The Art of Concealment

The Life of Terence Rattigan

Giles Cole

• Publisher: Oberon Books
• Year: 2012
• Print ISBN: 9781849434164
• eBook ISBN: 9781849435475
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

Terence Rattigan was once regarded as the golden boy of the West End stage but he suffered a sudden and catastrophic fall from favour in the mid-1950s. In this new play, written to mark the centenary of Rattigan's birth, he is 66 years old, in failing health, and waiting for the curtain to rise on his last play, Cause Célèbre. The Art of Concealment is not only about the demons that haunted one of our great playwrights but about the creative process itself, the loss of youth, the pain of love and the shallowness of fame. How does a playwright judge his own life? Can it be crafted, restructured, or does he have a duty to be honest, finally, about himself? The play received critical acclaim during a sell-out run at the Jermyn Street Theatre in London.

Act one

SCENE ONE. PROLOGUE. 1977.

A blank space which will later become the Royal Box at Her Majesty's Theatre, Haymarket. Music is heard from a distance, then subsides.

Spot on OLDER TERRY. He is wearing a dinner jacket and is leaning heavily on a walking stick. He has a glass of whisky in his other hand.

OLDER TERRY: The fact is I'm dying. And why shouldn't a man enjoy his own death? After all, it's the last amusement left. They got the diagnosis wrong last time. It wasn't leukaemia, but it is now. Second time unlucky. (Drinks.) Shouldn't be drinking this, but have to steady the nerves. I have a terror of opening nights and tonight is no exception. (He sits, carefully.)

Despite many protestations to the contrary by my friends – and indeed by myself from time to time – I am coming to the conclusion that I am not a nice man. I do, however, though I say it myself, have some rather fine qualities. One or two. I am loyal, in my own way. And I… well, I'm loyal anyway. Buggered up a lot of things, let's be frank.

I made money, of course. That always helps. But I spent far, far too much of it. Drove several accountants to despair. No, don't exaggerate. Drove one accountant to despair. ‘Don't give so many lavish parties, Mr Rattigan. Don't buy that house, Mr Rattigan, you don't need another one. And for goodness’ sake stop gambling.’ All to no avail. What's money for if not to have fun? I've been generous – if you can call that a fine quality. I like giving presents. Simple fact. And people like receiving them. Not so easy to give affection, though. Love. Bit more of a mystery, that one.

I'm 66 years old and my looks have gone. They went a long time ago – somewhere between 1958 and 1960.

(Laughs briefly.) I am no longer the Prettiest Playwright in London. Not by a long chalk. But I am still a playwright. I have always been a playwright, above and beyond anything else. Even when I was at school. Oh God, I've resisted these memories.

Perhaps we see, for a moment, half-lit in the background, the shadowy figures of FRANK, VERA, TONY, CUTHBERT and YOUNGER TERRY.

It feels like giving in, to think back to your happier days. But now is the time. I can resist no longer. (Drinks.) Where are you, young Terence? Are you still hiding somewhere in my past? Come on out, then, and face me. Come out and torture me, before my last play starts.

A short piece of music is heard. Lights up on YOUNGER TERRY. He is handsome, debonair, and stands in a very casual and relaxed pose, cigarette in hand. The other characters disappear and the OLDER and YOUNGER TERRY regard each other for a moment.

God, just look at you. Handsome young bastard.

YOUNGER TERRY exhales and smiles, with the natural confidence of youth.

So proud of yourself. So self-assured. Such a noble confection.

TERRY: Aren't I just?

OLDER TERRY: How did you get away with it?

TERRY: Practice, old man. Practice. Surely you can't have forgotten?

Lights down on OLDER TERRY.

Music.

SCENE TWO. 1929.

TERRY’s study at Harrow. Afternoon.

YOUNGER TERRY remains in the same position. The voice of FRANK RATTIGAN, Terry's father, can be heard approaching.

FRANK: (Off.) My dear young chap, if you are a sporting type, you are a sporting type, and it's as simple as that.

FRANK enters, followed by TONY GOLDSCHMIDT.

FRANK cuts a dashing figure – he is well-groomed, with a neat moustache, and is wearing a sporty jacket with a cravat at his neck and a carnation in his buttonhole. He is a little tipsy, but is accustomed to holding his drink. TONY is slightly built, fresh-faced and somewhat tongue-tied in company. He is wearing formal school uniform, and is carrying a boater. He is clearly in awe of FRANK, to TERRY’s annoyance.

FRANK: I may have had my moments – and I flatter myself I was somewhat prolific in that department – but, as Terence will tell you, my life has not been a bed of roses.

In Cairo, one could play any game one liked – polo, cricket, golf, tennis, squash racquets and croquet. Anything that took your fancy.

TONY: Did you play all of them, sir?

FRANK: At one time or another, yes. Mostly stuck to cricket and tennis, though. That's where I excelled. Terence is the same. Takes after me, don't you, Terry? Damn good eye. I'll be expecting to see you opening the batting against Eton, my boy.

TERRY: That is a distinct possibility.

FRANK: A distinct possibility! Do you hear the way he talks? They'll pick you, my boy, and no mistake about it. If there's a Rattigan at the school, he'll be picked for the Eton match. Have you been to Lord's for the match, Goldschmidt?

TONY: No, sir, I'm afraid not. It's not really my –

FRANK: Oh, you should, you should. Shouldn't he, Terence? It's a great occasion. Thousands of people, all dressed up fit to kill. Quite a fashion parade, I can assure you.

TONY: It sounds very – (glamorous).

FRANK: Now then, what refreshment can you offer us, my boy?

TERRY: We aren't allowed alcohol in our studies, Father.

FRANK: Really? Then what's the point of being a monitor?

TERRY: I am not a monitor.

FRANK: Not? Why not? You a Rattigan and not a monitor – what's wrong with the old place? (He laughs.)

TERRY: Anyway, I'd have thought you'd have had enough at lunch.

A beat. FRANK assimilates this.

TONY: Very good lunch, sir. Thank you.

FRANK: Not at all. My pleasure to treat my son. And his friend. By the way, don't call me sir.

TONY: Oh –

FRANK: Major will do.

TERRY catches TONY’s eye, raises his eyes to heaven.

Pity you aren't a sporting fellow, Goldschmidt. We might have had more to talk about.

TERRY: You could have talked about Catullus. Or Seneca. Or Ancient Rome in general.

FRANK: Don't try and be smart wit...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half-title Page
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Characters
• Act One
• Act Two