Plays One Page 6

  MARSHALL. Good morning, Mrs Johnson.

  MARY (pleasantly). Good morning, Doctor.

  MARSHALL. Do call me Marshall.

  DAVID. Nice to see you again, Marshall. How is Mrs Hutchinson?

  MARSHALL. She’s fairly well, I think. Thank you, David.

  DAVID. Well, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that I really must be off, I’m late for work already. I’m sure you two don’t need me anyway, but of course you have the number if you do need to be in touch.

  MARSHALL. Right, perhaps I’ll do that, and don’t forget what we talked about.

  DAVID. Yes, right. Fine. (He kisses MARY, who seems startled by this.) Bye dear. Goodbye, Marshall.

  DAVID goes out.

  MARY (calmly). Please, do sit down.

  MARSHALL (sits at the table). Thank you.

  MARY. Would you like a coffee?

  MARSHALL. That would be very nice, thank you.

  MARY (makes coffee, gives cup to MARSHALL, and continues to tidy kitchen). Sugar?

  MARSHALL. No thanks.

  MARY. I suppose you’d have that thick brown sugar that tastes like sand.

  MARSHALL. No, I’ve never had sugar.

  MARY. Oh good, as long as you’re not one of those brown rice and yoga fanatics.

  MARSHALL. Do I look like a brown rice and yoga fanatic?

  MARY (still wiping cups, etc). No, you look like a bored middle-aged man.

  MARSHALL. Would you consider yourself fastidious, fanatical about cleanliness?

  MARY. No, I’m sexually frustrated.

  Pause.

  MARSHALL. And why do you think that is?

  MARY. Because I’m married to an emotional eunuch. (Pause.) No one ever taught me about sex. I had to learn the hard way.

  MARSHALL. Which way was that?

  MARY. A lifetime of misery.

  MARSHALL. Quite. Look, Mrs Johnson, I am here to try to help you.

  MARY. In that case you could have a go at cleaning my cooker.

  MARSHALL. I really don’t think that would get us very far or solve anything much.

  He takes a fountain pen out of his breast pocket, and flicks some ink on to a piece of paper, which he folds in half and presents to MARY.

  Now, Mary, what does that represent to you?

  MARY (still wiping round the table, etc). A piece of paper with an ink blot on it, folded in half. I hope you haven’t come here to flick ink all over my kitchen.

  MARSHALL (sighs). Do you think you transmitted your disgust of sex to your daughter?

  MARY. I never told her anything about it except to screech in a state of semi-hysteria that it was a very beautiful thing in marriage.

  MARSHALL. Do you concede that this has undoubtedly been responsible for her immature, perverted and inadequate sexual behaviour in adult life?

  MARY. I’m sorry, I don’t know about her private affairs. Certainly she never told me of…

  MARSHALL. You were not aware that she was living with another person of the same sex?

  MARY. Oh yes. She’s in love with a woman named Julie, oh yes.

  MARSHALL. You don’t feel that her so-called choice of bed partner has anything to do with your non-communication in her formative years?

  MARY. Well, she was breast-fed.

  MARSHALL. Mrs Johnson, are you aware of the nature of a sexual relationship between two women, of the insufficiency of human response?

  MARY. No.

  MARSHALL. Well, a lot of research has been carried out on the subject of female homosexuality, by very learned men. And if you want I’ll précis down some of the relevant facts for you.

  MARY. Please do. I’m very interested.

  MARSHALL. Really, it’s a dead loss, and very frustrating too.

  MARY. Is that so?

  MARSHALL. Yes, these people can only rarely achieve any degree of satisfaction, unless one of the two partners has unusually well-defined physical attributes. For example, occasionally a woman may have an unusually large clitoris, maybe two or even more inches in length.

  MARSHALL holds up his finger and thumb to show the size.

  Now then, if the woman concerned happens to be a lesbian and her partner spreads her legs as wide as she can, well, they may just be able to attain some degree of penetration. Of course, this type of woman is hardly the average, and the normally endowed woman may turn to the dildoe, which in reality is no more than a sponge, rubber or plastic penis.

  MARY. But I …

  MARSHALL. Please let me finish. You must understand that this forever will be the curse of the homosexual, no matter how their tastes are developed, or the success rate they may claim – basically they all end up involved in some parody of normal heterosexual intercourse. The ancient Far East is a common place to look for solutions to problems of this nature, and true to form there is a Japanese device, known as a harigata. Basically a dildoe as I have already described, but designed to be the two-headed member of the family, one head per vagina. Once inserted the partners go through the motions of heterosexual intercourse. I always end up asking myself at this point why they don’t just snip it in half, both go home and enjoy themselves at their own leisure.

  MARY. Are you sure about this? They seemed so happy to me?

  MARSHALL. True happiness depends on a lasting relationship, an option usually denied to homosexuals. Relationships between women do tend to last longer than they do for men – possibly this stems from the male’s obsession with anal activities – but they are still full of unhappiness. But male or female, their eventual problem is common to both sexes. They are all looking for satisfaction where there can be no lasting satisfaction. They are all looking for love in a world where there can be no love.

  MARY (very softly). I think he’s talking shit.

  MARSHALL. Pardon?

  MARY. I think you are talking shit.

  MARSHALL (pause). Were you aware that you wanted to cannibalise your son’s penis?

  MARY. I beg your pardon?

  MARSHALL. Your husband told me that when your youngest son – Paul, is that right?

  MARY. That’s right.

  MARSHALL. When he quite innocently asked, ‘How long’s dinner?’, you snapped back, ‘Four inches, it’s a sausage’. Were you aware that you wanted to undermine his sexuality and render him impotent by alluding to the fact that his penis was four inches long and edible?

  MARY. I don’t know quite how to say this, but I think perhaps you should see a doctor.

  MARSHALL. Now that we’ve got that into the open, it still leaves us with the question of why I’m here and, more to the point, why you are here.

  MARY (firmly). I am not …

  MARSHALL. Metaphysically, I’m afraid, the evidence is indisputable.

  MARY. I am not mental.

  MARSHALL. That’s a very old-fashioned word that we no longer like to use these days. Instead we have a less crude, more specifically defined vocabulary of terminology.

  MARY. In that case, I’m not psychopathic, hysteric, neurotic, psychotic, paranoic, schizophrenic, manic depressive, hypochondriac, a raving lunatic or a screwball.

  MARSHALL. Quite, but we prefer to think of it as an illness. Just as the body can fall sick for no apparent reason so can the mind.

  MARY (louder). I am not mental.

  MARSHALL. Mrs Johnson, I’m afraid …

  MARY (screams). I AM NOT MENTAL.

  MARSHALL (shouts). YES YOU FUCKING WELL ARE! (Slight pause.) Oops, sorry … overworked … (Gently.) Look, why else would I be here? And look at these letters your husband gave me.

  He takes some letters from his pockets and starts to read one:

  ‘Dear God, if I have three grown sons, how can it be that I cannot bear to see my husband undressed? Penis running dry. I’m afraid I can’t go on.’

  MARY (puzzled, looks at the letter he holds out to her). No, my ‘pen is running dry’, i.e. it contains no ink. Therefore … I couldn’t write anything else after that … You seem to be penis-mad. I haven’t gi
ven the things a second thought in years.

  MARSHALL. Do you think that is the evidence of a sane woman?

  MARY. How would you know?

  MARSHALL. We are supposed to be trained in these matters.

  MARY. In being a woman? Impossible. All you’re trained in is a load of men’s mumbo jumbo garbage. Oh yes, by your values I’m nuts, but by my values I was – but I am no longer. I’ve wasted my life in a bitter compromise. I’ve bitten my lip and said nothing when inside I’ve been screaming. And when I’ve practically wanted to wring his neck I’ve said ‘Yes, dear’ or ‘Whatever you think, dear’. Yes, you win. I was no longer alive, and now I am insane. It’s great to feel things, it’s just great to be mental. Take any prize you want. Now bum off.

  MARSHALL. Let me tell you, it’s you with the anal fixation, not me.

  Good day.

  MARY. Goodbye.

  MARSHALL goes out.

  MARY (starts to write). Dearest Anna …

  Lights fade on MARY.

  Lights up on ANNA, reading a letter she has just finished writing.

  ANNA. Dear Mum, I am writing to tell you how much strength I have gained from our conversation on Sunday, and how much your supportive feelings have meant to me. I think you will probably find things harder than you expected this week, and hopefully I will drop in next Sunday when the old bastard (She crosses this out.) when Dad is at church. Take care of yourself, much love Anna.

  Lights fade down on ANNA and fade back up on MARY, still writing.

  MARY…. and so, dearest Anna …

  PAUL enters.

  PAUL. Wotcher, Ma.

  MARY. Wotcher, you little grass.

  PAUL. Ma?

  MARY. Grassing me up about my one and only joke.

  PAUL. The ‘Four inches, it’s a sausage’ one?

  MARY. What else? You’re always so full of what a humourless cow I am. What other joke could I possibly mean?

  PAUL. Gawd, do you have to go on so much?

  MARY. What are you doing home this time of day anyway?

  PAUL. Sick. Said I was sick.

  MARY. Which roughly translated means you’ve got a bird lined up.

  PAUL. Got it in one. But I’m going to watch Crown Court first. Okay?

  MARY (gently). Do you care about me, Paul?

  PAUL. Course I do. Bleedin’ hell, last week it was bedlam. Blimey, if I didn’t care about you would I still be living here? Any chance of something to eat?

  MARY. What would you like to eat?

  PAUL. We got any toast?

  MARY. We’ve got bread and a toaster. I’m sure it’s a simple enough equation for someone with an HND in mechanical engineering.

  PAUL. Can’t yer give it a bleeding rest?

  MARY. Why do you have to talk to me like that?

  PAUL. Because I want to, right? Why do you talk like you do?

  MARY. Like what?

  PAUL. That pathetic simpering.

  MARY. I’m sorry.

  PAUL. You really get on my nerves. I’ll be in my room if you deign to change your mind about the toast.

  PAUL goes out.

  DAVID enters.

  DAVID. Hello, dear, I came as quickly as I could.

  MARY. Why, what’s happened?

  DAVID. Marshall rang me, he says you definitely qualify for a bed. Can you imagine, a National Health bed? I just popped home to tell you that you can be admitted this evening. It’s all right, I’ll take you, of course.

  MARY. But David …

  DAVID. Now, Mary, it must be a voluntary admission, for your own good. Once it becomes a Mental Health Section it becomes legally binding. Now I really have to be getting back to the office.

  MARY. But David …

  DAVID. Don’t worry about a thing, we’ll manage, I’ll pick you up. Bye dear, see you later.

  DAVID goes out.

  MARY. And so, dearest Anna …

  Long pause while she writes first paragraph, then:

  MARY…. and so I ask you nothing except for one thing – is that what they call a double bind? – please don’t confront the boys or your father over this, but keep quiet. Don’t waste any time trying to live up to what you thought my expectations of you were – you have already fulfilled them. I couldn’t have loved you more if I’d understood you less, Mum.

  She puts ANNA’s letter in an envelope, which she seals and addresses.

  MARY (writing new letter). Dear David, your dinner and my head are in the oven.

  She crosses to the cooker, finds a comfortable position, turns on the gas and puts her head in the oven.

  Fade. Blackout.

  Scene Twelve

  RENE. Monologue.

  RENE. It’s bin ages since I seen a show. I don’t rightly see the point of ’em myself. With my life I ’aven’t ’ad no room for dramatic art – know what I mean? What I call good entertainment is the royal wedding – no, it might surprise you to know that I don’t love ’em and, to be honest with you, I do feel if we’ve paid for it, and let’s face it, we have – they could have all made the effort to look nice. For my money the Queen looked a frump, well, didn’t she? Mind, I say that but I wouldn’t ’ave her job fer the world, but if the truth be known when Mountbatten copped his lot I didn’t feel anything. If you want to know something, I almost breathed a sigh of relief when I heard the Pope had bin shot. Would you trust a man who vowed never to have sex? I don’t mean to be funny but if God hadn’t meant us to do it, he’d ’ave put pollen on our plates, wouldn’t he? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I wished him dead but when I saw him sitting up in hospital I felt me hopes had been dashed. I know it’s wrong. It was wrong. It’s just like with Alf passing on so suddenly I seem to have death on the brain. Police come round, didn’t they, insinuating that it was mighty peculiar that the body was cold before the doctor was called but even they have to accept the coroner’s verdict of death by misadventure, not before they’d turned the whole place upside down, I might add.

  And terday, y’know, I woke up and I felt different – everything seemed to have changed. Susan and me had breakfast together and we didn’t have to whisper or try frantically to hush the Rice Krispies up. I was an old nag I was, I used to rabbit on and on and yesterday evening, coming home from the bus stop on me own I started to get that nervy feeling again but I ain’t never bin beaten up or raped outside me own home. For twenty-four hours a day I lived with that fear … Oh Gawd, don’t start me off. When Susan was in hospital she met this woman who used to go on all the time you know, she was a bit like that Julie nutter except for … Don’t try and tell me – career or family or both, it don’t seem to make no difference – still moaning. I said ter her, I said, that’s the trouble with us, we don’t seem ter know what we want. We ’ad this long conversation, really nice girl she was, but I can’t fathom some of them words and I don’t want nothing what I can’t understand. But I do understand one thing now. Like even if in the future I met a nice respectable man and even if I was to marry him – he nor any man wouldn’t mean that much in comparison to what my daughter means to me.

  Scene Thirteen

  A hospital room.

  MARY in bed, semi-conscious.

  Presently THREE WOMEN enter.

  MARY (mumbles). What? Where? Oh, er. What’s …

  OLD WOMAN. It’s all right, dear, you’re perfectly okay. You’re safe.

  MARY. How? How did I get here? What happened? Who are you?

  OLD WOMAN. Gently now. Try and give yourself room to think.

  MARY. Oh, no. I feel so ashamed. It must be a month since I cleaned my cooker. Smell my hair.

  OLD WOMAN. Mmm. Roast beef. Hadn’t you been converted to North Sea Gas. It’s not poisonous, so I am told.

  MARY. No, the cooker was too old.

  She smiles.

  Oh dear, fancy talking about the state of my cooker the minute I come round from … well.

  OLD WOMAN. I don’t worry. I’m usually greeted with, ‘How many calories are ther
e in a hundred valium?’

  MARY (to herself). Funny matron.

  OLD WOMAN (gently). I am here to tell you that I love you and have done so all your life. I am ahead of myself. Introductions first. I am the deity.

  MARY (confused, to TALL WOMAN). I suppose she means the day-ity shift as opposed to the night-y.

  OLD WOMAN (gesturing to TALL WOMAN). This is the Holy Hostess with the mostest and this (She gestures to YOUNG WOMAN) is my daughter who bled in a shed for you – and for many.

  Silence.

  MARY (panics). Now hold on a minute, what sort of hospital is this? It’s a loony bin, isn’t it? He’s had me committed to the bin.

  She is frightened.

  OLD WOMAN (takes hold of MARY’s hand). No, Mary, you’re in paradise.

  MARY (shouts). Christ alive. I’m dead!

  YOUNG WOMAN (smiles). No need to call up false images.

  MARY. But I mean, I never got the feeling that God approved of me.

  OLD WOMAN (shrugs). That’s just as well. He doesn’t exist.

  MARY. But I, oh …

  OLD WOMAN (kindly). You are here, like other women, because your life was at best monotonous, and at worst unbearably painful. But you have the choice to go back to where you left off.

  MARY. Go back?

  OLD WOMAN. Yes. To that awful existence you call life. I can assure you that you won’t have to do anything you don’t want to.

  MARY. Excuse me, but what happens to men? In the Bible it says …

  TALL WOMAN (shrieks). That libellous load of crap!

  OLD WOMAN. That is a myth created by men in their fear. Men don’t have eternal life. How could they? They have no souls. You must have noticed. They’re all two-dimensional.

  YOUNG WOMAN. Just bloody bores … excuse my menstrual jargon.

  MARY. So you can beam me back to Earth? Like on Star Trek?

  TALL WOMAN. That libellous load of crap.

  OLD WOMAN (smiles). What sort of hostess are you? Honestly, you’d think she’d learnt only one colloquial expression from the world of man. (All three shudder.) Mary, you are in a twilight zone. The choice is yours.

  MARY. But my daughter …

  OLD WOMAN. Remember, I am with you. If you go back I will do all I can to help you stand against that war-ridden shit heap men call earth.