A monologue from the play by Harold Pinter
MARIA (fifties)
Do you remember me? I was your mother’s best friend. You’re both so tall. I remember you when you were little boys.
And Bridget of course. I once took you all to the Zoo, with your father. We had tea. Do you remember? I used to come to tea, with your mother.
We drank so much tea in those days! My three are all in terribly good form. Sarah’s doing marvelously well and
Lucien’s thriving at the Consulate and as for Susannah, there’s no stopping her. But don’t you remember the word games we all used to play?
Then we’d walk across the Common. That’s where we met Ralph. He was refereeing a football match. He did it,
oh I don’t know, with such aplomb, such command. Your mother and I were so . . . impressed. He was always ahead of the game.
He knew where the ball was going before it was kicked. Osmosis. I think that’s the word. He’s still as osmotic as anyone I’ve ever come across.
Much more so, of course. Most people have no osmotic quality whatsoever. But of course in those days – I won’t deny it –
I had a great affection for your father. And so had your mother – for your father.
Your father possessed little in the way of osmosis but nor did he hide his blushes under a barrel. I mean he wasn’t a pretender, he didn’t waste precious time.
And how he danced. How he danced. One of the great waltzers. An elegance and grace long gone. A firmness and authority so seldom encountered.
And he looked you directly in the eye. Unwavering. As he swirled you across the floor. A rare gift. But I was young in those days.
So was your mother. Your mother was marvelously young and quickening every moment. I – I must say –
particularly when I saw your mother being swirled across the floor by your father – felt buds breaking out all over the place.
I thought I’d go mad.
