Act 3 Flashcards
With my love and many glorious memories. Yours, Winnie.
When’s it dated?
November 7.
Over six months ago. She must be gone by now. But too late to answer it.
Much.
Poor Winnie.
She’d probably have been an awful nuisance anyhow. Don’t forget that your ship stops in Madera in a few days’ time. You better lock yourself in your cabin.
Not at all. If I run into her I shall say I never got the letter and that it’s my secretary’s fault.
It’s your fault. These letters have been stacking up for months. Here’s one signed Joe.
Joe what?
Just Joe. It’s dated March 2.
Let’s look.
He seems to of met you in the south of France.
I do get it out, don’t I?
Oh, it’s Joe.
That’s what I said.
Joe was marvelous. I met him at a bar in Marseilles. He’s dark green and comes from Madras. What does he want?
It’s at the end, after the bit about his sister having a baby.
Oh, yes – well, why didn’t you send him one?
Because I didn’t consider that Joe, Madras was sufficient address.
I’m damned if I can remember his last name.
Well, he’s out of luck then, isn’t he?
I wonder if I shall ever see my green England again.
I see no reason why you shouldn’t.
I might die of some awful tropical disease or be bitten by a snake.
I doubt if there are many snakes in the larger cities.
I can see myself now under a mosquito net, fighting for breath —
Who with?
Dear, dear Monica, you have no imagination. Just a flat literal mind. It must be very depressing for you.
I get by.
How many more there to do?
About 20.
I can’t bear it. Put them away until I come back.
You seemed to be in doubt just now as to whether you were coming back.
Well, I can’t answer letters if I’m dead, can I? Not a moments peace ever in my life — not even a tranquil hour when I can say farewell to my books and pictures — I slave and slave — and what do I get?
Nonsense, you’ve got the whole evening to say farewell to your books and pictures.
Fred: Have you finished with the tray? I want to be getting along.
What can I say? Is everything packed?
All except the last minute stuff, we can pop that in in the morning.
Is this poor Doris’s swan song?
How do you mean?
Nothing, Fred – it couldn’t matter less.
Monica: I must be going home.
Don’t leave me alone — I feel depressed
You were screaming for peace just now. I’ll be here first thing in the morning.
I wish you were coming with me. I shall be utterly lost with some dreary temporary African.
Is Liz coming to the station
No.
Why don’t you go round and see her?
You know perfectly well. She still in a rage. I haven’t seen her for a week.
Have you tried?
Of course I have. I’ve telephoned her three times. Each time she spoke to me kindly and remotely as if I were an idiot child. I’m not sure she didn’t spell some of the words out to me.
Would you like me to have a go with her?
No. If she wants to behave like an outrage governess with chilblains she can get on with it.
I see her point, you know. You really did go a little too far.
Now, Monica, don’t you start on me too.
All right, I’ll take these into the office.
Fred: nothing more you want?
No, Fred.
It was quite a party, wasn’t it? How many did we have?
I don’t know, about 60. I should think.
- Well, between them all they put away enough gin to float the Queen Mary.
You’d better call me at eight in the morning. We have to leave the house at 10.
Rightyo.
Good night, Fred — enjoy yourself.
Oh Em – by the way, you’d better be careful if the telephone rings. Roland mall has been calling up all week.
I think I’d almost welcome him tonight. At least he’d be interesting psychologically.
So would Rasputin.
I feel dreadfully flat. I suppose one always does before going away.
Now now, you’re getting a big boy, you know.
51, my next birthday.
41, isn’t it? Good night, dear. See you in the morning.
I do envy you, Monica, you’re so unruffled and efficient. You go churning through life like some frightening old warship.
Thank you, dear, that sounds most attractive. Good night.
Good night. Your propeller’s showing.
(Phone rings)
Hello hello — no, it isn’t.
I am going away now, Mr. Essendine. Have you everything you want?
Frankly, Miss Erickson, no. I have nothing that I want.
Oh, what a pity.
Have you? At any of us — got what we want?
Oh, Mr. Essendine, you were only acting! For a moment you made me quite upset.
You lead a strange life, Miss Erickson, do you enjoy it?
Yes, indeed.
Tell me about it from a to Z.
Do you mind if I pinch a cigarette
Pinch anything you like, Miss Erickson.
I smoke so much and I am always running out. It is most silly
Where are you going now, for instance?
I am going to my friend in Hammersmith. She is German.
Is she a spy?
Yes, I think so but she is very kind.
I understand from Fred that she is a medium as well?
Oh dear, yes. Sometimes she makes a trance and it is very surprising. She will lie on the ground for many hours making noises.
What kind of noises?
They are different. Sometimes she will sing high up like a bird and other times may make a little bark. Often she is very ill.
I am not at all surprised.
Well, I must be pushing off now
Thank you very much, Miss Erickson, it’s been most interesting.
Not at all — good night.
Good night.
(Robe off, jacket on. Doorbell rings)
Daphne.
Daphne! What does this mean?
I am coming with you to Africa. I bought my ticket this afternoon —
To Africa!!
I found a way – I left a note for my aunt — you see I know some thing now – I’ve known at all the week really ever since that awful morning when I fainted — I know that you need me as much as I need you and
No, my dear child, really.
No, please don’t say anything for a moment — I thought it all over very carefully. I know I’m very much younger than you and all that, but I can help you and look after you —
Daphne dear, this is really too absurd. You must go home at once.
I knew you’d say that.
Please put your coat on again and don’t be silly.
I felt ashamed on Thursday at first, ashamed of playing a trick on you by making auntie ring up for an audition, but when I was here I was glad —
Oh, so you were glad, where are you?
Yes, I was. I think that’s why I fainted. You see I suddenly realize the truth.
What truth?
How desperately lonely you really are… And when I saw that dreadful prostitute come out of the spare room in that tawdry evening dress.
That was not a prostitute. It was the wife of one of my dearest friends!
