Four Plays Read online

  A Sense of Detachment and A Place Calling Itself Rome first published in 1973, The End of Me Old Cigar and Jill and Jack first published in 1975, all four by Faber and Faber Ltd.

  First published in this edition in 2000 by Oberon Books Ltd

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  Copyright © Estate of John Osborne 1973, 1975, 2000

  Introduction copyright © Helen Osborne 2000

  John Osborne is hereby identified as author of these works in accordance with section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. The author has asserted his moral rights.

  All rights whatsoever in these plays, with the exception of amateur productions of The End of Me Old Cigar, are strictly reserved and application for performance etc. should be made before commencement of rehearsal to Gordon Dickerson, 2 Crescent Grove, London SW4 7AH ([email protected]). No performance may be given unless a licence has been obtained, and no alterations may be made in the title or the text of the play without the author’s prior written consent.

  All rights whatsoever in amateur productions of The End of Me Old Cigar are strictly reserved and application for performance etc. should be made before commencement of rehearsal to Samuel French Ltd., 52 Fitzroy Street, London W1T 5JR ([email protected]). No performance may be given unless a licence has been obtained, and no alterations may be made in the title or the text of the play without the author’s prior written consent.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or binding or by any means (print, electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  PB ISBN: 9781840020748

  E ISBN: 9781783192335

  Cover photograph: Every effort has been made to obtain permission to use this picture.

  Typography: Richard Doust

  Converted by Replika Press PVT Ltd., India

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  Contents

  Introduction

  A SENSE OF DETACHMENT

  THE END OF ME OLD CIGAR

  JILL AND JACK

  Introduction

  A PLACE CALLING ITSELF ROME

  INTRODUCTION

  A Sense of Detachment

  The End of Me Old Cigar

  Jill and Jack

  Helen Osborne

  These plays were written in the early 1970s and, contrary to hearsay-history, very dispiriting years they were. With Heath and Wilson as regnant Gauleiters, the miners struck, the lights went out and the Three-Day week came in. Everyone felt miffed.

  The infant Women’s Movement not only had a toe in the door but its knees under the table and a knife up its knickers. In the theatre the gleeful celebrations at the long overdue removal of the Lord Chamberlain’s blue pencil had deteriorated into a manic free-for-all. The harmony of language was an early victim. Stuck for an image? Shove in a ‘shit’ or a ‘screw’. ‘Audience Participation’ was the buzz. ‘Happenings’ were hip. No use sitting there with a box of chocs when a hairy actor might crash into your lap. Get up. Join in. And never mind the B.O.

  It was not a time for meticulous or passionate wordsmiths. But behind his redoubt, Osborne watched and listened. A Sense of Detachment was his first salvo, and he flipped the futilities of the ‘Theatre of Antagonism’ – accompanied by its smug ‘device of insult’ – upside down.

  How the critics hated it, their mimsy, dumpy noses twitching at this rank abuse of an already incipient Political Correctness. Not only the jokes but the ‘joke’ itself blithely passed them by. They were right behind the Girl when she declares, ‘He really has got a bit too predicable now, hasn’t he?’

  But not too predictable for some of the punters. ‘I suppose it’s all really about things like music and fucking,’ said Rachel Kempson’s Older Lady as, with crystal elocution, she waded through a pile of ever-more explicit porn catalogues. One evening, a woman in the audience threw her boot at Lady Redgrave, who hurled it back. This was no ‘device’.

  The word went out that subversive anarchy, the genuine article, was happily rampant once again in Sloane Square and the limited run quickly sold out. There was a spontaneous party for ‘S’ of ‘D’ fans, led by the cast, on the Royal Court stage. We danced and sang and then whooped off into the night and illicit liaisons. The play made you feel young, cheeky, unfashionably enthusiastic – about undying poetry, romantic music, the tender mystery of love between men and women – and really liberated. Although, as the Chap reminded us, ‘It’s only a vision.’

  This is a true piece of theatre. It wouldn’t transfer to film or television. Even the stage directions could only have been written by an actor… (‘As the audience returns, if indeed it does return…’). Pure John Osborne.

  You only have to read A Better Class of Person, his first volume of autobiography, to realise how much he plundered his inner life in A Sense of Detachment, how personal it was to him, this stylised threnody to the loss and erosion of English character, genius and gentleness by a concerted and strident coarsening. ‘Woman is dead! Long live woman!’ cries the Chap. And then, ‘I do not believe it. She has always triumphed in my small corner of spirit. Being in love! What anathema to the Sexual Militant!’

  The same oblique ‘vision’ feeds The End of Me Old Cigar, with its conventional County House Weekend setting which disguises a Garsington of lechery, and much besides. Regine, the Madame of this militant bordello, and her Amazon troop of call-girls, are working up to Bastille Day when they will blow up not only the reputations of their famous clients but the very notion of ‘Mankind’.

  ‘Remember,’ says Regine, when issuing her battle directives, ‘it’s the last time over that timeless top and then a New World waits for us.’ The Sisters are assured they are about to ‘re-enter Paradise. On our own terms.’ But hormones and heartbeats are stronger than propaganda, and messy old love gets in the way, as it always will.

  At this distance, what I find most moving about these plays, along with their unique voice, their fun and larkiness, is the use of music: Mozart, Mahler’s Fifth, Vaughan Williams, Elgar, Handel, ‘Rosenkavalier,’ which would become so familiar, day by day, when John and I were married. Snatches from the Music Hall, of course…and Osborne’s soupy old favourites like ‘In a Little Gypsy Tearoom’ or ‘I’m Only a Strolling Vagabond.’ Gone, but not quite forgotten.

  Helen Osborne

  Shropshire, 2000

  A SENSE OF DETACHMENT

  Acknowledgements

  Acknowledgements are due as follows for permission to quote from copyright material:

  For ‘Change Partners’ by Irving Berlin, Irving Berlin Ltd.

  For ‘In a Little Gypsy Tea-Room’ by Joe Burke, Campbell, Connolly & Co. Ltd.

  For ‘Booze, Twentieth Century Booze’ by Noel Coward; ‘I’m on a See-Saw’ by Vivian Ellis; ‘Room 504’ by George Posford; ‘But Not for Me’ by George Gershwin; and ‘Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye’ by Cole Porter, Chappell & Co.

  For ‘Call Around Any Old Time’, ‘If You Were the Only Girl in the World’, ‘Goodnight’, ‘Yankee Doodle Boy’ reproduced by permission
of B. Feldman & Co. Ltd., 64 Dean Street, London WIV 6AU.

  For ‘The Isle of Capri’ by Wilhelm Grosz, Peter Maurice Music Co. Ltd.

  For ‘Goodbye’, ‘Five O’ Clock Shadow’, ‘Meditation on the A30’ and ‘Ireland’s Own’ by John Betjeman, John Murray (Publishers) Ltd.

  For ‘Jean’ by Rod McKuen, Twentieth Century Music Ltd.

  Characters

  CHAIRMAN

  CHAP

  GIRL

  OLDER LADY

  FATHER

  GRANDFATHER

  SHIFTING PLANTED INTERRUPTER

  SHIFTING PLANTED INTERRUPTER’S WIFE

  MAN IN THE STAGE BOX

  STAGE MANAGER

  STAGE MANAGEMENT

  STAGE HANDS

  A Sense of Detachment was first performed at the Royal Court Theatre, London on 4 December 1972, with the following cast:

  CHAIRMAN, Nigel Hawthorne

  CHAP, John Standing

  GIRL, Denise Coffey

  OLDER LADY, Rachel Kempson

  FATHER, Hugh Hastings

  GRANDFATHER, Ralph Michael

  INTERRUPTER, Terence Frisby

  INTERRUPTER’S WIFE, Jeni Barnett

  BOX MAN, David Hill

  STAGE MANAGER, Peter Jolley

  Director, Frank Dunlop

  Designer, Nadine Baylis

  Lighting, Rory Dempster

  ACT ONE

  The curtain rises on a virtually empty stage except for a projection screen at the back, a barrel organ downstage and an upright piano. After a slight pause, the principal actors walk on carrying light bent-wood chairs. The actors are the CHAIRMAN, a man in his mid-forties, the CHAP, who is slightly younger, the GIRL, who is younger still, the FATHER, who is about seventy, the GRANDFATHER, who is about ten years older and the OLDER LADY, who is about the same age. They place their chairs in position and look around them, at each other, the stage and all parts of the auditorium.

  CHAIRMAN: Well, this looks like a pretty unpromising opening.

  CHAP: Blimey, you’re telling me. The Stage Management look more interesting than we do. Or that lot out there. (Indicates the audience.)

  CHAIRMAN: Oh, dear, what does one expect?

  CHAP: Nothing, I suppose.

  CHAIRMAN: True.

  (The CHAP goes up to the projection screen)

  CHAP: Oh, not one of those.

  GIRL: I suppose you realise I haven’t said anything yet?

  CHAIRMAN: You will, you will.

  CHAP: And paid for it.

  GRANDFATHER: Overpaid, I expect.

  CHAP: Right.

  GIRL: (Pointing to the barrel organ) I hope no one’s going to play that bloody thing. I can’t stand barrel-organs.

  CHAP: Oh, we’ll have the bagpipes before we’re finished, I expect.

  GIRL: I can’t stand the Scots either.

  CHAP: I thought you were Scotch.

  GIRL: Scots, you ignorant little bastard.

  GRANDFATHER: Oh…is it going to be that sort of language?

  GIRL: What sort of language?

  CHAP: He means vaguely dirty, like we all use.

  GRANDFATHER: I hope nobody’s going to take all their bloody clothes off.

  GIRL: Christ, so do I! All those limp, dangling dicks.

  CHAP: And tits down to the knees.

  OLDER LADY: Oh, I rather like all that.

  GIRL: You would, you filthy old woman.

  OLDER LADY: What did you say?

  GIRL: You heard.

  CHAP: Cloth ears. (Points to the FATHER.) I hope this old sod isn’t going to just sit there in his 1930s suit looking mysterious.

  FATHER: I shall probably play the piano.

  CHAP: You never played it very well.

  GIRL: He’s quite attractive.

  CHAP: He’s probably another ‘exercise in nostalgia’.

  GIRL: Oh, don’t. Those boring TV chat shows!

  CHAP: I shouldn’t say that. You might find yourself on one.

  GIRL: For what they pay?

  CHAP: All you seem to do is talk about money.

  GIRL: And why not? You don’t think I get much from this bloody mean management, do you?

  CHAP: Well, it’s boring.

  INTERRUPTER: (From the stalls.) Hear, hear!

  GIRL: Piss off!

  GRANDFATHER: I may be old-fashioned…

  GIRL: You are –

  GRANDFATHER: But I still don’t think young girls should talk like that.

  CHAIRMAN: Not as old-fashioned as some of us.

  INTERRUPTER: Dead right.

  OLDER LADY: What did that man say?

  GIRL: Some balls.

  OLDER LADY: Who is he? Do we know him?

  CHAP: Oh, I think he’s participating, or something.

  CHAIRMAN: No, just an obvious over-familiar theatrical device.

  CHAP: Won’t be the last one, either.

  GRANDFATHER: Do you think we should offer him his money back?

  GIRL: No, I don’t!

  CHAIRMAN: He’s lucky to be here.

  CHAP: He doesn’t think so.

  GIRL: He doesn’t think anything just as long as he gets his salary at the end of the week. Can’t wait for mine.

  CHAP: Watch it. Or we may not be here tomorrow night at all.

  GIRL: They’ve still got to give me two weeks’ money.

  CHAP: God, you are a Scot, aren’t you?

  CHAIRMAN: I don’t think we should be nasty about the Scots. They’ll think we’ve got it in for them, or something.

  CHAP: Why not?

  GIRL: Who cares?

  CHAIRMAN: Exactly. Who cares?

  GRANDFATHER: Good malt whisky.

  GIRL: You’re not going to burble on like that all the time, are you?

  OLDER LADY: He’s never been very interesting, I’m afraid.

  CHAP: Ah, ‘the theatre of antagonism’.

  CHAIRMAN: The ‘device of insult’.

  GRANDFATHER: Oh, what a piece of work is Man…’

  CHAP: Oh, belt up.

  GIRL: I must say quoting Shakespeare is pretty cheap.

  CHAIRMAN: Let’s face it, it’s all pretty cheap.

  CHAP: We’re pretty cheap.

  GIRL: I’m not.

  CHAP: Yes, we know about you. You’re expensive.

  GRANDFATHER: ‘Oh, what a piece of work is Man…’

  CHAP: Alas, poor old prick, I knew him well.

  GRANDFATHER: How does it go on?

  CHAP: ‘A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy’ He has bored the arse off me a thousand times.

  GIRL: Who?

  CHAP: (In a Shakespearean yokel type voice.) Why, he that is mad and sent into England!

  GRANDFATHER: I suppose all life is a theatre.

  CHAP: And all theatre is laife.

  GIRL: What a profound insight!

  CHAP: You mean obvious?

  GIRL: Naturally.

  INTERRUPTER: Is it all going to be as formless as this?

  CHAIRMAN: Yes.

  CHAP: I expect so.

  GIRL: You try learning the bloody stuff. I’ve forgotten half of it already.

  INTERRUPTER: (From the stalk) You’re trying to have it all ways, aren’t you?

  GIRL: As the actress said to the bishop.

  INTERRUPTER: Do you think we can’t see through this?

  GRANDFATHER: I shouldn’t think he’ll sit through it.

  GIRL: He will.

  CHAP: We know, he’s paid for it.

  CHAIRMAN: Yes, I think we’ve had enough of him for a bit, don’t you?

  CHAP: Bit of your old Pirandello, like.

  CHAIRMAN: (To the INTERRUPTER) Yes, I should go to the bar and have a drink.

  GIRL: Don’t think the Management will pay for it!

  CHAP: I suppose that’s a character trait, is it?

  GIRL: What?

  CHAIRMAN: Well, I suppose we’d better make some sort of start, though I don’t know why.

  GIRL: You either freeze to death
or boil your knickers off.

  INTERRUPTER: (Walking out of the auditorium) Bloody right! Load of rubbish!

  CHAP: (In a pompous voice.) Hear, hear!

  INTERRUPTER: My small boy could do better than this.

  CHAP: Yes, I bet he likes small boys an’ all.

  (NOTE: If there are any genuine interruptions from members of the audience at any time, and it would be a pity if there were not, the actors must naturally be prepared to deal with such a situation, preferably the CHAIRMAN, the CHAP or the GIRL. These can be obvious, inventive or spontaneous, apart from the obvious responses like ‘Piss off, ‘Get knotted’, ‘Go and fuck yourself if you can get it up, which I doubt from the look of you ‘, etc.

  These could he adapted to the appearance or apparent background, like:

  ‘Get back off to the shires, you married poufr,’

  ‘If you’ We Irish, get out of the parlour.’

  ‘And I hope the ship goes dozen in Galway Bay.’

  ‘Get back to Golders Green, you hairy git.’

  ‘Why aren’t you in the West End, watching some old tatty expensive shit?’

  The INTERRUPTER can return at any of these with any of the following abusive lines:

  ‘What we want is family entertainment.’

  ‘When you’ve had a hard day’s work, you don ‘t want to sit and listen to a lot of pseudo-intellectual filth.’

  ‘Bourgeois crap.’

  ‘Do you expect to get the young people into the theatre this way?’

  ‘Who cares about them ? What about us?’

  ‘All too obvious, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Like it doesn’t do anything for me, man.’

  ‘I hope that the women are being paid the same as the men.’

  Like what’s it all for, man?’

  ‘They did all this in the 1930s, only better.’

  ‘I’m glad I haven ‘t got any money in the show.’

  And so on)

  CHAIRMAN: Now where were we?

  GIRL: Nowhere.

  CHAP: Absobloodylutely nowhere.

  (From the loudspeakers comes the lush sound of the Adagietto from Mahler’s ‘Fifth’. They all listen in silence for a while.)