Night Must Fall | Page 3

forgotten the meaning of the word. (To OLIVIA) What's the matter
with your face?
OLIVIA (_startled_): I--I really don't know.
MRS. BRAMSON: It's as long as my arm.
OLIVIA (_drily_): I'm afraid it's made like that.
_She crosses the room, and comes back again._
MRS. BRAMSON: What are you walking up and down for? What's the
matter with you? Aren't you happy here?
OLIVIA: It's a bit lonely, but I'll get used to it.
MRS. BRAMSON: Lonely? All these lovely woods? What are you
talking about? Don't you like nature?
NURSE: Will that be all for to-day?
MRS. BRAMSON: I suppose it'll have to be.

NURSE (_rising and taking her bag from the sofa_): Well, I've that
confined lady still waiting in Shepperley. (_Going into the hall_)
Toodle-oo!
MRS. BRAMSON: Mind you call again Wednesday. In case my
neuritis sets in again.
NURSE (_turning in the hall_): I will that. And if paralysis pops up, let
me know. Toodle-oo!
_She marches cheerily out of the front door._
MRS. BRAMSON _cannot make up her mind if the last remark is
sarcastic or not. She concentrates on_ OLIVIA.
MRS. BRAMSON: You know, you mustn't think just because this
house is lonely you're going to get a rise in salary. Oh, no.... I expect
you've an idea I'm worth a good bit of money, haven't you?... It isn't my
money you're after, is it?
OLIVIA (_setting chairs to rights round the table_): I'm sorry, but my
sense of humour can't stand the strain. I'll have to go.
MRS. BRAMSON: Can you afford to go?
OLIVIA (_after a pause, controlling herself_): You know I can't.
MRS. BRAMSON: Then don't talk such nonsense. Clear the breakfast
things.
OLIVIA _hesitates, then crosses to the kitchen door._
(_Muttering_): Sense of humour indeed, never heard of such a thing....
OLIVIA (_at the door_): Mrs. Terence, will you clear away?
_She goes to the left window, and looks out._
MRS. BRAMSON: You wait, my girl. Pride comes before a fall. Won't
catch a husband with your nose in the air, you know.
OLIVIA: I don't want a husband.
MRS. BRAMSON: Don't like men, I suppose? Never heard of them, I
suppose? Don't believe you. See?
OLIVIA (_resigned_): I see. It's going to be a fine day.
MRS. BRAMSON (_taking up "East Lynne" from the table_): It'll
cloud over, I expect.
OLIVIA: I don't think so. The trees look beautiful with the sun on them.
Everything looks so clean. (_Lifting up three books from the window
seat_) Shall I pack the other half of Mrs. Henry Wood?
MRS. BRAMSON: Mrs. Henry Wood? Who's Mrs. Henry Wood? Pack
the other half of Mrs. Henry Wood? What are you talking about?

OLIVIA: She wrote your favourite book--East Lynne.
MRS. BRAMSON (_looking at her book_): Oh ... (Picking a paper out
of it.) What's this? (_Reading ponderously_) A sonnet. "The flame of
passion is not red but white, not quick but slow--"
OLIVIA (_going to her and snatching it from her with a cry_): Don't!
MRS. BRAMSON: Writing poetry! That's a hobby and a half, I must
say! "Flame of passion ..." _well!_
OLIVIA (_crossing to the fireplace_): It's only a silly poem I amused
myself with at college. It's not meant for anybody but me.
MRS. BRAMSON: You're a dark horse, you are.
MRS. TERENCE _enters from the kitchen. She is the cook,
middle-aged, Cockney, and fearless. She carries a bunch of roses_.
MRS. TERENCE (_grimly_): Would you be wanting anything?
MRS. BRAMSON: Yes. Clear away.
MRS. TERENCE: That's Dora's job. Where's Dora?
OLIVIA: She's gone into the clearing for some firewood.
MRS. BRAMSON: You can't expect the girl to gather firewood with
one hand and clear breakfast with the other. Clear away.
MRS. TERENCE (_crossing to the table, under her breath_): All right,
you sour-faced old hag.
HUBERT drops his pipe. MRS. BRAMSON winces and looks away.
MRS. TERENCE clears the table.
HUBERT (to OLIVIA): What--what was that she said?
MRS. TERENCE: She 'eard. And then she 'as to save 'er face and
pretend she 'asn't. She knows nobody but me'd stay with 'er a day if I
went.
MRS. BRAMSON: She oughtn't to talk to me like that. I know she
steals my sugar.
MRS. TERENCE: That's a living lie. (_Going round to her_) Here are
your roses.
MRS. BRAMSON: You've cut them too young. I knew you would.
MRS. TERENCE (_taking up her tray and starting for the kitchen_):
Then you come out and pick the ones you want, and you'll only 'ave
yourself to blame.
MRS. BRAMSON: That's a nice way to talk to an invalid.
MRS. TERENCE: If you're an invalid, I'm the Prince of Wales.
She goes back into the kitchen.

OLIVIA: Would you like me to read some more?
BRAMSON: No. I'm upset for the day now. I'd