Tag Archives: Issue 7

7 February, 2020

LITERARY ACTIVISM AND THE WRITING LIFE

In a world fraught with political tensions and daily life and death matters, can our stories really make a difference?

I had never been to a protest until two years ago; I went with friends to the Occupy March in Oakland. For the longest time, I was afraid of going to jail or of being deported so I avoided marches and protests and basically very large crowds. Even after I became a US citizen, I was still very concerned about safety and deportation. And even when I wrote my second novel, A Small Gathering of Bones, I didn’t think of it as a protest or activist literature, I just wanted to write about my friend that had died of AIDS. This was a childhood friend I had grown up with in Jamaica, and in the eighties, we both moved with our families to the US. Not long after he arrived he contracted HIV, which was very rampant in the US in the eighties. He was 26 when he died.

What really struck me was how his family had abandoned him after they found out he was gay. None of them was at his funeral, only his few friends. In fact, his mother had refused to see him during the terrible interlude of his illness once she found out he was gay. And to this day, in my mind, this is the real cause of Ian’s death, not the disease that devastated him at the end that crippled and emaciated him, but the heartbreak, the disappointment, the rejection from the very person he loved most. This was a man who was the life of every party, he was kind and friendly and loving, he had a great big heart, he was a terrific dancer, a flamboyant dresser and his folks were Christian and upstanding and the minute they found out he was gay and was ill, they cut him off. And that to me is what killed him.

Incensed by what seemed to me as such a terrible injustice I started the novel on the train on the way home from his funeral. I didn’t know then it was a novel, I just had to write about it, I didn’t know how else to process all of this, how to make sense of something that was so terrible.  I needed to understand the nature of the deep homophobia that runs rampant in our Jamaican society, and the oppressive nature of our religion that was turning us into unfeeling human beings, turning us into killers. I needed to write about all the gay people I knew who had had to move through the world silent and invisible, the ones who were dying, and dead.

I completed the novel for my MFA thesis. I wrote it from the point of view of the gay minister, Dale, for he must’ve been the most conflicted person of all, I thought, loving God, having a deep spiritual relationship with God yet living everyday amongst people who could so easily turn against him, persecute him, if they knew, and what was his life like holding this tension, this silence, everyday, everyday of his life. I was curious about his particular battle with his faith and his sexuality. His pain had to be so private, so invisible. His anguish haunted me.

Of course, after I wrote the book I got terrified. What am I doing? Who is going to read this? What if they come after me, or ban the book, or what if when I go home to the Caribbean, I am assaulted. The total opposite happened of course. The book was well received and was well reviewed, because ultimately the work was ground breaking. In a country where gay people were often persecuted, though quite rare now, the novel celebrated open gay male relationships, portrayed a community of gay men and women creating supportive networks for their friends who were dying of AIDS and rejected by family; and it highlighted the homophobia so prevalent in Jamaica society and in the church. I didn’t say that Christianity or religion was bad, but I showed how particular readings and interpretation of the bible created suffering for gay people. I didn’t say straight people were bad, I simply showed countless images of gay people loving each other and themselves. And I tried to make the novel really beautiful. I remember my graduate advisor saying to me, if you’re going to write about AIDS and about people suffering, then make it like a beautiful painting so that it will also be uplifting and strong

When the book came out I gave a reading at an AIDS center in London. Many of the men at the center were Caribbean. And after my reading they began weeping. They had never seen their lives, their relationships portrayed positively, they said. In literature and in life, they were often scorned and humiliated and beaten up and abandoned. But this book was transforming how they saw themselves portrayed in literature, no longer as monsters and freaks, but as real people struggling with the real challenges of spirituality and relationships and illness and love.

That turned out to be an important turning point for me. I understood for the first time the visceral impact a story can have on an individual and how it can transform the way they see themselves. Having experienced it myself in books by other writers, I knew intellectually that this was possible. But it was different to hear that my book was doing this, it was mirroring back to them the sacredness of their lives.

My life changed that evening. It was as if in that moment I truly became a writer or really understood what it meant to be a writer–something about the interplay between personal pain and its connection to the suffering of others, something about artistic expression, healing, and the benefits shared by others. After that I was only interested in writing about things that mattered. That book turned me into a socially conscious being and that awareness and the responsibility that comes with it have underscored my work ever since. Now I want my stories to not only change lives but to save them. I want my stories to raise large social, political and spiritual questions that provoke thought, challenge beliefs, help people deal with the complexities of their lives and help people through devastation. I want my books to insert new ways of thinking into national conversations and provide myriad perspectives. I want them to be a serum, an antidote to people’s pain.

Audre Lorde has a beautiful quote about desire, longing and social change. She says, “I see protest as a genuine means of encouraging someone to feel the inconsistencies, the horror of the lives we are living. Social protest is saying that we do not have to live this way. If we feel deeply, and we encourage ourselves and others to feel deeply, we will find the germ of our answers to bring about change. Because once we recognize what it is we are feeling, once we recognize we can feel deeply, love deeply, can feel joy, then we will demand that all parts of our lives produce that kind of joy. And when they do not, we will ask, ‘Why don’t they?’ And it is the asking that will lead us inevitably toward change.”

But like many of you I wrestle with the question–is writing enough?

Shouldn’t we out there marching and protesting? If we aggravate some country with our military action and they turn around and retaliate and take us out, what good are our stories? Don’t we need to do something faster, more explosive, and with a big splash. Writing is too slow, it’s too internal, it’s too …

But I also know that when we write we are also carrying out quiet and deliberate moments of resistance. Every day that we are pushing past judgments into more nuanced observations, turning stereotypes into more realistic portrayals, and paying attention to the unconscious assumptions and biases in ourselves and in our work, we are actually protesting, we are challenging ourselves and each other. Teaching students how to bring conscious awareness to the challenges in their lives, helps them to write with more clarity and honesty because they become available to themselves and every person with whom they come into contact and that is important work. Alice Walker says, “the responsibility of the artist is to see and to be that expression in the culture that permits every one else to see.”  And she also says, after you’ve done that work in your poems and your novels and your paintings and your music, don’t be afraid to go and stand in line with your protest sign, the work of transforming ourselves and those around us is unending. Writing is good, and marching too is good.

Here are some things I have learned about being an activist writer.

You have to be brave. You have to take risks. You have to love what you are writing about so fiercely you’re willing to walk through your own fears and put yourself at risk to write about it and share it with the world.

You also have to bring to the work, to your life, the way of tenderness. This is a concept coined by Buddhist nun Zenju Earthlyn Manuel who is also an activist. This was the name that was given to her by her teacher. Zenju means complete tenderness. And I was very inspired by Zenju as a way to move through the world especially in these times. And I’ll share some of her main points and my reflections on them and why tenderness might be a useful activist strategy especially in literature

Zenju says that: “The way of tenderness is a way of experiencing life with utmost honesty; A way of experiencing life without distortions or manipulations.”  To me this means that you are awake to everything you see, you do not shield your eyes from the injustice or the suffering around you, whatever it is, you do not shy from it, deny it, manipulate or distort it so it makes YOU feel better about yourself. You face everything and you write it honestly.

“The way of tenderness means laying bare your conditioning.”  To me this means acknowledging that you are a product of the stories and myths of our cultures, that your imagination is not free, it is tethered to those stories we have heard all our lives, stories that value some people and devalue others, we all know what those stories are, they are the stuff of our unconsciousness and the way of tenderness is to acknowledge that our imaginary is not free of misogyny or racism or homophobia or classism or hatred or fear. And so, when we write we should write with great curiosity and also with humility.

“The way of tenderness is void of hatred for oneself and for others.”  And so, for all of us, it is an ongoing journey of self-exploration.

“The way of tenderness comes when life has broken you down into a pile of despair or when rage has consumed every limb of your body.”

“The way of tenderness is the heartfelt acknowledgement of difference, it does not deny what is unique or similar among us, it embraces everything that is different and it affirms life. It does not kill. It is social action.”

Of course, by this point many of you are probably wondering–how can you be tender and at the same time be safe and strong?  How can you meet disrespect or disregard of life with tenderness? How can you be tender when there is terrible injustice, when you are being spat upon, or shot at, how can you be tender when there is war?

For many of us, when faced with a threat, whether real or imagined, we tend to have either one of two reactions, the body prepares itself to fight the threat or it prepares to flee the situation. In both cases the same symptoms occur, the heart races, jaws clench, body sweats, pupils dilate, digestion slows down, in fact the entire body shuts down, including the heart. In this heightened state of fear, there is no place for an alternative, or creative or thoughtful response to the threat, whether real or perceived. There is only the terror coursing through our bodies. But there is another way. What if we could retrain our bodies to respond differently to threat? It does not mean that fiery emotions would simply disappear, and that rage wouldn’t still blaze through or that the body wouldn’t begin its parasympathetic gestures, or that we should have a spiritual bypass and behave as if what is happening isn’t happening. But what if we could become more adept at letting intense feelings roar through us without always reacting to them in the predictable ways? This takes practice of course. But what other outcome might await us out of that place of non-reaction? What new possibility, what creative outcome, what third way might emerge if we took many more deep breaths and waited, if we found ways to self soothe so we can continue to stay curious, and open, in the face of fear or threat or insult? How might that shift the outcome not only for us, but also for the person doing the attacking or throwing the insult?

During the Civil Rights Movements, Martin Luther King Jr. chose only the most seasoned peace activists to walk the frontlines of his civil rights marches. Only those that were courageous, had self-control, were willing to die, and could also hold a high vibration of unconditional love and tenderness and calm and utter surrender were allowed to face the rabid dogs, the fire hoses, police brutality and bystanders shouting the worst forms of fury and vitriol at them. “Hate cannot drive out hate,” Martin Luther King Jr. wrote, “only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction.”  It is important to note that MLK Jr.’s non-violent approach was not only religious, it was also very practical. Studies show that nonviolent resistance is more likely to persuade others to join their cause, thus enjoying mass participation, it is more likely to diminish the legitimacy and hence the power of the opponent, sometimes even winning over the opponent to understanding new ways of creating cooperation and community, and it is more likely to employ flexible tactics.

So how can we be tender and at the same time be strong? When we recognize that with practice we can learn how to face injustice with an open heart, and in many cases, with our broken hearts.

We cannot let the voices of hatred and fear be the loudest voices we hear. Now more than ever before, we need your poems and stories that are full of their truth and their power and their connection to our hearts. We need your poems and stories that will lead us in a way that is clear and direct and clean. We need your commitment to non-violent protests. We need your daily commitment to keeping your hearts open, and to stand ground as peacemakers. As you change, you also change the world. And so, it is important to do your personal work so that you can create more spaciousness and freedom and joy in your life. Because all this you will bring into your writing, into your stories, into the structure of your sentences, into the themes you choose, the vibration of your consciousness, and this in turn can change the world.

9 January, 2018

Shannon Radigan

Photographer Shannon Radigan is a based out of Asheville, NC. She is interested in the documentation of the existential crisis of the millennial generation through moody landscapes, quirky cityscapes, and uncouth portraits. The generation that has experienced the growth of technology and the fall of our economy with little control. The struggle many face while trying to forge and identity, a life with meaning, and a place to call home.

9 January, 2018

POST ABORTION QUESTIONNAIRE–POWERED BY SURVEY MONKEY

after Oliver de la Paz 

1. Do you feel reluctant to talk about the subject of abortion?

In the center of the ceiling a marigold weeps

or perhaps it’s an old chandelier.

Inside, there’s an interior glow,

shards illuminated in violet-pink 

and layers of peeling gold leaf. 

Such minds at night unfold.

2. Do you feel guilt or sorrow when discussing your own abortion?

The cabbage is a blue rose, 

an alchemical strip show. They scream 

when dragged from the earth

only to find themselves plunged into boiling water. 

The narrative unscrolls from cells

of what-ifs and hourglass hopes. 

3. Have you found yourself either avoiding relationships or becoming 

overly dependent in them since the abortion?

If I could unhinge myself from myself,

attach to bookshelves, sever

my tongue, I would watch

as it grew back, rejuvenated

and ready to speak.

4. Do you have lingering feelings of resentment toward people involved 

in your abortion (Perhaps the baby’s father or your parents)?

One must be careful what one takes 

when one turns away forever: 

a Tuareg scarf, two photographs,

untamed thoughts that curse, then lift—

occasionally yes, though mostly not. 

5. Do you tend to think of your life in terms of “before” and “after” the 

abortion?

Too scared to speak my name—

not etherized upon the table—

I wore silver stirrups, blue wrap-around globe.

The young nurse and I held hands—

you’re doing great, she cooed. 

I remained awake, awakened.

6. Have you felt a vague sort of emptiness, a deep sense of loss, or had 

prolonged periods of depression?

The sky no longer speaks to me directly—

and the beautiful man? 

He has dropped through the floorboards

though sometimes he answers emails: 

•Yes, our family has survived the Paris bombings.

•Sincere condolences on your new president.

7. Do you sometimes have nightmares, flashbacks, or hallucinations 

relating to the abortion?

Never mind, I tell myself, it is only a nightmare. 

But then I remember I’ve barely gone to bed at all.

Then thirty years had passed, then thirty-one.

8. Have you begun or increased use of drugs or alcohol since the 

abortion, or do you have an eating disorder?

The fog tastes sweet, then sour;

identity translates to forged glamour—

strong doses of celibacy taken regularly.  

9. Did your relationship to, or concept of ‘God’, or ‘Karma’, or ‘Fate’ 

change after your abortion?

If my own voice falters, tell them

I tried not to live inside the clock

or under the skin of pomegranates.

Does anyone escape her own story—

head-on collision, nor’easter, earthquake,

the racist seeding of our country?

10. Has your self-concept or self-esteem changed since your abortion?

Once I abandoned my car in a forest of red cedar,

let it tumble down the mountain 

precipice by itself. In the next diorama there’s a friend 

at the wheel and she urges, let’s go on;

believe in yourself like a paint color, an infant’s song.

11. Are you bothered by certain sounds like machinery that makes 

loud noises? 

Coffee grinders, vacuum cleaners,

sewing machines.

Also: truck backfires, sparklers,

the sharp scrape of chair legs—

gunfire overhead, handsaws, the evening

news. Aren’t you?

12. Is there anything you would like to ask?

Why does Google Maps have blind spots;

for example, the city of Zinder, Niger? 

Is it possible for one person to photograph the world—

to understand this bewilderment of light?

9 January, 2018

WAITING FOR LEAVES

Your brain had already started unmaking the rest 

of you: nothing but gray meat, memories unspooling 

so rapidly they became entangled, became knotted.

And the medication had stopped working, but still, I fed you

the little blue pills, the ones that reminded me of the little blue

butterflies you said Satan sent us—gifts of unforgivable evil—controllers 

of both the weather and the television—arrival predicated by sudden 

downpour and static flickering. In defense of the azalea bush still clinging 

to the first-floor bricks, we’d press cherries to the roofs of our mouths

while standing in the kitchen, waiting to bite the skin until we had pushed 

past the screen door, when precipitation, mixed with juice, ran down 

our chins like a mighty river of blood, and we spat the pits into the air

like throwing stars we hoped would tear through their tissue 

paper wings. One day, I fumbled the dislodge, tripped and swallowed

the stone, and you told me it was only a matter of time—seed sown 

in the stomach, nerves replaced by roots—a tree would surely 

sprout through the top of my head, so tall, we’d have to call 

the fire department, call anyone, to chop it down. But there were no 

extra hairs, there was no germination, no fruit. There was no 

extra anything, and when they told me you didn’t have much time left, 

and there were no other options, I snuck two crimson 

globes into your room, carried them in my back pocket, 

and said, No, don’t spit that out. Yes, swallow it, swallow all 

of it. Here, I’ll do it with you. Open your lips, stick out  

your tongue, there you go—but now you’re buried, long gone,

and I’m still here waiting for leaves to climb out of the dirt.

9 January, 2018

VIGNETTES FROM 28,065 NIGHTS

The First Day of Our Second Year Without You

We visited your grave on Christmas Eve. Elliott helped me find you like we were playing hide and seek. Is Granny over here? No… Is Granny over there? We found you surrounded by poinsettias and candy canes. Elliott picked up a small branch and traced your last name on the headstone, slowly announcing each letter. At age 3, he believes that you’re dead like Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. He tells me you woke up in heaven and you live there now, but you will come back. When I am really, really old, he says daily now, I will go to heaven. Sometimes he adds, Mommy, I don’t want to go to heaven. 

How to Use Vanilla

You told me that when you were young, poor girls used vanilla extract as perfume. I imagine you rising, your scent growing stronger in the sunbaked fields. A young woman picking cotton or blueberries and adding something new—but, of course, a poor girl wouldn’t waste vanilla on the fields. You’d save it for secret dates, for sneaking off to carnivals. One drop for an older boy, two drops if Daddy disapproved of him for driving too fast. You’d touch the small space behind each ear, hoping that your chosen boy might pick up the scent and find you delicious. A few years later, you would bake dessert for your husband—baby balanced on your hip—and recall those warm evenings, the thrill of a field boy’s rough palm. I suddenly understand why, whenever you made simple syrup for waffles, you always replaced the maple with vanilla.  

I Was Afraid It Would Be Empty

Do you remember the notebook I gave you as a Mother’s Day gift five years ago? I asked you to write to me about your life: how you didn’t learn about periods until you thought your sister was bleeding to death, how you snuck out with grandpa for a carnival date. You are one of the few people I can—could—sit with for hours on a couch, TV off, only our stories and us. When we knew you were close to death, I thought about asking if you’d written in the notebook for me, but I didn’t ask. I didn’t want you to feel guilty if you hadn’t found the time or the words to write. When we went through your bedroom after Christmas, I found the notebook in your dresser drawer. I opened it quickly. It was blank, but there was a jagged edge in front. The first page was torn away. 

After Your Strokes, I Ask If You Found Your Clitoris

I read about a woman who was 70 before she realized she had a clit, and I became concerned that you might not know about yours. What if you’d never had an orgasm? With Grandpa gone, I wasn’t sure I should ask, but the mini-strokes had shaken off your shyness. I knew your wedding night story—how you knew nothing about sex until that day, how two kids in the early fifties couldn’t quite make it work, how you went to bed crying instead. I’d heard stories of Grandpa patting you on the bottom when he thought no one was looking. One time he bought you a black leather jumpsuit like Olivia Newton John wore at the end of Grease, but you were too embarrassed to wear it for him. Even in the recovery room after his heart surgery, Grandpa playfully brushed his fingertips across your palm, an old signal that he wanted you. Did these actions add up to your pleasure? “Granny, I’ve been reading this book,” I began. “It talks about how our culture is so focused on men’s bodies and we aren’t supposed to talk about women’s bodies. A lot of women don’t even know about their clitoris! Did you and Grandpa find yours?” “Yeah,” you said quietly, as if someone on your end of the phone line might hear you. “So you did orgasm too?” “Yeah,” you said with a little chuckle, as if it were obvious. 

Your Death Explained in Birds

Death is the great egret at the swamp, picking newly hatched green herons from their cypress nest. I am the pregnant woman on land looking for something to throw. I am the mother heron, too small to fight back, and the runt deep in the nest. Death is the egret dropping fresh young birds into the swamp with barely a ripple. I am the pregnant woman standing horrified and helpless. I am the mother heron shrieking and snapping on the branch below. I am the smallest green heron in the nest. I stick my head out in the stillness after everyone else has gone. 

9 January, 2018

Katie Manning

 is the founding Editor-in-Chief of Whale Road Review and an Associate Professor of Writing at Point Loma Nazarene University in San Diego. Her full-length poetry collection, Tasty Other, won the 2016 Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award. Find her at www.katiemanningpoet.com.

9 January, 2018

THE SCIENCE OF ___________

“The French, I believe, have agreed on the term ‘aviation’ 

in case they ever succeed in flying.”—Century Magazine, 

October 1891

Let’s agree on a word for _______ in case

we ever succeed in ________ing. To the girls

who lie down in fields, their bicycles

on their sides, too, like horses

asleep in the sun, know this: even though

________ is not a science yet, it will be.

When you button your shirt in the morning,

fingers fumbling to fasten the circles,

to thread them through, know that we invented

the word for this science from bud, as if

a row of tender orchids will soon bloom

down your chest, a new branch of botany.

Science of radio, science of sleep,

science of kindness, science of wheel.

One day we will study ________ like we study

flight or photography. Let’s agree

on this: everything exists on a spectrum,

word derived from specter, science of startle,

science of the remarkable. Two girls

in a field test the science of buttons.

Their shirts will soon break into yellow blooms. 

9 January, 2018

Julia Koets

Julia Koets’ poetry collection, Hold Like Owls, won the 2011 South Carolina Poetry Book Prize and was published by the University of South Carolina Press. Her poetry and nonfiction essays have been published in literary journals including Indiana Review, The Los Angeles Review, Carolina Quarterly, and Portland Review. She has an MFA in poetry from the University of South Carolina and a PhD in literature and creative writing from the University of Cincinnati.

9 January, 2018

A KIND OF MARRIAGE

E.M. Forster, the great British novelist and champion of individual liberty and responsibility lived a homosexual life concealed from the public eye. In 1931, at the age of 52, Forster takes as his lover, a young London policeman Bob Buckingham who in turn begins a passionate relationship with a young nurse, May Hockey. Forster, along with his own hidden homosexuality, is forced to face the bisexual preferences of his new lover. How Forster, Bob and May come to terms with their own affections and the sexual nature of their relationship is the fertile dramatic material of A KIND OF MARRIAGE.

EXTRACT OF THE PLAY

Characters in this extract:

MORGAN, 52, professionally known as E.M. Forster, a famous novelist.

BOB, 29, a London policeman.

MAY, 20s, a nurse at Fulham Maternity Hospital, London.

EDNA, 20s, May’s friend and fellow nurse at Fulham Maternity Hospital.

BARMAN at the Fulham Palace Road Pub.

DORA CARRINGTON, late 30s, professionally known as “Carrington,” a painter and decorative artist who lives in a ménage à trois with her husband and the author Lytton Strachey.

***

Scene 4

(From Act One: London. Summer 1931. Morgan’s bedsit flat in Brunswick Square. Mid-day. A small table is set for a simple meal for two. A neatly made double-bed to one side. BOB in his undershirt, trousers and braces, serving up a freshly made omelette on to two plates as MORGAN enters. A gramophone record is playing a Mozart Piano Sonata.)

BOB

I got the afternoon off. Come sit down and tuck in. It’s an onion omelette and I grated some cheese in it. (The gramophone Mozart record finishes playing.) You can open the tinned salmon. (HE hands MORGAN the tin of salmon and a tin opener. MORGAN struggles with the opener, dropping the tin, then the opener.)

MORGAN

Infernal gadgets. It takes a Hercules to operate this thing.

BOB

Give it to me, luv. You have no patience, Morgan. Change the record on the gramophone, will you? (BOB easily opens the tin, serving out the salmon.) Put on some of that Beethoven. The one that goes, “DEE-DEE-DEE–DUM!”

(MORGAN goes to the gramophone, lifting the needle arm off the record.)

MORGAN

Your sergeant Harry Daley was at Joe Ackerley’s this morning.

BOB

Was he then? Harry’s all right. A bit of a show-off, but all right. Tuck in, luv.

(MORGAN takes his place at table with BOB. THEY eat.) 

MORGAN

He was talking rubbish about you. I worry about what he might be saying at the station house.

BOB

I wouldn’t mind much about Harry. He’s a sort of licensed lunatic. That, at least, is the way I take him. Now eat your omelette. I’ve been listening to that Mozart fellow on the gramophone. He uses a lot of notes, doesn’t he?

MORGAN

A lot of notes. Yes. Quite a few.

BOB

Just think of all those notes going round in his head. I guess that’s why he had to write them down.

MORGAN

Writing them down helps.

BOB

To get them out of his head. Otherwise he’d have to be carryin’ them around in his brain all the time. Like I’m trying to memorise these manual regulations for the police sergeant’s examination. I tell you!

MORGAN

You are a dear, Bob. Sometimes I think I enjoy showing you off. Like some sort of trophy. Is that shameful of me?

BOB

You’ve won me, Morgan. Completely. “Notice to All: Constable Buckingham is owned by E.M. Forster. Please do not interfere!”

MORGAN

Please don’t talk about “owning.” It makes me nervous. 

BOB

It’s all right. We don’t have to talk about it.

MORGAN

You are so extraordinarily understanding.

BOB

Not as understanding as May. But you’ll find that out soon for yourself. She’s keen to meet you.

MORGAN

An occasion, the anticipation of which, I do not relish.

BOB

You mean you don’t want to. You could say it right out. You don’t have to say it with the words twisted all ‘round.

MORGAN

I didn’t say I didn’t want to. What I said was that I wasn’t looking forward to it. I have certain trepidations. Fears. About our meeting.

BOB

Fears? Then you should say so, straight out.

MORGAN

In summary, my dear Bob, at present, she is, as you say, “keen” to meet me, but one knows all too well how it will end.

BOB

You might be surprised. You’ll like May. She’s no-nonsense. Don’t go in for make-up and silly clothes. And a nice sense of humour.

MORGAN

Always good for a giggle, is she? 

BOB

She doesn’t hold with all that religion and sentimental woman stuff. A regular chum of a girl, who’s rather nice-looking, too.

MORGAN

I’m not the one to judge about that.

BOB

You will be. You have a bit of egg in your moustache. (HE dabs it away with his napkin.)

MORGAN

Don’t fuss me.

BOB

You want taking care of and I intend to do an awfully good job of it.

MORGAN

As you do. (Pause.) Does she know about us?

BOB

That’s our business. It has nothing to do with May. (HE finishes his meal, gets up, taking his plate to the side.) This place needs a good sweep. (HE takes up a broom from the corner.) Feet up, please.

(MORGAN lifts his feet. BOB sweeps under them.)

MORGAN

Bob, you should know that I don’t intend to give up any of my rights, either to your affections or your time to this woman.

BOB

MAY. Her name is May, and speaking of rights, I’ve something else here. (From his trouser pocket, he takes out a small ring box, opening it). I picked it up in a little pawnshop just off Hammersmith Grove. It’s real gold.

MORGAN

I’m sure May will like it.

BOB

It’s for you! A gentleman’s little ring. Give me your hand. The left one, please. (HE slips the ring on MORGAN’S little finger.) Let this be our pledge, Morgan. We are an “us” now. (HE crooks his own little finger around MORGAN’S ringed finger, holding tight.) Say it. US.

MORGAN

Us.

BOB

We’re together now, nothing else matters. It’s a chance in a million, we’ve found each other, Morgan. I’d do anything for you, even die for you if I had to.

MORGAN

Please don’t say such things. (HE starts to pull his hand away, BOB holds fast.)

BOB

From this moment. In true faithfulness, we are! I want you to wear this ring and never take it off.

(MORGAN twists the little ring uncomfortably on his little finger.)

MORGAN

It will take some getting used to.

BOB

Give us a kiss. (HE takes MORGAN’S face gently in his hands, and kisses him on the lips.) No backing out now, luv. That seals it.

(BOB puts the broom away and undoes his braces, undoing his trousers.) 

BOB (Cont’d)

Now put on that Beethoven and come to bed. It’s time I had my German lesson, Herr Professor. (HE steps out of his trousers and his underpants, getting into bed naked except for his undershirt.) “DEE-DEE-DEE– DUM! DEE-DEE-DEE–DUM!”

(MORGAN goes to the gramophone, taking a record out of sleeve, putting on Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.)

MORGAN

I do believe Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony is the most sublime noise that has ever penetrated into the ear of man. As for your May, I’m sure she shall have all she wants, but I can still deny her my company.

BOB

Sprechen Sie Deutsch, please!

(MORGAN moves to the bed, standing at the side. BOB loosens MORGAN’S tie and collar, unbuttoning his shirt, undoing the belt of his trousers.)

MORGAN

“What is the fare to Berlin?” Was kostet die Fahrt nach Berlin?

BOB

(helping MORGAN undress, repeating)

Was kostet die Fahrt nach Berlin?

MORGAN

“I’d like a room with a double bed.” Ich möchte ein Zimmer mit Doppelbett.

BOB

Ich möchte ein Zimmer mit Doppelbett!

MORGAN

Sehr gut, mein Schüler!

(BOB pulls back the sheet, welcoming MORGAN into bed.)

BOB

Kommen sie hier, Herr Professor.

(MORGAN, still in his undershirt, steps out of his trousers, getting into bed. BOB draws MORGAN to him, kissing him tenderly, as the lights fade.

The Beethoven on the gramophone crossfades to the tinny sound of–

A popular dance band tune plays, Jack Hylton & his Orchestra, “Life Begins At Oxford Circus.”)

Scene 5

(A corner table in a working class-pub in Fulham Palace Road near May’s Fulham Maternity Hospital. Late afternoon. Dirty glass windows and faded lace curtains hung at the windows. MAY sits with her friend EDNA, 20s. Both are dressed in their nursing uniforms.

To one side, a BARMAN stands behind a bar, polishing glasses.)

EDNA

I brought my autograph book. Do you think he’ll mind?

MAY

I’m sure he’s used to it. 

EDNA

I got John Gielgud at the Old Vic last month. Oh, he was lovely! And Gertie Lawrence signed it at the Adelphi stage door for me. I don’t have any famous authors yet.

BARMAN

Excuse me, Ladies? Can I get your anything?

MAY

No thank you. We’re waiting.

EDNA

For the gentlemen.

BARMAN

Ah. The gentlemen. Right. (BARMAN turns brusquely away and exits.)

MAY

Mr. Forster is very accommodating. So I understand.

EDNA

Aren’t you nervous? I mean meeting him for the first time?

MAY

I’m not keen. But it’s important to Robert. That I meet him.

EDNA

It’s so lovely that he’s Robert’s friend. I guess a policeman meets all sorts of famous people in his line of work. Not like us. Nobody famous comes to have their babies at Fulham Maternity.

MAY

Maybe they decided not to come.

EDNA

I’m sure they’ll be here. Your Robert is the reliable sort. Meeting you at the hospital after your shift to walk you home. I wish I could get my Freddie to do that.

(BOB in his constable uniform, his helmet under his arm, enters with MORGAN in a rumpled, ill-fitting suit and an old tweed cap.)

BOB

Here they are. Hullo, Girls!

MORGAN

(Removing his cap, a slight awkward inclination to the ladies)

Good afternoon, Ladies.

(EDNA gets quickly to her feet, tugging at MAY)

EDNA

May! Up!

BOB

May and Edna, this is Mr. Forster. Morgan, this is my friend May and her friend–

EDNA

Edna. EDNA PICKLES. I know it’s a terrible name. But that’s who I am.

MORGAN

I think it is a charming name, Miss Pickles.

MAY

(Offering her hand directly to MORGAN)

Hullo, I’m May Hockey.

(MORGAN takes her hand, awkwardly.)

MORGAN

Yes. May.

EDNA

HOCKEY. And don’t ask her if she plays, ‘cause she don’t!

MORGAN

No.

MAY

I’m a nurse at the Fulham Maternity Hospital around the corner. I’m sure Robert has told you.

MORGAN

Yes. Bob has.

EDNA

We both are. Mothers and babies are our business! (A nervous laugh.) Sorry.

MAY

We’ve only a short time before our shift starts.

BOB

Come sit down, Morgan. What are you drinking, Girls?

MAY

Only ginger beer for me, Robert. We’re on duty at four.

EDNA

Ginger beer for me as well, I suppose. Have they got any pork scratchings? A couple of packets would be lovely.

MAY

For goodness sakes, Edna, but you just had your lunch.

EDNA

But I like pork scratchings.

BOB

You can have whatever you want. Morgan?

MORGAN

Please. Everyone. Have whatever you like.

EDNA

You’re certainly the kind of gentleman I like to spend time with, Mr. Forster! There, I’ve said it! I always say, “Honesty is the best policy.”

MORGAN

I favour reciprocal dishonesty, myself.

EDNA

Oh, my. Whatever can that mean?

MAY

A literary turn of phrase.

BOB

I’ll have a ginger beer, too. Morgan?

MORGAN

Yes, a ginger beer is fine, Bob.

BOB

All right. Ginger beers all around. 

(HE steps away to the bar to order the drinks from the BARMAN.

EDNA calls after BOB.)

EDNA

And a packet of pork scratchings!

(Pause. EDNA, MORGAN, and MAY sit silently at the table, while BOB gets the drinks.)

MAY

I read your novel.

MORGAN

Have you? Which one was that?

MAY

A Passage to India.

MORGAN

I hope you enjoyed it.

MAY

Adela should have told the truth. It would have saved a lot of trouble.

MORGAN

But trouble is the whole point of fiction.

MAY

But not in life.

EDNA

I can’t believe this is happening. Sittin’ right here with a famous author. Wait until I tell Freddie. Oh, before I forget, Mr. Forster, could you sign my book? I’ve never had an author before.

MORGAN

Certainly. Do you have a pen?

EDNA

Just a pencil.

MAY

Here, use mine. (Taking a pen from her uniform pocket, handing it to MORGAN.)

MORGAN

Thank you, Nurse Hockey. 

MAY

May. Just May.

MORGAN

Of course. May. How shall I inscribe it, Miss Pickles?

EDNA

Write, “To Edna, who brings new life into the world.”

MORGAN

Yes. New life. I rather like that. (HE begins to write.) “To Edna, who brings new life—” (completing the inscription in silence)

BOB

Here we are, Everybody. (Returning with four bottles of ginger beer, glasses, and the packet of pork scratchings, setting them on the table.) You’d think this was the Café Royal, the way the barman put his nose up.

EDNA

Have you been to the Café Royal? Golly.

MORGAN

Everyone enjoys Bob’s stories about his work.

MAY

Crime and passion amongst the working classes, is it?

MORGAN

In a way, yes. A window to a very different world.

EDNA

Well, somebody needs to give a good wash to these windows. Not much crime and passion to be seen through this one! I guess I’ve gone a bit literary on you, Mr. Forster. It must be catching!

MORGAN

It’s a very good turn of phrase, Miss Pickles. What’s this? (HE picks up a beer mat, reading it.) “ONLY WORTHINGTON BEST BITTER SERVED HERE.”

MAY

What a pity. When you haven’t got the ‘bob and ask for the BETTER instead.

(MORGAN bursts out in a spontaneous guffaw of laughter.)

MORGAN

HA! YES! Haven’t got the ‘bob, the BETTER BITTER instead! Indeed!

(BOB and EDNA join in the laughter.)

BOB

The BETTER BITTER!

EDNA

Indeed! I’ll have a pint of the BETTER, Mate!

MAY

But it is the “BEST BITTER SERVED,” after all. Good value there. (SHE replaces the beer mat on the table, with a smile to MORGAN, who returns her smile, uncertainly.)

BOB

It’s nice to see everyone getting along.

(A moment’s awkward pause.)

MAY

Robert tells me you’ve asked him on a motoring tour for his holiday week?

MORGAN

Yes. I thought he might enjoy seeing the West Country. 

EDNA

Oh, the West Country! That’ll be lovely.

BOB

I’ve never seen the West Country. Never seen much of the any country, for that matter. When I was a kid, the Council used to herd us all on to a bus and take us up to Hampstead Heath. Potted meat sandwiches. But that was about as much of the country I ever saw.

MORGAN

I’ve bought a car. I need a driver. I don’t drive myself.

MAY

That must be difficult. Having a car. When you don’t drive.

(A pause.)

MORGAN

Difficult. Yes. It’s second-hand. The car.

BOB

An old Essex, a real beauty.

MORGAN

I don’t really know about motors. I’m leaving all that to Robert.

EDNA

A nice motoring holiday. It’s a shame May can’t get away to go with you.

MORGAN

Yes. (Pause.) It is.

MAY

I’m afraid we have to cut this short.

EDNA

Oh, May, don’t be such a wet blanket. You’re not Matron yet. Matron’s always putting the damper on a bit of fun.

MAY

We need to check with Matron about the fresh surgical supplies before the shift starts. And you, Robert, need to get back to the station. It’s nearly Four.

BOB

It’s all right, May. Morgan cleared it with my Sergeant.

MORGAN

I cleared it.

EDNA

We’ve got time, May, I already checked the supply cupboard—(a kick under the table, a look from MAY) Oh, right, we need to check those supplies. (To BOB.) The drinks were lovely, Robert. It’s a shame we didn’t touch the scratchings. No need to waste. (SHE puts the packet of scratchings into her handbag.) I’ll save them for my tea.

MORGAN

Please do, Miss Pickles. No need to waste.

EDNA

It’s been such a pleasure, Mr. Forster.

MORGAN

It’s been mutual, Miss Pickles.

EDNA

I’ve got to get back to the babies. I love my job. I really do. I love babies.

MORGAN

You must, Miss Pickles. Babies are the meaning of everything.

EDNA

Yes, yes, they are, aren’t they? Do you have children, Mr. Forster?

MORGAN

No. I’m not married.

EDNA

Well, if I may say so, you’d be quite a catch.

MAY

Edna, you go on ahead. I need a word with Robert.

EDNA

Yes, Matron! (A little salute.)

MORGAN

I’ll be off then. Drinks are my treat.

EDNA

It’s oh, so good of you, Mr. Forster!

MAY

Yes, so very. But we’d rather pay. (Taking up her handbag.)

BOB

May, put that away! This is Morgan’s treat!

MORGAN

I always say money’s a thing to use, if you’ve got it.

EDNA

Oh, Mr Forster, do walk me back! We can talk about babies.

MORGAN

Yes, babies. Good afternoon, Miss Hockey. It’s been most pleasant meeting Robert’s friends.

MAY

And most pleasant meeting you, Mr. Forster.

BOB

(To MORGAN.)

I’ll be just a moment with May, if that’s all right.

MORGAN

Of course. I’ll see Nurse Pickles to the hospital. BARMAN?

(EDNA links her arm in MORGAN’S as THEY exit.)

EDNA

You really ought to have babies of your own, Mr. Forster. (Exiting.)

BOB

He likes to pay. He really does.

MAY

I can see that.

BOB

I thought that went well. Except for you wanting to pay.

MAY

We mustn’t take advantage, Robert.

BOB

No. We mustn’t. (Pause.) So what do you think?

MAY

He has beautiful hands. It’s always the first thing I notice. But more importantly, I think your Mr. Forster cares very much for you.

BOB

He’s a good person, May. I told you. He knows so much and he’s been everywhere. He wants me to better myself, May.

MAY

I’m sure he does. (Pause.) Do you think there’s room for me?

BOB

Room for you? What do you mean?

MAY

In your friendship.

BOB

I love you, May. You know that.

MAY

And I love you, Robert. You are such a good, good man. Maybe that’s what Mr. Forster sees in you. Just be careful, Robert.

BOB

Careful? Careful of what? Morgan sees the good in everyone.

MAY

Does he? Then I hope he sees the good in me.

BOB

He will, luv. Just give him time.

MAY

“Time’s winged chariot,” Robert.

(BOB leans in and kisses her cheek.)

BOB

You are a wonder, May Hockey. It’s a miracle I found you.

MAY

Little miracles seem to be happening all around. Here we are, two quite ordinary people and we can say the famous E.M. Forster is our friend.

BOB

He is, May. Morgan is the best of people.

(MAY leans in, kissing him.)

BOB (Cont’d)

What was that for?

MAY

Because you are a sweet, loving, believing person.

BOB

And you’re not?

MAY

No, I don’t think I am. Not in the normal way. I think what I believe in most is people–and what they have between them. That seems to be a more reliable belief than a belief in God.

BOB

That’s funny. That’s what Morgan says.

MAY

Does he?

BOB

Maybe you’re more alike than you think.

MAY

Maybe. We shall see.

BOB

Good ol’ May! Do you want to come ‘round the flat after your shift? Morgan’s going back to Surrey to see his Mum.

MAY

I’m on night duty. I’d better be getting back with Edna.

BOB

But you do like him, don’t you, May? It’s important to me. I want you to like him.

MAY

Yes, I like him, Robert. More than I thought I would. More than I wanted to, actually. (SHE gets up to leave.)

BOB

Thursday, then?

MAY

Thursday then. 

(SHE kisses him again and exits.

BOB drinks from his ginger beer, picks up the beer mat, reading aloud.)

BOB

“—Best Bitter, Better Bitter.” HA! (Raising a hand, signaling the BARMAN.) Make it a large whiskey, mate! (The lights fade.)

Scene 6

(Dora Carrington’s painting studio Ham Spray House, Wiltshire. A late summer afternoon. CARRINGTON, late 30s, in paint-dappled man’s shirt, trousers, boyish haircut, stands at a paint easel, painting a portrait of MORGAN. MORGAN sits posed awkwardly in a chair opposite.)

CARRINGTON

You are looking quite the old grump this afternoon. Confess, Morgan. What’s troubling you? 

MORGAN

People are becoming increasingly irritating and exhausting, Carrington. I am losing patience with human beings and their personal relations.

CARRINGTON

A serious handicap for a novelist. Perhaps you should consider a change of profession. You might take up a professorship somewhere. Professors, in my experience, have little interest in human beings or personal relations.

MORGAN

I am not joking.

CARRINGTON

Neither am I. Do sit still, Morgan, and stop fidgeting. And kindly sit up, you look like a sack of potatoes.

MORGAN

I hate posing. Can’t you take a photograph and work from that?

CARRINGTON

NO. I want to capture the “LIFE” in you, Morgan! And stop clutching your left hand like that. You look like a nervous schoolgirl called before the Headmistress.

MORGAN

Please don’t boss me. (HE releases his hand.) Women and their rights have got quite out of hand, Carrington.

CARRINGTON

Have we? How inconvenient.

MORGAN

If women ever wanted to be by themselves all would be well. But I don’t believe they ever want to be. Their instinct is never to let men be by themselves.

CARRINGTON

AH! The Destruction of Club Life! We women will not rest until it is complete. Storm the Athenaeum! Deal me in at Boodles! Whiskey and cigars all around! We want to get in everywhere, Morgan, and we will.

MORGAN

You actually believe that.

CARRINGTON

My dear Morgan, a man can run away from women, turn them out, or give in to them. No fourth course exists. (Pause.) So what’s she like? The girlfriend? Pretty?

MORGAN

No, rather ordinary. Doesn’t wear make-up or lipstick. Very direct in her manner.

CARRINGTON

Ah. Mannish, you mean?

MORGAN

Not at all. A round face. But a softness to it. She looks directly at one. But she does have a rather irritating voice.

CARRINGTON

How so?

MORGAN

It’s not the voice. It’s the manner. Rather too authoritative.

CARRINGTON

Well, you said she was nurse. She’s used to giving orders.

MORGAN

It’s very off-putting. Especially in regards to Bob.

CARRINGTON

Unnerving that, I suppose. Considering the circumstances. Does she know that Policeman Bob is sleeping with you?

MORGAN

No, I don’t think so. Bob would have told me. No, our meeting was all very cordial and civilized, if rather chilly.

CARRINGTON

Well, it is a beginning. It all might sort itself out quite tidily. You, your sweetie, and his nurse friend.

MORGAN

Sort itself out? If you’re implying a ménage à trois arrangement, Carrington, I will have none of your triangular relationship business.

CARRINGTON

It’s quite practical and satisfying, actually. It solves a lot of problems. Ralph loves me, I love Lytton, and Lytton loves Ralph. I want to have sex with Lytton, which doesn’t suit him, but he has sex with Ralph and Ralph has sex with me. So it all balances out, doesn’t it? One must take people as they are, Morgan, and work from there. The only requirement is a fairly large and sturdy bed.

MORGAN

Please, Carrington, spare me the details.

CARRINGTON

Don’t shut your mind to it, Morgan. You might find a way to sort it all out. Triangularly speaking.

MORGAN

I could never be with a woman in that way.

CARRINGTON

Oh, rubbish! With your Policeman Bob to urge you on!

(BOB enters in rolled shirtsleeves, grease-stained, wiping his hands on a greased and oil-stained cloth.)

BOB

The ol’ girl should be humming nicely now. I cleaned up the carburettor and the spark plugs and adjusted the fan belt.

CARRINGTON

Whatever those are. Morgan, why don’t you buy yourself a new car and make Bob your chauffeur, with a smart cap and spiffy uniform, and not have all this motor engine annoyance? You can afford it.

BOB

Oh, no, Ma’am. It’s part of the fun, fixing up and taking care of the old Essex. A new car wouldn’t be nearly as much.

CARRINGTON

Spoken like a born mechanic, Constable.

BOB

I’m sure it’s no problem but, your husband Mr. Carrington and the bearded gentleman are sunbathing naked in the front garden.

CARRINGTON

There is no Mr. Carrington, Bob. You mean, Ralph and Mr. Strachey. And not to worry–the hedgerow is quite high. We will not frighten any bicycling spinsters or holiday motorists.

BOB

Mr. Strachey is lying in your husband’s arms. Awfully private business to be doing in public, don’t you think?

CARRINGTON

Was Mr. Strachey lying beard up or beard down?

BOB

Beard down I think.

CARRINGTON

Then he will have a very burnt bottom tonight. Morgan, your turn.

MORGAN

It’s all right, Bob. Mr. Strachey is a very close friend.

BOB

Oh. Then it’s all right then. Good mates, are they?

CARRINGTON

We are all good mates here at Ham Spray House.

BOB

Miss Carrington, I was wondering–

MORGAN

Just “Carrington,” Bob. She prefers it.

BOB

Sorry. Carrington, you wouldn’t have an extra can of petrol you could spare? I hate for us to be caught short crossing the Downs.

CARRINGTON

I believe there are several cans in the shed. You’re welcome to them.

BOB

Thank you, Ma’am. How’s the picture coming? May I see?

CARRINGTON

Only if you understand it’s not finished.

BOB

All right. (HE looks at the painting.) Oh, very good. I think you’ve got him to the life. One thing, tho’.

CARRINGTON

ONE thing?

BOB

The little gold ring on his left little finger. You missed that. It would be nice to get that in.

CARRINGTON

Oh. Right. Didn’t catch that. Morgan, you were clutching that hand, but now I see it quite clearly. (SHE dabs at the canvas.)

BOB

You’ve got it now, Miss Carrington. I mean–Carrington.

CARRINGTON

Thank you, Buckingham!

BOB

Buckingham? Oh, right! Ha!

MORGAN

When can I see it, Carrington?

CARRINGTON

Not until it’s finished. I don’t ask to read your stories before you’ve finished them, do I?

BOB

Don’t worry, Morgan’s not writing anything now.

MORGAN

No. Not now.

BOB

Let me get the petrol in the tank and clean up a bit, and we’re ready to go, Morgan. Are you ready?

MORGAN

If the sitting is over. 

CARRINGTON

Yes, the muse has moved on. To the pottery wheel! You have a good eye, Policeman Bob.

BOB

Thank you, Ma’am. Give me ten minutes to clean up, Morgan, and I’ll be out in the car. It’s been good meeting you, Carrington–and thanks for the beer. Ten minutes, Morgan. Let me change this shirt. (HE removes his shirt, exiting.)

MORGAN

We are so completely unalike–Bob and I.

CARRINGTON

Ah, but that’s the beauty of it, don’t you see? That you found each other. Policeman Bob is the man for you, Morgan.

MORGAN

You’re not just saying that?

CARRINGTON

Your Policeman is charming and extremely attractive to look at, if I may say so–and quite easy to get on with.

MORGAN

I’m glad you like him. I am so very proud of the lad.

CARRINGTON

As well you should be. He’s lovely and he loves you, Morgan. Anyone can see that. If he wasn’t so gone on you, I might try to steal him.

MORGAN

Is it that obvious?

CARRINGTON

You are a great baby sometimes.

MORGAN

I know it’s not the customary thing. For a young man and a man of my years.

CARRINGTON

I suppose you must find the love of Policeman Bob a bit overwhelming.

MORGAN

It is unsettling. Especially the situation. The woman and all. Love can get so awfully complicated.

CARRINGTON

Welcome to the human race, Morgan. (SHE kisses MORGAN tenderly on the cheek.) Don’t worry, these things have a way of sorting themselves out.

MORGAN

Let me know when the portrait is finished. Or if you want another sitting.

CARRINGTON

(Looking at her canvas.)

No. I think I’ve got you now. As your Bob says, “to the life.”

MORGAN

All right then. Say good-bye to Ralph and Strachey for me. I shan’t disturb their sunbathing. (As MORGAN is about to exit.)

CARRINGTON

If I might say, you ought to screw your courage to the sticking place and live your life as you really want to. Isn’t that what you advocate for your characters in your novels? The courage to live honestly as one wishes?

MORGAN

An easy position to support in fiction, but real life can be an entirely different matter.

CARRINGTON

But not impossible, I dare say, if I am any example. Give it a go, Guv’ner.

MORGAN

I haven’t your moral courage, Carrington, when it comes to these sexual matters. Your public daring, dear girl, has always been a wonder to me.

CARRINGTON

Pushing the boundaries, am I?

MORGAN

Fearlessly, my dear.

CARRINGTON

I’ll take that as a compliment. Talking of the real world, Forster, it is a curious thing, isn’t it?

MORGAN

What is?

CARRINGTON

That more female writers don’t have affairs with female policewomen.

MORGAN

Oh, but they do, Carrington, only not in your section of Wiltshire. You should talk to the Mitford Sisters. (HE exits as CARRINGTON picks up her easel.)

CARRINGTON

Motion carried. Time to throw a few pots. 

(Exits.

MORGAN slips a black mourning band on his coat sleeve as HE crosses to.) 

Scene 7

(Evening, August 1932. A year later. A first-class carriage compartment of the Great Western Main Line, Hungerford to Paddington Station train. MORGAN takes a seat opposite BOB. Sound of a train in transit. THEY sit facing one another, each with a black mourning band on his coat sleeve. The clicking sound of the train wheels on track. PAUSE. Then.)

MORGAN

What time is it?

BOB 

(Checking his wristwatch.)

Eight-Forty-Eight. Do you want me to stay over at the flat tonight?

MORGAN

No. No, not tonight. I’d rather be alone. It’s been a horrible year, Bob. Today has brought it all back. What possible horror could be coming next?

BOB

I always say guns should not be in the hands of the Public. Especially women.

MORGAN

I can’t believe they are both gone. I thought Carrington came through Strachey’s death so well, joking about us all going out on a jolly pheasant shoot together.

BOB

I remember him saying, “If this is dying, I don’t think much of it.” He made me laugh.

MORGAN

He was so cheerful and clear-minded up to the very end. Stomach cancer be damned.

BOB

She must have loved Mr. Strachey very much. I suppose her husband wasn’t enough.

MORGAN

What?

BOB

The gentleman she was married to. Ralph.

MORGAN

No, Ralph wasn’t enough. In the usual way.

BOB

She loved them both, I think. But in very different ways.

MORGAN

Yes. Very different ways.

BOB

I can see that.

MORGAN

The main difference being that she could not go on living without Strachey.

BOB

May says it can happen like that. In hospital. When one person in the marriage dies, the other won’t go on living without them, and dies soon after. Of course, Miss Carrington wasn’t married to Mr. Strachey. She had Ralph. But you can never be sure with the way love works, can you?

MORGAN

(Vaguely, looking out the darkened train window)

No, never sure.

(Pause.)

BOB

It was a funny sort of memorial. Us scattering her ashes under the laurel bush in her garden and that dance band record playin’ on the gramophone, “TOOT-TOOT-TOOTSIE, GOOD-BYE.” She had a sense of humour, Miss Carrington did.

MORGAN

A rare and gifted artist, Bob. The best of all possible women friends. We shall not see her like again. (HE starts to break down, BOB comforts him.)

BOB

Easy now, luv. Easy.

MORGAN

I don’t have the courage to live as bravely as she would have me do. I feel such shame, Bob. I am not the man Carrington believed me to be. I have failed her and now I don’t know how I shall survive her death. I really don’t.

BOB

(Taking MORGAN’S hand.)

There’s love, Morgan. And life. And beautiful babies coming into the world. Like you said, when you met Edna and May, remember last summer? “Babies are the meaning of everything.”

MORGAN

Did I? Well, it must have been in the context of the conversation.

BOB

There’s new life coming, Morgan. May is pregnant.

MORGAN

Pregnant? She’s a nurse, for Godsakes! Doesn’t she know about birth control?

BOB

She’s going to have my baby. I’m going to marry her, Morgan.

MORGAN

You don’t have to marry her. She can go away somewhere and have it quietly. How much money does she want? We’ll give her all the money she wants.

BOB

You talk too much about money. May doesn’t want anything. She doesn’t even want to marry me.

MORGAN

Thank God for that. At least she shows some sense.

BOB

But I want to. I want to marry May and have our baby. I want a family of my own, Morgan. I never had a family. Never had a father to speak of. I want to be a good husband and father and have a family life.

MORGAN

But that’s no reason to throw your life away on this woman.

BOB

I want to be with her, Morgan. May’s a good woman. I want to marry her and make a home for our baby.

MORGAN

I will not discuss this. I have tolerated the presence of this woman in our lives for the past year. But this is the end of it. This is a closed topic. I need a drink. I’m going to the buffet car.

BOB

Sit down, Morgan.

MORGAN

What?

BOB

I love her and I love the child that’s growing inside of her.

MORGAN

And where do I fit into this cozy family picture?

BOB

I want you to love them as I do.

MORGAN

This is madness.

BOB

No, this is love, Morgan. What you taught me. You know I will never love anyone like I love you. Nothing can change that.

MORGAN

And May and her wee bairn?

BOB

They are a part of me now. Can’t you love them with me?

MORGAN

I think what you are asking is outrageous and unnatural.

BOB

I’m sorry you feel that way. It’s already set. We’ve booked a date at the registry office.

MORGAN

At least it’s not a church wedding. That would be a travesty.

BOB

May doesn’t hold with that religion stuff. It’s what she wants–and we want you to witness it. Give me your hand. 

MORGAN

What for?

(BOB takes MORGAN’S hand and wraps his own left little finger around MORGAN’S ringed left little finger.)

BOB

We are bound for life, Morgan.

MORGAN

But I certainly hope NOT for the wedding night.

(BOB bursts out laughing, and MORGAN in spite of himself, laughs.)

BOB

Will you try? Say you’ll try.

(MORGAN takes BOB’S hand in his kissing it, pressing it to his cheek.)

MORGAN

Oh, my boy, my precious boy. Yes, I’ll try. I will try.

(BOB put his hand gently to MORGAN’S head, smoothing his hair.)

BOB

Shhh, shhh, luv. My Morgan. 

(HE kisses the top of MORGAN’S head.

The lights fade.

A recording of Lohengrin’s Wedding March is heard as–)

END OF EXTRACT.