My first attempt at a playscript dates I think from the late 1980s. It’s the only thing I have ever attempted to write about university life; I think I disgarded it in disgust as soon as I’d done it, and didn’t try another play for 15 years.
Recalling that disgust made me take an age to bring myself to read it, even now, 30 + years later. My reluctance had more to do with the subject matter than the fact of the play itself. The truth is I have spent my whole adult life in perverse flight from the imagined humiliation of my undergraduate years. This made my old undergraduate diaries similarly hard to engage with.
But engagement was worth it in the end. As with the diaries, I found lots to like in this little script. It is both slight and melodramatic, and leaves its most interesting questions unaddressed. Like most of these early scribbles, it could have been edited into an opening act of something bigger. But the dialogue is fine; the setting well-realised; the characterisation mostly sound. Really nothing here for me to be scared of!
There are ten scenes in all. If performed it might run to 45 mins.
A short play
Cast
Miranda
Hilary
Nicky
Helen
Rebecca
All final year students at an Oxbridge women’s college.
Harry: Miranda’s distant cousin and live-in boyfriend, graduated previous year, now working as a dustman.
Setting: A student house owned by the college. Late spring, 1980.
SCENE 1
A student study bedroom. Miranda sits with her back to us at a desk before the window. She is studying intensely, heavy books lie beside her, and piles of paper notes. She mumbles to herself, looks up, swears, and flicks through the papers.
Harry is lying on the floor, the boards of which are scantily covered by a threadbare Afghan rug. He is flicking through the New Statesman magazine. The bed is a double mattress on the floor, the original single standard-issue student provision having been appropriated as a sofa. It’s unmade; the room is full of student clutter; books, clothes, magazines, posters. Harry’s skis and fishing rods lie propped up in a corner. Drawings of Miranda’s are on the walls; delicate flowers and animals, and one which is recognisably Harry.
Miranda is pretty in an understated English way beneath her wire glasses, if you look carefully. She’s 22. Harry is 23, tall, thin, with a scrubby brown beard he’s growing for the first time. He is also quite good-looking, in an English, somewhat cherubic way, but seems younger than she is. His manner is boyish, uncertain, and restless, which right now he is struggling to contain, because he knows he mustn’t disturb Miranda.
There’s a rhythmic tapping on the door.
MIRANDA: (turning from desk but also quite relieved) Yeah?
Harry pulls himself together and sits up. Hilary enters. She’s large and strawberry-blonde, with a manner that screams ‘look at me!’ Since her first year at a girls’ boarding school, she’s used to being the most popular girl in the year. Although like the other girls she is only 22, everything she does is a performance of some polish.
HILARY: Darling Miranda! How’s the awful swotting going? Not that you’ve anything to worry about . . .Oh hullo Harry. Dearie me, what are you trying to cultivate on your chin?! Now I hope you’re not being too much of a distraction to Miranda, remember she’s got serious business ahead! If I see her getting distracted I’ll tell the moral tutor on you two, living in sin like this. On college property, no less! Now don’t look like that Harry, I was just joking as Miranda at least appreciates, I wouldn’t do a thing like that whatever Mama might have to say about me living in a house of such ill repute. Miranda is my best friend, she knows that, don’t you sweetie? Which is why she’s to be the first to know . . . Ooh, guess, Miranda . . . go on . . .
(Miranda is smiling now, though it is a little strained.)
MIRANDA: Hilary, I can’t, go on, tell.
HILARY: No,no, guess, Miranda, you spoilsport.
MIRANDA (starting to enjoy the game): Something to do with the divine Hugh Cameron?
(Hilary is silent)
Don’t tell me he’s proposed!
HILARY: Don’t be ridiculous.(recovering) Hugh Cameron has invited me to the Trinity May Ball!
MIRANDA: Oh – is that all.
HILARY: Aren’t you going to congratulate me?
MIRANDA: Oh sure. Congratulations. But I mean you’ve already been invited to the Caius May Ball, the Pembroke May Ball, the Corpus May Ball, and the Downing May Ball, I seem to remember. By four different men, isn’t that right?
HILARY: But Hugh is extra-special, you know that darling! Oh Harry are you off somewhere?
(Harry has got up and is making for the door)
HARRY: If you excuse me ladies, I think I’ll just have a quick fag out on the landing.
HILARY: Harry! Hasn’t Miranda got you to discard that sordid habit yet? I don’t know how she stands it! Tobacco-flavoured kisses, ha ha ha!!
Harry smiles, sheepish and apologetic, and disappears.
(after a moment’s silence)
Seriously Miranda you know I don’t know what your moral tutor would have to say about Harry living here with you. I mean I think it’s sweet, really; but it’s not only a question of you-know-what-I-mean. He might really distract you from your exam-preparation. Looking after a fully-grown man can be quite a strain, you know!
MIRANDA: Oh Hilary what do you know about it! I like having him here – it helps me. I’d only be round at his place all the time if he wasn’t. It’s a lot less trouble all round if he lives in.
HILARY: And how does he feel about living in a houseful of stressed-out females?
MIRANDA: (this is a new thought to her) Oh – I don’t think he minds it. Anyway it’s a lot cheaper for him, for us both actually.
HILARY: No, I don’t suppose he draws a tremendous salary working as a refuse collector! Goodness, Miranda, couldn’t he do something useful with his free year? I understand he’s only waiting for you to finish, and then you’ll both be off, which I think is so sweet, really; but don’t you think it’d be more sensible for him to start preparing directly for his proper career? What was it he decided on – law? The City? So that when you graduate, he might already be in a position to support you; when . . I mean if, you . . .you (she is going to say ‘get married’ but tails off, remembering that miranda and harry have other ideas)
MIRANDA: He thinks working the bins is useful. He’s learning a lot – about the public service, the union and so on.
HILARY: Oh of course – the Indispensable University of Life! Well darling, I must fly! I can hardly believe my first exam is in just under a week! And you should see my threadbare wardrobe – how Mummy expects me to be presentable at five May Balls is a complete mystery to me! (sensing she is being impossible) But you, of course, my darling, have your mind on much higher things, though you’ve two whole weeks to go before yours. But after all, you’ve already netted your Prince!
with a theatrical wink and a kiss blown from the door she is gone.
Miranda sighs, and turns back to her desk. The door opens and Harry is back.
MIRANDA: Enjoy your fag?
HARRY: Good God, that woman is a pain in the bollocks.
(Miranda smiles. She has heard this before.)
What the bloody hell do you see in her?
MIRANDA: Ah y’know, she can be funny, and she’s got a good heart.
(They both enjoy this ritual, for Harry rarely ventures to be as emphatic about anything else. But he’s on safe ground here, for in many ways they agree about Hilary)
HARRY: Are all the others in this rabbit-warren as crazy?
MIRANDA: Haven’t you met them out on the landing? Well, there’s Jackie and Elizabeth upstairs – I don’t see much of them, but they’re all right, second-year scientists of some sort, worthy Christians I believe, you’d probably say boring. Hilary has the front room up there. Then on this floor is Helen, and Nicky who we met in the kitchen last night, you’d like Helen, she’s not, you know, the private-school type at all, but, I don’t know, she seems a bit anxious lately. Het up and tense – I suppose it’s the exams. Downstairs is Caroline who’s a total socialite, never in –
HARRY: Like Hilary then?
MIRANDA: Ooh no, much worse. With Hills it’s all terribly innocent, like she’s keeping herself pure for the Prince of Wales. Caroline is much – well – rougher, though you wouldn’t know it to hear her cultivated tones. But she has loads of different blokes through there, when she isn’t out cavorting herself. She’s probably had about ten abortions.
HARRY: Better watch out for myself then hadn’t I? (Clearly the prospect of being seduced is pleasurable)
MIRANDA: Na, wouldn’t bet on your luck, you’re not her type. Too cuddly – especially with all that facial hair. And then there’s – Rebecca I think her name is. I hardly know her. I don’t get the impression anyone does.
HARRY: Another raving socialite?
MIRANDA: On the contrary – she’s always there. You can count on her to answer the phone any time of day or night, it’s right outside her door, so she more or less has to. Leaves scribbled messages for everyone. But apart from that you never hear her, never uses the kitchen, just sneaks in and out of the bathroom now and again. Creepy really when you think about it.
HARRY: Is she spotty and overweight? Depressed-looking?
MIRANDA: Not worse than anyone else round here. Actually she’s quite pretty, I suppose. But definitely odd.
A phone rings distantly
That’s the telephone. It’s bound to be for Hilary. Wait, and you might see Rebecca come up.
Padded footsteps, a knock
REBECCA: (outside) Miranda? Telephone for you.
MIRANDA: (exchanging a look with Harry) OK! Thank you!
She is at the door in two strides and swings it open, as Rebecca retreats down the stairs. Harry has followed her to the door and looks over her shoulder with curiosity.
Er – Rebecca, this is my – um – boyfriend Harry, he’ll be staying here till the end of term, I hope you don’t mind, just if anyone calls for him . . .
(Rebecca is now visible at the door)
I bet that’s Mummy on the phone again, I’d better go and pacify her.
(Miranda disappears past Rebecca, leaving she and Harry staring at each other.)
HARRY: (after a moment) Come in.
Rebecca enters and looks around. She has obviously never been here before. She looks dishevelled and bleary-eyed as though she has just got out of bed, though it is early evening. She might also have been drinking.
Nevertheless there is something arresting about her. Though unkempt, she is beautiful, in an un-English, perhaps mediterranean, perhaps Jewish sort of way. ‘Pretty’ is not the right word at all. Harry doesn’t have any words for it,but he’s out of his depth. Rebecca, who is aware of her sex-appeal,is the kind of girl much more at ease with men than with women.
REBECCA: Can I have a cigarette? (She has seen his pack on the floor)
HARRY: Oh, of course.
He reaches down to get it for her, opens it, but there is only one left. He offers it to her, scrabbling with his other hand for his lighter.
REBECCA: You’ve only got one left.
HARRY: It doesn’t matter – please take it.
She does. She puffs for a while, while he stares. Then she looks around the room at the posters.
Miranda did those. (She seems to be looking at the drawings) She draws a lot, she’s good actually.
REBECCA: Are you a student too?
HARRY: No, I – er – graduated last year, I work on the bins.
REBECCA: The what?
HARRY: The dustbins, council rubbish collection, you know, just till Miranda finishes . .
REBECCA: Oh. That’s interesting.
HARRY: (babbling a bit) Yeah the chaps are great, a real laugh, really refreshing, and that kind of thing . . .
They watch each other. Rebecca stubs out the cigarette in the waste-paper basket next to Miranda’s desk. Miranda bounds back up the stairs and sniffs theatrically.
MIRANDA: Who’s been smoking in here? Harry, you know what I said . . .
HARRY: Sorry!
He manages to catch Rebecca’s eye behind Miranda’s back as she is flapping about, fanning the air with her hands and opening a window. He makes a face.
REBECCA: (suddenly awkward) It was my fault I’m afraid. I’d better be off – see you! (This seems directed at Harry) Bye!
She scuttles off.
MIRANDA: Funny woman. Has no friends, apparently. Painfully shy, I suppose. Nicky said she tried asking her in for coffee, you know, just being friendly, but she just sat about saying nothing, looking acutely uncomfortable and then dashing off at the earliest opportunity.
For no reason. I don’t believe she ever has anywhere else to go, now supervisions are over. One should feel sorry for her really. But it’s hard when she seems to make so little effort. As if she thinks she’s better than us all somehow . . . .
HARRY: Is she – you know – Swiss finishing school and all that?
MIRANDA: Wouldn’t think so. Impossible to tell where she’s from really. She could be anything . . . Shit, we’ve nearly missed the college canteen. I don’t really fancy it but we can’t bloody well afford another takeaway. Put on a decent shirt, would you Harry, for Christssakes . . .
SCENE 2
a day or two later
Second floor landing of the same house; a threadbare carpet and a few tacked up posters. three doors, leading to the rooms of Helen, Nicky and Miranda, all with notebooks and pencils for messages tacked onto them, and a fourth door or way out leading to the bathroom. A window-ledge you can perch on, otherwise nowhere to sit but on the steps leading up to the top floor above, and down to the ground floor.
Nicky comes up the stairs from the ground floor – her steps are audible – enters and approaches her door fumbling for key. She is serious, studious, middle-class; unremarkable looking. Her attire is down-market student, untrendy jeans and tops, not pretentious or experimental in any way. She carried books, a Sainsbury’s bag with shopping.
Helen, hearing her, opens her door and comes out. She looks tired and distraught; her eyes are ringed, her pale face tense and drawn; her manner of speaking fast and agitated. She has a south London accent that she has toned down over the past three years, but underneath her nervous manner her appearance is much more mature, more city-sophisticated than either Nicky’s or Miranda’s; she has well-permed hair, wears carefully-selected, well-cut clothes and make-up that suit her. Still, it hasn’t always helped her feel good about being an ex-London-comprehensive pupil at Oxbridge. Since the beginning, she has suffered pangs of social-inferiority-complex, which, increasingly now the process is reaching its climax, she is deflecting with a raw and bawdy wit she would never have dreamed of exhibiting in earlier months, or infront of her upmarket boyfriend Paul . . .
HELEN: Nick! You’re back at last, I’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning. I need your Dryden notes again. I know I borrowed them only last week but I just don’t seem able to get the stuff in order – all my notes are hopeless. I’ve got to mug up on Dryden though to be honest the stuff makes me want to puke but I have to take the 18th Century having completely ballsed-up the Renaissance. And don’t mention Restoration comedy or I’ll go completely beserk. The only tolerable bit is Jane Austen or do they, oh my God, count her as one of the Romantics? Nicky, you’ve got to help me, I’m going to botch up everything, I fucking know it.
(she has been pacing back and forth and comes to a halt by the window)
NICKY: Helen, calm down. Of course you can have my notes, and I don’t know what you’re getting so het up about. No way is Jane Austen a Romantic. Why don’t you come in for a coffee? It looks like you need a break.
HELEN: No no, I set the alarm for six this morning, and would you believe it, slept through till nine.
NICKY: That’s because you didn’t go to bed until four.
HELEN: How did you know?
NICKY: I didn’t – I can tell just by looking at you. Anyhow you never do. Your light was on all night the night before last.
Silence. Nicky watches while Helen lights a cigarette and starts pacing again, murmuring quotations to herself.
NICKY: (thinking to change the subject) How’s the boyfriend? I haven’t seen him around much lately.
HELEN: Paul? Oh – all right I suppose. He wants me to go with him to his college May Ball but who the fuck can think about things like that at times like this? If I survive the next couple of weeks at all it’ll be a miracle.
NICKY: Doesn’t he have exams too?
HELEN: Yeah – but he absorbs all that sort of thing with aristocratic nonchalance. He’ll be graduating straight into Papa’s business in any case, so why should he worry.
NICKY: In that case, why should you worry. You’ll be the Corporation First Lady within a couple of years.
HELEN: Are you crazy? I’m fine for a quick therapeutic fuck before Finals. But Paul Sinclair-Downe, heir of Thamesdown Hall and Portsvale Nutrition Aids Inc., would never in his wildest dreams marry little old Helen Dodds from Catford. His family would have about a thousand fits.
NICKY: Really Helen your language deteriorates by the hour. And I do suspect, sometimes, that too much Jane Austen has transported you into the century before last. Nobody cares where anybody comes from any more. You’re attractive, brainy, sophisticated, you’ve got better dress sense than any other student in town. The Sinclair-Downes of whatever-Hall and whatsits Inc. would be enchanted.
Anyway if little Helen-Dodds-Cinderella- has been invited to the Ball then Prince Charming-Paul must be serious about her . . . Talking of Prince Charmings, what do you make of Miranda’s, whatisname, Harry?
HELEN: Who? Oh, he’s just a kid. I bumped into him in the bathroom the other day wearing bra and frilly knickers – I mean I was, not him. Poor love didn’t know where to look.
NICKY: (giggling) But he’s quite dishy, don’t you think? He graduated last year, so he is a year older than us – and than Paul whatsits-whatsits.
HELEN: So what? Maturity has nothing to do with age, believe me, especially when it comes to Men, sister.
NICKY: They’ve been together since they were at school, though they were at different ones, of course . .
HELEN: (sarcastic, though Nicky doesn’t notice) Of course!
NICKY: They met at Miranda’s cousin’s wedding. They actually have relatives in common, apparently!
HELEN: The perfect couple! No stress with hubby’s family, if it’s the same one as yours. All the more reason to steer clear of the little cherub. Trust Miranda to get things sown up on all fronts at the earliest opportunity. On top of it all everyone knows she’ll get a first.
NICKY: Yes, she probably will. But knowing everyone expects it brings its own pressure. Especially her family. If you are the product of a world-famous intellectual dynasty, anything less than a starred first I expect is tantamount to complete disaster. I’m glad Daddy’s just a humdrum country solicitor.
HELEN: Well that would make you super la-di-dah where I come from. Having a dad at all, as a matter of fact.
NICKY: Oh give me a break, for heaven’s sake Helen. (Like everyone, she hates Helen ‘going on’ about her background, which means mentioning it at all) You know what I mean. Miranda isn’t any posher than I am but she’s under extra pressure because I bet half the university staff has been to dinner with her parents. Her older brother teaches at St Catz did you know that?
HELEN: No – now let see, how does it go? (recites from ‘Paradise Lost’) Book Four, lines . . . . Satan as anti-hero example of Renaissance obsession with pre-Christian/classical religion . ..
NICKY: Sure you don’t want that coffee? Or perhaps some soothing camomile tea?
HELEN: No! Shit, that was my last . . .(opening her pack of cigarettes in vain)I’d better stock up for the weekend – could use an extra bottle of sherry for emergencies. Want anything from the corner shop, love?
NICKY: (smiling) No thanks, sweets. Got my supply of poisons already. But give us a knock on the way back, I’ll be looking out those notes for you.
HELEN: Notes? What notes? Oh yeah . . . Thanks a bucket Nicks. If I survive this ordeal am I going to throw one hell of a party and you are going to be guest of honour!
NICKY: Not Prince-Charming-Paul?
HELEN: Aargh! Don’t mention that cad! I wouldn’t marry him if he went down on his knees with a hundred glass slippers!
She is gone. Nicky, smiling and shaking her head, picks up her bags and lets herself into her room.
BLACK-OUT.
SCENE 3
The landing. Harry enters through Miranda’s door.
HARRY: (to Miranda offstage, hesitant, gesturing and whispering a bit because he feels guilty about disturbing her) Um – I’ll just have a quick fag before supper, ok?
He lights one and leans on the window ledge, smoking. He is looking towards the bathroom and seems shyly expectant.The toilet flushes. A door opens and slams shut and Rebecca appears. She sees Harry and stops in her tracks – she was on her way down to her room. She stares at him. She looks just as sleepy and dishevelled as the last time we saw her.
(Harry as the advantage of surprise) Hello there.
REBECCA: (finding her tongue) How come you’re never at work?
HARRY: I’m at work every day, it’s just that you’re never up. Dustmen rise before dawn, you know. Remember dawn? Daybreak?
REBECCA: (smiles sheepishly) No.
HARRY: Want a fag? (holds them out. She takes one.) So when are your exams?
REBECCA: Don’t ask me. Soon, in any case.
HARRY: What’s your subject? Eng Lit? (Rebecca nods, puffing) Then you’re one of the first. First in and first out. Best position to be in, you can start celebrating while all the others are still in a state of panic.
REBECCA: What did you do?
HARRY: History.
REBECCA: Like Miranda.
HARRY: Like Miranda. Not like Miranda, rather. I didn’t get a first.
He expects her to ask what he did get, but she doesn’t. He continues.
Family scandal, almost. The stunned silence when I announced the fatal news to Ma and Pa were deafening. And hell, it was only an upper-second!? Do they realise there are actually people in this world who fail? Who don’t go to university at all? (there is genuine pique in his tone)
REBECCA: That’s tough. (A moment’s silence, then she adds) I’d die of ecstasy if I got an upper-second.
HARRY: Oh don’t worry, you will.
REBECCA: How the hell do you think you know? (She is genuinely affronted)
HARRY: (Flustered, he meant to be nice, of course) Well, you know, you give me that impression, I mean, you work hard . . .
REBECCA: I do not. And don’t tell me that’s what everyone claims. I wouldn’t bother if it weren’t true.
He knows it is true.
HARRY: (genuinely puzzled) So – what do you do then . . .
REBECCA: (finishes for him) All day long? Good question. I don’t know. Sleep a lot, I suppose. Read a bit, but not exam-stuff. Smoke. Drink. Masturbate.
After respectful pause as a shock-absorber, she continues.
And answer the phone for all the other gells.
She pronounces it like this deliberately, with contempt.
HARRY: (his voice has changed) Why . . . ?
He cannot formulate his question. Rebecca takes over.
REBECCA: Why am I the way I am? Why am I not like the others? Swotting and sweating for my exams as if my life and soul depended on them? Or if it doesn’t, why am I not like the debs-of-the-year, with invitations and At Home’s collecting on the mantelpiece, flitting from Ball to Garden Party to Society Dinner? Or the demi-monde version, with seedy dates and orgies and a regular supply of morning-after pills? Why? I’m not bad-looking, I’m not stupid. Well, Harry – that is your name, isn’t it Harry? – Don’t. Ask. Me. I never leave my room except to buy a can of baked beans and a packet of fags a day from the corner shop. Sometimes at weekly tutorials, my voice came out croaky and unco-ordinated, cos I hadn’t exercised my vocal chords since the tutorial the week before. Apart from a few brief grunts into the telephone, that is. I don’t know why I’m condemned to this. All I know is that’s the way it is.
She has taken a second cigarette and is puffing furiously
HARRY: (he is out of his depth. he needs to get out of this but it makes him feel like a cad. for here, he is dimly aware, is a damsel in distress) Well, um, Miranda’ll be wondering, um – here, you can have the pack.
(Holding it out to her)
REBECCA: (breathes deeply to steady herself) No thanks. It’s not my brand.(brief pause) Look, if you want a smoke, you don’t have to loll about round here. You can come down and keep me company. How about it?
HARRY: Um yeah. Maybe, Rebecca.
REBECCA: See you then.
She’s off downstairs. as she goes, the telephone rings. She raises her eyes heavenwards, making a face. Harry grins back as he turns towards Miranda’s door.)
BLACK-OUT.
SCENE 4
Hilary comes up the stairs singing to herself and taps on Miranda’s door; the same rhythmic knock she used in scene 1. No answer. She taps again, waits, looks puzzled, then peers at the notepad on Miranda’s door, on which something is written. She reads it, nods to herself, shrugs and makes as if to go on up the stairs to her room. Nicky’s door opens suddenly and Nicky comes out with used coffee cups on a tray.
NICKY: Oh hello Hilary. How’s things?
HILARY: I’m fine, Nicky, how nice to see you! Looking forward to the hols? Not working too hard I hope!
NICKY: Ach you know how it is. This annoying little business of Finals.
HILARY: Darling, you don’t need to tell me. Mind you, sometimes I think I’m the only person in this house with a sense of proportion. Miranda has been getting distinctly peaky lately. A little bird, however, hinted there could be other reasons for that. I meant to drop in and tell her about the Sale on in that delightful little boutique on Mill Road, you know if your May Ball collection requires supplementation . . . But of course you girls have your minds on much higher things . . . Do mention it to Helen, though, I saw a satin twenties number, only forty-five pounds, just the thing for her colouring . . . It says here Miranda has gone to her parents for the weekend. She took off rather abruptly don’t you think?
NICKY: She told me she’d be back Sunday eve. You were out; I’m sure she left a note for you.
HILARY: Has Harry gone with her?
NICKY: Harry? Oh yes I presume so. Anyhow he’s not in.
HILARY: Darling, one cannot presume anything any more in this hotbed of steamy transgression. I speak no further.
NICKY: What on earth do you mean Hilary? Not those two living together surely. For heaven’s sake, they’re practically first cousins!
HILARY: Tsk! (shaking head vigorously at such nonsense) Nonono. Those two were betrothed to each other in the cradle. That’s what makes the whole business worse.
NICKY: What business?
HILARY: (moving close to her confidentially. Nicky has set the cups down on the windowsill) You know that rather peculiar creature who lives downstairs, the one who always answers the phone.
NICKY: You mean the mysterious Rebecca?
HILARY: Mysterious? Depraved, more like it. She’s got her clutches into Miranda’s Harry.
NICKY: (really astonished) No!
Hilary nods, slow and meaningful
NICKY: Oh pull the other one, Hilary! If you’d said Caroline I just might believe you, even Helen I wouldn’t put it past her to try it on, if she was drunk enough and not in such a state about exams, but that Rebecca . . . she may be mysterious, depraved, whatever you like, but she is not the kind of vamp who goes around stealing other people’s boyfriends. You remember, when she came round for coffee that time, she was too shy to utter a single world! Never speaks in supervisions either, couldn’t say boo to a goose . . . why, she hasn’t even got any girlfriends, let along boyfriends, I don’t even suppose she’s ever had a boyfriend! You must be imagining things Hilary, perhaps you saw them come in together, you know how boys like Harry are gentlemanly, perhaps he held open the door for her or something. And your overactive imagination jumped to conclusions . . .you haven’t been upsetting Miranda with this kind of stuff I hope . . .
HILARY: It’s true, however. He didn’t just open the door for her. He went in with her afterwards. Into her room.(Meaningful pause) And no-one else in this entire house, the whole past year, has ever been in there.
Nicky is impressed by this.
You know how Miranda is about smoking, quite right too in my humble view; he has to partake out on the landing. Up until now, at any rate. Now he goes and visits Rebecca.
NICKY: (relieved) Well if that’s all there is to it!
HILARY: That isn’t all there is to it. Or if it is, it won’t be for long. I tell you, that woman is depraved. And men are such babies! Harry is no exception.
She is looking very serious. This is unusual for her.
NICKY: (still not believing it) There may be some obvious explanation . .
HILARY: (shrugging, she has been serious long enough) Well, darling, one way or another, things will reach their proper conclusions, and there’s nothing any of us can do. Now, the invitations for my At Home have yet to be drafted and I promised Mummy I’d have a copy for her on Sunday. You and Helen will be able to attend, won’t you, the third week in June? Ooh – tell Helen you-know-who will deffo be there!
She means Paul. With her trilly laugh she goes on up the stairs.
Nicky stays for a moment, leaning against the windowsill, absorbed, not in a good way.
A door downstairs opens and shuts. someone – in soft shoes – is mounting the stairs. Nicky turns away from the window and watches Harry come up. he is dressed in indoor clothes and carrying nothing. She says nothing, just watches as he crosses the landing to miranda’s door, which is unlike her.
HARRY: (he has been waiting for her to say something) Um – er – hello – er – Nicky.
NICKY: (clipped and pregnant) Hello Harry.
Harry thinks that is the end of their exchange and is fumbling with Miranda’s key
I thought you’d gone with Miranda to her parents’.
HARRY: Oh no (babbling) Family duties, you know how it is. I think Miranda handles it better without me.
NICKY: You usually go together though don’t you.
Harry has no answer to this
How’s Miranda’s revision getting on?
HARRY: First rate I think, she’s well on course for a first, everybody knows.
NICKY: I’d say she’s been looking overwrought myself. Of course she’s not the only one. But I’ve never known her in such a state before. Before Part One’s hers was the coolest head in the entire faculty.
HARRY: And she got the best marks, too, didn’t she. (a touch of bitterness)
NICKY: (ignoring his tone) That’s why I’m worried about her now. If she’s looking peaky she’ll have her reasons. She’s not the type to get worked up over nothing.
Harry has nothing to say to this
Is it true you’ve been seeing a lot of Rebecca?
She has hit a nerve. Harry, in a confusion of feeling, decides that outrage is the best defence.
HARRY: Look here, Nicky, what the fuck has that all got to do with you? Pardon my French, but this fucking interrogation has gone on fucking ollong enough!
He gets Miranda’s door open, goes in, makes a move to slam it, remembers his public school manners, and pokes his head out to add
Now if you’ll excuse me . . .
The door is closed firmly and with dignity.
Nicky’s face is flaming, she’s been very bold and is not used to talking or being talked to in this way. She chews her thumb, turns to stare out the window, turns back to stare at Miranda’s door. In her distraction she knocks one of her used coffee cups from the windowsill. It’s of a robust design and does not break, but brought down to earth by the crash, she sighs deeply, picks it up and goes with it and the others into the bathroom to wash up.
BLACK-OUT.
SCENE 5
Miranda’s room. Miranda is at her desk, studying, but it is obviously causing distress.screwing up eyes,she buries her face in her hands as if she is weeping, and stays like that until someone knocks on the door.
MIRANDA: Yeah? Come in?
The door open and Helen bursts in
HELEN: That’s it. I’ve blown it. I may as well forget my entire degree.
MIRANDA: (forcing a sympathetic demeanour) Now calm down, Helen. Whatever it is, you’re exaggerating.
HELEN: No. Not this time, Miranda.
MIRANDA: Well- let’s hear it.
HELEN: I walked out.
MIRANDA: What?
HELEN: I walked out. I took one look at the exam paper, and that was it.
MIRANDA: Oh Helen, why?
HELEN: To this moment I don’t know what came over me. There wasn’t a single question about Jane Austen – nothing but Popes and Drydens and other jerks I’d never even heard of. My legs just took over and I was gone.
This is serious and Miranda knows it
MIRANDA: Listen, Helen, you’ve got to go and see your Director of Studies. You may have a chance to repeat – but you must move. Where’s Nicky?
HELEN: Still in the examination hall. No, she didn’t get up and walk out in solidarity, if that’s what you think. I don’t think she even saw me. We weren’t exactly sitting next to each other.
MIRANDA: So much the better. Look, we’re going straight over to your supervisor, who is she, Jane Blacker?
HELEN: She might be invigilating.
MIRANDA: Then we’ll see her boss.
HELEN: Can’t we have a chat and a nice strong cuppa first?
MIRANDA: No!
She runs a comb through her hair, grabs a bag and takes Helen – who moreover, is smoking – by the arm.
Helen, come on!
She marches her from the room.
BLACK-OUT.
SCENE 6
Miranda’s room some moments later. The sound of a key in the lock; the door opens and Harry enters. He looks about him, obviously surprised by Miranda’s absence, notes her books and papers abandoned in haste on the desk. He shrugs, switches on the radio, flings himself down on the sofa and picks up the Manchester Guardian.
Another key in the door. In comes Miranda. She sees him, doesn’t return his sheepish smile, goes straight to the radio and switches it off. She sits down at her desk with her back to him and makes as if to continue studying. But it isn’t going to work, and she knows it – the tension is unbearable. Harry, in an attempt at nonchalance, turns the paes of his newspaper.
MIRANDA: Can’t you take the bloody newspaper somewhere else?
HARRY: Where do you suggest?
Silence – the answer is obvious
Where were you just now, by the way?
MIRANDA: What business is that of yours.
HARRY: Only asking. (Turns pages some more. He is actually very nervous)
MIRANDA: More to the point, where were you all day?
HARRY: At work, of course.
MIRANDA: You know what I mean Harry, don’t play dumb. After work.
But she knows perfectly well
HARRY: (taking a deep breath) I dropped in on Rebecca.
It’s out, at last.
MIRANDA: And?
HARRY: And nothing.
MIRANDA: And how is Rebecca?
HARRY: All right.
Suddenly the cheek in him can’t resist it
Not as good in bed as you though, love.
Miranda is astounded. She tuns back to her desk for a moment with her head in her hand. Finally, with an altered voice, dark and mumbling into her books
MIRANDA: Now how could you possibly expect me to believe that. A man of your tact and refinement would never stoop to anything but the best.
HARRY: (deliberately overlooking her sarcasm) Oooh, I don’t know. In any case, it’s interesting. She was a virgin – imagine that. These things take practice, as you know.
MIRANDA: As if you were such an expert.
HARRY: Well that’s just it, love. See it as me collecting data for future reference if you like.
MIRANDA: What’s more I don’t believe she’s a virgin. I wouldn’t believe anything about that woman anymore! That’s just what she fucking well told you! (she is shouting) Because she knew it would soften you up!
HARRY: Why would she do that? You know I’ve no particular preference for virgins. And, look, love, if you’d seen her naked, you’d know it was true, believe me. You can tell when a lady’s never been naked in company before, even one as fazed-out as Rebecca. She has that terrifically-embarrassed –in-spite-of-herself manner, eyes everywhere but on me. Who was it who said that, your chum Nicky, talking outside the other day: (imitating the tone) “She doesn’t have any girlfriends, let alone a boyfriend . . .”
But Miranda has stopped listening, and burst into tears of misery. Harry softens, gets up, goes over to her, puts his arms around her. She clings to him, bawling now without restraint, burying her face in his chest. He pats her with tenderness.
HARRY: It’s all right, love, there there.
MIRANDA: Promise me it’s over, Harry, at least till we get out of here. My exams, my parents, everything . . . we can discuss all these things in London, the rights and wrongs and ethics of it all, being faithful or not, and if not, how not, and what it all means anyway. But not now. Not here. Promise me Harry.
HARRY: I promise.
But he is not looking at her. He is looking up and out of the window, his mind already somewhere else.
The telephone rings, distantly. a moment later, a knock.
REBECCA: (offstage) Telephone for you, Miranda.
Silence. Harry and Miranda look at each other. Rebecca’s footsteps wait for a moment, then recede.
BLACK-OUT.
SCENE 7
The landing, some days later
The sound of the front door opening and slamming shut, people coming in. footsteps bounding up the stairs. It’s Nicky, followed by Helen. They go straight to the window, throw it open. They are in high spirits.
NICKY: (leaning out the window and shouting down to passers-by) Yeeeeeh! It’s over! Finito!
Helen is beside her, drained-looking but happy. She has a bunch of roses in her hand.
HELEN: (calling down to someone, no doubt male) Wo-hoo! Sweetiepie!
She throws down a flower
NICKY: Helen really! We’ll have the whole city up here any minute!
HELEN: Let them come! The whole city! I can’t wait!
Miranda opens her door
NICKY: Miranda! Darling!
She bounds over and deposits a smacking kiss on her cheek
Miranda: (smiling through her tiredness) So it’s over!
HELEN: Over! For ever and ever and ever! Miranda, I owe you a percentage of all my meagre earnings for the rest of my life for what you did the other day.
MIRANDA: It was nothing, really.
NICKY: What was nothing?
HELEN: Jesus Christ Nicky I guess I never told you! I walked out of the 18th Century.
NICKY: No!
HELEN: Yes. And Miranda here marched me straight over to the Head of Department. They took me prisoner, calmed me down, phoned up the central examiner and made me do the paper right there in a top-security college cell.
NICKY: Wow.
HELEN: And don’t ask what I wrote because I don’t know and don’t want to know. It got done, that’s all anyone cared about, including me. (Looks out the window) Hey, there’s Rebecca. (Shouting) Rebecca! Come on up and celebrate!
Nicky is glaring at her and shaking her shoulder meaningfully. Miranda sees this and says quickly
MIRANDA: Well, congratulations ladies all round. As you know, I’ve still got a tough week ahead. So if you’ll excuse me I’ll get back to the grindstone . . . And if you wouldn’t mind keeping the noise down a little bit . . .
She disappears into her room
NICKY: You idiot.
HELEN: (genuinely baffled) Why?
NICKY: You know about Rebecca and Harry.
HELEN: Harry? Oh – Miranda’s Handsome Prince. What about him and Rebecca . . . You don’t mean . .!
NICKY: Oh God. It’s all too sordid for words.
HELEN: Sordid? What’s that when it’s at home? (laughs briefly) Oh for fuck’s sake, do ‘im the world of good. Full marks to Rebecca, if it’s true. Never knew she had it in her.
NICKY: (disapproving) Helen, how can you say that? Can’t you see what it’s doing to Miranda?
She is cut off by the sound of steps and Rebecca appears, grinning shyly
NICKY: (not particularly warmly) Oh hullo Rebecca.
HELEN: (glaring sideways at Nicky) Rebecca! (gives her an embrace Rebecca doesn’t know quite what to do with) Isn’t this wonderful? Isn’t this the most exhilarating, the most ecstatic day of your whole life?
Rebecca’s smile broadens, but she doesn’t answer
HELEN: (continues) Do you girls realise what this day means? It marks the end of life as we know it. Almost as long as we can remember, we’ve had exams; the eleven-plus – well some of us – mock O-levels, O levels proper, mock A levels, A levels proper, Oxbridge entrance, prelims, part ones’, finals. And all the little practice runs kindly provided by our teachers in-between. Sometimes every two years, sometimes every year, sometimes twice a year or termly. Starting from long before we were of an age to have opinions of our own, we have been gearing our lives, consciously and unconsciously, willingly and under pressure, to the necessity of passing the next set of exams. Scaling the next inner section. Clambering our inelegant way up to the promise of attaining some hazy and distant reward.
Well girls – we got closer to the rainbow’s end than most. But now the wave which bore us onward has broken on the shore and we are washed up on the sand like heaps of rotting driftwood.
NICKY: (amused) So what happens now?
HELEN: We are reborn! As free women! Free to organise our lives according to our preconceptions and not according to someone else’s set book-list! Free at last from some teacher’s mass-conception of what is good for us and for every other student in the year. Free at last to consider not just whether we got As or Bs or Cs last time round in deciding on which next move, but every myriad particle of our beings.
Where we’re from, where we’re going, what we’ve seen and done and the way we talk and the way we flirt and dress. The people we know. Our families. Our politics. Our religions. Our dreams. Exam results will dwindle into potsy insignificance. In two weeks’ time my Mum will be asking me, what did you get, then, Helen-babe? for the very last time. Think of that, girls, and give thanks.
NICKY: Some people will probably do post-graduate work.
HELEN: Lunatics! Masochists! Little boys in search of mummy and daddy’s guidance and reprimands till the day they die! They might as well join the Army.
REBECCA: Some people need that kind of security.
They both look at her. they have know her for three years, and she never usually contributes as a rule.
HELEN: Well, that’s true too of course.
NICKY: (a touch aggressively) What do you need, Rebecca?
REBECCA: (immediately awkward) Um – dunno. Not sure really.
HELEN: Well I don’t know about you two, but I could do with some inebriating lubrication! Any contributions for the off-licence fund may be personally delivered to me . . . Where are you off to, Rebecca?
REBECCA: Er – um – I think I left the kettle boiling. Maybe see you later OK?
She’s off
HELEN: (semi-crossly) What did you have to go and frighten her off for? I was looking forward to getting her pissed out of her mind! I want to hear about Harry’s taste in underwear.
NICKY: You’re disgusting, Helen. And I don’t see why we should have to handle that . . woman with kid gloves. (she almost says ‘bitch’) She’s not as demure as she looks.
HELEN: That’s exactly why, thicko, it would be interesting to keep her around long enough to snap her out of it. And I never thought she looked demure, actually. Something about that wild hair and roving eyes, sizing us all up for future reference . . .
NICKY: Yeah well please don’t talk like that in front of Miranda. I don’t think you quite understand what it is to be really serious about someone, to be . . . um . .
HELEN: You mean in love?
NICKY: Yes I suppose so.
HELEN: Nah, I just don’t believe that Rebecca dragged Harry down the stairs and into her bed out of love.(Nicky makes as if to interrupt but Helen silences her) Shshshsh, I know you meant Miranda, not Rebecca. But it comes to the same thing in the end. How could Rebecca love Harry? Harry’s just a gauche young man like thousands of others here with little between his ears but public school and Oxbridge colleges and lately a few union pamphlets. There isn’t anything there to love for anyone who hasn’t, like Miranda, shared his past.
But supposing Rebecca did seriously want him for any reason – she’d go about seducing him, you know, conquering him body and soul. She’d invite him out to tea, or to dinner; impress him with her dazzling dress-sense and taste and cooking and conversation, make him admire her for what she can bring to him in the years ahead.
She wouldn’t just drag him into bed within the first few days like a routine duty or minor titillation.
Rebecca just wanted to get laid – and fast, before term ends and we all go home. I’ll bet she was one of those paranoid about still being a virgin at 22! And that suits Harry fine, because he’s feeling just a bit under-experienced himself, for a full-bloodied union man.
So let them get on with it. Poor Rebecca isn’t capable of love, that’s why nothing will convince me this is some kind of major tragedy. Rebecca is pitiable, if anything. Harry isn’t capable of love either, to be frank. But if Miranda is, Harry will gravitate like a homing pigeon to wherever his bread is properly buttered. She really doesn’t have anything to worry about.
NICKY: (she is quite impressed with Helen’s assessment) Well I hope she can see it that way. Perhaps you ought to talk to her, Helen.
HELEN: Are you crazy? This is not my business. I wouldn’t say she and I have a history of bosom friendship.
NICKY: But I think she’s in a bad way.
HELEN: There’s always Linkline, or the Samaritans.
NICKY: Helen, you’re hard. Especially after what you just told me she did for you the other day.
HELEN: That was different. That was a practical crisis solution that given her family background she was in a position to deliver . . . students freak out in exams every year it appears!
Here there’s simply nothing we can do.
NICKY: You could just talk to her.
HELEN: And say what? If you want my honest opinion, I think she’s way too good for him, but if she’s in love, she won’t want to hear it. And if she isn’t, she won’t need me to point it out.
You talk to her, if you want, but if I were Miranda, I’d probably tell you to get lost. And now – (she disappears momentarily into her room and returns with a carrier bag) I am definitely off to the offy! If you have anything to contribute, any special requests, now is your chance . . .
BLACK-OUT.
SCENE 8
Miranda’s room. Harry is arranging bowls and plates of food on a low table he has erected on the floor. There’s salad, bread, cold meat, two places set with two glasses. when he has everything ready, he goes out to the kitchen and returns with a bottle of chilled champagne, which he puts in a saucepan of cold water set aside for the purpose. Then he sits down on the sofa to wait, flicks through magazines until Miranda’s key sounds in the door.
Miranda is exhausted-looking but her face brightens a little and the sight of Harry’s arrangement and she forces a smile.
HARRY: Congratulations! Welcome to the ranks of the post-grads!
MIRANDA: (smiles wanly) That’s a bit premature don’t you think. Results aren’t out for two weeks.
HARRY: Now don’t, Miranda, try to pretend there’s the slightest possibility of you not passing your degree. Let’s face it, all you have to do is turn up.
MIRANDA: (sheepish, she knows he is right) Still, let’s not count our chickens shall we?
They both know the issue at stake is not passing but getting a first. This unspoken understanding is the profoundest bond between them.
(looking at the food) I see you went shopping!
HARRY: Certainly did! Champagne, darling?
He has opened the bottle, the cork catapulting against the roof which makes them laugh with released tension. He pours into a glass and hands it to her.
And how was the final paper? Don’t talk about it if you’d rather not.
MIRANDA: (sipping) I don’t think I could if I wanted to. My mind’s gone blank. But my wrist aches from scribbling so I must have found something to say about it.
HARRY: (stirring the salad, not looking at her) Sounds good to me.
He slices bread,butters it, gives her a piece, pushes the salad bowl towards her. To please him, though she’s not really hungry, she dollops a small amount on her place and offers it to him. Demonstratively, he piles it onto his.
By the way, I got Dick Henry from Blackheath on the phone. He says there’s a good chance of a flat in a new co-op housing association starting up in the East End – you know, hard-to-let council housing but some good people in the project, Labour Party and so on. He gave me the address to write to. We can draft the letter straight away – or whenever you like.
Miranda nods, munching
And the other thing is – I bought tickets for the Caius May Ball. Lucky, an hour later they were sold out.
Miranda stops mid-munch and stares at him in amazement
MIRANDA: I thought you didn’t approve of May Balls!
but she is pleased nonetheless
HARRY: I don’t. And I certainly don’t approve of doing the rounds like some brain-dead debutante. But just the once can’t cause any major ideological perversions . . .
MIRANDA: (genuinely happy for the first time) Oh Harry! I’m not sure that I approve of such a blithe abandonment of principles, but I think it’s a sweet idea. (She goes over to kiss him demonstratively) Thank you.
Distant telephone. A knock
REBECCA: (off-stage) Telephone Miranda.
Miranda frowns, suddenly the atmosphere is tense again. Wordlessly she gets up, goes to the door, opens it, brushing swiftly past Rebecca outside without glancing at her. Rebecca glares at Harry for a moment and turns to follow her down the stairs but Harry has sprung to his feel to stop her.
HARRY: Rebecca!
REBECCA: What!
From the open door she is staring at him, hard, challenging. He goes to her, takes hold of her as if to kiss her but she shakes herself free, angrily
What, for fuck’s sake?
HARRY: Don’t be like this with me, please.
She looks coldly, angry, and turns to go
Are you still coming to the May Ball?
REBECCA: (turning back) Me? You must be mad! Who do I have to go with?
HARRY: It’s not like some of them, you don’t have to have a partner.
REBECCA: So what? Are you and Miranda planning to escort me into dinner?
They stare at each other in silence. Miranda is coming back up the stairs. Rebecca turns to go and this time Harry does not try to stop her. As before, the women pass without looking at each other. Miranda and Harry are not looking at each other either.
HARRY: (attempt at nonchalance) Who was that?
MIRANDA: Mummy.
Silence. Harry pours more champagne
I told her I’d be coming down this evening for a couple of days.
A pause. Then, looking up challengingly, not able to conceal her anger and unhappiness
Are you coming with me this time or not?
HARRY: (he knows this is a billion-dollar question) Um – yes. (still avoiding her gaze)
MIRANDA: (brisk and cold) Well we’d better get this lot tidied up hadn’t we. (she has hardly eaten anything) And I don’t suppose anyone’s been to the launderette for weeks . . .
She scoops up bowls of salad and meat, dirty plates and makes for the kitchen. Harry is left alone, sitting on the floor, drinking champagne. His glass is empty so he takes a swig from the bottle.
BLACK-OUT.
SCENE 9
The landing. Men’s voices are coming from downstairs, off-stage. They are mature, working men’s voices, not students’.
1st MAN: Right, let’s get this door down, ready lads?
A series of deafening bangs.
(Strained with physical exertion) One more and we’re through!
One more bang and the clambering of feet bursting into a room. Sudden silence.
2nd MAN: Oh Jesus Fucking Christ!
1st MAN: Phone Emergency for an ambulance, Trev, there’s a payphone just outside.
3rd MAN: No 10ps mate sorry.
2nd MAN: Trev, Emergency is fucking Freephone!
Sound of the front door opening and shutting, Harry and Miranda in conversation, stopping as they see the men.
HARRY: What’s going on here?
1st MAN: You two live here? Well just go on up to your rooms, there’s nothing you can do, everything is under control.
HARRY: What’s under control? (He sounds panicky)
1st MAN: You’ll hear all about it soon enough, I have no doubt. Now just run along, would you?
Harry and Miranda come up the stairs. They look suntanned and healthy, especially Miranda in comparison to her wan appearance up to now. But their expressions are pained.
MIRANDA: Something’s happened to Rebecca.
Nicky appears in her door. She has a scarf on her head – she’s been clearing out her room.
NICKY: What on earth is going on downstairs?
She sees their faces. A sound of an ambulance approaching and screeching to a halt.
Rebecca?
She strides across the landing and starts to descend the stairs but stops. She can see down to the ground floor landing.
Oh God!
1st MAN: (Offstage) An accident, Miss. Did you know her? Rebecca Ruth Salinas. Well, you might be required for the inquest so don’t go off home without leaving a contact address. Unpleasant business.
NICKY: (Coming back) Rebecca’s done herself in.
She barely looks at the others, walks in a state of shock over to her door, goes in and slams it behind her. Miranda and Harry stand, stunned.
MIRANDA: It’s your fault.
Harry still cannot speak.
You screwed her, and then dumped her. You should have kept your filthy little hands to yourself from the start.
HARRY: It wasn’t like that, Miranda. It was her idea.
MIRANDA: So what? You were happy enough to comply.
Harry has his head in his hands and is weeping. Miranda watches him, unmoved.
HARRY: (Through his hands and his tears) It was she who got rid of me! I tried to do the right thing by her, treat her properly, but she just laughed as if it was all the biggest joke out. Good God, I would have eloped with her to Outer Mongolia if she’d just said the word! But all she was interested in from start to finish was – was my bloody prick.
And in the end she wasn’t even interested in that.
Miranda watches him in disgust, goes to her door, enters, slams it shut and we hear her key turn in the lock. Harry goes on weeping hysterically, leaning against the windowsill.
BLACK-OUT
SCENE 10
Epilogue, a year later. Nicky is sitting in a London street café. She is smartly dressed in a neat suit and heels and reading The Financial Times. She looks up and waves.
NICKY: (calling) Helen!
Helen dashes in, they embrace. Helen looks much the same, she was always well-dressed, a little more lipstick perhaps. She sits down and they look at each other, smiling a little nervously. They haven’t seen each other in a while.
HELEN: You look fantastic, Nicky. Where on earth did you get that suit? How’s the job going?
NICKY: Oh fine. Interesting. Or it will be as soon as I’m properly trained.
HELEN: I must come and visit you in your office. I’d love to get a nose around those places.
NICKY: Yes you should. You really should.
They smile at each other
And your job? It’s going OK?
HELEN: Yeah. I mean, it’s not forever. Might even try, wait for it, teacher-training next year!
NICKY: You’d be brilliant at that, Helen.
HELEN: Well, again, you know, it wouldn’t necessarily be for life. Strings to bows, and all that. Be good to go abroad at some point.
NICKY: So . . . it didn’t work out with Paul in the end?
HELEN: Nah. I broke it off, not him, just in case you were wondering. It was just looking around at all those hoity-toity people, those vast, freezing bedrooms at Thamesdale Hall, and I got to asking myself, Helen Dodds, is this really the kind of scene you want to inhabit for the rest of your life? The answer pretty well posed itself.
NICKY: I could never really see you two together long-term.
HELEN: Really? That’s not what you used to say!
Nicky shrugs and smiles dismissively
You know who Paul’s engaged to now, don’t you.
NICKY: No – tell!
HELEN: Hilary Palmer-Price!
NICKY: You’re kidding me!
HELEN: Straight up! I’m telling you now, the wedding with be the event of the social calendar!
NICKY: Hilary – that upper-class twerp if ever there was one! I never could see what Miranda saw in her. Although they were really only best friends in the first year. After that Harry took over.
HELEN: Hadn’t they been at boarding school together?
NICKY: Possible . . Can’t remember.
HELEN: So how are Miranda and Harry?
NICKY: Uh . . . You know they moved out to some dreadful East End estate, where Harry’s very active in the local Labour Party. Miranda works in some feminist artists’ project. They don’t have much money and their parents, you know, tut tut about them not being married, which makes them feel all the more virtuous about it I expect.
But they seemed happy, the time I went over for supper about a month ago. I’ll give you their number, I’m sure they’d be glad to see you, if you ever felt like trekking over that way.
HELEN: Miranda recovered from shock of not getting a First?
NICKY: Well frankly, with all that business going on it was amazing she did as well as she did. And once you leave the university, nobody gives a shit what you got.
HELEN: You don’t need to tell me, thank God. At my place, they didn’t even ask.
NICKY: Miranda’s problem was that her family and everything made it difficult for her to ever really leave university. In that sense moving to the East End was a good idea.
HELEN: Nicky – why do you think she did it? Rebecca, I mean.
NICKY: God, why does anyone. You know there are student suicides every year.
HELEN: But she’d already finished her Finals. It can’t have been exam pressure. And I don’t believe it had anything to do with the Harry business either. At least, only insofar as she knew that the timing of it would make him feel guilty.
Though I suppose if she intended that, she must have had some kind of grudge against him.
NICKY: Who can say? You could apply that to all of us, because she made us all feel a bit guilty, didn’t she? But people like that are a mystery. We knew nothing about her past, or about what strange daydreams kept her company. And we were under pressure ourselves, remember. In the circumstances, there was nothing any of us could have done.
Shall we order?
HELEN: Er yeah (to uniformed waiter) – I’ll have – um – the pate forestale with 3-bean salad, tomatoes with French dressing and corn on the cob, and a glass of Pino Grigio, please . . .
BLACK-OUT.
THE END
:
Tales from the 1980s 