Such Men Are Dangerous (37 page)

TOM

Well, anyway, isn’t it more important, Wobbles, to have found out that sort of thing about him? I mean, you know now that he has a forgiving heart; does it matter so much if he has a sweet tooth? After all you’ve got two whole days to winkle that one out.

WILLIAM

Has there just been a sign? A miracle? A message of encouragement? Should we sink down on our knees and praise the Lord?

TOM

May I have another drink?

WILLIAM

Everyone may have another drink. From now on we shall raise you exclusively on whisky.

TREVOR

(To NORAH) So yes, as Tom said, we have two whole days to start learning about one another. All of us.

NORAH

I’m sorry I made an exhibition of myself.

TREVOR

If that’s what you term making an exhibition of yourself I wish my own mum would sometimes follow suit. And believe me, Mrs Freeman, I do mean that.

NORAH

I suppose you couldn’t see your way to calling me just Norah?

TREVOR

Thank you. I’d like to.

WILLIAM

So long as you don’t call me just William.

TREVOR

But he was always one of my very best friends! William the Bold, William the Showman, William the Pirate. Other people may have had James Bond as their hero. Never me…What should I call you, then?

WILLIAM

Why not simply William?

TREVOR

Are you ever Bill?

WILLIAM

No—for some reason. Nobody ever calls me Bill. I don’t feel like a Bill.

TOM

You see, we can’t present him. On the other hand, you could say he’s something we shall never stop having to pay for. Of course, it could be Bill of Health. Even
Clean
Bill of Health.

WILLIAM

You simply hate to let things go.

TOM

Funny…I thought that was you.

WILLIAM

Anyway, I suppose I should feel grateful for ‘clean’.

TOM

Yes, let’s be fair. One never quite knows where you’ve been but you do at least give the
impression
of cleanliness.

WILLIAM

Thank you. Only one step away from godliness.

TOM

I say the impression. Of course that might be partly all the after-shave you splash on yourself: in the pitiful hope that it will drive the women crazy.

LINDA

(To everyone except TOM) Wait for it.

LINDA

(Cont) Some crack about the men as well.

TOM

Why should I say that? Now, honestly…!

NORAH

(To TREVOR: indulgently) Such silly children. What were we talking about?

LINDA

(A shade sullenly) Wedding plans and how we met and all that sort of nonsense. You didn’t give me any whisky.

WILLIAM

I didn’t think you wanted any.

LINDA

I’ve changed my mind.

WILLIAM

Attagirl! (Gets up to give her some)

TREVOR

(To NORAH) But in fact there are some other things I’d like to talk about first. I’ve made no reference to your husband’s writing. That strikes me as rude: to come into the house of an acclaimed and well-known novelist and not show any interest in his work.

WILLIAM

Acclaimed, you say? Well, yes, thank God—to some extent. Well-known? Unhappily not very. But it was nice of you to pretend otherwise.

NORAH

You will be, darling. Oh, you will. One of these days. I promise.

TREVOR

About a week ago Linda made me a present of
The Swimmer
and I don’t know when any novel has affected me so much. I started it, I have to say, more out of a sense of duty than anything else—but now I’m telling all my friends about it; making them buy their own copies, of course. I can’t wait to read the other two. I felt such sympathy for Mark. I swear by the time I was a quarter of the way through I knew it would become one of my all-time favourites.

TOM

You mean, along with
Just William
?

WILLIAM

I feel…quite overwhelmed. I must give you copies of the earlier ones.

TREVOR

I’ve already bought them. Blackwell’s had them both. I’d like you to sign them for me, though.

WILLIAM

On every page if you request it.

TREVOR

And Linda tells me there’s a new one with your publishers.

WILLIAM

Not any more there isn’t. The bloody fools don’t want it.

LINDA

(Her sullenness forgotten) What! You’re not saying they sent it back?

WILLIAM

They told me it was…non-commercial.

TREVOR

They must have had a brainstorm.

WILLIAM

That’s what I said, too. I spoke to my editor direct. She said they still had faith in me. That was nice. And that I mustn’t look upon it just as three years’ wasted effort. That was nice as well. And when I felt I had a new idea, perhaps I’d like to go to talk it over with them. I had a new idea right then, but apparently it wasn’t the kind she’d been hoping for; she slammed down the telephone. Severance of connection.But if she really thinks I’m going to fall to my knees to apologize…Besides, their marketing was crap.

LINDA

But some other publisher will take it—won’t they?

WILLIAM

Ask me another. No, don’t; not at the moment. It’s been a slightly discouraging two days.

LINDA

(Pause) You’re very quiet, Tom. Are you all right?

TOM

What?

LINDA

I said—are you okay?

TOM

Sort of. Bit sleepy, maybe.

WILLIAM

Do you want to go to bed?

TOM

I just want to sit here quietly. Leave me alone.

NORAH

He’s had too much to drink. I told you not to let him have it.

WILLIAM

No, you didn’t.

NORAH

Well, I meant to.

LINDA

I think the time may now have come for coffee. I’ll go and see to it.

NORAH

You know…I remember when Willie used to stand like that for me. He used to open doors, as well.

WILLIAM

Yes. Where have all the flowers gone? Long time passing. I used to open doors for people.

NORAH

And especially for me.

TOM

I think maybe I will go to bed.

WILLIAM

You don’t feel sick? (Moves across to TOM)

TOM

No, Dad, I do not feel sick. After just a couple of measly drinks?

WILLIAM

Three. And they were pretty far from measly.

TOM

Well—I can tell you—I get through a lot more than that when I go to the pub.

TOM

(Cont) I promise you: I’m not going to stand till you’ve moved right away. I hate it when you fuss. Don’t be more of a prat than necessary. (WILLIAM backs away. TOM stands—a bit unsteadily) There. You see. I’m perfectly all right. (Going towards the door) Good night.

WILLIAM

LINDA

Good night, Tom.

TREVOR

NORAH

I’ll come with you, darling. Tuck you in. Just like the old days.

TOM

Oh, Mum!

NORAH

Lean on my arm.

WILLIAM

Talk about the blind leading the blind! I’ll take him, Norah.

TOM

I told you: I can manage.

NORAH

What do you mean: the blind leading the blind?

WILLIAM

Stop it, Tom. No nonsense. Don’t be a fool.

NORAH

Anyway, I’m perfectly capable of taking him.

LINDA

Mum, it’s much better for Dad to do it.

TREVOR

Can I help, perhaps?

TOM

(To WILLIAM) Listen. I don’t want you to come.

WILLIAM

That can’t be helped. I’m coming.

TOM

Oh, for God’s sake! Fuck off!

TREVOR

He’ll be all right.

WILLIAM

Yes, I suppose he will. Tom will be all right. What—do you mean in the sense that tomorrow morning he’ll treat that little incident as though it simply never happened, and perhaps be extra cheerful for a bit in his attempt to re-establish the status quo? Or do you mean in the sense that he may not fiddle on his income tax, push drugs, plant bombs, molest old ladies? Hmm. Tom will be all right…Perhaps you were meaning in his closest relationships: inside his skin—inside his home? Because that’s at the base of it all, isn’t it? There have to be solid foundations in the skin and in the home before you can begin to build elsewhere. How are your own foundations, Trevor? The edifice looks fine.

TREVOR

I have my hang-ups—the same as Tom. The same as anybody.

WILLIAM

What! Sloth? Anger? Small misunderstanding here. I’m talking about Trevor Lomax. Who can you be talking about? Would you like another drink? (TREVOR shakes his head)

WILLIAM

You don’t think a drink might help you…if ever you should feel like it…to tell me to fuck off? (He pours himself one)

TREVOR

I’m really sorry about this trouble with your book. Surely it can only be a very temporary sort of hiccup?

WILLIAM

I heard of a hiccup once that turned into a choking fit, that turned into a death.

TREVOR

Oh, no! How ghastly!

WILLIAM

Well, don’t look quite so stricken. I only made that up. It was an allegory. I don’t go much on allegories. Do you?

TREVOR

Half the time I’m not even sure I get them.

WILLIAM

An honest man—obviously. It’s good to meet an honest man. (Holds out his hand; TREVOR shakes it; doesn’t at once relinquish it)

TREVOR

I was under the impression you thought me pseudo.

WILLIAM

Too good to be true. It’s not the same thing. Which was the public school?

TREVOR

What? Oh, yes—sorry. Eton.

WILLIAM

I somehow imagined it would be. I’d have liked to go to Eton.

TREVOR

Why?

WILLIAM

I like the Eton Boating Song. Also…to win the Battle of Waterloo.

TREVOR

If I could choose, I’d have chosen to write
The
Swimmer
—rather than go to Eton.

WILLIAM

Life’s hell, isn’t it?

TREVOR

No, I was being serious.

WILLIAM

So was I. I should think you’re pretty serious about most things.

TREVOR

That makes me sound extremely dull.

WILLIAM

No. No.
I’m
the dullest thing since Bisto. If only you knew! Inside. There’s this thick sludgy brown gravy wrapped around my heart. Oh—do you think we could maybe set that to music? (Singing—to the tune of the Eton Boating Song) Thick sludgy brown gravy, wrapped all about my heart, I fancy boys from the navy, I yearn to make a fresh start. (Stops singing) Don’t follow the sense, just follow the spirit. When you’re looking for a rhyme you really have to prostitute yourself. But when you’re looking for a reason…Well, that’s more difficult.

TREVOR

Yes. Well. I…

WILLIAM

Yes. (He wanders over to the window; pulls back the curtain; stands in silence for a moment, staring out. TREVOR comes to stand beside him) I hate February. The worst things always happen in February. It was the month when my mother died. And when I die it will be on just such a day as this. Or on just such a night. Wet; windy; filled with snow. Snow on the ground and snow in the air. Seeping into your bones. Penetrating your soul. Cutting you off from all those around you—any who may still be around you—just as surely as it will cut you off from life itself. I’m afraid of snow. I’m afraid of being alone. I am very much afraid of dying.

TREVOR

I think you’re feeling a bit low, aren’t you? A bit tired.

WILLIAM

A bit drunk?

TREVOR

You don’t need to think about dying for another thirty years yet.

WILLIAM

You’re wrong. You should think about dying every day of your adult life. It helps you get things into perspective. You should wander through country churchyards; visit art galleries; watch old films. You should…Don’t you admire the way that I’ve got things into perspective? In another thirty years you won’t be much older than I am now.

TREVOR

Yes, I shall. Besides, it could just as easily be forty.

WILLIAM

Why not forty-five? Yippee! I’m only halfway there. Will you hold my hand when I’m dying? (Turns to TREVOR, takes his hand and studies it, but with apparent detachment) A strong young hand like this. The thought would give me comfort.

TREVOR

It won’t be such a strong young hand in forty years.

WILLIAM

Forty-five.

TREVOR

Liver spots and things.

WILLIAM

I don’t suppose I shall much mind liver spots, once I have my own…Tell me something, what are your views on God?

TREVOR

That he exists.

WILLIAM

Oh, very good. I can see you’re going to pass with flying colours. Is he benevolent?

TREVOR

To me—yes—very. Always.

WILLIAM

Excellent. The Bomb?

TREVOR

One wishes that it didn’t exist. And it’s not at all benevolent.

WILLIAM

Our present government?

TREVOR

Same answer.

WILLIAM

People with dark compulsions?

TREVOR

They need sympathy and treatment—obviously.

WILLIAM

Sex before marriage?

TREVOR

Oh, for God’s sake! Is that what all this was leading up to? Why didn’t you ask me outright, if you so much wanted to know?

WILLIAM

I didn’t. I don’t. But do you realize that you swore? You actually swore. So why won’t you carry it one step further? Be like Tom, tell me to fuck off. We would all respect you enormously for that.

TREVOR

Because I was brought up in a home which wasn’t like this one!…For better or worse.

WILLIAM

For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health…I’m sorry: I just keep on needling you, don’t I? I don’t mean to do it. Well, yes, I do. Well, no, I don’t. No I don’t, more than yes I do. Or vice versa. You see, in some former existence I must have been a lemming—and bits of it still stick, no matter how I try to put them to flight…Now that would make a good title, wouldn’t it?
The Flight of the Lemming
. Or do I mean
The
Fight of the Lemming
? Have you ever heard of that Hitchcock film,
Strangers on a Train
? Well, as a child of about ten I was intrigued by the way they advertised it. They made it look as if a letter had been left out. Strangers became stranglers. Now flight becomes fight—well, in reverse, if you see what I mean. Where was I? Oh, yes. Apologizing for needling you. My whole life has been a constant battle against lemming-like instincts.

TREVOR

In fact—if it will ease your mind at all—I might as well tell you we haven’t. Not yet.

WILLIAM

Enormously. Haven’t what, though?

TREVOR

Had sex.

WILLIAM

No, I promise you, I should have noticed.

TREVOR

(Tolerant) Linda and I haven’t. I mean, we’ve talked about it and Linda understands—agrees it would be better to wait. Not that it’s any business of yours. But, still, if you’re going to find it of the least comfort…

WILLIAM

Comfort? Comfort? No, I find it of no bloody comfort at all.

TREVOR

In this house—it seems to me—you just can’t win.

WILLIAM

Oh, brother, you have said a mouthful. (Pause) Brother, can you spare a dime? No, not brother. Buddy.

TREVOR

I wish you wouldn’t drink any more.

WILLIAM

Oh, but you’re not your buddy’s keeper. And it’s of no bloody comfort at all.

TREVOR

I’m sorry

WILLIAM

If you really want to know, I’d rather think you’d had it off a hundred times already. Two hundred…You know, one gets so tired. I don’t think I’d want to live to be ninety. I really don’t. I mean, of course, if I wasn’t so shit scared of dying, and of my being on my own, and of nothing coming after…No. I would rather think it was all over. In the past. The wonder of it—well, the reported wonder of it—well and truly gone.

TREVOR

William, you’re wrong. I know there’s something that comes after. That’s what it’s all about. That’s when the wonder begins.

WILLIAM

I’ve always felt more comfortable in the past. Even when I was quite young—at school—on Mondays I would look back at the weekend as if at some halcyon time; regretfully; knowing that I really hadn’t made the most of it. That’s why I’m grounded in the Forties. Or the Fifties. Or even last week. The past is all soft—and secure—and I know that I got through it. But the future…well, that’s a completely different matter. Although she covers it up quite well—as I myself do, regarding my equal lack of basic contentment—I sometimes feel that Norah only barely tolerates me. You can’t blame her. In her place, I wouldn’t do that much. I’m mean and small-minded and devoid of charity. No love—no wisdom—no charity. What shall I do?

TREVOR

No love, no wisdom? That’s not what
The
Swimmer
shows.

WILLIAM

The Swimmer
is only a novel.

TREVOR

But based on experience. Without charity in your heart, you simply couldn’t have written it.