CHARLES LEARNS HIS LESSON

©1997 by John Robinson Wheeler. All rights reserved.

 

SCENE THREE.

 

In Charles' bedroom. Charles is pouring himself a rather hefty snifter of brandy with shaking hands. He is dressed for retiring, in dressing gown, pajamas, and slippers. The wind is making the house moan and creak in just the sort of beastly way that Phelps described.

CHARLES:

On the one hand, this is absolutely the wrong night to hit the bottle.

 

He takes a swig.

CHARLES:

On the other hand, it is precisely the sort of night when one must definitely hit the bottle.

 

Another swig, another pour.

CHARLES:

Another few snorts and I won't care any more that I'm talking to myself. I suppose it's better if one is royalty. Then one can make use of the plural to some advantage. "Oh, Auntie," (another swig)  "We were talking to ourselves last night and we had the most riveting conversation. We found it highly amusing."

 

He laughs and heads over to the bed. He wobbles a bit.

CHARLES:

I hazard there's some fine line between taking a bit to calm our nerves before being visited by vengeful ghosts and getting absolutely blotto.

 

He sloshes into bed, still holding the bottle and the glass.

CHARLES:

Maybe if we really set our mind to it, we can ensure that we won't remember a thing about it tomorrow. I say, super idea. Are we agreed, then? Yes, we think so. Cheers, all.

 

He toasts, clinking the bottle and glass together.

CHARLES:

Here's to a phantasmic bender. (sip)  Fantastic, I mean. What did I say? I can't remember what I'm trying to remember. By Jove, it's working already. What luck. (sip)  My word, this is the good stuff. What year is it? 300 B.C.! Doesn't taste >hic< a day over >hic< over >hic< over >hic< 1979.

 

He takes another sip, grimaces, and sets glass and bottle on the end-table.

CHARLES:

Well, come on, then! Where are the ghoshts? I'm ready to meet des>hic<tiny. >hic<.

 

We hear a door shut, and footsteps. Charles clutches a pillow to his breast.

CHARLES:

I can hear you out there! I'm not afraid! Come on, then! Have at you! No matter what loathsome, horrifying visage you've got on that puss of yours! I'm ready for you, you ghastly, dessicated, blood-drinking fiend! Show me your disfigured, corpulent, wart-ridden hide!

Enter CAROL.

 

Charles screams and buries his head. Carol screams and nearly leaps out of her skin.

CHARLES:

I give up! I repent! Haunt me no more, you aberrant, prune-wrinkled monstrosity!

CAROL:

Charles! Stop shouting like that! What's come over you?

CHARLES:

Auntie? Or are you just pretending to be my Auntie to lure me into your sinister, soul-sucking web?

CAROL: (gasping)

You've been at the brandy. Oh, Charles, the special reserve, too! Do you know we're saving it for an occasion?

CHARLES:

Lishen, Auntie — if that is your real name! This is an occasion all right. You can ask Phelps if you don't believe me. Good man, Phelps. Did you know he's memorized the Bible? Well, the good bits, anyway.

CAROL: (retrieving the bottle)

Oh, you've drunk half of it already. It's ruined. I can't serve Lord Wembley-Mountbatten from it now.

CHARLES:

Wembley-Mountbatten? Coming here? To-night?

CAROL:

No, of course not tonight.

CHARLES:

Tell him he can't come tonight. Not unless he's entertained by walls bleeding and corpses carrying their own heads around. >hic<.

CAROL:

Whatever are you talking about?

CHARLES:

Ghosts.

CAROL:

Ghosts?

CHARLES:

Is Lord Wembley-Mountbatten really coming here tonight? It's rather late.

CAROL:

No, Charles. Not tonight. Come on, I'll tuck you in and you can sleep this off. I can't think what's possessed you.

CHARLES:

Possessed me! I knew it! You're one of the visions, aren't you! You just look like Auntie Carol.

caroL:

Stop thrashing about, Charles. You're undoing the whole bedding.

CHARLES:

Come on, you filthy spook. Let's see what's under that disguise!

 

He yanks on Carol's head and a wig comes off, revealing her hair pinned back in a very unflattering way. She gasps, screams, and snatches it back.

CAROL:

My wig! Charles, this is the limit!

CHARLES:

Sorry, Auntie, I forgot you always wear it to go out.

CAROL:

Charles, my patience with you is at the end. You're too old for me to spank and scold, but I can make your life just as miserable!

CHARLES:

What are you going to do?

caroL:

I'm going to curse you, and then I'm going to throw you out. No more trust fund, no more inheritance, no more family title, no more birthright, no more being master of others, no more living in manor houses!

CHARLES:

Auntie, you don't mean it!

CAROL: (spreading her arms, invoking heavenlyforces)

Charles, I hereby curse you! May you live in poverty ever after, let the toil of your hands be hard and bring you no reward. May your name be scorned and pitied by fools and kings. May demons plague your every effort to rise above circumstance and damn you to dwell in sickness and misery all your days after. And may your end be miserable and piteous, tragic but anonymous. May you pass from this Earth a forgotten man, and may your sins follow you into the hereafter, to haunt your soul in the scorching, black despair of Hell, forever!

CHARLES: (after a pregnant pause)

I say, isn't that overdoing it a bit? It was only your wig.

CAROL:

Sleep well, Charles. This is your last night of comfort. Here, you might as well finish the brandy. It's your last chance to partake of life's finer things.

 

She hands him the bottle.

CHARLES:

I — I'm not sure I'd like any more, thank you.

 

She takes the bottle back and refills his glass. She holds the glass right in his face.

CAROL:

Go on, Charles. Drink it. Have as much as you want. Indulge.

CHARLES:

I don't think I want to face the first day of an eternity of suffering by waking up with a blinding headache in a puddle of my own vomit.

CAROL:

Don't think about consequences, Charles. Just enjoy yourself — one last time.

CHARLES:

I mean, I gather that I'll have plenty of chances to experience that later on.

CAROL:

This is your last chance, Charles. Take the drink. Take it.

 

Charles takes the glass and regards it carefully. Carol leans in close, applying pressure with her body language and her piercing, bulging gaze.Finally, Charles sets it aside.

CHARLES:

Thank you, Auntie. I'd rather not. I'll face my fate with sobriety and dignity. Like a man.

 

Carol rears back, horrified to an unexpected, unexplained degree. She lets out the most god-awful, spine-chilling, banshee howl, and the lights go out. When they come up again, the bottle is next to the glass on the end-table. Carol is gone, and Dad the ghost is standing in her place.

DAD:

Congratulations, Charles!

CHARLES:

Dad? What just happened?

DAD:

You just passed the first test. You were tempted with indulgence in drink, and you resisted.

CHARLES:

Then that wasn't Auntie Carol? Then I'm not cursed?

DAD:

No, my boy. You're quite safe. For now.

CHARLES:

Thank God. That was a bit of a fright. Glad that's over.

DAD:

Beware, Charles. That was but the first temptation. The fate you heard could yet be your destiny. If you fail but one test, the full curse will be upon you, and never again will you be able to dispell it.

CHARLES:

Well, dash it, it all sounds damned stacked against me. Why pin it all on me in one night? Most blokes have their whole lives to sort out where they stand. And what about mercy and forgiveness and all that?

 

Dad starts to sound somewhat distracted and anxious.

DAD:

Mercy and forgiveness?

CHARLES:

Oh, you know — the ultimate sacrifice, seek and ye shall find, all men are redeemed — that lot. Why don't I get as much a share of that as the next chap?

DAD:

I don't know what you mean...

 

Charles rises and picks up the bottle and glass.

CHARLES:

Of course you do. The Bible, old man. Too bad you chased Phelps away. He seems to have got the gist of the thing.

DAD:

Don't talk nonsense, Charles. Oh, ahh! Ahggh!

 

Charles crosses past, not noticing the ghost's tremors.

CHARLES:

Look, Dad, I'm not the Bishop of Canterbury or anything, but even I wouldn't go so far as to call the Good Word "nonsense." I mean, you're in the spirit realm — surely you'd know...

 

Charles is just setting down the bottle where it belongs when the lights go out.

CHARLES:

...the truth when you hear it.

 

The lights come on again. The ghost is gone, and Charles is alone.

CHARLES:

Dad? Hello? Now, what the devil was that about?

 

We hear a door shut, and footsteps.

CHARLES:

Oh, bloody hell. Come on, I'm ready this time.

 

He waits by the door with his arms folded.

CAROL: (through the door)

Charles, are you still awake?

CHARLES:

Yes, do come in, "Auntie."

Enter CAROL.

CAROL:

All the lights on and your bed a mess. Can't you sleep, dear?

CHARLES:

It won't work this time, you know.

CAROL:

Charles, have you been drinking?

CHARLES:

Right, this is for your own good.

 

He slaps Carol across the cheek, a terrific smash. She drops her purse and swoons.

CAROL:

Ohhh!

CHARLES:

Oh, damn! Auntie Carol, are you all right?

 

He has to catch her before she falls over.

CHARLES:

Here, lie down. I'm so sorry. How was the party? Any good gossip?

CAROL:

...groan...

CHARLES: (to the ceiling)

Well, super. I've just slapped my aunt into a coma, thanks to you. Good show, really. I can't thank you enough. What terrific sports you are.

CAROL:

It's all right, Charles — I'm more startled than hurt. (she touches her cheek)  Ooh! I should never have made you take those tennis lessons. What a swing you have.

CHARLES:

Hold on, Auntie. I'll get you a nip of brandy.

CAROL:

Oh, that sounds just the thing. Thank you, darling.

CHARLES:

Not at all. The least I can do.

 

He pours a new, small glass, then notices the old, full one. He's tempted to have a swig, but ignores it. He helps Carol to a sip.

CHARLES:

Here you go, Auntie.

CAROL:

Ah, that's better. Now will you tell me what on Earth you think you're doing?

CHARLES:

Seems there's ghosts about the manor tonight, Auntie.

CAROL:

Ghosts?

CHARLES:

You can ask Phelps if you don't believe me. I say, haven't we been over this already?

CAROL:

I'm sure I'd remember a conversation about ghosts. Are they here now?

CHARLES:

One can never be too sure. Hang on, I remember. I said this to a ghost who looked just like you.

 

Carol sits up and gets to her feet.

CAROL:

Like me? How can that be? Are you sure you're not just making excuses for being drunk and striking me?

CHARLES:

Fairly certain, I'm afraid. I've had a few nips because of the experience. Kind of takes the wind out of you, all things said and done.

CAROL:

And you say one of them looked just like me?

CHARLES:

Yes. Not just you — there were a pair that, rummily enough, looked just like Mum and Dad.

CAROL:

Your mother and father? Oh Charles, it couldn't have been. Could it?

CHARLES:

I'm not sure. I was inclined to think so, but I'm sort of put off the idea by now. Say, Auntie, was I adopted?

CAROL:

Adopted? Whatever gave you that idea? Certainly not.

CHARLES:

It was one of the things that Mum and Dad said.

CAROL:

If it puts your mind at ease, Charles, you are quite definitely a full-blooded member of this family. It doesn't put my  mind at ease, but there you are.

CHARLES:

I say, that is a relief.

CAROL:

You don't sound relieved.

CHARLES:

Well, it's just that for a moment there, my life seemed to take on a richer meaning, what with the potential to have different parents out there somewhere.

CAROL:

Sorry, dear, but you are exactly who you know yourself to be.

CHARLES:

Right. A spoiled, posh bloke. Lord of the manor.

CAROL:

Why Charles, have you taken what I said to heart?

CHARLES:

I can't seem to stop thinking about it, dash it. Makes me feel sort of good-for-nothing.

CAROL:

Don't take it the wrong way, Charles. I was just telling you what your grandfather told me when I was your age.

CHARLES:

Popsy? Did he, then?

CAROL:

Oh, most certainly. And he backed it up with a smack from his cane! That was how one kept children in line in those days. You're lucky, Charles, that you were spared such treatment.

CHARLES:

Rather. I say, now I feel even more rummy about giving you that slap on the cheek.

CAROL:

I'll be fine, Charles. Goodness knows I've had worse.

CHARLES:

From Popsy?

CAROL:

No, no. Someone else. Never you mind about it, Charles. Aunties always have their secrets.

CHARLES:

Do they?

CAROL:

Good night, Charles. Perhaps we'll talk about it some other time. Get some sleep. You look positively grey.

CHARLES:

Good night, Auntie. I will.

He gives her a peck on the cheek. She pats his face.

Exit CAROL.

 

Charles yawns and unties his robe. He goes to his wardrobe to hang it up. He opens it, and standing inside is Dad the ghost, looking stern.

DAD:

This is extremely disappointing, Charles!

CHARLES: (leaping back)

Whouah! What are you doing there?

 

Dad strides out of the wardrobe, backing Charles into a corner.

DAD:

You failed the second test, Charles. Already the curse is upon you!

CHARLES:

What second test? What the devil are you on about? And what were you doing in there, anyway?

 

Charles crosses past to the wardrobe. He checks to make sure everything is in its place.

DAD:

This is serious, Charles. You've failed. We warned you.

CHARLES:

And I'll thank you to keep out of my clothes. Bloody spectres. Can't be bothered to use the door, can you?

 

Charles puts his robe on a hanger. As he turns back to hang it, Mum is standing there in the wardrobe. Again, Charles is startled.

MUM:

We warned you, Charles!

CHARLES:

Look, stop making entrances through the wardrobe, will you? You're supposed to be from the spirit realm, not bloody Narnia.

MUM:

You didn't listen. But you have one more chance.

CHARLES:

I do, eh? I thought this was it.

GHOSTLY VOICE:

Go to the rose garden. Await your judgment!

CHARLES:

What was that again, sorry? You have to speak in a register that the human ear can manage, I'm afraid.

GHOSTLY VOICE:

You are young and naïve.

CHARLES:

Oh, really? Well, bugger off! — if you don't mind my saying.

GHOSTLY VOICE:

Ooooaaahhhhhhhahhhhh...

 

The house seems to rattle and shake for a moment.

DAD:

The rose garden, Charles. Go to the rose garden.

MUM:

It's your last chance, Charles. You must face your judgment.

DAD:

The final trial.

CHARLES:

Look, it seems you haven't been on the up-and-up with me before. Why should I listen to you now?

 

Mum and Dad let out a mournful groan and the lights go out. The lights come up, and Charles is once again alone. The wardrobe is closed.

CHARLES: (to the ceiling)

It's too cold to go to the bloody rose garden.

 

He stands there, stubbornly, for a moment. Finally, he gives in and decides he'd better go, just in case. He walks over to the wardrobe to fetch his robe and takes a careful look around inside before withdrawing it. He puts on the robe and yanks a blanket and a pillow off the bed.

CHARLES:

I'm beginning to feel a bit of a prize ass in all this.

 

On the way out, he again notices the old, full glass of brandy.

CHARLES: (to the ceiling)

Is it all right if I have a drink now ?

 

Hearing no reply to the contrary, Charles takes a gulp, shudders, and exhales some tension. He takes one last snort of brandy and it goes down the wrong pipe. He coughs and wheezes.

CHARLES:

Right.

 

He marches to the door, pauses, takes one last look around his wardrobe, and rolls his eyes.

Exit CHARLES.

 

Scene 4