Hugo in London

by Marina J. Neary

Scene 10

Ponies ‘n’ Lollipops; performers are gathering for a party. Wynfield observes the guests from the corner, one hand resting on Diana’s shoulder, another hand holding a whiskey bottle.

Enter Dr. Grant, with Brigit on his arm and Ingrid covering his eyes. They stop in the middle of the arena. Ingrid uncovers his eyes, Brigit clings to him, the guests exclaim: “Happy Birthday!”

DR. GRANT: I haven’t seen a crowd this size since Johnny Blackfeather’s funeral.

WYNFIELD (raises the bottle): Cheers, Papa-Bear!

DR. GRANT (walks towards Wynfield and Diana): Now I’m considerably disturbed. (Feels their foreheads with alarm) Are you ill?

WYNFIELD: What makes you ask, Papa-Bear?

DR. GRANT (shrugs): I don’t know. I’ve been your oppressor for how long?

DIANA: Fifteen years and two months.

DR. GRANT: And this is the first time you acknowledge my birthday. A bit out of character — don’t you think? Can you blame me for being suspicious?

WYNFIELD: Forgive us, Papa-Bear. We’ve been negligent and ungrateful. We hope it is not too late to correct our ways.

DR. GRANT: Oh, I don’t like the sound of it. You must have dreadful news to break.

WYNFIELD: From now on we’ll be humble and grateful. (To Diana): Right, wolf-cub?

DIANA: My back aches — must be angel wings cutting through.

DR. GRANT: Now I’ll feel guilty about tormenting you — which must’ve been your plan all along. So, what do you want from me — a blessing in marriage?

DIANA: We got it already from Reverend Barclay. He spits out blessings left and right. He’ll wed a dog to a lamppost if you pay him.

DR. GRANT: This is far worse than I thought. After all these years of clandestine fornication you decide to have your union blessed? What’s next — having your future brats baptized? You must be plotting my overthrow.

WYNFIELD: I swear to you, it’s only a birthday celebration.

DR. GRANT (shrugs): In that case... Fetch me a drink! (To Ingrid and Brigit): Ladies, keep me warm. It’s my party. Make yourselves useful. Enter Jocelyn, escorted by Officer Crippen and his two policemen.

DR. GRANT: Miss Stuart! What brings you here?

JOCELYN: The opera was such a bore. I had to escape. Where do I hang my overcoat?

She opens her overcoat, exposing an opulent evening gown and a necklace.

CRIPPEN (stretches his hand forward): Make way for the Duchess of Clarence!

Jocelyn steps forward, surveying her surrounding; everyone kneels except for Diana.

JOCELYN (impatiently, with a sweeping gesture): Stop mopping the floor with your breeches and aprons. (The guests rise hastily, their heads still bowed). I am the one who should be kneeling. (To Dr. Grant) I came to thank you in person for curing my headache. None of the Westminster physicians could help me. I bought your potion as a last resort, expecting no miracles. Protect your secret. It can make you rich.

DR. GRANT: There is no secret — just some alcohol, opium and a few herbs. I’m pleased to see you in good health.

JOCELYN: But I’m displeased to see you buried here. The College of Physicians treated you with needless harshness. Your exile was a great loss for the English medicine. You should be treating patients of importance: attorneys, generals, politicians. With your permission, I’d like to acquaint you with a few gentlemen.

WYNFIELD (steps in front of Dr. Grant): My father isn’t for sale!

DR. GRANT (embarrassed): Wynfield! Where are your manners?

WYNFIELD: I have no manners! I’m but a drunken clown, as I was recently reminded.

DR. GRANT: In God’s name... Not before a lady.

JOCELYN (sternly): No, let him speak. He’s in his house.

WYNFIELD: Thank you, my lady, for allowing me to open my mouth. You can’t lure my father to Westminster. He’ll stay here and treat the scum of England. We were all happy until your arrival. You bring high culture and take away the only doctor.

JOCELYN (shakes her head): Well, don’t you have a glowing opinion of me! Clearly, I did something to earn your hatred.

WYNFIELD (hands in pockets): My lady, I don’t pretend to understand the workings of your mind. I only know that my father can’t be in two places at once. If you lure him away from us, there will be many deaths on your conscience.

JOCELYN: I never intended to steal Dr. Grant from your people. I was about to say that my friends could help him open a real clinic, right here, in Bermondsey. For once in his practice, he would have proper facilities and instruments. But, let us leave our past confusions behind. In the end, aren’t we all English citizens? The depths of our pockets are of secondary importance. (Locks her hands behind her back and struts around the room) Our country is at war. Our troops are sailing to Crimea. So let us pray for their safe return and toast our new alliance.

WYNFIELD (squints suspiciously): What alliance?

JOCELYN: Between your people and mine. Call it wartime camaraderie. I have a flask of sherry in my purse. I invite you to have a taste of Westminster.

WYNFIELD: I wouldn’t dream of it, my lady.

JOCELYN: Why not? Ah, I see! If we drink from the same bottle, it will be almost like a kiss. Your words — not mine. Well, since you won’t drink with me, I suppose, I should settle for a kiss. (She places her hands on his shoulders and kisses him, then pulls away and smoothes his collar.) Consider this our mutual endorsement.

DR. GRANT (rubs his eyes): The strangest things happen on my birthday.

WYNFIELD (touches his lips in disbelief, laughs and shakes his head): Is this how Westminster men seal alliances? My lady, I pity you!

He catches her by the sleeve, pulls into his arms and kisses her. The guests howl.

DR. GRANT (examines his glass): What’s in my drink? I’m hallucinating.

CRIPPEN (points his finger): Blimey, ’twill give sailors and longshoremen somethin’ to laugh ’bout fer days to come. The news will reach the dock b’fore nightfall.

WYNFIELD (releases Jocelyn): This is how local men conduct business with women. And if you still have questions, I’ll answer them gladly, on behalf of all Southwark men.

CRIPPEN: Wait till the whole town learns that Grinnin’ Wyn kissed Miss Stuart. Cap’n Kip will break his bloody neck, that’s fer sure.

Diana pulls Crippen’s sleeve to get his attention. When he bends over, she starts whispering in his ear. Crippen’s facial expression changes. He looks at her with disbelief. Diana nods slowly. Crippen inclines his ear again, and she continues whispering to him.

JOCELYN (fans herself): This by far is the most amusing treaty I’ve signed this week. But I must leave you, dear friends.

She takes her overcoat and leaves. The guests begin dispersing. Wynfield stands alone in the middle of the room, hands locked behind his neck. The two policemen approach him and stand on each side of him.

WYNFIELD (shakes up): Are you leaving, gentlemen?

CRIPPEN: Not without yer we won’t. Yer show’s over, clown. Come with us.

DR. GRANT (rises to his feet): What business have you with my son?

CRIPPEN (crosses his arms): Perhaps, yer dear boy should be the one to tell yer.

DR. GRANT: True, he smokes, gambles and swears. But if men were arrested for such transgressions, half of Southwark would be in jail.

CRIPPEN (to Wynfield): Well, won’t you tell yer father ’bout yer little trade, eh? Tell him what yer been doin’ at the docks at night. A bit tongue-tied, are we? Well then, I’ll take it ‘pon myself to tell yer father who’s to blame for Officer McLean’s death.

Wynfield stands still, his head lowered. Dr. Grant grabs him by the shoulders.

DR. GRANT: Speak, boy! Don’t just soak in these accusations.

CRIPPEN (to Dr. Grant) Stupid old sot! Didn’t even know what was b’fore yer own nose, did yer? In yer place, I’d be packin’ up and hurrin’ to catch the first boat out of London. Bein’ in close kinship with a felon won’t reflect well on yer — if yer know what I mean. (To Brigit and Ingrid) And you, ladies, ought to be looking’ fer a new master.

Brigit and Ingrid, looking timid and guilty, stand up in haste and join the two peelers.

CRIPPEN (complacently): Think ’bout what I said, Doctor. Pack yer books and go. God knows, I’d hate to see yer corpse danglin’ next to that of yer precious boy. (To peelers): Walk, lads.

Crippen shoves Wynfield in the back. Dr. Grant remains standing.

To be continued...