Poppy + George

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Poppy + George Page 5

by Diane Samuels


  TOMMY. Luscious ladies and portly gentlemen!

  He takes a swig, then plays a few grand opening chords on the piano.

  (Posh lady’s voice.) We live in one of the most civilised countries in the world…

  He takes another swig.

  We have the noblest and greatest institutions within our shores…

  GEORGE, wearing trousers and jacket, appears.

  Bank of England. Seat of finance…

  GEORGE. Still at it?

  TOMMY. Great universities of Oxford and Cambridge. Seats of learning… nicely rounded seats, the pair of them…

  GEORGE pulls out a pack of playing cards. And waves them at TOMMY.

  GEORGE. Slip in a few hands?

  TOMMY. Later.

  GEORGE. How late is later?

  TOMMY. In a bit.

  GEORGE. How much of a bit?

  TOMMY. Until I’ve got this stupid bitch sorted!

  GEORGE. Alright!

  TOMMY. Sorry… But I need this bint to be on form…

  GEORGE. Try being nice to her then. She might appreciate it.

  TOMMY. She’s on her way… I can feel it… Be with you… Alright?

  He plays something of the tune of Lady Davinia’s song, muttering to himself.

  GEORGE. What if you give it a rest, stop flogging yourself to death?

  TOMMY. Ready to send me to the knacker’s yard?

  GEORGE. All I’m saying is, how you going to give others the pleasure of your entertainment if you’re straining yourself like a constipated bear… (Sees the whisky.) Oi, are you sharing that or keeping it all for you?

  TOMMY raises the bottle.

  TOMMY. Up yours.

  He swigs long and deep.

  GEORGE. You got any dreams, Tom?

  TOMMY hands him the bottle.

  TOMMY. Here.

  GEORGE. I’ve got so many dreams… like the racing… Other stuff too… Even coming true… Don’t know what to do with ’em all.

  TOMMY. So much for dreams…

  He thrusts a paper into GEORGE’s hands.

  Never in my whole career has a pig-arse of a reporter called me cheap and… get this, then… brutish!

  GEORGE. What does one reporter know?

  TOMMY. Two… three… four… reporters.

  GEORGE. Four’s nothing.

  TOMMY. ‘Excruciatingly excremental.’

  GEORGE. Poo to them.

  TOMMY. Ha-de-ha.

  GEORGE. Don’t mock your number-one fan, sweetheart.

  TOMMY. Bet if I set the book of bleedin’ Deuteronomy to music, they’d still say I was lowering the tone.

  GEORGE. Your punters don’t want the Salvation Army.

  TOMMY. I have had it with those hack scribblers who blow you out with any thoughtless word from their careless little pencils. Are they putting themselves on the line! Are they hell to damnation. Sitting on their backsides. Watching. Commenting. Letting the rest of us take it. And, knock after knock after knock, on we go, giving out, trying to get on with no reward and no appreciation. On and on. Dying out there with the whole shitting world watching. Dying. Over and over again.

  GEORGE. You don’t die, Tommy.

  TOMMY. Oh no?

  GEORGE. I’ve seen folks come again and again.

  TOMMY. Not you so much of late though.

  GEORGE. Poppy gets a bit sensitive about you taking her off, Tom.

  TOMMY. I don’t just take her off, do I? Anyhow, you can still come to see us, George, can’t you?

  GEORGE. Crack me up, you do. Yeah, I’ll find the time.

  TOMMY. Hey… want to take a peek behind the curtain… See what Smith’s up to?

  GEORGE. No way.

  TOMMY. He’s up all hours behind there, isn’t he?

  GEORGE. Leave him to it, Tom.

  TOMMY. You will come to see us again soon, then?

  GEORGE. I will, Tom. I will.

  GEORGE reaches into his pocket and pulls out two epaulettes with coloured piping and regimental numbers.

  You can have one of these if you like.

  TOMMY. Not still hanging onto those old Boches’ bits.

  GEORGE. Nearly got hit ripping these off.

  TOMMY. Idiot.

  GEORGE. There’s nothing like a shell whistling an inch past your ear and missing.

  TOMMY. Thanks, but keep ’em.

  GEORGE. These are my lucky epaulettes. You’re passing up a chance of good fortune here.

  POPPY and SMITH enter carrying packages of fabrics. She also carries a bundle of books and pamphlets.

  SMITH. Salutations, comrades.

  POPPY. Good evening.

  They acknowledge him. SMITH sorts out the contents of the packages. POPPY helps.

  GEORGE (to POPPY). What d’you fancy doing tonight?

  TOMMY. Hey, George, what about those hands and jars.

  GEORGE. I thought you was h-otherwise h-occupied.

  TOMMY. Have I ever let you down?

  POPPY. It’s alright. You all go. I could do with practising my typing.

  POPPY starts to undo the string around her books.

  TOMMY. Good girl. You with us, Smith?

  SMITH. I am otherwise occupied.

  He heads towards the curtain.

  TOMMY. Hey, first, will you look me over?

  TOMMY unbuttons the coat to reveal women’s chemise, pantaloons and corset.

  GEORGE wolf-whistles.

  TOMMY sticks up two fingers at him.

  SMITH. Chop-chop. Over here, madame.

  TOMMY plods over to

  SMITH. Are you sure you want undies?

  TOMMY. What else gets any attention?

  GEORGE whistles again.

  SMITH starts to check TOMMY’s outfit.

  Where was I?

  GEORGE. Seats.

  TOMMY (posh voice). And last, but most certainly not least, our illustrious seat of government, the Houses of Parliament…

  SMITH. Stand tall… Taller…

  TOMMY. It is with great honour that I, Lady Davinia Dottypants… accept the most worthy position of Member of this Parliament…

  POPPY. Is he taking off Nancy Astor now?

  GEORGE. Leave him to it.

  TOMMY. All my life I have wanted to enter those great portals…

  SMITH. Yes, done.

  TOMMY goes to the piano and tinkers with the tune.

  POPPY. But, George… It means so much, for a woman to become…

  GEORGE. Impersonation is the greatest form of flattery, isn’t it?

  POPPY. Then let him do Lloyd George in his droopy underwear!

  TOMMY (sings).

  A lady is a lady

  And that’s what I am, quite grand

  I’ve received my education

  From the best brains in the land

  The dons are oh-so-darling

  Always keen to lend a hand

  But I’m done with dreaming spires

  Now it’s time to make my stand.

  Oh, I’m going to pass a bill

  And believe me, sir, I will

  To teach the silly boys who say we’re weaker

  Backbench, front and side

  I will show ’em woman’s pride

  I’m not here to make the teas, Mr Speaker.

  SMITH. Poppy, the red velvet?

  POPPY picks up a package and takes it to him.

  He rips it open and holds the velvet up to her face.

  Shleymesdik.

  TOMMY. Bless you!

  SMITH sighs deeply.

  POPPY. Something wrong with it?

  SMITH. Just because it’s perfect, doesn’t mean it’s right.

  SMITH, shaking his head and muttering to himself, disappears with the velvet behind the curtain.

  GEORGE looks at POPPY’s books and pamphlets.

  TOMMY (sings).

  I’m a lady on a mission…

  With ideals raised on high…

  GEORGE. ‘Childbirth and Mortality’?

  POPPY. Hot off
the press.

  GEORGE. Sounds like fun.

  GEORGE looks at the other books.

  TOMMY (sings).

  I’m a lady on a mission

  With ideals raised on high

  My cause is prohibition

  Let us keep our glasses dry

  All you sozzled reprobates

  Can carp and curse and cry

  But someone’s got to save your souls…

  (Speaks.) Excuse me, Minister…! Ouch – who threw that!

  (Sings.)

  How dare you, sir! Oh my!

  TOMMY continues to tinkle.

  GEORGE. ‘Marriage and Love’, eh?

  POPPY. It’s not a romance.

  GEORGE. You’re taking it very serious.

  POPPY. Was it not meant serious, what you asked me?

  GEORGE. No, it wasn’t not meant not to be serious… I mean… only, heck, how much reading you planning to do?

  POPPY. These are by intelligent, forward-thinking people who’ve looked into it properly and know the pitfalls… and some even have ideas about what can be different…

  GEORGE. How different?

  TOMMY (sings).

  Oh, I’m going to pass this bill

  And believe me, sirs, I will

  To teach you silly boys who say we’re weaker

  Backbench, front and side I will show you woman’s pride

  No, I’m not here to make the teas, Mr Speaker.

  POPPY. Why don’t you choose one to take away and read too? They make sense, George… They really do…

  GEORGE. What if some things don’t make sense?

  POPPY. I want to do what’s for the best… not just for me… for both of us… and forging the right path for all.

  GEORGE. For the best… Yeah… That’s right… So, for the best…

  TOMMY (sings).

  A lady has her standards

  And I really must admit

  The Commons are too common

  I don’t like it there one bit

  All they do is argue

  And sit and stand and…?

  GEORGE.…sit?

  TOMMY (sings).

  If this is how one runs a country

  I’d really rather knit.

  POPPY groans loudly.

  Now I’ve truly had my fill

  Of the strain to pass a bill

  There’s more virtue in a lady mild and meeker

  Backbench, front or side I will swallow down my pride

  Oh, I’d be glad to make the teas, Mr Speaker.

  POPPY. Get off!

  GEORGE. Tom… would you mind…?

  TOMMY. One lump or two, Chancellor? Would the minister like cream with his scone? Dash of milk for the whips?

  GEORGE laughs. POPPY glares.

  (Speaks.)

  I’d be pleased to make the teas

  Jam or lemon cheese?

  I’d just love to pour your teas.

  Mr Speaker.

  POPPY tuts.

  Hold your own, my friend. Hold your own… as the Sergeant-at-Arms told Black Rod.

  TOMMY skips off.

  GEORGE. If you let him annoy you, he’ll do it all the more.

  POPPY. You don’t have to join in.

  GEORGE. What’s wrong with enjoying myself?

  POPPY. Like that!

  GEORGE. Hey. Come on… Look… His Lordship’s wanting me to go up to his country place this month for one of his jaunts…

  POPPY. So I won’t see you?

  GEORGE. Thing is… you could come too… to visit… if you can get away… and we could go for a top drive out in the lanes… might even get up to thirty-five or forty miles an hour… and have our own picnic… make it a real treat… you know…

  POPPY. But when would I find the time off… with my work here and helping with the Dreadnought and meetings and…?

  GEORGE. Look, if getting wed is not…

  POPPY. What d’you mean?

  GEORGE. If this hesitating and reading is your way of pulling out… No hard feelings. I want only what’s best for you. You see that, don’t you? And no need to fear telling me straight. I can rely on you to do that, can’t I?

  POPPY. Oh, don’t take it that way…

  GEORGE. I realise that I might not be the right man…

  POPPY. It’s not you, George.

  GEORGE. Well, whatever happens, I love you… love you to bits. Always will.

  POPPY. Do you still want to…?

  GEORGE. With you. Of course… Although it might be that I’m not really cut out for marriage myself… being a freewheeler… and…

  GEORGE takes her hand, lost for words.

  POPPY. You can tell me… tell me anything, you know.

  GEORGE. Some things don’t make sense… All you can do is trust your heart, right?

  POPPY. I suppose…

  GEORGE. Come away… stay with me… in the country.

  POPPY. I’ll see what I can do.

  TOMMY appears, dressed in trousers and shirt, ostentatiously carrying a teapot. He performs to POPPY and GEORGE.

  TOMMY. Ready, lads?

  GEORGE. Are we off, Tom?

  SMITH appears, looking out of sorts, from behind his curtain.

  TOMMY. Alright, Smith?

  SMITH. On second thoughts, a tipple or two would not go amiss.

  TOMMY. What’s happened to your ‘h-otherwise h-occupation’?

  SMITH. Of all the manifold and variable alternatives… right now, running away is by far the most appealing.

  GEORGE plants a kiss on POPPY’s cheek.

  GEORGE. Happy typing.

  TOMMY. Royal Duchess or Three Butchers?

  SMITH. What’s wrong with both?

  TOMMY, GEORGE and SMITH leave.

  POPPY sets up her typewriter, opens one of her books and concentrates.

  POPPY (reading as she types). ‘The popular notion about marriage and love is that they cover the same human needs…’

  She pauses again and looks dreamily into space.

  ‘I only want what’s best for you.’

  She sighs… then reads.

  ‘Yet the worlds of man and woman are so different from one another… comma… that in truth they remain forever strangers… full stop.’

  She pauses thoughtfully.

  What about Mr and Mrs Lloyd… The affectionate way they are together… And Mam and Dad know what the other’s thinking half the time…?

  She reads.

  ‘Marriage is primarily an economic arrangement invented by men… full stop… Women as property… hyphen… sexual and reproductive slaves… exclamation mark!’

  But what if you’re offered a treasure trove… the most precious thing you’ve ever found? ‘Dante’s motto over Inferno applies with equal force to marriage: “Ye who enter here leave all hope behind.”’ What if you want to hope? What if you want to trust? What about throwing in your lot with the one who holds your hand and makes you twice the person you are? What if you feel stronger and brighter and like you could do anything in the world with him at your side? And the pair of you together could take turns in leading the way. And he can freewheel and I can stride forth. What if we can make a marriage in our own way, between us, rather than be made according to some way it’s meant to be?

  ‘Love you to bits. Always will.’ And so do I. I do. I do I do.

  And I will tell you so. I will, George. Yes, I’ll tell you.

  She shuts the book and picks up another, opens it, focuses, starts to type again with more determination than ever.

  Sounds of typing finding its rhythm as POPPY continues to bash away.

  Times passes. Light fades.

  Music of darkening night.

  POPPY starts to flag and takes herself off to bed.

  The workshop dims and hushes.

  Rustling somewhere outside.

  Two figures stumble in, breathing heavily.

  SMITH lights a lamp and its glow reveals that GEORGE is with him, shirt covered in blood. They speak in hus
hed voices.

  SMITH. Did anyone follow us?

  GEORGE. They’d likely be here by now if they had.

  SMITH and GEORGE listen keenly.

  Remind me to keep out of it next time.

  SMITH. I reminded you this time.

  GEORGE. How could I leave that Indian fella down like that?

  SMITH. He didn’t seem to appreciate the help.

  GEORGE. He damn well should’ve kept his mouth shut instead of facing them old sailor boys off…

  SMITH. They wouldn’t have given him a chance either way…

  GEORGE. Damn lucky they bolted when the police whistles blew…

  SMITH. He got off lightly… because of you… should be grateful… And you should be wiser!

  GEORGE. How much bleedin’ blood can a person have up their nose! This is my new shirt!

  SMITH. Let me see to it.

  GEORGE unbuttons his shirt, takes it off, gives it to SMITH.

  Underneath the shirt, GEORGE is wearing bandages tightly bound around the chest. The blood has seeped through to these too.

  GEORGE. I’ll be alright now.

  SMITH. Stay here tonight, in the back room.

  GEORGE nods.

  SMITH leaves with the bloody shirt.

  Now all alone, GEORGE examines the blood staining the bandages and slowly, carefully removes the bandages, bit by little bit… to reveal a bare chest and breasts. GEORGE is a woman.

  S/he stretches out arms and upper body, feeling the space, breathes in and out deeply with a sigh, then gathers the bloody bandages and goes.

  From the shadows, POPPY emerges, uncertain, confused. She goes to follow GEORGE, then turns back and retreats to her room.

  The workshop descends into deep, silent darkness.

  Scene Six

  Close Shave

  Dawn rises.

  TOMMY is sitting at the piano, silent, still as still.

  As rays of light fall into the workshop, he plays a single note, then another, then another. He plays just for himself, to himself, improvising, part-singing, part-speaking. No one else is there.

  TOMMY.

  They said there’s a silver lining…

  Through the dark cloud shining…

  They said to turn it inside out…

  Well tell me… what were they on about?

  They said that once we’re homeward bound

  The mire would dry where once we drowned

  We’d find our long sought field of green…

  But tell me… what if some other Joe’s been ploughing it, stripped it clean, eh?

  They said the love was waiting…

  Beyond the heart that’s breaking…

  They said the home fires never died…

 

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