ACT THREE

INTERIOR BATHROOM

(Caroline has transformed herself. She has put her hair up and removed the jacket of her suit. She is putting on the finishing touches when Laura dashes in, safety pins in her mouth and a wet nappy in her hand.)

CARO. (Brightly.) Everything going all right, darling?

(The baby starts to scream; Laura throws nappy in a pail, mumbles through her pins, and exits. Caroline pats her hair and makes her way downstairs. The baby stops crying as she enters.)

CUT TO: SITTING ROOM

CARO. Hi, Bill? Did you get the table all right?

BILL. Oh yes, I got the table.

CARO. Good. (Bill paces around.) What’s up then?

BILL. Well, the first time I rang this chap Mike to come round, but he wasn’t in, but the chap in the flat above said he was due in any minute, so I kept on trying, and when I finally did get through to him he said he couldn’t possibly because his mother-in-law was going there for supper.

CARO. Oh Lord.

BILL. So then I tried this Mrs. Addison who sat in for us on our last somewhat abortive attempt to amuse ourselves, but she said she was sorry she couldn’t come either, she’d fixed with a friend to play bingo.

CARO. Oh dear, what a frightful bore.

BILL. It is, isn’t it? Caroline, you look marvelous.

CARO. Thanks. Do you mind if I put the other bar on? It’s a bit chilly without my jacket. (Switches on more electric fire.)

BILL. Oh well, I’d better try someone else, I suppose. It does seem a bit tiresome to go bothering people at this late hour. . . . Still, it’s only for once, isn’t it? I could try Doris Williams, she’s one of the girls who works at our place, she did once say she’d come round if we got stuck. (While he is dialing, he shouts up Laura.) How’s it going, darling?

LAURA. (Out of vision.) (Loud whisper.) Shhh! Baby’s down. I’m getting ready.

BILL. Good. (Looks at phone.) No reply.

CARO. Don’t you know any of the neighbors?

BILL. Not really. Not so that we could ask anything of them. Laura’s odd about neighbors, she always has been, but she’s got much worse since the baby was born. She flies into a rage if they so much as ask her how the baby is. So I can’t very well appeal to them for help.

CARO. Too well bred, that’s what you are. The isolation of the middle classes. Now if you were ye good old working stock, you’d all be in and out of each other’s houses all day long, wouldn’t you? And you’d be able to park your baby on anyone, wouldn’t you?

BILL. That’s just a middle-class myth, I bet it doesn’t really work like that—no, we really ought to be that bit richer, you know, and then we could have a girl. A great status symbol, you know, a girl. (Turns to phone.) Well. I really must try to do something. Laura’ll be down in a minute, and I can’t bear the thought of what she’ll say if I haven’t managed to fix something up . . . (He starts to dial another number.)

CUT TO: BATHROOM

(Laura is in the bathroom doing up her face and humming happily to herself the original hymn tune. Mascara and all. Talks to herself in bathroom mirror.)

LAURA. Darling. You look wonderful. No, I really mean it. You’ve never looked better. How do you do it, how do you manage to look so well? Darling, Laura, my darling. (Leans forward and tenderly kisses her own image in mirror.)

CUT TO: SITTING ROOM.

(Bill once more glumly replacing receiver.)

CARO. No go?

(Bill shakes his head.)

BILL. I just can’t think who to ask. I’ve been through everyone I know in the whole town, I think . . .

CARO. Isn’t there an agency or something?

BILL. I don’t think so. That’s far too advanced a notion for a town like this. And even if there was, I don’t think Laura would ever agree to leaving the baby with someone she didn’t know.

CARO. But that’s ridiculous, whatever could possibly happen?

BILL. I know it’s ridiculous, but that’s how she is. She gets everything quite out of proportion these days. One minute she can’t bear the sight of the baby and the next she’s hugging it and kissing it like nothing on earth. . . . Don’t you know anyone we could ask, Caroline? No old family retainers?

CARO. Not really. I’ve been trying to think. We can hardly ask my bereaved eighty-year-old grandmother, can we?

BILL. Not exactly.

CARO. There must be something we can do, I mean, it’s quite ridiculous to be made a prisoner in your own house by one small baby. It doesn’t seem sense.

BILL. No, it doesn’t.

CARO. Ring up Citizens Advice and ask about agencies. Go on, Bill, there might be one. (Bill looks through directory.)

BILL. There’s no Citizens Advice.

CARO. Oh, there must be, look it up under some other name; try Local Information, or something like that. . . . Here, sling me the directory.

(Bill throws the directory over to Caroline, who starts to look through it. Enter Laura, dressed up and looking very well and slightly self-conscious about it.)

BILL. (Highly embarrassed but seeing that appreciation is expected of him and prepared to jump the first hurdle first.) Laura, darling, you look simply wonderful.

CARO. Yes, simply wonderful, what a lovely dress. Why, you look as slim as anything.

LAURA. (Very pleased.) The baby was so good, she must have known I wanted to go out, she went down like an angel, no wind or fuss or anything. She’s so sweet, she really smiles now, she doesn’t quite know what she’s smiling at, but she smiles around at nothing in particular. . . . She’s fast asleep now, she’s been no trouble at all. What time are Michael and Felicity coming round?

(Long pause.)

BILL. Well, the thing is, Laura, Felicity’s mother was going to have supper with them, so they were terribly sorry but they couldn’t come.

(Laura immediately aware of the position but not giving an inch.)

LAURA. So who is coming round then?

BILL. Well, I really have done my best; I’ve rung round everyone I could possibly think of, but Mrs. Addison was going to bingo, and some of them were out, and Timothy Bishop was just going to the cinema, and Alice had some friends coming round.

LAURA. (Expressionless, cold.) Bill. You didn’t ring Alice.

BILL. Well, darling, I had to try everyone, I had to try.

LAURA. Still, you needn’t have rung Alice. Now I’ll never be able to look her in the face again.

BILL. Oh, Laura . . .

CARO. (Interrupting with a cry of enthusiasm.) Look, here we are, here’s the very thing, Baby Minders Ltd., that sounds exactly the kind of thing, don’t you think? Cheer up, initiative, that’s all you need.

BILL. (Glancing apprehensively at Laura, who is sitting still as a stone trying not to show her disappointment.) Do you mind, darling? Would you mind if we rang the agency? (She does not reply.) After all, they’re bound to have people with good references, don’t you think? Shall I give them a ring? (Laura still does not reply, her face blank. Bill and Caroline exchange glances, then Caroline gives Bill the directory, and he dials the number.) Hello? Hello? (Hopefully.) Baby Minders Limited? My name is William Stephens, and I live at 33 Moorside Parkway, and I wanted to book a babysitter—well, to come round as soon as possible, really . . . Oh. Oh, I see. Couldn’t you possibly try to . . .? No. Oh. (He is about to ring off when Caroline whispers.)

CARO. Ask him if there are any other agencies in town.

BILL. Hello? Hello? I wonder, could you tell me, are there any other baby-minding agencies in town? Oh, I see. You’re the only one. Thank you. Good-bye. (Rings off.)

CARO. What did they say?

BILL. He said that you had to book before five. At the latest. He said the last person was booked at half-past four.

(Silence falls. Laura very slowly and deliberately starts to remove her evening gloves.)

LAURA. (Very coolly.) Well, Bill, you’d better ring and cancel the table, hadn’t you? Or you won’t get very good service next time you feel like going.

(Silence once more. Nobody moves. Caroline gets up violently. Horribly oppressed.)

CARO. I can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe it, that there’s no way of getting out. Why, one might as well be in a prison. Or on a desert island. It’s too utterly ludicrous.

BILL. (Taking Laura’s wad of ten-bob notes out of his pocket.) Well, I could always go down to the off-license and get us a bottle of whisky. And some fish and chips. Then at least you wouldn’t have to cook supper.

LAURA. (In a small, stubborn voice.) I don’t want whisky. I don’t want fish and chips. I want to get out of here. I want to be able to get out when I want for as long as I want. I don’t want to be shut up in here like a criminal.

(Long pause. They all regard each other gloomily.)

BILL. Well, I really can’t think what to do. There really doesn’t seem to be any way out of it, does there?

LAURA. (With a curious satisfaction.) I knew it was no good. I knew I wouldn’t get out. I’m always telling you things won’t work, and you’re always telling me they will, and when we really try it’s me that’s right, isn’t it? Go on, admit it, I’d feel somehow better if you admitted it instead of trying to cheer me up.

BILL. Look, darling, it’s only once. Mike and Felicity were terribly sorry; they said they’d come round any other evening we wanted.

LAURA. Oh yes. They said. But any other evening you try it’ll be just the same story. Well, I suppose we’d just better make the best of it. What do you want for supper? I could always do spaghetti, I suppose.

(This is not a genuine offer, but an attempt to rub salt in the wound.)

BILL. (Another attempt at brightness.) I’ll tell you what, I’ve just had an idea. Why don’t you and Caroline go? And I’ll stay here with the baby? No, really, I’m not so bothered about going myself, you know I don’t like sitting in restaurants and eating too much just for the sake of it; it always makes me feel rotten the day after. Why don’t you two go? I’ll be perfectly all right here with the baby.

(Laura and Caroline do not look too thrilled by the suggestion, though Caroline is evidently prepared to make the best of it.)

CARO. Yes, why not, Laura?

LAURA. (After some thought.) No thanks. I can’t say I somehow fancy the idea. Two women eating alone together in a restaurant; that’s not exactly my idea of a gay night out.

BILL. (With an attempt at lightness.) I don’t see why not, you told me the other day that you didn’t like men anyway, you said they were a nasty, selfish, thoughtless lot. You should be glad to get rid of them for a change.

LAURA. That doesn’t mean to say that I like women either, does it? Anyway, however much I may dislike men, that doesn’t mean they’re not necessary. In fact, precisely what I dislike about them is the fact that they’re necessary.

BILL. Honestly, I’d be perfectly happy to look after the baby for you. I don’t see why you won’t go. Shall I ring for a taxi?

LAURA. No, don’t bother, I don’t want to go anymore, anyway.

BILL. Whyever not? It’s hardly very polite to Caroline, to refuse to go out and have a meal with her, when you haven’t seen her for so many years.

CARO. Oh drop it, Bill, I know exactly what Laura means. I can’t say I’m too enchanted by the idea of eating alone in a restaurant with Laura either, even though she is my dearest friend and all that. I don’t like being stared at by waiters, personally. It’s all right for men; they just don’t understand these things.

BILL. Well, I must say I think you’re both rather feeble. You’ll never win the battle for feminine independence if you carry on like that.

LAURA AND CARO. It’s all very well for you to talk.

LAURA. (To Caroline.) And it’s all very well for you to talk too. (Another hiatus.)

CARO. I say, the most obvious solution has quite suddenly struck me, I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before, it really is the most obvious thing. Why don’t you and Bill go out together and I’ll babysit for you?

(The reactions produced by this are varied. Bill feels he ought to accept for Laura’s sake but at the same time wants to spend the evening with Caroline. Laura, too, is fed up with Bill and too bored with the idea to want to spend an evening alone with him, but naturally does not wish to confess it. As it is eminently the most sensible solution, they accept it, but the following negotiations are marked by gloom on all parts.)

BILL. Well, Caroline, that’s awfully nice of you. . . . It hardly seems fair, though, to go out and leave you when you’ve come all this way to see us . . .

CARO. I didn’t come all this way just to see you, you know, I came for my grandpa’s funeral. Still, it’s rather posh, don’t you think? You’ll be able to say you had a babysitter fly out specially from Italy for you . . .

BILL. It’ll be awfully boring for you here, though, all on your own, won’t it? I feel awful about it, at least let me go and get you something to drink.

CARO. Oh, I’ll be all right, don’t worry about me; I’ll watch the telly. After all, I can usually go out when I want, can’t I? It’ll be a change for me to sit in.

LAURA. No, it’s out of the question.

BILL. What do you mean, out of the question?

LAURA. We can’t possibly leave Caroline all alone here by herself, what with funerals and babysitting, she’ll wish she’d never set eyes on us.

CARO. Don’t be silly, Laura, anything I can do to help . . .

LAURA. (Very crossly.) And stop feeling so damned sorry for me. I can stand anything so long as people aren’t sorry for me.

BILL. Now, now, darling, you must admit that it’s much the most reasonable solution. You and me can go out together and have a nice evening like in the old days; it’ll do you a world of good.

LAURA. Now we’re back where we started.

BILL. Oh, come on, Laura, you’d made your mind up once to go out; don’t let’s go through all that again, let’s just get on with it. (Looking at his watch.) Come on, if we don’t get a move on we’ll be late.

LAURA. You talk as if it were some horribly disagreeable duty . . . I’m telling you, I just don’t want to go out anymore. I’ve gone right off the idea, and I know you don’t want to go because you said just now that it wasn’t your idea of amusement, sitting at a table for too long and eating too much.

BILL. You know quite well that I only said that because I didn’t want you to think . . . oh, anyway, you know quite well why I said it. Stop raising ridiculous objections. Do let’s go, Laura, it’s not worth taking all that stuff off again now you’re all dressed up . . .

LAURA. You sound as though you’re going to the slaughterhouse . . . Still, I suppose we might as well go. (Looks round for coat, starts to put it on.)

BILL. (Glad a solution is reached.) That’s right, that’s the way. Now then, Caroline, are you sure you’ll be all right? There’s eggs and things in the fridge, help yourself to anything you want, won’t you? We won’t be late back, will we, Laura?

LAURA. No. No, I don’t suppose so.

CARO. Oh, I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. The only thing is, whatever shall I do if the baby wakes? I haven’t a clue about what to do with babies. When does it next need feeding?

LAURA. She.

CARO. Pardon?

LAURA. She, not it.

CARO. Oh, I see what you mean.

LAURA. She doesn’t need feeding until eleven, really. . . . If she wakes up pick her up and joggle her on your knee, will you? She usually goes off again after a bit . . .

CARO. OK, don’t worry, I’ll deal with her.

LAURA: (Who by now has her coat on and is ready to go, but hesitant, hovering.) Anyway, you know where we are, don’t you? If anything goes wrong?

CARO. Now off you go, enjoy yourself, stop worrying.

BILL. Come on, Laura, we must get a move on.

CARO. Hey, Laura, you’ve forgotten the hat.

LAURA. Oh, thanks. (She goes to the mirror and starts to put her hat on. Silence is disturbed by the faint noise of a baby crying, freezing.) Hush, listen. What was that?

(Bill and Caroline exchange glances of despair.)

BILL. Oh, don’t bother, she’ll go off again, won’t she?

LAURA. (Starting to take off her coat.) It’s no good. What’s the point? What’s the point? Why not face it? It can’t be done, it just can’t be done. (Bill and Caroline make remonstrating noises, half-heartedly. Laura takes off her coat, turns away. Summoning up her courage, quite well aware of all that this implies for her life to come, she makes toward the hall, stops, then turns round to the other two.) I’ll tell you what we should do. Why don’t you and Bill go and leave me here with the baby?

(She is smiling now: the idea gives her a perverse pleasure.)

BILL. Don’t be silly, Laura, we wouldn’t dream of such thing, we wouldn’t dream of leaving you . . .

CARO. Of course not, Laura, of course we wouldn’t go without you.

LAURA. Why not, whyever not? I wouldn’t enjoy myself anyway; I’d be worrying about whether the baby were crying or not. And I get so tired, too, I always drop asleep at nine, don’t I, Bill? I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t manage to get a bit of sleep in before the late feed. . . . A real wet blanket I’d be, I really would.

BILL. Darling, the whole point was for you to get out a bit . . .

LAURA. Yes, I know, but it just isn’t practicable, is it? Anyway, even if we had gone, I’d have got myself into a filthy temper, not being able to eat this and not being able to eat that for fear of upsetting the baby, and I wouldn’t have been able to have anything to drink, would I? And what’s the point of going out if you can’t have a drink?

BILL. Darling, I’m sure one little drink wouldn’t upset the baby, would it?

LAURA. (All sweet reason.) You don’t realize, Bill. I don’t want to go out and have one little drink and watch my diet and be back home before ten, like some kind of Cinderella. If that’s how it is, then I’d rather not go at all.

BILL. Eleven, not ten.

LAURA. What’s an hour, this way or that? It’s the principle of the thing. I’d be happier in, I’d really be much happier in. I get tired enough in the evening as it is.

BILL. Yes, that’s true, you always are half dead at that last feed, aren’t you? . . .

CARO. (Feebly, without conviction.) Oh really. You and Bill must go. Listen, the baby’s stopped, hasn’t she? (They listen. Silence.) There, you see, she’s stopped.

LAURA. That doesn’t mean a thing. Once she’s woken like that, she’s up on and off all evening. I know. I’m telling you. Anyway, I’m telling you, I just don’t want to go. You’d better get a move on, you two, or you’ll be late.

(Caroline and Bill look at each other uncertainly.)

LAURA. Go on, do go. It’s silly for nobody to go.

CARO. I suppose it is rather silly for nobody to go. . . . Are you sure you really won’t, Laura?

LAURA. Quite sure. Really. I’d rather not.

BILL. Well then, I must say, that’s awfully nice of you. Where is your coat, Caroline?

CARO. In the hall.

BILL. Come on, we’d better hurry.

(They go into the hall, Laura following. Caroline puts on her coat.)

CARO. I’ll give you a ring in the morning, before I go.

LAURA. All right. Have a good time.

BILL. Bye, darling. Don’t wait up.

LAURA. Don’t worry, I won’t.

(He kisses her cheek, takes Caroline’s arm, and off they go, very slightly subdued by Laura’s martyred virtue. Laura, alone in the hall. She wanders up to bedroom, slowly takes off her dress, puts on her dressing gown, down into kitchen, takes the bar of chocolate from the kitchen drawer, breaks a piece off, and starts to eat it. Goes into sitting room, switches on telly, sits down in armchair, eyes on telly, still eating chocolate as though famished. Sits on hat. Picks it up without looking at it and puts it on. Suddenly stops munching and says:)

LAURA. And she never set eyes on my beautiful baby.

(She sits back in the chair, as though for the evening, when the sight of the teddy bear lying on the floor attracts her attention. She picks it up, stares at it with fury.)

LAURA. Stupid baby.

(And punches it in the stomach or beats it on the chair arm. It responds by squeaking fairly distinctly, “Mummy, mummy.” Distracted, she punches it again, this time deliberately. Once more it responds with a good healthy squeak. She smiles at it, touched, through the beginning of tears, folds it in her arms, sits back in her chair, and starts to watch the television.)

THE END