Separate Tables Page 9

  MISS COOPER. John, dear, I don’t want to know what it is, but let me help you, if I can.

  He turns round and gazes at her.

  JOHN (simply). Do you know, Pat, that I love you very sincerely?

  MISS COOPER (with a smile). Sincerely? That sounds a little like what a brother says to a sister.

  JOHN (with an answering smile). You have surely reason enough to know that my feelings for you can transcend the fraternal.

  MISS COOPER. Yes. But for all that – and don’t think I’m not grateful for all that – not really quite enough reason.

  They are drawing together when there is a sound outside the hall door and they move apart, not in alarm, and as if from long practice. ANNE comes in.

  MISS COOPER (brightly). Oh, hullo, Mrs. Shankland. They told me you’d gone up some time ago.

  ANNE. I had, but not to bed. I was reading.

  MISS COOPER. That’s a comfy armchair, in there, isn’t it?

  ANNE. Very.

  She stands, uncertainly, just inside the door, looking at JOHN who, after a brief glance, has turned slightly away from her.

  MISS COOPER. Was there anything you wanted, Mrs. Shankland?

  ANNE (diffidently). No. I just wanted a word or two with – Mr. Malcolm.

  MISS COOPER (brightly, again). Oh really? Had you two met before?

  ANNE. Yes. A long time ago.

  MISS COOPER. Oh.

  She glances at JOHN, evidently disturbed at the danger to his anonymity inherent in this situation, but she gets no answering look.

  Oh well. I’ll leave you two alone, then. If you want anything, I shall be up for quite a time yet.

  She goes out, closing the door. ANNE gazes steadily at her ex-husband, but he is still looking away from her.

  ANNE. I didn’t want to go away without our saying something to each other, John. I hope you don’t mind?

  JOHN. Mind? Why should I mind?

  ANNE. Your rushing out of dinner like a whirlwind made it look as if you hated the very sight of me.

  JOHN (slowly, looking at her fully for the first time). The very sight of you, Anne, is perhaps the one thing about you that I don’t hate.

  ANNE (with a slight, nervous laugh). Oh dear. That’s not very nice to hear.

  JOHN. Don’t you enjoy being complimented on your looks any more? Has your narcissism vanished?

  ANNE. No. I suppose not. But I don’t enjoy being hated by you.

  JOHN. Don’t you? You used to.

  ANNE. You’ve got me wrong, John. You always did, you know.

  JOHN (quietly). I don’t think so, Anne. If I had I wouldn’t have found you so predictable.

  ANNE. You always used to say I was predictable. I remember that was one of the things that used to irritate me most. It’s such an easy thing to say, and so impossible to disprove.

  JOHN. Yes, yes, yes. I’ve no doubt. Go to bed, Anne, and disappear quietly tomorrow. It’s better, really it is.

  ANNE. No, John. Let me stay just a little longer. May I sit down?

  JOHN. Is that a way of reminding me of my bad manners? I know I shouldn’t sit while you’re standing –

  ANNE (laughing gently). You’re so bristly. Even bristlier now than before. (She sits down.) Your manners were always very good.

  JOHN. You used to tick me off about them often enough.

  ANNE. Well – only sometimes – when we had silly conventional people at the flat who didn’t understand you as I did.

  JOHN (with a faint smile). I think if I’d been given time, I could have predicted that answer.

  ANNE (with an answering smile). Oh dear! Tell me, did you always find me so predictable – even at the very beginning?

  JOHN. Yes.

  ANNE. Why did you marry me, then?

  JOHN. If it pleases your vanity to hear my answer once again, you shall. Because my love for you at that time was so desperate, my craving for you was so violent, that I could refuse you nothing that you asked – not even a marriage that every prompting of reason told me must be disastrous.

  ANNE. Why did it so necessarily have to be disastrous?

  JOHN. Because of class mainly.

  ANNE. Class? Oh, that’s nonsense, John. It’s just inverted snobbery.

  JOHN. No. I don’t think so. The gulf between Kensington Gore and the Hull Docks is still fairly wide. I was one of a family of eight, as I must have told you many a time, and my views of a wife’s duties must have been at least a little coloured by watching my mother sacrifice her health, strength and comfort and eventually her life to looking after us children, and to keeping the old man out of trouble. I’m not saying my demands on a wife would have been pitched as high as that. But they would, I think, at least have included the proper running of a home and the begetting of children.

  ANNE (hotly). About children, I did make it perfectly clear before our marriage –

  JOHN. Yes. You made it perfectly clear. A famous model mustn’t gamble her figure merely for posterity. I accepted the bargain, Anne, the whole bargain. I have no complaint.

  ANNE (angrily). You have, John. You know you have. Your real complaint is still the same as it always was – that I didn’t love you when we got married –

  JOHN. Oh God! Do we have to go into that again?

  ANNE. Yes, we do, it needs clearing up. You admitted just now that I was the one who wanted the marriage. All right. If that’s true – which it is – what could have been the motive, except love? Oh yes. I know. You were an undersecretary at the time, but, let’s face it, there were even grander figures that I might have –

  JOHN (interrupting). I know, Anne dear. I remember it all in detail. A baronet, an Australian millionaire, and that film producer.

  ANNE. Well, then?

  JOHN (quietly). You married me because you were frightened. You were going to be thirty. You’d realized suddenly that you couldn’t go on for the rest of your life gazing joyously at yourself in the mirror, because the time would come when what you saw in the mirror would no longer give you joy. And you couldn’t go on treading happily on the faces of all the men who wanted you, because the time would come when there wouldn’t be so many faces to tread on.

  ANNE. Eloquent, John, but unconvincing. If so, why not a baronet, or a millionaire? Why Mrs. Ramsden?

  JOHN. Because the others couldn’t pay you the full price.

  ANNE. What price?

  JOHN. The price you so reluctantly put on yourself when you settled for giving yourself to the highest bidder in marriage.

  ANNE. You mean, a title wasn’t enough?

  JOHN. No.

  ANNE. Nor a million?

  JOHN. Nor a million.

  ANNE. What was the price then?

  JOHN. Enslavement.

  ANNE. John, really. How ridiculous you are. I seem to remember this accusation from the old days –

  JOHN. I’ve no doubt you do.

  ANNE. If all I wanted to do was to make my husband a slave, why should I specially have chosen you and not the others?

  JOHN. Because where would your fun have been in enslaving the sort of man who was already the slave of his own head gardener? You wanted bigger game. Wilder game. None of your tame baronets and Australian millionaires, too well-mannered to protest when you denied them their conjugal rights, and too well-brought-up not to take your headaches at bedtime as just headaches at bedtime. ‘Poor old girl! Bad show! So sorry. Better in the morning, I hope. Feeling a bit tired myself, anyway.’ No, Anne, dear. What enjoyment would there have been for you in using your weapons on that sort of a husband? But to turn them on a genuine, live, roaring savage from the slums of Hull, to make him grovel at the vague and distant promise of delights that were his anyway by right, or goad him to such a frenzy of drink and rage by a locked door that he’d kick it in and hit you with his fist so hard that you’d knock yourself unconscious against a wall – that must really have been fun.

  ANNE (at length). Goodness, John, how you do go on.

  JOHN. Yes.
I do. You must forgive me. It’s a foible, perhaps, of disappointed politicians. Besides, tonight I’m rather drunker than usual.

  ANNE (with a hint of eagerness). Because of seeing me?

  JOHN. Yes.

  ANNE. I’m sorry.

  JOHN. No you’re not.

  ANNE laughs, quite gaily now, and with far more confidence.

  ANNE. You haven’t changed much, have you?

  JOHN. Haven’t I?

  ANNE. The same old John pouring out the same old cascade of truths, half-truths and distortions, all beaten up together, to make a neat, consistent story. Your story. Human nature isn’t quite as simple as you make it, John. You’ve left out the most important fact of all.

  JOHN. What’s that?

  ANNE. That you’re the only person in the world I’ve ever been really fond of. You notice how tactfully I leave out the word love. Give me a cigarette. (He pulls a packet from his pocket.) Oh, not still those awful cork-tipped things. I’ll have one of my own. Hand me my bag.

  A faint note of authority has crept back into her voice. JOHN obediently hands her her bag and she takes out a gold cigarette-case.

  Do you dispute that?

  JOHN. I might observe that your fondness for me was sometimes shown in rather surprising ways –

  ANNE. Well, I wasn’t prepared to be your doormat. I had to fight back sometimes, didn’t I?

  JOHN. I suppose so. It was your choice of weapons that was unfair.

  ANNE. I didn’t have any others. You had the brains and the eloquence and the ability to make me feel cheap – which, incidentally, you’ve done again tonight.

  JOHN. Have I? I’m sorry.

  ANNE. Anyway, isn’t it a principle of war that you always play on the opponent’s weakness?

  JOHN. A principle of war, not necessarily of marriage.

  ANNE. Marriage is a kind of war.

  JOHN. It is for you.

  ANNE (with a smile). For you too, John. Be fair now.

  JOHN. And the weakness you played on was my overpowering love for you?

  ANNE. You can put it that way, if you like. There are less pretty-sounding ways.

  JOHN remains silent, looking at her as she smokes her cigarette, through a holder – now plainly quite confident of herself.

  Besides you and I never could have agreed on that aspect of married life.

  JOHN. No. We couldn’t.

  ANNE. Why are you staring at me?

  JOHN. You know very well why.

  ANNE (contentedly). Well, don’t. It makes me embarrassed.

  JOHN. I’m sorry.

  ANNE. You really think I haven’t changed much – to look at, I mean?

  JOHN (not looking at her). Not at all.

  ANNE. Just a clever make-up, I expect.

  JOHN. I don’t think so.

  ANNE. If you’d wanted an obedient little hausfrau, why didn’t you marry one – like that manageress I caught you canoodling with a moment ago? That was a canoodle, wasn’t it?

  JOHN. A canoodle is what you would call it – yes.

  ANNE. Why haven’t you married her?

  JOHN. Because I’m not in love with her.

  ANNE. Does that matter?

  JOHN. I’m old-fashioned enough to think it does.

  ANNE. Couldn’t you – as they say – learn to love her? After all she’s your type.

  JOHN. I have still only one type in the whole world, Anne. God knows it does little for my pride to have to admit that to you, but I never was very good at lying about myself. (Looking at her again.) Only one type. The prototype.

  ANNE (quietly). I’m glad.

  JOHN. I’ve no doubt you are. Tell me, does a compliment still give you that little jab in the solar plexus that you used to describe to me?

  ANNE. Yes, it does. More so than ever, now that I’m forty. There – I’ve admitted it.

  JOHN. I’d worked it out anyway.

  They both laugh quietly. He picks up her cigarette-case.

  That’s a nice little affair. Who gave you that? Your second?

  ANNE. Yes.

  JOHN. He had good taste.

  ANNE. In jewels.

  JOHN. You ought to have made a go of it with that man. He sounds much more your form.

  ANNE. He wasn’t a man. He was a mouse.

  JOHN. Didn’t he pay you enough compliments?

  ANNE. Too many and none of them meant.

  JOHN. No solar plexus?

  ANNE. No.

  She takes his hand suddenly in an intimate friendly gesture.

  John, I’m in a bad way, you know.

  JOHN. I’m sorry.

  ANNE. Some of the things you used to tell me might happen to me are happening.

  JOHN. Such as?

  ANNE. Loneliness – for one.

  JOHN. No friends?

  ANNE. Not many. I haven’t the gift.

  JOHN. There’s no gift. To make people love you is a gift, and you have it –

  ANNE. Had it –

  JOHN. Have it.

  ANNE. Yet I hate being alone. Oh God, how I hate it. This place, for instance, gives me the creeps,

  JOHN (innocently). Why did you come here, then?

  For the briefest instant she looks startled, but recovers at once.

  ANNE. I suppose I didn’t realize what it would be like. Oh God! What a life. I can just see myself in a few years’ time at one of those separate tables –

  JOHN. Is there no one on the horizon?

  ANNE. No one that I’d want. And time is slipping. God, it goes fast, doesn’t it?

  JOHN. I haven’t found it to, these last eight years.

  ANNE. Poor John. I’m so sorry. (She squeezes his hand.) But it’s such a wonderful fluke our meeting again like this, that we really shouldn’t waste it. We must see some more of each other now. After all when fate plays as astounding a trick as this on us, it must mean something, mustn’t it? Don’t send me away tomorrow. Let me stay on a little while.

  JOHN makes no reply. He is staring at her.

  (Gently.) I won’t be a nuisance.

  JOHN still does not answer. He is still staring at her.

  I won’t, John. Really I won’t.

  JOHN (at length murmuring thickly). You won’t be a nuisance.

  He embraces her suddenly and violently. She responds. After a moment she begins to say something.

  (Savagely.) Don’t speak. For God’s sake, don’t speak. You’ll kill this moment.

  ANNE. Darling John, even at the risk of ‘killing your moment’ I think I really must say something. I think I must remind you that we are in a public lounge, and inform you that Miss Cooper has been good enough to give me what appears to be a very isolated room, the number of which is – (she pulls a key from her pocket) – nineteen. Give me one of those horrid cork-tipped things of yours. I’m right out of mine.

  He takes a packet and brusquely thrusts them at her. She takes a cigarette. He tenders a lighter to her. His hand is trembling.

  Oh – what a shaky hand!

  She holds it still and lights her cigarette. JOHN thrusts his hand back into his coat pocket and keeps it there. She gets up, gathers her bag in silence, smooths her dress, makes some adjustment to her hair, and turns to him.

  How do I look? All right?

  JOHN (murmuring). All right.

  ANNE (happily blowing him a kiss). Darling John.

  JOHN (not returning the gesture). Darling Anne.

  ANNE. Half an hour?

  She goes towards the door. Before she gets there MISS COOPER can be heard calling ‘Mrs. Shankland’ from the hall. ANNE stops and smiles at JOHN.

  ANNE. You see?

  The door opens and MISS COOPER comes in.

  MISS COOPER. Oh, Mrs. Shankland – you’re wanted on the telephone – a London call.

  ANNE. Oh? Where is the telephone?

  MISS COOPER. I’ll show you. It’s just through here.

  The two women go out. Left alone JOHN sits down suddenly, as if his knees had weakened
. He rests his head on his hands. He is in that attitude when MISS COOPER comes back. She looks at him for a moment before she speaks.

  That’s her, isn’t it?

  JOHN. What?

  MISS COOPER. Mrs. Shankland. That’s the one, isn’t it?

  JOHN. Yes.

  MISS COOPER. She looks exactly the way you described her. Carved in ice, you said once, I remember.

  JOHN. Did I?

  MISS COOPER. What’s going to happen now, John?

  He looks up at her without replying. There is a pause.

  (Quietly, at length.) I see. Well – I always knew you were still in love with her and always would be. You never made any bones about that –

  JOHN (pleadingly). Pat, dearest –

  MISS COOPER. No. You don’t need to say anything. I understand. So you’ll be going away, will you?

  JOHN. I don’t know. Oh God, I don’t know.

  MISS COOPER. I expect you will. She looks as if she’d got some will-power, that girl. If she’s taken that much trouble to run you to earth down here, she won’t let you go so easily –

  JOHN. She hasn’t run me to earth. It was a coincidence her coming down here.

  MISS COOPER. Coincidence? Do you really believe that?

  JOHN. Yes.

  MISS COOPER. All right, then. I’m not saying anything.

  JOHN. Say it.

  MISS COOPER. No, I won’t.

  He jumps up and fiercely, grabs her by the arms.

  JOHN (fiercely). Say it. Say it, damn you.

  MISS COOPER (quietly). Don’t knock me about, John. I’m not her, you know.

  He relaxes his grip.

  MISS COOPER. All right. I’ll say it. If it was coincidence, why is she talking to the editor of the New Outlook on the telephone now?

  JOHN. What?

  MISS COOPER. His name’s Wilder, isn’t it?

  JOHN. Yes.

  MISS COOPER. Terminus number?

  JOHN. Yes.

  MISS COOPER. And he knows who you really are, doesn’t he, and where you live?

  JOHN. Yes.

  MISS COOPER. And he goes around the West End quite a bit, I’d imagine – cocktail parties and things?