Free Complete Works, Volume IV by Harold Pinter Page B

judgement.
    BRIGGS I’ll tell him. He’s in real need of a patron. The boss could be his patron, but he’s not interested. Perhaps because he’s a poet himself. It’s possible there’s an element of jealousy in it, I don’t know. Not that the boss isn’t a very kind man. He is. He’s a very civilised man. But he’s still human.
    Pause.
    SPOONER The boss . . . is a poet himself?
    BRIGGS Don’t be silly. He’s more than that, isn’t he? He’s an essayist and critic as well. He’s a man of letters.
    SPOONER I thought his face was familiar.
    The telephone buzzes. Briggs goes to it, lifts it, listens.
    BRIGGS Yes, sir.
    Briggs picks up the tray and takes it out.
    Spooner sits still.
    SPOONER I have known this before. The voice unheard. A listener. The command from an upper floor.
    He pours champagne.
    Hirst enters, wearing a suit, followed by Briggs.
    HIRST Charles. How nice of you to drop in.
    He shakes Spooner’s hand.
    Have they been looking after you all right? Denson, let’s have some coffee.
    Briggs leaves the room.
    You’re looking remarkably well. Haven’t changed a bit. It’s the squash, I expect. Keeps you up to the mark. You were quite a dab hand at Oxford, as I remember. Still at it? Wise man. Sensible chap. My goodness, it’s years. When did we last meet? I have a suspicion we last dined together in ‘38, at the club. Does that accord with your recollection? Croxley was there, yes, Wyatt, it all comes back to me, Burston-Smith. What a bunch. What a night, as I recall. All dead now, of course. No, no! I’m a fool. I’m an idiot. Our last encounter—I remember it well. Pavilion at Lord’s in ‘39, against the West Indies, Hutton and Compton batting superbly, Constantine bowling, war looming. Surely I’m right? We shared a particularly fine bottle of port. You look as fit now as you did then. Did you have a good war?
    Briggs comes in with coffee, places it on table.
    Oh thank you, Denson. Leave it there, will you? That will do.
    Briggs leaves the room.
    How’s Emily? What a woman.( Pouring. ) Black? Here you are. What a woman. Have to tell you I fell in love with her once upon a time. Have to confess it to you. Took her out to tea, in Dorchester. Told her of my yearning. Decided to take the bull by the horns. Proposed that she betray you. Admitted you were a damn fine chap, but pointed out I would be taking nothing that belonged to you, simply that portion of herself all women keep in reserve, for a rainy day. Had an infernal job persuading her. Said she adored you, her life would be meaningless were she to be false. Plied her with buttered scones, Wiltshire cream, crumpets and strawberries. Eventually she succumbed. Don’t suppose you ever knew about it, what? Oh, we’re too old now for it to matter, don’t you agree?
    He sits, with coffee.
    I rented a little cottage for the summer. She used to motor to me twice or thrice a week. I was an integral part of her shopping expeditions. You were both living on the farm then. That’s right. Her father’s farm. She would come to me at tea-time, or at coffee-time, the innocent hours. That summer she was mine, while you imagined her to be solely yours.
    He sips the coffee.
    She loved the cottage. She loved the flowers. As did I. Narcissi, crocus, dog’s tooth violets, fuchsia, jonquils, pinks, verbena.
    Pause.
    Her delicate hands.
    Pause.
    I’ll never forget her way with jonquils.
    Pause.
    Do you remember once, was it in ‘37, you took her to France? I was on the same boat. Kept to my cabin. While you were doingyour exercises she came to me. Her ardour was, in my experience, unparalleled. Ah well.
    Pause.
    You were always preoccupied with your physical . . . condition . . . weren’t you? Don’t blame you. Damn fine figure of a chap. Natural athlete. Medals, scrolls, your name inscribed in gold. Once a man has breasted the tape,