Читать книгу Mr. Godly Beside Himself - Gerald William Bullett - Страница 4

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A room in Mr. Godly’s house at Brockley. Ordinary middle-class suburban interior. Fire in fireplace on our right. Door, left wall. Windows opposite us, overlooking the front garden. A few bookshelves containing unused classics. On mantelpiece, family photographs, a vase containing spills, and a clock that never works. A picture, “The Laughing Cavalier,” over the fireplace (right.) A portrait of Mr. Gladstone on the opposite wall (left).

John Godly and his wife Florence are seated at breakfast on opposite sides of the table, left and right respectively. Mr. Godly, who is feeling Mondayish, keeps his eyes fixed on the newspaper which he has propped up against the toast-rack, not, we suspect, because he is very interested in its contents, but because he is determined to avoid any sentimental exchanges with his wife, who glances at him from time to time with anxious affection. Mr. Godly is smallish, forty-five, plump; normally his face looks rather innocent and wistful, but at the moment he is scowling. Mrs. Godly is forty-two and looks her age. She is dowdy and ordinary, but if we possess any discrimination we shall recognise her possibilities. If only she were loved as ardently and uncritically as she herself loves Mr. Godly, she would be a beautiful woman.

Mr. Godly munches his eggs and bacon, at which, however, he scarcely glances. Florence toys with her breakfast. She strikes a match and lights the spirit-burner under the copper coffee-percolator. So soon as the coffee begins to bubble she leans forward a little and fixes a yearning glance upon her husband.

Florence: John, dear. (No answer.) John, dear.

Mr. Godly (rather impatient, looking up from the newspaper): What is it?

Florence: Are you ready for some more coffee?

Mr. Godly (disconcerted, looks into his cup, drinks what is left in it, and places the cup in Florence’s outstretched hand): Thanks, yes. The coffee’s very good this morning.

Florence: I’m glad you like it, dear. (She fills his cup.) You’re always so appreciative.

[She hands him the re-filled cup. He resumes his scrutiny of the paper after a curt “Thanks.”

It makes all the difference to a woman. It makes everything worth while.

[Does Mr. Godly suspect irony? Anyhow, he merely grunts without looking up.

Don’t you think so, dear?

Mr. Godly: I beg your pardon?

Florence: Don’t you agree with me that a little appreciation——

Mr. Godly (testily): Yes, yes. Quite so.

Florence: Mrs. Murgatroyd was saying the very same thing only the other day, John. “I never realised before, Mrs. Godly,” she said, “I never realised before the power of a kind word. Some people would say,” she said, “that I have a hard life, what with looking after baby and doing all the cooking and no help in the house worth calling help,” she said, “servants being what they are nowadays. Some people would think I was to be pitied. And yet, Mrs. Godly,” she said, “there’s not a happier woman in Brockley than I am.” And I believe her, John. Such a pretty little baby, John. When I see all his darling little things hanging out on the clothes-line next door, well, I don’t pity Mrs. Murgatroyd. I only think what a lucky woman she is.

[While she talks her eyes rove from Mr. Godly to the table and from the table to Mr. Godly. She sees that the milk-jug is nearly empty, and rings a hand-bell that stands within reach of her hand. This interrupts her monologue for three seconds only.

“And when Mr. Murgatroyd comes home in the evening, Mrs. Godly,” she said, “all my weariness drops off me like a garment—it drops off me like a dressing-gown,” she said. She’s rather a poetical woman, Mrs. Murgatroyd is. Don’t you think so, dear? (No answer.) Don’t you agree with me, dear?

Mr. Godly (who hasn’t listened to a word of it): Quite! Quite! (Feeling himself called upon to make a little conversation, he adds.) Seen anything of our charming neighbours lately?

Florence: Which neighbours, John?

Mr. Godly: The Murgatroyds. They’re not very sociable, I must say.

Florence: But I was just telling you, dear, about what Mrs. Murgatroyd——

[She is interrupted by the entry of Milly Reeslip. Milly is a fresh-faced, plump little Cockney, about seventeen years old.

Milly (aggressively friendly): Did you ring, ’um?

Florence: Yes, Milly. Bring me some more hot milk, please.

[Milly comes forward and takes the jug.

Milly: Yessum. (Pause.)

Florence: Well, Milly? What are you waiting for?

Milly: Please, I’ve ’ad a letterum. It was from Muvverum. She says Gordy-boy’s got the frush.

Florence: The what, Milly?

Milly: The frush, mum. All over ’is lil chest ’e ’as.

Florence (anxious, fearing an outburst from Mr. Godly): I’m sorry to hear that, Milly. But tell your mother not to worry. Thrush isn’t a serious disease. Lots of babies have it.

Mr. Godly: A very pleasant breakfast-table topic, I must say.

Milly: Yessum. Yessir. Reverend Plenty, ’e says, troubles are sent to try us. Muvver’s been reading a pamphlet which the man says unbaptised babies ain’t properly saved, not for certain. But Reverend Plenty, ’e says, every one’s got to be saved except the Roaming Carflicks.

Florence: That will do, Milly. Bring me the hot milk.

Milly: Yessum. (Turns to Mr. Godly.) Yessir. (Goes out.)

Mr. Godly: It’s a pity you can’t keep that child in her place, Florence. Your mistaken notions of democracy are positively, are positively ... (but inspiration fails him) mistaken.

Florence (soothingly): Yes, dear. She’s very tiresome. Quite irrepressible. But when I’m alone all day I haven’t the heart to stop her chatter. Even Milly’s nonsense is better than that dreadful emptiness, that silence. (She suddenly stops short and half rises in alarm.) Oh, John, have you cut yourself again?

Mr. Godly (very irritated): Cut myself?

Florence: Your poor chin, dear.

Mr. Godly (moodily wrathful): Very likely. Pity it wasn’t my throat.

Florence: Oh, John! (But she doesn’t take him quite seriously.) I wish you’d get a safety razor.

Mr. Godly: Rubbish. I don’t believe in these newfangled gimcrack things. I’ve got the best razor in London.

[At every opportunity he turns back to that engrossing newspaper. Milly enters with the hot milk.

Milly: The milk, ’um.

Florence: Thank you, Milly.

[The jug is set down.

Milly: Please, ’um, muvver says——

Florence (firmly): Another time, Milly. You may go now.

Milly: Yessum. (Turns to Mr. Godly, who ignores her.) Yessir. (Goes out with Florence’s dirty plate.)

Florence (helps herself to bread and marmalade, cuts the bread up thoughtfully into dice. She is evidently planning a desperate attack on Mr. Godly’s silence): John, dear. (No answer.) John, dear. I want to ask you something.

Mr. Godly: No thanks. No more coffee.

Florence: No, it’s not coffee, John.

Mr. Godly: What do you mean—it’s not coffee? It’s very good coffee.

Florence: I mean it’s not coffee I wanted to talk to you about.

Mr. Godly: There’s nothing better.... Well, what is it you want to talk to me about?

Florence (with a searching and sentimental glance): Happiness.

Mr. Godly (sourly): What’s that? I’ve never come across it.

Florence: Never, John?

[He does not answer.

Didn’t you sleep well last night, dear?

Mr. Godly: I slept.

Florence: You’re not angry with me, darling, for being such a lazy thing and lying in bed so late?

Mr. Godly: Of course not. Don’t be absurd. (The tone of his voice does nothing to allay her fears.)

Florence (timidly): You’re worried, John. I’m sure you are. Won’t you tell me about it?

Mr. Godly: Worried. Of course, I’m worried.

Florence: But why, dear?

Mr. Godly: Because I’m alive.

Florence (shocked): Do you mean you’d rather be dead? Oh, John!

Mr. Godly (crudely sarcastic): Your inference is brilliant in its accuracy.

Florence (maternally): But, dear, you know as well as I do that it’s very naughty to wish yourself dead. It’s even—it’s even wicked, John. (She hesitates to utter this treasonable word.)

Mr. Godly (laughs shortly): Wicked, is it? Well, I’m a bit sick of this everlasting goodness. A little wickedness might liven things up.

Florence (after a pause): John—John. Is your—can it be that your liver’s out of order?

Mr. Godly (almost snorts): Don’t be indelicate, Florence.

Florence (sighs): I do wish you’d confide in me, John. I do wish you’d tell me what you are worried about.

Mr. Godly: Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill, Florence. I’m worried (with rising impatience) about hundreds of things. Nothing in particular. Nothing you’d understand. All sorts of things. You women don’t seem to realise that the life of an insurance official, holding a responsible position and damned ill-paid for it, is a life burdened with cares and responsibilities. Life is not so simple for us men. We have all manner of needs that you’ve no conception of, Florence. Needs and dreams. (Briskly.) However, that’s neither here nor there.

Florence: Dreams? Did you say dreams, John?

Mr. Godly: I said dreams, Florence. Pass the marmalade, please. I said dreams. It may surprise you to learn that I sometimes yearn for a fuller life than Brockley can give us. I am sick of having to look twice at every shilling I spend. I want space—travel—free adventure.

Florence: Yes, of course. I understand that. If only we could go to Paris for a few weeks! Wouldn’t that be nice!

[He shrugs his shoulders, disappointed by the complete success of his endeavour to throw dust in her eyes.

But if it’s only money, and office troubles—is it office troubles, John?

Mr. Godly: Yes, merely office troubles. (Lightly.) Of no consequence.

Florence: Well, what do silly old things like that matter? Nothing matters, John, does it, so long as we’ve got each other?

Mr. Godly (gapes at her, taken aback; then recovers himself and says loudly, evading her loving look): Quite! Quite!

Florence (chilled): Do you know, John, I’ve had the feeling just lately that I’ve quite lost touch with you. You seem to have shut yourself up. You’re keeping me at a distance. You haven’t—you haven’t stopped loving me, have you, John?

Mr. Godly (dissembling his alarm): My dear Florence, what a question to put to a man at breakfast on a Monday morning, of all times!

Florence: That doesn’t answer my question. Do you love me?

Mr. Godly (angrily): Love you? Of course I love you. You’re my wife, and in decent society it’s taken for granted that a man loves his wife. (Testily.) I love you (raising his voice) devotedly. Devotedly, I say. But one can’t always be saying so. There’s a time for everything, and this is breakfast-time.

Florence: The time for reading the newspaper.

Mr. Godly: Exactly. (But after a few moments his pretence of reading breaks down.) You don’t understand me, Florence. You think that because I’m not demonstrative I have no feeling. Which is the reverse of the truth, quite the reverse. But love on an empty stomach is an enterprise that has never attracted me.

Florence (rings the bell again): I’ll get some more eggs and bacon, dear.

Mr. Godly: No, no. I’m eating marmalade. What should I want with more eggs and bacon!

[Milly responds to the bell so quickly that we suspect her of having listened at the keyhole.

Milly: Did you ring, ’um?

Mr. Godly: Your mistress rang for you in mistake. We don’t want you. You can go.

Milly: Yessir. (Goes to the door.)

Mr. Godly (continuing, to Milly): And to the kitchen, not the keyhole. Understand?

Milly (bobbing): Yessir. (She escapes quickly.)

Florence: Why, your coffee must be cold, John. Let me pour it away and give you some fresh.

Mr. Godly: Well, yes. Thanks.

[He yields his cup. While she is emptying and filling it she goes on speaking.

Florence (conversationally): It was soon after your secretary left that I first noticed the change in you, John.

Mr. Godly: My secretary? What secretary?

Florence: Your office secretary. Miss Gibbs, wasn’t her name? She was always so polite and nice when I called on you in Leadenhall Street. Not what one could call a handsome woman, and of course no longer young. But so sensible. She seemed to me to have an indefinable something in her face. Perhaps one might call it character. You know what I mean. I don’t think I’ve ever taken to anyone so quickly as I took to dear Miss Gibbs. I expect she was a great loss to you?

Mr. Godly: She was efficient enough.

Florence: Not exactly what you’d call a charming woman.

Mr. Godly (decidedly): No.

Florence: What is her successor like?

Mr. Godly: Irish, or something of the sort. Name of M’Gree.

Florence: And is she as good at her work as Miss Gibbs was?

Mr. Godly: Good enough. Less experienced, of course.

Florence: Younger, I suppose.

Mr. Godly (unsuspecting): About nineteen or twenty, I should think. (Adds, no longer unsuspecting:) A mere child.

Florence: Ah, yes. Quite a beginner. But beginners generally have enthusiasm—that’s one thing in their favour.

Mr. Godly (vaguely): Quite! Quite! (He turns back to his paper and finds there a pretext for changing the subject.) What next, I wonder? Here’s a fellow starting a home for lost spooks.

Florence: For what, dear?

Mr. Godly: Lost spooks.

[She fails to grasp his meaning.) Spooks, my dear, spooks. Spooks, ghosts, spirits, spectres, phantoms, the dear departed.

Florence: But how preposterous, John! Irreverent, too.

Mr. Godly: Not at all. Home for lost spooks, earthbound, you know, can’t soar away into the ineffable inane and all that kind of thing. It’s a simple act of kindness to provide a home for them—a club, don’t you see? All you have to do is to sit in a dark room and hold hands round a table. The spooks love it! (Pause for mastication.) Do you believe in personal survival, Florence?

Florence: You know I do. Why?

Mr. Godly: Well, I don’t. That’s all.

Florence (for the third time): Oh, John!

Mr. Godly: Why, the very idea is desolating. Our last hope gone.

Florence: Our last hope? What do you mean?

Mr. Godly: Oh, nothing.

Florence: John, you know, don’t you, that if anything were to happen to you I’d follow you——

Mr. Godly (startled): Would you, by George?

Florence (solemnly): Even beyond the grave, dear.

Mr. Godly: The last hope gone.... However, I don’t believe in this survival of yours. It’s no use looking soulful, my dear girl. I don’t believe, and I won’t.

Florence: There’s no need to be cross about it.

Mr. Godly: Cross! Nothing of the kind. A beautiful day outside, a beautiful breakfast inside, a charming home, an overpaid job in the city, everything that the heart of man can desire—why should I be cross? And every day alike. Every blasted day alike. So neat and tidy. So orderly. Such fascinating monotony. No dangerous shocks to the nerves. No unhealthy excitement. What cause have I for complaint?

[Florence rises and moves timidly towards him.

Florence: John! Tell me, dear! What’s happened to make you so unhappy?

Mr. Godly: First cross, then unhappy. What’s come over you Florence? Please don’t fuss me. (He takes a watch from his waistcoat pocket.) I’m not at all cross or unhappy. (Rises, pushing back his chair, watch in hand.) I’m perfectly calm and collected. I’m perfectly good-tempered. (He puts the watch to his ear and listens. Then, ominously calm, he replaces it in his pocket.) What’s more, my dear Florence, I have missed my train. Missed my train. This watch (accusingly as he snatches the watch out again) has stopped. Good morning.

Florence (holding out her arms to him as he moves away): Don’t be angry, John. Don’t be unhappy.

[He ignores her, and goes out, slamming the door behind him. For a moment her arms remain outstretched towards that shut door. Sentimental or not, at this moment she contrives to be beautiful. Her arms fall droopingly; she stands listening. The front door slams loudly. She sinks into Mr. Godly’s vacated chair and buries her face in her hands.

Curtain.