Читать книгу Play With a Tiger and Other Plays - Doris Lessing - Страница 17

SCENE I

Before the curtain rises, an H-bomb explosion. CURTAIN UP on the sound of blast. Silence. Machine-gun fire. The explosion again. These sounds come from a tape-recording machine which has been left running. This is the hall of MYRA BOLTON’S house in London, stairs ascending L back. Door L into living-room. Door R which is entrance from street. Window R looking into garden at front of the house.

The essential furniture is a divan close to the foot of the stairs. A cupboard in the wall. A mirror. Odd chairs. A small radio.

Everything is extremely untidy: there are files, piles of newspapers, including the New Statesman, posters lying about inscribed BAN THE BOMB, WE WANT LIFE NOT DEATH, etc. A typewriter on the floor. The radio is playing tea-room music behind the war-noises from the tape-recorder.

After the second explosion TONY BOLTON comes in R. He is in Army uniform and has this day finished his Army service. He is a dark, lightly built, rather graceful youth, attractive and aware of it, but uneasy and on the defensive in the same way and for the same reasons as an adolescent girl who makes herself attractive as a form of self-assertion but is afraid when the attention she draws is more than gently chivalrous. His concern for his appearance is also due to the longing for the forms of order common to people who have never known order. He is at bottom deeply uneasy, tense and anxious, fluctuating between the good manners of those who use manners as a defence, the abrupt rudeness of the very young, and a plaintive, almost querulous appeal.

He stands looking at the disorder in the room, first ironically and then with irritation. As the music reaches a climax of bathos, he rushes to the radio and turns it off.

TONY: What a mess. God, what a mess!

[The sound of an H-bomb explosion gathering strength on the tape recorder. He turns to stare, appalled. Listens. Switches it off at explosion. There is a sudden complete silence. TONY breathes it in. He passes his hands over his hair, his eyes. He opens his eyes. He is staring at the window. Sunlight streams across the floor. He dives at the window, draws the curtains, making a half-dark, goes to the divan, lets himself fall limp across it. A moment’s complete silence. The telephone rings.]

[querulously] Oh, no, no, no. [leaps up, goes to telephone] Yes. It’s me, Tony. No, I’m not on leave. I don’t know where my mother is. I haven’t seen her yet. Yes, Philip. I’ll tell her. Who did you say? Who’s Rosemary? OK. [lets receiver fall back and returns to the divan, where he lies as before, eyes closed] [MYRA’S VOICE upstairs, singing: Boohoo, you’ve got me crying for you.]

MYRA’S VOICE: Where are you, darling? [continues singing].

[She comes into sight at the head of the stairs. A good-looking woman of about 45 or 50, and at the moment looking her age. She is wearing bagged trousers and a sweat-shirt. She peers down into the half-lit hall from the top of the stairs, and slowly comes down.]

TONY [languidly]: Well, Mother, how are you?

MYRA: Tony! You might have let me know. [She rushes at the window, pulls back the curtains, turns to look at him, the sunlight behind her.]

TONY [shading his eyes]: Do we have to have that glare?

MYRA: Have you got leave?

TONY [without moving]: I didn’t imagine it was necessary to remind you of the date my National Service finished.

MYRA: Oh, I see.

TONY: But, of course, if my coming is in any way inconvenient to you, I’ll go away again.

MYRA [stares and then laughs]: Oh, Tony … [rushes across at him] Come on, get up out of that sofa.

[He does not move. Then he languidly rises. She impulsively embraces him. He allows himself to be embraced. Then he kisses her gracefully on the cheek.]

MYRA: Ohhh! What an iceberg! [laughs, holding him by the arms] [Suddenly he convulsively embraces her and at once pulls away.] Oh, darling, it is lovely to have you home. We must have a party to celebrate.

TONY: Oh, no.

MYRA: What’s the matter?

TONY: A party. I knew you’d say a party.

MYRA: Oh, very well. [examining him, suddenly irritated] For God’s sake get out of that ghastly uniform. It makes you look like a …

TONY: What?

MYRA: A soldier.

TONY: I’ve been one for two years.

MYRA: Isn’t that long enough?

TONY: I think I’m rather sorry to part with it. [teasing her, but half-serious] Rather nice, the Army – being told what to do, everything in its place, everything tidy …

MYRA: Tidy! It’s lucky you weren’t in Cyprus or Kenya or Suez – keeping order. [laughing angrily] Keeping everything tidy.

TONY: Well?

MYRA: You don’t believe in it. [as he does not reply] You might have been killed for something you don’t even believe in.

TONY: You’re so delightfully old-fashioned. Getting killed for something you believe in is surely a bit of a luxury these days? Something your generation enjoyed. Now one just – gets killed. [He has intended this to sound calmly cynical, but in spite of himself it comes out plaintive.]

MYRA [has an impulse to make a maternal protective gesture, suppresses it at the last moment. Says quietly, but between her teeth]: All the same, get out of those clothes.

TONY [angry, because he knows he has sounded like a child]: All right – but what do you suppose you look like?

MYRA [cheerfully]: Oh, the char, I know. But I’ve been cleaning the stairs. If I’d known you were coming …

TONY: Oh, I know, you’d have changed your trousers.

MYRA: I might even have worn a dress.

TONY [languidly charming]: Really, Mother, when you look so charming when you try, do you have to look like that?

MYRA [cheerfully impatient]: Oh, don’t be such a little – no one can look charming cleaning the stairs.

TONY [unpleasantly]: So you were cleaning the stairs. And who did you expect to find sitting here?

MYRA: Why, no one.

TONY: You came creeping down. Were you going to put your hands over my eyes and say: ‘Peekaboo’? [gives a young, aggressive, unhappy laugh]

MYRA: It was dark. I couldn’t see who it was. It might have been anybody.

TONY: Of course, anybody. Why don’t you put your hands over my eyes now and say ‘Peekaboo’? How do you know? – I might rather like it. Then you could bite my ear, or something like that. [gives the same laugh]

MYRA [quietly]: Tony, you’ve just come home.

TONY: Well, and why did you come creeping down the stairs?

MYRA: I came down because the telephone was ringing earlier. I came to see. Did you take it?

TONY: So it was. Yes. I forgot.

MYRA [cheerfully]: You’re a bloody bore, Tony.

TONY [wincing]: Do you have to swear?

MYRA: Well, now you’re home I suppose I’ll have to stop. [in a refined voice] There are times, dear, when you do rather irritate me.

TONY [stiffly]: I’ve already said that I’m quite prepared to go somewhere else if it’s inconvenient for you to have me at such short notice. [MYRA watches him: she is on the defensive.] Well? Who is that you’ve got upstairs with you? Who is it this time?

MYRA: How do you know I’ve got anyone upstairs with me?

TONY: Who is it upstairs?

MYRA [offhand]: Sandy.

TONY: Sandy who?

MYRA: Don’t be silly. Sandy Boles.

TONY [staring]: But he’s my age.

MYRA: What of it?

TONY: He’s my age. He’s 22.

MYRA: I didn’t ask to see his birth certificate when I engaged him.

TONY: Engaged him?

MYRA [briskly]: He’s at a loose end. I wanted someone to help me. He’s here for a while.

TONY [slowly]: He’s staying here?

MYRA: Why not? This empty house … when you’re not here it’s so empty.

TONY: He’s in my room?

MYRA: Yes. He can move out.

TONY: Thanks. [They stare at each other like enemies.]

MYRA: Well, what is it?

TONY: Perhaps you’d rather I moved out.

MYRA: Tony, mind your own bloody business. I’ve never interfered with anything you did.

TONY: No [half-bitter, half-sad]. No, you never did. You never had time.

MYRA [hurt]: That’s unfair.

TONY: And where’s dear Sandy’s mamma?

MYRA: Milly is in Japan.

TONY: And what is dear Sandy’s errant mamma doing in Japan?

MYRA: She’s gone with a delegation of women.

TONY [laughing]: Oh I see. They are conveying the greetings of the British nation, with an apology because our Government uses their part of the world for H-bomb tests.

MYRA [wistfully]: Is it really so funny?

TONY [not laughing]: Hilarious. And why aren’t you with them?

MYRA: Because I was expecting you.

TONY [plaintively]: But you’d forgotten I was coming.

MYRA [irritated]: I might have forgotten that you were expected home at four o’clock on Tuesday the 18th March, 1958, but I was expecting you. Otherwise, of course, I would have gone with Milly.

TONY: But Milly didn’t deny herself the pleasure on Sandy’s account. He could fend for himself.

MYRA: You talk as if … Sandy’s 22. He’s not a little boy who needs his mother to wipe his nose for him. He’s a man.

TONY [terribly hurt]: That must be nice for you. I’m so glad.

MYRA [between her teeth]: My God, Tony. [She moves angrily away.]

TONY: Where are you going?

MYRA: I’m going to demonstrate about the hydrogen bomb outside Parliament with a lot of other women. [as TONY laughs] Yes, laugh, do.

TONY: Oh, I’m not laughing. I do really admire you, I suppose. But what use do you suppose it’s going to be? What good is it?

MYRA [who has responded to his tone like a little girl who has been praised]: Oh, Tony, but of course it’s some good. Surely you think so?

TONY: You’ve been demonstrating for good causes all your life. So many I’ve lost count. And I’m sure you have … And where are we now?

MYRA: How do you know things mightn’t have been worse?

TONY: How could they possibly be worse? How could they?

[He sounds so forlorn, almost tearful, that she impulsively comes to him where he sits on the arm of the sofa, and holds his head against her shoulder, laying her cheek against it.]

One might almost think you were pleased to see me.

MYRA [amazed]: But of course I am. [He smiles, rather sadly.] Of course. [gaily, moving away from him] Tony, I must tell you about what I’m doing. You know we’ve got that big meeting the day after tomorrow.

TONY: Actually, not.

MYRA: We’ve advertised it in all the papers.

TONY: I never read newspapers.

MYRA: Oh. Well, it’s tomorrow. And I’ve worked out a simply marvellous … wait, I’ll show you. [She is fiddling about near the tape-machine.]

TONY: Do you have to? I thought you said you had to go to your demonstration?

MYRA: Yes, I must rush. I’ll just do the end bit. It’s a sort of symposium – you know, bits of idiotic speeches by politicians – like this … [switches on machine].

POMPOUS VOICE: People who object to the hydrogen bomb are simply neurotic!

MYRA: And this –

PULPIT VOICE: The hydrogen bomb must be regarded by true Christians as part of God’s plan for humanity.

MYRA: And then war effects, you know.

TONY: War effects?

MYRA: Listen. [puts on machine]

[Medley of war noises. Then machine-gun fire. Then the beginning of a scream – a conventional bomb falling.]

TONY: For God’s sake stop it.

MYRA [stopping machine]: What’s the matter? You see, the thing is, people have no imagination. You’ve got to rub their noses in it. [starts machine again]

[The scream begins and gathers strength. TONY stands rigid, trembling. At the explosion he flings himself down on the divan, his arms over his ears.]

[taking needle off] There. Not bad, is it? [turning] Where are you? Oh, there you are. Don’t you think it’s a good idea?

[TONY sits limp on the divan, hand dangling, staring in front of him. He wipes sweat off his forehead slowly.]

I’m really very pleased with it. [She stands, looking out of the window, starts to hum.] I must go and get dressed and go out.

I do wish you young people would join in these demonstrations. Why don’t you? – we’re such a middle-aged lot. Why do you leave it all to us? [hums] Well, I’ll finish the work on the tape tonight.

TONY: I forgot to tell you, there was a telephone message. From Philip. He says he wants you to put up Rosemary. Tonight.

MYRA: Who’s Rosemary?

TONY: Didn’t you know? He’s getting married. To Rosemary.

[MYRA slowly turns from the window. She looks as if she has been hit.]

MYRA: Philip is getting married?

TONY: So he said.

MYRA: And he wants me to put her up?

TONY [looking at her curiously]: Why not? You’re old friends, aren’t you?

MYRA: Old friends?

TONY: Well, aren’t you?

MYRA [laughing bitterly]: Of course. Old friends. As you know.

TONY [examining her, surprised]: But you surely don’t mind. It’s been years since …

MYRA: Since he threw me over – quite.

TONY: Threw you over? You’re getting very emotional all of a sudden, aren’t you – all these old-fashioned attitudes at the drop of a hat – I was under the impression that you parted because your fundamental psychological drives were not complementary! [with another look at her stricken face] Threw you over! I’ve never seen you like this.

MYRA [dry and bitter]: If you’ve lain in a man’s arms every night for five years and he’s thrown you over as if you were a tart he’d picked up in Brighton for the week-end, then the word friend has to be used with – a certain amount of irony, let’s say. [briskly] We’ve been good friends ever since, yes.

[TONY slowly rises, stands facing her.]

TONY: Why do you talk like that to me?

MYRA [noticing him]: What’s the matter now? Oh, I see. [contemptuous] You’re not five years old. Why do you expect me to treat you as if you were five years old?

TONY: Perhaps I am five years old. But this is after all an extraordinary outburst of emotion. Dear Uncle Philip has been in and out of this house for years. Whenever he’s in London he might just as well be living here. I can’t remember a time when you and Uncle Philip in animated conversation wasn’t a permanent feature of the landscape.

MYRA [drily]: I am the woman Philip talks to, yes.

TONY: Why all this emotion, suddenly?

MYRA: He has not before asked me to put up his prospective wife.

TONY: For God’s sake, why should you care? You’ve lain in men’s arms since, haven’t you? Well, isn’t that how you want me to talk, like a big boy?

MYRA: I suppose you will grow up some day. [goes to the foot of the stairs] When’s she coming?

TONY: Some time later this evening, he said. And he’s coming, too. We’re going to have a jolly family evening.

MYRA: You’ll have to look after her until I get back. We must be perfectly charming to her.

TONY: I don’t see why you should be if you don’t feel like it.

MYRA: You don’t see why?

TONY: No. I’m really interested. Why?

MYRA: Pride.

TONY [laughing]: Pride! You! [He collapses on the divan laughing.]

MYRA [hurt]: Oh, go to hell, you bloody little …

[Her tone cuts his laughter. He sits stiffly in the corner of the divan. She makes an angry gesture and runs up the stairs. Before she is out of sight she is humming: ‘Boohoo, you’ve got me crying for you’. TONY strips off his uniform and puts on black trousers and a black sweater. He rolls up the uniform like dirty washing and stuffs it into the knapsack. He throws the knapsack into a cupboard. He stands unhappily smoothing back his hair with both hands. Then he goes to the looking-glass and stands smoothing his hair back and looking at his face. While he does this, SANDY very quietly comes down the stairs behind him. He is an amiable young man at ease in his world.]

SANDY [quietly]: Hullo, Tony.

TONY [still standing before the looking-glass. He stiffens, letting his hands drop. He slowly turns, with a cold smile]: Hullo, Sandy.

SANDY [at ease]: I see you’ve disposed of the war paint already.

TONY: Yes.

SANDY: That’s a very elegant sweater.

TONY [responding]: Yes, it’s rather nice, isn’t it … [Disliking himself because he has responded, he stiffens up. He roughly rumples up his hair and hitches his shoulders uncomfortably in the sweater.] Don’t care what I wear.

SANDY: I’ll move my things out of your room. Sorry, but we didn’t expect you today.

TONY: Next time we will give you good warning.

SANDY: Cigarette?

TONY: That’s a very smart cigarette case. No thanks.

SANDY: Mother brought it back from China last year. You remember she went?

TONY: Yes, I remember. Mother went, too. I suppose one does have to go to China for one’s cigarette cases.

SANDY: I’m rather fond of it myself. [pause] Did you know I was helping Myra with her work?