Том Стоппард - 'M' is for Moon Among Other Things

A Play for Radio

Characters

CONSTANCE

ALFRED

Silence — a man grunts and shakes his paper — a woman flips over the pages of a book and sighs.

NB A married couple, ALFREDand CONSTANCE—middle class, childless, aged 45 and 42.

CONSTANCE: (Sighs — thinks:) Macbeth. .

(Flip)

Macedonia. .

(Flip)

Machine-gun. .

(Flip)

Magna Carta. .

(Flip)

Measles. .

(Flip)

Molluscs. . molluscs. .

ALFRED: (Grunts — thinks:) '. . the girl, wearing a red skirt and black sweater, asked the court that her name should not be continued in column five, continued in column five. .'

(Shakes paper)

CONSTANCE: (Thinks:) . . Invertebrate animal. . discovered that marine varieties. .

(Slams book shut)

I think enough for tonight — I wish the print wasn't so small. . Have you seen my pills anywhere?

ALFRED: Mmmm. .

(Thinks:) ' . . "anything like it in my thirty years on the Bench", he added. "While young louts like you are roaming the streets no girl is safe from. . " '

(Impatiently) Oh. .

(Turns page)

CONSTANCE: (Thinks:) February the fifth, March the fifth, April, May, June, July, August. . six.

ALFRED: (Thinks:) 'A Smooth-as-Silk Beauty as Fast as they Come!'

CONSTANCE: (Thinks:) The Friday before last must have been the twenty-seventh, that's right, because the Gilberts came to dinner and that was a Friday because of Mrs Gilbert not eating the meat, and the Encyclopaedia always comes on the twenty-seventh, and it was just when the M to N came when I phoned Alfred at the office about what to give the Gilberts, so it must have been Friday the twenty-seventh. So last Sunday was the twenty-ninth, so today is twenty-nine plus seven makes thirty-six, so it must be the sixth, unless July has thirty-one, in which case it's the seventh, no, the fifth. Thirty days hath April, June, is it? Wait a minute, the Friday before last was the twenty-seventh. .

ALFRED: (Thinks:) 'I found her to be a smooth-as-silk beauty with the classic lines of thrust of . . '

CONSTANCE: Alfred, is it the fifth or the sixth?

ALFRED: Mmm?

(Thinks:) '. . surging to sixty mph in nine seconds. . '

CONSTANCE: Fifth?

ALFRED: Fifth what?

CONSTANCE: What's today?

ALFRED: Sunday. .

(Thinks:) '. . the handbrake a touch stiff and I'd like to see an extra ashtray for the passenger but otherwise. . '

(Up) Oh for goodness' sake — you know I hate people looking over my shoulder.

(Turns page)

CONSTANCE: (Thinks:) August the fifth, nineteen sixty-two.

(Up) Alfred, in half an hour I'll be exactly forty-two-and-a-half years old. That's a thought, isn't it?

ALFRED: Mmmm. .

(Thinks:) 'Little old grey-haired Mrs Winifred Garters wept last night as. . '

CONSTANCE: What time were you born, Alfred?

ALFRED: What?

CONSTANCE: I was born just as the clock struck half-past ten at night — what time were you born?

ALFRED: I can't remember.

CONSTANCE: Didn't anyone tell you?

ALFRED: That's what I can't remember.

(Hall clock chiming ten)

Oh, what's that? — ten? We haven't had the news today. I think there's one now, isn't there? Turn on the box — hang on, where's the Radio Times ? — ah — is this this week's?

CONSTANCE: Forty-two-and-a-half, and all I've got is a headache.

ALFRED: Is this the new one? 'August five to twelve'—what's today?

CONSTANCE: Sunday.

ALFRED: No-no-no — what's — oh never mind — yes, this is it — News at five-past ten.

(Turns on TV)

‘Dial M for Murder'—oh, that might have been good.

CONSTANCE: It's an awful thing, you know. When you start worrying about the halves. I mean there's no purpose to make sense of it, is there? Every time it's half-past ten, it's another day older, and all I've done with it is to get up and stay up. Where's it all going?

(Bring in finish of ‘Dial M for Murder'—hold it and fade it low)

(Thinks:) They used to call me Millie. . my middle name was my favourite till I was — how old was I? 17? Happy Birthday Millie, it used to be. . Then I went over to Constance, it sounded more grown-up. Seventeen from forty-two. Twenty-five. A quarter of a century, constant Constance. .

(Up) If I had a choice, perhaps I'd choose what I'm doing now. I don't care about that. But I want the choice. I don't want the moon, Alfred, all I want is the possibility of an alternative, so that I know I'm doing this because I want to instead of because there's nothing else.

ALFRED: Sshssh — hang on, Constance, let me hear the News.

(Bring in opening of tape (if there is one) of the 10.05 pm News—5 August 1962)

NEWS: The News. . Marilyn Monroe, the actress, was found dead in her Los Angeles home today..

(Fade out)

ALFRED: (Fading in with ‘oh's' used as a sort of dirge — thinks:) Oh. . oh. . oh. . oh. . oh. . poor Marilyn. . poor poor thing. . What have they done?. . God, poor little thing. . She must have been so unhappy. Oh Marilyn.

CONSTANCE:She seemed so full of life, didn't she?

ALFRED: (Thinks:) Abandoned. . no love. . like a child.

CONSTANCE:Poor thing, it's awful.

ALFRED: (Thinks:) Marilyn. . you shouldn't have trusted them, they're all rotten.

CONSTANCE:Do you suppose she meant it? Oh, wasn't she lovely, I mean a lovely person, she made you feel it. Doesn't it go to show?

ALFRED:Oh, do shut up.

CONSTANCE:Alfred!

ALFRED:Oh, I'm sorry. I'm just tired. . and upset.

CONSTANCE:It's all right, Alfred.

ALFRED:Of course she meant it. By God, you've only got to use your imagination. It's such a cold shallow world she was living in. No warmth or understanding — no one understood her, she was friendless.

CONSTANCE:Do you think so?

ALFRED:Of course. Hangers-on. People didn't appreciate her. Just using her. A girl like that. It's a crime.

CONSTANCE:Fate.

ALFRED:Fate! Don't be absurd!

CONSTANCE:Please don't shout, Alfred.

ALFRED: (Wearily) Oh damn them, dammit. . Oh, let's go to bed. I'm tired.

CONSTANCE:Yes. I'm worn out — hope I'll be able to sleep.

ALFRED:I can never stay awake, and you can never get to sleep — what's the matter with you?

CONSTANCE:I don't know — can't sleep with this headache.

ALFRED:You know, you read too much, you're always complaining of eye strain and headaches, well it's no wonder.

CONSTANCE:The print's too small, really.