The Mousetrap and Other Plays

ACT ONE

SCENE: The garden room of SIR HENRY ANGKATELL’s house, The Hollow, about eighteen miles from London. A Friday afternoon in early September.

It is an informal room, but furnished with taste. Back Centre, up three steps, there are French windows opening on to a terrace with a low wall at the far side. Beyond the wall there is a view of the wooded hillside on which the house is built. There are smaller French windows, up one step Centre, of the wall Right, leading to the garden and giving a view of dense shrubbery. A door down Left leads to the other parts of the house. There is a large alcove in the back wall Left of the French windows. The entrance to this is arched, and a heavy curtain in the archway closes it off from the rest of the room. The back wall of the alcove is fitted with well-filled, built-in bookshelves and furnished with a small table on which stands a silver bowl of roses. A piece of statuary can be supposed to stand in the alcove, though not visible to the audience. The fireplace is Centre of the wall Left and there are well-filled, built-in bookshelves in the walls Right of the French windows up Centre and below the French windows Right. There is a small writing table down Right, on which stands a small table lamp and a telephone. A small chair is set at the table and a wastepaper basket stands below it. Above the writing table there is a pedestal on which stands a piece of abstract statuary. There is a table with a table lamp on it below the bookshelves up Right. A small table with a radio receiver stands above the fireplace. There is an armchair up Left Centre, and a comfortable sofa Right Centre. Below the sofa stands a small circular coffee table. A pouffe near the hearth completes the furniture. The room is carpeted and gay curtains hang at the windows. In addition to the table lamps, the room is lit at night by an electric candle lamp wall bracket Left of the French windows up Centre, and small electric candle lamps on the mantelpiece. One or two miniatures decorate the walls, and over the mantelpiece there is a fine picture depicting the idyllic scene of a Georgian house with columns, set in woodlands. The light switch and bell push are in the wall below the fireplace. There is also a switch controlling the light in the alcove, Right of the arch. Two wall vases, filled with flowers, decorate the side walls of the French windows up Centre.

When Curtain rises, it is a fine afternoon and all the French windows stand open. SIR HENRY ANGKATELL, KCB., a distinguished-looking, elderly man, is seated at the Right end of the sofa, reading “The Times.” HENRIETTA ANGKATELL is on the terrace outside the French windows up Centre, standing at a tall sculptor’s stand, modelling in clay. She is a handsome young woman of about thirty-three, dressed in good country tweeds and over them a painter’s overall. She advances and retreats towards her creation once or twice, then enters up Centre and moves to the coffee table below the sofa. There is a smear of clay on her nose, and she is frowning.

HENRIETTA. (As she enters) Damn and damn and damn!

SIR HENRY. (Looking up) Not going well?

HENRIETTA. (Taking a cigarette from the box on the coffee table) What misery it is to be a sculptor.

SIR HENRY. It must be. I always thought you had to have models for this sort of thing.

HENRIETTA. It’s an abstract piece I’m modelling, darling.

SIR HENRY. What—(He points with distaste to the piece of modern sculpture on the pedestal Right) like that?

HENRIETTA. (Crossing to the mantelpiece) Anything interesting in The Times? (She lights her cigarette with the table lighter on the mantelpiece.)

SIR HENRY. Lots of people dead. (He looks at HENRIETTA.) You’ve got clay on your nose.

HENRIETTA. What?

SIR HENRY. Clay—on your nose.

HENRIETTA. (Looking in the mirror on the mantelpiece; vaguely) Oh, so I have. (She rubs her nose, then her forehead, turns and moves Left Centre.)

SIR HENRY. Now it’s all over your face.

HENRIETTA. (Moving up Centre; exasperated) Does it matter, darling?

SIR HENRY. Evidently not.

(HENRIETTA goes on to terrace up Centre and resumes work. LADY ANGKATELL enters Right. She is a very charming and aristocratic-looking woman aged about sixty, completely vague, but with a lot of personality. She is apparently in the middle of a conversation.)

LADY ANGKATELL. (Crossing above the sofa to the fireplace) Oh dear, oh dear! If it isn’t one thing it’s another. Did I leave a mole trap in here? (She picks up the mole trap from the mantelpiece and eases Centre) Ah yes—there it is. The worst of moles is—you never know where they are going to pop up next. People are quite right when they say that nature in the wild is seldom raw. (She crosses below the sofa to Right.) Don’t you think I’m right, Henry?

SIR HENRY. I couldn’t say, my dear, unless I know what you’re talking about.

LADY ANGKATELL. I’m going to pursue them quite ruthlessly—I really am.

(Her voice dies away as she exits Right.)

HENRIETTA. (Looking in through the French window up Centre.) What did Lucy say?

SIR HENRY. Nothing much. Just being Lucyish. I say, it’s half past six.

HENRIETTA. I’ll have to stop and clean myself up. They’re all coming by car, I suppose? (She drapes a damp cloth over her work.)

SIR HENRY. All except Midge. She’s coming by Green Line bus. Ought to be here by now.

HENRIETTA. Darling Midge. She is nice. Heaps nicer than any of us, don’t you think? (She pushes the stand out of sight Right of the terrace.)

SIR HENRY. I must have notice of that question.

HENRIETTA. (Moving Centre; laughing) Well, less eccentric, anyway. There’s something very sane about Midge. (She rubs her hands on her overall.)

SIR HENRY. (Indignantly) I’m perfectly sane, thank you.

HENRIETTA. (Removing her overall and looking at SIR HENRY) Ye-es—perhaps you are. (She puts her overall over the back of the armchair Left Centre.)

SIR HENRY. (Smiling) As sane as anyone can be that has to live with Lucy, bless her heart. (He laughs.)

(HENRIETTA laughs, crosses to the mantelpiece and puts her cigarette ash in the ashtray.)

(He puts his newspaper on the coffee table. Worried.) You know, Henrietta, I’m getting worried about Lucy.

HENRIETTA. Worried? Why?

SIR HENRY. Lucy doesn’t realize there are certain things she can’t do.

HENRIETTA. (Looking in the mirror) I don’t think I quite know what you mean. (She pats her hair).

SIR HENRY. She’s always got away with things. I don’t suppose any other woman in the world could have flouted the traditions of Government House as she did. (He takes his pipe from his pocket.) Most Governors’ wives have to toe the line of convention. But not Lucy! Oh dear me, no! She played merry hell with precedence at dinner parties—and that, my dear Henrietta, is the blackest of crimes.

(HENRIETTA turns.)

(He pats his pockets, feeling for his tobacco pouch.) She put deadly enemies next to each other. She ran riot over the colour question. And instead of setting everyone at loggerheads, I’m damned if she didn’t get away with it.

(HENRIETTA picks up the tobacco jar from the mantelpiece, crosses and hands it to SIR HENRY.)

Oh, thank you. It’s that trick of hers—always smiling at people and looking so sweet and helpless. Servants are the same—she gives them any amount of trouble and they simply adore her.

HENRIETTA. I know what you mean. (She sits on the sofa at the Left end.) Things you wouldn’t stand from anyone else, you feel they are quite all right if Lucy does them. What is it? Charm? Hypnotism?

SIR HENRY. (Filling his pipe) I don’t know. She’s always been the same from a girl. But you know, Henrietta, it’s growing on her. She doesn’t seem to realize there are limits. I really believe Lucy would feel she could get away with murder.

HENRIETTA. (Rising and picking up the piece of clay from the carpet) Darling Henry, you and Lucy are angels letting me make my messes here—treading clay into your carpet. (She crosses and puts the piece of clay in the wastepaper basket down Right.) When I had that fire at my studio, I thought it was the end of everything—it was sweet of you to let me move in on you.

SIR HENRY. My dear, we’re proud of you. Why, I’ve just been reading a whole article about you and your show in The Times.

HENRIETTA. (Crossing to the coffee table and picking up “The Times”) Where?

SIR HENRY. Top of the page. There, I believe. Of course, I don’t profess to know much about it myself.

HENRIETTA. (Reading) “The most significant piece of the year.” Oh, what gup! I must go and wash.

(She drops the paper on the sofa, crosses, picks up her overall and exits hurriedly Left. SIR HENRY rises, puts the papers and tobacco on the coffee table, takes the clay from the table to the wastepaper basket, moves to the drinks table, and picks up the matches. MIDGE HARVEY enters up Centre from Left. She is small, neatly dressed but obviously badly off. She is a warmhearted, practical and very nice young woman, a little younger than HENRIETTA. She carries a suitcase.)

MIDGE. (As she enters) Hullo, Cousin Henry.

SIR HENRY. (Turning) Midge! (He moves to Right of her, takes the suitcase from her, and kisses her.) Nice to see you.

MIDGE. Nice to see you.

SIR HENRY. How are you?

MIDGE. Terribly well.

SIR HENRY. Not been overworking you in that damned dress shop of yours?

MIDGE. (Moving down Centre) Business is pretty slack at the moment, or I shouldn’t have got the weekend off. The bus was absolutely crowded; I’ve never known it go so slowly. (She sits on the sofa, puts her bag and gloves beside her and looks towards the window Right.) It’s heaven to be here. Who’s coming this weekend?

SIR HENRY. (Putting the suitcase on the floor Right of the armchair Left Centre) Nobody much. The Cristows. You know them, of course.

MIDGE. The Harley Street doctor with a rather dim wife?

SIR HENRY. That’s right. Nobody else. Oh yes—(He strikes a match) Edward, of course.

MIDGE. (Turning to face SIR HENRY; suddenly stricken by the sound of the name) Edward!

SIR HENRY. (Lighting his pipe) Quite a job to get Edward away from Ainswick these days.

MIDGE. (Rising) Ainswick! Lovely, lovely Ainswick! (She crosses to the fireplace and gazes up at the picture above it.)

SIR HENRY. (Moving down Centre) Yes, it’s a beautiful place.

MIDGE. (Feelingly) It’s the most beautiful place in the world.

SIR HENRY. (Putting the matchbox on the coffee table) Had some happy times there, eh? (He eases to Right of the armchair Left Centre.)

MIDGE. (Turning) All the happy times I’ve ever had were there.

(LADY ANGKATELL enters Right. She carries a large empty flowerpot.)

LADY ANGKATELL. (As she enters) Would you believe it, (She crosses above the sofa to Right of SIR HENRY) they’ve been at it again. They’ve pushed up a whole row of lovely little lobelias. Ah well, as long as the weather keeps fine . . .

SIR HENRY. Here’s Midge.

LADY ANGKATELL. Where? (She crosses to MIDGE and kisses her.) Oh, darling Midge, I didn’t see you, dear. (To SIR HENRY. Confidentially) That would help, wouldn’t it? What were you both doing when I came in?

SIR HENRY. Talking Ainswick.

LADY ANGKATELL. (Sitting in the armchair Left Centre; with a sudden change of manner) Ainswick!

SIR HENRY. (Patting LADY ANGKATELL’s shoulder) There, there, Lucy.

(A little disturbed, he crosses and exits Left.)

MIDGE. (Indicating the flowerpot; surprised) Now why did you bring that in here, darling?

LADY ANGKATELL. I can’t begin to think. Take it away.

(MIDGE takes the flowerpot from LADY ANGKATELL, crosses, goes on to the terrace up Centre and puts the flowerpot on the ground out of sight.)

Thank you, darling. As I was saying, at any rate the weather’s all right. That’s something. Because if a lot of discordant personalities are boxed up indoors . . . (She looks around.) Where are you?

(MIDGE moves to Right of the armchair Left Centre.)

Ah, there you are. It makes things ten times worse. Don’t you agree?

MIDGE. Makes what worse?

LADY ANGKATELL. One can play games, of course—but that would be like last year when I shall never forgive myself about poor Gerda—and the worst of it is that she really is so nice. It’s odd that anyone as nice as Gerda should be so devoid of any kind of intelligence. If that is what they mean by the law of compensation I don’t think it’s at all fair.

MIDGE. What are you talking about, Lucy?

LADY ANGKATELL. This weekend, darling. (She takes hold of MIDGE’s left hand.) It’s such a relief to talk it over with you, Midge dear, you’re so practical.

MIDGE. Yes, but what are we talking over?

LADY ANGKATELL. John, of course, is delightful, with that dynamic personality that all really successful doctors seem to have. But as for Gerda, ah well, we must all be very, very kind.

MIDGE. (Crossing to the fireplace) Come now, Gerda Cristow isn’t as bad as all that.

LADY ANGKATELL. Darling. Those eyes. Like a puzzled cow. And she never seems to understand a word one says to her.

MIDGE. I don’t suppose she understands a word you say—and I don’t know that I blame her. Your mind goes so fast, Lucy, that to keep pace with it, your conversation has to take the most astonishing leaps—with all the connecting links left out. (She sits on the pouffe.)

LADY ANGKATELL. Like monkeys. Fortunately Henrietta is here. She was wonderful last spring when we played limericks or anagrams—one of those things—we had all finished when we suddenly discovered that poor Gerda hadn’t even started. She didn’t even know what the game was. It was dreadful wasn’t it, Midge?

MIDGE. Why anyone ever comes to stay with the Angkatells, I don’t know. What with the brainwork and the round games and your peculiar style of conversation, Lucy.

LADY ANGKATELL. I suppose we must be rather trying. (She rises, moves to the coffee table and picks up the tobacco jar.) The poor dear looked so bewildered; and John looked so impatient. (She crosses to the fireplace.) It was then that I was grateful to Henrietta. (She puts the jar on the mantelpiece, turns and moves Centre.) She turned to Gerda and asked for the pattern of the knitted pullover she was wearing—a dreadful affair in pea green—with little bobbles and pom-poms and things—oh, sordid—but Gerda brightened up at once and looked so pleased. The worst of it is Henrietta had to buy some wool and knit one.

MIDGE. And was it very terrible?

LADY ANGKATELL. Oh, it was ghastly. No—on Henrietta it looked quite charming—which is what I mean when I say that the world is so very very sad. One simply doesn’t know why . . .

MIDGE. Whoa! Don’t start rambling again, darling. Let’s stick to the weekend.

(LADY ANGKATELL sits on the sofa.)

I don’t see where the worry is. If you manage to keep off round games, and try to be coherent when you’re talking to Gerda, and put Henrietta on duty to tide over the awkward moments, where’s the difficulty?

LADY ANGKATELL. It would all be perfectly all right if only Edward weren’t coming.

MIDGE. (Reacting at the name) Edward? (She rises and turns to the fireplace.) Yes, of course. What on earth made you ask Edward for the weekend, Lucy?

LADY ANGKATELL. I didn’t ask him. He wired to know if we could have him. You know how sensitive Edward is. If I’d wired back “No,” he would never have asked himself again. Edward’s like that.

MIDGE. Yes.

LADY ANGKATELL. Dear Edward. If only Henrietta would make up her mind to marry him.

(MIDGE turns and faces LADY ANGKATELL.)

She really is quite fond of him. If only they could have been alone this weekend without the Cristows. As it is, John has the most unfortunate effect on Edward. John becomes so much more so, and Edward so much less so. If you know what I mean.

(MIDGE nods.)

But I do feel that it’s all going to be terribly difficult. (She picks up the “Daily Graphic”)

(GUDGEON, the butler, enters Left. He is in all respects the perfect butler.)

GUDGEON. (Announcing) Mr. Edward.

(EDWARD ANGKATELL enters left. He is a tall, slightly stooping man, between thirty-five and forty-five, with a pleasant smile and a diffident manner. He is a bookish man and wears well-cut but rather shabby tweeds. GUDGEON exits Left.)

LADY ANGKATELL. (Rising and crossing to EDWARD) Edward. (She kisses him.) We were just saying how nice it was of you to come.

EDWARD. Lucy, Lucy. How nice of you to let me come. (He turns to MIDGE. Pleased and surprised.) Why—it’s little Midge. (He talks throughout to MIDGE with indulgent affection, as to a child.) You look very grown up.

MIDGE. (With slight acidity) I’ve been grown up for quite a few years now.

EDWARD. I suppose you have. I haven’t noticed it.

MIDGE. I know.

EDWARD. At Ainswick, you see, time stands still.

(LADY ANGKATELL turns with a brusque movement, puts the newspaper on the coffee table, then moves to the drinks table, picks up the book from it and puts it in the bookshelves over the drinks table.)

I always remember you as you used to be in the holidays when Uncle Hugh was alive. (He turns to LADY ANGKATELL.) I wish you’d come more often to Ainswick, Lucy. It’s looking so beautiful just now.

LADY ANGKATELL. Is it, darling?

(GUDGEON enters Left.)

GUDGEON. Excuse me, m’lady, but Mrs. Medway would like to see you a moment. It’s about the savoury for dinner.

LADY ANGKATELL. Chicken livers. (She crosses to Right of GUDGEON.) Butchers have no conscience about chicken livers. Don’t tell me they haven’t arrived.

GUDGEON. They have arrived, m’lady, but Mrs. Medway is a little dubious . . .

(LADY ANGKATELL crosses and exits Left. GUDGEON follows her off, closing the door behind him.)

EDWARD. (Taking his cigarette case from his pocket) I sometimes wonder whether Lucy minds very much about Ainswick.

MIDGE. In what way?

EDWARD. Well, it was her home. (He takes a cigarette from his case.)

MIDGE. May I?

EDWARD. (Offering the case to her) Yes, of course.

(MIDGE takes a cigarette.)

If she’d been born a boy it would have gone to her instead of to me. I wonder if she resents it? (He replaces the case in his pocket and takes out his lighter.)

MIDGE. Not in the sense you mean. After all, you’re an Angkatell and that’s all that matters. The Angkatells stick together. They even marry their cousins.

EDWARD. Yes, but she does care very much about Ainswick.

MIDGE. Oh yes. Lucy cares more about Ainswick than anything in the world. (She looks up at the picture over the mantelpiece.) That picture up there is the dominating note of this house. (She turns to EDWARD.) But if you think Lucy resents you, you’re wrong, Edward.

EDWARD. (Lighting MIDGE’s cigarette) I never quite understand Lucy. (He turns, moves to Left of the sofa and lights his own cigarette.) She’s got the most extraordinary charm.

MIDGE. Lucy is the most adorable creature I know—and the most maddening.

(HENRIETTA enters Left and closes the door behind her. She has tidied herself.)

HENRIETTA. Hullo, Edward.

EDWARD. Henrietta, lovely to see you.

HENRIETTA. (Crossing to Left of EDWARD) How’s Ainswick?

EDWARD. It’s looking beautiful just now.

HENRIETTA. (Turning to MIDGE). Hullo, Midge darling. How are you?

EDWARD. (Offering HENRIETTA a cigarette) You ought to come, Henrietta.

HENRIETTA. (Taking a cigarette) Yes, I know I ought—what fun we all had there as children.

(LADY ANGKATELL enters Left. She carries a large lobster on a short length of string.)

LADY ANGKATELL. (Crossing to Right of the coffee table) Tradespeople are just like gardeners. They take advantage of your not knowing. Don’t you agree, Edward? When you want them to mass in big clumps—they start fiddling about with . . . (She suddenly becomes conscious of the lobster.) Now what is that?

EDWARD. It looks to me like a lobster.

LADY ANGKATELL. It is a lobster. Where did I get it? How did I come by it?

HENRIETTA. I should think you got it off the kitchen table.

LADY ANGKATELL. (Holding the lobster against the back of the sofa) Oh! I remember. I thought a cushion this colour would look nice here. What do you feel about it?

HENRIETTA. No!

LADY ANGKATELL. No. Well, it was just a little thought.

(GUDGEON enters Left and crosses to LADY ANGKATELL. He carries a salver.)

GUDGEON. (Impassively) Excuse me, m’lady, Mrs. Medway says, may she have the lobster.

(LADY ANGKATELL puts the lobster on the salver.)

Thank you, m’lady.

(He turns, crosses and exits Left. They all laugh.)

LADY ANGKATELL. Gudgeon is wonderful. (She sits on the sofa.) He always appears at the right moment.

HENRIETTA. (Aside) Could I have a light, Midge?

EDWARD. (Moving to LADY ANGKATELL and offering her a cigarette) How’s the sculpture, Henrietta?

LADY ANGKATELL. You know I don’t smoke, dear.

(MIDGE picks up the table lighter from the mantelpiece.)

HENRIETTA. Getting along. I’ve finished the big wooden figure for the International Group. Would you like to see it?

EDWARD. Yes.

HENRIETTA. It’s concealed in what I believe the house agent who sold Henry this house calls the “breakfast nook.”

(MIDGE lights HENRIETTA’s cigarette, then replaces the lighter on the mantelpiece.)

LADY ANGKATELL. Thank heavens that’s something I have never had—my breakfast in a nook.

(They all laugh. HENRIETTA moves to the alcove up Left, draws back the curtain, switches on the light, then moves up Centre. EDWARD leads MIDGE to the alcove and stands Right of her as they both look off Left.)

HENRIETTA. It’s called The Worshipper.

EDWARD. (Impressed) That’s a very powerful figure. Beautiful graining. What wood is it?

HENRIETTA. Pearwood.

EDWARD. (Slowly) It’s—an uncomfortable sort of thing.

MIDGE. (Nervously) It’s horrible.

EDWARD. That heavy forward slant of the neck and shoulders—the submission. The fanaticism of the face—the eyes—she’s blind? (He turns to face HENRIETTA.)

HENRIETTA. Yes.

EDWARD. What’s she looking at—with her blind eyes?

HENRIETTA. (Turning away) I don’t know. Her God, I suppose.

LADY ANGKATELL. (Softly) Poor Henrietta.

HENRIETTA. (Moving to Right of the armchair Left Centre) What did you say, Lucy?

(EDWARD crosses to the fireplace and flicks his ash into it.)

LADY ANGKATELL. (Rising) Nothing. (She moves to Right of the sofa and glances off Right.) Ah look, chaffinches. Sweet. One ought to look at birds through glasses, on tops of trees, oughtn’t one? (She turns.) Are there still herons at Ainswick, Edward?

EDWARD. Ah, yes—down by the river.

LADY ANGKATELL. (Softly) Down by the river—ah dear.

(Her voice fades away as she exits Right.)

EDWARD. Why did she say “Poor Henrietta?”

(MIDGE closes the alcove curtain, switches off the light, crosses above the sofa to Right of it, then sits on it at the Right end.)

HENRIETTA. Lucy isn’t blind.

EDWARD. (Stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on the mantelpiece) Shall we go for a walk, Henrietta? (He moves Left Centre) I’d like to stretch my legs after that drive.

HENRIETTA. I’d love to. (She moves to the coffee table and stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray on it.) I’ve been modelling most of the day. Coming, Midge?

MIDGE. No, thank you.

(EDWARD moves slowly up Centre.)

I’ll stay here and help Lucy with the Cristows when they arrive.

EDWARD. (Stopping and turning; sharply) Cristow? Is he coming?

HENRIETTA. Yes.

EDWARD. I wish I’d known.

HENRIETTA. (Belligerently) Why?

EDWARD. (Very quietly) I could have come—some other weekend.

(There is a pause, then HENRIETTA and EDWARD exit up Centre to Left. MIDGE watches them go, her face revealing her hopeless love for EDWARD. LADY ANGKATELL enters Right and moves above the Right end of the sofa.)

LADY ANGKATELL. (Whispering) Have Henrietta and Edward gone for a walk?

MIDGE. Yes.

LADY ANGKATELL. Does Edward know about the Cristows?

MIDGE. Yes.

LADY ANGKATELL. Was it all right?

MIDGE. Not noticeably.

LADY ANGKATELL. (Moving to the French windows Right) Oh dear. I knew this weekend was going to be awkward.

(MIDGE rises, stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table, picks up her handbag and gloves and moves to LADY ANGKATELL.)

MIDGE. Let’s go round the garden, Lucy. What’s on in the flower world at the moment? I’m such a hopeless cockney nowadays. Most dahlias?

LADY ANGKATELL. Yes. Handsome—in a rather dull way. And so full of earwigs. Mind you, I’m told earwigs are very good mothers, not that it makes one like them any better.

(LADY ANGKATELL and MIDGE exit Right. DORIS, the maid, enters Left and holds the door open. She looks slightly half-witted and is terrified of GUDGEON. GUDGEON enters Left and crosses to the drinks table. He carries a tray of drinks, a bowl of olives and a tea cloth. DORIS closes the door, moves Left Centre and stands gaping.)

GUDGEON. (Putting the tray on the drinks table) Well, fold the papers, Doris, the way I showed you. (He starts to polish the glasses.)

DORIS. (Moving hastily to Left of the coffee table) Yes, Mr. Gudgeon. (She picks up “The Times” and folds it.) Her ladyship is bats, isn’t she, Mr. Gudgeon?

GUDGEON. (Turning) Certainly not. Her ladyship has a very keen intellect. She speaks five foreign languages, and has been all over the world with Sir Henry. Sir Henry was Governor of one of the principal provinces in India. He would have been the next Viceroy most probably if it hadn’t been for that terrible Labour Government doing away with the Empire.

DORIS. (Putting the newspaper on the Left arm of the sofa) My dad’s Labour.

(There is a pause as GUDGEON looks almost pityingly at DORIS.)

(She takes a step back. Apologetically) Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Gudgeon.

GUDGEON. (Tolerantly) You can’t help your parents, Doris.

DORIS. (Humbly) I know they’re not class.

GUDGEON. (Patronizingly) You are coming along quite nicely—(He turns to the drinks table and continues polishing the glasses) although it’s not what any of us have been used to. Gamekeeper’s daughter, or Head Groom’s daughter, a young girl who knows her manners, and has been brought up right.

(DORIS picks up the “Daily Graphic” and folds it.)

That’s what I like to train.

DORIS. (Putting all the papers together tidily on the coffee table) Sorry, Mr. Gudgeon. (She crosses to the writing table, picks up the ashtray from it, returns to the coffee table and empties the ashtray she is carrying into that on the coffee table.)

GUDGEON. Ah well, it seems those days are gone for ever.

DORIS. (Replacing the ashtray on the writing table) Miss Simmonds is always down on me, too.

GUDGEON. She’s doing it for your own good, Doris. She’s training you.

DORIS. (Picking up the ashtray from the coffee table, crossing to the fireplace and emptying the ashtray into the one on the mantelpiece) Shan’t get more money, shall I, when I’m trained? (She replaces the ashtray on the coffee table.)

GUDGEON. Not much, I’m afraid.

DORIS. (Crossing to the fireplace) Doesn’t seem worth being trained, then, does it? (She picks up the full ashtray from the mantelpiece.)

GUDGEON. I’m afraid you may be right, my girl.

(DORIS is about to empty the ashtray into the fire.)

Ah!

(DORIS turns guiltily, and puts the ashtray on the mantelpiece.)

The trouble is there are no proper employers nowadays. Nobody who knows what’s what. Those who have the money to employ servants don’t appreciate what a good servant is.

DORIS. (Moving to the armchair Left Centre) My dad says I ought to call myself a domestic help. (She tidies the cushion on the armchair.)

GUDGEON. (Moving above the sofa) That’s about all you are. (He leans over the back of the sofa and tidies the cushions.) Let me tell you, my girl, you’re very lucky to be in a household where wine glasses are used in the proper way, and where the master and mistress appreciate highly technical skill. (He moves to the chair down Right and tidies the cushion.) There aren’t many employers left who’d even notice if you went the wrong way round the table.

DORIS. (Moving to the fireplace) I still think her ladyship does funny things. (She picks up the full ashtray from the mantelpiece.) Picking up that lobster, now.

GUDGEON. (Crossing below the sofa to Right of the armchair Left Centre) Her ladyship is somewhat forgetful, not to say absentminded, but in this house I see to it that everything possible is done to spare her ladyship trouble and annoyance.

(The sound of a motorcar horn is heard off.)

(He crosses to the drinks table, picks up the tea-cloth, then crosses to Left Centre and picks up MIDGE’s suitcase.) That will be Doctor and Mrs. Cristow. Go upstairs and be ready to help Simmonds with the unpacking.

DORIS. (Moving to the door Left and opening it) Yes, Mr. Gudgeon. (She starts to exit.)

GUDGEON. (Reprovingly) Ah-ah!

DORIS. (With a step back) Oh! (She holds the door open.)

GUDGEON. (Crossing to the door Left) Thank you.

(A clock strikes seven. He exits Left. DORIS follows him off, leaving the door open.)

(After the fourth stroke. Off Left) Good evening, sir.

JOHN. (Off Left) Good evening, Gudgeon. How are you?

GUDGEON. (Off Left) Good evening, madam. Very well, thank you, sir.

GERDA. (Off Left). Good evening, Gudgeon.

(GUDGEON enters Left and ushers in JOHN and GERDA CRISTOW. JOHN is a good-looking man of thirty-eight with a dynamic personality, but is somewhat brusque in manner. GERDA is timid and rather stupid. She carries an arty leather handbag.)

GUDGEON. (As he enters) Will you come through, madam.

GERDA (Crossing to Left Centre) Very warm, still.

GUDGEON. Still very warm, madam. I hope you had a pleasant drive down.

(JOHN crosses to Centre.)

GERDA. Yes, thank you.

GUDGEON. (Closing the door) I think her ladyship is in the garden, sir. (He crosses to Right) I’ll inform her that you’ve arrived.

JOHN. Thank you, Gudgeon.

(GUDGEON exits Right.)

(He goes out on to the terrace up Centre and looks off Left) Mm, wonderful to get out of town into this.

GERDA. (Easing to Right of the armchair Left Centre; flatly) Yes, it’s very nice.

JOHN. God, I hate being penned up in London. Sitting in that blasted consulting room, listening to whining women. How I hate sick people!

GERDA. Oh, John, you don’t mean that.

JOHN. I loathe illness.

GERDA. If you hated sick people, you wouldn’t be a doctor, would you, dear?

JOHN. (Moving above the sofa) A man doesn’t become a doctor because he has a partiality for sick people. It’s the disease that’s interesting, not the patient. (He crosses to Right, and studies the piece of sculpture on the pedestal.) You have odd ideas, Gerda.

GERDA. But you do like curing people.

JOHN. (Turning) I don’t cure them. (He moves and sits on the sofa at the Right end.) Just hand out faith, hope and probably a laxative. Oh, good Lord, I’m tired.

GERDA. (Moving below the sofa) John, you work too hard. You’re so unselfish. (She sits on the sofa at the Left end of it.) I’m always telling the children how a doctor’s life is almost a dedication. I’m so proud of the way you give all your time and all your energy and never spare yourself.

JOHN. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gerda. You don’t know in the least what you’re talking about. Don’t you realize I enjoy my profession? It’s damned interesting and I make a lot of money.

GERDA. It’s not the money you do it for, dear. Look how interested you are in your hospital work. It’s to relieve pain and suffering.

JOHN. Pain is a biological necessity and suffering will always be with us. It’s the techniques of medicine that interest me.

GERDA. And—people suffering.

JOHN. (Rising and moving above the sofa) Oh, for God’s sake . . . (He breaks off, suddenly ashamed.) I’m sorry, Gerda. I didn’t mean to shout at you. (He takes a cigarette case from his pocket.) I’m afraid I’ve been terribly nervy and bad-tempered lately. I’m—I’m sorry.

GERDA. It’s quite all right, dear. I understand.

(There is a pause as JOHN moves below the armchair Left Centre and takes a cigarette out of his case.)

JOHN. You know, Gerda, if you weren’t so patient, so long-suffering, it would be better. Why don’t you turn on me sometimes, swear at me, give as good as you get? Oh, don’t look so shocked. It would be better if you did. No man likes being drowned in treacle. (He shuts his cigarette case with a snap and replaces it in his pocket.)

GERDA. You’re tired, John.

JOHN. (Sitting in the armchair Left Centre; sombrely) Yes, I’m tired. (He leans back and closes his eyes.)

GERDA. You need a holiday.

JOHN. (Dreamily) I’d like to go to the South of France—the Mediterranean—the sun, the mimosa in flower . . .

GERDA. (Rising and crossing to Right of JOHN) Why shouldn’t we go, then? (Doubtfully) Oh, I don’t quite know how we should manage about the children; of course, Terence is at school all day, but he’s so rude to Mademoiselle. She really has very little authority even over Zena. No, I don’t think I should be very happy. Of course, they could go to Elsie at Bexhill. Or perhaps Mary Foley would take them . . .

JOHN. (Opening his eyes; vaguely) ’M, what were you saying?

GERDA. The children.

JOHN. What about them?

GERDA. I was wondering how we could manage about them if we went to the South of France.

JOHN. (Taking his lighter from his pocket) Why should we go to the South of France, what are you talking about? (He lights his cigarette.)

GERDA. Because you said—you—would—like to.

JOHN. Oh that! I was daydreaming.

GERDA. (Crossing above the armchair Left Centre to Left of it) I don’t see why we couldn’t manage it—only it’s a little worrying if one feels that the person left in charge isn’t really reliable, and I do sometimes feel . . .

JOHN. (Rising and crossing below the sofa to Right) You never stop worrying about something or other. For heaven’s sake let’s relax and enjoy this weekend. At least you have a respite from domestic bothers.

GERDA. Yes, I know.

JOHN. (Moving above the sofa) Wonderful people—the Angkatells. I always find them an absolute tonic.

GERDA. Yes.

JOHN. (Moving on the terrace up Centre) I wonder where they all are? (He glances off Left).

GERDA. (Sitting in the archair Left Centre) Will Henrietta be here?

JOHN. (Turning) Yes, she’s here.

GERDA. Oh, I’m so glad. I do like Henrietta.

JOHN. (Rather shortly) Henrietta’s all right.

GERDA. I wonder if she’s finished that statuette she was doing of me?

JOHN. (Moving above the Left end of the sofa; sharply) I don’t know why she asked you to sit for her. Most extraordinary.

(GERDA flinches at his tone and look.)

(He crosses to Right.) I always think it’s rather a good thing if people are around to meet their guests.

(He exits Right. GERDA rises, crosses below the sofa to Right, looks off, turns, looks Left, hesitates, fidgets with her handbag, then gives a nervous cough and crosses to Left Centre.)

EDWARD. (Off up Centre.) And this winter I’m going to cut down that avenue of trees so that we can have a better view of the lake.

(HENRIETTA and EDWARD enter up Centre from Left. GERDA turns. EDWARD eases to Left of the sofa.)

HENRIETTA. (As she enters) I think it’s a very good idea, Edward. Hullo, Gerda, how are you? You know Edward Angkatell, don’t you? (She eases above the Right end of the sofa.)

EDWARD. How d’you do, Mrs. Cristow?

GERDA. How do you do? (She drops one glove and picks it up.)

(EDWARD bends to pick up the glove, but GERDA forestalls him.)

HENRIETTA. Where’s John?

(EDWARD turns and looks at HENRIETTA.)

GERDA. He just went out into the garden to see if he could find Lady Angkatell.

HENRIETTA. (Moving to the French window Right and glancing off) It’s an impossible garden to find anyone in, all woods and shrubs.

GERDA. But soon there’ll be such lovely autumn tints.

HENRIETTA. (Turning) Yes. (She turns and gazes out of the window.)

EDWARD. (Crossing to the door Left) You’ll forgive me if I go and change.

(He exits Left. GERDA starts to follow him but stops as HENRIETTA speaks.)

HENRIETTA. Autumn takes one back—one keeps saying, “Don’t you remember?”

(GERDA, strung up and obviously miserable, moves to the armchair Left Centre.)

(She turns suddenly, looks at GERDA, and her face softens.) Shall we go and look for the others, too?

GERDA. (About to sit in the armchair) No, please—I mean—(She rises) yes, that would be very nice.

HENRIETTA. (Moving below the sofa; vigorously) Gerda! Why do you come down here when you hate it so much?

GERDA. But I don’t.

HENRIETTA. (Kneeling with one knee on the sofa) Yes you do.

GERDA. I don’t really. It’s delightful to get down here into the country and Lady Angkatell is always so kind.

HENRIETTA. Lucy? (She sits on the sofa at the Right end of it.) Lucy’s not a bit kind. She has good manners and she knows how to be gracious. But I always think she’s rather a cruel person, perhaps because she isn’t quite human. She doesn’t know what it is to feel and think like ordinary people. And you are hating it here, Gerda, you know you are.

GERDA. (Easing to Left of the sofa) Well, you see, John likes it.

HENRIETTA. Oh, John likes it all right. But you could let him come by himself.

GERDA. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t enjoy himself here without me. He is so unselfish. He thinks it does me good to get down into the country. (She moves below the Left end of the sofa.) But I’m glad you’re here, though—it makes it so much better.

HENRIETTA. Does it? I’m glad.

GERDA. (Sitting on the sofa at the Left end of it; in a burst of confidence) You see, I don’t really like being away from home. There is so much to do before I leave, and John is so impatient. Even now I’m not sure I turned the bathroom taps off properly, and there was a note I meant to leave for the laundry. And you know, Henrietta, I don’t really trust the children’s French governess—when I’m not there they never do anything she tells them. Oh, well, it’s only for two days.

HENRIETTA. Two days of hell—cheerfully endured for John’s sake.

GERDA. You must think I’m very ungrateful—when everybody is so kind. My breakfast brought up to my room and the housemaids so beautifully trained—but I do sometimes feel . . .

HENRIETTA. I know. They snatch away one’s clothes and put them where you can’t find them, and always lay out the dress and shoes you don’t want to wear. One has to be strong-minded.

GERDA. Oh, I’m afraid I’m never strong-minded.

HENRIETTA. How’s the knitting?

GERDA. I’ve taken up leathercraft. (She holds up her handbag.) I made this handbag.

HENRIETTA. Did you? (She rises, crosses to the alcove and opens the curtains.) That reminds me, I’ve something for you.

(She switches on the light and exits. She reenters immediately, carrying a small plaster statuette. She switches off the alcove light, closes the curtain and moves to the armchair Left Centre.)

GERDA. (Rising and crossing to HENRIETTA) Henrietta! The statuette you were doing of me?

(HENRIETTA gives GERDA the statuette.)

Oh, it’s lovely.

HENRIETTA. I’m glad you like it.

GERDA. (Moving below the Left end of the sofa) I do, I like it very much.

JOHN. (Off Right) I say, Sir Henry, your gardener has really made a wonderful job of those roses.

(LADY ANGKATELL, JOHN, MIDGE and SIR HENRY enter Right.)

SIR HENRY. (As he enters) The soil here is pretty good for roses.

JOHN. (Crossing above the sofa to Left of it) Hullo, Henrietta.

HENRIETTA. Hullo, John.

LADY ANGKATELL. (Moving below the sofa) How very nice to see you, Gerda.

SIR HENRY. (Moving above the sofa) How are you, Mrs. Cristow?

LADY ANGKATELL. (To GERDA) You haven’t been here for so long. You know my cousin, Midge Harvey? (She sits on the sofa.)

MIDGE. (Moving to the writing table) Yes, we met last year. (She puts her bag on the writing table.)

(HENRIETTA moves to the fireplace, takes a cigarette from the box on the mantelpiece and lights it with the table lighter.)

GERDA. (Turning and moving to Right of JOHN) John, look what Henrietta’s just given me. (She hands the statuette to him.)

JOHN. (To HENRIETTA) Why—what on earth made you do this?

GERDA. Oh, John, it’s very pretty.

JOHN. (Crossing down Left turning and facing HENRIETTA) Really, Henrietta.

SIR HENRY. (Tactfully interposing) Mrs. Cristow, I must tell you about our latest excitement. You know the cottage at the end of this lane? It’s been taken by a well-known film star, and all the locals are simply goggling.

GERDA. Oh yes, of course—they will be.

MIDGE. Is she very glamorous?

SIR HENRY. Well, I haven’t seen her yet, though I believe she’s in residence. What’s her name now?

MIDGE. Hedy Lamarr?

SIR HENRY. No. Who’s that girl with her hair over her eyes?

MIDGE. Veronica Lake.

SIR HENRY. No.

MIDGE. Lauren Bacall.

SIR HENRY. No.

LADY ANGKATELL. Nazimova—no. We’d better ask Gudgeon. He’ll know.

SIR HENRY. We saw her in that film—you remember, that tough chap—plays gangsters, and they flew to the Pacific and then flew back again, and there was a particularly horrible child . . .

MIDGE. San Francisco Story?

SIR HENRY. Yes.

MIDGE. Veronica Craye.

(JOHN drops the statuette. GERDA moves quickly down Left with a cry and picks up the statuette. It is not broken.)

HENRIETTA. John! (She watches him with sharpened interest.)

LADY ANGKATELL. (Rising and crossing to Right of GERDA) Would you like to see your room, Gerda?

GERDA. Oh—yes, perhaps I’d better go and unpack.

LADY ANGKATELL. (Crossing below GERDA to the door Left) Simmonds will have done that. But if you’d like to come up . . . ?

MIDGE. (Crossing to Left) I’ll come with you. Where am I, Lucy? In the Blue Room?

LADY ANGKATELL. Yes, and I’ve put Edward in the Hermit, and I’ve put the rest . . .

(Her voice dies away as she exits Left. GERDA and MIDGE follow her off. JOHN stands in a daze.)

SIR HENRY. Where is Edward? Has he put his car away, I wonder? There’s room in the end garage.

(He exits up Centre to Left. HENRIETTA moves to JOHN and gives him her cigarette. Now that they are alone her voice holds a new intimacy.)

HENRIETTA. Is there anything the matter, darling?

JOHN. (Crossing to the sofa) M’m? I was—thinking—remembering. I’m sorry. (He sits on the sofa at the Left end, and faces Right.)

HENRIETTA. (Easing to the fireplace) There’s an atmosphere of remembering about this place. (She turns and looks at the picture over the mantelpiece.) I’ve been remembering, too.

JOHN. Have you? (Disinterested) Remembering what?

HENRIETTA. (Turning; bitterly) The time when I was a long-legged lanky girl with untidy hair—a happy girl with no idea of the things that life could do to her. (She turns to face the fire.) Going back . . .

JOHN. (Dreamily) Why should one want to go back—suddenly? Why do things you haven’t thought of for years suddenly spring into your mind?

HENRIETTA. (Turning) What things, John?

JOHN. (Dreamily) Blue sea—the smell of mimosa . . .

HENRIETTA. When?

JOHN. Ten years ago.

HENRIETTA. (Crossing to Left of the sofa) And you’d like—to go back?

JOHN. I don’t know—I’m so tired.

(HENRIETTA, from behind, lays a hand on JOHN’s shoulder.)

(He holds her hand but still stares dreamily Right.) What would I do without you?

HENRIETTA. Get along quite well, I expect.

JOHN. Why should things come back into your mind—things that are over and done with?

HENRIETTA. (Crossing above the sofa to Right of it) Perhaps because they are not really over and done with.

JOHN. Not after ten years? Heaven knows how long since I thought about it. But lately—even when I’m walking round the wards, it comes into my mind and it’s as vivid as a picture. (He pauses. With sudden energy) And now, on top of it all, she’s here, just a few yards down the lane.

HENRIETTA. (Moving below the Right end of the sofa) Veronica Craye, you mean?

JOHN. Yes. I was engaged to her once—ten years ago.

HENRIETTA. (Sitting on the sofa at the Right end of it) I—see.

JOHN. Crazy young fool! I was mad about her. She was just starting in pictures then. I’d qualified about a year before. I’d had a wonderful chance—to work under Radley. D.H. Radley, you know, the authority on cortex of degeneration.

HENRIETTA. What happened?

JOHN. What I might have guessed would happen. Veronica got her chance to go to Hollywood. Well, naturally, she took it. But she assumed, without making any bones about it, that I’d give up everything and go with her. (He laughs.) No idea how important my profession was to me. I can hear her now. “Oh, there’s absolutely no need for you to go on doctoring—I shall be making heaps of money.” (He gives his cigarette to HENRIETTA.) I tried to explain it all to her. Radley—what a wonderful opportunity it was to work under him. Do you know what she said? “What, that comic little old man?” I told her that that comic little old man had done some of the most remarkable work of our generation—that his experiments might revolutionize the treatment of Rigg’s Disease. But of course that was a waste of time. She’d never even heard of Rigg’s Disease.

HENRIETTA. Very few people have. I hadn’t till you told me about it and I read it up.

(JOHN rises, moves up Centre, goes on to the terrace and stands facing Left.)

JOHN. She said who cared about a lot of obscure diseases anyway. California was a wonderful climate—it would be fun for me to see the world. She’d hate to go there without me. Miss Craye was the complete egoist—never thought of anyone but herself.

HENRIETTA. You’re rather by way of being an egoist too, John.

JOHN. (Turning to face HENRIETTA) I saw her point of view. Why couldn’t she see mine?

HENRIETTA. What did you suggest?

JOHN. (Moving to the sofa and leaning over the back of it) I told her I loved her. I begged her to turn down the Hollywood offer and marry me there and then.

HENRIETTA. And what did she say to that?

JOHN. (Bitterly) She was just—amused.

HENRIETTA. And so?

JOHN. (Moving down Right) Well, there was only one thing to be done—break it off. I did. It wasn’t easy. All that was when we were in the South of France. (He crosses to the coffee table, picks up a magazine, then crosses and stands below the armchair Left Centre.) I broke with Veronica, and came back to London to work under Radley. (During the following speeches he occasionally glances idly at the magazine.)

HENRIETTA. And then you married Gerda?

JOHN. The following year. Yes.

HENRIETTA. Why?

JOHN. Why?

HENRIETTA. Yes. Was it because you wanted someone as different as possible from Veronica Craye?

JOHN. Yes, I suppose that was it. (He sits in the armchair Left Centre.) I didn’t want a raving beauty as a wife. I didn’t want a damned egoist out to grab everything she could get. I wanted safety and peace and devotion, and all the quiet enduring things of life. I wanted someone who’d take her ideas from me.

HENRIETTA. Well, you certainly got what you wanted. None could be more devoted to you than Gerda.

JOHN. That’s the irony of it. I picked Gerda for just the qualities she has, and now half the time I snap her head off because of them. How was I to know how irritating devotion can be?

HENRIETTA. (Rising and stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table) And what about Gerda? Is she satisfied?

JOHN. Oh, Gerda’s all right. She’s quite happy.

HENRIETTA. Is she?

JOHN. Oh, yes. She spends her life fussing about the house and the children. That’s all she thinks about. She’s the most incompetent housekeeper and the most injudicious mother that you can imagine. Still, it keeps her occupied.

HENRIETTA. (Crossing to Right of JOHN) How horribly cruel you are, John.

JOHN. (Surprised) Me?

HENRIETTA. Do you never see or feel anything except from your own point of view? Why do you bring Gerda down here for weekends when you know it’s misery for her?

JOHN. Nonsense! Does her a world of good to get away. It makes a break for her.

HENRIETTA. Sometimes, John, I really hate you.

JOHN. (Startled) Henrietta. (He rises.) Darling—don’t say that. You know it’s only you who makes life possible for me.

HENRIETTA. I wonder. (She puts up a hand to touch him lovingly, then checks herself.)

(JOHN kisses her, then crosses and puts the magazine on the coffee table.)

JOHN. Who’s the Edward Angkatell?

HENRIETTA. A second cousin of mine—and of Henry’s.

JOHN. Have I met him?

HENRIETTA. Twice.

JOHN. I don’t remember. (He perches himself on the Left arm of the sofa.) Is he in love with you, Henrietta?

HENRIETTA. Yes.

JOHN. Well, you watch your step. You’re mine, you know.

(HENRIETTA looks at him in silence.)

And look here, what do you mean by doing that absurd statuette of Gerda? Hardly up to your standard, is it?

HENRIETTA. It’s technically quite good craftsmanship—a straightforward portrait statuette. It pleased Gerda.

JOHN. Oh, Gerda!

HENRIETTA. It was made to please her.

JOHN. Gerda doesn’t know the difference between a work of art and a coloured photograph. What about your pearwood figure for the International Group? Have you finished that?

HENRIETTA. Yes.

JOHN. Let’s have a look at it.

(HENRIETTA moves unwillingly to the alcove, opens the curtain, switches on the light, then stands Left of the arch and watches JOHN’s face. JOHN rises, crosses to the alcove and stands in the arch looking off Left.)

I say, that’s rather good. Why, what on earth . . . ? (Angrily) So that’s why you wanted Gerda to sit for you. How dare you!

HENRIETTA. (Thoughtfully) I wondered if you’d see it.

JOHN. See it? Of course I see it.

HENRIETTA. The face isn’t Gerda’s.

JOHN. No, it’s the neck—the shoulders—the whole attitude.

(The daylight starts to fade and continues to do so steadily until the end of the Act.)

HENRIETTA. Yes, that’s what I wanted.

JOHN. How could you do a thing like that? It’s indefensible.

HENRIETTA. You don’t understand. John. You don’t know what it is to want something—to look at it day after day—that line of neck—the muscle—the angle of the head—that heaviness under the jaw. I’ve been looking at them, wanting them, every time I saw Gerda. In the end—I just had to have them.

JOHN. Utterly unscrupulous.

HENRIETTA. Yes—I suppose you could call it that.

JOHN. (Uneasily) That’s a terrifying thing you’ve made, Henrietta. What’s she looking at—who is it there, in front of her?

HENRIETTA. I don’t know, John. I think—it might be you.

(EDWARD enters Left. He now wears dinner clothes.)

You remember Edward—John.

JOHN. (Tersely) Of course.

EDWARD. (Moving below the armchair Left Centre) Looking at Henrietta’s latest masterpiece?

JOHN. (Without looking at EDWARD) Yes. (He crosses to the fireplace.) Yes, I was.

EDWARD. What do you think of it?

JOHN. (With his back to EDWARD) I’m not really qualified to judge. (He takes a cigarette from his case.)

EDWARD. Powerful!

JOHN. ’M?

EDWARD. I said it’s powerful.

JOHN. Yes.

HENRIETTA. (Switching off the light and closing the alcove curtain) I must go and change.

EDWARD. Still lots of time. (He crosses to the drinks table.) Can I get you a drink, Cristow?

JOHN. No, thank you. (He taps his cigarette on his case.)

EDWARD. (Moving to the French window Right) Quite a mild evening.

(He glances at HENRIETTA and JOHN, then exits Right.)

HENRIETTA. (Moving Centre) You were very rude, John.

JOHN. (Turning) I’ve no time for that sort of person.

HENRIETTA. Edward’s a dear.

JOHN. Possibly. (He lights his cigarette.) I don’t like him. I think he is quite ineffectual.

HENRIETTA. You know, sometimes, John, I’m afraid for you.

JOHN. Afraid for me? What do you mean?

HENRIETTA. It’s dangerous to be as oblivious as you are.

JOHN. Oblivious?

HENRIETTA. You never see or know anything that people are feeling about you.

JOHN. I should have said the opposite.

HENRIETTA. You see what you’re looking at—yes. You’re like a searchlight. A powerful beam turned on to the one spot where your interest is, but behind it, and each side of it, darkness.

JOHN. Henrietta, darling, what is all this?

HENRIETTA. I tell you, it’s dangerous. You assume everybody likes you—(She moves in to Right of JOHN) Lucy and Gerda, Henry, Midge and Edward.

(JOHN puts his cigarette in the ashtray on the mantelpiece.)

Do you know at all what they feel about you?

JOHN. (Smiling) And Henrietta? What does the feel? At least—(He catches her hand and draws her to him) I’m sure of you.

HENRIETTA. You can be sure of no one in this world, John.

(JOHN kisses her. As she gives in to him helplessly, he releases her, smiles, turns, picks up his cigarette and moves to the door Left. EDWARD enters Right. JOHN gives EDWARD a cynical look Left, then exits Left.)

(She turns to EDWARD.) Get me a drink, would you, Edward, before I go. (She turns, looks in the mirror on the mantelpiece, and touches up her lipstick with her handkerchief.)

EDWARD. (Moving to the drinks table) Sherry?

HENRIETTA. Please.

EDWARD. (Pouring out two sherries) I wish you’d come to Ainswick more often, Henrietta. It’s a long time now.

HENRIETTA. I know. One gets tangled up in things.

EDWARD. Is that the real reason?

HENRIETTA. Not quite.

EDWARD. You can tell me, Henrietta.

HENRIETTA. (Turning; feelingly) You are a dear, Edward. I’m very fond of you.

EDWARD. (Crossing to Right of HENRIETTA with the drinks) Why don’t you come to Ainswick? (He hands a drink to her.)

HENRIETTA. Because—one can’t go back.

EDWARD. You used to be happy there, in the old days.

HENRIETTA. Yes, happy in the loveliest way of all—when one doesn’t know one is happy.

EDWARD. (Raising his glass) To Ainswick.

HENRIETTA. (Raising her glass) Ainswick.

(They both laugh, then sip their drinks.)

Is it the same, Edward? Or has it changed? Things do change.

EDWARD. I don’t change.

HENRIETTA. No, darling Edward. You’re always the same.

EDWARD. Same old stick-in-the-mud.

HENRIETTA. (Crossing below EDWARD to the sofa) Don’t say that. (She sits on the sofa at the Left end.)

EDWARD. It’s true. I’ve never been very good at—doing things.

HENRIETTA. I think perhaps you’re wise not to do things.

EDWARD. That’s an odd thing for you to say, Henrietta. You who’ve been so successful.

HENRIETTA. Sculpture isn’t a thing you set out to do and succeed in. It’s something that gets at you—and haunts you—so that, in the end, you just have to make terms with it. And then—for a while—you get some peace.

EDWARD. Do you want to be peaceful, Henrietta?

HENRIETTA. Sometimes I think I want to be peaceful more than anything in the world.

EDWARD. (Crossing to Left of the sofa) You could be peaceful at Ainswick. (He puts his hand on HENRIETTA’s shoulder.) I think you could be happy there. Even—even if you had to put up with me. (He crosses and sits on the sofa at the Right end of it.) What about it, Henrietta? Won’t you come to Ainswick and make it your home? It’s always been there, you know, waiting for you.

HENRIETTA. Edward, I wish I weren’t so very fond of you. It makes it so much more difficult to go on saying no.

EDWARD. It is no, then?

HENRIETTA. (Putting her glass on the coffee table) I’m sorry.

EDWARD. You’ve said no before, but this time—(He rises) well, I thought it might be different. When we walked in the woods your face was so young and happy, (He moves to the window Right) almost as it used to be. Talking about Ainswick, thinking about Ainswick. Don’t you see what that means, Henrietta?

HENRIETTA. Edward, we’ve been living this afternoon in the past.

EDWARD. (Moving to Right of the sofa) The past is sometimes a very good place to live.

HENRIETTA. One can’t go back. That’s the one thing you can’t do—go back.

(There is a pause. EDWARD moves above the sofa to Left of it and looks towards the door Left.)

EDWARD. (Quietly) What you really mean is that you won’t marry me because of John Cristow. (He pauses, then turns.) That’s it, isn’t it? If there were no John Cristow in the world you would marry me.

HENRIETTA. I can’t imagine a world in which there was no John Cristow.

(SIR HENRY enters Left. He now wears dinner clothes. HENRIETTA rises.)

SIR HENRY. (Switching on the wall bracket and mantelpiece lights by the switch below the fireplace). Hurry up, Henrietta. It’s nearly dinner time.

HENRIETTA. (Crossing to the door Left) I’ll be quick as a flash.

(She exits hurriedly Left. EDWARD sits on the sofa at the Left end of it.)

SIR HENRY. (Crossing to the drinks table) Have you got a drink, Edward?

(He switches on the table lamp on the drinks table.)

EDWARD. Thank you, yes.

SIR HENRY. (Mixing cocktails) Haven’t seen much of you since Lucy and I settled down at The Hollow.

EDWARD. No. How does it affect you both—laying aside the cares of state?

SIR HENRY. I sometimes think, Edward, that you’ve been the wisest of the family.

EDWARD. That’s an original point of view. I always regard myself as a walking example of how to fail in life.

SIR HENRY. Oh no, it’s a question of the right values. To look after one’s estate and to read and care for one’s books—

(MIDGE enters Left. She wears an evening frock. EDWARD rises.)

—not to compete in the struggle for material achievement . . . (He turns to MIDGE.) Hullo, there—that’s a pretty frock.

MIDGE. (Moving Left Centre and turning completely around, showing off her frock) One of my perks from the shop.

EDWARD. You can’t really like working in a shop, Midge.

MIDGE. (Crossing to the drinks table) Who said I like it? (She picks up the bowl of olives.)

EDWARD. (Resuming his seat on the sofa) Then why do it?

MIDGE. What do you suggest I should live on? Beautiful thoughts?

EDWARD. (Shocked) But, my dear girl, if I’d had any idea you were hard up . . .

SIR HENRY. Save your breath, Edward. She’s obstinate. Refused an allowance and won’t come and live with us, though we’ve begged her to. I can’t think of anything nicer than having young Midge about the house.

EDWARD. Why don’t you, Midge?

MIDGE. (Moving Right of the sofa then below it) I have ideas. (She offers the olives to EDWARD.) Poor, proud and prejudiced—

(EDWARD shakes his head, refusing the olives.)

—that’s me.

(LADY ANGKATELL enters Left. She wears an evening gown. EDWARD rises.)

They’re badgering me, Lucy.

LADY ANGKATELL. (Crossing to the armchair Left Centre) Are they, darling? (She sits.)

EDWARD. I don’t like the idea of her working in that dress shop.

MIDGE. (Crossing to LADY ANGKATELL) Well, find me a better job. (She offers the olives to her.)

(LADY ANGKATELL takes an olive. MIDGE moves to the fireplace and puts the dish on the mantelpiece.)

EDWARD. There surely must be something . . .

MIDGE. I’ve no particular qualifications, remember. Just a pleasant manner and the ability to keep my temper when I’m shouted at.

EDWARD. Do you mean to say the customers are rude to you?

MIDGE. Abominably rude, sometimes. (She sits on the pouffe.) It’s their privilege.

EDWARD. (Crossing to the fireplace; horrified) But my dear girl, that’s all wrong. (He puts his glass on the mantelpiece.) If I’d only known . . .

(He takes his case from his pocket and offers MIDGE a cigarette.)

MIDGE. (Taking a cigarette) How should you know? Your world and mine are so far apart.

(EDWARD lights MIDGE’s cigarette.)

I’m only half an Angkatell. The other half’s just plain business girl, with unemployment always lurking round the corner in spite of the politicians’ brave words.

SIR HENRY. (Crossing to MIDGE with two drinks) You be a good girl and drink that. (He hands one drink to her.) What’s rubbed your fur up the wrong way, kitten? (He offers the other drink to LADY ANGKATELL.)

LADY ANGKATELL. (To SIR HENRY) Sherry for me, dear.

(SIR HENRY moves to drinks table.)

Edward does have that effect sometimes.

(GERDA enters left. She wears an evening frock.)

GERDA. (Crossing to Right of LADY ANGKATELL) I’m so sorry if I’m late.

LADY ANGKATELL. (Holding GERDA’s hand) But you’re not at all late, my dear.

MIDGE. We’ve just come down.

SIR HENRY. What will you have, Mrs. Cristow—sherry—gin?

(JOHN enters Left. He wears dinner clothes.)

GERDA (Crossing to Left of the drinks table) Oh—thank you, gin and something, please.

JOHN. Am I the last? (He crosses down Right.)

LADY ANGKATELL. Henrietta isn’t down yet.

(SIR HENRY crosses with a drink to LADY ANGKATELL and hands it to her, then returns to the drinks table and pours a drink for GERDA. The conversations overlap in a hubbub of talk.)

EDWARD. Yes, it’s one of your perks, didn’t you say, Midge?

GERDA (Crossing to Right). This is very nice.

LADY ANGKATELL. Perks? Do you mean to say you get them for nothing? Henry, darling, do you know that this child gets . . .

JOHN. It will go straight to your head, if you are not careful.

(VERONICA CRAYE enters on the terrace up Centre from Left and stands posed in the French windows. She is a very beautiful woman and knows it. She wears a resplendent evening gown and carries an evening bag. Her appearance causes a sensation. JOHN stares at her like a man dazed. MIDGE and LADY ANGKATELL rise. They all turn and stare at VERONICA.)

VERONICA. (Moving to Right of LADY ANGKATELL) You must forgive me—for bursting in upon you this way. I’m your neighbour, Lady Angkatell—from that ridiculous cottage, Dovecotes—and the most awful thing has happened. (She moves Centre and dominates the scene.) Not a single match in the house and my lighter won’t work. So what could I do? I just came along to beg help from my only neighbour within miles.

LADY ANGKATELL. Why, of course. How awkward for you.

VERONICA. (Turning Right and affecting to see JOHN quite suddenly) Why, surely—John! Why, it’s John Cristow. (She crosses to Left of JOHN and takes hold of both his hands.) Now isn’t that amazing? I haven’t seen you for years and years and years. And suddenly—to find you—here. This is just the most wonderful surprise. (To LADY ANGKATELL) John’s an old friend of mine. (She retains hold of JOHN’s left hand.) Why, John’s the first man I ever loved.

SIR HENRY. (Moving above the sofa with two drinks) Sherry? Or dry Martini?

VERONICA. No, no, thank you.

(JOHN takes a sherry from SIR HENRY.)

LADY ANGKATELL. (Resuming her seat in the armchair Left Centre) Midge dear, ring the bell.

(MIDGE moves below the fireplace and presses the bell-push.)

VERONICA. I hope you don’t think it’s just too awful of me butting in like this.

LADY ANGKATELL. Not at all.

SIR HENRY. (Moving up Centre) We are honoured. (He indicates MIDGE.) My cousin, Miss Harvey. Edward Angkatell. (He looks towards GERDA.) Er . . .

(GERDA eases down Right of JOHN.)

JOHN. And this is my wife, Veronica.

VERONICA. (Crossing below JOHN to Left of GERDA and taking her by the hand). Oh, but how lovely to meet you.

(GUDGEON enters Left)

GUDGEON. You rang, m’lady?

LADY ANGKATELL. A dozen boxes of matches, please, Gudgeon.

(GUDGEON is momentarily taken aback, but regains his normal impassivity immediately and exits Left.)

SIR HENRY. And how do you like living at Dovecotes?

VERONICA. (Turning) I adore it (She crosses up stage to Left of the sofa and looks off Right.) I think it’s so wonderful to be right in the heart of the country—these lovely English woods—and yet to be quite near London.

SIR HENRY. You’ve no idea what a thrill you’ve caused in the neighbourhood. But you must be used to that sort of thing.

VERONICA. Well, I’ve signed a few autograph books, (She eases below the Left end of the sofa) but what I like about it here is that one isn’t in a village, and there’s no one to stare or gape. (She sits on the sofa at the Left end.) I just appreciate the peacefulness of it all.

(GUDGEON enters Left. He carries a packet of a dozen boxes of matches on a salver.)

LADY ANGKATELL. (Indicating VERONICA) For madam.

(GUDGEON crosses to VERONICA.)

VERONICA. (Taking the matches) Oh dear, Lady Angkatell—I can’t really accept . . .

LADY ANGKATELL. Please. It’s nothing at all.

VERONICA. Well, I do appreciate your kindness.

(GUDGEON crosses and exits Left.)

John, do you live in this neighborhood too?

JOHN. No—no, I live in London. I’m just down here for the weekend.

VERONICA. Oh, I just can’t get over meeting you again after all these years.

(HENRIETTA enters Left and moves to Left of LADY ANGKATELL. She wears an evening frock.)

(She glances at HENRIETTA and rises.) Now—I must get back—carrying my spoils with me. John, will you see me down the lane?

(LADY ANGKATELL rises.)

JOHN. Yes, of course.

VERONICA. (Crossing to Right of LADY ANGKATELL) And thank you a thousand times. (She smiles at SIR HENRY and EDWARD but ignores the ladies.) You’ve all been very kind.

(JOHN moves to the drinks table and puts his glass on it.)

LADY ANGKATELL. Not at all.

VERONICA. (Crossing above the sofa to JOHN) Now, John, you must tell me all you’ve been doing in the years and years since I’ve seen you.

(GUDGEON enters Left.)

GUDGEON. Dinner is served, m’lady.

(He exits Left.)

VERONICA. Oh, I mustn’t take you away just as dinner is ready.

SIR HENRY. Won’t you stay and dine with us?

VERONICA. No, no, no. I couldn’t dream of it. John, can’t you come over after dinner? I’m just dying to hear all your news. I’ll be expecting you. (She goes up the steps, turns and stands in the French window up Centre.) And thank you all—so much.

(She exits up Centre to Left. JOHN stands Right of the French window up Centre and looks after her. LADY ANGKATELL hands her glass to EDWARD, who puts it on the mantelpiece. MIDGE puts her glass on the mantelpiece, moves to the door Left and opens it. JOHN goes on to the terrace.)

LADY ANGKATELL. What a beautiful performance! Shall we go in to dinner? (She crosses to the door Left.)

(SIR HENRY crosses to the door Left. A hubbub of conversation breaks out and the following speeches overlap as the exits are made.)

I remember seeing that girl in a film. She was wearing a sari very low down.

(She exits Left.)

EDWARD. I’ve seen her too, but I can’t remember the name of the film.

MIDGE. San Francisco Story—it must be. It was revived two months ago.

(She exits Left.)

EDWARD. Which theatre? Did you see San Francisco Story?

SIR HENRY. She must have changed her hair. She had it flowing down her back. Mrs. Cristow, what do you think of our film star?

(GERDA crosses to the door Left.)

GERDA. She’s very nice, very nice indeed, really.

(She exits Left.)

EDWARD. Yes, she is. Isn’t she, Henry?

SIR HENRY. Not so tall as I should have thought, seeing her on the films.

(He exits Left.)

EDWARD. No, I agree, but they are very different in real life.

(He exits Left. The conversation continues off stage. JOHN, oblivious of everything else, stands on the terrace looking off Left. HENRIETTA moves to the door Left and turns.)

HENRIETTA. Are you coming, John?

JOHN. H’m? Oh yes—yes, of course.

(HENRIETTA exits Left. JOHN crosses to the door Left and follows her off as—the Curtain falls.)

CURTAIN