A Voyage Round My Father Page 9

  GIRL. Unwelcome guest …’

  FATHER. Now at that time my brother conducted evening classes. In Pitman’s shorthand! And the dog used to crouch at the corner of the house by night and when my brother’s pupils arrived he foolishly mistook them for burglars and sprang out at them! Our house happened to be built on a sort of low cliff, and more than one of the students dropped off the edge of the cliff and was (Laughing loudly.) badly hurt!

  Upstage ELIZABETH enters, stands looking at the FATHER and the CHILDREN.

  ELIZABETH. We must get back. We must really.

  CHILDREN. No, Mummy. It’s the one about the dog … Let’s finish the dog. (Etc.)

  FATHER (laughing, the CHILDREN begin to laugh with him). My brother’s shorthand lessons became unpopular. (Laughs.) We offered the dog to anyone who’d provide a good home for it. Then we said we’d be content with a thoroughly bad home for the dog. (Laughs.) Finally we had to pay the owner a large sum of money to take the animal back. (Laughs.) But my mother and I used to remember terrible stories – about faithful hounds who were able to find their way home … (He laughs uncontrollably as the CHILDREN pull him to his feet and join him in shouting the last line of the story.)

  FATHER AND CHILDREN. Over immense distances!

  ELIZABETH. Come on now. We must go, really.

  The MOTHER comes in, takes the FATHER’S arm. They stand waving as ELIZABETH and the CHILDREN go off, shouting, ‘Goodbye’, ‘Goodbye’. Then when ELIZABETH and the CHILDREN have gone, the FATHER and MOTHER turn and go on the other side of the stage. Light change. Projection of the garden. Weedy and overgrown. Sound of wind.

  SON. The enormous garden became dark and overgrown in spreading patches. He continued, every day, to chronicle its progress in the diary he dictated.

  Offstage voice, amplified, the FATHER speaks.

  FATHER. Put sodium chlorate on the front path. We had raspberry pie from our own raspberries. The dahlias are coming into flower. The jays are eating all the peas …

  SON. Willow herb and thistles and bright poppies grew up. The fruit cage collapsed like a shaken temple and woods supported the tumbled netting. The rhododendrons and yew hedges grew high as a jungle, tall and dark and uncontrolled, lit with unexpected flowers …

  FATHER (O.S.). Thomas came and we saw him standing still among the camellias …

  SON. A boy was hired to engage the garden in single combat. His name was not Thomas.

  FATHER (O.S.). Planted a hundred white crocus and staked up the Malva Alcoa. A dragon fly came into the sitting room. Thomas was paid. Am laid up. The pest officer arrived to eliminate the wasp nests. Unhappily I couldn’t watch the destruction …

  SON. In the summer, with the garden at its most turbulent, he became suddenly very old and ill …

  ELIZABETH (O.S.). ‘What are you going to take for breakfast, Mr Phelps?’ said Holmes, ‘Curried fowl, eggs or will you help yourself?’

  Change of light upstage. The FATHER is in bed. ELIZABETH is sitting at his bedside, reading to him. On the other side of the bed, there is an oxygen cylinder and a mask.

  ELIZABETH. ‘Thank you, I can eat nothing,’ said Phelps. ‘Oh come. Try the dish before you.’ ‘Thank you, I would really rather not.’ ‘Well then’ said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle, ‘I suppose you have no objections to helping me?’

  The FATHER is gasping, breathing with great difficulty. ELIZABETH goes on reading.

  ‘Phelps raised the cover, and as he did so, uttered a scream, and sat there staring with his face as white as the plate upon which he looked. Across the centre of it was lying a little cylinder of blue-grey paper …’

  FATHER (gasps). The Naval Treaty!

  ELIZABETH. Yes.

  FATHER. I’m afraid … you find that story a great bore.

  ELIZABETH. Of course not. It was very exciting.

  FATHER. Dear … Elizabeth. I’m so glad to discover … you can lie as mercifully as anyone …

  The SON moves upstage to the bed. ELIZABETH gets up and goes. The SON sits down beside the bed. Pause. The FATHER’S breathing is irregular. Then, with a sudden effort, he tries to get out of bed.

  I want a bath! Get them to take me to the bathroom. Cretins!

  The SON holds him. Pushes him gently back into bed.

  SON. Lie still. Don’t be angry.

  FATHER (back in bed, gasping). I’m always angry – when I’m dying.

  His breathing becomes more irregular. Stops altogether for a moment when the SON grabs the oxygen mask and puts it on his face. There’s a sound of loud, rasping, regular, oxygen-assisted breath. The light and projections change to night.

  SON. It was a hot endless night, in a small house surrounded by a great garden in which all the plants were on the point of mutiny.

  Long pause. The breathing continues. The SON gets up, stands, looks down at his FATHER who is now sleeping. The DOCTOR comes in. He is in a dinner jacket. He nods to the SON and leans over the FATHER.

  SON. Dr Ellis …

  DOCTOR. We’ve got a territorial dinner. In High Wycombe …

  SON. How is he?

  DOCTOR. Wake up! Wake up! (To SON.) Don’t let him sleep. That’s the great thing. Wakey wakey! That’s better …

  SON. But do you think … ?

  DOCTOR. The only thing to do is to keep his eyes open. There’s really nothing else. I’ve spoken to your mother. (Pause.) I’ll come back in the morning.

  The DOCTOR goes. The SON turns back to the bed. Looks at the FATHER. Sits on the bed and speaks urgently.

  SON. Wake up! Please! Please! Wake up!

  The oxygen breathing mounts to a climax and stops. Silence. The SON gets up slowly. Slowly the light fades upstage and, as it is in darkness, the SON moves downstage and speaks to the audience.

  SON. I’d been told of all the things you’re meant to feel. Sudden freedom, growing up, the end of dependence, the step into the sunlight when no one is taller than you and you’re in no one else’s shadow.

  Pause.

  I know what I felt. Lonely.

  He turns and slowly walks away. The stage is empty. And then becomes brilliantly lit, the back wall covered with projections of the garden in full flower.

  THE END

  The Dock Brief

  First produced by the BBC Third Programme on May 12, 1957. The cast was as follows:

  MORGENHALL Michael Hordern

  FOWLE David Kosoff

  Produced by Nesta Pain

  On September 16, 1957 the play was produced on BBC television with the same cast and producer.

  Michael Codron with David Hall (for Talbot Productions Ltd) presented the play in a double bill (with What Shall We Tell Caroline?) at the Lyric Opera House, Hammersmith, on April 9, 1958, and on May 20, 1958 at the Garrick Theatre. The cast was as follows:

  MORGENHALL Michael Hordern

  FOWLE Maurice Denham

  Directed by Stuart Burge

  Designed by Disley Jones

  Scene One

  A cell. The walls are grey and fade upwards into the shadows, so that the ceiling is not seen, and it might even be possible to escape upwards. The door is right. Backstage is a high, barred window through which the sky looks very blue. Under the window is a stool. Against the left wall is a bench with a wooden cupboard next to it. On the cupboard a wash basin, a towel and a Bible.

  A small fat prisoner is standing on the stool on tip toes, his hands in his pockets. His eyes are on the sky.

  Bolts shoot back. The door opens. MORGENHALL strides in. He is dressed in a black gown and bands, an aged barrister with the appearance of a dusty vulture. He speaks offstage, to the warder.

  MORGENHALL (to an unseen warder). Is this where … you keep Mr Fowle? Good, excellent. Then leave us alone like a kind fellow. Would you mind closing the door? These old places are so draughty.

  The door closes. The bolts shoot back.

  Mr Fowle … Where are you, Mr Fowle? Not escaped, I pray. Good Heavens man, come down. Come
down, Mr Fowle.

  He darts at him and there is a struggle as he pulls down the bewildered FOWLE.

  I haven’t hurt you?

  FOWLE: negative sounding noise.

  I was suddenly anxious. A man in your unfortunate position. Desperate measures. And I couldn’t bear to lose you … No, don’t stand up. It’s difficult for you without braces, or a belt, I can see. And no tie, no shoelaces. I’m so glad they’re looking after you. You must forgive me if I frightened you just a little, Mr Fowle. It was when I saw you up by that window …

  FOWLE (a hoarse and sad voice). Epping Forest.

  MORGENHALL. What did your say?

  FOWLE. I think you can see Epping Forest.

  MORGENHALL. No doubt you can. But why, my dear chap, why should you want to?

  FOWLE. It’s the home stretch.

  MORGENHALL. Very well.

  FOWLE. I thought I could get a glimpse of the green. Between the chimneys and that shed …

  FOWLE starts to climb up again. A brief renewed struggle.

  MORGENHALL. No, get down. It’s not wise to be up there, forever trying to look out. There’s a draughty, sneeping wind. Treacherous.

  FOWLE. Treacherous?

  MORGENHALL. I’m afraid so. You never know what a mean, sneeping wind can do. Catch you by the throat, start a sneeze, then a dry tickle on the chest. I don’t want anything to catch you like that before …

  FOWLE. Before what?

  MORGENHALL. You’re much better sitting quietly down there in the warm. Just sit quietly and I’ll introduce myself.

  FOWLE. I am tired.

  MORGENHALL. I’m Wilfred Morgenhall.

  FOWLE. Wilfred?

  MORGENHALL. Morgenhall. The barrister.

  FOWLE. The barrister?

  MORGENHALL. Perfectly so …

  FOWLE. I’m sorry.

  MORGENHALL. Why?

  FOWLE. A barrister. That’s very bad.

  MORGENHALL. I don’t know. Why’s it so bad?

  FOWLE. When a gentleman of your stamp goes wrong. A long fall.

  MORGENHALL. What can you mean?

  FOWLE. Different for an individual like me. I only kept a small seed shop.

  MORGENHALL. Seed shop? My poor fellow. We mustn’t let this unfortunate little case confuse us. We’re going to remain very calm, very lucid. We’re going to come to important decisions. Now, do me a favour, Mr Fowle, no more seed shops.

  FOWLE. Birdseed, of course. Individuals down our way kept birds mostly. Canaries and budgies. The budgies talked. Lot of lonely people down our way. They kept them for the talk.

  MORGENHALL. Mr Fowle. I’m a barrister.

  FOWLE. Tragic.

  MORGENHALL. I know the Law.

  FOWLE. It’s trapped you.

  MORGENHALL. I’m here to help you.

  FOWLE. We’ll help each other.

  Pause.

  MORGENHALL (laughs uncontrollably). I see. Mr Fowle. I see where you’ve been bewildered. You think I’m in trouble as well. Then I’ve got good news for you at last. I’m free. Oh yes. I can leave here when I like.

  FOWLE. You can?

  MORGENHALL. The police are my friends.

  FOWLE. They are?

  MORGENHALL. And I’ve never felt better in my life. There now. That’s relieved you, hasn’t it? I’m not in any trouble.

  FOWLE. Family all well?

  MORGENHALL. I never married.

  FOWLE. Rent paid up?

  MORGENHALL. A week or two owing perhaps. Temporary lull in business. This case will end all that.

  FOWLE. Which case?

  MORGENHALL. Your case.

  FOWLE. My … ?

  MORGENHALL. Case.

  FOWLE. Oh that – it’s not important.

  MORGENHALL. Not?

  FOWLE. I don’t care about it to any large extent. Not as at present advised.

  MORGENHALL. Mr Fowle. How could you say that?

  FOWLE. The flavour’s gone out of it.

  MORGENHALL. But we’re only at the beginning.

  FOWLE. I can’t believe it’s me concerned …

  MORGENHALL. But it is you, Mr Fowle. You mustn’t let yourself forget that. You see, that’s why you’re here …

  FOWLE. I can’t seem to bother with it.

  MORGENHALL. Can you be so busy?

  FOWLE. Slopping in, slopping out. Peering at the old forest. It fills in the day.

  MORGENHALL. You seem, if I may say so, to have adopted an unpleasantly selfish attitude.

  FOWLE. Selfish?

  MORGENHALL. Dog in the manger.

  FOWLE. In the?

  MORGENHALL. Unenthusiastic.

  FOWLE. You’re speaking quite frankly, I well appreciate …

  MORGENHALL. I’m sorry, Fowle. You made me say it. There’s so much of this about nowadays. There’s so much ready-made entertainment. Free billiards, National Health. Television. There’s not the spirit abroad there used to be.

  FOWLE. You feel that?

  MORGENHALL. Whatever I’ve done I’ve always been mustard keen on my work. I’ve never lost the vision, Fowle. In all my disappointments I’ve never lost the love of the job.

  FOWLE. The position in life you’ve obtained to.

  MORGENHALL. Years of study I had to put in. It didn’t just drop in my lap.

  FOWLE. I’ve never studied …

  MORGENHALL. Year after year, Fowle, my window at college was alight until two a.m. There I sat among my books. I fed mainly on herrings …

  FOWLE. Lean years?

  MORGENHALL. And black tea. No subsidized biscuits then, Fowle, no County Council tobacco, just work …

  FOWLE. Book work, almost entirely? I’m only assuming that, of course.

  MORGENHALL. Want to hear some Latin?

  FOWLE. Only if you have time.

  MORGENHALL. Actus non sit reus nisi mens sit rea. Filius nullius. In flagrante delicto. Understand it?

  FOWLE. I’m no scholar.

  MORGENHALL. You most certainly are not. But I had to be, we all had to be in my day. Then we’d sit for the examinations, Mods, Smalls, Greats, Tripos, Little Goes, week after week, rowing men fainting, Indian students vomiting with fear, and no creeping out for a peep at the book under the pretext of a pump ship or getting a glance at the other fellow’s celluloid cuff …

  FOWLE. That would be unheard of?

  MORGENHALL. Then weeks, months of waiting. Nerve-racking. Go up to the Lake District. Pace the mountains, play draughts, forget to huff. Then comes the fatal postcard.

  FOWLE. What’s it say?

  MORGENHALL. Satisfied the examiners.

  FOWLE. At last!

  MORGENHALL. Don’t rejoice so soon. True enough I felt I’d turned a corner, got a fur hood, bumped on the head with a Bible. Bachelor of Law sounded sweet in my ears. I thought of celebrating, a few kindred spirits round for a light ale. Told the only lady in my life that in five years’ time perhaps …

  FOWLE. You’d arrived!

  MORGENHALL. That’s what I thought when they painted my name up on my London chambers. I sat down to fill in the time until they sent my first brief in a real case. I sat down to do the crossword puzzle while I waited. Five years later, Fowle, what was I doing … ?

  FOWLE. A little charge of High Treason?

  MORGENHALL. I was still doing the crossword puzzle.

  FOWLE. But better at it?

  MORGENHALL. Not much. Not very much. As the years pass there come to be clues you no longer understand.

  FOWLE. So all that training?

  MORGENHALL. Wasted. The talents rust.

  FOWLE. And the lady?

  MORGENHALL. Drove an ambulance in the 1914. A stray piece of shrapnel took her. I don’t care to talk of it.

  FOWLE. Tragic.

  MORGENHALL. What was?

  FOWLE. Tragic my wife was never called up.

  MORGENHALL. You mustn’t talk like that, Fowle, your poor wife.

  FOWLE. Don’t let’s carry on about me.

  MORG
ENHALL. But we must carry on about you. That’s what I’m here for.

  FOWLE. You’re here to?

  MORGENHALL. Defend you.

  FOWLE. Can’t be done.

  MORGENHALL. Why ever not?

  FOWLE. I know who killed her.

  MORGENHALL. Who?

  FOWLE. Me.

  Pause

  MORGENHALL (considerable thought before he says). Mr Fowle, I have all the respect in the world for your opinions, but we must face this. You’re a man of very little education …

  FOWLE. That’s true.

  MORGENHALL. One has only to glance at you. At those curious lobes to your ears. At the line of your hair. At the strange way your eyebrows connect in the middle, to see that you’re a person of very limited intelligence.

  FOWLE. Agreed, quite frankly.

  MORGENHALL. You think you killed your wife.

  FOWLE. Seems to me.

  MORGENHALL. Mr Fowle. Look at yourself objectively. On questions of birdseed I have no doubt you may be infallible – but on a vital point like this might you not be mistaken … Don’t answer …

  FOWLE. Why not, sir?

  MORGENHALL. Before you drop the bomb of a reply, consider who will be wounded. Are the innocent to suffer?

  FOWLE. I only want to be honest.

  MORGENHALL. But you’re a criminal, Mr Fowle. You’ve broken through the narrow fabric of honesty. You are free to be kind, human, to do good.

  FOWLE. But what I did to her …

  MORGENHALL. She’s passed, you know, out of your life. You’ve set up new relationships. You’ve picked out me.

  FOWLE. Picked out?