 Act 1 of Galahad Jones, a comedy by Arthur Adams. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Galahad Jones, a comedy with a tragic tang. Dramatised from Galahad Jones, a novel by Arthur H. Adams. Persons in the comedy. Galahad Jones, read by Adrian Stevens. Sibyl Beach, read by Beth Thomas. Poil, read by Devora Allen. The Butcher, read by Son of the Exiles. Edward Beach, read by Todd. The Doctor, read by Alan Mapstone. Kathy Jones, read by T.J. Burns. Horace Lothian, read by Thomas Peter. The Young Man, read by the Yal-Yal. M. Jones, read by Sonia. Stage Directions by Michael Maggs. Act 1. Sibyl's Garden and Over the Wall, The Street. Saturday afternoon. Act 2. The Same, The Evening After. Act 3. Interior of Galahad's Dining Room. Sunday afternoon, three weeks later. Act 4. Sibyl's Garden and The Street, The Same Evening. The Action takes place at Sydney, Australia. Act 1. Scene. Looking from Sydney Harbour at the waterfront of a residence at Elizabeth Bay, your view takes in, in addition to the garden that slopes down to the water's edge, a portion of a curving, narrow street that leads to the water. You do not see the water, which will be where the footlights are, but you note the stone coping a few inches high, which runs right across the stage a few feet behind the footlights, representing the top of the stone wall that marks the harbour edge. Between the garden and the street runs a high stone wall, the end of which, protected by an iron work affair of spikes, fronts you. The effect is that you can see both what is happening in the garden and what occurs in the street. A stone wall runs diagonally from your right to near the centre of the scene. A garden gate breaks it about halfway up. Portion of another stone wall, right on the waterfront, is seen jutting out on your right. A narrow footpath runs along the garden wall, and at the corner there is a lump post. A couple of piles, the top's only being seen, rise a couple of feet above the stone coping of the waterfront at the near end of the street. The top of these piles would make a comfortable seat for a man fishing. The other end of the street is hidden by the curve of the wall, and over this wall are seen the tops of trees, and further off the roofs of buildings. The garden occupying most of the scene is terraced. From the waterfront it runs back level for a few yards, then rises in a turf bank, capped by a low stone balustrade. Behind this a summerhouse stands, covered with the purple of wisteria emblosum, a rustic looking structure of untrimmed beams. A rough rustic wooden seat is at the door. A curving path runs down to the waterfront. It breaks the terrace by a few stone steps. Three garden seats are placed in the garden, one of them being set against the garden wall. Trees, shrubs and flowers fill the garden as it runs back to the big house, seen behind the foliage. On your left is a Jacaranda tree and flower. A blue sky hangs over all. It is late afternoon. Gala had Jones, a plump, undistinguished, genial middle-aged little man with a pudgy moustache, dressed in the well-worn, respectable clothes of a bank-clark past his illusions, is seen on one of the piles at the waterfront of the street. He has a small sprig of baronia in his buttonhole. He is occupied in baiting a fishing line, which is attached to a slim fishing rod. He gets the parcel of bait from a squat little black businessman's bag at his side, baits the hook and, lifting the rod, extends it over the water. In reality, he is fishing into the orchestra. He waits patiently for a bite. All through the following scene he remains completely absorbed in his fishing, oblivious to any happenings over the wall or even behind his back. He lights his pipe, thinks he has a fish, pulls in his line to find that he has not caught anything, baits it again and tries his luck once more with stolid patience. Sibyl Beach and Pearl, the housemate, come down the path into the garden. Sibyl, a slight, beautiful pallid, dark girl of 17, looking very frail in a dainty summer dress, walks with languid steps, leaning on the arm of the buxom pearl. Sibyl, pausing at the top of the steps, and looking straight out. Oh, the beautiful, beautiful harbour! She draws a deep breath of delight, then turns to Pearl. But are you sure? Yes, Miss Sibyl. No letters have come for you. You mean that you've had instructions from Father to hand my letters over to him, like the other servants? No, Miss Sibyl. They simply hasn't come. I don't think the postman's been yet. But he must have written. Father won't let me hear from him. He says he can't understand me being in love, as if any girl could help being in love with Horace. His name is Oris, Miss. She helps Sibyl down the steps. Yes. With a look at Pearl. You must help me, Pearl. You're the only one in all the house that can help me. I suppose when you came two days ago, you thought you were just coming to an ordinary house. And I ain't it, Miss? No, it's a prison. A prison, Miss. Law. Yes, that big wall is the wall of a prison. Sitting languidly on the garden-seat. And I'm the prisoner, and Father is the jailer. I'm kept here because the doctor thinks I'm ill. You don't think I'm ill, do you? A little tired looking, Miss Sibyl. That's all. Yes, I'm always tired. I seem to get more tired every day, but not ill. I haven't got a single symptom, and so I'm in prison, and over that big wall Horace is dying to come to me. Well, Miss, why don't he come? Because he doesn't know where I am. We only moved here a fortnight ago. Our other house was on the tram line, and the doctor told Father I had to have perfect quiet. And didn't you write and tell this here, Horace? Father made me promise not to write to him, and I suppose he's been writing and writing to our old house, and it's shut up. But, Miss, the letters would be sent on here. So they are, but Father takes them. But, Miss, are you sure? Father says no letters have come, but I know Horace, so Father must have taken them. I tell you what, Miss Sibyl, I'll look out for the postman myself today. Pearl, you're not in the conspiracy with the rest of them to keep me away from Horace? Mr. Beach told me to look after you, Miss, and see that you didn't tire yourself or get excited like. But he never said a word about keeping letters from you. The idea. Perhaps, Miss, this Mr. Horace has forgot to write. Horace, forget why he loves me. I've had boys as swore they loved me, too. Why, there was such a nice gent, a butchery was. They made violent love to me in the back porch every day in my last place. And would you believe it, Miss? I found out he was doing the same to every girl he delivered the meat to down the street. Forget? Why, he just wiped off the kiss I gave him and got ready for the next. Greasy kisses, they was, too. Horace, forget? And yet, what if he hasn't written? Oh, he might be ill, or dead, and I don't know. Father keeps me in like a naughty schoolgirl, and I'm seventeen. Pearl, you must help me. I'll do, Miss Sybil. You'd do the same for me if ever I wanted to see my butcher again. Which I don't, except to slap his handsome face. Why don't you write to him, Miss? I'll post your letter. I promised Father, but Pearl, do look over the wall and see if the postman is coming. Pearl goes to the seat against the wall and, standing on one of its broad arms, looks over the wall, concealing her head behind the foliage of a tree, which at this point tops the wall. There's nobody here, except an old chap fishing. Sybil, immediately Pearl has gone, takes up a novel she was carrying, and in opening it, three envelopes drop out. She hastily picks them up, and, with a scared look at Pearl, whose back is turned, conceals them in her book and pretends to read. Pearl, who is still gazing over the wall, surprised. Ow! The butcher appears in the street. He is dressed in spotless white duck with a striped butcher's apron, and carries, jauntily, a basket of meat. He is young, immaculately neat, and brilliantly handsome in a full-blooded, slightly coarse way. He is passing round the corner to go up the street when he notices Gala had fishing. At this moment Gala had his got his first bite. He excitedly pulls in his line, and the butcher, excited too, waits behind him to watch. There is no fish, however, and both are disappointed. No luck, mister. I had a bite. I distinctly had a bite. A big unto. There are always whoppers, the ones you don't catch. Ah, lo, what's that smell? Oh, a bit of Baronia. Lovely, ain't it? Reminds me of Paul Cracklin. Yes, I brought it in the street. Don't know what for. Cost me threepence too. Seems a sort of memory in its perfume. Takes me back. Reminds me of my wife. Oh, I shouldn't think that sort of memory was very exciting, boss. Oh, not my wife as she is. But when she was a girl, when I first knew her, when I was in love with her. Well, that smell of Baronia always makes me think of Paul Cracklin. I've got a bit of a cold, and I believe the scent of this Baronia makes me sneeze. I'll take it home to Little Gracie. Do you know that child simply dotes on flowers? Well, this won't pay me, Rend. So long. I'll have that big one yet. He begins to beat his line. Yes, I don't think. The butcher goes jauntily up the street. Galahud goes back to his fishing. Pearl, who has been watching excitedly. Oh! Is it the postman? No. She jumps down. But, Miss, who do you think I've seen? Horace? No, I don't know him, Miss. It was the butcher. My butcher. And I haven't set eyes on him for three months. Perhaps he's our butcher, Pearl. Run away and take in the meat. Oh, Miss, I'd like to. Just to snub him. But the master told me never to leave you alone out here. You might faint, he says. There you go. Like the rest of them, making out I'm ill. I'll be all right sitting here and looking out over the water. It's beautiful as the evening comes on, and the warships and the ferry boats light up. Very well, Miss. Thank you. How just won't I knock him the brute? She goes up the steps and into the house at the back. Sibyl, as soon as Pearl is out of sight, looks cautiously round, gets up, looks round at the summer house, and extracts the three envelopes from the book. I don't trust Pearl either. They're all against me. Opening an envelope and taking out the enclosure. Father has forbidden me to write to Horace, but I'm sure he's keeping Horace's letters. That's not fair. Besides, he didn't say anything about not writing to anybody else. She reads the letter. A woman in sore need confidently asks your aid, for only you can help me. I'm among enemies, watched and powerless. This afternoon at half past five, you must meet me in the garden. Come in by the gate in the wall. See that no one notices you entering, for secrecy is essential. Come to the summer house. I shall be waiting there, praying that my night will come. If you are not afraid to assist me in how desperate a case I am, you may judge by this appeal to a stranger. Make some inconspicuous gesture beneath the wall. I shall be watching you through the trees at the top of the wall, but do not wave or take the slightest notice of me. I may be watched. Just pretend to sneeze. I shall understand. A woman. There, that ought to bring him, but I haven't addressed it. Let me see, Mr... But I don't know who will pick it up, and it must be addressed. Ah, yes. She prints in pencil on the envelope. To you. Taking the other envelopes, she does the same. In case the first misses fire. Then, with another look round, she goes to the seat under the wall, climbs up on it, and looks over the wall through the foliage. Nobody in sight. Nobody ever does come down this lane except butchers. She notices Gala had fishing. That man fishing, I wonder. No, he's altogether too commonplace to be my knight. I'll just drop one quietly here, and some one... She is about to drop the letter when she hears a sound behind her, slips down, and looks up the garden path from the shelter of the summer house. Father! And the doctor! Oh, they mustn't see me here. They'd send me into bed. She hides in the summer house. Through the latticework you can see her white form on a seat. Mr. Beech and the doctor come down the path. Mr. Beech is an elderly man, well-dressed, capable, the typical successful bank manager. The doctor is youthful, precise, clever-looking. You can tell me here. It's cooler. They come down the steps and sit on the seat. The doctor remains silent. Well, doctor, what do your colleagues think of Sybil? She's getting better, isn't she? I'm sorry, Mr. Beech. I can't promise that at present. Not better? Surely. Of course. We can never be quite sure. Nature has her own miracles. But, Mr. Beech, I say seriously, it will need a miracle. You can't mean, doctor. No. She's all I have. I had a consultation this afternoon with the two specialists, the best specialists in Sydney, and they agree with me. I'm sorry to say that your daughter cannot live more than three weeks. A slight stifled cry is heard in the summer house and Sybil is seen to rise and, horror-stricken, lean against the door, listening. Three weeks to die? Doctor, oh no! She's so young, so full of life. It's a case of progressive anemia, a rare disease. In fact, we know very little about it, and we can do less. Some change in the white-core pussles of the blood, a progressive change. The patient simply wastes away. We can only prescribe rest and quiet, and to make her last days as happy as possible. Her last days? Still, some cases, some of the worst, have unaccountably recovered. There's hope, then. A shred of hope. But it is my duty to warn you not to build too much on that hope. Then, then, my Sybil, to die? She may have three weeks, at the utmost. Three weeks of life? And she is only seventeen. It may be less. Any excitement would be fatal. Then I shall be quite alone. But she has no symptoms. She's only tired and run down. There's one certain test. I'll make it tomorrow. I didn't do it today. I don't want to frighten her to make her think she's so ill. If I prick her finger, she has so little blood in her that it won't bleed. Not bleed? I'll see tomorrow. But I'm sure, and my colleagues agree with me. Keep her as much in the open air as possible. This garden. Beach rising and moving blindly across to the other seat. This garden? Without Sybil? The doctor follows him. So full of life. Why, the poor child is actually in love. Sybil, as she sees them moving away from her, makes a despairing tragic gesture and faints, falling inside the summer-house. In love? Oh, some trifling affair with a youth I've not even seen. But I'm outside somewhere, in a tram. I've found out and stopped it. Right. Any emotional excitement would be immediately fatal. A boy and girl affair, but she takes it as a matter of life and death. Life and death. I forbidden her to write to him. But she gets his letters. That's dangerous. No, he hasn't written for a month or more. He's forgotten her. But Sybil believes in him, thinks he writes, poor child, and that I confiscate his letters. Could I tell her he's forgotten her? No. It would only excite her. Come, Mr. Beach, you will have all the medical skill available. Nothing is absolutely sure in this life, not even death. We must hope for a miracle. The miracle? I shall pray for the miracle. He goes up the steps. My Sybil. I shall have her for three weeks, and then... He breaks down. Oh, the pretty baby she was in her little cot. Come, come, Mr. Beach. You must pray for the miracle. They go up the path, the doctor comforting the broken man. No sound or movement comes from the summer-house. Cassie Jones and Horace appear in the street. Cassie is a pretty girl of seventeen without any individuality, cheaply dressed, yet with the effect of smartness that comes from her employment in a millinery shop. Horace is just the superbly dressed, self-satisfied, youthful clerk in a city-office, his ideas at present being banded by a possible rise in his screw and the various charm of girls. At present he is completely absorbed in Cassie and she in him. So it is that with the lover's supreme disdain of the rest of the world they do not notice the inconspicuous figure of Gallowhead intent on his line, his back to them. Horace as they come slowly down his arm round her and halt near the lump post at the corner. What a ripping street this is, Cassie. Go on now, Horace. What's there ripping about it? It's so quiet. He stands with his back to Gallowhead. Why? Anything could happen here. It's too near home for my taste. Mother might spot us. Why? Do you live about here? Just round the corner and down the next street. There. I shouldn't have told you that. Why not, Kathy? I don't really know you, do I? I think we know each other very well. Well enough, too. He attempts to kiss her. No, you don't. I'm not going to let you till I know you haven't got another girl. But I haven't, really. Who's that girl? A pale, thin thing I've seen you with. You've never seen me with any other girl since I've known you, Kathy. No, but this was before you and me. Oh, her. I was a bit struck on her then. Her name's Sybil. But that's all off. I haven't seen her for a month. It was too risky. Her father made a promise not to see me again. Besides, it wasn't serious. Just flirting. And how do I know you're not just flirting with me? Kathy, this is different. I... I've never liked a girl so much as you before. Straight, Horace? And that other girl? Sybil? I tell you, I've done with her. A fella makes mistakes you know. I soon saw she was my type. I don't even know where she lives now. She looked very pretty, Horace. Nothing like as pretty as you, Kathy. I suppose I must believe you. Then that's all right. He attempts, warily, to kiss her again. It's wrong meeting you like this. It's very nice. It is nice. That's what makes it wrong. But a father knew. What's your father? He's in a bank. Let's hope he's in his bank now. No, he's always pottering about. He goes fishing. Suddenly noticing Gallowhead's back. Why, there's a man fishing there. Horace noticing Gallowhead who is wildly intent on his line. Oh, he doesn't matter. Oh, I do believe it's father. Oh. They tiptoe up the street. Gallowhead, not observing them, goes on fishing. In the summer house in the garden, Sibyl, coming from her faint, slowly sits up and makes her way to the rustic seat. The realisation of her fate slowly comes to her face. To die only three little weeks? No, I'll not give in. I'll live. Why, I've got everything to live for. If Horace didn't love me, I wouldn't care. But he does, so there's nothing to matter with me. The doctor is just scaring father. And yet he said something about a test. If he pricked my finger, it wouldn't bleed. That's nonsense. She takes a pin out of her dress and deliberately drives it into her finger, wincing. She watches it carefully, then holds the finger up. There is no blood on it. It doesn't bleed. Then, then I must die. Bravely. But if I have to die, I'll not die like this in prison. Excitement would be fatal? Well, let it. I've got three long weeks and I'll live every second of them. I'll make them thirty years. Why, Horace and I have a whole lifetime before us. Oh, no, I can't waste a moment. She picks up her book from the door of the summer house and takes the three envelopes from it. I was only half in earnest before. I did it for fun, but now... She goes to the seat under the wall, mounts it, and looks over into the street. The only person in sight is Gallagherd. Vext. Oh, only that silly man fishing. A young man appears, well-dressed, the figure of the night she is craving for. All throws the first letter at his feet. He picks it up. After a look around, reads the address, chuckles and reads it through. They don't have me. Oh, I've been played that trick before. He tears the letter into pieces and goes out. Beast! An old gentleman appears. He doesn't look like a knight, but I'm desperate. She throws a letter at his feet. The old gentleman peers around, pokes at it with his umbrella, clucks his tongue, and passes out shaking a knowing old head. Brute! Never even read it. And oh, how lonely it looks lying there, if only my knight would come along and pick it up. The butcher reappears. He is stepping jauntily along when he sees the letter. He picks it up and looks at it. A butcher? Pearl's butcher? Oh, his greasy fingers. To herself. Please give it back. To you. He looks at the wall. Sibyl ducks. He opens it and reads it. Another of them. I simply can't leave me alone. Catching sight of Sibyl's incautious head kisses the letter and waves it. What, oh? Sibyl ducks. Shoes a bit of all right. He comes to the end of the wall and tries to pair in. Didn't recognise her though. Must be a new one. Love at first sight. But I can't waste time on every bit of skirt that falls in love with me. But I'd like to see who she is. And that's the only house in the street that I don't serve. Me luxe out. He reads the letter again. I mustn't attract anybody's attention. She's watched. Noticing gullahut. That blokes a detective. Mute her at half past five. Why, it's that now. And I've got to deliver to a dozen houses yet. Later to her. Can't do it today, my dear. But I'll be along tomorrow night at eight o'clock. You be there. And when it's your night out I'll be waiting at the back gate. What, oh? He carefully folds up the letter, puts it in his basket under the meat, and disappears. My letter among his greasy meat. Oh, and I prayed for a night. Gullahut has by this time had enough of his fishing and has fixed up his rod and line. He looks at his watch. Half past five. Must be toddling home to two. He picks up his rod in one hand and his black bag in the other. Mustn't keep M waiting. He blows his nose. Dash this cold. I'll be snoozing again. Looking at the baronia. It's that baronia. I've a good mind to chuck it away. No, Gracie would like it. He moves up the street. Sibyl, in desperation, throws the third letter at his feet. He peers round and picks up the letter. To me, some mistake. He looks up at the wall. Sibyl waves her hand encouragingly. A woman's hand. The hand withdraws. Must be for me. He places the rod against the wall and reads the letter. A woman asks your aid. Among enemies, secrecy is essential. I shall be waiting. Do not wave. Be careful. Just pretend to sneeze. No, it's a trap. Some adventurer wants to lead me astray. I've seen him on the stage. Me, Gunnar Jones, with a wife and a family. Meet her at half past five. Why, it's that now. A woman I've never seen. Except a hand. A beautiful hand. Like Ems, when I first knew her. But what would they think of me at the bank? And what would the wife think? It's too risky. And yet, that slim, white hand. It's time to go home to tea. I'll go straight home. Mustn't keep home waiting. He picks up the rod, turns and goes determinedly up the street. But stops. Oh, I'm going to sneeze. I can't help it. He drops the rod and sneezes. He looks up and, to his consternation, sees Sibyl's hand waving once more to him. He comes back. I'm in for it now. I'll take and wait. He goes up to the gate, but finds it locked. Locked? He climbs laboriously over, still with his black bag in his hand. Sibyl runs to the summer house and hides inside. Galahad comes down the path and goes doubtfully to the summer house. So you've come. Oh, that's good of you. She gives him her hand. Clumsily he takes it. You can't know how I depended on you. You were the only person in the world who can help me. You'll help me, won't you? Yes, yes, anything I can do, of course, as long as it's not illegal. Oh. But what must I do? I'll tell you, I'm shut up here. Not imprisoned really, but my father thinks me ill and won't let me go out or get letters. So I have to make use of you. You don't know how relieved I was when you sneezed. You did it so naturally, too. I'm sure if anybody was listening, they couldn't have told it from a really truly sneeze, the sort of sneeze that you simply have to. A man who could sneeze like that is the very sort of conspirator I want. Oh, that's nothing for a lady in distress. But why did you select me? You were my last resort. Oh. I tried two others first. You didn't pick me out? Oh, no, you were the third. The other letters are wasted. I've been throwing over letters all afternoon. I was desperate. But you look kind, and I chanced it. And I'm so glad. So am I, but I don't even know your name. Oh, you can call me Sibyl. Miss Sibyl, I'll do anything for you, in reason. First, you must swear a dreadful oath. The only time I swear is when I'm annoyed, and I'm not at all annoyed now. I mean you must swear secrecy. You mustn't even let my father know, or anybody. It doesn't sound quite respectable. You sure you're not a secret society? No. You must swear that you will not betray me. Oh, I'll swear that all right. I'll never betray you. That's all right. I love someone very dearly. I love him as much as I love life. No, more than I love life. But, but you've never even seen me before. You? You dear old thing. You don't imagine I'm in love with you. No, you're joking. Yes, I was joking. But who? Horace Lothian. I don't know him. Of course you don't. And is he in love with you? Yes, yes. He must love me, because there are only three weeks. You must bring him here tomorrow night. Why doesn't he come himself? Because he doesn't know where I am. We've only just moved here, and father won't let me ride to him. So you'll bring him? I would have helped you elope, or killed a constable with a bomb. And all you want is a messenger boy? But I'll do it. Where is he? He's in bluffs. A clerk. I'll fetch him, and now I must be off. This is trespassing, and I'll be late for tea, and you know, the wife. Your wife? You're married? Oh yes, I'm married right enough. What's her name? M. Him? We've got five children. Five? The oldest girl, Kathy, is just about your age. So you could see it wouldn't do to be caught here. Oh, and I've got you into danger. I never suspected from the look at you that you'd have seven children. Five? Well, five. But you mustn't tell your wife. Oh, I'd tell her everything. She'd be jealous. Am? Jealous? Um, yes. I don't see quite how I could explain you. You're sworn to secrecy. So I am. But there's another thing. I'm in a bank. Why? My father is a bank manager. You haven't told me your other name, Miss Sybil. You haven't told me yours. Jones. Jones? It's hardly the name I would have chosen for a night. My first name is Galahad. That's better. Galahad. Jones. I shall call you Galahad. My wife calls me Gally. But your other name? Oh, Hush. There's someone coming. Father, perhaps. If he finds you here, quick. Hide. Oh, if M found out. Still with the black bag in his hand? No. I won't go. I'm not afraid. No Galahad ever was. I'll stay by you. And if any man touches a hair of your head. Stupid. You'll be caught and put in jail. And then how will I see Horace again? Horace? I was forgetting Horace. He hides behind the summer house. Into which Sybil goes. Mr Beach comes down the path. Smoking a cigar and strolls back and out. It was, Father. You can't stay here another minute. He'll come back. Quick, over the wall. And you'll bring Horace tomorrow night. Not much. I've had enough. Trespassing. It's illegal. And if M found out. Oh, and I did think you were my knight. You see, it's hard for a bank clerk to be a knight all at once. A knight with a wife and five children. I've never done this sort of thing before. There's M. M, M. I'm tired of her. Tired? You won't tell you've been married to her for twenty years. I'm sorry I spoke like that. I'm sure she loves you. Yes. Now I come to think of it. She does. Then you'll bring Horace. You'll be my knight. I'll be your knight. For this one occasion. Goodbye. Goodbye, Sir Gallowhead. She gives him her hand. Sir Gallowhead. He kisses her hand clumsily. Hush! There's father again. I must go. She goes quickly off up the path. Gallowhead, left standing in amuse, drops the black bag which he has clutched in his hand since the entrance into the garden. Slowly raises the hand that held hers and kisses it. Oh, Knight. Sir Gallowhead. Curtain. On re-raising the curtain, Gallowhead notices his dropped bag, picks it up and turns to go off up the path. The ordinary bank-clock wants more. End of Act One. Two of Gallowhead Jones by Arthur Adams. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, auto-volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act Two. Scene. The same as Act One a day later. Evening. Moonlight. The lamp at the street corner lit and the windows of the house shining through the trees. Gallowhead and M appear, strolling down the street. They pause at the waterfront. Gallowhead carries his fishing-rod. M is a bulky commonplace, middle-aged woman, physically bigger than Gallowhead. She has the figure of the usual hard-working wife who has borne many children. But at heart, as is apparent from the kindly face, she is a good sort, the kind of wife about whose faithfulness her husband need never worry, a good housekeeper and mother, if a little given to sharp language and possessed of a hidden vein of childish faith, not altogether overlaid by years of work and matrimony. Her stylish figure is clothed in commonplace garments. She has no money to spend on personal adornment. Sir, this is the place where you fish, Gally. Yes, there's a lot of fish here. Pity you don't bring some home for breakfast. You wait. Why, I got a bite here yesterday. A whopper, too. You were laid enough in for tea anyhow. When I'm fishing, Am, I forget all about tea. I forget about everything. I think you often forget about me. Am, why? I'm your husband. That's the trouble. I've been thinking about it since yesterday. That's curious. I've been thinking, too. There isn't much in marriage, is there? Except children. Well, they are something, aren't they? Oh, they are. This is the first minute today I've had to myself. But, Am, they're worth the trouble. Sometimes I wonder. There's that Kathy. Kathy? Looking very pale lately. She's not ill, is she? No, it's worse. She's in love. Kathy in love? Why? She's only seventeen. Oh, girls fall in love when they're seventeen. Galahad struck with a look at the wall. So they do. I did. But I didn't know you then. Oh, it was with a man I didn't even know. Just seen him in the street. He never even guessed, but I didn't mind that. You never told me, Am? Yes, I did, long ago. But he's forgotten. Yes, I must have. What a lot of things a fellow forgets when he's married. But who is Kathy in love with? That I don't know. She's meeting him secretly, on the street. Most likely he spoke to her on the street. Oh, Kathy wouldn't let a man do that. You never know what a girl of seventeen will do. No, that's true. All the neighbours are talking. Mrs. Gada spoke to me about it only this very morning, over the back fence. Nasty insinuating way she spoke, too. But she isn't blessed with any children, anyhow. Well, why shouldn't Kathy have her little romance? Gelly! Why, I don't even know the man. It's underhand, and Kathy's foolish. Why can't she be above board and bring him home to tea of a Sunday, and let me have a look at him? Not her. She's that secretive. I can't think where she gets her underhand ways from. You and I never had any secrets from each other. No, of course not. But why shouldn't the poor child have her little romance? What's a girl want with romance? Oh, they all want it. We all want it. Well, there isn't enough of it in the world to go round. I'll speak to her, Em. Probably it's quite innocent, a boy and girl affair. She'll confide in me. Why not in her mother? But all the children will do anything for their daddy. Oh, no. Look here, Em. All day at the bank I've been thinking. If you do that at the bank, you'll lose your job. I've been thinking about this marriage business, and you. I've been thinking back. It was the smell of that bit of baronia. It makes me think of the first time we met. Don't you remember when I gave you a bit of baronia? You pinned it in your blouse. No, you pinned it in. So I did. Those were happy times, Gallie. Yes, and exciting. But now, I don't know how it is, Em, but the glow seems to have faded out. The romance has gone. I was always one for romance. But there isn't much time for romance when you're always washing up. But tonight you washed up. And I'll always wash up. And those kindlings, Gallie. It was a surprise. You found them cut this morning? Yes. Oh, it's years and years since you cut up the kindlings for me. Well, you'll never have to cut up kindlings any more. And there's other things I might do. Look here, Em, we've drifted into... into a sort of gutter. Marriage. Yes. It's a muddy stream now, nothing sparkling in it. We've grown too used to each other, Em. We've taken each other too much for granted. And that muddy stream, once it was clear and sunny, like that little stream in the bush where I asked you. I remember. I was wearing my new pink. So you were. And didn't you look nice in it? I could get another, just like it. I saw the same stuff in Brace Brothers the other day, but I bought a new jacket for Gracie instead. She wanted it more than I wanted my pink. And there was a pair of open-work stockings. I've always wanted to get a pair, but there always seemed something else to get for the children. Em, you get that pink and the open-work stockings tomorrow and hang Gracie. I want my wife to look the best-dressed lady in the street. But perhaps, Gallie, I'm a bit too... too well-developed for pink. My figure... Nonsense. A bit filled out, perhaps, but just my ideal of a fine, upstanding woman. I hate skinny women. My ankles are all right, anyhow. They will look nice in the open-work stockings. Yes, and I'm not going to have you stuck in the house all day. Next Saturday I go to take you down to Manley. A picnic? We haven't been to a picnic since. Why, I'll get the dress made for it. But now, Gallie, I'm too old and too stout. Yes, stout, to go to picnics. That's for Cathy. She believes in romance. We've lived it through. We're only two middle-aged married people who have no time for romance. Nobody, Em, grows too old for romance. Why, it's everywhere. Yes, over that wall, maybe. Over that wall? Yes, and over every wall, and here. No, no, Gallie. That's faded. Like that first sprig of baronia you gave me. Faded. But there's plenty more baronia growing. Only we've got out of the way of picking it. There's enough baronia growing in Australia to pin a bit on everybody's blouse. Em, have I been the sort of husband you expected? Not quite what I expected. But from what the other ladies in the street tell me about their husbands I've not got much to grumble about. Only you've got a bit husbandish. All husbands do. That's because they forget. Romance is everywhere, wanting to be picked up. Let little Cathy have her share. Afterward she may grow up and forget. Why, I feel as if the world was full of love, full of lovers kissing their ladies' hands. He takes Em's unsuspicious hand. I remember when I first kissed it. And now? It's hardened and blind. So it is, and I've done that. No, Gallie, not you. Life's done it. No, it's the same hand I first kissed. The same plump, soft hand you gave me at your wedding. He kisses it. Perhaps it is the same. Suddenly suspicious. Ah, whatever made you do that, Gallie. It's not like you at all. Her mind working. And you were late home last night, and then those kindlings sent the washing up. Gallie, what's come over you? Ah, I know. Oh, the fool I was not to see through all this here talk of romance. All those kindlings. You've gone and fallen in love with someone else. Some dreadful creature. It's remorse. That's what it is. Just remorse. I've always been frightened that you would not be true to me. I've seen the ladies in the street looking at you, and then they've always seen me looking at them, the shameless hussies. And though I say it myself, I've always been a loving, fightful wife to you and kept myself respectable, which is more than that Mrs. Gadder's next door can say anyhow. Now I see it all. You and your scent of buronia. Some dreadful creature with yellow hair gave it to you. If you've kissed her, I'll be bound. Oh, I know what men are when their wives aren't about. Mother warned me before I married you. She said you had a roving eye. She said you were just a sort of woman who'd fall down in worship and run after. Oh, that I should have married a man who was false. Oh, Em, how could you say that? Deceiver. Shameless profligate. Suddenly pausing in her distress. Oh, and there's only Cathy at home, and the children in bed and more than likely Cathy's out in the street meeting her boy, and the house might be on fire. Come on home, you, you gay lothario. Galahad looks at his watch, then with dignity. No, I refuse to enter that home till you've apologised for those dreadful aspersions. Well, if you kill us and depraved enough to let your children be burned to death, I'm their mother, and I'll save them. Why, I ever married him, I... She goes up the street, hurriedly, still talking. That settles it. He's late. If he doesn't turn up in ten minutes, I'll clear. No more romance over the wall for me. I've got my reputation as a respectable man to consider, and my position at the bank. Sibyl can see our boy or not, but she'll have to see him without my help. He starts to beat his line. I'll fish for ten minutes, and then I'm off home. Don't expect I'll catch anything, except at home. A married man can't afford to be a knight. It's not safe for a Jones to be a Galahad, not a married Jones, anyhow. He fishes. Pearl appears in the garden. Miss Sibyl? Yes? She appears at the door of the summer house. The butcher, in ordinary clothes, enters the street, sneaks past Galahad unobserved and starts to climb the gate. Look out for your father, Miss Sibyl. I just overheard him say he'll be back early tonight. Just the night that Horace is coming. Hide in the garden and warn me if you hear father coming. As the butcher climbs the gate, he makes a noise and Galahad looks up and sees him. Who's that? It's not Horace. She's meeting somebody else too. No, it's a detective. I've had enough. He begins to wind up his line. No, she may be in danger. I'll wait and see. He fishes again. If she calls out, I'll be over that gate in a jiffy. Pearl, noticing the butcher, who is making his way cautiously down the garden. Oh, Miss. Here he is. Tell him I'm here. She retreats into the summer house. Oh, it's you, Cedric. Poil. Yes, it's me. I haven't forgotten the girl you said you loved, I see. Now what other lady were you chasing in this garden? Yeah, my dear. God, I know you. You're a bigamist, though you haven't the pluck to get married even once. Always after the girls. I won't leave a chap alone. Chuckin' letters at me food every day. How did you know, Cedric, that I wrote that letter? Recognize the handwriting. I would know that fist anywhere. I was wonderin' what it'd become of your poil. If you're sure there's nobody lookin', you can kiss me. Not on your life, Cedric. Well, there's others that don't wait to be asked. If you didn't want to kiss me, Poil, why'd you send me that polite invite? I just wanted to talk straight with you, Cedric. You're snakin' the grass that gets round trustin' women when you deliver the meat. I just wanted to tell you that... that tomorrow's my night out. Let me see. Tomorrow? I was goin' out with. But I can put her off. As a matter of fact, when I recognize your handwriting, I'll put her off for tonight. I'll say, Poil, what price that summer house. He puts his arms round her willing waist. Shh! There's somebody in there. Another couple? No, a lady waitin' for a bloke. Yeah, what sort of place is this? Have I got into a lady's school, or what? Anybody waitin' for anybody up behind those trees? No? Come on, Poil. He puts his arm round her waist. Cedric, dear, be careful of my blouse. It'll crush. My, I thought well. They go up the garden path and disappear behind the trees. Horace Lothian appears in the street. There he is. Fishing. He looks remarkably like that other chap that Cathy said was a father. There must be heaps of men like a father. Thank heaven Cathy does not take after him. Oh, there you are, Mr. Lothian. Your light. I was choosing a tie. I wouldn't have troubled about a tie if I was going to meet a lady. That's just what you've got to. I've seen Mr... What's your name? Jones. Jones? That's funny. Oh, Jones is a common name, isn't it? Nearly everybody is named Jones. Well, what I want to know is this. You come to my office with a yarn about a lady throwing a letter at the wall, and you mean me promise you I'll be here tonight. What business is it of yours? The lady made me promise to bring you. And do you go about the world helping ladies in distress? I'd like to. Oh, if you're that sort, I suppose it's all right. Is that the wall we've got to climb over? There's a gate. Locked. I don't fancy this sort of burglary. But you're in love with her. Did she say so? Yes. Well, it's too risky. But you must. Must? She'll be heartbroken if you don't. She is a dear little kitty. All right, I'll see her this once. I knew you would. Come on. But climbing that gate... I don't fancy it. It'll ruin my trousers. I climbed it yesterday. Oh, you don't have to consider your trousers. Haven't I? Those trousers have to last me for another six months. But they won't. After yesterday. Come on. You'll come too? To show me the way? No, I must get home. Well, I'm not going wandering about in strange gardens by myself. All right, I'll come. Drops his fishing rod. Emken White. It's only this once. They go up to the gate and climb over, Galahad first. Galahad leads Horace to the summer house, leaves him there and goes inside. Sibyl is seen to rise and throw her arms about, Galahad. He backs out, followed by Sibyl still clinging to him. Sibyl, recognising him and starting back. Oh, it's only you. I'm so sorry you... you kissed me. I didn't kiss you, and he hasn't come. Here he is. He brings Horace forward. You at last. At last. Sibyl. They stand, she looking into Horace's eyes. I'll keep watch. I'll let you know if anybody's coming. He waits. They do not take any notice of him. He goes off irresolutely, up the path, out of sight. Sibyl, sinking into the seat at the door of the summer house. So you've come, Horace. In spite of walls and fathers, you come to me. Oh, my brave knight, they wouldn't let me get your letters, dear. What letters? The ones you wrote to me. I never got them. Oh, those. I wondered why you didn't write. Father wouldn't let me. But look here, Sibyl. Of course I'm glad to see you again and all that. But don't you think we'd better not see each other? Not see each other? Well, for a while, till your father relents. He'll never relent. Oh, yes he will. Wait a few weeks. A few weeks? Yes. Surely we can do without seeing each other for a little while. A little while? Horace, you love me, don't you? Why, of course. That is, I like you awfully. Oh. I mean, you silly kitty. I love you. Not as much as I love you. Or more, as much as this. He kisses her rather perfunctorily. Ah, that makes it all right again. I thought at first you seemed different, colder. But now I know why it was until you kissed me that day in the art gallery that I even knew I loved you and I shall love you as long as I live. That's a big promise. No, it's such a little one. And you'll come and see me here. Of course. Every night? No, Sibyl, I couldn't do that. It's too dangerous. And if your father caught me... You're not afraid, Horace. I was thinking of you. Your father wouldn't let you see me again. We must be cautious. You'll come tomorrow night? No, I can't tomorrow, really. I'm working back later the office. Oh. But the night after. That's only a couple of days. Two days? Two long days without seeing you? Why, we've got all our lies before us. Yes, that's why. Two whole days. Galahad comes down the path hurriedly. Quick, there's someone coming. Who? A man. Father. To Galahad. What can we do? Galahad, suddenly taking charge. To Horace. Slip over the gate, quick. And you, Miss Sibyl, hide in the summer house. I'll keep the enemy busy till you can slip away. Sibyl clings to Horace. No kisses. Tears her from Horace and packs the frightened youth off. Horace climbs the gate. Mr Beech appears coming down the path, peering into the bushes. The butcher breaks out in front of him with Pearl. Pearl dodges back up the path and the butcher, rushing forward, meets Galahad who waves him back behind the summer house. I'll attract his attention, then, over the wall with you. Galahad rushes across in front of the astonished Beech, who at once follows. Galahad doubles back, Beech following, both disappearing among the bushes. The butcher climbs the wall, sees Horace roofily inspecting his trousers and makes off, followed by Horace. Beech appears, rushing down to cut off Galahad's escape and takes up a position on top of the steps. Galahad, with clothes all torn and collar-flapping, comes rushing down the path and seeing Beech butts him and rolls him over. Galahad picks himself up and pauses over the fallen. Then he recognises him. Mr Beech, my bank manager, could he have recognised me? No, and I've killed him. I hope I have. Beech moves. No, only stunned. He's safe for a bit. He goes to the summer house. Miss Sybil, the way's clear. Slip away to bed. Oh, so Galahad, what have you done? I've saved my lady. And Horace? He's safe, you bet. He knows how to look after himself. Off you go. Oh, thanks. And you'll come again with Horace? Horace? No, I've done with Horace. But what would we have done without you tonight? I've had enough. Look at me. I'm off. I've had enough of romance. I'm not the build for it. Goodbye. You won't help me again? Oh, you're not so Galahad at all. She goes up the path. No, thank God. I'm Jones. M appears in the street. Suddenly she recognises the fishing rod, picks it up, and examines it. He's coming round all right. I've given him a lovely black eye. That just shows that a bank clerk is as good as his manager when it comes to man and man. A dashed side butter. Suddenly a bashed. But, oh Lord, if he's recognised me... He hurriedly climbs over wall and drops into the street at M's feet. M? Gally, what on earth were you doing on that wall? Fishing. Fishing fiddle-sticks. Why, your rod's here. And, oh my, look at the state of the man. I had a fall. Drunk. She puts her face close to his and sniffs. Thank God it's not drink. What made you climb that wall? I thought it would be easy to fish up there. Reprobate. I knew it when you kissed my hand tonight. I knew you were up to no good. That ever a husband of mine, you've been over that wall. It's true. I was over the wall. To meet a woman. No, no. I just felt curious to see what it's like over there, so I climbed over. Oh, yes. Romans was over that wall, you said. Chasing Romans at this time of night. That's why I thought there would be nobody there. You've been meeting some designing creature. That's what you've been doing. And I, that has been a faithful, beautiful wife to you all these years. And just today you told me you loved me. So I do, M, more than ever. Why, you can't think of my relief when I saw you waiting for me here. But I'll never climb walls again. He feels his shin. It's too dangerous. Why, the man's clothes are in a disgraceful state. And that new suit on that you've only had four months. And where's your watch? Gallaud, feeling anxiously for it. His chain is dangling from his vest pocket. It's here all right. But, but, but my metal's gone. Serve you right, you deceiver. But, M, you don't know. Of course, I might have just lost it. But if he took it when I butted him, he could identify me. It's got my name on it. Broken up. He throws himself on her charity. M, I've been lying to you. And unfaithful to me too. No, M, not unfaithful. But I've got into trouble. I've been trespassing. And in a fight. And he knows me. And I'll be arrested. And bound over to keep the peace. And sent to jail. And I'll lose my job at the bank. And all the street will know I'm a desperate character. M, I'll never be able to look a policeman in the face. I'll stand by you, Gallaud. Just tell me all about it. And I'll protect you. I can't tell you, M. Except that there was a fight. And I knocked him down. You knocked him down? Gallaud, you? Caught him a fair one on the eye, and he dropped. Was he bigger than you? Much. Oh, a giant. And you knocked him down? She gloats. Oh, Gallaud, that reminds me of the time. You remember when we were just engaged. And that Larrican said something to me. And you knocked him over? It happened I hit the wrong man. And I had to pay for his hat. Yes. But you did it. I was so proud of you that day. And now, was it for a woman? Yes. What sort of woman? Young? Pretty? M, you must trust in me. I've been a blundering fool and got into trouble. I've been trespassing and assaulting respectable citizens. And I've lost the medal I got from the poultry club. And I'll be identified and lose my job and be arrested and put in jail as a dangerous criminal. And everybody in the street will point the finger of shame at the children whose father is a convict. M, the mother instinct conquering. Let them, if they dare, they'll get as good as they give. If Mrs. Gathers says a word, I'll... Gallaud, you've got me to look after you, no matter what crime you've committed. You're my man, and I'm your wife. That's all there is to it. Now you come straight home with me, and I'll put you to bed and bring up a nice hot supper I've got ready for you. And you'll be all right in the morning. And we'll talk it over, and you'll see things aren't so bad after all. Any constable that comes to arrest you will have to reach you over my dead body. Oh, M, you'll stick to me? Yes. I'll stick to you, and if you climb any more walls, you'll have to climb them with me. I've done with climbing walls. I've had enough of romance. M, M... Overcome. He leans to her and kisses her. M, to the heavens. Oh! Now what on earth made the man do that? Curtain. End of Act Two. Act Three of Gallaud Jones by Arthur Adams This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, auto-volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act Three. The dining room in Gallaud's cottage is a commonplace oblong room with tall tree decorations and cheap furniture. The door gives the sole entrance to the room from the hall. There is, of course, the usual sideboard with cupboard and drawers. The fireplace is surrounded by wood painted to resemble gorgeous marble and an over mantle of bamboo framing small pictures and supporting flimsy shelves on which is an assortment of futile ornaments of China. A dining table covered with a white tablecloth has been half-cleared of the remains of the Sunday tea for the family. Beneath the window with its cheap lace curtains is a sewing machine. Chairs are set about. It being summer time, there is no need yet for lighting the gas. Over three weeks have elapsed. It is Sunday evening. Gallaud is sitting in an easy chair in his shirt sleeves and without any covering to his feet except his socks, reading the Sunday paper. He puts down his paper, satisfied. Nothing about burglars in gardens and criminal assaults on bank managers yet. He takes out Sibyl's letter from his hip pocket and looks at it. To you. To me. He reads it through and with a final shake of his head puts it back into his pocket. Over three weeks ago how long ago it seems. I wonder how the poor child is getting on. Hearing a sound in the passage he hastily grabs the paper and pretends to read. Emma enters in her Sunday vest. There. The children are asleep at last. She comes round to the front of table and starts wearily collecting the remaining dishes. Em? Yes, Kelly. What are you going to do now? Clear this way, of course, and wash up. Why can't Cathy do that? Oh, Cathy is in her room, doing her hair. What she want to do her hair for? I expect she wants to go out, but I'll have a word to say to her about that. Don't you think you've done enough work on a sweltering day like this? You sit down and read the paper. Likely, with all the washing up to do. I'm going to wash up. He rises. Ah, nonsense. I like it. Taking her by the arm and leading her to the easy chair. You haven't been off your feet all day. That's true, and they do swell so this hot weather. I'll just give them a rest. That's right. Now, I won't be ten minutes, and then we can have a nice long chat. What on earth about? Oh, about everything. Why, we've talked about everything for twenty years, Kelly. There isn't much left to talk about, is there? She sits. No. You see, we've said all the things we ever wanted to say. That's true. Well, here's the paper. He gives her the paper, collects the dishes, and takes them out. Emma, eagerly taking up the paper and reading. The wife of Eric Snupper of a girl. That makes the eighth. All girls, too. I call it positively indecent. Marriages. Nobody I ever even heard of. Ah, cheap sale of corsets. Simply slaughtered at ridiculous prices. Four and eleven pants happening. Mine won't be worn out till after Christmas, and then corsets will be up again. Oh, so that's the new style of skirt. I wonder how one of these hobbles would suit me. At least I've got something to hobble. Ah, here's a society wedding. Why the bright stress was something like mine was. Putting down the paper. Hmm, now where did I put that clipping about my wedding? I know I kept it. She rises and searches in the machine drawer. Galahad returns with his wife's apron tied round his waist and his sleeves rolled up. He begins to collect the remaining dishes. What have you lost, Emma? Emma, failing to find the clipping in the sewing machine, she searches the drawers of the sideboard. I just thought I'd look up the account of our wedding. Our wedding? I knew I'd put it away somewhere. She sits examining some papers and picks up a faded portrait. Why, that's John, and we haven't been to see his grave for years. What a fat little chap he was, Gallie. I always thought he'd grow up the image of you. Ah, well, perhaps he's better off. Galahad takes the photograph reverently and gazes at it, then puts it down on her lap. Poor little chap. We'll go out next Sunday and put some flowers on his grave. Why, we've almost forgotten him, haven't we? There, there. That's all over long ago. Somehow I never seem to have time to fret nowadays. The children keep me busy. And yet at the time... Hastily picking up an envelope and taking from it a baby's lock of fair hair. His hair. Perhaps it was Cathy's. No, it looks more like Toddy's. I wonder which it is. Ah, well, when you've brought up five, you forget. She puts it back into the envelope and picks up a newspaper clipping. Here it is. She reads it, Gallahad looking at it over her shoulder. It was a pretty wedding, wasn't it? The bride's tall, pretty rounded figure. Well, nobody calls me tall nowadays. Though I've not shrunk, have I? Just filled out a bit, I'm comfortable looking. Like every other happy married woman. Happy? Yes, I suppose that's it. Its worry makes you thin, and I defy everybody to say I ever worried. She puts it down and picks up a ball programme. A ball programme? Kelly fancy me keeping that. Oh. Reading it and pointing it out to Gallahad. G.J., G.J., G.J., all the way down. Didn't I dance with anybody else that night? I know I had no other partners. I used to just love dances. But they're too heating now. But that night you said I was the lightest dancer in the hall. Did I? So you were. My marriage lines. Picking up a blue paper. Well, I've got that anyhow. Which is more than certain ladies in this street can say for themselves. Gallahad leaning over and picking up an envelope. What's this? He takes out a dried sprig of blossom and, puzzled, smells it. A better baronia. That very identical sprig of baronia you gave me that day. The one I pinned in my blouse. She eagerly smells it. No, I pinned it in for you. So you did, now I remember. So I kept that and put it carefully away and forgot all about it. Well, well, marriage does knock the romance out a few, doesn't it? Looking over the papers. That's all, except some old letters. Why, that cattle will be boiling itself dry. He ambles out, taking the remaining dishes with him. Em, picking up a bundle of letters, tied with a black bootlace. Gallie's letters to me? No, I tied them up with a garter. A dress to Gallahad Jones Esquire? A woman's hand. Now who's been writing to my Gallie? And he kept her letters and never told me. Nasty, bold-hand writing, too. She unties the lace. The postmark? Relieved. Over twenty years ago. Well, she must be over fourteen now. Why, she was writing to him at the very time he was writing to me. The year we were engaged. That is seaver. And all the time I thought I was the only one. I'll see who she was, anyhow. Hurriedly opening the first envelope and putting it down with a gasp of relief. My letters. My letters to Gallie. And I didn't recognise my own handwriting. It's changed out of all recognition. Well, well... With childish delight. So he kept them all, even to this scrap written on a leaf of the prayer-book that I passed to him in church. But how I must have changed, too. Gallie must have noticed it. The lightest stanza in the hall. And now... No wonder Gallie went climbing walls after strange women. She rises determinedly. But never again. I'll hold him yet. I'll wear my best blouse and those open-work stockings. I'll be more fluffy with my hair. Even husbands like fluffy hair. Though, of course, it's only untidy hair. I've seen him passing his hand over Cathy's hair. And I've got more hair than ever Cathy had. Hers is mostly pad. And in this hot weather open-work stockings are really much cooler. A crush comes from the kitchen. Ah! Heavens! Gallie had enters, still in the apron, carrying a broken meat plate. Only the best meat plate. Of all the clumsy... It slipped. I've finished the things myself. You can't trust a man. I've finished them. I'll accept this. Hang up the dishcloth to dry? Yes. Turned out the gas? Yes. Oh well. Wonder you didn't wake the children. I'll just go and make sure. Of all the noisy clumsy... She goes off taking the broken dish. Muttering. Gallie had with a despairing gesture. What's the use? What's the use of trying to be romantic? He lights the gas. Cassie comes in, in underscirt and slip bodice, with her hair half done. The pad showing. Father, Mum says I can't go out tonight. And I promise to go for a walk. And I'm newly dressed. I can, can't I? You must do as your mother tells you, Cassie. Well, you don't. What do you want to go out for? Just a stroll. It's so hot inside. Who with? Oh, a girl. It's pretty dull at home, isn't it? Is it? Um, I suppose it is. But if your mother says... Oh, mother. What does she know of, of romance? More than you do, child. Why, when she was in love with me... Mum, in love with you, Father? It seems ridiculous, doesn't it? What is funny in a girl being in love with me? Oh, I, I didn't mean that, Father. Only, if I fell in love, it would be with a man that... Oh, big and strong and beautiful. With a stern chin and nice creased trousers. But I can never believe that you and Mum could really be in love like I could be. Of course you like each other, but in love? Passionately in love? I can't help it, Father. It does seem so funny. Not at all. Why, we are in love with each other now. Well, you don't show it. No, perhaps we don't need to. It's not what I call love. I don't think people can be in love when they're married. I'd like a man to be in love with me always. And I'd never marry him. Just keep him wretched and spurn him. Oh, here's Mum. Em returns. I can go out tonight, can't I? That you can't, so there. To Gullahud. She's going out to meet a man. No, it's a girl. Fiddlesticks. I simply must go. I promised, Father. Father. Settle it yourselves. No, you must put your foot down. Kathy, putting her arms round Gullahud. Father, if you don't let me go now, I'm nearly trust. I'll... She weeps. Oh, if she cries, I know how it will end. There, there, Kathy, don't cry. You'll spoil your pretty eyes. You can go out tonight, as you promised. It'll be cooler outside, but you must be in by ten. Kathy, instantly stopping her tears. Oh, you're a dear old dad. I can't understand anybody being in love with you. I'll promise to be him by ten, and I've only just got time to finish dressing. She runs off blithely. That's so like a man. A woman only has to cry, and she is off to meet a man. That's why I let her go. Of all the... The lies, she told, seeing it was a girl. Am, don't you remember how hard it was for you to get out at night to meet me? Don't you remember the yarns you told your mother? Oh, that's different. Everything's different when you forget. But why can't she confide in her mother? Oh, this little secret of hers is the best part of the fun for her. Don't you remember how proud we were of our cleverness in keeping our great secret to ourselves? It was great fun, and we found out afterwards that mother knew all the time. I expect we're getting old, Gally. We've forgotten so much. It does seem hard for us to keep Kathy in at night. It's different with us. Yes, we've had our little romance. Let Kathy have hers. A romance? The man's always prating about romance. And I should think you've had enough of romance. That night, over three weeks ago, with the cold you caught climbing walls. Well, nothing happened, you see. Nobody said a word. There's nothing in the paper about trespass and assaulting people in their gardens. I must have lost my medal before I got over that wall. And the policeman gave me quite a friendly nod the other morning. Well, whatever it was, it's been a lesson to you. I notice you haven't suggested going fishing again. No, I've had enough of fishing. I'm glad it's all blown over. Do you know, M, for a fortnight after, every time I heard a knock at the door, I thought it was a policeman coming to arrest me? A loud double-knock sounds. A knock? Somebody at the door at this hour? Oh, M, if I've been found out, if it's a policeman with handcuffs. Not since. I'll look after you. I'd just like to see a policeman arrest you. You'd better go and see who it is. The knock is repeated. No, I don't. You go. Yes, I'll go. I'll send a dozen policemen pecking. She goes. Galahad, waiting in suspense, suddenly discovered he has her apron on and tears it off. M returns. It's a man, a strange man, not in uniform. A detective? How bring him in? M does so, returning with the butcher. He is in ordinary clothes and is vigorously mopping his perspiring face. Mr. Jones? Straith, if it ain't the bloke I met in the garden. My name is Jones. It's your son, then, I want. Galahad, Jones. My son's name isn't Galahad. I'm Galahad, Jones. Yeah? Man, are you all right? Married to, and a family? I'm surprised at ya. There. I knew he was deceiving me. What do you want to see me about? I'd better see ya. With a look at M. In private. Are you a detective? Lord, no. I'm a butcher. Oh! I'm not one to stay where my company isn't wanted. Remember, if you want help, Gally, I'm just in the kitchen. She makes a dignified exit. You're the bloke, all right. You're the one I saw in the garden. That night the old bloke chased us. Oh! And you were in that there's summerhouse. With that there, peace. Old enough to be her father. Women are funny. But I won't give ya away, old chap. I'm soon a bit of skirting that there garden myself. Honor among thieves, eh? What's your message, quick? Only this. He produces a letter. Chuck dove the garden wall to me yesterday, as I was delivering the meat. They're always throwing their love letters at me feet. But when I opened this one, I found another envelope inside, addressed to you. All she wrote to me was a note telling me to deliver it, for God's sake, at once. I couldn't find out your private address till this afternoon. Yes, it's her handwriting. Take a seat. Gullhard owned pencil letter and reeds. My brave knight. Rapidly he scans it and is overcome with consternation. My God, to die? Anxiously to the butcher. Look here, what am I to do? Gullhard reads. My brave knight. I haven't seen Horace since that night. He must be ill, and soon, very soon, it will be too late. That day I first met you. I overheard the doctor tell father that I had only three weeks to live. The three weeks were up on Friday, and I feel that the doctor was right. But I cannot die without seeing Horace once more. You must bring him to me tomorrow night, at all costs, it must be tomorrow night. I have been getting weaker and weaker, but it is my anxiety about Horace that is killing me. If I can only see him, I shall be all right again. So I must again appeal to you, the only person who can help me, my knight, my so-galahad, Sybil. The poor kid's gonna die? And I thought you and her... That Horace, the cad, never been to see her, the brute, and she's dying for the sight of him. Oh, and I don't even know his private address. And it's Sunday. Look here. You and I are the only friends she's got. You've got to help me find that cad. Righto! Poor little kid. What's his other name? Lothian. He's in Blau's warehouse. But how can we find out his private address? No, it's hopeless. I'll tell you what. I'll go tonight and keep her alive on lies till tomorrow. And then we'll bring Horace to the garden. He can't love her if he won't see her and make him swear he loves her. But over three weeks? Doctors don't know everything. It's her love that's keeping her alive. It's her love that will save her yet. Meet me tonight at eight o'clock at the end of the lane. I want you in case anything happens. Righto! Oh, mon. I ate a clock? So long. The butcher departs. Gala had to see some out in returns, calling as he enters. Em? Em comes in. Well? I've got to go out in half an hour. I've got an important appointment. Fishing? Erm, er, yes. Over walls, I suppose. Well, galley, you're not going. But I tell you I must. It's a matter of life and death. I've heard that yarn before. You're going to meet that creature with the chemical hair that lives in the garden and gets married men into trouble. I won't have it. So there. Erm, you must trust me tonight. Oh, I'll trust you all right. But I won't give you your boots. My boots? He'd look at his socks. You wouldn't keep my boots? Oh, wouldn't I? I'm going to save you from yourself, galley. I'm going to save you from a life of sin. Erm. You can't go out meeting a creature with chemical hair in your socks. If you want your boots, you'll have to climb over my dead body. Erm. I'll go and lock him up now. She pauses as a knock comes to the door. Oh, who's that? It's the policeman. But I don't care now. Well, I'll go and see. I'd rather see you handcuffed than in your boots. She goes out and returns, showing in Mr. Beach. Mr. Beach? Yes, Mr. Jones. I've come to see you on an important matter. Alone. Erm, protectively putting a hand on Gullagant's shoulder. We are one. Erm, this is Mr. Beach, my bank manager. Mr. Beach, my wife. Beach shakes her hand. Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Beach. I thought you were detective. To Gullagant. Anyhow, I'll lock up them boots. She goes out. Please sit down, Mr. Beach. I've a little matter to discuss with you. Wouldn't it do tomorrow at the office, sir? It won't wait. Producing a silver medal. Do you recognise this? It looks rather like a medal. You sent you to wear a medal on your watch chain? Yes, but I must have lost it. And I've found it. You will not venture to deny that this is yours. I see by the inscription that it was bestowed by the Poultry Society of Sydney, 1894, to Gullagant Jones. Second prize in Buff Orpington's. He hands it to Gullagant. Yes, it's my poultry medal. I used to go in for Buff Orpington, sir. I'm very pleased that you found it, sir. I value it very much. It's the only medal I ever won. Thank you, sir. And now, Mr. Jones, will you kindly explain how this Buff Orpington medal was found in my garden? I'm afraid, sir, I cannot explain. Listen, Mr. Jones, some scoundrel knocked me down in my own garden one night three weeks ago. I could not identify him at the time, but the finding of this medal this morning explains it. It must have been you, though I thought it was a bigger man. What were you doing in my garden that night, and why did you so savagely assault your manager? I would tell you, sir, if only I were concerned, but I've been sworn to secrecy for the sake of the other party I cannot speak. You mean you won't? Very well, Mr. Jones. I could have you arrested and punished for trespass and assault. I know it, sir. And you refuse to explain? You could put me in jail, Mr. Beech, but I cannot break my solemn oath. Beech, leaning back in his chair with a gesture of defeat, then, in a tone of appeal, Now, Mr. Jones, I must tell you why I ask this explanation. I ask it, I do not demand it. My daughter, my only daughter, is seriously ill. The doctors say that her only chance not of life, but of slight prolongation of life, is perfect seclusion and quiet. Any excitement would be at once fatal. So as her father I must protect her from any possibility of shock. She had a foolish love affair, a childish infatuation, which I had to stop. Why, sir? God knows, now that she is so soon to go from me. I would give in to her in everything, but the doctor told me that with her excitable temperament it would be criminal to let her see her lover again. Who is he, sir? What's his address? I don't even know his name. I must keep her as long as I can, and each day she gets weaker. She is slipping away from me each hour. And there is something behind all this, something I know nothing about, something that threatens. I am in the dark, horribly in the dark. She had told me nothing, and I dare not excite her by questioning her. Your presence in my garden that night might have killed her. Won't you help me now to save her a little while longer? No, no, Mr. Beach. She confided her little secret in me. She picked me out of all the world to sucker her, and she made me swear to keep her secret. I am responsible only to her. Can't you trust me, sir, to act for the best, for her best? But, man, the thing is serious. She is not a moment to waste. She does not know how soon she must die. She does know. She knows? Knows that perhaps she hasn't another day to live? She overheard the doctor tell you three weeks ago. She knew then? She knows now? She knows. But how do you know? She told me. She knew all the time, and I have kept even a hint of it from her? Was that wise, sir, to keep her in ignorance and let her little life slip away without her knowledge? To let her last days go by in commonplace things? There must have been so much she wanted to do, so many last messages to send, so many friends to see, and you would let her go into the dark like a train into the blackness of a tunnel? Mr. Beach, was she happy? Beach, almost collapsing into his chair. Happy? God knows I meant her to be happy. I did right, surely I did right, not to tell her the truth. And she knew, and never told me. All the time she had that dreadful secret to carry by herself, and I might have helped her. She seemed so happy, so ignorantly happy. She had some other secret against which even the knowledge of her death was powerless. How could she be so happy and dying? She was happy and living. She may have been living these last days to the utmost, getting out of every minute a year of the fullest life. But what have you to do with my daughter? For God's sake, tell me what you know. How can I go on in the dark? No. I can't trust you to do what is best for Sybil. You would spoil it all. You do not understand. Till she releases me, I must do what I think best. Then I'll fight you in the dark. You'll take the consequences. I must, sir. I could have you jailed. You won't get anything out of me, sir. Of course. In my daughter's position I can't risk any publicity. But I can punish you and prevent you interfering with my daughter's one chance of life. Yes, sir. I shall be obliged, Mr. Jones, if you would send in your resignation from the bank at once. Certainly, sir. And I've taken steps to prevent anyone entering my garden again. The gates kept locked, and the walls have broken bottles on them. Good night. Good night, sir. I'll show you out. He does so. In returns. It's a rise. He's given Gellie a rise. Gallahad returns. It's all up to him. I'm dismissed from the bank. Got the chuck. Dismissed? Yes. That was the man I knocked over. Your manager? You knocked Mr. Beach down? And blacked his eye. I'm embracing him with pride. Oh, my noble Gellie! I always knew that you could fight. Oh, the whole street shall hear of it. But I've got to send my resignation in, to-morrow. What's that matter? You're too good for a bank. Why, they haven't given you a rise for six years. You can get another job. At my age. And all I know is how to count cancelled banknotes. Well, I'll work. We'll take that little shop at the corner. Shopkeeping? I say I'm as hardly respectable. You talk of respectability. Going around blacking people's eyes. We'll manage somehow. I am. I am. Kissing her. And I won't want my boots tonight. Oh, my own. She returns his kiss. Kathy enters, dressed for going out in her Sunday best. Kissing? Mum! I am surprised. It doesn't seem decent somehow. I'm shamefully standing apart. Nothing to be ashamed of, is there? I've never seen you do it before. Father, I've just run in to thank you for letting me go out. Do I look nice? Very trim, Kathy. Trim? Oh, Lord! Well, pretty. But my girl is always pretty. Really? Do I look smart? Smart? Of course you always do. Fine feathers. You spend every penny on your back. Softening. And even that's undone. Come here. She buttons up, Kathy's blouse. Now, you be in by ten. Suddenly struck. Oh, and I forgot to boil the milk. You haven't said a word about my hat. Very trim. I mean, smart. It is smart, isn't it? I trimmed it myself. It's a second hand model. I'll give you a kiss for liking it, Father. She does so. And now, as you've let me go out tonight, I'll tell you something. It's a man I'm going to meet. He's in love with me. And I... Oh, any girl simply couldn't help loving him. He's so nice and well-dressed and always wears his trousers turned up. He really loves you, Kathy? He asked me to marry him as soon as he gets a rise in his screw. Who is he? Oh, I don't think I could tell you his name yet. I don't think Horace would... Come on, springing up. Horace? Is his name Horace? I suppose I must tell you. It's such an aristocratic-sounding name. Horace Lothian. In love with my Kathy. Yes. He's bringing the ring tonight. Bringing you the ring? Why, Father, what's ever come over you? You don't mean to say that you know anything against Horace. Where are you to meet him? At the end of the street, where you used to fish. When? At eight o'clock. Why, it must be nearly that now. Kathy, you can't see him tonight. I'll go instead. No! It's my duty to see whether he's the right sort for my Kathy to marry. I've heard something about him carrying on with another girl. Oh, he told me all about that. Her name's Sybil. She's in love with him, but he's not in love with her. Besides, he hasn't seen her for a month, and he's promised me not to see her ever again. I must see him. I can't have any harm come to my Kathy. I dare say it'll be all right, and if it is, I'll tell him that he can call it tomorrow night for you. No, it's only one day, Kathy. But he's got the ring, and I don't even know whether it's pearls yet. She weeps. He'll bring it tomorrow, and I'll be back before ten. Wait up, and I'll bring a message to you. Oh, well. I suppose I must. Galahad suddenly determined. Em? Em comes in. My boots. Your boots? I said boots. You're not going out after all. Now that you've lost your job and everything. Nothing matters now. I'm not a bank clerk any more. I'm Galahad. Sir, Galahad, and if anybody opposes me, I'll knock them down. Lord, whatever's come over the man. It's the heat. I've got my duty to do. I'm going out to interview Kathy's young man. Kathy will stay with you. My boots. Gally, I don't believe you. You're going out to meet that creature with the chemical hair. My boots. Kathy slips out. Never. Except over my dead body. Well, if it must be murder, you brought it on yourself. Woman, I have a secret duty to fulfil. Not all the wives in Elizabeth Bay would hinder me. Magnificently with lifted arm. My boots. Em suddenly capitulating in a fright. Gally, if you really want them, of course. Kathy comes in with the boots. Em, taking them from Kathy. Here they are. Nicely polished, too. Galahad, seizing them, sitting in the chair and putting one boot on. Now. Em, timidly coming and bending over him. Gally, let me lace them up for you. Tie that one quick. Em kneels in front of him and does so. He is mean time lacing the other. My coat and hat. Em goes for them. To Kathy. At the end of the street, you said. Looks at his watch. A date? Why? It's that now. Em enters with Galahad's coat and hat. She puts the coat on, then the hat, straightens it lovingly and caressingly settles his tie. You'll want your stick, won't you? No. I can use my fists. Proudly. Sir Galahad. He goes out. My Gally. How noble he looked. He looked like that on our wedding day. The Queen of England would fall in love with him. Suddenly suspicious. Yes, and other women. Women with chemical hair. Quick, Kathy. We're going out, too. Get my hat, the picture hat, and my dress bag. It's too hot for gloves. Why, Mom? Where are we going? After Father. Curtain. End of Act Three.