Читаем The Mousetrap полностью

MRS. BOYLE. Really! What an incredible young woman. Doesn’t she know anything about housework? Carrying a carpet sweeper through the front hall. Aren’t there any back stairs?

MISS CASEWELL. (Taking a cigarette from a packet in her handbag) Oh yes—nice stairs. (She crosses to the fire.) Very convenient if there was a fire. (She lights the cigarette.)

MRS. BOYLE. Then why not use them? Anyway, all the housework should have been done in the morning before lunch.

MISS CASEWELL. I gather our hostess had to cook the lunch.

MRS. BOYLE. All very haphazard and amateurish. There should be a proper staff.

MISS CASEWELL. Not very easy to get nowadays, is it?

MRS. BOYLE. No, indeed, the lower classes seem to have no idea of their responsibilities.

MISS CASEWELL. Poor old lower classes. Got the bit between their teeth, haven’t they?

MRS. BOYLE. (Frostily) I gather you are a Socialist.

MISS CASEWELL. Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m not a Red—just pale pink. (She moves to the sofa and sits on the Right arm.) But I don’t take much interest in politics—I live abroad.

MRS. BOYLE. I suppose conditions are much easier abroad.

MISS CASEWELL. I don’t have to cook and clean—as I gather most people have to do in this country.

MRS. BOYLE. This country has gone sadly downhill. Not what it used to be. I sold my house last year. Everything was too difficult.

MISS CASEWELL. Hotels and guest houses are easier.

MRS. BOYLE. They certainly solve some of one’s problems. Are you over in England for long?

MISS CASEWELL. Depends. I’ve got some business to see to. When it’s done—I shall go back.

MRS. BOYLE. To France?

MISS CASEWELL. No.

MRS. BOYLE. Italy?

MISS CASEWELL. No. (She grins.)

(MRS. BOYLE looks at her enquiringly, but MISS CASEWELL does not respond. MRS. BOYLE starts writing. MISS CASEWELL grins as she looks at her, crosses to the radio, turns it on at first softly, then increases the volume.)

MRS. BOYLE. (Annoyed, as she is writing) Would you mind not having that on quite so loud! I always find the radio rather distracting when one is trying to write letters.

MISS CASEWELL. Do you?

MRS. BOYLE. If you don’t particularly want to listen just now . . .

MISS CASEWELL. It’s my favourite music. There’s a writing table in there.

(She nods towards the library door up Left.)

MRS. BOYLE. I know. But it’s much warmer here.

MISS CASEWELL. Much warmer, I agree. (She dances to the music.)

(MRS. BOYLE, after a moment’s glare, rises and exits into the library up Left. MISS CASEWELL grins, moves to the sofa table, and stubs out her cigarette. She moves up stage and picks up a magazine from the refectory table.)

Bloody old bitch. (She moves to the large armchair and sits.)

(CHRISTOPHER enters from the library up Left and moves down Left.)

CHRISTOPHER. Oh!

MISS CASEWELL. Hullo.

CHRISTOPHER. (Gesturing back to the library) Wherever I go that woman seems to hunt me down—and then she glares at me—positively glares.

MISS CASEWELL. (Indicating the radio) Turn it down a bit.

(CHRISTOPHER turns the radio down until it is playing quite softly.)

CHRISTOPHER. Is that all right?

MISS CASEWELL. Oh yes, it’s served its purpose.

CHRISTOPHER. What purpose?

MISS CASEWELL. Tactics, boy.

(CHRISTOPHER looks puzzled. MISS CASEWELL indicates the library.)

CHRISTOPHER. Oh, you mean her.

MISS CASEWELL. She’d pinched the best chair. I’ve got it now.

CHRISTOPHER. You drove her out. I’m glad. I’m very glad. I don’t like her a bit. (Crossing quickly to MISS CASEWELL) Let’s think of things we can do to annoy her, shall we? I wish she’d go away from here.

MISS CASEWELL. In this? Not a hope.

CHRISTOPHER. But when the snow melts.