17

BEATRIX:	Come into the lounge and make yourself comfortable, Maurice. Did you have a good journey?
MAURICE:	So-so. Too many Sunday drivers for my liking.
BEATRIX:	Of course, it’s Sunday. Do you know, I’d quite forgotten. One tends to at my age.
MAURICE:	Really? You hide it well, Aunt, I must say.
BEATRIX:	Now you’re flattering me. But it’s true. My memory’s failing. Names. Faces. Dates. They’re all going. For instance, is it the thirtieth of May today or the thirty-first?
MAURICE:	The thirty-first, as I suspect you know. You’re going to Cheltenham tomorrow. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that.
BEATRIX:	No, no. It’s why I wanted you to come this afternoon. So we could meet before I went away.
MAURICE:	To discuss something important, you said.
BEATRIX:	Quite so. Oh! There’s the kettle boiling. Would you mind filling the pot, Maurice? There’s tea already in it. Then you can bring the tray in.
MAURICE:	Leave it to me.
BEATRIX:	Don’t forget the biscuit-barrel. I have some of those fruit Shrewsburys you like.
MAURICE:	(from a distance): I hope you didn’t buy them just for me. There was no need.
BEATRIX:	But I wanted to. And I always make a point of doing as I please. It’s one of the few privileges of old age.
MAURICE:	Are you trying to tell me something, Aunt?
BEATRIX:	Put the tray down here. Let me clear these magazines.
MAURICE:	When you phoned, I thought you might have changed your mind.
BEATRIX:	About what?
MAURICE:	You know full well.
BEATRIX:	Do I? As I explained, I’m growing more and more forgetful. I wouldn’t want us to find ourselves talking at cross-purposes. Why don’t you remind me?
MAURICE:	You don’t need reminding.
BEATRIX:	Humour me, Maurice.
MAURICE:	(sighing): I thought you might have changed your mind about publishing the letters.
BEATRIX:	Tristram’s letters, you mean? The ones he sent to me from Spain? The ones proving I wrote his poems for him?
MAURICE:	Yes, Aunt. Those letters.
BEATRIX:	Well, I wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstanding.
MAURICE:	There isn’t. Have you?
BEATRIX:	Have I what?
MAURICE:	Changed your mind!
BEATRIX:	Pour me some tea, would you? I don’t want mine to stew … Thank you.
MAURICE:	Well?
BEATRIX:	It’s perfect. Just as I like it.
MAURICE:	For God’s sake!
BEATRIX:	Drink your tea, Maurice. And help yourself to a fruit Shrewsbury. Then listen to me. It’s important you shouldn’t interrupt me.
MAURICE:	Interrupt?
BEATRIX:	Quite so. I’m not a quivering junior at Ladram Avionics, you know. So, do I have your attention?
MAURICE:	Undividedly.
BEATRIX:	Excellent. It’s nearly six months since you broached your scheme to me. During those months you’ve frequently explained how we would both benefit from informing the literary world of the trick Tristram and I played on it. And I’ve frequently explained how fame and wealth mean very little at my age. Less, indeed, than my late brother’s good name, which I consider to be more important than any financial inconvenience you may be caused by the expiry of copyright. It’s not that I begrudge you your father’s royalties. Far from it. It’s simply that I’m not prepared to see him branded a fraud and a charlatan merely in order to prolong your receipt of them.
MAURICE:	You haven’t changed your mind, then?
BEATRIX:	I did ask you not to interrupt, didn’t I?
MAURICE:	(sighing): Sorry.
BEATRIX:	To proceed. About ten days ago, an antique dealer called Fairfax-Vane came to see me, claiming to have an appointment to value my Tunbridge Ware. He has a shop in Tunbridge Wells. You may remember him. Ah, yes, I see you do. In connection with some furniture poor Mary was ill-advised enough to sell him last year. Well, I’d made no appointment with him, of course. I assumed he was chancing his arm. So, I sent him away with a flea in his ear. Then, last Monday, who should I see skulking – yes, I think skulking is the word – around Church Square but your former chauffeur, the bibulous Mr Spicer. He beat a hasty retreat when he spotted me approaching, but it was not hasty enough. You look surprised, as well you might, though more by his incompetence than his presence in Rye. That, I feel sure, is scarcely news to you.
MAURICE:	I don’t know what you mean.
BEATRIX:	Please be quiet, Maurice, and attend to what I’m saying. Mr Spicer was not in Rye for the purpose of a seaside holiday. I think we may take it as certain he had business here. Business which necessitated some preliminary reconnaissance. So I concluded, anyway. It was a conclusion reinforced by a subsequent telephone conversation with Mr Fairfax-Vane, who convinced me an appointment had indeed been made for him to come here – by a woman clearly younger than me, who spoke with a faintly American accent. And the appointment, I realized, was timed to ensure Mrs Mentiply would be here with me. As a witness, so to speak. I began to see a pattern to these puzzling events, a distinct and disturbing trend. Perhaps I might not have done but for information which has recently come my way concerning your financial circumstances. However, since—
MAURICE:	My what?
BEATRIX:	Your financial circumstances. And kindly do not bellow. It really should not strike you as odd that I have been enquiring into your affairs – if I may so phrase it. Your persistence – nay, your vehemence – on the subject of Tristram’s letters suggested your need of the royalties was greater than you were prepared to admit. When I hired a private detective to test this hypothesis—
MAURICE:	A private detective?
BEATRIX:	There’s no need to repeat everything I say. I feel sure you can hear and understand me. The report I commissioned on you makes for interesting reading. Particularly in respect of the mistress you maintain in New York. No doubt her charms are as considerable as they are expensive.
MAURICE:	Good God, this is—
BEATRIX:	What you have driven me to. It is useless to beetle your brow in what you clearly believe to be a threatening fashion. I am only ensuring we both know where we stand. I have developed a theory to explain recent incidents in the light of what I have learned about you. Would you like to hear it? … I shall take your glowering silence to indicate you would. If Mr Spicer’s dismissal for drunkenness last Christmas was a charade; if he is still in fact in your employment though not as a chauffeur; if your American mistress telephoned Mr Fairfax-Vane and lured him here; if I should happen to fall victim to a break-in apparently arranged by Mr Fairfax-Vane in order to lay his hands on my Tunbridge Ware but actually carried out by Mr Spicer in order to bring about my death; if my demise should leave you in possession of your father’s letters and free to publish them … Well, if I am right in all this – and I rather think I am – then you have decided to override my objections to publication in the most effective and heartless manner possible, haven’t you?
MAURICE:	Of course I haven’t. This is all – every word of it – the most preposterous nonsense.
BEATRIX:	Is it? Is it really?
MAURICE:	Yes. And if the only reason you asked me here was to inflict this on—
BEATRIX:	But it wasn’t. Not quite the only reason, anyway.
MAURICE:	Why else, then?
BEATRIX:	To ask for time to reconsider my position. I want to think the whole thing through, very carefully, while I’m in Cheltenham. To weigh my principles against the risks I appear to be running.
MAURICE:	You’re running no risks!
BEATRIX:	You should be pleased I think otherwise. It means you may get your way without having to resort to desperate remedies.
MAURICE:	Well, if you’re having a change of heart …
BEATRIX:	Don’t count on it. I’ll telephone you when I return from Cheltenham with my final decision. There’s a great deal to take into account. More than you realize. Far more. If your father’s reputation were the beginning and the end of the matter, I might have been less intransigent all along. But it isn’t, believe me. There are other dimensions to this. Other repercussions. You would do well to beware them.
MAURICE:	How can I beware what I know nothing about?
BEATRIX:	You can’t, so long as you remain as pig-headed as you have been all your life.
MAURICE:	Now look here—
BEATRIX:	Out of interest, could you tell me what this is really all about? There has to be more to it than money. What is it? Simply your inability to accept that your wishes do not always take precedence over other people’s?
MAURICE:	Oh, for God’s sake—
BEATRIX:	What? Leaving so soon?
MAURICE:	I’m glad you’re having second thoughts, Aunt, whatever the reason. I’ll look forward to hearing from you after your holiday, hopefully with good news. But, meanwhile, I’ve no intention of swallowing any more of your insults.
BEATRIX:	As you please. I believe we’ve both said what needed to be said. I believe we understand each other now.
MAURICE:	Perhaps we do.
BEATRIX:	Don’t forget what I told you. There’s more at stake here than you can possibly imagine.
MAURICE:	That’s eyewash and you know it.
BEATRIX:	I know you think it is. But you’re wrong. Not that I expect you to heed my warning. I’d be surprised if you did.
MAURICE:	And surprises aren’t good for delicate old ladies, are they?
BEATRIX:	They’re not as bad as nocturnal intruders.
MAURICE:	No. But you can take precautions against them, can’t you?
BEATRIX:	By agreeing to your terms, you mean?
MAURICE:	By being sensible.
BEATRIX:	I shall certainly endeavour to be that.
MAURICE:	Good.
BEATRIX:	Can you see yourself out?
MAURICE:	Yes. Of course.
BEATRIX:	Goodbye, then.
MAURICE:	(from a distance): Thanks for the tea. I’ll speak to you soon. Have a nice thoughtful time in Cheltenham, Aunt.
BEATRIX:	I’ll be sure to.
MAURICE:	(from a distance): ‘Bye.
BEATRIX:	(in an undertone): Goodbye, Maurice. Thank you so much for your co-operation. It’s been invaluable.