Act One
The living-room of the Brentsâ country home. Wednesday afternoon.
(Grand Theatre, Weston-super-Mare. Monday 14 January.)
From the estate agentâs description of the property:
A delightful 16th-century posset mill, 25 miles from London. Lovingly converted, old-world atmosphere, many period features. Fully equipped with every aid to modern living and beautifully furnished throughout by owner now resident abroad. Ideal for overseas company seeking perfect English setting to house senior executive. Minimum three monthsâ let. Apply sole agents: Squire, Squire, Hackham and Dudley.
The accommodation comprises: an open-plan living area, with a staircase leading to a gallery. A notable feature is the extensive range of entrances and exits provided. On the ground floor the front door gives access to the mature garden and delightful village beyond. Another door leads to the elegant panelled study, and a third to the light and airy modern service quarters. A fourth door opens into a luxurious bathroom/WC suite, and a full-length south-facing window affords extensive views. On the gallery level is the door to the master bedroom, and another to a small but well-proportioned linen cupboard. A corridor gives access to all the other rooms in the upper parts of the house.
Another beautifully equipped bathroom/WC suite opens off the landing halfway up the stairs.
All in all, a superb example of the traditional English set-builderâs craft â a place where the discerning theatregoer will feel instantly at home.
Introductory music. As the curtain rises, the award-winning modern telephone is ringing.
Enter from the service quarters Mrs Clackett, a housekeeper of character. She is carrying an imposing plate of sardines.
Mrs Clackett Itâs no good you going on. I canât open sardines and answer the phone. Iâve only got one pair of feet.
She puts the sardines down on the telephone table by the sofa, and picks up the phone.
Hello . . . Yes, but thereâs no one here, love . . . No, Mr Brentâs not here . . . He lives here, yes, but he donât live here now because he lives in Spain . . . Mr Philip Brent, thatâs right . . . The one who writes the plays, thatâs him, only now he writes them in Spain . . . No, sheâs in Spain, too, theyâre all in Spain, thereâs no one here . . . Am I in Spain? No, Iâm not in Spain, dear. I look after the house for them, but I go home at one oâclock on Wednesday, only Iâve got a nice plate of sardines to put my feet up with, because itâs the royal whatâs it called on the telly â the royal you know â whereâs the paper, then . . .?
She picks up the newspaper lying on the sofa and searches in it.
. . . And if itâs to do with letting the house then youâll have to ring the house agents, because theyâre the agents for the house . . . Squire, Squire, Hackham and whoâs the other one
. . . ? No, theyâre not in Spain, theyâre next to the phone in the study. Squire, Squire, Hackham, and hold on, Iâll go and look.
She replaces the receiver.
Or so the stage-directions say in Robin Housemongerâs play, Nothing On. In fact, though, she puts the receiver down beside the phone instead.
Always the same, isnât it. Soon as you take the weight off your feet, down it all comes on your head.
Exit Mrs Clackett into the study, still holding the newspaper.
Or so the stage direction says. In fact, she moves off holding the plate of sardines instead of the newspaper. As she does so, Dotty Otley, the actress who is playing the part of Mrs Clackett, comes out of character to comment on the move.
Dotty And l take the sardines. No, I leave the sardines. No, I take the sardines.
The disembodied voice of Lloyd Dallas, the director of Nothing On, replies from somewhere out in the darkness of the auditorium.
Lloyd You leave the sardines an...