[WENDY, with a little gesture of despair, runs out of room. Re-enters again with MRS. COTTON, both running.]
MOTHER (to FATHER): What is it, dear? What is it? (to WENDY): Oh, you wicked girl. What have you done to bring on one of your father’s attacks?
FATHER (now recovered): No. By the mercy of Providence I have escaped, but it was near—very near.
MOTHER: What has she done? Tell me, Albert?
FATHER: I cannot… I am too ashamed.
MOTHER: Tell me, dear, you’ll feel better if you do.
FATHER: I cannot—and yet, it is only right that you should know. (Sighs heavily.)
MOTHER: What has she done, dear?
FATHER: How I wish that I could spare you.
MOTHER: Don’t think of me, Albert.
FATHER (after an impressive pause): Our daughter has brought liquor into our home.
MOTHER: Wendy!
WENDY: Oh, Mother, it was only a tiny bottle of Crème de Menthe. Charles gave it to me just to take before I go to bed because I’m not sleeping very well.
MOTHER: But alcohol Wendy! How could you?
WENDY: I’m sorry if I’ve upset Father, but really it’s not as terrible as all that.
FATHER: There! You hear her? Shameless! Shameless! And in a deceitful attempt to hide her wickedness she told me a deliberate lie. She said that this Devil’s Poison was scent.
MOTHER: Oh, Wendy!
WENDY: What was I to do?… I knew it would upset Father if I told him the truth.
FATHER: That is no excuse.
[Enter ROBERT. They all stare at him in silence. He looks guiltily away, fearing that his own trouble has come to light, and slinks over to the window, where he stands fidgeting nervously. After a moment:]
ROBERT (with sullen defiance): Oh, well! Say something, somebody.
FATHER: Are you aware, Robert, of what your sister has done?
ROBERT: Wendy! No—I thought—well, I was only wondering what you were all looking so glum about.
FATHER (to WENDY): Tomorrow will be Sunday. After evening church I will speak to you in my study.
WENDY: Yes, Father.
MOTHER (to WENDY): Now run and get the tea, dear. It’s all ready in the kitchen.
[Exit WENDY, dabbing her eyes. FATHER puts flask of Crème de Menthe in his pocket. ROBERT goes to sofa and sits down to read his paper-covered thriller.]
FATHER: Reading again, Robert?
ROBERT: Yes, Father.
Father: What an extraordinary boy you are. You have an excellent home and yet you are hardly ever in it, except to read and sleep. When you do honour us with your presence you never deign to enter into conversation with your parents, but sit in a corner reading a book. Really, I think you look upon your home as though it were an hotel.
ROBERT: Oh, no, Father.
FATHER: I say that you do. What book are you reading now?
ROBERT (nervously): Just—er—a book from the library.
FATHER: And who is the author?
ROBERT: Well, it’s—er—an Edgar Wallace.
FATHER: What! After I have told you that I do not approve of your reading such vile trash.
ROBERT: Father—I’m sick of Dickens.
FATHER: That is no excuse. There are others. Thackeray, Scott, Bulwer-Lytton, Trollope, Meredith, all suitable reading for a boy of your years.
ROBERT (sullenly): I like something exciting, Father.
FATHER: I will not have you read such pernicious rubbish.
ROBERT: Well, I’ll get one of the old dry ones, next time.
FATHER: If that is your view of literature, my boy, you need a lesson. Such books as you are reading now are only fit to be burnt. Put that book on the fire.
ROBERT (standing up): But it’s a library book.
FATHER: Do as I tell you.
ROBERT: I can’t—I’d have to pay for it.
FATHER: I trust the fine will prove a lesson to you.
ROBERT: But I’ve just got to the exciting part. Do let me finish it.
FATHER: You heard what I said.
ROBERT (with sudden hostility): Why should I?
FATHER (rising slowly to his feet): Robert!
MOTHER (quickly, as WENDY enters with tea-tray): Robert, how can you? Think of your father’s heart.
ROBERT (with a sudden laugh): Father’s heart! All right—I will.
[Throws the book violently into the fire and walks quickly over to the window. WENDY sets down tea-tray on table. She and MOTHER lay table. The tray with four cups remains in front of MOTHER, who is facing the stage, so that cups are hidden from audience. MOTHER pours out tea. ROBERT is fingering the Thyroid bottle in window.]
FATHER: I think I will go round and see if Mr. Briggs is in, after tea. It is some time since I have seen him.
[ROBERT goes tense at window.]
MOTHER: Are you sure that it’s not too far for you, dear?
FATHER: A few minutes’ walk will do me good.
[ROBERT unscrews top of bottle and shakes four or five tabloids into his hand.]
MOTHER: I think I had better come with you, Albert.
FATHER: Yes, that would be best. I shall be interested to hear if Robert is giving satisfaction to his employer.
[ROBERT screws on the top of bottle, retaining tabloids in the palm of his hand. He moves to front centre of stage on left of MOTHER and takes cup of tea from her. He is facing audience, with his MOTHER, the tea-table, and WENDY to his immediate left rear, and his FATHER some distance away in chair by fire at his right rear. The tea-cup is hidden from all three; he shoots tablets of Thyroid into it and is about to take it over to his father when:]
MOTHER: Oh, what am I doing. That tea is much too strong for your father. (Stretches out left hand and takes cup back before ROBERT can do anything. Places cup on tray hidden from audience, and adds water.)
[The telephone rings in hall.]
MOTHER: See who it is, Robert.
ROBERT (anxiously eyeing cup): You go, Wendy.
[WENDY is busy spreading jam very thickly on a piece of bread-and-butter.]
FATHER (as telephone continues to ring): You heard your mother. Wendy is making my sandwiches.
ROBERT (with a last glance at cup): All right, Father. (Exit quickly.)
WENDY (taking sandwiches bursting with jam over to her FATHER): Here you are, Father.
FATHER: Thank you—and my table.
[WENDY places a small table beside him as ROBERT re-enters.]
ROBERT: It’s for you, Mother. Mrs. Snelling wants to speak to you.
MOTHER: All right, dear. I’m coming. (Exit.)
FATHER: My tea, please.
WENDY (returning to table): Which one is it—oh, this looks the weakest. (Picks up cup and takes it to FATHER.)
[ROBERT follows her movements anxiously with his eyes as he carries over the sugar.]
FATHER (takes cup and helps himself to four lumps of sugar): Thank you. (Begins to munch jam sandwich slowly.)
WENDY (handing another cup to ROBERT): Here’s yours, Robert.
ROBERT (looking at it dubiously): Er—thanks. (They sit down to table. Re-enter MOTHER.)
MOTHER: Mrs. Snelling wants us all to go over to cold supper tomorrow night.
FATHER: I hope that you have not accepted.
MOTHER: Well, dear, I did. You know you like Mr. Snelling, Albert.
FATHER: You have forgotten that I wish to speak to Wendy after church.
WENDY: Oh, Father, can’t you do it tonight, and get it over?
FATHER: This is not a matter which can be ‘got over.’ I wish for time to consider how best to deal with your outrageous behaviour.
MOTHER: All right, dear. I’ll put Mrs. Snelling off.
WENDY (handing bread-and-butter): Robert?
ROBERT: No, thanks. I don’t want any.
MOTHER: Well, drink up your tea, dear. It will get cold.
ROBERT (tasting tea gingerly): I don’t think I like it. It tastes rather queer.
MOTH
ER: Nonsense, dear. It’s a little different, but it’s a new kind I’m trying. The manager at Salisbury’s gave me a free sample.
FATHER: I thought it different, but it is very good.
WENDY: I don’t like it as much as the one we always have.
ROBERT (setting cup down): I don’t like it at all.
MOTHER: Don’t be silly, Robert. I think it’s very nice. I like the rather unusual flavour.
ROBERT: I don’t think I will finish mine.
FATHER: Robert, you will finish your tea at once.
ROBERT: But, Father, I don’t really feel like tea today.
FATHER: I cannot sit here and see things that I have paid for wasted.
ROBERT: Mother said it was a free sample.
FATHER: You heard what I said.
ROBERT (reluctantly): All right, Father. (Slowly drinks tea in little gulps)
FATHER (rising): If you are ready, my dear, we will walk round to Mr. and Mrs. Briggs’.
MOTHER (hastily bolting her tea and stuffing the remains of a piece of bread-and-butter into her mouth): Yes, Albert.
FATHER (to WENDY and ROBERT): Neither of you will leave the house this evening—I am greatly displeased with you both.
[Exit FATHER and MOTHER.]
ROBERT (angrily): Can you beat it—and I was going to the dirt track with Reggie Turner.
WENDY (miserably): I know—and Charles was going to take me to the pictures. I suppose he won’t even be allowed in the house any more after this.
ROBERT: Why, what’s he done—and what’s the old man wild with you about?
WENDY: Charles brought me a flash of Crème de Menthe, and Father found out.
ROBERT: Phew!—drink. My goodness, you’ll catch it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned you out in the street for that.
WENDY: He won’t as long as I’ve got a job. He wouldn’t be able to get his fifteen shillings a week out of me if he did.
ROBERT: I wonder he didn’t have an attack.
WENDY: He very nearly did.
ROBERT: Wendy, did you think that tea tasted queer?
WENDY: Yes, I didn’t like it a bit.
ROBERT: Well, that’s a comfort.
WENDY: What on earth do you mean?
ROBERT: Oh, nothing—only—well, I’m glad we both felt the same about it.
WENDY: You were an awful fool to say anything. If you had drunk a little when Mother spoke to you, you could have left the rest—she probably wouldn’t have noticed.
ROBERT (uneasily): Yes, I wish I’d done that. (He walks over to window and WENDY settles down to read)
ROBERT (suddenly): How long do you think they’ll be at old Briggs’?
WENDY: How should I know? It all depends if the Briggses are at home. Even if they are, Father may come rushing back directly he hears that you’ve got the push.
ROBERT: Good Lord, yes. I’d forgotten about that.
WENDY: I wish I could forget as quickly about the Crème de Menthe.
[ROBERT: paces restlessly up and down. After a minute he comes to a halt in front of WENDY.]
ROBERT: I say, Wendy. Are you feeling all right?
WENDY: Yes, Why?
ROBERT: I’m not—I’m feeling rotten.
WENDY: It’s an attack of the funk, I expect. I’m sorry I reminded you about old Briggs.
ROBERT: No, it’s not that.
WENDY: What is it then? You are looking white.
ROBERT: (scared): Am I? Oh, Lord!
WENDY: Have you got a pain?
ROBERT: Yes. No, not exactly. I wonder if I’d better make myself sick.
WENDY: Whatever for?
ROBERT: I don’t know. Perhaps I’ve eaten something that doesn’t agree with me.
WENDY: You couldn’t have. You didn’t eat anything for tea.
ROBERT (slowly): No—but—but it might have been the tea.
WENDY: It couldn’t be—we all had it.
ROBERT: Yes, I know—but…
WENDY: But what?
ROBERT: Oh, nothing.
WENDY: Sit down and read your book. If you think of something else it will go off.
ROBERT: I can’t. You know Father made me burn the blasted thing. Just when I’d got to the part where they were going to pour vitriol over the girl’s face, too.
WENDY: Well, start another.
ROBERT: Yes, that’s an idea. (Goes to bookcase behind sofa and takes out worn volume.) Wonder if I can possibly stand dear old Ouida again. (Sits down beside WENDY on sofa, flicks over a few pages, then shuts up the book. Remains staring at his feet for a moment, then gets up and goes over to window. Picks up Thyroid bottle and carefully reads label.)
ROBERT: ‘One grain equals five grains desiccated.’ Now, whatever does that mean? It’s not sense.
WENDY (sententiously): Children should never play with dangerous drugs or they may do themselves great harm. Little boys have died through being inquisitive about the things in Mother’s cupboard.
ROBERT: (savagely, as he bangs down bottle): Shut up, can’t you!
WENDY: Robert!
ROBERT: I’m sorry. (Turns back to window.)
[A bell rings in the hall.]
ROBERT (swinging round): Who’s that?
WENDY: I don’t know—it’s the front door.
ROBERT: They can’t have got back already.
WENDY: Of course not, and anyway Father would use his key.
ROBERT: But if he were taken ill?
WENDY: Why should he be?
ROBERT: Oh, I don’t know—anyhow, you go.
WENDY: Robert, what is the matter with you today?
ROBERT: Nothing—just worried, that’s all. (Exit, reluctantly.)
[Re-enter ROBERT, holding letter.]
ROBERT: It was only the post—and a William at that. (Places letter on bureau and walks to window, begins to whistle.)
WENDY: Feeling all right again?
ROBERT (stopping abruptly): Yes—that is, no worse, anyhow.
[The front door-bell rings again.]
ROBERT: Well, that can’t be the post. Do you think it’s them? Perhaps Father forgot to take his key.
WENDY: What about it if he did? You’ve got to go through it some time—don’t be a coward.
[The bell rings again.]
ROBERT (nervously): You go, Wendy.
WENDY: Why should I? I wish you would let me read in peace.
ROBERT: It’s your turn. Wendy—please.
WENDY: Oh, all right. (Exit, taking tea-tray with her)
[ROBERT: picks up the Thyroid bottle again and mops his face with his handkerchief. Then he watches the door, listening intently.]
[Enter CHARLES.]
ROBERT (With relief): Oh, it’s you!
CHARLES: Yes. I hear there has been a row, and Wendy is not allowed to come out.
ROBERT (quickly): Yes. Where is she?
CHARLES: In the kitchen, I think.
ROBERT (holding up bottle): Look here. This Thyroid stuff we were talking about this afternoon. How long does it take to work?
CHARLES (seating himself comfortably on sofa): It all depends.
ROBERT: What on?
CHARLES: All sorts of things. The dose. The state of health of the person who takes it. It’s a very dangerous drug, and should never be taken except by doctor’s orders.
ROBERT: Would it—would it kill anybody who hadn’t got a heart?
CHARLES: It might, if they took enough.
ROBERT: Oh, hell!
CHARLES: Why, what’s the matter? You haven’t been experimenting on yourself, have you?
ROBERT: Me? No, oh no. I was just thinking out a story about it, and that upsets my plot. What—what are the symptoms if anybody takes an overdose?
CHARLES: Headaches, dizziness, generally feeling rotten. Rather as if you were tight.
ROBERT (weakly): Thanks. (Sits down quickly.)
[Enter WENDY.]
CHARLES: It is a shame about tonight.
WENDY: I’m so sorry, dear. An
yhow, there is one good thing. I shan’t have to make myself sick on Crème de Menthe. Father pinched the bottle.
ROBERT (looking up): Why should you have to make yourself sick on it, anyway?
WENDY (quickly): Oh, I was only joking.
CHARLES (slowly): Look here, can’t you get that bottle back?
WENDY: Not unless I can find it in the dustbin. I expect that’s where Father will put it.
[The telephone rings.]
ROBERT (starting): Who the devil’s that?
WENDY: Mr. Briggs, perhaps, to say that Father’s had an attack when he told him about your getting the sack.
ROBERT (miserably): Oh, Wendy, don’t. (Stands irresolute near door.)
WENDY (standing up): All right, you needn’t worry. I’ll go.
[Exit WENDY. ROBERT sits down again with his head between his hands.]
CHARLES: What is the matter with you, Robert?
ROBERT (mopping his face): Oh, I don’t know.
[Re-enter WENDY]
WENDY: It was Father.
ROBERT: What—what did he say?
WENDY: That you are to go round to the Briggses’ at once.
ROBERT (springing to his feet): Has he—has he had an attack?
WENDY: No.
ROBERT: Does he—know about me?
WENDY: No, it’s not that, it’s…
ROBERT: I know—he’s going to have me on the mat in front of old Briggs.
WENDY: No. It’s Mother, she’s been taken ill. He wants you to help him get her home.
ROBERT (aghast): Mother!
WENDY: Yes, she’s fainted or something, poor dear. Why, Robert, you’re as white as a sheet.
ROBERT: Good God! How ghastly! (Rushes from room.)
CHARLES: What is the matter with him today?
WENDY: I don’t know. He’s worried about this row that he is in for with Father, I suppose, but I’m in for something much worse.
CHARLES (sitting down by her on sofa and taking her by the hand): My poor little dream girl. Was he very angry?
WENDY: Oh, Charles, he was beastly. You should have seen the way he looked at me. That awful stony stare of his makes me want to scream. I’m just terrified.
CHARLES (putting his arms round her): Never mind, darling. I wish he hadn’t got that bottle, though.
WENDY: Oh, what’s that matter? I don’t suppose it would have done any good, anyhow, but there will be a worse row than ever if he finds you here. You had better go, dear, before they get back.
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