Three Plays Read online

  EDWARD: I have read that story before.

  BRONWYN: It’s a narrative I like to trot out at interviews. Not that I believe a narrative can ever represent a life. Imagined lands – that is all we are, all we have access to.

  EDWARD: Yes, that is a recurring theme in your work. And yet you have spent your whole life trying to represent other lives, and writing narratives about them.

  BRONWYN: Imagined lands are not the same as imaginary lands, Dr Smith. I never tried to represent alternative realities. The one around me always sufficed. And even that became increasingly impossible to represent.

  EDWARD: You are too modest.

  BRONWYN: Too modest? No, I don’t think so. But I try to be honest.

  Silence.

  BRONWYN: Where did you grow up?

  EDWARD: The same suburb as Emily. Just around the corner from where you lived, in fact. You see my father was a gardener.

  BRONWYN: And yet you found your way to Edinburgh?

  EDWARD: I was one of the lucky few.

  BRONWYN: Now you’re being too modest. It’s quite an accomplishment.

  EDWARD: I wanted to become a doctor – and do some good. Then I read one of your novels, and then I read another, and by the time I’d read all your books I decided I wanted to study Literature instead. I wrote my PhD on your work.

  BRONWYN: You think Africa needs critics more than it needs doctors?

  EDWARD: Probably not, but I think I’m better suited to this line of work.

  BRONWYN: What was the topic of your thesis?

  EDWARD: ‘The Dialogic Imagination in the Work of Bronwyn Blackburne.’

  BRONWYN: That sounds impressive.

  EDWARD: It’s a fairly standard way of approaching your work.

  BRONWYN: Is it? I long ago stopped reading anything resembling a review.

  Silence.

  BRONWYN: These days even I find my books impossible to look at. On the few occasions I’ve peered into their pages, I’ve been filled with regret.

  EDWARD: Regret?

  BRONWYN: Each book represents a different kind of failure. You put the best of yourself into each of them – that bit of gold dust you’re given each new day – but when they come out the world simply carries on. As Auden said: poetry makes nothing happen.

  EDWARD: But your books have travelled the world. Spoken to thousands of people you will never meet, in languages you will never know. It’s impossible to measure what effect they might have had out there. They changed my life, for a start.

  BRONWYN: And is that why you want to write a book about me? Out of gratitude? That isn’t a good place to begin.

  EDWARD: I would like to write an authorised account of your life.

  Silence.

  BRONWYN: Do you think you’re the first person to darken my doorstep with such a request?

  EMILY enters with a bottle of whisky from duty free.

  EMILY: How are you two getting along?

  BRONWYN: Famously.

  She opens the bottle and pours herself a drink.

  EMILY: (To Edward.) Wouldn’t you like some whisky with that?

  EDWARD: I’m alright, thanks.

  EMILY: Mom?

  BRONWYN: Thanks.

  During the following, EMILY gives her mother a drink.

  BRONWYN: Dr Smith wants to write my biography. Did you know that?

  EMILY: (Thrown for a moment.) I had no idea. Did you agree to it?

  BRONWYN: Who knows? It’s unlikely I’ll be here after tomorrow. Would it matter either way?

  She drinks her whisky.

  EMILY: You know Edward grew up in the same suburb as us?

  BROWNYN: In Johannesburg?

  EMILY: I mean in Highlands – Harare.

  BROWNYN: You hardly grew up there, dear. We left Salisbury when you were five – or was it eight? (To Edward.) The war. My husband died at the height of it. After that I came down here and started to write.

  EMILY: (Ironic, to Edward.) Maybe you should make a note of that for your book.

  BROWNYN: I’m not going to say anything to Dr Smith that he won’t find in a good archive of my work.

  Silence.

  EDWARD: And how long do you intend to stay in Johannesburg, Emily?

  EMILY: Until my mother is back to her old self.

  BROWNYN: Well you may have long to wait.

  Silence.

  BROWNYN: Emily is applying for a job.

  EMILY: I’m only thinking about it.

  EDWARD: Where?

  EMILY: The English Department.

  EDWARD: I didn’t know they were advertising.

  EMILY: You could apply for it.

  EDWARD: Even if I wanted to –

  EMILY: Don’t worry about me. I’ve been quite comfortable in New York.

  Silence.

  BROWNYN: They’d be lucky to have her.

  EDWARD: I’m sure they would.

  BROWNYN: I’m pleased she’s planning to return home.

  EMILY: It hasn’t quite come to that.

  BROWNYN: Although I don’t know what you’re going to do about the children. What school are you intending to send them to? It isn’t so easy to find a place at a good school in Johannesburg. There are waiting lists.

  Silence.

  EMILY: Mom, you’re thinking about Jo. I don’t have children.

  BROWNYN: Of course. I knew that. (To Edward.) It’s this –

  She motions towards her head.

  EMILY: I have an older sister called Jo who lives in Australia.

  Silence.

  BROWNYN: My grandchildren recently acquired Australian accents.

  Silence.

  EMILY: You could also note that down for your book.

  Silence.

  BROWNYN: Please excuse me. (Standing up.) I think I’ll go and lie down. That whisky was probably a mistake.

  EDWARD: (Standing up.) Of course.

  BROWNYN: (As she leaves.) Emily, dear, I would like you to give Dr Smith access to the boxes in the garage.

  EMILY: You mean – you’re giving your approval to his book?

  BROWNYN: I’m giving him the opportunity to say what he thinks. (Waving her hand in his direction.) Goodbye, Dr Smith.

  EDWARD: Mrs Blackburne, I can’t tell you how grateful I am –

  BROWNYN: Then don’t. We both know you’re only doing this for yourself.

  She leaves.

  EDWARD: Did she really mean that?

  EMILY: Believe me: if she said it, she meant it.

  EDWARD: Then we have something to celebrate.

  EMILY: We do?

  Silence.

  EMILY: Why didn’t you tell me about your book?

  EDWARD: Maybe the idea only just popped into my head.

  EMILY: Somehow, I don’t believe that.

  She pours them each a shot. They clink glasses and drink.

  EMILY: She only agreed because you’re black.

  EDWARD: Really?

  EMILY: Look at her books. Black men have always been her blind spot.

  EDWARD: And her daughter?

  EMILY smiles, turns away.

  EDWARD: I’ll do her memory justice. I can promise you that.

  EMILY: You’re forgetting that she isn’t actually dead yet.

  Silence.

  EMILY: And don’t be fooled by those boxes in the garage. Those are only a ruse. You won’t find anything new.

  EDWARD: Are you implying your mother has something to hide?

  EMILY: Not necessarily.

  Silence.

  EDWARD: Has anyone ever told you that you have her eyes?

  EMILY: I was rather hoping I had my own eyes.

  EDWARD: You do.

  Silence.

  EDWARD: It must have been hard – growing up under the shadow of a mother like that.

  EMILY: Is that a question for me or your book?

  EDWARD: For you, of course.

  Silence.

  EMILY: My mother has always surrounded herself with admirers. People who
come between herself and her children. Why do you think my sister and me chose to live abroad? We didn’t run away from South Africa. We ran away from her.

  She extracts a key from behind a book.

  EDWARD: What’s that?

  EMILY: Don’t you recognise a key when you see one?

  EDWARD: A key to what?

  EMILY: (Indicating the wooden chest.) That chest.

  EDWARD: And what’s in that?

  EMILY: All her old journals.

  Silence.

  EDWARD: Have you never opened it?

  EMILY: Not since I was a child.

  EDWARD: Do you think there’s something in there? Something I should know about?

  EMILY: I am doing what she asked for: giving you the opportunity to say what you think.

  She steps forward and gives him the key.

  EMILY: Didn’t you say you came here for research?

  EDWARD: But – why me?

  EMILY: Because I have my mother’s eyes. I have a blind spot when it comes to black men.

  Silence.

  EMILY: I’ve always liked that word ‘re-search’. The idea of searching for something again and again without the prospect of ever finding it.

  He steps forward, kisses her.

  EMILY: Haven’t you seduced enough women for one night?

  Edward kisses her again.

  Blackout.

  Part Two

  BRONWYN’s sitting room. A few weeks later. Late morning. EDWARD is looking through the contents of the wooden chest. He has a pile of notebooks and photograph albums already out and is deeply absorbed in reading something.

  BRONWYN enters. She stands at the door and watches EDWARD. Her hair has been shaved off and she is wearing a simple dress. She looks smaller, diminished.

  BROWNYN: Who asked you to do that?

  EDWARD: (Standing.) Mrs Blackburne, I see you’re back on the horse!

  BROWNYN: The horse? What horse?

  EDWARD: I mean you’re up.

  BROWNYN: Have we met?

  EDWARD: I’m Edward.

  BROWNYN: Are you here for an interview?

  EDWARD: I’m your biographer.

  BROWNYN: I have a biographer?

  EDWARD: I’m writing a book about your life.

  BROWNYN: And do you think you’re up to that?

  EDWARD: I hope so.

  Silence.

  BROWNYN: You don’t look like you’ve read a book, let alone written one.

  EDWARD: Oh yes?

  BROWNYN: Let me look at your hands.

  EDWARD: My hands?

  He shows her his hands.

  BROWNYN: A man with hands like that shouldn’t write a book.

  EDWARD: And why is that?

  Silence.

  EDWARD: Too soft, perhaps? Too black?

  BROWNYN: Too ready for a fight.

  She crosses to her chair and sits.

  BROWNYN: Have we had breakfast yet?

  EDWARD: It’s almost time for lunch.

  BROWNYN: I could eat a horse. Perhaps the one you were talking about. Did you see where it went?

  EDWARD: No.

  BROWNYN: Perhaps you could go and find it for me.

  Silence.

  BROWNYN: I’m only pulling your leg, Mr – ?

  EDWARD: Dr – Edward Smith.

  BROWNYN: Smith? And how did you come by the unlikely name of Smith?

  EDWARD: That’s a long story, Mrs Blackburne. I tend not to tell it.

  During the following, he also sits. He has a notebook of his own and sometimes makes notes.

  BROWNYN: Was I away for long?

  EDWARD: You were in hospital for two weeks.

  BROWNYN: I think I can remember that.

  EDWARD: You were in a coma for several days. We thought for a while you wouldn’t emerge. Emily was beside herself with worry. We both were. But then you fought your way back.

  BROWNYN: And how long have I been at home?

  EDWARD: Some weeks now.

  Silence.

  BROWNYN: And Emily?

  EDWARD: She popped out to the shops. She made me promise to look after you.

  BROWNYN: Really? And how will you do that?

  EDWARD: (Smiling.) I have no idea. I find it hard enough to look after myself.

  Silence.

  BROWNYN: Well don’t think I’m anything like Emily. I don’t give myself away so easily.

  Silence.

  BROWNYN: People don’t realise it about her at first. She comes across as an intellectual. Indifferent to her appearance. Altogether elsewhere. But men soon work out that she is a woman – lost. And they move in on that. Poor child. She leaves herself so defenceless that men simply walk in through the front door and start helping themselves – so to speak.

  Silence.

  BROWNYN: Are you in love with her?

  EDWARD: Emily?

  Silence.

  BROWNYN: You say her name as if you’ve recently had sex with her. As if you now own a part of her. Don’t worry – all men are the same. At least in the ways that matter.

  Silence.

  BROWNYN: It was always easier to love Jo. Not that I loved Emily less, you must understand, but with Emily it was more complicated. Jo was far away, like a little yacht at sea. Emily was too close for comfort. A life jacket I could never get off.

  Silence.

  BROWNYN: I hoped she’d have children. But I suppose it’s getting a bit late for that. Do you think you might have made her pregnant?

  EDWARD: Mrs Blackburne – I’m not sure this conversation is appropriate.

  BROWNYN: I don’t know why you’re pretending to be polite. I can see at once that you can’t be trusted. For some reason you’ve already turned against me. Was it something I said? Or was it something Emily said? I sometimes think Emily will only feel satisfied when I’m dead.

  EDWARD: Why would you say that?

  BROWNYN: Because I wasn’t the mother she wanted. I was good enough for Jo, but never good enough for her.

  EDWARD: Perhaps she thinks you chose writing before her?

  BROWNYN: Is that what she said?

  EDWARD: Not in so many words.

  Silence.

  BROWNYN: I’m not sure if it’s possible to be a good mother and a good writer. And I’m not talking about someone who has managed to publish a couple of books. I’m talking about a real writer. The kind of writer who spends her whole life concentrated on little else but advancing her craft.

  EDWARD: You’re saying you have to choose?

  BROWNYN: Every day. Whenever you close your door on your children.

  Silence.

  BROWNYN: Although for me it never felt like a choice. I was like a drug addict, you see, exercising great cunning to protect my habit.

  EDWARD: At the expense of protecting your children?

  BROWNYN: I never said that.

  Silence.

  EDWARD: There was something you once wrote. Can I read it to you?

  BRONWYN shrugs.

  EDWARD: (Reading from her notebook.) ‘I had a very productive morning. Two thousand words, and half the day gone in a single glorious act of the imagination. I felt like a concert pianist at the typewriter – everything around me hushed. When I came around, my whole body still glowing, I remembered it was the school holidays. Felt immediate guilt and raced downstairs. I heard laughter and found Emily in the lounge talking to – X. Jo was playing tennis next door with Rebecca.’ Do you remember writing that?

  BROWNYN: No. Who is X?

  EDWARD: You didn’t write X. The name has been scribbled out. Do you have any idea why the name is scribbled out?

  BROWNYN: No idea.

  EDWARD: Then you carry on: ‘There was something about the scene in the lounge that struck me as odd. Emily was standing in front of ‘X’, who was sitting on the couch, his hand on her shoulder, leaning towards her as if he had just whispered something in her ear. She was standing – shy, awkward, the way children do when they have to listen to two adults talkin
g on the street and want to carry on walking. X stood abruptly when he saw me, said I’d given him a fright. I asked what they were talking about. He said nothing. He was telling her a story. I had a terrible feeling suddenly – that I had handed Emily over to something monstrous. I felt what the parents of sacrificed children must have felt. But of course this is absurd. I was no doubt infected by what I was writing, and thinking not so much of my own children as the children I was describing – starving in the Eastern Cape during the frontier wars.’ No doubt? Was there really ‘no doubt’?

  BROWNYN: What are you trying to imply, Mr Smith?

  EDWARD: I’m wondering what happened in the lounge. I’m wondering who this ‘X’ is. And I’m wondering why his name was scribbled out.

  BROWNYN: He was a poet. A black consciousness poet who was staying for a few weeks in our house.

  EDWARD: And you trusted this man?

  BROWNYN: Why would I not? He was a good man. He wrote like an angel. In fact, his writing was honoured recently by our new government.

  EDWARD: Then why did you remove his name?

  BROWNYN: I don’t recall doing so. But I suppose I wanted to protect him. I must have looked over that passage one day and decided I didn’t want his name associated with – an aspersion like that.

  EDWARD: An aspersion? You used the word ‘monstrous’. That’s quite an aspersion.

  BROWNYN: As I say, I scribbled the name out.

  EDWARD: I thought you said you didn’t.

  BROWNYN: Well – who could have if it wasn’t me?

  Silence.

  EDWARD: I’m interested by this word ‘monstrous’. You wrote a bit later in the same notebook a single sentence. ‘I often fear that most great artists are in some way monstrous.’ Were you talking about yourself or someone else?

  BROWNYN: Perhaps I was writing down an idea for a book. Perhaps the whole event you just read out to me is no more than an idea for a book. Have you considered that? I would often do that. Experiment with different voices, different attitudes. Write down possible scenarios. There are literally hundreds of such notebooks around the place. How do you know that the incident I described even took place in the outside world?

  EDWARD: Because it doesn’t read like that.

  BROWNYN: Well, I have no memory of it. For me it never took place.