Cards of Identity (44 page)

The words on his lips are: ‘Where is the duke?’ He doesn’t speak to them because he sees that the two men in the kitchen are disguised as
real
dukes and the two women as duchesses. Apparently, they are a part of one of the ordinary duke’s tableaux. It all seems rather hopeless: too confused. He smiles and decides to break the ice with a little joke. ‘I suppose you’re the ones who take away the dummy,’ he says. ‘May I ask where the governor has got to?’

The older of the two duchesses bursts into tears. One of the dukes pats her shoulder comfortingly. The younger duchess pays absolutely no attention. She is grasping the hand of the other duke, whose beard is all tangled in his ruff and whose eyes are horribly bloodshot. ‘Try, darling,’ she says, ‘try just once more.’

He rolls his red eyes and his voice comes in a croak. He says at last. ‘It was a red football. Our team was called “The Merry Dodgers”.’

‘Try not to go backwards, darling,’ she says, pressing his hand more tightly, ‘that was
before
you went to school. Aren’t there any
pictures
in your mind?’

He says, panting: ‘I can see knives and a huge building full of white people.’

The other duke becomes very alert and says: ‘That sounds like a colonial memory, Miss Tray. Ask him if he was brought up in Africa.’

‘Were you born in India, darling?’ she asks.

He shakes his head. The other duchess has a fresh flood of tears. ‘I think it’s
too
cruel!’ she cries. ‘It’s hurting his poor head. Why can’t he be a gardener?’

‘Is something wrong?’ asks the policeman, stepping up and looking closely at the bearded duke.

‘Not really,’ says the other duke. ‘We’re just trying to find out who he is.’

‘Who do you think he is?’ asks the policeman, becoming vexed. ‘Under his costume, d’you mean?’

‘Oh! that’s nothing!’ says the younger duchess. ‘We want to know who he was before he was a gardener.’

Now, the policeman
is
vexed. He says sharply: ‘Is there a telephone in this house?’

His words have an alarming effect. The bearded duke lets out a
shriek and puts both hands to his ears. ‘Telephone!’ he screams: ‘day and night – ring – ring – ring! No peace, never, never!’

‘Darling, you’re getting warm!’ screams the younger duchess.

‘He needs a doctor,’ growls the policeman.

At this, all four of them throw up their hands and shriek in unison: ‘A doctor!’ The younger duchess, beside herself, shakes the bearded duke and screams: ‘Darling, darling, say it, say it! Were you a doctor?’

He goes limp and says with a terrible groan: ‘Yes. I was a doctor. I cannot deny it. Oh, my God!’

The other three sink back with white faces. Then, all at once, an astonishing thing happens. The older duchess raises both fists in the air and screams: ‘Where’s my money? It was a joint account!’ She pauses an instant and screams: ‘My brother! Thief! Thief!’

‘I think, dear,’ says the non-bearded duke, ‘that your habit of blaming everything on me has gone too far this time.’

She turns on him furiously. ‘Didn’t you go to the house?’ she demands. ‘Did you come back? If not, where
did
you
go?’

He replies slowly in a trembling voice: ‘I seem to think I went to sea.’

The younger duchess corrects him. ‘You were at sea
before
you came to this house, Mr Jellicoe.’

‘I think not,’ he answers. ‘My sister forbade it. So this was my first chance.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ says his sister. ‘We’ll go straight to the bank.’

‘What is all this about a bank?’ he asks.

She looks at him with rage. But there is something innocent about his face. Despite his ridiculous costume and make-up, his appearance seems so tidy, so prim, so respectable. One can imagine him a parasite, but not a thief. He looks at his sister with eyes which seem to represent utterly his inmost self. She cannot resist them. Suddenly she throws both arms round his neck and sobs: ‘Oh, Henry, Henry! They told me you were dead.’

‘You are wetting my clothes, dear,’ he answers. ‘Why do you always believe what you are told? Why do you always think I have changed?’

The younger duchess makes for the door; the policeman politely stops her. ‘Let me go, officer!’ she exclaims, ‘I must tell the doctor at once. I mean, the
head
doctor.’

‘She means the captain,’ says the man Henry, giving the policeman a significant wink.

He cannot accept the wink. ‘Will you kindly keep your seats,’ he says: ‘I must ask you a few questions. First, are you the staff of this establishment?’

It is a tactless beginning. Henry’s sister puffs up like a pigeon and says sharply: ‘Certainly not. I am a woman of independent means. So is my brother.’

The bearded man rises and assumes a certain shaky dignity. ‘I think you know me, officer,’ he says, ‘I am a local doctor.’

‘I think not, sir,’ replies the policeman firmly.

‘Perhaps not in this beard,’ says the doctor: ‘permit me to remove it.’ He pulls, but the beard remains. It is not a false one at all. Irritated, he pulls at his ducal robe. This is certainly false; when it comes away, he is revealed in combinations and a dirty shirt.

‘And you’re a doctor, are you?’ asks the policeman scornfully. ‘Do you have an identity card?’

‘It is in my car, officer.’

‘Your car?’

‘My car is outside. My bag, I brought in.’

‘I see. May I ask you other ladies and gentlemen for your cards of identity?’

They look confused. ‘Well,’ says the policeman, ‘ration-books, licences – anything like that.’

They fumble in their robes, but nothing comes out except the stub of a ticket for the Old Vic dated April 15, 1934.

‘I can identify my
car,
officer,’ says the doctor.

‘Except it’s not there,’ says the policeman.

‘My partners will identify me. Though, for the moment, I cannot remember their names.’

Now the policeman springs his surprise. ‘What do any of you know about the three hundred eggs I saw in the larder? … Nothing? And nothing, I suppose, about the two hundred-pound sacks of sugar?’

Suddenly the supposed doctor points to the young duchess and says:

‘She’s my nurse.’

The young duchess turns white as a sheet. Now, it is her turn to cry. ‘Oh, oh, what have I done?’ she wails. ‘Something too awful!’

The policeman thinks so too. ‘You had better all come with me,’ he says.

He opens the door and they all rise and slowly follow him out. At
the foot of the grand stair they run into the loony countess, still dusting madly. ‘And you, too, please,’ says the policeman.

‘It’s only poor Miss Finch,’ says the older duchess.

‘Only poor Mrs Chirk,’ says the younger duchess.

They start off down the drive – a long, dusty walk. It is the policeman’s hope that he will be able to get them to the nearest telephone without their costumes attracting too much attention. For the same reason he wishes that he himself were in plain clothes – which, in the long run, always prove to be the best.