Four Plays

by John Osborne

  (WAIN enters.)

  WAIN: Mr Grimthorpe and Mr Deel are here, m’lady.

  REGINE: Send them in. Ladies, we are about to re-enter Paradise. On our own terms. With or without men. Cheers.

  (They all toast. Enter LEONARD GRIMTHORPE and SMASH DEEL. LEONARD is not bad-looking, fortyish, slightly vague, something of an affection. SMASH is what you’d expect.)

  Leonard, how delightful of you to come after all.

  LEONARD: Delighted I could make it.

  REGINE: And Mr Deel. Smash – we’ve all been on edge for hours. Now, let’s all get together. There’ll be others here soon so we can have a while to get to know one another. You may even know some of us. We have to be careful. You know, ex-wives, people in politics or on newspapers.

  LEONARD: I’ve no worries on any of those scores. But then I’m afraid I take all things as they come. Sorry, cliché first time.

  REGINE: Don’t worry, darling. We invent them down here. Mr Deel, do you know Miss Stella Shrift? Don’t worry, she won’t give you short shrift though that’s her craft and very good she is at it, I think, don’t you?

  SMASH: Eh?

  REGINE: Now, Leonard, who don’t you know?

  LEONARD: This lady to begin with.

  REGINE: Ah, this is Mrs Isobel Sands, Leonard Grimthorpe. Like you, I don’t believe she does anything in particular.

  LEONARD: Good. Hullo… ISOBEL: Hullo…

  End of Act One.

  ACT TWO

  Scene 1

  Scene exactly the same hut now full with the new arrivals. These are ROBERT BIGLEY, a portly young millionaire developer, STRATFORD WEST, the show-biz correspondent referred to in the first Act; FREDERICK BLACK, a rather bored-looking impresario, clearly very rich; JOHNSTEWKES, Tory back-bencher, rather like a lofty-looking suspicious lizard; finally, ASHLEY WITHERS, newspaper proprietor, a jolly, quick, intelligent man, older than most of the others. REGINE is trying to introduce them to the seated and lolling assembly. SMASH is listening to one of his own recordings at the back of the room.

  REGINE: You’ll have to sort it out for yourselves. But in no particular batting order. This is Robert Bigley, the one who rose from being the son of a self-made – I never understand what ‘self-made’ means. We all make ourselves. No. Perhaps you don’t agree. Anyway, to become a self-made millionaire himself. If you want to come here by private plane or jet to Paris for lunch or helicopter to your box at the Derby, all the Stewards’ enclosures of everything, Henley, Ascot, you name it… Founders’ Day, Cowes, he’ll be there or get you there quicker and better than anyone.

  BIGLEY: I say, Regine, you are putting me down and no mistake.

  REGINE: You know I admire you irredeemably. I love millionaires but if they’re young it’s beyond belief. This is Stratford West.

  WEST: Not to be compared with Stratford East.

  REGINE: Darling, you must resist that joke. He’s always interviewing starlets hot from bosomy film premiéres. Miss X – seen in all but the nude. ‘Read what she says about men and the older men in particular. She has been a model and played parts in two television series’ – yet to be seen.

  WEST: That means either they won’t be seen or she played a maid or a one-line typist in both.

  REGINE: So if you have any theatrical or film ambitions, Stratford’s your man. He’s also very delightful. This is Freddy Black, the impresario. Well, you all know him. Got four hits in the West End. Cases joints like Nottingham, Edinburgh, Bristol, Greenwich, the Royal Court, The Theatre In The Ground, The Theatre On The Roof, like a cat burglar, and transfers them immediately – if they get rave notices. Shrewd boy, Freddy. Never backs talent, just a talent for finding backers. Never spent a penny on a production in his life. Another, yet another young millionaire! Dear Freddy. The Transfer Dead-Certainty-Only King. This is John Stewkes, not a millionaire alas, but brilliant, an MP, but try to keep off politics because he won’t. By the way, he’s Tory but you needn’t worry, he’ll disagree with left and right. He’s sort of left and right of the other circle. Or something like that.

  STEWKES: No politics, I promise, Regine. You’ve just issued an open invitation to your usual insane lefties or your drabbest right-wingers.

  REGINE: Don’t you think he’s a right dandy?

  STEWKES: I’ve been called the smartest man in the House.

  REGINE: Goes back to your Oxford Union days, no doubt. Finally, a really powerful figure. Power is so sexy as we all know. Even more than money. I’ve never had either but I can recognise it, particularly in bed. (During this, LEONARD and ISOBEL have slipped out. STELLA is questioning WAIN. He nods towards one of the mirrors)

  WITHERS: Newspapers don’t wield power. They follow the news just as they follow public taste while they pretend they’re leading it. They pinch everything, invent nothing, debase everything. We are the hindsight setters. Lovely to see you, Regine. (He kisses her.)

  REGINE: Oh, Ashley, you’ve only just arrived. You’ve barely touched your second drink.

  WITHERS: No point in wasting time.

  STELLA: I quite agree. (To SMASH, who is trying to bear hug her out of the room) Just a minute, dreamboat. I see that Leonard and Mrs Sands have anticipated everyone.

  REGINE: Well, you know what housewives with no job and teenage children are like. And Leonard’s quite a dish, in spite of his awful vagueness.

  STELLA: Do you mind? (She moves to one of the mirrors and looks at it)

  REGINE: Oh, isn’t it a bit early for that?

  STELLA: Just this one. For a quick flash off of the first action of the evening.

  REGINE: Sorry, if you think it dull, darling.

  STELLA: I don’t. Really. Please. Does anyone mind?

  (Everyone koks compliant, mutters of approval. BIGLEY shouts ‘Yahoo’ and spills his champagne)

  REGINE: Wain. The mirror.

  (WAIN presses a button. They all gather around and stare into the mirror. Pause)

  Good God!

  STELLA: They’ve been in there about forty minutes and they’re both sitting on the bed talking like two men in the Athenaeum. Fully clothed.

  REGINE: Even got their shoes on. Wain, can we have the sound?

  WAIN: Yes, m’lady. (He presses another switch.)

  (They all listen in silence. Presently LEONARD’s voice can be heard loud and clear)

  LEONARD: (Voice off.) Yes. Yes. That’s what I felt.

  Marriage has to be a commitment and poetic. But it’s like committed poetry. How can you be committed and really, truly poetic? I mean, it’s the poetry that matters. Not the rest of the things in isolation. It’s the poetry…

  ISOBEL: Right. It’s that that matters. Then the rest adds up. But if not, no poetry. (Pause. They all watch and listen intently. Then:)

  LEONARD: (Voice off) You know… do you mind if I talk to you like this?

  ISOBEL: No. Anything… please… it’s such a relief.

  LEONARD: Well – I – I have considerable difficulty – in getting it up…

  (Pause)

  REGINE: Oh, Christ. Turn it off. It’s obscene.

  Scene 2

  The Bedroom. Furnished as you would expect in this house. ISOBEL and LEONARD are indeed lying fully clothed on the enormous bed, with about four feet between them. They look cheerful and relaxed, pensive but inquiring and obviously enjoying each other’s company. Pause.

  ISOBEL: Can’t you?

  LEONARD: What?

  ISOBEL: Get it up?

  LEONARD: Oh, yes. I didn’t say I couldn’t… I’m sorry I must have confused you. More champagne?

  ISOBEL: Please… Thanks.

  LEONARD: No, it’s not that. Only too facile at times. But other times, well. It’s about like lifting a mini by hand. Well, not necessarily hand. You know what I mean?

  ISOBEL: Exactly. I shouldn’t worry about it. You’re wonderfully attractive.

  LEONARD: So are you… I knew we’d click the minute I saw you.

  ISOBEL: So did I.

 
LEONARD: Rather conventional, isn’t it?

  ISOBEL: Very. Do you want me to undress?

  LEONARD: Not just yet. Unless you want to. I think I might in a minute. This jacket’s frightfully hot and that appalling press of people in Regine’s sitting room. Did you like it?

  ISOBEL: Not much. I couldn’t take my eye off you.

  LEONARD: Well, I was thinking of you… I got stuck with that awful journalist woman. Asked me insulting questions and then tried to get me to bring her in here for a quick how’s-your-father.

  ISOBEL: I thought she’d got you for a while.

  LEONARD: Fortunately, Smash Deel started pawing and fumbling at her and I could get away to you. She’s probably with him now. She’s listed with him, I dare say.

  ISOBEL: You mean Lady Frimley has a placement for all this?

  LEONARD: Oh, yes. I think we’re correctly seated. Just accident though.

  ISOBEL: Nice one though.

  LEONARD: Very… I say…

  (Pause.)

  ISOBEL: What?

  LEONARD: Oh, nothing.

  (Pause)

  ISOBEL: Wouldn’t it be hilarious if we fell in love.

  LEONARD: That’s what I was going to say. But I funked it…

  ISOBEL: Did it sound pushy?

  LEONARD: No. Courageous. Are you married?

  ISOBEL: Yes.

  LEONARD: Children?

  ISOBEL: Three. You?

  LEONARD: Divorced. Three children.

  ISOBEL: Snap.

  LEONARD: But you’re still married.

  ISOBEL: For the present…

  LEONARD: Isobel… are you religious?

  ISOBEL: I don’t know. C of E. But I think, I think it frightens me. Much more than sickness or death.

  LEONARD: Sick unto death. Oh, yes, you’re a religious. I could spot you. That’s not to say you’re not irreverent with yourself. God is in his invisibility… Yes… Odd place to say it. But think about it. What we look for is beyond us. We – are – alone in a room. Two strangers. The Jews had a good idea of the heart. I can see yours moving.

  ISOBEL: I know. Feel it.

  (He does. Gently)

  LEONARD: The Hebrew idea of the heart was – the Whole Man. Not just the intellect. Fools in Christ. We behave like idiots. That’s a bit on the way to heroic… You know what I said – about not being able to get it up?

  ISOBEL: I thought it rather brave… I’m afraid I’m not very good at it.

  LEONARD: Aren’t you? Neither am I. I don’t know… (They laugh and pour more champagne. Then:) What I have, this thing so despised or ignored – is yours. It sounds strange. We may never? Or never meet again. But it would be yours, not just my object. Yours too. Ours… Was that too awful?

  ISOBEL: No. Not, not awful. Try not to make me tearful, that’s all.

  LEONARD: Well, that’s something we have in common. The Gift of Tears. Let’s cherish that – and drink to it. (He kisses her eyes lightly, then her lips) You can never be a man, you know.

  ISOBEL: You can never be a woman. Isn’t it sublime?

  LEONARD: More shampoo? (He pours) For my REAL FRIEND. (Another light kiss) I don’t care, you – women – are the secret of life. We are uncertain, undefined, perhaps unnecessary, as you say… We have to be more: flamboyant, spurious, enduring, tender, frightened, over-sensitive and protected, more reckless, indiscreet. You’ve been taught that you’re a woman of sorts. I that I’m a man. The Victorians used to, no my father even, thought manliness was an upright virtue. Like thrift. Who recommends thrift! Nowadays, you can’t consume and be thrifty… What was I saying? Girls learn to be, boys to act. You are a woman. You are a girl child. You were a virgin. You became a mother. You are. Yet, like me, us, you are still full of divine discontent.