Plays One Read online

  DAPHNE. Do you have a tea-towel?

  MARY. Second drawer. How do you think you’re settling into Potter’s Bar?

  DAPHNE. Oh Mary, it’s awful here.

  MARY. How do you mean?

  DAPHNE. Oh, you know, the people round here like to keep themselves so much to themselves … Even the dogs are too shy to shit.

  MARY. No, I can see you’re not liking it. David says that I’ve never tried to mix properly.

  DAPHNE. What does he know – stupid bag of poop.

  MARY. Daphne? Do you ever get cross?

  DAPHNE (cheerfully). Oh, only about twice a year – and then it only lasts for six months at a time.

  MARY. Do you think I’m mad?

  DAPHNE. No more than the rest of us. Men are such bloody bastards.

  MARY. Funny you should say that about men. When Anna was here she told me that she preferred women’s company to men’s.

  DAPHNE. Don’t we all, dear?

  MARY. Only she seemed to think it was a big confession.

  DAPHNE. Young people take themselves so seriously.

  MARY. And I overheard Paul talking to her in the lounge … But I don’t understand what anybody says any more.

  DAPHNE. Well, what were they saying?

  MARY. Paul said to Anna, ‘You’re a dyke’.

  DAPHNE. What did Anna say?

  MARY. Something about, ‘It’s been a long time since a little Dutch boy stuck his finger in me.’

  DAPHNE. I see.

  MARY. What?

  DAPHNE. I think she meant that she prefers women’s company in bed as well as out.

  MARY. Oh. (Then a long pause as she tries to digest this.) Do you mean … I mean … Do they kiss?

  DAPHNE. I should suppose so.

  MARY. And touch each other?

  DAPHNE. I would have thought so.

  MARY. What on earth for?

  DAPHNE. I don’t know. (She shrugs.) Love?

  MARY. No, she did say something, now I remember, about a political decision.

  DAPHNE. Crumbs. I’ve heard of thinking about God, or the Queen, but the state of the economy? That’s a bit hard to swallow. I would have assumed it was more of a biological thing.

  MARY. Oh my. (Pause.) I always said that that antenatal care left a lot to be desired. (Pause.) Oh my. (Pause.) What a dreadful thing.

  DAPHNE. Dreadful? Rubbish, it sounds jolly good fun.

  MARY. Have you ever thought about it?

  DAPHNE. Not as a rule. Certainly not when I’m fully clothed.

  MARY. Daphne!

  DAPHNE. Mary, how can it be wrong or dreadful if it just comes into your head naturally?

  MARY. Well, sometimes, quite naturally, I have an idea that I want to kill someone.

  DAPHNE (shrugs). We can’t all be perfect, now can we? Now, I wonder what’s happened to those frightfully hideous bores we married.

  MARY. Daphne?

  DAPHNE. Yes?

  MARY. Have you … I mean, have you ever done it? With a woman?

  DAPHNE. Goodness me, no. (Slight pause.) Not since I was at Millfield anyway.

  DAVID and ROGER enter.

  DAVID. Ha, there you are. (He claps.) Did you have a good chat?

  DAPHNE. Yes, I think so. Mary was saying how much she’d enjoy a rest.

  ROGER. Well it certainly seems to have brought the colour back to her cheeks.

  MARY. I mean if it’s not … if it won’t be too much trouble.

  DAVID. Nonsense, dear. I think it’s a wonderful idea.

  DAPHNE. Cheerio, and thanks for the lunch and the tea.

  DAPHNE goes to kiss MARY on the cheek. MARY visibly stiffens and turns away.

  ROGER. Yes, absolutely great. Bye.

  ROGER and DAPHNE go out.

  DAVID. I must say I do think you’ve made the right decision. I know that you won’t take offence if I tell you that you’ve been looking so worn out lately.

  MARY. It will be nice to see Anna on her own. I’ll drop her a note this evening.

  DAVID. Anna? Oh, no, my dear, the less we see of that young madam the better. I’ve arranged for you to go on a retreat. Didn’t Daphne explain?

  MARY. Daphne explain? A retreat? David, what are you on about?

  DAVID. It’s a special conference for those women who are married to men involved in the Church. An opportunity for you to meditate and re-dedicate your life to the Lord and His works.

  MARY. But David, I am already!

  DAVID. You’ve suffered a lapse in attitude. For example, I see Daphne had to help you with the washing-up which was still left over from lunch.

  MARY. But David, you insisted that I play Monopoly.

  DAVID. And that’s another thing, your reluctance to take part in family activities.

  MARY. But, David.

  DAVID. Don’t worry.

  MARY. But, David …

  DAVID. There you go again, dear. I think your epitaph could be ‘But David’. Let’s have some Horlicks.

  MARY. Are you sure you’ll be able to cope?

  DAVID. I think we can manage until you get back, ha ha. And I’m going to see this doctor friend of Roger’s while you’re away and have a long chat with him.

  MARY. Are you ill?

  DAVID. No dear, about you. You see, you’re just so disorientated.

  MARY. Daphne was very strange this evening. Did you know that she hates men?

  DAVID. Hates men? What a way for a vicar’s wife to behave. Between ourselves she’s not very popular. Even the bishop said she was unhinged.

  MARY. Well, she swore.

  DAVID. Good grief. I don’t think you need repeat it.

  MARY. Oh, I wouldn’t repeat it, but she said all men are … blank, blanks.

  DAVID. Great Scott! Did she? Do you think we should warn Roger?

  MARY. No, don’t do that.

  DAVID. Hmm. Sure you haven’t been hearing things again? Now, are you coming to bed? We’ve an early start tomorrow.

  MARY. Soon. I’ve got too much to do at present.

  DAVID (smiles). Well, don’t be too long. See you in a minute.

  DAVID goes out.

  MARY. Monday, dinner – beefburger, chips and peas. Tuesday, casserole, apple pie in freezer. Wednesday, fishcakes and … and … oh God, I don’t want to go tomorrow, everyone will know I think rude words and that I’m decomposing from the inside … (Slower.) Dear God, why do people kiss? On reflection it seems so disgusting to put your mouth on somebody else’s. Dear God, where do other people get the motivation for living from? (She takes out the bible.) Dear God, please give me some guidance. (She opens the Bible, closes her eyes and sticks a pin in a passage at random. She reads the passage.) ‘And Judas went out and hanged himself.’

  Blackout.

  Scene Five

  TARA. Monologue.

  TARA. I don’t believe you’ve met my husband, Marshall, yet. He’s a psychiatrist. Yes, quite a conversation stopper, isn’t it? People are always intrigued to know about the ins and outs of his home life. You know, like the fascination we all have about clergymen who embezzle the collection or policemen who murder prostitutes, but unfortunately, Marshall’s typically sane. Of course, he has his little routine and rituals. And as for sex, well, my dear, you can imagine how paranoid psychiatrists are about that. When we were first married we used to go to the Greek islands for our holidays and I adored making love on the beach but Marsh, poor love, was absolutely, obsessionally, preoccupied with the fear of getting a grain of sand under his foreskin. He thinks that magazines like Forum are where it’s at. That’s where he got the idea to try and train me to relax my throat muscles to perfect my fellatio performance. Don’t misunderstand me, it’s not that I don’t enjoy risking my life but I do make it a little rule that I derive some pleasure from it. We’ve got two children and Marsh worked himself into a state of psychosis in case they were born with one testis too few or too many, but, despite all fears, they’re terribly normal. Oh, yes, they’re both boys – pigs –
don’t tell me, darling, I’ve tried them with the handicraft classes, cookery, the lot, until I’ve literally pulled my hair out – still, I must be fair, they’re not all bad. The youngest, he’s eight, burnt the Scout hut down last week, so there’s hope yet.

  Of course, we have someone who takes the tedium out of housework – you know, our little treasure – does that sound exploitative? Frankly, I’m bored out of my mind and if I had to do irksome grotto chores I’d go completely off my head.

  I love going to the pictures in the afternoon – it’s so common.

  Marshall is still trying to sue Ken Russell because it was after I saw Women in Love I suffered my little bout of kleptomania. Anyway, you know that bit in the film where that other woman smashes a vase over that prick’s head – are we still allowed to say ‘prick’? Are we still allowed to say ‘head’? God, this modifying of manmade linguistics has got us all confused. Anyhow, to cut a long story short, I lifted a Baccarat paperweight from Liberty’s. Quite what I had in mind I don’t know but one of our solicitor friends got me off the hook by saying I’d had a bad day.

  Between you and I, Marsh has begged me to divorce him. Why should I? I don’t want to live in some pokey little flat where some social worker might try and certify me for being batty. No thanks. I like being posh. Don’t listen to this live without men rot. The way forward is to use them and have some fun.

  Scene Six

  The retreat.

  All the women sit in silence with cups of tea and Bibles on their laps. WOMAN ONE discreetly tops up her tea with gin from a hipflask which is concealed in her pocket. Presently a PRIEST enters dressed in a cassock.

  PRIEST. Good afternoon, ladies. I trust you enjoyed luncheon? (There is a general response of smiles and nods.) I would very much like to introduce you to Mrs Johnson who will be joining us this week. As you know we don’t approve of the use of first names here, just in case it puts any little temptations in the way of our vow of silence. So, when you have finished your tea perhaps you’d go to your room for your continual confession and purification in solitude. We shall reconvene at 9 p.m. for our daily service of Holy Communion, before retiring to bed … um, er, slumber … at nine-thirty.

  The PRIEST exits.

  Pause.

  WOMAN ONE (quietly, very slurred through excess of alcohol). Holy Commune … Communion?

  MARY (leans over, confides in a whisper). Eucharist.

  WOMAN ONE. So would you be if you’d been here a frigging fortnight.

  Gradually the women get up and go out in silence.

  MARY (to herself). In all the time we’ve been married this is the first time I’ve spent a week away from David. I even had the last three children at home. I wonder if time on my own is what I need to find what is missing from my life. (Pause.) I wonder why I have always said ‘not very well’ instead of ‘period’? And why … What am I saying? I am not here to indulge myself in obscene fantasies … Dear God, if you want me to recommit my life to your service please give me another, more appropriate sign. (She opens her Bible, then looks up.) But this is definitely the last chance you’re getting. Otherwise there are going to be some drastic changes in this servant’s life.

  She shuts her eyes, puts her finger on a passage, then reads it aloud.

  ‘Go thou and do likewise’.

  Blackout.

  Scene Seven

  A week later, ANNA and JULIE’s kitchen.

  JULIE is surrounded by hundreds of cassettes which she appears to be relabelling. ANNA is looking through a pile of children’s exercise books, occasionally tutting and ripping out a page.

  JULIE. What are you doing?

  ANNA (absorbed in her own thoughts). It’s Open Day tomorrow.

  JULIE. I know that, don’t I? So what are you ripping up the books for?

  ANNA. Because there are things in them that some of the parents aren’t going to be overjoyed at seeing.

  JULIE. What like? ‘My teacher keeps a pin-up of Juliet Bravo on her desk lid’?

  ANNA (irritated). Oh, you’re so funny. (She rips out another page.)

  JULIE. Let’s have a look then.

  She sits next to ANNA and they read through a book together.

  ANNA. Here, look at this. (Reading:) ‘Yesterday my Uncle Joe was drunk on the toilet floor and I had to step over him to have a shit.’

  JULIE. Nice picture though … I wonder if they’ve really got a purple bathroom suite.

  ANNA. This could be a good one. (She looks at the cover and reads:) ‘Tracy Jones. News Book.’ (She continues reading:) ‘When my dad came home from the pub last night he smashed my mum up proper.’ (She says sarcastically:) No, we don’t say ‘proper’, Tracy, we say ‘properly’. (She rips out the page.)

  JULIE. Gawd, would you look at that picture. Wonder how much of our rates goes on red, black and blue felt-tips?

  ANNA (picking up another book). ‘Last night my daddy woke me up when he was doing things to my mummy.’

  JULIE. Strange picture. Just a line?

  ANNA. That’s where I was looking over his shoulder and said in my best teacher’s voice, ‘No picture. Thank you, Darren.’ And snatched the book away.

  JULIE (laughs). That proves it, you are definitely prejudiced against heterosexuality, Miss Johnson. (She writes on cassette cover.) Wankers!

  ANNA (continuing to look through the exercise books). Have you finished fucking up the OU cassette library?

  JULIE. Yeah, I s’pose so.

  ANNA. And what, dare I ask, did they think of your seminar?

  JULIE. Which one?

  ANNA. The one on birth control.

  JULIE. They were bloody rude about it.

  ANNA. Surprise, surprise.

  JULIE. It was only s’posed to be a metaphorical piece, a point for discussion.

  ANNA (sarcastic). I’m sure that your suggestion that birth control should be compulsory and used by men only went down a treat.

  JULIE. Actually it did. Apart from that stupid reactionary woman who piped up from her Lentheric advert dream with, ‘Oh, but I still enjoy men holding the door open for me.’

  ANNA. Holding her legs open, more like.

  JULIE. What’s got into you?

  ANNA. Nothing, sorry. So what went wrong?

  JULIE. That hateful shit Nigel says, ‘Oh yeah, and just what form might that take then, love?’

  ANNA (helpfully prompting). So you said, ‘A pill, to be taken by men’?

  JULIE. No, I said, ‘A hand grenade held firmly between the knees.’

  ANNA. Perhaps you should write a book on how to put people’s backs up, or how to get on with members of the opposite sex without losing your looks.

  JULIE. You got any ideas on what I can do my thesis on? It’s got to be something I’m interested in.

  ANNA (sarcastic). Oh, that shouldn’t be too hard, considering you hate everything.

  JULIE. I do not. At most there are only five things I actually hate.

  ANNA. Yes. Art, travel, society, anything manmade, or anything alive. Oh, sod it. What in hell’s name are we doing? You with your cranky sabotage of the Open University. They’re only ordinary people trying to get on as best they can – they weren’t born into it.

  JULIE. What do you suggest I do, become a housemother at Eton?

  ANNA. And me. What in fuck’s name am I doing? Priding myself on pioneering non-sexist literature for use in my classroom.

  JULIE. You didn’t get a letter from your mum this week, did you?

  ANNA. No.

  JULIE. Judging from the last one, she probably wrote ‘very busy’ on the back of a stamp. Have you phoned?

  ANNA. Yes, no answer.

  JULIE. She could have gone out.

  ANNA. She only goes shopping. I’ve rung every break-time for the past three days.

  JULIE. Well, ring now.

  ANNA. They’ll be at church now. I’ll ring a bit later.

  JULIE. There’s nothing you can do till then, so stop worrying.

&nb
sp; The doorbell rings.

  ANNA. Who the hell can that be?

  I hope it isn’t that Nigel, with instructions of where to put your hand grenade.

  JULIE. Oh, God, you go and answer it in your teacher’s voice.

  ANNA goes out.

  JULIE picks up the exercise books and looks through them.

  ANNA (off). Mum!

  ANNA enters with MARY.

  ANNA. What’s happened? What are you doing? Are you all right?

  MARY. Of course, I’m all right. I just thought I would come and visit my daughter, but I can’t …

  ANNA. Good, you’ve left him.

  MARY. No, I haven’t left him. Honestly, love, what a thing to infer. I can’t stop, this is just a flying visit. I only wanted to see how you are. (To JULIE.) Hello, you must be Anna’s friend.

  JULIE. Hello, you must be her mum.

  ANNA. Oh, sorry, Mum, this is Julie. Julie, this is my mum.

  MARY. Nice to meet you, Julie. Anna tried to tell me about you last week.

  Pause.

  But it didn’t sink in at first.

  JULIE. Oh, really …

  Pause.

  MARY (sighing). Well, I can see that I’m going to have to wait a long time before you two insist that you’re just flatmates.

  Pause.

  Now I really can’t stop long.

  ANNA. Perhaps long enough to sit down? (Pause.) So how did you get here?

  MARY. Oh, yes. (She sits.) Right, well it’s quite a long story, but your father – no, it started before that, really … You know I’d been feeling a bit under the weather … Well, anyhow, your father thought it would be a good idea if I went away for a rest, and he packed me off on this – I don’t know quite how to describe it – this get together of women married to men working for the Church, only nobody was allowed to talk or communicate in any way, no phone, nothing. I couldn’t even get hold of any paper to write a letter. Then it occurred to me that you were only a bus ride away.

  ANNA. Thank God you’ve escaped.

  MARY. I haven’t escaped. I don’t know why you have to be so dramatic all the time. (She begins to get more agitated.) Mind you, you always had to be different, didn’t you? I don’t know what else I could have expected. You always were odd. Everybody else marries a man, but not you. It looks as though I’ve got to resign myself to being the only mother in Acacia Avenue with three sons and four daughters-in-law.