![]()
ACT ONE
1958
PHILIP and SYLVIAās apartment in London. It is modest but tasteful. Lots of books, a sofa and armchairs, a few pictures on the wall.
PHILIP is standing by the front door. He is dressed for a night out. OLIVER has just arrived.
OLIVER. Philip.
PHILIP. Oliver.
OLIVER. Yes.
PHILIP. At last.
OLIVER. Yes.
PHILIP. Iāve heard so many things.
OLIVER. Have you?
PHILIP. So many things about you.
OLIVER. Gosh.
PHILIP. All good.
OLIVER. Thatās a relief.
PHILIP. Sylviaās always talking about you.
OLIVER. Is she?
PHILIP. Iām beginning to get rather jealous.
OLIVER. No need, Iām sure.
PHILIP. She thinks youāre a genius.
OLIVER. There are many things I am, but a genius is definitely not one of them.
PHILIP. Extraordinary is what she calls you.
OLIVER. Does she?
PHILIP. Out of the ordinary.
A slight pause.
Let me take your coat.
OLIVER. Thank you.
OLIVER takes off his coat and hands it to PHILIP, who hangs it up carefully.
PHILIP. Iām afraid the lady is running a little late. Applying the face paint, I believe. That ancient ritual.
OLIVER. Iām early.
PHILIP. Not at all. Youāre right on time.
OLIVER. I walked. I thought it would take me slightly longer.
PHILIP. Itās a lovely evening.
OLIVER. Well, no rain in any case.
PHILIP. All the way from Maida Vale?
OLIVER. Yes, Maida Vale.
PHILIP. Across the park, eh?
OLIVER. Yes.
PHILIP. Thatās a long walk.
OLIVER. I enjoyed it.
PHILIP. Itās the season for it.
OLIVER. Everything in full bloom.
PHILIP. Lovely.
A slight pause.
What can I get you to drink?
OLIVER. A Scotch?
PHILIP. Ice and water?
OLIVER. Perfect.
PHILIP. I think Iāll have the same.
PHILIP walks over to a small drinks table and pours them a couple of drinks.
She thinks your stories are wonderful.
OLIVER. Sheās certainly captured the spirit of the thing.
PHILIP. She seems to care. About the book, I mean.
OLIVER. Sheās very, very talented.
PHILIP. Canāt stop talking about it. Something about a garden.
OLIVER. Well, itās more of a jungle, really.
PHILIP. A jungle.
OLIVER. Letās call it a jungle in the heart of England. Or at least a very overgrown and rather tropical garden.
PHILIP. What is it with childrenās writers and gardens? There seems to be a proliferation of them. Most of them secret, I dare say.
OLIVER. Youāre right.
PHILIP. Well, sheās very busy with it in any case. Sketches of strange creatures all over the place. I came across a rather alarming picture of something that resembled a two-headed antelope in the bathroom the other day. Fascinating.
OLIVER. Thatāll be the Bellyfinch. Iām supposed to be having a first look at it on Friday morning, I believe.
PHILIP. Bellyfinch indeed. Iām afraid by comparison my life seems rather lacklustre.
OLIVER. I donāt honestly believe there is such a thing as a lacklustre life.
PHILIP. You havenāt sold property for a living.
OLIVER. Unexplored perhaps, but not lacklustre.
PHILIP hands him his drink. They sit.
PHILIP. Iāve never met anyone like you before. A writer, I mean.
OLIVER. Havenāt you?
PHILIP. Apart from this ghastly friend of my motherās whoās published a book on baking cakes.
OLIVER. Baking cakes?
PHILIP. Iām not sure that really counts.
OLIVER. That sounds a little unfair. Nothing wrong with books about cakes.
PHILIP. Have you only ever written for children?
OLIVER. For the most part. But Iāve written two travel books as well.
PHILIP. Sylvia mentioned it. One on Athens.
OLIVER. I lived there for a year.
PHILIP. And the other?
OLIVER. The other on the Lebanon.
PHILIP. The Lebanon?
OLIVER. But mostly Iām drawn to writing for children.
PHILIP. I wonder why.
OLIVER. I donāt really know. I think it might have something to do with running completely wild.
PHILIP. Wild?
OLIVER. The possibilities are infinite. The parameters and conventions of adult fiction I find a great deal more restrictive.
PHILIP. I see.
OLIVER. I feel a lot happier in a world of talking tigers and magic mirrors. More in my element, really.
PHILIP. Fair enough.
OLIVER. Maybe one day adult fiction will embrace my more extravagant flights of fancy, but for the time being Iām quite happy writing for the under-twelves.
PHILIP. Well, it seems to keep a roof over your head.
OLIVER. A leaking one, but yes, just about.
PHILIP. Well, hereās to the book anyway.
OLIVER. The book.
They toast.
PHILIP. Itās strange.
OLIVER. What is?
PHILIP. When I opened the door.
OLIVER. Yes?
PHILIP. You look familiar, is what I think Iām saying.
OLIVER. Yes, I thought so too.
PHILIP. Did you?
OLIVER. Yes, I think I did.
PHILIP. Well, maybe weāve bumped into each other. On the Underground or something.
OLIVER. Maybe.
PHILIP. Stranger things have happened.
Pause.
Or maybe itās just because she talks about you so often.
OLIVER. Talks about me?
PHILIP. So perhaps thatās why I felt like Iād seen you before.
OLIVER. How dāyou mean?
PHILIP. Oh, itās just that sometimes if youāve heard a great deal about someone, if youāve been expecting them in some way, you sort of imagine them before they actually arrive.
OLIVER. Yes.
PHILIP. If you know what I mean.
OLIVER. Yes, I think I do.
SYLVIA enters. She is smartly dressed for an evening out.
PHILIP. Here she is.
SYLVIA (to OLIVER). Has he been interrogating you?
PHILIP. Mercilessly.
OLIVER. Hello, Sylvia.
SYLVIA. Heās a very jealous kind of man.
PHILIP. Rabid with it.
SYLVIA. Can easily become violent. Philip, be a darling and do me up.
She turns her back to him so that he can help her with the top hook of her dress.
Comes in handy though from time to time, I must say. I see heās offered you a drink.
OLIVER. Heās been the perfect host.
SYLVIA. So all that training wasnāt a complete waste of time after all.
PHILIP. Iām learning fast. Gin?
SYLVIA. Iāve booked the table for eight.
PHILIP. A quick one.
SYLVIA. Tha...
