunchtime production at the Open Space Theatre in 1974. The Diner was played by Timothy West, the Waiter by Simon Callow, and the Belly by Martin Coveney. In the later radio production, broadcast on BBC Radio 3 (5 May 2002), Timothy West again played the Diner; the Waiter was played by David Timson and the Belly by Roy Hudd.
CHARACTERS
WAITER
DINER
BELLY
Time: The Present
A gastronomic restaurant.
A table set with good cutlery, a single flower; all in careful taste. The tablecloth reaches to the ground on all sides.
The WAITER, hovering, sees a guest enter whom he recognizes with a great show of pleasure. It is the DINER. He is gross, fat, enormous, but likeable; aged anything between fifty and seventy; dressed in dinner suit, but it is carelessly maintained; yet he has a certain dignity, even when he behaves grossly; he still has a human dignity.
WAITER:
Good evening sir, how good to see you this evening, sir.
The WAITER fusses around DINER whom he obviously knows and respects as a good customer; pulls chair out for him, seats him with no little effort. The DINER appears flushed, out of breath with the effort of crossing the room, sitting down. He slumps, hardly acknowledging WAITER.
DINER:
(almost to himself) Maxim’s last night. (pause) Canard à l’orange. (pause) Duck! (pause: then with contempt) Duck!
WAITER:
Yes, sir, well, sir, what do you. . .
DINER:
(even greater contempt) Duck! (pause) I saw it coming, too. It still hit me! (single unfunny laugh) Ha! Duck!
WAITER:
Yes sir, how disgusting, sir. . .
DINER:
Duck!
WAITER:
(confidentially) I’m told, sir, they were inspected last week, and the Department found an alsatian in the deep freeze. (pause) Jointed! Just as well you didn’t have the venison! The case comes up at the next quarter sessions. (
short pause) Quarter. . .
DINER:
(unhumorously cuts him off) Ha!
DINER settles himself.
WAITER:
Aqua minerale, sir?
DINER looks at him with contempt: as though he should need to have to ask.
WAITER exits. DINER settles himself further, as though he were uncomfortable, belches, slumps over the table, moves in so that his stomach is as near as may be underneath the table.
WAITER returns with mineral water; pours it; presents menu; exits.
DINER drinks; belches visibly but only just audibly; pauses.
WAITER returns for order. DINER ignores him, studying menu.
DINER:
Nothing new?
WAITER:
The classics, sir. One cannot improve on the perfect. . .sir.
DINER:
Ha! (pause) Nothing new. . .
WAITER:
(grossly flattering) How could one hope to presume to give a new gastronomic experience to a man so justly famed for the all-embracing wideness of his knowledge?
DINER:
Ha!
DINER stares at menu. Long pause. Mouth, slavering movements. Grossness business. Pulls out handkerchief, wipes forehead, neck. WAITER attentive, as if bated breath.
DINER:
(suddenly) You call them hortobagyi. Does that mean you now have a Hungarian chef, eh?
WAITER:
(covering up) No, sir, but. . .
DINER:
Then they’re not hortobagyi, are they, they’re just bloody pancakes stuffed with leftover meat and cream and paprika. . .
WAITER:
(on his mettle) Fresh veal, sir, fresh cream, sir, gratinée. . .
DINER:
Ha!
Silence.
DINER:
I’ll start with the hortobagyi, then. God help you if they’re wrong!
A long drawn-out, just-heard wince or groan from the direction of DINER’s BELLY. It can go on throughout the following exchange. A pause.
WAITER:
May I recommend the salmon, sir, spécialité du jour tronçon de saumon Philéas Gilbert.
DINER:
How?
WAITER:
Philéas Gilbert, sir.
DINER frowns.
DINER:
Remind me. . .
WAITER:
The cavity stuffed with a julienne, sir, of truffles, mushrooms, carrots and celery hearts braised in butter, the whole poached in sherry, sir. . .
A louder groan from BELLY indicating some unease.
WAITER:
. . .and served with. . .
DINER:
Who was Philéas Gilbert?
WAITER:
(glibly) A gentleman, sir an old gentleman.
DINER:
Did he die of it, his speciality?
WAITER:
It is not recorded, sir.
DINER:
He died of something. (pause) A way to be remembered, Omelette Arnold Bennett, giving one’s name to a dish, leaving something behind to be remembered by. (Smiles maliciously) Perhaps not the salmon. . .
A sigh of relief from BELLY, who, if it is not obvious by now, is played by an actor or actress concealed under the table.
DINER:
Are the whitebait good?
WAITER:
Of course, sir. . .
DINER:
Stow records that during the season one could lower a basket on a rope from old London Bridge and bring it up brimming alive with Thames whitebait. . .
WAITER:
(laughs unhumorously) Not now, sir, not now!
DINER:
Let’s be simple. Whitebait. (pause) No, I’ll have a dozen claires.
Alarm from BELLY; the groan assumes the drawn-out words:
BELLY:
Oy-sters! Oy-sters!
WAITER:
The larger ones, of course, sir?
DINER nods. Groans appropriate from BELLY throughout at each new assault following.
DINER:
No, make it two dozen. It’ll give me time to think about the entrée.
WAITER:
Certainly, sir. And the wine? The usual?
DINER nods. Exit WAITER. DINER settles to a further study of the menu.
Groans continue from BELLY, the words blending with groans but gradually (as he begins to become more and more articulate) becoming more distinct. The accent should be London working-class.
BELLY:
Oysters! Cream! Veal! Pancakes! Oysters! Oysters!
Enter WAITER with white wine; sets it out; pours; DINER tastes, says nothing; at which WAITER assumes its acceptable and pours full glass. DINER drinks it at once. BELLY makes brrrrr noise as though cold.
WAITER:
We have just nine bottles left of the Vaillons, sir.
DINER:
Keep them for me. Last about a fortnight. And after that?
WAITER:
A good successor, sir, though as you know yourself there’s never been anything since as good as the ’67.
Exit WAITER.
DINER drinks again; BELLY again shivers.
DINER:
(appreciatively) Ah, yes. . .
BELLY:
Oooooooh, no, the acid, the cold acid!
WAITER returns with first course, the rich pancakes. Flames them over spirit stove if you can afford it. Sets them before DINER with flourish, acting his part. Exit WAITER. DINER tucks huge napkin into his collar, then eats quickly, grossly.
BELLY:
Here they come, the front runners, on top of this sour Chablis, premier cru, what does it matter, by the time it’s down here, premier nothing, for the last thirty years, Chablis with paprika tonight, god save us! (groan) (pause) Paprika! Paprika!
BELLY makes short, sharp noises as if burnt.
DINER breaks off to take an enormous draught of wine.
BELLY:
(shivers again) Ah, the old torture treatment, hot and cold, first this, then that, no doubt the other soon, dogs, whose dogs, slavering, (comically giving in). All right, I’ll tell you all you want to know! Don’t torture me any more! What d’you want to know? Not the paprika again! No! (as if burnt sounds) Oooooooh! I can’t stand it! Noooo! (series of groans, coping noises; gradually wins through, out of breath).
Well Done God! Page 28