The ‘Dead March’ is played by a military band, offstage. In the middle, on the turf, stands a dais, draped in a Union Jack. Other Union Jacks are massed along the rear. Either side of the dais, the SOLDIERS in crisp uniform. Grouped around, MRS TOYNBEE and LALAGE, BRIDE clasping his ledger, and a BISHOP in ceremonial scarlet. HACKER and CLOUT stand modestly to one side. The Royal GENTLEMAN attends the PRINCE OF WALES. At last the music stops. The BISHOP climbs up.
BISHOP: Why God likes pain. (Pause.) Always being asked that one, why God is so very fond of pain. (Pause.) Because He is. Wriggle around it as we might, it’s inescapable, He must like pain. His own and other people’s. He must approve of it. And this is as good an occasion to mention pain as any. Better than most, in fact. Because we are situated in a sea of it. An Atlantic of stilled agony. (Pause. He examines his fingers a moment.) Well, I will not apologise for Him. I am always apologising for Him. It’s getting a bit much.
GENTLEMAN: (Standing underneath, arms folded.) NOT – THE – SPEECH.
BISHOP: It is, in fact, becoming something of an outrage.
GENTLEMAN: WRONG – SPEECH.
BISHOP: This mission – this so-called calling – (He plucks his robes.) – which consists in making the vile palatable, and finding symmetry in the hideous, it is becoming an impertinence.
(The GENTLEMAN begins coughing.)
Fear not. I do not deny the existence of the person God. I merely ask what sort of character He has.
GENTLEMAN: NO.
BISHOP: I ask you, would you let Him near your child?
Because, quite frankly, I would not!
GENTLEMAN: (Coughing.) NO. NO. NO.
BISHOP: I look around me at His works – (He waves an arm over the graves.) And I must answer, let Him touch me not!
GENTLEMAN: FINISH.
BISHOP: However –
GENTLEMAN: (Declaring publicly.) THE PRINCE OF WALES!
(There is a fanfare.)
BISHOP: I consecrate this cemetery, therefore –
GENTLEMAN: THE PRINCE OF WALES!
BISHOP: All right, I consecrate it!
(The fanfare sounds again as the BISHOP is bundled down by the GENTLEMAN.
The GENTLEMAN urges the PRINCE OF WALES to go up with jerks of his head. Reluctantly, he does so.
An awful pause.)
PRINCE: (Paralysed by shyness.) I – I – I – (He stops.) Our – Our – Our – (He stops again.) This is torture to me...
(He hangs his head.
Suddenly, MRS TOYNBEE steps forward.)
MRS TOYNBEE: You are very good. Believe me, you are very good.
(He looks at her. He is charged.)
PRINCE: I – I – I am the head of what they call the British Establishment.
GENTLEMAN: NO.
PRINCE: The g-g-great British Establishment that sends young soldiers to their deaths.
GENTLEMAN: WRONG SPEECH.
PRINCE: No more of that. No more deaths. I am King Edward and I won’t have deaths! Finish with that. Altogether better establishment from now on. Promise.
MRS TOYNBEE: God save the Prince of Wales!
PRINCE: (Joyously.) I declare this cemetery open!
(Clapping, and the SOLDIERS raise their caps three times, with cheers.
Grinning, the PRINCE OF WALES starts to come off the dais, but is stopped.)
GENTLEMAN: Stay there. You stay there. Christ, what is going on today!
(He goes back up.
The GENTLEMAN takes a slip of paper and gives it to the PRINCE OF WALES to read.)
PRINCE: (Reading.) It is now my solemn duty, on behalf of King and Empire, to choose from all our missing the Unknown Warrior.
(He clears his throat.
BRIDE steps forward with his ledger.
The GENTLEMAN takes it from him and hands it up to the PRINCE OF WALES.)
GENTLEMAN: Book. (He removes a pin from his lapel, hands this up.) Pin. (He shakes out a white handkerchief.) Blindfold.
(He goes behind the PRINCE OF WALES and covers his eyes, then holds the book for the PRINCE OF WALES to flick through the pages.
The PRINCE OF WALES stops at a page and jabs with the pin.
The GENTLEMAN looks down.)
Number 1127161.
(The PRINCE OF WALES starts to descend.)
FLOWERS: ’Shun!
(The SOLDIERS stamp to attention. As he comes down the PRINCE OF WALES stops by FLOWERS.)
PRINCE: I remember you.
FLOWERS: Me, sir?
PRINCE: Why didn’t you tell them that I kissed your hand?
FLOWERS: Tell who, sir?
PRINCE: The newspapers. It was a cameo of m-m-modern history. Like Sir W-W-Walter Raleigh laying down his cloak.
FLOWERS: Thought we should keep it to ourselves, sir.
PRINCE: It was meant to be symbolical.
FLOWERS: Sym – what, sir?
PRINCE: Don’t d-d-damned well keep it to yourself, that’s what symbolical means!
GENTLEMAN: (Administering the formalities.) The Contractor, your Highness – (He looks at a list.) MR RONALD HACKER.
HACKER: (Attempting to bow.) Pleased to –
PRINCE: Jolly pretty. Lovely. Everything. (He walks past HACKER.) Want to meet the woman.
GENTLEMAN: As you wish. (He beckons MRS TOYNBEE with a finger, as she comes forward he leans towards her inquiringly.) Who are you?
MRS TOYNBEE: Sylvia Toynbee.
GENTLEMAN: Mrs or Miss?
MRS TOYNBEE: Mrs.
GENTLEMAN: (Turning back to the PRINCE OF WALES.) Your Highness, MRS SYLVIA TOYNBEE!
(The PRINCE OF WALES shyly takes her hand.
The GENTLEMAN picks out BRIDE next.)
Next!
PRINCE: Tongue-tied.
MRS TOYNBEE: Like last time.
PRINCE: Yes. Yes. (With sudden inspiration.) The dog! The dog!
MRS TOYNBEE: He’s very well, thank you.
(Pause. The PRINCE OF WALES looks down, ashamed.)
PRINCE: God, I have simply nothing in my head...!
(The GENTLEMAN coughs, waiting with BRIDE.)
MRS TOYNBEE: (Smoothly.) I am holding a seance here tonight.
Would you care to join us?
PRINCE: Yes, oh, yes!
(She turns away.)
GENTLEMAN: Your Highness, Chief Graves Commissioner MR HECTOR BRIDE!
(The PRINCE OF WALES shakes his hand.
There is a silence.)
PRINCE: Nothing to say. Nothing to say to this man.
GENTLEMAN: (To BRIDE.) You may withdraw. (He steps back.)
PRINCE: That’s it, then, is it?
GENTLEMAN: You must be polite to the officials!
PRINCE: George, she wants to meet me here tonight.
GENTLEMAN: Will you listen! You have got to be decent to officials. Sans them, sans everything! Do you follow me?
PRINCE: I’m sorry, yes. (He is suddenly cast down.) Oh fuck, I’ve ballsed-up everything!
GENTLEMAN: Don’t say that.
PRINCE: Yes, I have.
GENTLEMAN: Keep your head up, please.
(He nods to stage left.
The band strikes up.
They leave sedately.
After a few bars, the band stops.
The SOLDIERS break rank, tearing off their caps and belts.)
BASS: (To FLOWERS.) Kissed your ’and? ’e kissed your ’and?
RIDDLE: Never told us, Mr Flowers. That a prince had genuflected to your cunt-crazed paw.
FLOWERS: Five years of my life. I won’t be used.
(He stalks out.
TROD and BASS hurry out after him.)
BISHOP: I meant to say that God is merciful to those who perish in a just cause...that’s what I meant to say...
RIDDLE: Is there a God? What is a just cause? Did they even perish?
BISHOP: Precisely the objections that occurred to me... (He goes out.)
HACKER: Well, Clout, they ’ave the Unknown Warrior.
CLOUT: Sir.
HACKER: Mr Billy Toynbee. In Westminster Abbey before a massive concourse of the nation. Buried among kings and poets. Ramsay MacDonald, Mr Asquith, and assembled upper-class tarts weeping. I feel quite envious.
CLOUT: Unknown, though, Mr ’acker.
HACKER: Yeah, but what a spot! Fuck it, I wouldn’t say no to obscurity like that. (He claps CLOUT on the shoulder.) Your triumph, Clout. Your credit, son.
CLOUT: (With a yell.) Don’t squeeze me arm, please, Mr ’acker!
HACKER: Why what’s the matter with it?
CLOUT: Got fluid on the elbow, copying that number out three ’undred thousand times.
HACKER: Not used to writing, are yer, son? Brute strength’s more your forte.
CLOUT: (Moving off.) Better get after Bride. Switch these ledgers back...
(He removes a ledger from his jacket. It is the one BRIDE always carries.)
Night. Hurricane lamps are burning. HACKER and CLOUT carry on a table, on which are balanced some chairs.
HACKER: Don’t geddit. Sensible woman. Don’t geddit. What’s she after?
MRS TOYNBEE: (Carrying a chair.) We’ll have four more chairs and cushions, Mr Clout, please, if you can manage it.
(He goes out, ill-temperedly.
HACKER sets them out.)
The Bishop is swallowing his theological inhibitions, which will bring us up to eight. Eight is a good number. It is mystical, being a figure formed from two noughts.
HACKER: I must say, Sylvia, I dunno if I go for this.
MRS TOYNBEE: Go for it?
HACKER: Black magic.
MRS TOYNBEE: It’s not black magic.
HACKER: Whatever it is, then.
MRS TOYNBEE: It’s not the seance you object to, is it? It’s the Prince.
(He shrugs.)
He is a lonely young man.
HACKER: So am I, Sylvia.
MRS TOYNBEE: You are married.
HACKER: No. I’m not. (Pause. He recollects.) Oh, yes, I am...
MRS TOYNBEE: You told me so yourself.
HACKER: All right, I am, I’m married, but I’m lonelier than ’im. You can be lonely in a double bed. You can ’ave a body next to yer and it can be as ’ostile as lead ripped off a prison roof. (He looks at her, as she plumps a cushion.) Christ, Sylvia...take my ’and...take it...
(She looks round quickly, then takes it, across the table.)
MRS TOYNBEE: You’ve been drinking.
HACKER: Yep.
(She withdraws her hand.)
This new arrangement. ’im being put in Westminster Abbey...it’s not the funeral I ’ad ’oped for...
MRS TOYNBEE: We will sneak in. Watch from the back.
HACKER: Promise me you’ll wear the dress.
MRS TOYNBEE: I promise.
HACKER: Oh, Christ, my love, my ’ands will be all over it –
MRS TOYNBEE: I HOPE TO GOD YOU ARE NOT DRUNK.
(CLOUT comes in, with chairs.
HACKER sinks into a chair, as CLOUT and MRS TOYNBEE organise them round the table.
BRIDE appears, in coat and scarf.)
Good evening, Mr Bride.
BRIDE: They have just taken him. The Unknown Warrior. They are all unknown except to me!
MRS TOYNBEE: Would you care to take a seat?
BRIDE: This monstrous funeral in obscene London, London that killed them, one practised parade for dignitaries to weep! There should be a million! A million wailing funerals clogging every street, a million caskets lumbered through the traffic, tumbling and bursting, a million bodies spilling off of carts in Piccadilly and a howling of relatives to shake their palaces! (Pause.) Instead, it is an exhibition of their dignity, civilised and ordered as befits a governing race, an occasion to make Sikhs and Bantus wet-eyed with respect... (He looks at HACKER.) Did I tell you, I’m not proper in my head?
HACKER: I think you mentioned it.
BRIDE: (Sitting.) When he returned the book to me, after pricking with his pin, all the numbers seemed the same. Page after page. 1127161.
CLOUT: Not possible.
BRIDE: No. Something’s happened in my head...
(The BISHOP comes in.)
BISHOP: Good evening, Mrs Toynbee.
MRS TOYNBEE: I’m very glad you’ve come.
BISHOP: I brought a half bottle of Black and White. In case it turns any colder. The spirits have nothing against alcohol, have they? Might help them a bit.
MRS TOYNBEE: (Indicating a place.) Sit there, would you? Lalage has generously offered to read. It is the fate of sceptics to record the ecstasies of others.
HACKER: (As the BISHOP sits.) Get something in the glass, won’t we, yer worship? Liquid spirits is better than none.
BISHOP: I am a clergyman, not a judge. I am a doctor.
HACKER: Doctor, is it? Might need a doctor when we’ve done with this. If it turns any colder. Look! See yer breath! (He stands up, breathes out.)
MRS TOYNBEE: Please, don’t persist about the weather.
HACKER: No, I was only saying –
(He moves up two places to sit next to her.)
MRS TOYNBEE: (Indicating his original place.) Sit there, would you?
HACKER: No cushion on that seat.
MRS TOYNBEE: Does that matter? Take one off another seat.
HACKER: I really mean, it’s not next to you. That’s what I really mean.
MRS TOYNBEE: No. It isn’t.
HACKER: Who’s next to you, then?
MRS TOYNBEE: Ah, there’s someone coming...
HACKER: If I’m not next to you, who is, then?
MRS TOYNBEE: Would you lay out the cards, please, Bishop?
BISHOP: Willingly.
MRS TOYNBEE: In a circle, reading inwards.
HACKER: (Persisting.) Sorry, I’m not getting through, who is, then?
MRS TOYNBEE: (Looking off.) It’s Lalage...
HACKER: All right. Don’t answer.
(He goes back to his place.
CLOUT moves to be beside him.)
Not next to me, Clout!
CLOUT: Sorry, Mr ’acker.
HACKER: See enough of you all day.
CLOUT: Sorry.
HACKER: No, I’m sorry. Spooks are getting at me. Sorry, son. (He helps himself to the BISHOP’s whisky.)
LALAGE: (Coming in.) I can’t believe that soldiers who died for one superstition are likely to come flocking to another.
MRS TOYNBEE: All we ask is for you to write. No one wants you to participate.
(LALAGE sits.)
HACKER: Look out, Bishop, there’s a thing on yer back!
BISHOP: (Turning.) What –
HACKER: ’s ‘all right. Flown off. Looked like a bat with ’airy legs... (He laughs, drinks.)
LALAGE: I think it’s time we scrapped beliefs, don’t you? Made them illegal or something.
BISHOP: This is an entertainment, surely. We wouldn’t want to be governed by the supernatural, would we, Mr Bride?
HACKER: (Acting sudden strangulation.) Ahhhhrrrr!
Something’s got me round the neck!
BISHOP: It has as much truth as the Communion. And as little.
HACKER: (Sinking down, hands to his throat.) Aghhh... Agh...
LALAGE: Who are we waiting for?
MRS TOYNBEE: The Prince of Wales.
LALAGE: The Prince of Wales?
HACKER: (On the ground now.) GET...IT...OFF...
MRS TOYNBEE: He had nothing to do, so I asked him along.
LALAGE: (Sitting.) Funny. Princes having empty evenings.
MRS TOYNBEE: He’s only human.
HACKER: (Getting up.) Only? Nearly human, she means. (He brushes off his knees, sits again.) Spirits got me. All right now.
MRS TOYNBEE: Mr Hacker has been drinking.
HACKER: MR Hacker? MR Hacker? As a point of fact I ’ave barely touched it. Clout will bear me out. I ’ave ’ardly touched it, ’ave I, Clout?
BISHOP: You have knocked the cards off.
HACKER: Clout, what ’ave I drunk this evening? I am not a drinking man, am I? This is purely to keep the Belgian damp out of my gizzard.
BISHOP: You have knocked the cards off.
HACKER: Yes, and I will pick ’em up.
(TROD appears as HACKER bends down.)
TROD: Excuse me.
(They look at him.)
I hear you’re planning to establish contact here tonight.
HACKER: ESTABLISH CONTACT? That’s good. ESTABLISH CONTACT. I like that.
MRS TOYNBEE: That is correct.
HACKER: Establish contact with what, I wonder? Who would you want to make contact with? DON’T TELL ME!
MRS TOYNBEE: (Turning angrily on him.) Why don’t you go home if you won’t take this seriously?
BISHOP: Hear, hear!
(Pause. HACKER is stunned.)
HACKER: Me? Is that supposed to be for –
MRS TOYNBEE: Yes. You. (Pause.) I’m not sure there is a seat.
TROD: I can find a box.
MRS TOYNBEE: All right. Get a box.
(He goes out again. Uncomfortable pause.)
LALAGE: How long do we have to wait?
BISHOP: Royalty are late on principle. I’ve stood in many freezing places for a duke or duchess and never got a thank you. Why don’t we start? There is nothing so good for the soul as the discovery you are dispensable.
BRIDE: We are sitting above men who knew that fact above all other things. Their souls were near to perfect by that reckoning...
PRINCE: (Off.) COO-EEE!
LALAGE: Would that be him?
HACKER: That’s ’im, I know ’is voice, such as it is. Needs a tannoy to be ’eard across a dinner table.
PRINCE: (Coming in, followed by the GENTLEMAN.) Good evening, Mrs Toynbee... (He removes his cap. He is wearing matching cap and plus fours.)
MRS TOYNBEE: Your Highness...
PRINCE: Brought George. Hope you don’t mind. Got to bring George. George is an equerry.
GENTLEMAN: Good evening, madam, gentlemen.
PRINCE: Want to do away with him, don’t I, George? Will do, in fact. Have a very modern monarchy. Where do I sit?
MRS TOYNBEE: There is a seat here.
HACKER: Next to Sylvia.
PRINCE: (Sitting, as the GENTLEMAN takes the remaining seat) Thrilled about this. Absolutely.
MRS TOYNBEE: You must believe.
PRINCE: Oh, yes.
MRS TOYNBEE: It’s futile if you don’t believe.
PRINCE: Believe anything you say.
MRS TOYNBEE: No, it has to be a positive belief.
PRINCE: Yes...
MRS TOYNBEE: Must trust.
PRINCE: W-w-will do, yes.
MRS TOYNBEE: Very well, then, place your fingers on the glass.
HACKER: Trod ’asn’t come back yet.
PRINCE: Oh, let’s begin! Please let’s begin!
MRS TOYNBEE: Place your index fingers on the glass.
HACKER: Clout, I ’ope you’re properly manicured for this.
MRS TOYNBEE: (As they reach out.) No talking. Everyone to close his eyes, and concentrate every ounce of mental energy upon the glass. Think. Just think. (Long pause.)
LALAGE: Nothing.
MRS TOYNBEE: Shh. (Pause.)
HACKER: Christ, my arm. (Pause.)
BRIDE: They will not speak to us. They will not demean themselves.
MRS TOYNBEE: Is there a spirit present?
PRINCE: Must be. This is Passchendaele!
BRIDE: They are present but they will not speak to us.
HACKER: Is it just me? My arm’s like a –
(Suddenly MRS TOYNBEE lets out a strange little cry.)
What?
(She shudders, breathing deep.)
Sylvia.
PRINCE: I feel it!
HACKER: (Eyes wide open.) What? FEEL WHAT?
MRS TOYNBEE: Oh...oh...!
PRINCE: Oh, yes, I feel it!
LALAGE: The glass is perfectly stationary.
HACKER: (On his feet now.) FEEL WHAT EXACTLY?
PRINCE: OH!
(He suddenly leaves the table, wanders a little way, clasping his face.
The GENTLEMAN rises.)
MRS TOYNBEE: (Opening her eyes.) My God...
HACKER: What in Christ’s name is all this?
MRS TOYNBEE: (Going to the PRINCE OF WALES.) It’s all right. it’s perfectly all right... This does happen. This is a phenomenon known as the surge.
HACKER: (To the GENTLEMAN.) Shouldn’t you be seeing to ’im? Mr Equerry?
GENTLEMAN: (Ineffectually.) I think... I...
HACKER: Seeing as ’e’s so ’orribly affected?
GENTLEMAN: I think... I...
HACKER: Seeing as being so near to Mrs Toynbee ’as spiritually buggered ’im?
MRS TOYNBEE: Would everybody just keep quiet?
HACKER: (Helping himself.) Whisky for you, Bishop? Doctor, or whatever. Keep the evil out of yer?
BISHOP: (Taking it.) I had no feeling. I had no feeling at all.
HACKER: No, well you wouldn’t ’ave done. Nor did Clout ’ere. Nor anybody else, I think. But then look where we are sitting.
BISHOP: Too far from the source of –
HACKER: Much too far from the source, I’d say.
PRINCE: (Returning to his seat.) Extraordinary. Q-q-quite extraordinary.
LALAGE: It’s awfully dull down here.
HACKER: ’ear, ’ear!
MRS TOYNBEE: Yes, well, perhaps you aren’t good at giving yourself, dear.
LALAGE: That must be it.
PRINCE: Try again, shall we?
BRIDE: They will not speak with us. What can they tell us we could ever understand?
MRS TOYNBEE: Mr Bride, all over the world mothers and widows are seeking contact with their loved ones. They are doing this from Texas to the Urals.
BRIDE: We mock them with our curiosity.
MRS TOYNBEE: It is not curiosity! I have lost my son.
BRIDE: Lost, yes. There is no compromise with lost.
HACKER: Might I suggest we all change seats? Shuffle round a bit? Give the spirits a bit of variety?
MRS TOYNBEE: We are all talking too much. Close your eyes and –
HACKER: (Jokingly.) Clout, you bugger, you’re asleep!
(TROD comes in, holding an ammunition box.)
TROD: You’ve started.
BRIDE: Here is a soldier. Here is a man who has seen the very bottom of the earth. If they will not talk to their brother, they will not talk to anyone.
(He shifts along.
TROD puts his box between BRIDE and the BISHOP.)
MRS TOYNBEE: (To TROD.) Will you ask, then? Ask for a spirit?
TROD: If you desire me...
PRINCE: We do desire you. I m-m-must tell you, I have not enjoyed an evening more in my whole life.
HACKER: I dread to contemplate your evenings, Mr Wales.
GENTLEMAN: He is not to be titled Mr Wales.
HACKER: Mr Prince, then, is it?
GENTLEMAN: It is nothing, or your Highness.
HACKER: Nothing or your Highness?
GENTLEMAN: I mean, no title, or –
PRINCE: Teddy.
GENTLEMAN: Yes.
MRS TOYNBEE: Can we get on?
TROD: (Closing his eyes.) Contemplate the dead. They are with us. Welcome them into your thoughts...
PRINCE: It’s moving! Already, it’s moving!
BRIDE: (Appalled.) THEY ALL WANT TO GET THROUGH!
MRS TOYNBEE: Somebody read!
BRIDE: OH, GOD!
LALAGE: (Reading as the glass darts about.) FRITZ IMMELMANN...
BRIDE: German!
LALAGE: WUR-TEM-BURG ... REG-IMENT...
BRIDE: OH, GOD!
LALAGE: COR... PORAL... AGE... 19...
TROD: Have you a message for us, Corporal Immelmann?
LALAGE: Yes... SYL-VIA...
MRS TOYNBEE: Oh, God, it’s the man who murdered my son! I’m going to faint... Teddy!
(The PRINCE OF WALES puts an arm round her.)
HACKER: Bloody ’ell...!
LALAGE: WOULD... LIKE... TO... KISS... YOUR... ARSE.
(The glass stops.)
HACKER: (Getting up.) Trod, you dirty little bleeder!
BRIDE: Sit down! Will you sit down!
PRINCE: Bit thick. Bit thick. I think...
HACKER: (To TROD, who is shuddering in his seat.) Murky young devil.
BRIDE: They revile us! We have offended them!
LALAGE: Perhaps we could break off now?
HACKER: Why not? My fingers are like ice. But then, I keep ’em to myself, yer see.
(Suddenly the glass shoots away again.)
I’m not on it!
PRINCE: Shut your eyes!
TROD: Read! Read!
LALAGE: BRIDE... HECTOR... BRIDE...
BRIDE: I hear you! I hear you!
LALAGE: WAIT-ING... FOR... YOU... COME... COME... Keeps saying come...
(Suddenly the glass flies off the table.)
HACKER: Woke you up, Clout!
LALAGE: Oh, the glass is broken...
PRINCE: (Disappointed.) No message for me, then...
HACKER: Not impressed by titles, are they? Probably Bolshevik spirits, fruit.
(BRIDE gets up, and unnoticed, drifts out.)
BISHOP: (Getting up.) I think we should call it a night, don’t you?
LALAGE: (Tying up her scarf.) A silly ending to a silly day.
HACKER: Sylvia. I would like a word with you. In private. Please.
MRS TOYNBEE: Would somebody collect the cards?
HACKER: Sylvia, please?
(There is a pistol shot.
Everyone freezes.
Then there comes a terrible dejected moan.)
LALAGE: Somebody!
(No one moves, all horror-struck.)
Isn’t anyone going to look?
(As no one moves, she hurries off.)
PRINCE: I’m sorry, I – I never look at people who are hurt...
(MRS TOYNBEE hurries off after LALAGE.)
The war cripples... I could never visit them...
TROD: (Still seated, gathering the cards.) No more for tonight, I take it...
HACKER: (Staggered.) Christ, someone’s dead!
(TROD just carries on.)
You khaki bloody maniacs. What ’ave you been up to out ’ere? Don’t come ’ome. We don’t want you.
(The WOMEN enter, supporting BRIDE between them. His head is draped in LALAGE’s scarf.)
Oh, Christ...
MRS TOYNBEE: He seems to have missed. And got his eye.
HACKER: Oh, Bride, poor bloody Bride.
(They help him to a chair.)
Poor bloody Bride.
MRS TOYNBEE: It isn’t helping, saying that.
HACKER: I ’ave to say it.
GENTLEMAN: Not exactly helping though, is it?
HACKER: IT’S ’ELPING ME!
LALAGE: Somebody’s got to go for help. (She looks at the GENTLEMAN.) Will you?
GENTLEMAN: I am an Equerry.
LALAGE: All right, you are an Equerry!
GENTLEMAN: I’m not permitted to –
PRINCE: George has got to stay with me.
BISHOP: I’ll go. (He moves off, stops.) If someone else went in the opposite direction –
LALAGE: Mr Hacker –
HACKER: Trod, you go.
LALAGE: (Puzzled.) Why don’t you?
HACKER: ’e knows it round ’ere. It’s ’is battlefield.
(TROD doesn’t move.)
LALAGE: (Exasperated.) I’ll go.
HACKER: No need for that.
LALAGE: Evidently there is.
(She goes out, left, the BISHOP right.)
MRS TOYNBEE: (To HACKER.) Go with her, please.
HACKER: I’d rather not.
MRS TOYNBEE:
WHY EVER WON’T YOU HELP THIS MAN! HACKER: Why me? Why don’t they go?
(He indicates the PRINCE OF WALES and the GENTLEMAN.)
If I’ve gotta go, why not them? Why can they stay ’ere and not me?
(Pause. She looks at him.)
All right!
(He goes out, followed by CLOUT.
The GENTLEMAN sits down again.
TROD holds the cards.)
TROD: My friend did that. The night before we broke their line. He didn’t even say goodbye to me. He said if ever he went I was to expect him to appear to me, in the body of a sheep. (Pause.) When we got into their line I got lost. In the Hindenburg line. I was completely lost. I went down all these concrete steps. There was electric light on. It smelt damp. Down and down, I went, past all these sausages and pairs of boots. Millions of sausages. Millions of boots.
I walked for half an hour, underground. Then I saw a mattress, and I fell asleep. When I woke up I was being nuzzled by a sheep. They kept animals down there, for fresh meat. (Pause, then he buttons up his greatcoat. Turns to go. He looks at MRS TOYNBEE a moment.) Your white widow’s arse...
(Pause. Then he goes out.)
PRINCE: I wish I had been in the war. Then I might have said that. If you haven’t been in the war, you cannot get away with that... (He looks at MRS TOYNBEE.) The number of times I have wanted to speak crudely to a woman... the crude things that have lingered on my lips... (Pause.) I w-w-would like you to be my mistress, please.
MRS TOYNBEE: There are times I don’t think one discusses that sort of thing.
PRINCE: Such as?
MRS TOYNBEE: Such as Mr Bride is very ill...
PRINCE: It m-m-makes me more impatient. Can you understand that?
MRS TOYNBEE: Yes.
PRINCE: I have twelve castles. Say which one you want.
MRS TOYNBEE: I don’t want a castle.
PRINCE: No, no. S-s-sorry. Some people do, though.
MRS TOYNBEE: Not me.
PRINCE: No.
(The GENTLEMAN lights a cigarette.)
MRS TOYNBEE: (Looking at BRIDE.) I do think we should –
PRINCE: Can we settle this! (Pause.) S-s-sorry...
(She turns, looks at him for some time.)
MRS TOYNBEE: All right. Yes.
PRINCE: Swear you love me.
MRS TOYNBEE: I said yes.
PRINCE: Say you wanted me from the day we met.
MRS TOYNBEE: Really, you’re a little bit too forward.
PRINCE: GOT TO! GOT TO!
(She looks coolly at him.)
MRS TOYNBEE: You are very childish, and very weak... I don’t think you will make much of a king.
PRINCE: Poor old England. Rotten luck. (Pause, then with desperation.) I WANT TO F-F-F- (He shuts his eyes in despair.)
– FUCK YOUR CUNT!
(He turns away, ashamed.
MRS TOYNBEE goes to him, takes his hands.)
MRS TOYNBEE: Don’t be afraid, I desire you...
(She releases them, just as HACKER appears from the darkness.)
(To HACKER.) Have you found someone?
(Pause. He just looks at her.)
You never went.
HACKER: Why is it, I wonder, in this world, muck comes up tops? Why is it that the narky, dirty little corners of yer character are the places the truth chooses for its nest? When you look in the mirror of a bedtime and say, Hacker, you ’ave so much in you that I blush to recognise, and the mirror says, yes, but without it you would be the fool of the universe... (Pause.) I didn’t get to any ’ouse. Nor a telephone. I went a ’undred yards, and doubled back. I felt filth lying there behind them ’eadstones. Then I heard yer, and the ’ole bleeding world was the same filth. (Pause.)
PRINCE: If you will lie around eavesdropping –
HACKER: Shuddup.
PRINCE: No, I shan’t shut up –
HACKER: SHUDDUP! (He looks at him, for the first time.) You thing. Pick a castle. Jesus Christ.
PRINCE: If you love someone you want to give them all you have. I happen to have Cornwall.
HACKER: Shut up. You will ’ave me in prison.
GENTLEMAN: Do bear that in mind. Lèse majesté and so on.
HACKER: Majesty? ’im? I would serve twenty years in Dartmoor before I took my ’at off to it. To think I bust my back, getting this finished, for you to mince in...
GENTLEMAN: This will be reported.
HACKER: Let it!
GENTLEMAN: Lose your contract, I’m afraid...
HACKER: RIDDANCE TO IT! (Pause.) England...what I would not ’ave done for that place once... (Pause.) No. Be honest, Hacker. Don’t exaggerate. With Bride there, in that condition, must be honest, ’ard as it is. England, what I would not ’ave done for it on condition I wasn’t out of pocket. You people turn patriots into spivs. (He turns to GENTLEMAN.) Is that sedition? Stick it down. (He looks at MRS TOYNBEE.) And for you...to think I would ’ave given two arms for a sniff of your knicker... (Pause.) And to be ’onest – as Bride is ’ere – I STILL WOULD! All the tricks I worked for you, and I could still treasure one of your muff ’airs in a tin!
MRS TOYNBEE: I promised I’d make love to you. If you insist on it, I’ll stand by that.
(Pause. HACKER is winded.)
HACKER: (Sarcastically.) Well, there is honour for yer. There is cricket as ever was. She tips a fuck to me like dropping a porter ’alf a crown. (Pause.) I don’t believe you ’ave a body. You ’ave a ready-reckoner bound in skin.
MRS TOYNBEE: We live as we must, don’t we!
HACKER: I’m sorry, but I can’t stand ’ere and not ’it back. I am no bloody gentleman, all ’andshakes and treachery. Give a bloke ’is dignity!
PRINCE: My fault. All this.
GENTLEMAN: Nonsense.
PRINCE: Mine entirely.
GENTLEMAN: (Turning to him.) Nothing can be your fault. It says so in the constitution.
PRINCE: IT IS MY FAULT!
(The GENTLEMAN shrugs, turns back.)
MRS TOYNBEE: (To PRINCE OF WALES.) I think it would be better if you went.
PRINCE: Never.
MRS TOYNBEE: Please. I’m asking you.
(Pause. Then the PRINCE OF WALES kisses her hand and starts to leave. He turns to HACKER.)
PRINCE: I don’t think you should turn on England because of me...it’s the hereditary system...spewed up me.
(He goes out, followed by the GENTLEMAN.
HACKER has not taken his eyes off MRS TOYNBEE.)
HACKER: If I was a gent, Mrs, I couldn’t bring myself to do this. But they don’t polish us in Peckham. I want you to know what hurt is, just like me. (Eyes fixed firmly on MRS TOYNBEE.) Billy ain’t the corpse rattling on the royal train. So there. Under the drapes, behind the colour party’s back, there lies the trunk of some obscure Kraut. Your boy never did show up. And never will.
MRS TOYNBEE: I fully understand your bitterness. I’ve hurt you and I suppose we shall always have to live with this dismal passion for revenge. You want to hurt me where I’ll bleed the most. But there was a disc around his neck (She takes it from her bosom.) I wear it here.
HACKER: (Appalled at her innocence.) Alright, you have a disc! THEY JUST GOT ’OLD OF SOME OL’ DISC! (Pause.)
MRS TOYNBEE: I am eternally grateful to you. In spite of everything.
HACKER: GRATEFUL? I ’AVE MADE A BERK OF YOU! (He shakes his head in amazement.) You people...yer gobs are clamped so tight on the tits of privilege, yer can’t stop sucking even when the dugs are dry...
MRS TOYNBEE: That was my son. I knew it, the moment I knelt down to him. I knew it in my womb.
(She goes out, watched by HACKER.)
Bright early morning. HACKER is discovered. He has not moved. CLOUT with two suitcases and HACKER’s hat and coat.
CLOUT: Mr ’acker, we are going to miss the boat.
HACKER: Coming, Clout.
(SOLDIERS enter whistling ‘When Irish Eyes’. They cross the back of the stage.
CLOUT assists HACKER into his hat and coat.)
RIDDLE: (Stopping.) Scuttling back to London with the profits, gentlemen?
HACKER: Well, at least we leave something behind us, don’t we? Something to feast your eyes on. More than you lot did.
CLOUT: Mr ’acker!
HACKER: Coming!
(CLOUT leaves.)
I hear they’ve blown a lorry load of Tans to buggery. Enjoy your trip.
(Exit RIDDLE ‘whistling When Irish Eyes’.
HACKER’s gaze falls on MRS TOYNBEE’s chair. Surreptitiously, with a glance over his shoulder, he examines the chair, then picking it up, he kisses the seat.)
Fuck it. I have the moral fibre of a rat...
(He exits.)