ACT TWO

LIVING ROOM

(Close-up two cups on a tray. One empty—one full but cold. Pull back. We see Caroline glancing round the room, obviously bored but at the same time curious as to Laura’s new surroundings. Laura enters.)

LAURA. Sorry about that. She needed changing.

CARO. But you must have been away quite fifteen minutes.

LAURA. Well, you see it is quite an operation, especially when . . . (Pauses. Changing subject.) Would you like another cup?

CARO. (Sitting.) No thanks. (She immediately leaps up again in the middle of sipping cold tea.) Good God, what on earth was that? (She looks down into the chair and produces a small plastic dish.)

LAURA. Oh Lord, I am sorry. I’ve been looking for that all morning, I couldn’t think where it had got to. Have you covered yourself with Farex? (They inspect the seat of Caroline’s skirt.)

CARO. Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter; it’ll clean off, for goodness sake.

LAURA. (Wiping skirt with a clean nappy.) I am sorry, it’s such a nice skirt, what a frightful thing to do . . .

CARO. Don’t be silly, darling, I’m sure you didn’t plant it on purpose . . . (Placating.) Oh, I suppose it’s jolly hard work to begin with, looking after a baby.

LAURA. Yes. I suppose it is.

CARO. I mean to say, I wouldn’t have a clue. I wouldn’t have the first idea.

LAURA. Well, it’s lucky you haven’t got a baby, then, isn’t it?

CARO. Lucky? Yes, I suppose it is. I’ve had one or two near misses, I can tell you.

LAURA. (Cool, distressed.) Oh yes? (They pause to take stock.)

CARO. (Breaking peace.) Oh, by the way, I bought something for your little tiny one . . . look. (Starts to rummage through parcels and finally unearths a huge, fluffy, white teddy bear.)

LAURA. Oh Caro, how sweet of you. How nice. It’s bigger than she is.

CARO. It is rather sweet, isn’t it? . . . Catch. (She throws bear to Laura. Slowly going to window.) Tell me, Laura. What are you and Bill doing up here? Last time I heard from you, you were in London, and Bill was doing research at that sociology place—Whatever possessed you to move up north?

LAURA. Money.

CARO. What?

LAURA. Money. Bill was offered this rather well-paid job up here, and since we hadn’t a penny between us we thought we’d better come.

CARO. How frightful, I can’t quite picture Bill slogging away for a nice high salary; he was always such a layabout.

LAURA. Oh well . . . he’s a reformed character now.

CARO. Is he really? That’s a shame. What time does he get home? I must wait till he comes; perhaps we could all go out this evening and have a merry time and drown our sorrows, eh, and remember old times.

LAURA. (Stiffly, rising to her feet.) I don’t know what sorrows you think you’ve got to drown.

CARO. Oh, nameless griefs, you’ve no idea.

LAURA. (Picking up tea tray.) I’ll put these in the kitchen.

CARO. (Following her into kitchen.) Can I come with you?

CUT TO: KITCHEN

CARO. Anyway, I simply must see Bill again, for old time’s . . . (Ducking under rows of nappies on pulley.) Good Lord, Laura, what a fearful lot of nappies. You don’t have to wash all these, do you? It can’t use as many as this, can it?

LAURA. (Rinsing out cups.) They just don’t dry in this weather.

CARO. (Picking up bottle of orange juice from immense regimented line of bottles on kitchen table.) I say Laura, what’s all this stuff? Does it drink orange juice already, your baby? Is this the stuff they give away for free on the National Health?

LAURA. (Fiercely banging teapot down, turning on her, and snatching bottle from her hand.) It’s not free, it’s one and six, and for God’s sake put it down and stop asking stupid questions. Don’t ask me what the baby’s supposed to drink because I don’t know and I couldn’t care less.

(A pause. Laura looks away. Starts to push tea leaves down drain.)

CARO. I’m sorry, dear. What’s the matter? (Puts orange juice down.)

LAURA. Oh. Nothing. (Puts teapot away in cupboard.)

CARO. Well! I’m sure you do know really. I’m sure you’re a wonderful mother. (Laura turns and gives Caroline a look.)

LAURA. Shall we find some more congenial surroundings?

CUT TO: SITTING ROOM

(As they enter . . .)

CARO. Perhaps you need a bit of a break. Perhaps it’s getting on top of you.

LAURA. Perhaps you’re right. I haven’t been out in the evening for seven weeks.

CARO. Seven whole weeks? (Getting out cigarette.)

LAURA. (Passing Caroline an ashtray.) Well, as a matter of fact that’s not quite true. We did try to go to the cinema once, we got a woman in to babysit, but I was so worried about the baby that I didn’t enjoy myself at all, and when we got back we found she’d been yelling all evening.

CARO. It doesn’t hurt them to cry, does it?

LAURA. That’s not the point.

CARO. But darling, if you hate it all so much—I simply can’t understand what you went and had the baby for.

LAURA. Oh, these things will happen, you know.

CARO. But what did Bill think about it?

LAURA. Well, to tell you the truth he hardly seems to pay it much attention. He just keeps on saying it’ll be all right soon. So I hang around waiting for a great flow of maternal love to overwhelm me, like it says in the books. But it just doesn’t happen.

CARO. Doesn’t it? What does happen?

LAURA. Nothing.

CARO. You must do something about it.

LAURA. What, for instance?

CARO. Buy yourself a new hat.

LAURA. Don’t be simple, Caroline. Anyway, I’m not the kind of person who wears hats.

CARO. What about a nice fur hat like mine? (Fishes it up from behind the settee, where she has carelessly thrown it. It is a large, ostentatious hat.) My funeral hat? My funeral hat? Here, try it on. (Throws it over.)

LAURA. No, thanks.

CARO. Why not? Don’t you like it? Go on, admit you don’t like it. It goes a bit far, do you think?

LAURA. No, I do like it, it’s a lovely hat. It just wouldn’t suit me, that’s all.

CARO. Nonsense, darling, nonsense. Try it on.

LAURA. I don’t want to.

CARO. Whyever not?

LAURA. It won’t suit me. (Nevertheless, she gets up, goes over to the mirror, and very slowly tries it on: stares at herself with some bewilderment, her expression changing from doubt to irritation. It clearly suits her very well. She pulls it off crossly, saying,) No, my fancy-hat days are decidedly over. (Sees clock.) Oh. I must put the bottle on to boil.

CARO. (Shouting after her into kitchen.) I think you’re just plain feeble, Laura. Feeble, that’s all.

CUT TO: KITCHEN

(In the kitchen. She stops, freezes in the act of filling the saucepan, says to herself:)

LAURA. I say, Mrs. Stephens, why don’t you go out and buy yourself a new hat? A new hat, the perfect cure for boredom, listlessness, a large appetite, and hardness of the heart. Why, my darling, you could even wear it to do the washing up.

CUT TO: LIVING ROOM

(Back to Caroline, who is still lying on settee. She hears Bill entering front door: he enters room, taking off coat, sees Caroline, expresses surprise.)

BILL. Good Lord, Caroline, whatever are you doing here? I thought you were in Italy or somewhere equally exotic.

CARO. Hello, Bill, my darling, what joy to see you again after all these years.

BILL. (Returning effusive embrace.) Well, not as many as all that, you know, it can’t be more than two, can it?

CARO. Oh, two years is a lifetime.

BILL. Well, whatever do you think you’re doing here, anyway? What on earth can have brought you to this desolate spot?

CARO. A funeral.

BILL. (Somewhat taken aback.) Oh? Oh dear, I am sorry.

CARO. No need to be sorry, it was only my old grandpa, and high time he went, too; he was well over ninety. They were beginning to think he’d live forever. I think you’ve got far less excuse.

BILL. Excuse for what?

CARO. For being in this dump.

BILL. Whatever do you mean?

CARO. Well, Laura tells me you sacrificed all your fine principles and took a job up here purely for the money. Can it be possible? Can this be the truth? I ask myself.

BILL. More or less, I suppose. I’m not the first, you know. One has to think of one’s family, after all.

CARO. (Pointedly.) You mean you came up here to please Laura?

BILL. Well, in a manner of speaking . . . it’s all for her own good, really. In the long run. Let me get you a drink. (Goes over to corner cupboard.)

CARO. That would be lovely. Well, Bill, how do you like being a father?

BILL. What?

CARO. Being a father.

BILL. Oh yes. That. I haven’t quite got used to the idea, I must say. She’s a pretty baby, though, don’t you think?

CARO. I must confess I haven’t set eyes on her yet. . . . Laura’d just finished feeding her when I arrived, and I haven’t been allowed to go near.

BILL. (Turning round from cupboard in some embarrassment.) I say, Caroline, I’m awfully sorry, I don’t seem to have a thing here except some flat beer and (tilting bottle to light) half a sherry.

CARO. Oh, don’t worry, it doesn’t matter, I’m not bothered. (Bill pours himself a beer.)

BILL. Where’s Laura?

CARO. Doing the tea things, I think.

BILL. (Shouting.) Do you want some beer, Laura?

LAURA. (Shouting crossly.) You know I can’t drink beer, you know what it does to the baby.

BILL. Oh lord. (Pulling a face to acknowledge his faux pas.)

CARO. What on earth does it do to the baby?

BILL. Don’t ask me. Gives it wind or something. Life’s not worth living these days: she won’t eat peas, she won’t eat cabbage, she won’t drink this, she won’t drink that, all because of the baby and a lot of old wives’ tales that those idiot midwives told her in hospital.

CARO. Poor old Laura.

BILL. What about poor old Bill?

CARO. Poor old Bill then.

BILL. That’s better. Now then, tell me all about yourself. What have you been doing since I last saw you?

CUT TO: KITCHEN

(Laura standing immobile in the kitchen, still holding the pan. The water is overflowing. She says, expressionlessly, with no trace of emotion:)

LAURA. I can’t stand it. I don’t think I can stand it. What would happen if I really couldn’t stand it? (Slowly she turns the tap off without looking at it.)

CUT TO: LIVING ROOM

(Caroline sitting on chair arm, Bill standing over her.)

CARO. . . . so I said, certainly not, it’s far too early for that, and somehow that was the end of it.

(Bill laughs.)

BILL. And now you’ve come back again, do you think you’ll stay here?

CARO. I don’t know, really. I can’t quite make up my mind. England’s so dreary, in so many ways. . . . London’s all right, I suppose. I might get a flat in London. (Pause.) I say, Bill, what on earth do you think Laura’s up to, all this time, in the kitchen? Do you think I ought to go and see?

BILL. No, I’ll go, I ought to go and say hello—back in a minute.

CUT TO: KITCHEN

(Laura is staring out of the window and ostentatiously doesn’t turn, leaving him to do all the work.)

BILL. Hello, darling, had a good day? (No reply.) How’s the baby? (No reply.) What’s the matter, Laura?

LAURA. Nothing.

(He kisses her on the cheek; she does not move.)

BILL. Caroline’s looking very well, isn’t she?

LAURA. (Grimly.) I suppose I’ll have to ask her to supper, if she stays much longer. Though God knows what we’re going to have.

BILL. What’s the matter, Laura?

LAURA. What do you mean, “What’s the matter”?

BILL. What are you in such a filthy temper about?

LAURA. (Bangs saucepan on stove.) I don’t see why I shouldn’t be in a filthy temper if I want to be. I don’t see anything to be particularly cheerful about.

BILL. I thought you’d have had a nice day, talking to Caroline.

LAURA. (Gets bottles and puts them in pan on stove.) Oh yes. Listening to her yap yap yapping about Italy and fur hats and all this money she’s been left, as though she wasn’t quite all right to begin with, and what shall she do next, shall she take a flat in London or shall she fly straight back to a warmer climate? Stupid nonsense.

BILL. For God’s sake, Laura, you’re always complaining about being alone all day, and when somebody does come you manage to complain about that too. . . . You can’t complain about everything, you know.

LAURA. I shall complain if I want to.

BILL. What is there for supper, anyway? I’ll help you to get it.

LAURA. So I have to ask her for supper.

BILL. Well, for goodness sake, since she’s here, and goodness knows we haven’t seen her for long enough, and we probably won’t see her again for another two years, it’s only polite to ask her for a meal.

LAURA. Why can’t she give me a meal? Why can’t somebody give me a meal?

BILL. Don’t be silly, darling.

LAURA. Oh, just leave me alone, can’t you? Go and talk to Caroline; I’m sure she’s far more entertaining than I am.

BILL. Oh shut up, Laura, I’m sick to death of coming home and being shouted at by you every single night, just because I have the marvelous good fortune of being obliged to go out every day to earn our bread and butter—the way you carry on you’d think I was living it up in high society rather than sitting at a desk from ten till five.

LAURA. I’d rather sit at a desk from ten till five than stay cooped up in this, this hen run. I hate this house, I hate every corner of this horrid, ugly, boring little house. I’d bloody well leave you and everything in it this instant if I could . . .

BILL. (Realizing that she is getting worked up, starts on the daily calming-down process.) Now then, Laura, you know it’s not as bad as that, you know it’s not my fault.

(Enter Caroline, saying breezily:)

CARO. What on earth are you two up to in here? (Freezes in some confusion as she senses the atmosphere.) Oh, sorry, I just came to ask how the telly switches on.

BILL. Yes, of course, I’ll show you . . .

LAURA. Caroline, you simply must stay to supper.

CARO. Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of it . . .

LAURA. You must, I insist.

CARO. Oh no, I couldn’t possibly . . . (Embarrassment all round.)

BILL. Come on, Caroline, let’s go and switch it on (to get her out of the room).

LAURA. Television. Television. I’m sick to death of watching other people doing things on the television. (She goes over to fridge, looks in it, obviously quite resigned to the prospect of cooking supper.) There isn’t anything for supper anyway.

CUT TO: LIVING ROOM

BILL. (Switching TV on.) It’s no good going on at me about it, Caroline, it’s not my fault. I do try to make her go out, but she won’t. I can’t do a thing with her, she’s as stubborn as a mule these days.

CARO. She never used to be like that.

BILL. Well, she’s changed. It’s the baby, I suppose. Postnatal depression, they call it in the books. I suppose she’ll get over it.

CARO. She won’t get over it unless you do something about it—I can’t understand how either of you can bear it, all this sitting at home and watching the telly. I’d never have believed that you’d turn into such a gloomy couple. (She says this lightly.)

BILL. Oh, you’ve hit us at a bad time, that’s all. There’s life in us yet, you know.

CARO. Well then, let’s see a bit of it.

(She and Bill exchange a look of complicity, then Bill suddenly says, pulling himself together,)

BILL. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Let’s all go out together and have a wonderful meal and lots of drink and drown our sorrows and really enjoy ourselves, for a change. What about that?

CARO. What a wonderful idea, Bill, that’s just what I feel like. I need a bit of a cheer up after you lot on top of a funeral—that’s wonderful, where shall we go?

BILL. I’ll have to ring and book a table. I say, Laura (calling cheerfully—both he and Caroline are immensely relieved at the prospect of action), Laura, come here a minute, I’ve had an idea.

CARO. Smoked salmon, that’s what I feel like. A nice pink plateful. Or scallops would be nice.

(Laura puts her head round the door, as Bill and Caroline are exchanging looks of childish excitement and complicity. Her expression is not encouraging.)

BILL. I say, Laura, I’ve had an idea.

LAURA. Have you?

BILL. Don’t look so grim, darling. I was just going to suggest that we should all cheer ourselves up and have an evening out. (Receives no encouragement from her expression.) You know, go out for a meal. It would do a world of good. Somewhere lively.

LAURA. (Staring at him in partially feigned amazement.) And what about your baby?

(Bill and Caroline exchange looks. The thought of the baby had clearly not crossed their minds, though Bill does his best to pretend that everything is under control.)

BILL. Don’t worry about the baby, darling, we can easily get someone in, there are lots of people who’ve offered again and again, you know there are. We’ll ring up Michael and Felicity. Or that woman who did it for us last time. We’ll arrange it in no time.

LAURA. Not at this short notice, you won’t.

BILL. Don’t be silly, Laura, you know quite well we can do it if we put our minds to it. Wouldn’t you like to go out? Think what a change it would be, you know, a meal you haven’t cooked yourself, and waiters, and a few drinks, and a bit of crummy music. Wouldn’t you like to go? It’d cheer us all up, it’s just what you need.

LAURA. (With an objection-finding expression.) Anyway, even if we did get someone to come in, there’s nowhere interesting to go in this place. I bet there isn’t a decent restaurant in the whole town.

CARO. Oh, there must be one or two, surely. After all there’s goodness know how many inhabitants, isn’t it the sixth-biggest city in England or something? Bill, where’s the best place?

BILL. The best place? I can’t think offhand . . . (Unwilling to lose face.) I should think that place at the top of Victoria Street would be the best. What’s it called, the Queens, isn’t it?

LAURA. (Contemptuously.) Good Lord no, that’s just a dump, that’s nothing but a glorified caff.

CARO. I passed quite a nice-looking place while I was out shopping this afternoon, it looked quite new, in that road by the Odeon. It was called La Belle Parisienne. French, it was.

BILL. (With relief.) Oh yes, that’s right, I didn’t think of that, it’s supposed to be very good there, proper French cuisine and all, and it’s only been open a couple of months so they won’t have found out about chips yet. What about it, Laura? Shall I ring up and book a table? When shall I book it for?

LAURA. (Weakening.) I’d have to feed the baby before we went. And that takes hours and hours.

BILL. (Looking at his watch.) I could book it for eight.

LAURA. I suppose it might be possible . . . (With a sudden renewed wail of misery.) But Bill, I haven’t got anything to wear. I can’t go out looking a perfect fright, can I? And look at my hair, it looks too terrible.

BILL. Darling, you look fine. You always look fine. (Starts to look up number of restaurant in directory.)

LAURA. Well, I don’t feel as though I look fine. I feel as though I look awful.

CARO. (More tactfully.) I’ll tell you what, Laura, you can borrow my hat? Then you can just shove all your hair up on top and leave it inside.

LAURA. I can’t eat my dinner in a hat, can I?

CARO. Why not? All the best people do. You know it suited you, you look terrific in it.

LAURA. (Weakening more and more.) Well, it is a nice hat . . . (She pauses, balancing on a decision, and suddenly comes down on the right side.) And I know what, I could wear that gray dress with the low neck that I got for Mike’s wedding, I’m sure I could get into that still . . .

BILL. Here’s the number. Maxwell 2244. Eight, did you say, Laura?

LAURA. That’s right. I’m sure I can make it by eight.

CARO. I’ll just go and tidy myself up a bit. (Exit.)

LAURA. (Crossing to Bill, excited now she allows herself to be, in a mock whisper.) I say, Bill, who’s going to pay?

BILL. (Nodding after Caroline.) She can, she’s oozing with it.

LAURA. No, seriously, Bill.

BILL. Don’t you worry, I think I can just about make it. Steer her off the champagne, though, for God’s sake, won’t you? Tell her it’ll give her wind.

LAURA. Do you want me to lend you some? You can have five pounds out of my spin-drier money if you want.

BILL. No, no, I wouldn’t dream of it . . .

LAURA. No, you can really . . .

BILL. Well, perhaps I should take it with me, just in case of emergencies . . .

LAURA: (Happy by now.) In case of champagne emergencies.

BILL. Champagne emergencies, that’s right.

(He picks up the receiver and starts to dial. Laura goes over to writing desk in corner and extracts five pounds, all in ten-bob notes, and brings it back to Bill, who kisses her on the cheek and breaks off the kiss to say into the receiver,)

BILL. Hello, my name is Stephens, I’d like to book a table for three at eight this evening . . . yes, that’s right . . . and could you tell me please, is there music? Music, you know, a band, a piano . . .

(Fade on Bill talking into phone and holding Laura’s hand as she nibbles his ear or something similar.)

END OF ACT TWO