WIFE: You know.
HUSBAND: I don’t.
WIFE: I don’t want to talk about it.
HUSBAND: What?
WIFE: You know. The goings on. Just leave me be.
JOHN CLARE: [Slowly and with deliberation.] Do you know who I am? [HUSBAND continues to stare at WIFE who glares into the fog.] I ask not out of wounded vanity, but more in the true spirit of investigation. I’ve a fancy I might be Lord Byron, though it strikes me now I hear it spoke aloud that Byron would most surely not say such a thing. If that is so, then otherwise it may be I am King William the Fourth, in which case I would be obliged for news as to what year we suffer presently, and if my pretty Vicky is still Queen. Please take your time about it. It’s a thing of no great consequence, my true identity, as long as it is somebody well thought-of.
HUSBAND: Goings on? What goings on? [WIFE does not reply. He stares at her for a few moments then gives up and looks down at his shoes in silence. CLARE looks from one to the other, hopeful of further conversation. When none is forthcoming, he sags dejectedly.]
JOHN CLARE: [Sighs heavily.] Oh, never mind. Sorry I’ve bothered you. It’s just a game that I’ve come up with for when no one’s here to talk to. Tell you what, I’ll leave you both alone and mind my business. [CLARE turns and begins to shuffle back towards his alcove. Halfway there he turns and looks back over his shoulder at the couple on the steps.] Do you know, sometimes I think I am the statue with stone wings atop the Town Hall up the road, and it in turn is everyone? [The couple do not respond. CLARE shakes his head sadly then continues on towards the alcove, w
here he once more takes his seat. There is a long silence during which the piano music from off finishes abruptly halfway through a bar. Nobody reacts.]
HUSBAND: [Eventually.] Look, I’m as in the dark as you are. As for goings on, not that I’m saying I’m aware of any, that’s just life as far as I’m concerned. In life, you’ll always get a lot of goings on. And highly strung young girls, they can have funny turns –
WIFE: There’s goings on and goings on. That’s all I’m saying.
HUSBAND: Celia, look at me.
WIFE: I can’t.
HUSBAND: The chances are, what all this will turn out to be, she’s on her rags.
WIFE: [Turning to him angrily.] You bloody liar. You heard what she shouted.
HUSBAND: What?
WIFE: You heard.
HUSBAND: I didn’t.
WIFE: Everybody heard. They could have heard her in Far Cotton. “When the grass is whispering over me, then you’ll remember.” Well? Remember what? What did she mean? To me, it sounds a funny thing to say.
HUSBAND: Well, that’s … that’s just the song-words, isn’t it? The song that she was playing –
WIFE: You know that those aren’t the words. And you know what you’ve done.
HUSBAND: You mean these goings on of yours?
WIFE: They’re not my goings on. They’re yours. That’s all I’m saying. [While they talk, JOHN BUNYAN enters from off right beneath the portico behind them, dressed in dusty, drab 17th-century attire. He does not appear to notice CLARE sat in the shadows of his alcove, but instead pauses to listen to the bickering couple on the steps with a puzzled frown.]
HUSBAND: I’ve done nothing anyone in my position wouldn’t do. You haven’t got the first idea of what it’s like, with my responsibilities for managing the band. All of the travelling around together, there’s an intimacy that develops over time, I’ll grant you that, but –
WIFE: I dare say there’s intimacy! So, am I to take it you admit that there’s been goings on?
HUSBAND: I don’t know what you mean. What do you mean by goings on?
WIFE: I mean the other.
HUSBAND: What?
WIFE: The slap and tickle.
HUSBAND: I’m not getting you.