SCENE
The living-room in the Cotton house in Balham.
TIME: Four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon in winter.
TO RIGHT OF STAGE: A window in front of which is a table with an aspidistra plant, some old magazines, and a bottle of Thyroid tablets.
AT RIGHT BACK: A bureau desk and, near centre, a door to hall. (Telephone is in hall and cannot be seen.)
IN RIGHT CENTRE: An oak gate-legged table with four stiff-backed chairs. (Mother’s chair is nearest footlights.)
AT LEFT BACK: An open fireplace in which a fire is burning and further left a bookcase full of old and battered volumes.
IN LEFT CENTRE: A large wooden stiff-backed armchair (Father’s chair). It faces stage and is a little to the left of fire. Further left, a large sofa. Behind sofa, a small stool.
ON WALLS: Landseer engravings—‘Monarch of the Glen’, etc. Above fireplace an elaborate overmantel with mirrors and a quantity of cheap ornate china.
NOTE: Artistic licence has been used in the description of the properties of Thyroid. It is essential that the dangers of the drug should be stressed in order that the Censor may consent to the production of the play, without fear of the drug being used for illegal purposes. An overdose of many other drugs which are easily obtainable by the general public would have an equally drastic effect.
[The sitting-room in the Cotton house, Saturday afternoon, time four o’clock. It is raining. WENDY seated reading on sofa, MRS. COTTON seated knitting at table, ROBERT walking restlessly up and down—hands in pockets.]
WENDY: Oh, Robert—must you?
ROBERT: Must I what?
WENDY: Fidget so. Can’t you sit down or something?
ROBERT (surlily): Oh, all right. (Sits beside her on sofa with his long legs stretched out, contemplating his feet.)
MOTHER: Why don’t you practise your shorthand, dear?
ROBERT: I’m sick to death of shorthand.
MOTHER: (shocked): Oh, Robert, how can you! And after your father paying all that money for you to take night classes.
ROBERT: I didn’t ask him to, did I,
MOTHER: Robert!
ROBERT: Well?
MOTHER (looking round nervously): It’s a good thing that your father’s not at home to hear you. What he’d say I don’t know. It’s quite time you showed a little appreciation of all he’s done for you and settled down to work.
ROBERT (bitterly): Work—I like that. What do you think I do all day, adding up columns of figures in that stuffy office! Surely a chap’s got a right to spend his Saturday afternoons as he likes. Besides, Father doesn’t pay for it. He pinches the fees out of my miserable screw.
MOTHER: Robert! I will not have you say such things. It’s only right and proper that you should pay your father back a little of all he’s spent on your schooling now you’ve started to earn money yourself.
ROBERT: Well, he can’t have it both ways. Out of the thirty bob a week I get from that old swindler Briggs I’m only allowed to keep ten shillings. On that, I’m supposed to dress, lunch, pay my fares, keep myself and every other darn thing—while Father takes the quid. I call that pretty mean, but what’s he do then—goes and fixes these rotten night classes on me and I suppose I’ll be expected to pay him back for them in twenty years’ time. So what I’ve got to be grateful for, I’m hanged if I know. I’ve a jolly good mind to have it out with him.
WENDY: You wouldn’t dare.
ROBERT: I’m not so sure about that.
MOTHER: You’ll do no such thing, my boy. Remember your father’s heart.
ROBERT: Do we ever get a chance to forget it?
MOTHER: Robert! that’s most unkind.
ROBERT: No, it’s not. But it isn’t fair. Every time anybody wants to do anything in this house Father’s heart gets dragged in. I’m not allowed to smoke, Wendy’s not allowed out after ten o’clock at night, you’re not allowed to have the wireless on when he’s at home. And we mustn’t say a word in protest—not a word, because of Father’s heart, Father’s heart, Father’s heart! It’s the limit!
MOTHER (replacing her knitting in bag and rising from table): My boy, you know quite well that the doctor says the least excitement might be fatal to him, and he’s been a good father to you children even if he is a little strict in his ways. It’s only your good that he has at heart, so you must learn to give way to his wishes without complaining. And now I must make those girdle scones or they won’t be done for tea. (Exit.)
[ROBERT stands up and begins to walk moodily up and down the room again.]
WENDY: What is the matter with you today, Robert?
ROBERT: I’m in a hell of a mess.
WENDY: Well, I can’t lend you any more money—I’m broke myself.
ROBERT: Oh, it’s not money this time. It’s worse.
WENDY: What on earth have you done now?
ROBERT: Got the sack.
WENDY: Robert!
ROBERT: Jolly, isn’t it? That old swine Briggs caught me trying to write a short story in the office. I wasn’t quick enough to push it under the ledger.
WENDY: My dear, there will be a blinding row.
ROBERT: Don’t I know it!
WENDY: Better tell Father yourself before he has a chance to see Briggs.
ROBERT: I suppose so—but, by Jove, it needs some pluck.
WENDY: It will be worse if he finds out. Besides, after all what can he do? He can’t beat you.
ROBERT: No, but sometimes I wish he would. I think I’d rather take a licking than stand there while he stares at me with those round eyes of his. It makes me go cold all over.
WENDY: Yes. It’s not even what he says so much, it’s just the way he looks at you. We are idiots to be so scared of him at our age, but I suppose it’s habit. Every time there is a row I make up my mind to face it out, but somehow I just can’t. I’m terrified of him.
ROBERT (fiercely): God, how I hate that man! I wish he’d have his damned heart attack and die.
WENDY (in feeble protest): Oh, Robert, you mustn’t say that sort of thing.
ROBERT: I mean it. Honestly, Wendy. I know it’s wrong, and all that, but I do—and it’s his fault. He’s got no right to make our lives a misery just because he’s our father. Think how different everything would be if he did pass out.
WENDY: Well, he won’t. He’s far too careful of himself, so it’s no good thinking about it.
ROBERT: If only I’d got some money I’d clear out. You know what it’s like after a row—the house will be like a morgue for a fortnight. Everybody going about on tiptoe with that awful atmosphere of disapproval: ‘Hush! Hush! Robert’s been a naughty boy and he mustn’t be allowed to forget it.’ You know the sort of thing.
WENDY (with sudden bitterness): Well, what’s a fortnight? You don’t know what real trouble is.
ROBERT (turning and looking at her quickly): Hullo! you in trouble, too?
[A bell rings in the hall.]
WENDY: That’s the front door. I’ll go. (Exit.)
[Re-enter WENDY with CHARLES WILLMOTT.]
CHARLES: Afternoon, Robert. How are you?
ROBERT: Rotten. I’ve lost my job.
CHARLES: I say! Does the old man know?
ROBERT: Not yet, so for the lord’s sake don’t say anything.
CHARLES (leading WENDY to sofa, where both sit down): Trust me, not a word. (To WENDY): And how’s the dream girl?
WENDY: Not too good, but better for seeing her Bonnie Prince Charlie.
ROBERT (staring moodily out of window): Tweet, tweet!
WENDY: Shut up, Robert.
[ROBERT takes no notice. CHARLES looks quickly at WENDY, then at ROBERT’S back, and then again at
WENDY.]
CHARLES: Your father’s not in, is he?
WENDY: No.
CHARLES: That’s good.
WENDY: He will be soon, though, and you know how it is. I can’t ask you to stay to tea because he says strangers excite him.
CHARLES (looking imp
atiently at ROBERT’S back): No—I know. I only dropped in just to—well, to see you for a minute and bring you these. (Produces a box of chocolates)
WENDY (taking box and opening it): Oh, you darling—
CHARLES: No, thanks, dear.
WENDY: Robert?
ROBERT (still gazing out of window): What?
WENDY: Chocolate?
ROBERT: Thanks. (CHARLES carries box over to him) Thanks, old chap. (Takes one and turns back towards window. CHARLES, standing beside him, picks up the bottle of Thyroid from the window table.)
CHARLES (reading bottle): ‘One grain equals five grains desiccated.’ Who’s taking Thyroid?
WENDY: Mother. It’s her latest stunt for reducing.
ROBERT (chanting, with his back still turned): And, my dear, I lost seven pounds in a fortnight. I can even eat potatoes now.
CHARLES (replacing bottle): Tricky stuff to monkey with. But I suppose it’s all right if you haven’t got a heart. (Walks back to WENDY.)
ROBERT (turning slowly round): Why?
CHARLES: Thyroid’s like poison for anyone with a heart. One dose would be enough to bring on an attack—kill them stone dead.
ROBERT (turning back to window): Well, Mother’s heart’s all right.
[For half a minute there is silence while CHARLES and WENDY stare at ROBERT’S back.]
WENDY (impatiently): Robert, dear, do run away. Father will be coming in and then Charles will have to go. You might leave us alone for ten minutes.
ROBERT: Oh, all right. I’ll go and gloom upstairs.
WENDY (handing him a two-shilling novel in a brown-paper cover): You’d better take this. It’s another shocker, isn’t it? There will be an awful row if Father catches you reading it.
ROBERT (taking book): Oh, he won’t spot it with the brown-paper cover on. (Exit.)
CHARLES (quickly, as door closes): Any—any news?
WENDY: No, darling. Just the same. (For a moment they sit side by side in miserable silence.)
WENDY: Oh, Charles, what are we going to do? I’m frightened.
CHARLES (miserably): Darling, what can you expect? These things don’t come right of themselves. If only you’d be sensible and take the medicine that I got for you.
WENDY: It’s no good, Charles—I won’t. It’s wrong, and it’s dangerous—you know it is.
CHARLES: All drugs are dangerous if you don’t understand their use—but I do understand about this. I’m not qualified yet, it’s true, but I shall be in a year, and to make quite certain I asked one of the doctors at the hospital. Surely you know, darling, that I wouldn’t dream of asking you to take this stuff if there were any real risk.
WENDY: Oh, what’s the good of going over it all again? If it’s strong enough to do the trick it must be dangerous. If it’s not, then it only means that I shall make myself beastly ill and perhaps injure the child, all for nothing.
CHARLES (wearily): There you are—injure the child—you are thinking about the child already. That’s Dame Nature getting busy, just like a wicked old woman. Directly a girl is old enough she sets the trap, baits it with every inducement, prods her in the back and the man, too. Then when they lose their heads for ten minutes, Dame Nature just laughs and walks away. She’s done her job of providing another healthy girl with a baby—and she doesn’t give a cuss for the consequences. But if there is any question of using science to defeat her, she comes rushing back, stirs up the girl’s subconscious instinct until it over-rules her common-sense, and she flatly refuses even to help herself out of the trouble she’s in.
WENDY: Oh, well, there’s ages to go yet, something may happen.
CHARLES: There you are—that’s another of old Dame Nature’s favourite tricks. Lulling you into a false sense of security. ‘Don’t worry, my dear,’ she says. ‘It will be all right, you aren’t really going to have a baby—something will happen to prevent it—next week or next month.’ Though why it should with a healthy girl, Lord in heaven knows. Then one fine day you’ll wake up to the fact that it’s too jolly late to do anything at all, and that devilish old woman will go off with a leer to work the same trick on some other poor girl. We get dozens of them every week at the hospital. You’re not normal at the present time, Wendy, darling—no woman is when she’s that way. You don’t realise your own position as well as I do.
WENDY: Don’t I?—that’s all you know. I was wretchedly ill every morning this week, and I simply can’t sleep at night for thinking about it. I can’t get it out of my mind for two seconds.
CHARLES (taking her in his arms): You poor darling. I know just how it must be, and there’s not a moment of the day when I’m not thinking about you—but I do wish you would be brave and make an effort with this stuff.
WENDY: I can’t, Charles. I’ve been reading the cases in the papers. You’ve no idea how many women die from doing that sort of thing, and if we were found out they would put us both in prison. It’s not right to do it—it can’t be. If it were, the law would be altered and doctors would be allowed to do it properly in cases where the girl was not married.
CHARLES: All right, darling. If you feel so strongly about it.
WENDY: Can’t we possibly get married?
CHARLES: Well, we can, but you know all about Aunt Edith’s will. If I marry before I’m twenty-five, that five thousand that she left me goes slap down the drain. We’ve only got just over a year to wait—and I do think we’d be absolutely mad not to hang on till then.
WENDY: Oh, I know it’s an awful lot of money—but surely this is more important.
CHARLES: Now listen, sweetheart. What good is it going to do? If we had got married before this happened, that would have been different. I wouldn’t grudge the money, but as it is we are not even engaged officially. We can’t get married under a couple of months without exciting comment, and then we’ll have the baby on the mat before we know where we are, so you’d have to face a scandal, anyhow. Surely it’s more sensible to try to get out of this mess—get engaged as soon as you like, and we’ll be married on my twenty-fifth birthday with everything all clear in front of us, and five thousand pounds in our pocket.
WENDY: I suppose you’re right—but I won’t take that stuff—I’m frightened, Charles. I’m sure it’s dangerous.
CHARLES (producing a flat flask from his hip pocket): All right, we won’t talk about the medicine any more, but I want you to try this.
WENDY (suspiciously): What is it?
CHARLES: Good old-fashioned gin.
WENDY: You know I loathe the taste of gin.
CHARLES: Yes. That’s why I prepared this specially. It is about one-third Crème de Menthe.
WENDY: It sounds horrible.
CHARLES: It’s not. It’s just like a Stinger cocktail, and you know you love Crème de Menthe.
WENDY (dubiously, taking bottle): What am I to do with it?
CHARLES: Heat it up when you go to bed tonight and add the same quantity of boiling water, then drink it as hot as you can.
WENDY: What! All of it!
CHARLES: Yes.
WENDY: I shall be tight.
CHARLES: That’s just what I want—but it won’t matter as you are going straight to bed.
WENDY: Do you really think it will do any good?
CHARLES: I can’t say for certain, but I hope so.
WENDY: It will only make me sick.
CHARLES: Now, darling, do be different. Isn’t it worth the risk of being a little ill if there is a chance of getting out of this wretched mess?
WENDY: All right, darling. Kiss me.
[They embrace and break away as door opens. Enter FATHER, holding himself very upright and walking with stiff, jerky steps.]
WENDY (nervously, as she slips bottle behind cushions on sofa): Hullo, Father. You know Charles Willmott, don’t you?
FATHER (stiffly): Good afternoon.
CHARLES (nervously): Good afternoon, sir. It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?
FATHER (glancing at grey window): Lovely for
people who sell mackintoshes, perhaps.
CHARLES: Ha! Ha! Well, yes—I meant if only it would clear up—but I must be getting along.
WENDY: Will you call for me later?
CHARLES: Yes, rather. (Exit with WENDY.)
[FATHER turns slowly looking round room, he sees chocolates on sofa, walks over, picks up the box and puts one in his mouth. He munches slowly, then takes a handful and slips them in his pocket. Returns box to sofa and walks stiffly to straight-backed chair on left of fire, into which he lowers himself carefully.]
[Re-enter WENDY.]
FATHER: What was that bottle which you were holding when I came in?
WENDY (laughing nervously): Oh—er—that was scent.
FATHER: Where did you get it?
WENDY: Charles Willmott gave it to me.
FATHER: You know that I do not approve of your receiving presents from young men.
WENDY: Oh, Father, surely!
FATHER: Bring it to me.
WENDY: But, Father!
FATHER: You heard what I said.
[WENDY produces bottle and with some hesitation walks over and gives it to him. He takes it without a word, pulls out the cork and sniffs at the contents. He then sits up straighter than ever, his eyes round and staring. He looks at her for a full minute without speaking, then:]
FATHER (very softly): You have lied to me.
WENDY: No, Father—well—well—yes.
FATHER: You have lied to me.
WENDY (in a whisper): Yes, Father.
FATHER: What is in this bottle?
WENDY: Crème de Menthe, Father.
FATHER: Liquor! Liquor in my house. (He stares at her for another half a minute in silence, then adds:) You shameless girl! Alcohol! What will your mother say when she learns that her daughter has brought liquor into a God-fearing home?
WENDY (pleading): Oh, Father, it’s for medicine, really. Charles brought it because I can’t sleep at night. Just a little can’t do any harm.
FATHER: What! You dare to defend yourself?
WENDY (desperately): Why shouldn’t I have it? I’m not a child.
FATHER (standing up with a jerk): My daughter defies me. (Suddenly sits down again and leans back with closed eyes—begins to pant): Fetch—fetch your mother.
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