TALKING HEADS

MRS PAT

by Pam Gems

Copyright © Pam Gems
Pam Gems is hereby identified as author of this work in accordance with section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. The author has asserted her moral rights. 

All rights whatsoever in this play are strictly reserved and application for performance etc. should be made before rehearsal to Rose Cobbe, United Agents, 12-26 Lexington Street, London W1F 0LE, UK. Tel: +44 (0) 20 3214 0800.
http://unitedagents.co.uk/agents/rose-cobbe/. Assistant: Dan Usztan. Email: dusztan@unitedagents.co.uk Tel: +44 (0) 20 3214 0873. No performance may be given unless a licence has been obtained.

TALKING HEADS

MRS PAT

Fade in sounds of a prestige Hollywood party.  Astaire and Rogers' numbers are being played quietly in the background - sounds of conversation, laughter and the tinkle of glasses.

			MRS PAT
		(Calls)  Are these canapes?  Thank you, I'll have three of these little game pies - no, not the fishy ones, there's something so meek about fish - ah, caviar!  Leave the tray.  Ah...Mr Warner - good evening!

		And a tour of the Outer Hebrides to you, you grotesque little creature, don't you know who I am?

		Very obviously not.  Fox at least offered me Bereaved Mother.  No lines of course.

		Oh Pat, how are the mighty fallen.  Won't they be laughing in London!  Have you heard?  Stella Tanner's in Hollywood!  Mrs Patrick Campbell - doing Bits!

		"Why do you use your married name, Mrs Pat?"

		"Because I am a happily married woman and I adore my husband."

		"If you must know, in the colonies, making our fortune."

		Alas, it never happened.  What was I to do?  Two adorable babies and not a penny in the bank.

		"Stella, you can't Possibly go on the stage.  You're a gentlewoman.  Bring girls out for a living!  Sell hats!"

		Why?

		You know why, Stella.

		Devilment.  (Laughs)

		Oh it was hard.  But...but...eventually...

		(Deep voice)  "We realise, Mrs Campbell, that you are lacking in experience for the role of Paula Tanqueray - "

		"The role of a fallen woman that has been turned down by every other actress in London -"

		What was there to lose?

Music link.

(As PAULA TANQUERAY)

		"George - so good of you to come - Bunny, how are the horses?"

		"Such a delight arranging Ellean's wedding - my step-daughter and Captain Ardale are so well-matched.  (Up general conversation, changing her voice)...I believe we did meet once - India I fancy - one meets so many people."  (Fade slightly.)

		(Close, low.)  So it is you.  Rotten luck, Johnny.  Never mind.  All in the past.  We never knew each other - Aubrey, I didn't see you there!

		(Pause.)  My dear - you knew there had been others - I even tried to tell you and you silenced me with an embrace - I could love you through a next life for that.

		Oh...oh!  Yesterday happiness danced about our heads like fireflies.  Tonight I have destroyed not only the man who honoured me with his name but his beloved daughter...I have ruined all our lives."  (Fade and up.)

The rustle of papers as she reads.

		"There is a new bright star in London's firmament - "

		"- a new actress, who repays the audacity of her management."

		"Her slender, fragile form sways onto the stage and into our hearts - "

		"Brilliant - quite brilliant!"

		"A star - a veritable star!  How apt that her name is Stella!"

		No!!

		Please!

		What do they want?!

		Failure one can bear - but success?  How in the world can one slip into the dreamy, imaginative state needed for the work when the world is intent on destruction?  How to catch feeling on the wing without pinning it down like a butterfly in a frame - six nights a week and two matinees! - you need the fortitude of an anchorite.
		And I'm late for rehearsals again.

		Such a silly play this time and I know George Alexander will drive me into bad behaviour.  The trouble with George is, he's frightened of me.

Cross fade.

		"And you wish to know why a girl of gentle birth is here as a barmaid in a low establishment - " don't we all - you are convinced about the ginger wig?  With the curls?  So be it.  I'm sorry?  Not enough feeling?  Very well - we'll stoke up the boiler.

		"David, David, David, David, David!"

		"What's the matter?  What do you mean, laughing at you.  Stage Management, be good enough to convey to Mr Alexander that I never allow myself to laugh at him onstage.  I always, almost always, refrain until I am under my own roof.

		Mr Shaw saw what I was up to.  Darling GBS...wicked, adorable man - implacable critic, from him I accept any blow - oh - they've given me the shove.  (Mutters as she reads aloud)  "...please understand that I will not have the text altered - under the circumstances - recast..."  "Dear Henry Arthur, of, if you prefer, Mr Jones.  I am so sorry that I could not enter into the role of Audrie as you would have wished and that you feel I have no insights to contribute into the heart of a woman pursued by a demented cleric.  Sincerely, Stella Campbell."

		Now - (turns pages) - "For the Crown" by D.P. Somebody or other.  And I am to play - the handmaiden? - old Silvia? - ah, Militza, a beautiful slave girl.  Well, why not?

		(On echo, declaiming)  "Solya - Solya - you say you love me.  Is it true - do you mean it with all your heart and mind and soul - do you truly, truly, truly love me" - ach?  Quite all right, I rather enjoyed it - oh dear, one of my combs is in your ear never mind.  (Calls)  What, Forbsie?  What do you mean if he did that in Piccadilly he'd frighten the horses?  Take no notice Mr Jardine, go and have your luncheon - you'll get a good poached haddock in the Strand.  (Close)  Forbsie, what were you thinking of - you've hurt his feelings.  What does it matter what these affectionate people do so long as they don't do it on the streets and frighten the horses.  Come here.  (They embrace.)  Your sister says I'm driving you to drink, you handsome devil.

		Oh he was.  Such fun - till we did the Scottish play and Forbsie lost all his money and we fell out.  I survived.  I had to for the children - well, until - (she breaks down.)

		Why?  Why should we fight the Boers?  Tell them to keep the territory - better yet give it back to the Africans.

		Oh Pat.

		I knew.  When he put on that uniform and stood by the door, I knew.

		Oh Pat.

		You have to carry on.  What else?

Fade and up.  Children's voices in background.

		Welcome Mr Hall Caine - your very first play, I believe.  Poor you.  Never mind.  I see I am to play a girl of the village, simple, honest and devoted to animals - who are all these children?  Never mind - we'll make a start, shall we?

She clears her throat, makes voice-exercising sounds.

		"Good day sir, please come in and have a seat.  May I take your coat - so chilly out, I'll close the door and put a log on the fire and ring for refreshment - Indian or China" - Mr Hall Caine!

		This won't do.  It won't do at all.

		Because we are already asleep.  No tea cups, no information, no explanations.  Make your audience work - keep them awake!  And leave room for the acting - you may have created the jungle but we poor things have to hack our way through it.  For six nights a week and two matinees and every night a different audience - so a Different Performance."

		Do you, Mr Hall Caine, rewrite your piece every day to suite the animal out there?

		We are not automata.  Nor, I may add, foolish idle children with no sense of reality.  We have more than most - we and the doctors and nurses and clergyman.  Who are at the heart of it - daily - and who need the sagacity of the entire Rothschild dynasty merely to keep our heads above water!

		And if you truly believe, Mr Hall Caine, that I have the slightest intention of appearing before my devoted audiences in a puckered smock then you are in grievous error.  And WHO are these children?

		A mystery that I never fully solved.  Such a flop.

		Oh Pat, where are you?  Why?  If we are just here to be gone, what is the point?

The whine of a small dog.

		Darling little Stardust!  At least I have you, sweetikins.  Mmm - he loves his mother - and if he wants to piddle on the carpet in the Ritz so he shall - it's what little dogs do.

		Now.

		Scripts.

Sound of script being opened.

		"Olive, a beautiful woman whose husband is dying in agony" - we know Just who to cast for that - (murmurs to herself, then, aloud) - "is aware of her love for her butler - "?!  (Slams it down.)

The sound of another script being turned.

		"Flavia, a beautiful widow, meets a young stranger on a balcony in Monte Carlo..."  (murmurs, reading, then) - oh does he!

Another script.

		"Evangeline, a Canadian dancer..."  (slaps script down, picks up another.)

		"Cynthia" - a what?  I don't think we've come to that yet.

		Why, Stella - why?  Such a ludicrous life.

		Being spat on by the juvenile - stabbing the villain with no knife - Egypt on a rake like a ski-slope - Benedict's poison breath - not to mention Thersites stinking not only of pee but caca as well!

		What else is there to do but misbehave?  If any of them knew their jobs!  (Fade and up.)

		(Calls)  Is he going to do that?

		I see.  Why is he wearing a top hat?

		(Through teeth)  Because it should be a fez.  A fez!  (Yells)  Wardrobe!

		Now.  There you are.  Oh - he looks like an aniseed ball, you'd better swathe him.  Swathe - swathe, you idiot woman - have you never swathed anyone -

She stops short.  Silence.

		And what - pray - is that?

		I can see it is an ass.  May I be so intemperate as to enquiry what it is doing here, onstage, in a major London theatre?  You are not seriously suggesting that this helpless creature wishes to take to the boards?

		I see.  To be ridden.

		By whom?

Silence.

		You will be good enough, pray, to convey to management that, after successfully leading the theatre in the capital cities of the world it is not, repeat not, my intention to demolish a career that I may humbly refer to as distinguished by displaying myself to the paying public on the backside of a donkey.

		What do you mean, Jesus did?  Don't be so profane - anyway, how well did that end?  Has Mr Cornwallis-West arrived?  (Fade and up.)

		Mmm - darling boy.  Of course you shan't make a living at some dreadful establishment - your blousy old woman will take care of the tailor and the boot-maker.  Your role in life, my darling, is to be and look as gorgeous as you are.  He shall have all the hunters and watch-chains and hols in Biarritz as he needs - leave it all to Stella, the darling of Mr Barrie - not to mention Mr Shaw.  (Fade and up.)

Musical link.

		Joey?  No don't get up, you look so handsome and distinguished in that chair.

		What do you mean, after something?  I am here to sit at your feet, chere maitre.

		Believe what you want.  And you'd better behave or I shall change my mind.

		About Eliza!  Darling Joey, I succumb.  I'll play her.  Now that George has made an honest woman of me I feel I can face the world again.

		All right, I stole Jennie Churchill's husband.  And she was my best friend.

She laughs.

		Joey, you're worse than I am.

		Of course I mean it.  Now that I am experiencing, at last, the deep peace of the double bed after the hurly-burly of the chaise-longue I feel able to do justice to your Eliza - if you do not think I am a little ripe for the role at twenty-five?  All right, fifty!  By the way, you're not seriously going to direct the piece yourself?  (Fade and up.)

		Mr Shaw - would you be kind enough to show some restraint - I am in the process of rehearsal.  You may have Written the part of Eliza but I AM she - pray confine your comments to grammatical precisions, agreed textual improvements and leave the Acting to Me!

		I do not.

		I am not.

		MR SHAW!  WILL YOU KINDLY LEAVE THE STAGE.

Crossfade to Hollywood party.

		He accused me of trying to destroy his little piece.  The impertinence.  As if I would risk destroying my reputation for a foolish quarrel.

		Such a glorious success.  Kisses all round.  And now I must be off.  I prefer to leave Hollywood parties before the fights start.  Thank you but Mr Gable is dropping me off.  (Fade and up.)

		Hollywood.  Such a shame.  The salaries!  I couldn't wait to see my screen test - find out what had enchanted them all for so long.

		Mussolini's grandmother.

		Jowls by moonlight.

		Who, in the name of Beelzebub, invented the Close-up!

		Joey told me to pull myself together.  Buckle down - play character heavies.  I told him - "I don't Feel old!"  I have only - just - learned how to do it - to act...it takes that long.

		And then you look in the glass.

		Back to the road.  An endless tour of Ibsen's Ghosts.  I said to young Oswald onstage one matinee (lowered voice)  "This play is like a very long confinement."  He said he couldn't wait for his waters to break.

		And back - mid-winter - to my little brown-stone eyrie in New York - so cold! but Moonbeam must have his constitutional.  Ah, Manhattan early morning, dog-lovers huddled by the little turds on the snow-heaps.  Moonbeam has worms?!  I said to him - Mr Barrymore, YOU are thin.  Are we to infer that You have worms?

		I can't even afford a maid.  GBS won't let me publish our letters, the mean old robber.  How would he like to wash his own smalls?

		No work.

		Dear George wants his freedom.  It's all I have left - that I am Mrs George Cornwallis - the new one has Him, isn't that enough?  Surely they're not concerned with convention, George has lived off old women all his life!

		And still no work.

		Right.  Time to bite the bullet.  Moonbeam, where is your coat?

Crossfade.

		Mr Van Orff - good day to you.  Ah, you have something for me, I see.  (Reads)  Rhode Island, Boston, Poughkeepsie, New Haven.  That seems...

		Well, I thought a short resumé of the British stage, some anecdotes, request for questions, then one or two extracts.  Not Shakespeare?  You want something winsome?  I see.  The Owl and the Pussycat?

		Oh, I do not lecture to Women's clubs, by the way.  I am not against such groupings, they are reliable purchasers of theatre tickets.

		My point, Mr Van Orff, is that for loyal patrons the veil must never be lifted.  My audiences pay to see me wigged, costumed and en maquillage behind, not before, the footlights.  I shall be more than willing to conduct seminars, tutor and nurture the eaglets of talent - the young, the unfledged I shall never disappoint nor deprive of instruction...  (Fade and up.)

		So many of you!  And such energy!  You Americans!  Do you all wish to go n the stage?  Oh dear, you poor things.  Never mind - some of you will survive.  (Fade and up.)

		- So where do we learn our craft?  From books?  From instructors?

		From people.

		We all act.  Improvise our lives daily.  Modify performance for friend, parent, rival, employer...  (Fade and up.)

		Learn to observe - the clear-eyed stance of children before they have learned to waste energy in guilt, fear, resentment.  Note stance - the strut of triumph, the tense shoulders of the mother, the relaxation of love.  Your task is to communicate.  How?  By feeling.  When you feel you connect.  Without false pretence.  Without patronage.  (Fade and up.)

		Critics?  My advice - be cordial but never hob-nob.  Remember, they are not on your side.  Expect harshness from these - force-fed several plays a week - no wonder they become cynical.  Which is a serious matter.

		Because cynicism is destructive.  It damages critic and artist alike.  That which damages the artist damages his audience.  Thus cynicism damages culture.  Protect yourselves.  Never allow the conduits of your generosity to be dammed.  Give, and be prepared to pay the price.

		What price?  Mostly failure, within or without.  Those who succeed - get fame - money - applause - dust in the mouth.  If you have done your work properly, no energy left for the accolades, receptions, parties.  Leave these to the entrepreneurs - they'll take over the fort anyway.  What does it matter?

		We the artists, need only the respect of our peers.

		And our audiences.  Those who connive with us.  The dear dreamers.

		Let the buyers and sellers have the rest.

		Art is Giving.  Unanswerable to profit and loss.

		Never forget.

		Art can be fashioned only with love.  Love is the only true currency.  The rest is false.

Crossfade.

		So there we are, Johnnie.  They seemed to like me though one boy slept throughout and two were doing something quite unconventional in the back row - how is beloved London?  Still surviving without me?

		Come back?  To do what?  The nurse in Romeo?  At least here my debacle is out of sight.  Thank you for the cheque - you Terrys are a soft-hearted lot.  You will forgive me if I don't cash it.  The sight of it warmed my bowels for days, but it won't do - anyway, look at you, you're as thin as a darning needle - never mind it's rather becoming.

		Must you go?  Oh well - Johnnie Gielgud directing - a new venture - good luck.  Give them a devilish afternoon for me.

		You won't split, will you?  Tell them I'm in a sumptuous East Side apartment turning down the latest Kaufman and a Cary Grant movie - I've dyed my hair red, I'm being kept by the King of Rumania and we're just off to the races.  On the yacht.

Crossfade.  Fade in on MOONBEAM'S whimper.

		Oh Moonbeam, where did it all go?  All the fun ...the excitement...the loveliness...

MOONBEAM whimpers.

		"Is beauty born to nurture happiness?  Never... only to conjure loss"...

Crossfade to street sounds.  Sounds of French being spoken - a police siren - local cafe music.  Fade to silence.

The shrill sound of a doorbell.  And again.

		I'm coming, damn you.  (Sound of door opening.)  Who are you?  Oh - you're the Times - you'd better come in.  (Fade and up.)

		...alas the Riviera is not what it was - I'm here for my darling dog, Mr...er... those ghastly quarantine laws keep us in exile.  Not that I miss the theatre any more than it misses me these days - as I said to Julia Braithwaite "seems, my dear, that you are a tour de force while I am forced to tour"...I thought that was rather good.  Pithy.  (Fade and up.)

		(On the telephone)  Joey?  Joey, is that you?  I'm in the south of France - of course it's about the film!  Are you on a percentage?  What about giving...why not?  I may not have written the piece but who begged me to play Eliza on his knees?  Who sent the play to Herbert Tree - I did - who refused to take out the "bloody" when Tree forbade it just before curtain up - joey, at least send me a Christmas box, I am in straits here.  Oh well, you horrible man, may you be spared to treat me abominably for years to come - if we're not both blown to smithereens by Herr Hitler!

Music link.

		Miss Whittall?

		Miss Whittall?

		There you are - are we packed?  What would I do without you...

		Look up the trains to Madrid.  (Fading.)

		If it weren't for dearest I would dash back to Blighty and offer my services to the nation, but alas, that obscure little digestion could never survive incarceration.  Book a sleeper.

Music.  The sounds of a train in motion.

		Surviving thank you, Miss Whittall.  Argh!  (As the train lurches.)  Am I to spend the whole journey sitting on a lavatory seat - (knocking) - you can't come in!  No, I won't - if I get up, I shall lose all hope of a seat for the next fifteen hours.  (Knocking)  Go away - allez vous en, salauds!  Can you believe it, Miss Whittall - not one soldier has offered us a seat.  Not one.  There was a time when they would have fought for the privilege.  (The train jolts.)  If this is war I don't think much of it...we are all of us, still invalids from the last time.  Sit down, my dear, I'll stand for a spell.  Take Moonbeam.

Music.  Cross-link.  Sounds of traffic.  Sounds down.

		Share a bathroom? - no, no, quite impossible.  I shall need tea, buttered toast and warmed milk for the little one.

Crossfade.

		Miss Whittall - will you get me a cake of almond soap and some writing paper...

Crossfade.

		Tell them on no account to give him pig's liver -

Crossfade.

		Miss Whittall?

		Miss Whittall?

		Ah, Guido.  Ask Miss Whittall to go for the English journals, would you?

		What do you mean - gone?  Gone where?

		Give it to me.

The sound of a letter being opened.

		"Dear Mrs Campbell -

		I am so sorry to abandon you in this way - (fade and up) - feel it my duty - (fade and up) - service to my country - (fade and up) - consoled by knowing that you and Moonbeam are safe with Guido and the Senora..."  (Fade.  And up.)

		We shall have to make do, little man.

		Come to Mama.

		My one faithful love.

		Survival!

		Yes.

		If only one didn't feel so tired all the time.

		Thank God for books.

Creak of chair as she settles.  Pages turned.  She murmurs to herself, and then quotes aloud.

		"Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me, now no more the juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip."  (Fade and up.)

Door knock.

		Come in.  Ah Guido - a glass of lemonade if you would - No, no, I am not hungry.  A slight cold.  If you would be kind enough to feed Moonbeam, I think the little maid has forgotten us.  (Fade and up.)

		No, no, no...you won't find a doctor, there is no need...they cost money...  (Fade and up.)

		Thank you - you are so kind.  (The clink of a glass.)  A touch of pleurisy - nothing to...  (Fade and up.)

She breathes noisily.

		It's like a slab of stone on my chest -  (Fade and up.)

She is delirious.

		Violet - tell the little girl to take Stardust to Hyde Park to do his business.

		No, no - much too tight...pull down the sleeves, you stupid woman -

		How can I make my entrance with you hipping and hopping like a grasshopper on a griddle!

		Dearest one...

		"If you kiss me again I shall lean out of the window - `He Loves Me!'  Oh, the world is in flower - every bird on this golden, thrilling earth sings...the sea smiles...the mountains laugh because Aubrey loves me.  I am loved.  What woman could ask for more?"

She murmurs in delirium for a long moment.  Then speaks clearly.

		Forbsie, to you fancy a halibut steak?

She murmurs again.

		Thank you, no - quite well, quite well.  So kind.

She murmurs again, her voice now weaker.  Then sighs a long sigh.

		Oh my dears...

		Such a lark...

		Such a lark.

END.