Complete Works, Volume IV (10 page)

BRIGGS
(
to Foster
) If you can't, I can.

He moves to Spooner and beckons to him, with his forefinger.

BRIGGS
Come here.

HIRST
Where are the sandwiches? Cut the bread.

BRIGGS
It's cut.

HIRST
It is not cut. Cut it!

Briggs stands still.

BRIGGS
I'll go and cut it.

He leaves the room.

HIRST
(
to Spooner
) I know you from somewhere.

FOSTER
I must clean the house. No one else'll do it. Your financial adviser is coming to breakfast. I've got to think about that. His taste changes from day to day. One day he wants boiled eggs and toast, the next day orange juice and poached eggs, the next scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, the next a mushroom omelette and champagne. Any minute now it'll be dawn. A new day. Your financial adviser's dreaming of his breakfast. He's dreaming of eggs. Eggs, eggs. What kind of eggs? I'm exhausted. I've been up all night. But it never stops. Nothing stops. It's all fizz. This is my life. I have my brief arousals. They leave me panting. I can't take the pace in London. Nobody knows what I miss.

Briggs enters and stands, listening.

I miss the Siamese girls. I miss the girls in Bali. You don't come across them over here. You see them occasionally, on the steps of language schools, they're learning English, they're not prepared to have a giggle and a cuddle in their own language. Not in Regent Street. A giggle and a cuddle. Sometimes my ambitions extend no further than that. I could do something else. I could make another life. I don't have to waste my time looking after a pisshound. I could find the right niche and be happy. The right niche, the right happiness.

BRIGGS
We're out of bread. I'm looking at the housekeeper. Neurotic poof. He prefers idleness. Unspeakable ponce. He prefers the Malay Straits, where they give you hot toddy in a fourposter. He's nothing but a vagabond cock.
(
To Spooner.
) Move over.

Spooner moves out of his way.

BRIGGS
(
to Hirst
) Get up.

Hirst slowly stands. Briggs leads him to the door.

BRIGGS
(
to Hirst
) Keep on the move. Don't look back.

HIRST
I know that man.

Briggs leads Hirst out of the room.

Silence.

FOSTER
Do you know what I saw once in the desert, in the Australian desert? A man walking along carrying two umbrellas. Two umbrellas. In the outback.

Pause.

SPOONER
Was it raining?

FOSTER
No
. I
t was a beautiful day. I nearly asked him what he was up to but I changed my mind.

SPOONER
Why?

FOSTER
Well, I decided he must be some kind of lunatic. I thought he would only confuse me.

Foster walks about the room, stops at the door.

Listen. You know what it's like when you're in a room with the light on and then suddenly the light goes out? I'll show you. It's like this.

He turns the light out.

BLACKOUT

 

ACT TWO

Morning.

Spooner is alone in the room. The curtains are still closed, but shafts of light enter the room.

He is sitting.

He stands, goes slowly to door, tries handle, with fatigue, withdraws.

SPOONER
I have known this before. Morning. A locked door. A house of silence and strangers.

He sits, shivers.

The door is unlocked. Briggs comes in, key in hand. He is wearing a suit. He opens the curtains. Daylight.

BRIGGS
I've been asked to inquire if you're hungry.

SPOONER
Food? I never touch it.

BRIGGS
The financial adviser didn't turn up. You can have his breakfast. He phoned his order through, then phoned again to cancel the appointment.

SPOONER
For what reason?

BRIGGS
Jack spoke to him, not me.

SPOONER
What reason did he give your friend?

BRIGGS
Jack said he said he found himself without warning in the centre of a vast aboriginal financial calamity.

Pause.

SPOONER
He clearly needs an adviser.

Pause.

BRIGGS
I won't bring you breakfast if you're going to waste it.

SPOONER
I abhor waste.

Briggs goes out.

I have known this before. The door unlocked. The entrance of a stranger. The offer of alms. The shark in the harbour.

Silence.

Briggs enters carrying a tray. On the tray are breakfast dishes covered by silver lids and a bottle of champagne in a bucket.

He places the tray on a small table and brings a chair to the table.

BRIGGS
Scrambled eggs. Shall I open the champagne?

SPOONER
Is it cold?

BRIGGS
Freezing.

SPOONER
Please open it.

Briggs begins to open bottle. Spooner lifts lids, peers, sets lids aside, butters toast.

SPOONER
Who is the cook?

BRIGGS
We share all burdens, Jack and myself.

Briggs pours champagne. Offers glass. Spooner sips.

Pause.

SPOONER
Thank you.

Spooner begins to eat. Briggs draws up a chair to the table and sits, watching.

BRIGGS
We're old friends, Jack and myself. We met at a street corner. I should tell you he'll deny this account. His story will be different. I was standing at a street corner. A car drew up. It was
him. He asked me the way to Bolsover Street. I told him Bolsover Street was in the middle of an intricate one-way system. It was a one-way system easy enough to get into. The only trouble was that, once in, you couldn't get out. I told him his best bet, if he really wanted to get to Bolsover Street, was to take the first left, first right, second right, third on the left, keep his eye open for a hardware shop, go right round the square, keeping to the inside lane, take the second mews on the right and then stop. He will find himself facing a very tall office block, with a crescent courtyard. He can take advantage of this office block. He can go round the crescent, come out the other way, follow the arrows, go past two sets of traffic lights and take the next left indicated by the first green filter he comes across. He's got the Post Office Tower in his vision the whole time. All he's got to do is to reverse into the underground car park, change gear, go straight on, and he'll find himself in Bolsover Street with no trouble at all. I did warn him, though, that he'll still be faced with the problem, having found Bolsover Street, of losing it. I told him I knew one or two people who'd been wandering up and down Bolsover Street for years. They'd wasted their bloody youth there. The people who live there, their faces are grey, they're in a state of despair, but nobody pays any attention, you see. All people are worried about is their illgotten gains. I wrote to
The Times
about it. Life At A Dead End, I called it. Went for nothing. Anyway, I told him that probably the best thing he could do was to forget the whole idea of getting to Bolsover Street. I remember saying to him: This trip you've got in mind, drop it, it could prove fatal. But he said he had to deliver a parcel. Anyway, I took all this trouble with him because he had a nice open face. He looked like a man who would always do good to others himself. Normally I wouldn't give a fuck. I should tell you he'll deny this account. His story will be different.

Spooner places the lid on his plate.

Briggs pours champagne into Spooner's glass.

When did you last have champagne for breakfast?

SPOONER
Well, to be quite honest, I'm a champagne drinker.

BRIGGS
Oh, are you?

SPOONER
I know my wines.
(
He drinks.
) Dijon. In the thirties. I made many trips to Dijon, for the wine tasting, with my French translator. Even after his death, I continued to go to Dijon, until I could go no longer.

Pause.

Hugo. A good companion.

Pause.

You will wonder of course what he translated. The answer is my verse. I am a poet.

Pause.

BRIGGS
I thought poets were young.

SPOONER
I am young.
(
He reaches for the bottle.
) Can I help you to a glass?

BRIGGS
No, thank you.

Spooner examines the bottle.

SPOONER
An excellent choice.

BRIGGS
Not mine.

SPOONER
(
pouring
) Translating verse is an extremely difficult task. Only the Rumanians remain respectable exponents of the craft.

BRIGGS
Bit early in the morning for all this, isn't it?

Spooner drinks.

Finish the bottle. Doctor's orders.

SPOONER
Can I enquire as to why I was locked in this room, by the way?

BRIGGS
Doctor's orders.

Pause.

Tell me when you're ready for coffee.

Pause.

It must be wonderful to be a poet and to have admirers. And translators. And to be young. I'm neither one nor the other.

SPOONER
Yes. You've reminded me. I must be off. I have a meeting at twelve. Thank you so much for breakfast.

BRIGGS
What meeting?

SPOONER
A board meeting. I'm on the board of a recently inaugurated poetry magazine. We have our first meeting at twelve. Can't be late.

BRIGGS
Where's the meeting?

SPOONER
At The Bull's Head in Chalk Farm. The landlord is kindly allowing us the use of a private room on the first floor. It is essential that the meeting be private, you see, as we shall be discussing policy.

BRIGGS
The Bull's Head in Chalk Farm?

SPOONER
Yes. The landlord is a friend of mine. It is on that account that he has favoured us with a private room. It is true of course that I informed him Lord Lancer would be attending the meeting. He at once appreciated that a certain degree of sequesteredness would be the order of the day.

BRIGGS
Lord Lancer?

SPOONER
Our patron.

BRIGGS
He's not one of the Bengal Lancers, is he?

SPOONER
No, no. He's of Norman descent.

BRIGGS
A man of culture?

SPOONER
Impeccable credentials.

BRIGGS
Some of these aristocrats hate the arts.

SPOONER
Lord Lancer is a man of honour. He loves the arts. He has declared this love in public. He never goes back on his word. But I must be off. Lord Lancer does not subscribe to the view that poets can treat time with nonchalance.

BRIGGS
Jack could do with a patron.

SPOONER
Jack?

BRIGGS
He's a poet.

SPOONER
A poet? Really? Well, if he'd like to send me some examples of his work, double spaced on quarto, with copies in a separate folder by separate post in case of loss or misappropriation, stamped addressed envelope enclosed, I'll read them.

BRIGGS
That's very nice of you.

SPOONER
Not at all. You can tell him he can look forward to a scrupulously honest and, if I may say so, highly sensitive judgement.

BRIGGS
I'll tell him. He's in real need of a patron. The boss could be his patron, but he's not interested. Perhaps because he's a poet himself. It's possible there's an element of jealousy in it, I don't know. Not that the boss isn't a very kind man. He is. He's a very civilised man. But he's still human.

Pause.

SPOONER
The boss . . . is a poet himself?

BRIGGS
Don't be silly. He's more than that, isn't he? He's an essayist and critic as well. He's a man of letters.

SPOONER
I thought his face was familiar.

The telephone buzzes. Briggs goes to it, lifts it, listens.

BRIGGS
Yes, sir.

Briggs picks up the tray and takes it out.

Spooner sits still.

SPOONER
I have known this before. The voice unheard. A listener. The command from an upper floor.