Complete Works, Volume III Read online

  Sometimes after a matinee of Macbeth and an evening of Othello we all stayed on stage, he'd get someone to put on a record of Faust, disappear behind a curtain, reappear in a long golden wig, without his teeth, mime Marguerite weaving, mime Faust and Mephistopheles, deliver at full tilt the aria from Verdi's Othello ‘Era La Notte e Cassio Dormia’, while the caretaker swept the dust up, and then in a bar talk for hours of Sarah and Mrs. Pat Campbell, with relish, malice and devotion. I think he would still be talking about them now, if he wasn't dead, because they did something he knew about.

  In order to present Oedipus the company had to recruit extras from the town or village we were in. One night in Dundalk Mac was building up to his blind climax when one of the extras had an epileptic fit on stage and collapsed. He was dragged to the wings where various women attended to him. The sounds of their ministrations seeped onto the stage. Mac stopped, turned to the wings and shouted: ‘For God's sake, can't you see I'm trying to act!’

  His concentration was always complete in Oedipus. He was at his best in the part. He acted with acute ‘underness’ and tenacity. And he never used his vocal powers to better or truer effect. He acted along the spine of the role and never deviated from it. As in his two other great roles, Othello and Lear, he understood and expressed totally the final tender clarity which is under the storm, the blindness, the anguish. For me his acting at these times embodied the idea of Yeats’ line: ‘They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay, Gaiety transfiguring all that dread’. Mac entered into this tragic gaiety naturally and inevitably.

  He did Lear eventually. First performance somewhere in County Clare, Ennis, I think. Knew most of the lines. Was the old man, tetchy, appalled, feverish. Wanted the storm louder. All of us banged the thundersheets. No, they can still hear me. Hit it, hit it. He got above the noise. I played Edgar in Lear only a few times with him before I left the company. At the centre of his performance was a terrible loss, desolation, silence. He didn't think about doing it, he just got there. He did it and got there.

  His wife, Marjorie, was his structure and support. She organised the tours, supervised all business arrangements, sat in the box office, kept the cast in order, ran the wardrobe, sewed, looked after Mac, was his dresser, gave him his whiskey. She was tough, critical, cultivated, devoted. Her spirit and belief constituted the backbone of the company. There would have been no company without her.

  Ireland wasn't golden always, but it was golden sometimes and in 1950 it was, all in all, a golden age for me and for others. The people came down to see him. Mac travelled by car, and sometimes some of us did too. But other times we went on the lorry with the flats and props, and going into Randon or Clough-jordan would find the town empty, asleep, men sitting upright in dark bars, cowpads, mud, smell of peat, wood, old clothes. We'd find digs; wash basin and jug, tea, black pudding, and off to the hall, set up a stage on trestle tables, a few rostra, a few drapes, costumes out of the hampers, set up shop, and at night play, not always but mostly, to a packed house (where had they come from?); people who listened, and who waited to see him, having seen him before, and been brought up on him.

  Mac wasn't any kind of dreamer. He was remote from the Celtic Twilight. He kept a close eye on the box office receipts. He was sharp about money, was as depressed as anyone else when business was bad. Where there was any kind of company disagreement he proved elusive. He distanced himself easily from unwelcome problems. Mrs Mac dealt with those. Mac was never ‘a darling actor of the old school’. He was a working man. He respected his occupation and never stopped learning about it, from himself and from others.

  For those who cared for him and admired him there must remain one great regret; that for reasons I do not understand, he last played in England, at Stratford, in 1933. The loser was the English theatre.

  Mac wasn't ‘childlike’ in temperament, as some have said. He was evasive, proud, affectionate, mischievous, shrewd, merry, cynical, sad, and could be callous. But he was never sour or self-pitying. His life was the stage. Life with a big L came a bad second. He had no patience with what he considered a world of petty sufferings, however important they might seem to the bearer. He was completely unsentimental. Gossip delighted him, and particularly sexual gossip. He moved with great flexibility and amusement through Catholic Ireland, greatly attracted by the ritual of the Church. He loved to speak of the mummy of the Blessed Oliver Plunkett in Drogheda ‘with a lovely amber spot on its face’. He mixed freely with priests and nuns, went to Mass, sometimes, but despised the religious atrophy, rigidity and complacency with which he was confronted. He mixed with the priests partly because he enjoyed their company, partly because his livelihood depended upon them. He was a realist. But he possessed a true liberality of spirit. He was humble. He was a devout anti-puritan. He was a very great piss-taker. He was a great actor and we who worked with him were the luckiest people in the world and loved him.

  The Homecoming

  THE HOMECOMING was first presented by the Royal Shakespeare Company at the Aldwych Theatre on 3 June, 1965, with the following cast:

  MAX, a man of seventy Paul Rogers

  LENNY, a man in his early thirties Ian Holm

  SAM, a man of sixty-three John Normington

  JOEY, a man in his middle twenties Terence Rigby

  TEDDY, a man in his middle thirties Michael Bryant

  RUTH, a woman in her early thirties Vivien Merchant

  Directed by Peter Hall

  The play was presented by the Royal Shakespeare Company and Alexander H. Cohen at the Music Box Theatre, New York, on 5 January, 1967 with one change in the cast: the part of Teddy was played by Michael Craig.

  SUMMER

  An old house in North London.

  A large room, extending the width of the stage.

  The back wall, which contained the door, has been removed. A square arch shape remains. Beyond it, the hall. In the hall a staircase, ascending up left, well in view. The front door up right. A coatstand, hooks, etc.

  In the room a window, right. Odd tables, chairs. Two large armchairs. A large sofa, left. Against the right wall a large sideboard, the upper half of which contains a mirror. Up left, a radiogram.

  Act One

  Evening.

  LENNY is sitting on the sofa with a newspaper, a pencil in his hand. He wears a dark suit. He makes occasional marks on the back page.

  MAX comes in, from the direction of the kitchen. He goes to sideboard, opens top drawer, rummages in it, closes it.

  He wears an old cardigan and a cap, and carries a stick.

  He walks downstage, stands, looks about the room.

  MAX. What have you done with the scissors?

  Pause.

  I said I'm looking for the scissors. What have you done with them?

  Pause.

  Did you hear me? I want to cut something out of the paper.

  LENNY. I'm reading the paper.

  MAX. Not that paper. I haven't even read that paper. I'm talking about last Sunday's paper. I was just having a look at it in the kitchen.

  Pause.

  Do you hear what I'm saying? I'm talking to you! Where's the scissors?

  LENNY (looking up, quietly). Why don't you shut up, you daft prat?

  MAX lifts his stick and points it at him.

  MAX. Don't you talk to me like that. I'm warning you.

  He sits in large armchair.

  There's an advertisement in the paper about flannel vests.

  Cut price. Navy surplus, I could do with a few of them.

  Pause.

  I think I'll have a fag. Give me a fag.

  Pause.

  I just asked you to give me a cigarette.

  Pause.

  Look what I'm lumbered with.

  He takes a crumpled cigarette from his pocket.

  I'm getting old, my word of honour.

  He lights it.

  You think I wasn't a tearaway? I could have taken care of you, twice over. I'm still strong. You ask your Uncle Sa
m what I was. But at the same time I always had a kind heart. Always.

  Pause.

  I used to knock about with a man called MacGregor. I called him Mac. You remember Mac? Eh?

  Pause.

  Huhh! We were two of the worst hated men in the West End of London. I tell you, I still got the scars. We'd walk into a place, the whole room'd stand up, they'd make way to let us pass. You never heard such silence. Mind you, he was a big man, he was over six foot tall. His family were all MacGregors, they came all the way from Aberdeen, but he was the only one they called Mac.

  Pause.

  He was very fond of your mother, Mac was. Very fond. He always had a good word for her.

  Pause.

  Mind you, she wasn't such a bad woman. Even though it made me sick just to look at her rotten stinking face, she wasn't such a bad bitch. I gave her the best bleeding years of my life, anyway.

  LENNY. Plug it, will you, you stupid sod, I'm trying to read the paper.

  MAX. Listen! I'll chop your spine off, you talk to me like that! You understand? Talking to your lousy filthy father like that!

  LENNY. You know what, you're getting demented.

  Pause.

  What do you think of Second Wind for the three-thirty?

  MAX. Where?

  LENNY. Sandown Park.

  MAX. Don't stand a chance.

  LENNY. Sure he does.

  MAX. Not a chance.

  LENNY. He's the winner.

  LENNY ticks the paper.

  MAX. He talks to me about horses.

  Pause.

  I used to live on the course. One of the loves of my life. Epsom? I knew it like the back of my hand. I was one of the best-known faces down at the paddock. What a marvellous open-air life.

  Pause.

  He talks to me about horses. You only read their names in the papers. But I've stroked their manes, I've held them, I’ve calmed them down before a big race. I was the one they used to call for. Max, they'd say, there's a horse here, he's highly strung, you're the only man on the course who can calm him. It was true. I had a . . . I had an instinctive understanding of animals. I should have been a trainer. Many times I was offered the job – you know, a proper post, by the Duke of . . . I forget his name . . . one of the Dukes. But I had family obligations, my family needed me at home.

  Pause.

  The times I've watched those animals thundering past the post. What an experience. Mind you, I didn't lose, I made a few bob out of it, and you know why? Because I always had the smell of a good horse. I could smell him. And not only the colts but the fillies. Because the fillies are more highly strung than the colts, they're more unreliable, did you know that? No, what do you know? Nothing. But I was always able to tell a good filly by one particular trick. I'd look her in the eye. You see? I'd stand in front of her and look her straight in the eye, it was a kind of hypnotism, and by the look deep down in her eye I could tell whether she was a stayer or not. It was a gift. I had a gift.

  Pause.

  And he talks to me about horses.

  LENNY. Dad, do you mind if I change the subject?

  Pause.

  I want to ask you something. The dinner we had before, what was the name of it? What do you call it?

  Pause.

  Why don't you buy a dog? You're a dog cook. Honest. You think you're cooking for a lot of dogs.

  MAX. If you don't like it get out.

  LENNY. I am going out. I'm going out to buy myself a proper dinner.

  MAX. Well, get out! What are you waiting for?

  LENNY looks at him.

  LENNY. What did you say?

  MAX. I said shove off out of it, that's what I said.

  LENNY. You'll go before me, Dad, if you talk to me in that tone of voice.

  MAX. Will I, you bitch?

  MAX grips his stick.

  LENNY. Oh, Daddy, you're not going to use your stick on me, are you? Eh? Don't use your stick on me Daddy. No, please. It wasn't my fault, it was one of the others. I haven't done anything wrong, Dad, honest. Don't clout me with that stick, Dad.

  Silence.

  MAX sits hunched. LENNY reads the paper.

  SAM comes in the front door. He wears a chauffeur's uniform.

  He hangs his hat on a hook in the hall and comes into the room. He goes to a chair, sits in it and sighs.

  Hullo, Uncle Sam,

  SAM. Hullo.

  LENNY. How are you, Uncle?

  SAM. Not bad. A bit tired.

  LENNY. Tired? I bet you're tired. Where you been?

  SAM. I've been to London Airport.

  LENNY. All the way up to London Airport? What, right up the M4?

  SAM. Yes, all the way up there.

  LENNY. Tch, tch, tch. Well, I think you're entitled to be tired, Uncle.

  SAM. Well, it's the drivers.

  LENNY. I know. That's what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the drivers.

  SAM. Knocks you out.

  Pause.

  MAX. I'm here, too, you know.

  SAM looks at him.

  I said I'm here, too. I'm sitting here.

  SAM. I know you're here.

  Pause.

  SAM. I took a Yankee out there today . . . to the Airport.

  LENNY. Oh, a Yankee, was it?

  SAM. Yes, I been with him all day. Picked him up at the Savoy at half past twelve, took him to the Caprice for his lunch. After lunch I picked him up again, took him down to a house in Eaton Square – he had to pay a visit to a friend there – and then round about tea-time I took him right the way out to the Airport.

  LENNY. Had to catch a plane there, did he?

  SAM. Yes. Look what he gave me. He gave me a box of cigars.

  SAM takes a box of cigars from his pocket.

  MAX. Come here. Let's have a look at them.

  SAM shows MAX the cigars. MAX takes one from the box, pinches it and sniffs it.

  It's a fair cigar.

  SAM. Want to try one?

  MAX and SAM light cigars.

  You know what he said to me? He told me I was the best chauffeur he'd ever had. The best one.

  MAX. From what point of view?

  SAM. Eh?

  MAX. From what point of view?

  LENNY. From the point of view of his driving, Dad, and his general sense of courtesy, I should say.

  MAX. Thought you were a good driver, did he, Sam? Well, he gave you a first-class cigar.

  SAM. Yes, he thought I was the best he'd ever had. They all say that, you know. They won't have anyone else, they only ask for me. They say I'm the best chauffeur in the firm.

  LENNY. I bet the other drivers tend to get jealous, don't they, Uncle?

  SAM. They do get jealous. They get very jealous.

  MAX. Why?

  Pause.

  SAM. I just told you.

  MAX. No, I just can't get it clear, Sam. Why do the other drivers get jealous?

  SAM. Because (a) I'm the best driver, and because . . . (b) I don't take liberties.

  Pause.

  I don't press myself on people, you see. These big businessmen, men of affairs, they don't want the driver jawing all the time, they like to sit in the back, have a bit of peace and quiet. After all, they're sitting in a Humber Super Snipe, they can afford to relax. At the same time, though, this is what really makes me special . . . I do know how to pass the time of day when required.

  Pause.

  For instance, I told this man today I was in the second world war. Not the first. I told him I was too young for the first. But I told him I fought in the second.

  Pause.

  So did he, it turned out.

  LENNY stands, goes to the mirror and straightens his tie.

  LENNY. He was probably a colonel, or something, in the American Air Force.

  SAM. Yes.

  LENNY. Probably a navigator, or something like that, in a Flying Fortress. Now he's most likely a high executive in a worldwide group of aeronautical engineers.

  S
AM. Yes.

  LENNY. Yes, I know the kind of man you're talking about.

  LENNY goes out, turning to his right.

  SAM. After all, I'm experienced. I was driving a dust cart at the age of nineteen. Then I was in long-distance haulage. I had ten years as a taxi-driver and I've had five as a private chauffeur.

  MAX. It's funny you never got married, isn't it? A man with all your gifts.

  Pause.

  Isn't it? A man like you?

  SAM. There's still time.

  MAX. Is there?

  Pause.

  SAM. You'd be surprised.

  MAX. What you been doing, banging away at your lady customers, have you?

  SAM. Not me.

  MAX. In the back of the Snipe? Been having a few crafty reefs in a layby, have you?

  SAM. Not me.

  MAX. On the back seat? What about the armrest, was it up or down?

  SAM. I've never done that kind of thing in my car.

  MAX. Above all that kind of thing, are you, Sam?

  SAM. Too true.

  MAX. Above having a good bang on the back seat, are you?

  SAM. Yes, I leave that to others.

  MAX. You leave it to others? What others? You paralysed prat!

  SAM. I don't mess up my car! Or my . . . my boss's car! Like other people.

  MAX. Other people? What other people?

  Pause.

  What other people?

  Pause.

  SAM. Other people.

  Pause.

  MAX. When you find the right girl, Sam, let your family know, don't forget, we'll give you a number one send-off, I promise you. You can bring her to live here, she can keep us all happy. We'd take it in turns to give her a walk round the park.

  SAM. I wouldn't bring her here.

  MAX. Sam, it's your decision. You're welcome to bring your bride here, to the place where you live, or on the other hand you can take a suite at the Dorchester. It's entirely up to you.

  SAM. I haven't got a bride.

  SAM stands, goes to the sideboard, takes an apple from the bowl, bites into it.

  Getting a bit peckish.

  He looks out of the window.

  Never get a bride like you had, anyway. Nothing like your bride . . . going about these days. Like Jessie.