The Late Middle Classes

Simon Gray

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9781848421103
• eBook ISBN: 9781788502078
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

A funny yet melancholic look at the frustrations, secrets and guilt of middle-class respectability in 1950s England.

England in the 1950s. Celia, bored to distraction, fills her time with tennis and gin; Charles, a pathologist, is buried in his work among the living and the dead; and their gifted son, Holly, is having his first lessons in both music and in life.

Simon Gray's play The Late Middle Classes was first performed at the Palace Theatre, Watford, in March 1999, and produced on tour by the Ambassadors Theatre Group/Turnstile Group Limited. It was the winner of the Barclays Stage Award for Best New Play of 1999.

The play was revived at the Donmar Warehouse, London, in June 2010.

ACT ONE

Scene One

BROWNLOW’s study/sitting room. Autumn. Early evening. The present.

A baby grand piano, a sofa, desk, table, an armchair.

BROWNLOW, in his seventies, is sitting in armchair, dozing, muttering.

Doorbell rings.

BROWNLOW (mutters in his sleep, gradually wakes up, listens). No, I couldn’t have heard it – must be a dream –

Doorbell rings again.

BROWNLOW goes to window, peers out. Knocks on window.

Is there anybody there? Who’s there? Mrs Jameson, is that you? Mr Jameson? Surely you know not to disturb me at this hour, I’m very busy –

Doorbell rings again.

Who is it? (Agitated. Attempts to compose himself, goes out of room.)

Voices off, indistinct.

(Off.) Yes? Can I help you?

HOLLY (off). I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Holliday Smithers.

BROWNLOW. Smithers – Holliday Smithers – yes, yes, of course I remember you.

HOLLY. I was just passing and couldn’t help wondering if you were still here.

BROWNLOW. Yes, yes, still here. Well, please come in.

HOLLY enters the sitting room, followed by BROWNLOW. HOLLY is in his mid-forties. He looks around.

And, um, where have you come from?

HOLLY. Well, from Australia in fact. Melbourne.

BROWNLOW. And you’re staying on the island?

HOLLY. No, I’m staying in London. But I had to come down to Portsmouth for a few days.

BROWNLOW. And so you decided to pay us a visit, after all these years.

HOLLY. Well, I had the afternoon off, couldn’t resist driving over – odd that, being able to drive over, all the way by road. I still imagined having to take the ferry. I’d have preferred that on such a beautiful day. Especially when everything turned out to be so familiar. (Looks around again.) As it is here. Except that it’s all older, of course.

BROWNLOW. Yes, yes, like myself.

HOLLY. Like myself. Do you mind if I sit down?

BROWNLOW. Oh – oh, yes, of course, I’m sorry – please. Where would you like? (Gesturing around room.)

HOLLY walks over to armchair, sits down, watched by BROWNLOW.

HOLLY. There is a change, though. No, not a change, an absence. Yes, something’s missing. Oh yes, a cat. There was always a cat called Kitty-Cat. Kitty-Cat Number Seven. You explained to me that your mother always called her cats Kitty-Cat so it was always the same cat to her. When one died she’d go straight on to the next Kitty-Cat almost without noticing the pain of loss or the treachery of replacement. But you numbered them in your head. So I knew Kitty-Cat Number Seven.

BROWNLOW. They were called Catty-Kit, not Kitty-Cat.

HOLLY. Oh yes, sorry. I must have let the chocolate bar get in the way. Well, what number did it get up to, Catty-Kit, before its sequence ended?

BROWNLOW. Eleven. Number Eleven I had put down the day after I buried my mother.

HOLLY. Ah. The end of the line then.

BROWNLOW. It felt like the end of an era.

HOLLY. Yes, I suppose it must have done. (Little pause.) But have you gone on keeping the same hours?

BROWNLOW. Well, I keep the hours, yes. Yes, I do that.

HOLLY. Every morning from ten to twelve and every evening from nine, was it? Until midnight.

BROWNLOW. Nine thirty until midnight. Back then. Now of course my time’s my own and I start earlier. Whenever I feel like it.

HOLLY. You and your beloved talking to each other. (Glancing towards piano.)

BROWNLOW. Yes.

HOLLY. And what do the two of you talk about these days? Anything in particular?

BROWNLOW. A concerto. We’re working on a concerto. We’ve been at it for a long time. A long, long time. I hope to complete it before I die.

HOLLY. Oh yes, you must. You’d want to hear it, after all. You used to say that you couldn’t compose the opening until you knew how the piece would close. So first close, then open, and then on into the middle, which would look after itself.

BROWNLOW. Well, of course one has these theories at different times of one’s life. One’s creative life. Perhaps it’s to do with memories. The more memories you have, the more difficult it all becomes.

HOLLY. You mean the memories teem about and get in the way?

BROWNLOW. Well, no, not teem about. Not quite as lively as that. They bob up.

HOLLY. What sort of memories?

BROWNLOW. Well, just memories. Of days gone by. (Little pause.) You, for instance. You bob up now and then. Quite often in fact.

HOLLY. Do I?

BROWNLOW. Do I ever bob up for you?

HOLLY. Oh, yes. This afternoon when I was walking about the island. I went to see the old house, well, the family house, and one thought led to another and that led to another and then finally up you bobbed again.

BROWNLOW. Like a jack-in-the-box.

HOLLY. No, not really like a jack-in-the-box. The thoughts were quite logically connected, I think. Though there was a bit missing – something I tried to remember and couldn’t. The music. The music that seemed to run through it all. It wouldn’t come back. It won’t come back.

BROWNLOW. Really? Can I offer you something? Tea? Coffee? And I do believe there’s some sherry somewhere – but very, very old. From my mother’s day. Quite a few bottles of it there should be in the larder, Mrs Jameson helps herself to it from time to time but – she’s my cleaning woman, you know, she came long after your time – after my mother’s too – in fact she’s only been here about ten years, I think it must be, and her husband does the gardening. Sometimes I hear them down in the kitchen, laughing and talking, and it occurs to me that they’re at the sherry, especially when they’re being rather loud. May I ask a question?

HOLLY gestures.

There is a pause.

HOLLY (gently). A question. You’re going to ask a question.

BROWNLOW. Are you real?

HOLLY. Yes, quite real. Well, at least I think I am. One can never be completely sure on that point, can one? (Gets up, goes over to BROWNLOW.) But here, feel this. (Holds out his hand.)

BROWNLOW tentatively moves his hand, touches HOLLY’s sleeve. As he withdraws his hand, HOLLY catches it in his.

There, you see. Not just the garments but flesh and blood.

They stand, hands clasped for a second. HOLLY removes his hand.

BROWNLOW. Did you say yes? To the sherry, that is?

HOLLY. A glass of your mother’s sherry, yes, I’d love to try it at last. Thank you.

BROWNLOW. Well, I’ll see what I can find. (Goes out.)

HOLLY goes over to piano, picks along keyboard as if trying to work out a tune. Shakes his head in exasperation, goes back, sits in armchair, takes out cigarette, lights it. Sits back meditatively. As he does so:

Piano music, over, as:

Lights going down as lights coming up on SMITHERS’ sitting room.

Scene Two

Spring. Evening. Early 1950s.

SMITHERS’ sitting room.

HOLLY, as a child of twelve, playing the piano.

HOLLY continues to play for a second, stops. He gets up, goes over to sofa, sits down. Takes out exercise book from satchel, extracts a loose sheet of paper, reads it very intensely, then reaches urgently into satchel, fumbles deeply, takes out magazine, begins to go through it, studying pictures, occasionally reading to himself aloud but inaudibly from sheet of paper.

Sound of front door opening and closing.

HOLLY scrambles to his feet, stuffs magazine and exercise book back into satchel, hurries over to piano, starts playing.

CELIA SMITHERS, HOLLY’s mother, enters, dressed in tennis shorts, top, carrying tennis racquet and tennis balls.

CELIA. She’s chucked! That bloody Moira woman has actually chucked! She couldn’t phone me before I left so I could have got somebody else, no, she just stepped out as I was cycling past, with her hand raised like a policeman – I nearly pedalled straight into her and I wish I had – she honked out some nonsense about coughs and sore throats, running eyes, her cheeks were like apples, my dear, great shiny apples, by far the healthiest thing I’ve seen all week – oh, I could kill her! Kill, kill, kill! (Serves viciously with imaginary ball.)

HOLLY. It’s because you keep beating her.

CELIA. Oh, don’t be so silly.

HOLLY. It’s true. Every time you come back from playing against her you crow about beating her six love, six love. You do the same with me, so I know how she feels.

CELIA. She wouldn’t be so petty. Yes, she would. Everyone on this bloody island is petty. That’s why you’ve got to win a scholarship. To get us off it.

HOLLY. That makes complete sense. That’s perfectly logical. I understand that.

CELIA. You sound just like your father. (Banging her racquet gently on his head.) I. Won’t. Have. You. Making. Fun. Of. Your. Father.

HOLLY. I wasn’t making fun of him. I just don’t see why my getting a scholarship would ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title page
• Contents
• Dedication
• Original Production
• Characters
• The Late Middle Classes
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information