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– As it is? – As it is, yes please, absolutely.

As it is. Thank you. How very kind of you.

How very kind.

– Cheers. – Your health.

Ooh.

Please help yourself.

Terribly kind of you.

Your good health.

What was it I was saying, as we arrived at your door?

Ah... Let me see.

Yes! I was talking about strength.

– Now, do you recall? – Strength. Yes.

Yes. I was about to say, you see,

that there are some people who appear to be strong,

whose idea of what strength consists of is persuasive

but who inhabit the idea and not the fact.

What they possess is not strength but expertise they have nurtured

and maintain what is in fact a calculated posture.

Half the time it works. It takes a man of intelligence and perception

to stick a needle through that posture

and discern the essential flabbiness of the stance.

I am such a man.

You mean one of the latter?

One of the latter, yes, a man of intelligence and perception.

Not one of the former, oh no, not at all.

– By no means. –

May I say how very kind it was of you.

To ask me in. In fact, you are kindness itself.

Probably always are kindness itself

now and in England and in Hampstead and for all eternity.

What a remarkably pleasant room.

I feel... at peace here. Safe from all danger.

Oh, please don't be alarmed. I shan't stay long, no.

I never stay long with others. They do not wish it.

And that, for me, is a happy state of affairs.

My only security, you see, my true comfort and solace

rests in the confirmation that I elicit from people of all kinds

a common and constant level of indifference.

It assures me that I am as I think myself to be, that I am fixed, concrete.

To show interest in me

or, good gracious, anything tending towards a positive liking of me

would cause in me a condition of the acutest alarm.

Fortunately, the danger is remote.

I speak to you with this startling candour

because you are clearly a reticent man.

And because you are a stranger to me,

and because you are clearly kindness itself.

Do you often hang about Hampstead Heath?

– No. – But on your excursions, however rare,

on your rare excursions you hardly expect to run into the likes of me, I take it.

Hardly.

I often hang about Hampstead Heath myself,

expecting nothing – I'm too old for any kind of expectation

Don't you agree?

Yes.

A pitfall and snare, if ever there was one but of course I observe a good deal

on my peeps through twigs.

A wit once entitled me a betwixt-twig peeper.

A most clumsy construction, I thought.

Infelicitous.

– Oh, my Christ, you're right! – What a wit.

You are most acutely right. All we have left is the English language.

Can it be salvaged? That's my question.

You mean in what rests its salvation?

– More or less. – Its salvation must rest in you.

Oh, that is uncommonly kind of you to say so.

In you too, perhaps, although I haven't sufficient evidence to go on, as yet.

You mean because I have said little?

You are a quiet one.

It's a great relief. Can you imagine two of us gabbling away like me?

It would be intolerable.

By the way, with reference to peeping,

I do feel it incumbent upon me to make one thing clear.

I don't peep on sex. That's gone forever.

You follow me?

When my twigs happen to, shall I say, rest their peep on sexual conjugations,

however periphrastic I see only whites of eyes, so close,

they glut me, no distance possible.

And when you can't keep the proper distance between yourself and others,

when you can no longer maintain an objective relation to matter,

the game's not worth the candle, so forget it.

And remember, what is obligatory to keep in your vision is... space.

Space in moonlight particularly, and lots of it.

You speak with the weight of experience behind you.

And beneath me.

Experience is a paltry thing.

Everyone has it and will tell his tale of it.

I leave experience to psychological interpreters – the wet dream world.

I myself can do any graph of experience you wish,

to suit your taste or mine, child's play.

The present will not be distorted.

I am a poet. I am interested in where I am eternally present and active.

I have gone too far, you think?

I'm expecting you to go very much further.

Really? Now, doesn't mean I interest you, I hope?

– Not in the least. – Thank goodness for that.

For a moment my heart sank.

But nevertheless you are right.

Your instinct is sound. I could go further and in more ways than one.

I could advance, reserve my defences, throw on a substitute, call up the cavalry

or throw everything forward out of the knowledge that when joy overfloweth

there can be no holding of joy.

The point I'm trying to make, in case you've missed it, is that I am a free man.

It's a long time since we had a free man in this house.

– We? – I.

– Is there another? – Another what?

– People. Person. – What other?

– There are two mugs on that shelf. – The second is for you.

– And the first? – Would you like to use it?

Would you like some hot refreshment?

Oh, no. That would be dangerous. I'll stick to your Scotch.

– If I may. – Help yourself.

Thank you!

I'll take a whisky with you, if you would be so kind.

With pleasure. Weren't you drinking vodka?

I'll be happy to join you in a whisky.

– You will take it as it is, as it comes? – Oh, absolutely as it comes.

Your very good health.

Yours.

Tell me...

...do you often hang about Jack Straw's Castle?

I knew it as a boy!

Do you find it as beguiling a public house now

as it was in the days of the highwaymen?

When it was frequented by highwaymen, notably Jack Straw, the great Jack Straw.

Do you find it much changed?

– It changed my life. – Good Lord. Did it really?

I refer to a midsummer night, when I shared a drink

with a Hungarian émigré lately retired from Paris.

– The same drink? – By no means.

You've guessed, I would imagine, that he was an erstwhile member

– of the Hungarian aristocracy? – I did guess, yes.

On that summer evening, led by him...

...I first appreciated how quiet life can be

in the midst of the yahoos and hullabaloos.

He exerted on me a quite uniquely calming influence, without exertion.

Without any desire to influence. He was so much older than me.

My expectations in those days, and I confess,

I had expectations in those days,

did not include him in their frame of reference.

I had meandered over to Hampstead Heath,

a victim to memories of a more than usually pronounced grisliness,

and found myself, not much to my surprise,

ordering a pint at the bar of Jack Straw's Castle.

This achieved, and having negotiated a path

through a particularly repellent lick-spittling herd of literati,

I stumbled, unseeing, with my pint, to his bald, tanned, unmoving table.

How bald he was!

I think, after quite half my pint had descended, never to be savoured again,

that I spoke, suddenly, suddenly spoke,

and received a response, no other word will do, a response, the like of which...

– What was he drinking? – What?

– What was he drinking? – Pernod.

I was impressed more or less at that point, by an intuition

that he possessed a measure of serenity the like of which I had never encountered.

What did he say?

– You expect me to remember what he said? – No.

What he said all those years ago is neither here nor there.

It was not what he said

but possibly the way he sat which has remained with me all my life

and has, I am quite sure, made me what I am.

And I met you at the same pub tonight, although at a different table.

And I wonder at you now, as once I wondered at him.

But will I wonder at you tomorrow, I wonder, as I still wonder at him today?

I cannot say.

It cannot be said.

I'll ask you another question.

Have you any idea from what I derive my strength?

Strength? No.

I have never been loved.

From this I derive my strength.

Have you?

Ever?

Been loved?

Oh, I don't suppose so.

I looked up once into my mother's face.

What I saw there was nothing less than pure malevolence.

I was fortunate to escape with my life.

You will wonder what I had done to provoke such hatred in my own mother.

– You'd pissed yourself! – Quite right.

– How old do you think I was at the time? – 28.

Quite right.

However, I left home soon after.

My mother remains, I have to say, a terribly attractive woman in many ways.

Her buns are the best.

Her currant buns. The best.

Would you be so kind as to pour me another drop of whisky?

With pleasure!

Perhaps it's about time I introduced myself.

My name is Spooner.

Ah.

I'm a staunch friend of the arts, particularly the art of poetry,

and a guide to the young.

I keep open house. Young poets come to me.

They read me their verses. I comment.

Give them coffee.

Make no charge.

Women are admitted, some of whom are also poets.

Some are not.

Some of the men are not. Most of the men are not.

But with the windows open to the garden,

my wife pouring long glasses of squash, with ice, on a summer evening,

young voices occasionally lifted in unaccompanied ballad,

young bodies lying in the dying light,

my wife moving through the shadows in her long gown, what can ail?

I mean, who can gainsay us? What quarrel can be found with what is, au fond,

a gesture towards the sustenance and preservation of art,

and through art to virtue?

Through art to virtue?

To your continued health.

When we had our cottage...

When we had our cottage we gave our visitors tea on the lawn.

I did the same.

– On the lawn? – I did the same.

– You had a cottage? – Tea on the lawn.

What happened to them?

What happened to our cottages?

What happened to our lawns?

Now, be frank. Tell me.

You've revealed something.

You've made an unequivocal reference to your past. Don't go back on it.

We share something. A memory of the bucolic life. We are both English.

In the village church, the beams are hung with garlands

in honour of young women of the parish, reputed to have died virgin.

However, the garlands are not bestowed on maidens only,

but on all who die unmarried,

wearing the white flower of a blameless life.

You mean that not only young women of the parish

but also young men of the parish are so honoured?

I do.

And that old men of the parish who also died maiden are so garlanded?

– Certainly. – I am enraptured. Tell me more.

Tell me more about that quaint little perversions of your life and times.

Tell me more, with all the authority and brilliance you can muster,

about the socio-politico-economic structure

of the environment in which you attained to the age of reason.

Tell me more!

There is no more.

– Tell me then about your wife. – What wife?

How beautiful she was, how tender and how true.

Tell me with what speed she swung in the air.

With what velocity she came off the wicket.

Whether she was responsive to finger spin.

Whether you could bowl a shooter with her or an offbreak with a legbreak action.

In other words, did she google?

You will not say.

I will tell you then that my wife had everything.

Eyes, a mouth, hair, teeth,

buttocks, breasts, absolutely everything – and legs!

Which carried her away.

Carried who away? Yours or mine?

Is she here now, your wife?

Cowering in a locked room, perhaps?

Was she ever here?

Was she ever there, in your cottage?

It is my duty to tell you you have failed to convince.

I am an honest and intelligent man. You pay me less than my due.

Are you, equally, being fair to the lady?

I begin to wonder whether truly accurate

and therefore essentially poetic definition means anything to you at all.

I begin to wonder whether you do, in fact, truly remember her.

Truly did love her.

Truly caressed her, truly did cradle her,

truly did husband her, falsely dreamed or did truly adore her.

I have seriously questioned these propositions and I find them threadbare.

Her eyes, I take it, were hazel?

Hazel shit!

Good lord, good lord, do I detect a touch of the maudlin?

Hazel shit! I ask myself, have I ever seen hazel shit?

Or hazel eyes, for that matter?

Do I detect a touch of the hostile?

Do I detect, with respect, a touch of too many glasses of ale

followed by the great malt which wounds, which wounds?

Tonight, my friend, you find me in the last lap of a race

I had long forgotten to run.

A metaphor! Things are looking up.

I would say, albeit on a brief acquaintance,

that you lack the essential quality of manliness.

Which is to put your money where your mouth is.

To pick up a pint pot and know it to be a pint pot.

And knowing it to be a pint pot, declare it as a pint pot.

And to stay faithful to that pint pot

as though you had given birth to it out of your own arse!

You lack that capability... in my view.

Do forgive me.

My candour – it is not method but madness.

Heed me.

I am a relevant witness and could be a friend.

You need a friend.

You have a long hike, my lad, up which, presently, you slog unfriended.

Never disdain a helping hand.

Particularly one of such rare quality.

And it's not only the quality of my offer that is rare.

It is the act itself, the offer itself, quite without precedent.

I offer myself to you as a friend. Now, think before you speak.

Remember this.

You've lost your wife of hazel hue. You've lost her and what can you do?

She will no more come back to you,

with a tillifola tillifola tillifoladi-foladi-foloo.

No.

No man's land does not move or change or grow old.

Remains forever icy...

...silent.

I have known this before.

The exit through the door, by way of belly and floor.

What you drinking?

Christ, I'm thirsty. How are you? I'm parched.

What you drinking? It's bloody late. I'm worn to a frazzle.

This is what I want.

Taxi? No chance. Taxi drivers are against me.

Something about me.

Some unknown factor. My gait, perhaps. Or perhaps because I travel incognito.

Oh, that's better. Works wonders. How are you? What you drinking?

Who are you? I thought I'd never make it. What a hike!

And not only that... I'm defenceless.

I don't carry a gun in London, but I'm not bothered.

Once you've done the East you've done it all. I've done the East.

But I still like a nice lighthouse like this one.

Have you met your host? He's my father. It was our night off tonight, you see.

He was going to stay at home, listen to some Lieder.

I hope he had a quiet and pleasant evening.

Who are you, by the way? What you drinking?

– I'm a friend of his! – You're not typical.

– Who's this? – His name's Friend.

This is Mr Briggs. Mr Friend, Mr Briggs. I'm Mr Foster.

Old English stock. John Foster. Jack. Jack Foster. Old English name.

Foster. John Foster. Jack Foster. Foster. This man's name is Briggs.

– I've seen Mr Friend before. – Seen him before?

– I know him. – Do you really?

– I've seen you before. – Possibly, possibly.

Yes! You collect the beer mugs from the tables in a pub in Chalk Farm.

The landlord is a friend of mine.

And when he's shorthanded, I give him a helping hand.

Who says the landlord's a friend of yours?

– He does. – I'm talking about The Bull's Head.

Yes, yes. So am I.

So am I.

I know The Bull's Head. The landlord's a friend of mine.

– He collects the mugs. – A first class pub.

– I've known the landlord for years. – He says he's a friend of the landlord.

He says he's a friend of our friend, too.

– What friend? – Our host.

– He's a bloody friend of everyone then! – He's everybody's bloody friend.

How many friends have you got altogether, Mr Friend?

– He probably couldn't count them. – Well, there's me too, now.

I'm another one of your new friends. I'm your newest new friend.

Not him. Not Briggs. He's nobody's fucking friend.

People tend to be a little wary of Briggs.

They balk at giving him their all, but me they like at first sight.

– Sometimes they love you at first sight. – Sometimes they do.

That's why, when I travel, I get all the gold, nobody offers me dross.

People take an immediate shine to me,

especially women, especially in Siam or Bali.

He knows I'm not a liar. Tell him about the Siamese girls.

They loved him at first sight.

– You're not Siamese though, are you? – He's a very long way from being Siamese.

– Ever been out there? – I've been to Amsterdam.

I mean... that was the last place that I visited. I know Europe well.

My name is Spooner, by the way.

Yes, one afternoon in Amsterdam I was sitting outside a café by a canal.

The weather was superb.

At another table, in shadow, there was a man whistling under his breath,

sitting very still, almost rigid.

By the side of the canal was a fisherman and caught a fish.

He lifted it high and the waiter cheered and applauded.

And the two men, the waiter and the fisherman, laughed!

And little girl, passing, laughed.

Two lovers, passing, kissed. The fish was lofted, on the rod.

The fish and the rod glinted in the sun, as they swayed

and the fisherman's cheeks were flushed with pleasure.

I decided to paint a picture of the canal, the waiter, the child,

the fisherman, the lovers, the fish

and in background, in shadow, the man at the other table,

and to call it The Whistler.

The Whistler.

If you'd seen the picture and the title, would the title have baffled you?

Do you want to answer that question?

No, go on. You answer it.

Well, speaking for myself, I think I would have been baffled by that title.

But I might have appreciated the picture. I might even have been grateful for it.

Did you hear what I said? I might have been grateful for the picture.

A good work of art tends to move me. You follow me? I'm not a cunt, you know.

Very interested to hear you're a painter. You do it in your spare time, I suppose?

– Quite. – Did you ever paint The Whistler?

– Not yet, I'm afraid. – Well, don't leave it too long.

You might lose the inspiration.

Ever painted a beer mug?

You must come and see my collection, any time you wish.

What of, beer mugs?

– No, no. Paintings. – Where do you keep it?

At my house in the country. You would receive the warmest of welcomes.

– Who from? – My wife. My two daughters.

Really? Would they like me? What do you think?

– Would they love me at first sight? – Well, quite possibly.

– What about him? – They are remarkably gracious women.

– You're a lucky man. What you drinking? – Scotch.

What do you make of this?

When I was out East once, a kind of old stinking tramp,

bollock naked, asked me for a few bob.

I didn't know him. He was a complete stranger.

But I could see immediately he wasn't a man to trust.

He had a dog with him. They only had about one eye between them.

So, I threw him some sort of coin.

He caught this bloody coin, looked at it with a bit of distaste,

and then he threw the coin back.

Well, automatically I went to catch it, I clutched at it,

but the bloody coin disappeared.

Into thin air! It didn't drop anywhere.

It just disappeared into thin air on its way towards me.

He then let out a few curses and pissed off, with his dog.

Oh, here's you whisky, by the way.

What do you make of that incident?

– Well, he was a con artist. – Do you think so?

You would be wise to grant the event no integrity whatsoever.

You don't subscribe to the mystery of the Orient?

It was a typical Eastern con trick.

– Double Dutch, you mean? – Certainly.

Your good health!

I can't sleep!

I slept briefly, I think.

Perhaps it was sufficient.

Yes. I woke up, out of a dream.

I feel cheerful! Who'll get me a glass of whisky?

My goodness, is this for me?

How did you know?

You knew. You're very sensitive!

Cheers.

The first today.

What day is it? What's the time?

– Is it still night? – Yes.

The same night? I was dreaming of waterfalls.

No, no, of a... lake.

I think it was just recently.

Can you remember when I went to bed? Was it daylight?

Oh, it's good to go to sleep in the late afternoon.

After tea and toast.

You hear the faint sounds of the evening.

And then nothing.

Everywhere else, people are changing for dinner.

You're tucked up, the shutters closed, gaining a march on the world.

Something is depressing me. What is it? It was the dream, yes.

Waterfalls.

No, no, a lake.

Water.

Drowning.

Not me. Someone else.

How nice to have company.

Can you imagine waking up, finding no one here,

just furniture, staring at you?

Most unpleasant.

I've known that condition. I've been through that period.

Cheers.

Came round to human beings in the end. Like yourselves.

Wise move.

I tried laughing alone.

Pathetic! Have you all got drinks?

Who's that? A friend of yours?

– Won't someone introduce me? – He's a friend of yours.

In the past, I knew remarkable people.

I've a photograph album.

Somewhere. I'll find it.

You'll be impressed by the faces.

Ooh, sitting on grass with hampers.

I had a moustache. Quite a few of my friends had moustaches.

Remarkable faces!

Remarkable moustaches.

What was it informed the scene? A tenderness towards our fellows, perhaps.

The sun shone. The girls had lovely hair.

Dark, sometimes red.

Under their dresses their bodies were white.

It's all in my album. I'll find it.

You'll be struck by the charm of the girls, their grace,

the ease with which they sit, pour tea, loll.

It's all in my album.

Who is the kindest among you?

Thank you. What would I do without the two of you?

I'd sit here forever, waiting for a stranger to fill up my glass.

What would I do while I waited?

Look through my album?

Make plans for the future?

You'd crawl to the bottle and stuff it between your teeth!

No.

I drink with dignity.

– Who is this man? Do I know him? – He says he's a friend of yours.

My true friends look out at me from my album!

I had my world!

I have it.

Don't think now that it's gone that I will choose to sneer at it,

to cast doubt on it, to wonder if it properly existed.

No! We are talking about my youth, which can never leave me.

It existed.

It was solid, the people in it were solid,

while transformed by light, while being sensitive to all the changing light.

When I stood, my shadow fell upon her.

She looked up.

Give me the bottle.

Give me the bottle!

It's gone!

Did it exist?

It's gone.

It never existed.

It remains.

I am sitting here forever.

How kind of you.

I wish you'd tell me what the weather's like.

I wish you'd damn well tell me what night it is,

this night or... the next night?

Or the other one, the night before last.

Ah! Ha-ha-ha!

Be frank! Is it the night before last?

Help yourselves. I hate drinking alone.

There's too much solitary shittery.

What was it? Shadows.

Silence... through leaves.

Sunlight.

– It was my dream, yes. –

Who was drowning in my dream?

It was blinding.

Oh.

I remember it.

No, I've forgotten.

By all that's sacred and holy! The sounds stopped. It was freezing.

There's a gap in me. I can't fill it.

There's a flood running through me. I can't plug it.

They're blotting me out. Who's doing it? I'm suffocating.

It's a muff. A muff, perfumed. Someone is doing me to death.

She looked up.

I was staggered.

I had never seen anything so beautiful.

That's all poison. We can't be expected to live like that.

I remember nothing. I'm sitting in this room.

I see you all.

Every one of you. A sociable gathering. All the dispositions are kindly.

Am I asleep? There's no water.

No one is drowning.

Yes, yes, come on, come on, come on, pipe up, speak up.

Speak up. Speak up! You're fucking me about, you bastards.

Ghosts, long ghosts.

You're making noises, I can hear you humming.

I wear a crisp blue shirt at the Ritz.

I wear a crisp blue shirt at the Ritz.

I know him well, the wine waiter, Boris. Boris, been there for years.

Blinding shadows, then a fall of water.

It was I drowning in your dream.

Bugger off!

Unhand me!

He has grandchildren.

As have I. As I have.

We both have fathered. We are of an age.

I know his wants. Let me take his arm.

Respect our age.

Come, I'll seat you.

– There's no pity in these people. – FOSTER: Christ.

I am your true friend. That's why your dream was so distressing.

You saw me drowning in your dream.

– But have no fear. I'm not drowned. – FOSTER: Christ!

Would you like me to make you some coffee?

He thinks he's a waiter in Amsterdam.

Service non compris.

Whereas he's a pint pot attendant in The Bull's Head.

Yeah, and a piss pot attendant as well.

Our host must have been in The Bull's Head tonight,

where he had an unfortunate encounter.

Hey, scout, I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding.

You're not in some shithouse down by the docks.

You're in the home of a man of means, of a man of achievement.

Do you understand me?

Why am I bothering? Tell me. Eh? Listen, chummy-bum.

We protect this gentleman against corruption,

against men of craft, against men of evil.

We could destroy you without a glance. We take care of this gentleman.

We do it out of love.

Why am I talking to him? I'm wasting my time with a non-starter.

I must be going mad. I don't usually talk. I don't have to. Normally, I keep quiet.

I know what it is. There's something about you fascinates me.

– It's my bearing. – Huh! That's what it must be.

I've seen Irishmen chop his balls off.

I suppose once you've had Irishmen, you've had everything.

Listen. Keep it tidy. You follow?

You've just laid your hands on a rich and powerful man.

It's not what you're used to, scout. How can I make it clear?

This is another class. It's another realm of operation.

It's a world of silk.

It's a world of organdie. It's a world of flower arrangements.

It's a world of eighteenth-century cookery books.

It's nothing to do with toffee apples and a packet of crisps.

It's milk in the bath. It's the cloth bellpull. It's organisation.

– – It's not rubbish.

It's not rubbish. We deal in originals, nothing duff.

Nothing ersatz, we don't open any old bottle of brandy.

Mind you don't fall into a quicksand.

Why don't I kick his head off and have done with it?

I am the same age as your master.

I used to picnic in the country, too, at the same time as he.

Listen, my friend. This man in this chair, he's a creative man.

He's an artist. We make life possible for him. We're in a position of trust.

Don't try to drive a wedge into a happy household.

You understand me? Don't try to make a nonsense out of family life!

If you can't, I can.

Come here!

Where are the sandwiches? Cut the bread.

– It's cut. – It is not cut. Cut it.

Hm.

I'll go and cut it.

I know you from somewhere.

I must clean the house. No one else will do it.

Your financial adviser is coming to breakfast.

I've got to think about that. His taste changes from day to day.

One day he wants boiled eggs and toast.

The next day, orange juice and poached eggs.

The next, scrambled eggs and smoke salmon.

The next, a mushroom omelette and champagne.

Oh, any minute now, it'll be dawn. A new day.

Your financial adviser's dreaming of his breakfast.

He's dreaming of eggs.

Eggs, eggs. What kind of eggs? I'm eggs-hausted.

I've been up all night, but it never stops.

No, nothing stops. It's all fizz.

This is my life.

I have my brief arousals. They leave me panting.

I can't take the pace in London. Nobody knows what I miss.

I miss the Siamese girls. I miss the girls in Bali.

You don't come across them over here.

You see them occasionally, on the steps of language schools.

They're learning English.

They're not prepared to have a giggle and a cuddle in their own language.

Not in Regent Street. A giggle and a cuddle.

Sometimes my ambitions extend no further than that.

I could do something else. I could make another life.

I don't have to waste my time looking after a pisshound.

I could find the right niche and be happy. The right niche, the right happiness.

We're out of bread!

I'm looking at the housekeeper. Neurotic poof.

He prefers idleness. Unspeakable ponce.

He prefers the Malay Straits, where they give you hot toddy in a fourposter.

– He's nothing but a vagabond cock. –

Move over!

Get up!

Keep on the move.

Don't look back!

I know that man.

Do you know what I saw once in the desert, in the Australian desert?

A man walking along carrying two umbrellas.

Two umbrellas, in the outback.

– Was it raining? – No. It was a beautiful day.

I nearly asked him what he was up to, but I changed my mind.

Why?

Well, I decided he must be some kind of lunatic.

I thought he would only confuse me.

Listen, you know what it's like when you're in a room with the light on,

and then suddenly the light goes out?

I'll show you. It's like this.

I have known this before. Morning. A locked door.

A house of silence and strangers.

I've been asked to inquire if you're hungry.

Food? I never touch it

The financial adviser didn't turn up. You can have his breakfast.

He phoned his order through, then phoned again to cancel the appointment.

– For what reason? – Jack spoke to him, not me.

What reason did he give your friend?

Jack said he said he found himself without warning

in the centre of a vast aboriginal financial calamity.

He clearly needs an adviser.

I won't bring you breakfast if you're going to waste it.

I abhor waste.

Yeah.

I have known this before. The door unlocked. The entrance of a stranger.

The offer of alms. The shark in the harbour.

Scrambled eggs.

– Shall I open the champagne? – Is it cold?

– Freezing. – Please open it.

– Who is the cook? – We share all burdens, Jack and myself.

Thank you.

We're old friends, Jack and myself.

We met at a street corner.

I should tell you he will deny this account. His story will be different.

I was standing at a street corner. A car drew up. It was him.

He asked me the way to Bolsover Street.

I told him Bolsover Street was in the middle of an intricate one-way system.

A one-way system easy enough to get into.

Only trouble was, once in, you couldn't get out.

I told him his best bet, if he really wanted to get to Bolsover Street,

was to take the first left, first right,

second right, third on the left, keep his eye open for a hardware shop,

go right round the square, keeping to the inside lane,

take the second mews on the right and then stop.

He will find himself facing a very tall office block, with a crescent courtyard.

He can take advantage of this office block.

He can go round the crescent, come out the other way, follow the arrows,

go past two sets of traffic lights and take the next left,

indicated by the first green filter he comes across.

He's got the Post Office Tower in his vision the whole time.

All he's got to do is reverse into the underground car park, change gear,

go straight on, and he'll find himself in Bolsover Street with no trouble at all.

I did warn him, that he'll be faced with the problem, having found Bolsover Street,

of losing it.

I told him I knew one or two people

who'd been wandering up and down Bolsover Street for years.

Wasted their bloody youth there.

The people who live there, their faces are grey,

they're in a state of despair, but nobody pays any attention, you see.

All people are worried about is their ill-gotten gains.

I wrote to The Times about it.

Life At A Dead End, I called it. Went for nothing.

Anyway, I told him probably the best thing he could do was to forget the whole idea

of getting to Bolsover Street.

I remember saying to him, 'This trip you've got in mind, drop it.

'Could prove fatal.' But he said he had to deliver a parcel.

Anyway, I took all this trouble with him because he had a nice open face.

He looked like a man who would always do good to others himself.

Normally, I wouldn't give a fuck.

I should tell you he'll deny this account. His story will be different.

When did you last have champagne for breakfast?

Well, to be quite honest, I'm a champagne drinker.

– Oh, are you? – I know my wines. Dijon.

In the '30s, I made many trips to Dijon,

for the wine tasting, with my French translator.

Even after his death, I continued to go to Dijon, until I could go no longer.

Hugo, a good companion. You will wonder of course what he translated.

The answer is my verse. I am a poet.

– I thought poets were young. – I am young!

– Can I help you to a glass? – No, thanks.

– An excellent choice. – Not mine.

Translating verse is an extremely difficult task.

Only the Romanians remain respectable exponents of the craft.

Bit early in the morning for all this, isn't it?

Finish the bottle.

Doctor's orders.

Can I enquire as to why I was locked in this room, by the way?

Doctor's orders.

Tell me when you're ready for coffee.

It must be wonderful to be a poet.

And to have admirers and, oh, translators.

And to be young. I'm neither one nor the other.

Yes! You've reminded me. I must be off. I've got a meeting at 12.

– Thank you so much for breakfast. –

– What meeting? – A board meeting.

I'm on the board of a recently inaugurated poetry magazine.

We've got our first meeting at 12.

Can't be late.

– Where's the meeting? – At The Bull's Head in Chalk Farm.

The landlord is kindly allowing us the use of a private room on the first floor.

It is essential that our meeting be private, as we shall be discussing policy.

– The Bull's Head in Chalk Farm? – Yes. The landlord is a friend of mine.

It is on that account that he has favoured us with a private room.

It is true of course I told him that Lord Lancer would be attending the meeting.

He appreciated that a certain degree of sequesteredness

would be the order of the day

– Lord Lancer? – Our patron.

He's not one of the Bengal Lancers, is he?

No, no. He's of Norman descent.

– A man of culture? – Impeccable credentials.

Some of these aristocrats hate the arts.

Lord Lancer is a man of honour. He loves the arts.

He has declared his love in public. He never goes back on his word.

I must be off. Lord Lancer does not subscribe to the view

that poets can treat time with nonchalance.

– Jack could do with a patron. – Jack?

– He's a poet. – A poet? Really?

Well...

If he'd like to send me some examples of his work, double spaced on quarto,

with copies in a separate folder by separate post,

in case of loss or misappropriation,

stamped addressed envelope enclosed, I'll read them.

That's very nice of you.

Not at all. You can tell him he can look forward to a scrupulously honest

and, if I may say so, highly sensitive judgement.

I'll tell him. He's in a real need of a patron.

The boss could be his patron, but he's not interested.

Perhaps because he's a poet himself.

It's possible there's an element of jealousy in it, I dunno.

Not that the boss isn't a very kind man. He is. He's a very civilised man.

– But he's still human. – The boss is a poet himself?

Don't be silly! He's more than that, isn't he?

He's an essay... ist and a critic as well. He's a man of letters.

I thought his face was familiar.

Yes, sir.

I have known this before. The voice unheard. A listener.

The command from an upper floor.

Charles! How nice of you to drop in.

Have they been looking after you all right?

Denson, let's have some coffee.

You're looking remarkably well. Haven't changed a bit.

It's the squash, I expect, hey?

Keeps you up to the mark. You were quite a dab hand at Oxford, as I remember.

Still at it? Wise man. Sensible chap. My goodness, it's been years.

When did we last meet? I have a suspicion we last dined together in '38 at the club.

Does that accord with your recollection? Croxley was there, yes.

Wyatt, it all comes back to me. Burston-Smith.

Ooh, what a bunch! What a night, as I recall.

All dead now, of course.

No, no, I'm a fool. I'm an idiot. Our last encounter, I remember it well.

Pavilion at Lord's in '39, against the West Indies,

Hutton and Compton batting superbly.

Constantine bowling, war looming.

Surely I'm right? We shared a particularly fine bottle of port.

You look as fit now as you did then.

Did you have a good war? Oh, thank you, Denson.

Leave it there, will you? That'll do.

How's Emily? What a woman!

Black? Here you are.

What a woman!

Have to tell you, I fell in love with her once upon a time.

I have to confess it to you. Took her out to tea in Dorchester.

Told her of my yearning. Decided to take the bull by the horns.

Proposed that she betray you.

Admitted you were a damn fine chap but pointed out

I would be taking nothing that belonged to you.

Simply that portion of herself all women keep in reserve for a rainy day.

Had an infernal job persuading her. Said she adored you.

Her life would be meaningless were she to be false.

Plied her with buttered scones, Wiltshire cream, crumpets and strawberries.

Eventually, she succumbed.

I don't suppose you knew about it, what?

Oh, well, we're too old now for it to matter, don't you agree?

I rented a little cottage for the summer.

She used to motor to me twice or thrice a week.

I was an integral part of her 'shopping expeditions'.

You were both living on the farm then. That's right, her father's farm.

She would come to me at tea-time, or coffee-time, the innocent hours.

That summer she was mine, while you imagined her to be solely yours.

She loved the cottage!

She loved the flowers. As did I.

Narcissi, crocus, dog's tooth violets, fuchsia, jonquils, pinks, verbena.

Her delicate hands. I'll never forget her way with 'jonquils'.

Do you remember once, was it in '37, you took her to France?

I was on the same boat. Kept to my cabin.

While you were doing your exercises, she came to me.

Her ardour was, in my experience, unparalleled.

Ah, well.

You were always preoccupied with your physical condition, were you not?

I don't blame you. Damn fine figure of a chap. Natural athlete.

Medals, scrolls, your name inscribed in gold.

Once a man has breasted the tape alone, he is breasting the tape forever.

His golden moment can never be tarnished. Do you run still?

Why was it that we saw so little of each other, after we came down from Oxford?

You had another string to your bow, did you not? You were a literary man.

As was I.

Yes, yes, I know we shared a picnic with Tubby Wells and all that stuff.

We shared a whisky and soda at the club, but we were never close, were we?

I wonder why.

Of course, I was successful awfully early.

– You did say you had a good war? – A rather good one, yes

– How splendid. The RAF? – The navy.

– How splendid. Destroyers? – Torpedo boats.

– First rate. Kill any Germans? – One or two.

– Well done. – And you?

– I was in Military Intelligence. – Oh.

You pursued your literary career, after the war?

– Yes. I believe you've done rather well. – So did I.

Oh, quite well, yes. Past my best now.

Do you ever see Stella?

– Stella? – You can't have forgotten.

– Stella who? – Stella Winstanley.

– Winstanley? – Bunty Winstanley's sister.

– Oh, Bunty. No, I never see her. – You were rather taken with her.

– Was I, old chap? How did you know? – I was terribly fond of Bunty.

He was most dreadfully annoyed with you. Wanted to punch you on the nose.

– What for? – For seducing his sister.

– What business was it of his? – He was her brother.

That's my point. What on earth are you driving at?

Bunty introduced Rupert to Stella. He was very fond of Rupert.

He gave the bride away. Rupert and he were terribly old friends.

He threatened to horsewhip you.

– Who did? – Bunty.

He never had the guts to speak to me himself.

Stella begged him not to. She implored him to stay his hand.

She implored him not to tell Rupert.

I see. But who told Bunty?

I told Bunty.

I was frightfully fond of Bunty. I was also frightfully fond of Stella.

You appear to have been a close friend of the family.

Mainly of Arabella's. We used to ride together.

– Arabella Hinscott? – Yes.

– I knew her at Oxford. – So did I.

– I was very fond of Arabella. – Arabella was very fond of me.

Bunty was never sure of precisely how fond she was of me,

nor of what form her fondness took.

What in God's name do you mean?

Bunty trusted me I was best man at their wedding. He also trusted Arabella.

I should warn you, I was always extremely fond of Arabella.

Her father was my tutor. I used to stay at their house.

I knew her father well. He took a great interest in me.

Arabella was a girl of the most refined and organised sensibilities.

I agree.

Are you trying to tell me you had an affair with Arabella?

A form of an affair. She had no wish for full consummation.

She was content with her particular predilection, consuming the male member.

I'm beginning to believe that you're a scoundrel.

How dare you speak of Arabella Hinscott in such a fashion?

I'll have you blackballed from the club.

My dear sir, may I remind you that you betrayed Stella Winstanley

with Emily Spooner, my own wife, throughout a long and soiled summer,

a fact known at the time throughout the Home Counties.

May I further remind you that Muriel Blackwood and Doreen Busby

have never recovered from your insane and corrosive sexual absolutism?

May I further remind you that your friendship with

and corruption of Geoffrey Ramsden at Oxford

was the talk of Balliol and Christchurch Cathedral?

This is scandalous! How dare you? I will have you horsewhipped!

It is you, sir, who have behaved scandalously

to the fairest of sexes, of which my wife was the fairest representative.

It is you who have behaved unnaturally and scandalously

to the woman who was joined to me in God.

– I, sir? Unnaturally? Scandalously? – Scandalously. She told me all.

You listen to the drivellings of a farmer's wife?

Since I was the farmer, yes.

You were no farmer, sir. A weekend wanker.

I wrote my Homage To Wessex in the summerhouse at West Upfield.

I never had the good fortune to read it.

It is written in terza rima, a form which, if you will forgive my saying so,

you've never been able to master.

This is outrageous!

Who are you?

What are you doing in my house?

Denson!

A whisky and soda.

You are clearly a lout.

The Charles Wetherby I knew was a gentleman.

I see a figure reduced.

I am sorry for you.

Where is the moral ardour that sustained you once?

Gone down the hatch. Down the hatch.

Right down the hatch.

I do not understand.

I do not understand, and I see it all about me continually.

How the most sensitive and cultivated of men can so easily change, almost overnight

into the bully, the cutpurse, the brigand.

In my day, nobody changed. A man was.

Only religion could alter him, and that at least was a glorious misery.

We are not banditti here.

I am prepared to be patient. I shall be kind to you.

I shall show you my library. I might even show you my study.

I might even show you my pen and my blotting pad.

I might even show you my footstool.

Another.

I might even show you my photograph album.

You might even see a face in it which might remind you of your own,

of what you once were.

Or the faces of others, in shadow, or the cheeks of others, turning.

Or jaws, or backs of necks, or eyes, dark under hats,

which might remind you of others whom once you knew,

whom you thought long dead,

but from whom you will still receive a sidelong glance,

if you can face the good ghost.

Allow the love of the good ghost. They possess all that emotion, trapped.

Bow to it. It will assuredly never release them,

but who knows what relief it may give to them?

Who knows how they may quicken in their chains, in their glass jars?

You think it cruel to quicken them, when they are fixed, imprisoned?

No, no. Deeply, deeply, they wish to respond to your touch, to your look.

And when you smile, their joy is unbounded.

So, I say to you,

tender the dead as you would yourself be tendered now,

in what you would describe as your life.

They're blank, mate, blank. The blank dead.

Nonsense.

– Pass the bottle. – No.

– What? – I said no.

No pranks. No mischief. Give me the bottle.

– I've refused. – Refusal can lead to dismissal.

– You can't dismiss me. – Why not?

– Because I won't go. – Oh, if I tell you to go, you will go.

Give me the bottle.

Bring me the bottle.

– I'll have one myself. – What impertinence!

Well, it doesn't matter. He was always a scallywag.

Is it raining? It so often rains in August in England.

Do you ever examine the gullies of the English countryside?

Under the twigs, under the dead leaves, you'll find tennis balls, blackened.

Girls threw them for their dogs, or children, for each other,

they rolled into the gully.

They're lost there, given up for dead, centuries old.

It's time for your morning walk.

– I said it's time for your morning walk. – My morning walk?

No. I'm afraid I don't have time this morning.

– Time for your walk across the Heath. – I can't possibly. I'm too busy.

– I have too many things to do. – What's that you're drinking?

The great malt which wounds.

My God, you haven't got a drink. Where's your glass?

Thank you. It would be unwise to mix my drinks.

– Mix? – I was drinking champagne.

Of course you were, of course.

– Albert, another bottle. – Certainly, sir.

I can't possibly. I'm too busy. Too many things to do.

I have an essay to write, a critical essay.

We have to check the files, find out what it is I'm supposed to be appraising.

For the moment, it's slipped my mind.

– I could help you there. – Oh?

On two counts. Firstly, I have the nose of a ferret.

I can find anything in a file.

And, secondly, I have written any number of critical essays myself.

– Do you actually have a secretary? – I'm his secretary.

A secretarial post does less than justice to your talents.

A young poet should travel – travel and suffer.

Join the navy, perhaps, and see the sea. Voyage and explore.

I've sailored. I've been there and back. I'm here where I'm needed.

You mentioned a photograph album. I could go through it.

I could put names to the faces. A proper exhumation could take place.

Yes, I am confident that I could be of enormous aid in that area.

– Those faces are nameless, friend. – And they'll always be nameless.

There are places in my heart where no living soul has

– or can ever trespass. –

Hey! Here you are.

Fresh as a daisy. A drop for you, sir?

No, no. I'll stay where I am.

– I'll join Mr Friend, if I may, sir? – Naturally.

– Where's your glass? – No, thanks.

Oh, come on, be sociable.

Be sociable! Consort with the society to which you're attached.

To which you are attached, as if by bonds of steel.

– Mingle. – It isn't even lunchtime.

The best time to drink champagne is before lunch, you cunt.

– Don't call me a cunt – We three, never forget,

are the oldest of friends.

– That's why I called him a cunt. – Stop talking.

To our good fortune.

– Cheers. – Cheers.

– Cheers. – Cheers.

The light out there is gloomy.

It's hardly daylight at all.

It's falling rapidly.

Distasteful! Let us close the curtains, put the lamps on.

Ah. What relief!

How happy it is. Today I shall come to a conclusion.

There are certain matters which today I shall resolve.

– SPOONER: I'll help you. – I was in Bali when they sent for me.

I didn't have to leave, I didn't have to come here but I felt I was called.

I had no alternative. I didn't have to leave that beautiful isle.

But I was intrigued, I was only a boy.

But I was nondescript and anonymous. A famous writer wanted me.

He wanted me to be his secretary, his chauffeur,

his housekeeper, his amanuensis.

– How did he know of me? Who told him? – He made an imaginative leap.

Few can do it. Few do it. He did it. And that is why God loves him.

You came on my recommendation.

I've always liked youth because you can use it.

But it has to be open and honest. If it's not open and honest you can't use it.

I recommended you. You were open.

– You had the whole world before you. – I find the work fruitful.

See, I'm in touch with a very special intelligence.

This intelligence I found nourishing. I have been nourished by it.

It's enlarged me, therefore it's an intelligence worth serving.

I find its demands natural.

Not only that, they're legal. I'm not doing anything crooked.

It's a relief. I could so easily have been bent.

I have a sense of dignity in my work, a sense of honour.

It never leaves me. Of service to a cause.

He is my associate. He was my proposer. I've learnt a great deal from him.

He's been my guide, the most unselfish person I've ever met.

– He'll tell you. Let him speak. – Who to?

– What? – Speak? Who to?

– To him. – To him?

To a pisshole collector? To a shithouse operator?

To a jamrag vendor? What the fuck are you talking about?

Look at him! He's a mingejuice bottler!

A fucking shitcake baker. What are you talking to him for?

Yes, yes, but he's a good man at heart. I knew him at Oxford.

Let me live with you and be your secretary.

Is there a big fly in here?

I hear buzzing.

No.

– You say no? – Yes.

I ask you to consider me for the post.

If I were wearing a suit such as your own you would see me in a different light.

I am extremely good with tradespeople, hawkers, canvassers, nuns.

I can be silent when desired or, when desired, convivial.

I can discuss any subject of your choice – the future of the country,

wild flowers, the Olympic Games.

It is true, I've fallen on hard times,

but my imagination and intelligence are unimpaired.

My will to work has not been eroded.

I remain capable of undertaking the gravest

and most daunting responsibilities.

Temperamentally, I can be what you wish. My character is, at core, a humble one.

I'm an honest man and, moreover, I am not too old to learn.

My cooking is not to be sneezed at. I lean towards French cuisine.

But food without frills is not beyond my competency.

I have a keen eye for dust.

My kitchen would be immaculate.

I am tender towards objects.

I'd take good care of your silver.

I play chess, billiards...

and the piano, I could play Chopin for you.

I could read the Bible to you. I am a good companion.

My career, I admit it freely, has been chequered.

I was one of the golden of my generation.

Something happened. I don't know what it was.

Nevertheless, I am I. I have survived... ..insult and deprivation.

I am I.

I offer myself not abjectly but with ancient pride. I come to you as a warrior.

I shall be happy to serve you as my master.

I bend my knee to your excellence.

I am furnished with the qualities of piety, prudence,

liberality and goodness.

Now, you decline them at your peril.

It is my task as a gentleman to remain amiable in my behaviour,

courageous in my undertakings, discreet and gallant in my executions.

By which I mean your private life would remain your own.

However, I shall be sensible to the least wrong offered you.

My sword will be ready to dissever all manifest embodiments of malign forces

that conspire to your ruin.

I will face death's challenge on your behalf.

I will meet it, for your sake, boldly,

whether it be in the field or in the bedchamber.

I'm your chevalier!

I'd rather bury myself in a tomb of honour

than permit your dignity to be sullied by domestic enemy.

Or foreign foe.

I am yours to command.

Before you reply...

I would like to say one thing more.

I occasionally organise poetry readings

in the upstairs room of a particular public house.

They are reasonably well attended, mainly by the young.

I would be happy to offer you an evening of your own.

You could read your own work to an interested and informed audience,

to an audience brimming over with potential

for the greatest possible enthusiasm.

I can guarantee a full house,

and I will be happy to arrange a straightforward fee for you.

Or, if you prefer, a substantial share of the profits.

The young, I can assure you, would flock to hear you.

My committee would deem it a singular honour to act as your host.

You would be introduced by an authority on your work, possibly myself.

And after the reading, which I am confident will be a remarkable success,

we could repair to the bar below,

where the landlord, who happens to be a friend of mine,

would I know be overjoyed to entertain you with the compliments of the house.

And nearby is an Indian restaurant of excellent standing,

at which you would be the guest of my committee.

Your face is so seldom seen and your words, known to so many,

have been so seldom heard, in the absolute authority of your own rendering

that this event would qualify for that rarest of categories, the unique.

And I beg you to consider seriously the social implications of such an adventure.

You would be there in body.

It would bring you to the young, the young to you.

The elderly, also, those who have almost lost hope

would, on such an occasion, leave their homes and present themselves.

And you'd have no trouble with the press.

I'd take upon myself the charge of keeping them from nuisance.

Perhaps you might agree to half a dozen photographs or so, but no more.

Unless of course you positively wished, on such an occasion, to speak.

Unless you preferred to hold, let's say, a small press conference,

after the reading, before supper,

whereby you could speak through the press to the world.

But that's by the by, and would in no sense be a condition.

Let us content ourselves with the idea of an intimate reading

in a pleasing and conducive environment.

Let us consider an evening to be remembered by all who take part in her.

Let us change the subject.

For the last time.

What have I said?

You said you're changing the subject for the last time.

But what does that mean?

Ha. It means you'll never change the subject again

– Never? – Never.

– Never? – You said for the last time.

– But what does that mean? – It means forever.

It means that the subject is changed once and for all and for the last time forever.

If the subject is winter, for instance, it'll be winter forever.

– Is the subject winter? – The subject is now winter.

– So it'll therefore be winter forever. – And for the last time.

Which will last forever.

If the subject is winter, for example, spring will never come.

– But let me ask you, I must ask you... – Summer will never come.

– The trees. – Will never bud.

– I must ask you. – Snow.

Will fall forever because you've changed the subject for the last time.

But have we? Have I? That's my question. Have we changed the subject?

Of course, the previous subject is closed

– What was the previous subject? – It's forgotten. You've changed it.

What is the present subject?

There is no possibility of changing the subject

– since the subject has now been changed. – For the last time.

So that nothing else will happen forever.

You'll simply be sitting here forever.

– But not alone. – No. We'll be with you.

Briggs and me.

– It's night. – And will always be night.

– Because the subject... – can never be changed.

But... I hear the sound of birds.

Don't you hear it?

– – Sounds I never heard before.

I hear them as they must have sounded then, when I was young.

Although I never heard them then, although they sounded about us then.

Yes, it's true. I am walking towards a lake.

Someone is following me through the trees. I lose him, easily.

I see a body in the water, floating.

I am excited. I look closer and I see...

I was mistaken. There's nothing in the water.

I say to myself, "I saw a body, drowning."

But I am mistaken. There's nothing there.

No. You are in no man's land.

Which never moves, which never changes.

Which never grows older, but which remains forever icy and silent.

I'll drink to that.