Writing Game Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Also by David Lodge

  Author’s Note

  Dramatis Personae

  Title Page

  Act One

  Act Two

  Copyright

  About the Book

  The Writing Game was first performed at the Birmingham Repertory Theatre on 12 May 1990. It was directed by John Adams and designed by Roger Butlin, with lighting by Mark Pritchard. The cast was as follows:

  JEREMY DEANE John Webb

  LEO RAFKIN Lou Hirsch

  MAUDE LOCKETT Susan Penhaligon

  PENNY SEWELL Lucy Jenkins

  SIMON ST CLAIR Patrick Pearson

  Voice of HENRY LOCKETT Timothy West

  Also by David Lodge

  NOVELS

  The Picturegoers

  Ginger, You’re Barmy

  The British Museum is Falling Down

  Out of the Shelter

  Changing Places

  How Far Can You Go?

  Small World

  Nice Work

  CRITICISM

  Language of Fiction

  The Novelist at the Crossroads

  The Modes of Modern Writing

  Working With Structuralism

  After Bakhtin

  ESSAYS

  Write On

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  It would be embarrassing to list all the people who read the script of this play at various stages of its evolution, and made valuable comments and suggestions for its improvement, but I should like to acknowledge the assistance and encouragement of three persons in particular: Patrick Garland, Mike Ockrent and John Adams.

  DL

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  (in order of appearance)

  JEREMY DEANE

  LEO RAFKIN

  MAUDE LOCKETT

  PENNY SEWELL

  SIMON ST CLAIR

  Also: Voice of HENRY LOCKETT

  The action takes place at the Wheatcroft Centre, a seventeenth-century farmhouse and barn in Dorset, converted to accommodate short residential courses in creative writing. The time is a recent summer.

  ACT ONE

  Act One Scene One. Early afternoon.

  A converted seventeenth-century barn. An open-plan sitting-room, with door stage left giving direct access to the outside, and two interior doors leading to a bedroom and a bathroom on the ground floor. An open (preferably spiral) staircase leads to a gallery landing, with a door leading to a second bedroom. The bedrooms, insofar as their interiors are visible, are austerely furnished with single beds, upright chairs, chests of drawers, pegs on walls. The sitting room is furnished with well-worn, non-matching furniture: a sofa, an armchair, and a coffee table centre stage; a trestle table that serves as a desk, with a battered swivel-chair, and a couple of wooden folding chairs, stage right. Downstage left there is a small L-shaped sink unit and work-surface, with electric kettle, instant coffee and teabags on it, and storage for cups, glasses, etc., underneath, and a high stool beside it. Downstage right is an answerphone, with monitor facility and volume control, on a small table with drawer. Rush matting on the stone floor. A small bookshelf mounted on the wall near the downstairs bedroom door contains some well-worn reference books, dictionaries, etc., and a random selection of literary paperbacks. The general effect should be rustic, improvised, and not particularly comfortable. Mounted on the rear wall stage left there is a bust of a distinguished-looking elderly man made some time in the last thirty years.

  The outside door opens.

  JEREMY (off)

  Here we are.

  JEREMY, wearing cardigan and corduroy trousers, comes in, carrying a suitcase, followed by LEO, in sports jacket and lightweight trousers, carrying a portable computer in a case. JEREMY is a middle-aged bachelor, slightly fussy in manner. LEO is about fifty, American-Jewish, quite handsome in a grizzled, furrowed way. He looks somewhat depressed and apprehensive.

  JEREMY

  It’s a converted barn, as you can see. (He puts down the suitcase) There are two bedrooms, one up, one down. (He points) Bathroom and loo in here. (He indicates the second door on the ground floor) Maude hasn’t arrived yet, so you can take your pick of the bedrooms.

  LEO

  Which one do you recommend?

  JEREMY

  Well, some people in the upstairs room do complain of the birds in the eaves.

  LEO

  I’ll take the downstairs one. (He puts the computer on the coffee table, and picks up suitcase) It’s a pretty old building, isn’t it?

  JEREMY

  Seventeenth-century. Like the farmhouse.

  LEO

  Stone floors. Must be cold as hell in the winter.

  LEO carries his case into the ground-floor bedroom. JEREMY follows him to the door, and leans against the door frame.

  JEREMY

  Ah, we close from December to March.

  LEO throws case onto bed, opens it and unpacks a few items.

  LEO (projects voice)

  So what do you do then, Jeremy?

  JEREMY

  I usually go to Morocco. I sit in the sun and write poetry.

  LEO

  You’re a poet, huh? As well as running this place?

  JEREMY

  Well, I have published a slim volume or two … I could show you some of my work if you’re interested.

  JEREMY takes a slim volume from the bookshelf.

  LEO

  I don’t know anything about poetry. I don’t really understand why people go on writing the stuff. Nobody reads it anymore, except other poets. (Comes to doorway) I don’t mean to be personal.

  JEREMY conceals his book behind his back.

  JEREMY

  Oh, point taken! The audience is minuscule. But I suppose one goes on because one is obsessed with the music of language.

  LEO

  Music?

  JEREMY

  Sounds, rhythms, cadences.

  LEO

  Well, you can get those things into prose.

  JEREMY

  Oh yes, I agree, absolutely. Your short stories – they’re just like poems, I always think.

  LEO

  I hope not.

  JEREMY

  I mean –

  LEO (smiles faintly)

  Sure, I know what you mean, Jeremy.

  LEO comes out into the sitting-room. JEREMY covertly replaces his book on the bookshelf.

  LEO

  We share this room – Maude Lockett and I?

  JEREMY

  Yes, it’s a place where you can read the students’ work, or see them individually. (Smiles) Or just get away from them for a bit.

  LEO looks slightly anxious.

  LEO

  How many are there in this course?

  JEREMY

  Sixteen.

  LEO

  Is that all?

  JEREMY

  Twenty is our maximum, and I’m afraid a few cancelled when Maurice Denton had to withdraw. He has rather a following here. It was ever so good of you to step in at such short notice.

  LEO

  How did you know I was in England?

  JEREMY

  There was an interview in the Guardian, a few weeks ago.

  LEO

  Oh yeah.

  JEREMY

  It mentioned that you taught creative writing at the University of Illinois. I thought you might find it interesting to compare British students.

  LEO (doubtfully)

  If they’re all fans of Maurice Denton … I tried one of his books. Never finished it.

  JEREMY

  Oh, I’m sure you’ll have them eating out of your hand in no time.

  LEO

  Where do I eat, since we’re on the s
ubject?

  JEREMY

  In the main house. You forage for breakfast and lunch. The students take turns to prepare the evening meal, and wash up afterwards. You and Maude don’t have to, of course.

  LEO

  I’m glad to hear it.

  JEREMY

  Though some tutors muck in and the students rather like it if they do.

  A pause. LEO does not rise to the hint. JEREMY goes over to the sink.

  JEREMY

  You can make yourself a cup of tea or coffee here. (He pulls the plug out of the sink and peers in) Oh Gawd!

  LEO

  What’s the matter?

  JEREMY

  Last week’s community playwrights seem to have clogged up the sink with their Lapsang Suchong. I told them to use teabags.

  LEO

  D’you have a, whaddyacallit, plumber’s helper?

  JEREMY

  I think we call it a plumber’s mate. There’s one over in the farmhouse. (Pokes sink outlet) Ugh. I suppose one could call this a particularly unpleasant form of writer’s block.

  JEREMY chuckles at his own joke, but LEO seems to think that writer’s block is no laughing matter.

  JEREMY

  Would you like a cup of tea?

  LEO

  I could use a cup of coffee.

  JEREMY

  It’s only instant, I’m afraid.

  JEREMY fills the kettle and switches it on. LEO begins unpacking the word processor.

  JEREMY

  I see you’ve brought your typewriter with you.

  LEO

  It’s not a typewriter, it’s a portable word processor. Where can I plug it in?

  JEREMY

  There’s a socket over there. I may have to get you an adaptor. It’s a rather eccentric wiring system, with a special sort of plug that you can’t buy any more … Were you hoping to do some writing yourself, then?

  LEO

  You mean I won’t have time?

  JEREMY

  Well the students will bring their unpublished novels with them, though we tell them not to, and expect the tutors to read them. (LEO looks unhappy) You just have to be firm.

  LEO

  Firm?

  JEREMY

  Ration them. Only one magnum opus per person.

  LEO

  I’m beginning to think this was a very bad idea.

  JEREMY (cheerfully)

  Oh, you’ll love it! Everybody does, in the end. There’s such an atmosphere at the end of a successful course.

  LEO

  What about unsuccessful courses? Do they have an atmosphere too?

  JEREMY

  A course taught by Leo Rafkin and Maude Lockett has to be a success … Have you met her?

  LEO

  No.

  JEREMY

  She’s charming. No side at all. Have you read her novels?

  LEO

  One or two.

  JEREMY

  To tell you the truth, I don’t care awfully for them, myself. I can take just so much about periods and miscarriages and breast-feeding and so on.

  LEO

  I know what you mean.

  JEREMY

  After a while it gets on my tits … But she’s awfully nice. Awfully good with the students.

  LEO

  Is she married?

  JEREMY

  Very much so. To an Oxford don. They have four children, I believe. And you?

  LEO

  I have three children by two wives, to neither of whom I am married at the moment.

  JEREMY

  Ah.

  JEREMY goes over to the sink unit. He lays his hand on the side of the kettle.

  JEREMY

  If the kettle doesn’t seem to be warming up, give it a bang like this. (He gives the kettle a blow.)

  LEO

  You don’t seem to be into hi-tech here.

  JEREMY

  No. But we do have an answerphone. (He goes over to the telephone to point it out.)

  LEO (ironically)

  Terrific.

  JEREMY

  The tutors were always complaining because they couldn’t telephone from here, and then, when we had one put in last year, they complained because they kept getting interrupted. So we bought an answerphone. It’s brand new.

  LEO

  The students – who are they?

  JEREMY

  Oh, all kinds. Housewives, retired people, unemployed.

  LEO

  How do you select them?

  JEREMY

  Oh, we don’t select them. They just apply. First come, first served.

  LEO

  So how do you know they can write?

  JEREMY

  Well, we don’t. (LEO looks dismayed) That’s what makes the Wheatcroft such fun.

  LEO

  Fun?

  JEREMY

  It’s so unpredictable.

  The kettle boils. JEREMY spoons coffee and pours water into two cups.

  JEREMY

  Milk and sugar? Sterilised milk, I’m afraid.

  LEO

  No, just black.

  LEO takes the coffee from JEREMY.

  LEO

  Why Wheatcroft?

  JEREMY gestures towards the bust.

  JEREMY

  After our founder. Aubrey Wheatcroft.

  LEO

  Who was he?

  JEREMY

  A rather idealistic minor poet with a private income. He left all his money to endow this place. He believed that there are untapped reserves of creativity in everyone, which can be released in the right environment.

  LEO

  You mean, like stone floors and birds in the eaves?

  JEREMY

  Well, yes, he did specify a rural setting. But the social situation is more important. Bringing together people who want to be writers with people who are writers, in an isolated farmhouse, for four or five days. Having them eat together, work together, relax together. Readings, workshops, tutorials, informal discussions. It has to have a stimulating effect. It’s like a pressure cooker.

  A pause, while LEO ponders this metaphor. He puts down his coffee.

  LEO

  I’m leaving.

  LEO goes back into the bedroom, and begins hastily repacking his case. JEREMY follows him to the bedroom door.

  JEREMY (aghast)

  Leaving? But why? You can’t.

  LEO

  I’m sorry. I should never have agreed to come here.

  JEREMY

  But what have I said?

  LEO

  Nothing but the truth, Jeremy.

  JEREMY

  I don’t understand.

  LEO brings his suitcase out of the bedroom and puts his computer back into its case.

  LEO

  I got the wrong idea. I thought I would be giving a few regular classes to regular students, and otherwise be free to get on with my own work. I didn’t know it was going to be … a pressure cooker.

  JEREMY

  But what about the students? They’ve paid money.

  LEO

  Not for me. For Maurice Denton. Or Maude Lockett.

  JEREMY

  You can’t ask Maude to do the whole thing on her own.

  LEO has both cases in his hands, ready to go.

  LEO

  Oh, I’m sure she can handle it. A woman who has brought up four children, writes a weekly book review in The Times, seems to be on TV or radio every other day, and has published ten bestselling novels –

  During this speech, MAUDE appears at the door, suitcase in hand. She is a good-looking, confident woman in her forties, dressed casually but expensively.

  MAUDE

  Nine, actually.

  JEREMY (turns)

  Maude! (He hastens forward to greet her) I didn’t hear your car. (He takes her hand and kisses her on the cheek.)

  MAUDE

  Jeremy, how nice to see you. (Advances towards LEO and extends her hand) And you must be Leo Rafkin.
>
  LEO (shaking her hand)

  Hallo.

  MAUDE

  It’s nine novels, actually, and number nine was published rather longer ago than I like to think about, no doubt because of all those book reviews and TV shows.

  LEO (embarrassed)

  I’m sorry. I, um, I didn’t mean …

  MAUDE (smiling)

  It doesn’t matter.

  JEREMY

  Maude, Leo says he’s leaving. Do persuade him to stay.

  MAUDE looks enquiringly at LEO, who is already beginning to change his mind.

  LEO

  Well, the more Jeremy told me about the course …

  MAUDE

  Goodness, Jeremy, whatever did you tell him?

  LEO

  He said it was a pressure cooker.

  JEREMY

  That was just a metaphor, for heaven’s sake!

  LEO

  It sounds too intimate. A class is a class as far as I’m concerned, not an encounter group.

  JEREMY (plaintively)

  You don’t have to be chummy with the students. As long as you comment on their work.

  MAUDE

  That’s right. It might make us a rather effective team. You could be very mean and hard on them, and then I could come along and be constructive and sympathetic. Isn’t that how interrogators work?

  LEO looks uncertain whether she is mocking him or not.

  JEREMY

  Oh, do please stay. Everybody will be so disappointed if you don’t.

  MAUDE

  There’s no point forcing Mr Rafkin, Jeremy. If he doesn’t feel up to it …

  LEO (bridling)

  It’s not a question of being ‘up to it’.

  JEREMY

  Give it a trial, at least. One day.

  Pause. LEO glances at MAUDE, hoping she will second this appeal. She is silent.

  LEO

  Well, all right.

  JEREMY

  Oh, super.

  MAUDE

  That’s settled, then. Where am I sleeping?

  LEO (quickly)

  I took the downstairs bedroom.

  MAUDE

  Oh, how kind of you.

  LEO (disconcerted)

  Kind?

  MAUDE

  Yes, it’s rather damp, haven’t you noticed? And you get a lot of beetles in there.

  LEO gives a sickly smile.

  JEREMY

  Let me take your bag upstairs, Maude.

  MAUDE

  Thanks, Jeremy.

  JEREMY takes MAUDE’S case up the staircase and into the upper bedroom.

  LEO

  You’ve obviously been here before.

  MAUDE

  Many times. I’m dying for a cup of tea. What about you?

  LEO

  No thanks.