The Mousetrap

The trouble is there are no proper employers nowadays. Nobody who knows what’s what. Those who have the money to employ servants don’t appreciate what a good servant is.

DORIS. (Moving to the armchair Left Centre) My dad says I ought to call myself a domestic help. (She tidies the cushion on the armchair.)

GUDGEON. (Moving above the sofa) That’s about all you are. (He leans over the back of the sofa and tidies the cushions.) Let me tell you, my girl, you’re very lucky to be in a household where wine glasses are used in the proper way, and where the master and mistress appreciate highly technical skill. (He moves to the chair down Right and tidies the cushion.) There aren’t many employers left who’d even notice if you went the wrong way round the table.

DORIS. (Moving to the fireplace) I still think her ladyship does funny things. (She picks up the full ashtray from the mantelpiece.) Picking up that lobster, now.

GUDGEON. (Crossing below the sofa to Right of the armchair Left Centre) Her ladyship is somewhat forgetful, not to say absentminded, but in this house I see to it that everything possible is done to spare her ladyship trouble and annoyance.

(The sound of a motorcar horn is heard off.)

(He crosses to the drinks table, picks up the tea-cloth, then crosses to Left Centre and picks up MIDGE’s suitcase.) That will be Doctor and Mrs. Cristow. Go upstairs and be ready to help Simmonds with the unpacking.

DORIS. (Moving to the door Left and opening it) Yes, Mr. Gudgeon. (She starts to exit.)

GUDGEON. (Reprovingly) Ah-ah!

DORIS. (With a step back) Oh! (She holds the door open.)

GUDGEON. (Crossing to the door Left) Thank you.

(A clock strikes seven. He exits Left. DORIS follows him off, leaving the door open.)

(After the fourth stroke. Off Left) Good evening, sir.

JOHN. (Off Left) Good evening, Gudgeon. How are you?

GUDGEON. (Off Left) Good evening, madam. Very well, thank you, sir.

GERDA. (Off Left). Good evening, Gudgeon.

(GUDGEON enters Left and ushers in JOHN and GERDA CRISTOW. JOHN is a good-looking man of thirty-eight with a dynamic personality, but is somewhat brusque in manner. GERDA is timid and rather stupid. She carries an arty leather handbag.)

GUDGEON. (As he enters) Will you come through, madam.

GERDA (Crossing to Left Centre) Very warm, still.

GUDGEON. Still very warm, madam. I hope you had a pleasant drive down.

(JOHN crosses to Centre.)

GERDA. Yes, thank you.

GUDGEON. (Closing the door) I think her ladyship is in the garden, sir. (He crosses to Right) I’ll inform her that you’ve arrived.

JOHN. Thank you, Gudgeon.

(GUDGEON exits Right.)

(He goes out on to the terrace up Centre and looks off Left) Mm, wonderful to get out of town into this.

GERDA. (Easing to Right of the armchair Left Centre; flatly) Yes, it’s very nice.

JOHN. God, I hate being penned up in London. Sitting in that blasted consulting room, listening to whining women. How I hate sick people!

GERDA. Oh, John, you don’t mean that.

JOHN. I loathe illness.

GERDA. If you hated sick people, you wouldn’t be a doctor, would you, dear?

JOHN. (Moving above the sofa) A man doesn’t become a doctor because he has a partiality for sick people. It’s the disease that’s interesting, not the patient. (He crosses to Right, and studies the piece of sculpture on the pedestal.) You have odd ideas, Gerda.

GERDA. But you do like curing people.

JOHN. (Turning) I don’t cure them. (He moves and sits on the sofa at the Right end.) Just hand out faith, hope and probably a laxative. Oh, good Lord, I’m tired.