A LONG TIME

                                                               a play in one act
                                                                         by 
                                                                  G.E. Farrell

Scene I: A spot comes up on a darkened stage. A young man in a World War II era soldier’s uniform enters. He is hobbling on crutches and apparently in a good deal of pain. A young nurse enters from the opposite direction a moment later. She reads a chart as she walks. The man sees her and straightens his back. He acts as though he is suffering no pain. She does not see him at first. When she does see him, she smiles and continues past him. After a few steps, however, she stops and turns to look at him.

She returns and says something to him. He responds. She points to off stage and speaks again. She is not angry or demanding. He smiles at her. She smiles. She then helps him to go in the direction that she indicated a moment earlier. The spot fades as they exit together.

Scene II: The scene takes place in an apartment in Florida on a sunny autumn afternoon. The apartment is neatly kept and furnished with easy chairs, a sofa, lamp tables, a television and stereo, etc. The door from the outside hallway is center left. A door from an interior bedroom is center right. Next to it is the doorway to the kitchen. Upstage are two windows looking out on the sea.

As the play begins, the door buzzer sounds. A moment later, Angela enters from the bedroom. She is an elderly woman, though the beauty that distinguished her early years is still apparent in her face, posture and movements. She crosses to the hall door and peeks through the peep hole in the door for a long moment. She then steps back and smiles broadly. She opens the door to reveal Hal standing just outside. Hal is an elderly man, well dressed, distinguished looking, active as though the years have slowed him very little. The two look at each other silently for a long moment. Then, Angela speaks.

Angela:
Hello, Hal. Please come in.

Hal:
(Steps into the room.) Hello, Angela.

Angela:
(She closes the door.) It’s been a long, long time. (She holds out her hand. He takes it.) Vanity forbids my saying just how long. 

Hal:
Then I won’t either. You look wonderful.

Angela:
Thank you. Fortunately, we’ve both kept our health. Please, come in and sit down. Sit here. (She pats an easy chair.) Do you still smoke? I’ll get an ash tray.

Hal:
Thank you. No, I stopped smoking more than twenty years ago. Didn’t enjoy it anymore.

Angela:
It’s a habit that I never managed to develop, though I tried during the war.

Hal: 
I remember.

Angela:
That’s right; you tried to show me how. I’d forgotten that.

Hal:
That’s an endeavor in which I’m glad that I failed.

Angela:
How about some coffee or tea?

Hal:
Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having.

Angela:
Tea. I’ll have it for you in a minute. (Hal rises as she goes off to the kitchen. He looks about the room while she’s gone. A moment later, she returns with tea and some cookies on a tray. She places a cup and a dish of cookies on the table next to him and the tray on the coffee table. She then sits on the couch facing Hal. He takes his seat again.)

Hal:
Thank you. You always seem to be caring for me, even after all this time.

Angela:
I guess I just can’t break the nursing habit. How have you been, Hal?

Hal:
Good, very good. As you know I’ve spent most of my life in the diplomatic service. I have three children who are all grown and successful in their chosen fields and whom I see frequently. I have seven grandchildren and two great grandchildren. I lost Bridget, my wife, six years ago, which has been difficult for me. But, besides that, all has been well. I’ve been a very lucky man. But you know all that from my letters, don’t you? How have you been?

Angela:
There’s nothing that I can add to what I wrote to you. I’ve worked in hospitals in southern Europe, Italy, Greece, Austria, and in the Carribean as nurse and administrator. I never had any children, but Jack had three from a previous marriage that I have become close with. He too was widowed. We’ve both been fortunate. As I wrote, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather when I received your letter. I never dreamed that I would hear from anybody from that time when I spoke to Anthony’s biographer.

Hal:
I was afraid that you might think him rude for giving me your address without your permission.

Angela:
I never thought of that. You know, it was presumptuous of him, wasn’t it? I should call him up and give him a piece of my mind.

Hal:
It’s been a bit of time since.

Angela:
It probably wouldn’t make any difference anyway. I’m afraid that good manners are considered quaint these days.

Hal:
You haven’t changed that much, Angela.

Angela:
Oh stop. I’m an old lady.

Hal:
We were very young then, weren’t we?

Angela:
Babies practically. Or at least adolescents. How different the world is now.

Hal:
Much of it for the better.

Angela:
Yes. But not all. I remember it so well, as though it was just a short time ago. You were there for only a few weeks.

Hal:
Just under a month.

Angela:
And now, we meet again after more than fifty years.

Hal:
I was flattered that you remembered me.

Angela:
I remember all of you. I was older than you were. I felt almost like a mother to most of you. (Hal does not respond). That includes Anthony. What they write about us is rubbish. We were never lovers. He was just a kid. And a spoiled kid.

Hal:
If we’re remembered at all it will be because we were there when he was there.

Angela:
I’d much rather be forgotten. Can I get you more tea?

Hal:
Oh! No thank you. One is enough for me. Please have another yourself though if you like.

Angela:
I think I will. (She rises. Hal rises when she does. She takes his cup and her own and exits to the kitchen.)

Hal:
(Calls to her.) This is a very nice apartment you have here. Lovely view.

Angela:
(Re-enters carrying a cup of tea.) Thank you. We’ve been here for eight years. Came here from Virginia. (She takes her seat again as does he.)

Hal:
Have you seen any of his plays, or read them?

Angela:
Some of them.

Hal:
Does that include “Wounded Lover”?

Angela:
Yes. I saw it on Broadway. That woman is not me. When we were in Virginia Beach, they referred to me in the newspaper as “His Girl”. Can you imagine? I wasn’t that type. Never was that type. “His Girl” indeed. I would have been sent home if I’d been caught acting like that woman in the play. At least they cleaned it up when they made the movie. But it still was wrong.

Hal:
It’s a good thing they’re not making a movie of it now. Did you ever see him after?

Angela:
No, not once. I received a letter from him in response to my own in which I told him that I was getting married to a British officer, Captain Arthur Leighton, and another after his first production but that was all. I followed his career, of course. When I could. But the idea that I would act like that woman is nonsense. It’s insulting, damned insulting. 

Hal:
His work is great, at least much if it is.

Angela:
Yes, but the later work was not very good. He knew it. I actually think that the knowledge that he had lost his ability led to his death. It was a terrible way to go.

Hal:
You think that he committed suicide?

Angela:
Not exactly suicide, but I think that he lost the will to live and became careless, almost reckless. That led to the fiery crash.

Hal:
That’s a theory that I haven’t read. I met his sister some years ago. She’s a delightful woman. I felt very bad for her; she was devoted to him, and devastated by his death.

Angela:
I’ve met her too. We became friends after Anthony died. I attended her funeral. 

Hal:
I would have had I known about her death. I didn’t learn of it until some months later. You and he became close during the war.

Angela:
It was just a flirtation though he tried to make more of it than it was. It was nothing like that damned play. He was too young. (She pauses.) She resembled Edie more than me. Do you remember Edie?

Hal:
Yes, I believe I do. She was an English girl, wasn’t she? With sandy colored hair and hazel
eyes?

Angela:
Yes, that’s her; you remember her well, don’t you? Maybe I should have been jealous. (They smile for a moment before she begins again.) It’s ridiculous though. How could anybody carry on an affair in that hospital without everybody knowing it? You couldn’t go to the restroom without everybody being aware. It was too open.

Hal:
That’s true. There were no secrets. That’s why I was surprised by the rumors of an affair between you. 

Angela:
You must remember how we were.

Hal:
Yes, but I left for Italy before the period that is usually assigned to it.

Angela:
Ridiculous. He was a spoiled kid who everybody fussed over because of his wounds, myself included. I confess that we had a flirtation and exchanged letters when we were apart, but that’s all. He wrote some very spiteful things to the other nurses when I wrote to him that I was to be married.

Hal:
You never did marry your officer though.

Angela:
No. Arthur’s family was aristocratic and wealthy. They thought that I was a gold digger and opposed any marriage. They called it an “adventuress” in those days, a much more colorful term. It means the same thing though. I came back to New York and worked at Bellevue Hospital for a number of years before going back to Europe and then the Carribean. I met my first husband on the boat down there. (A pause) There was an adventurer. Any adventure that included a woman was like catnip to him. The marriage didn’t last very long. 

Hal:
My life seems dull compared to yours.

Angela:
It sounds more exciting than it really was. Being in the diplomatic service must have been interesting. You were something of a diplomat even when young.

Hal:
Was I? 

Angela:
Yes, you seemed to know just the right thing to say at the appropriate time.

Hal:
Do you remember our one date together?

Angela:
To be truthful, I didn’t remember it until you sent me the picture of us in the restaurant. There was no time for more than one. You left the hospital and returned to your unit shortly after.

Hal:
Yes. It would have made little difference if I remained though. Your interest was already elsewhere. 

Angela:
You’re trying to get me to admit that it was more than a flirtation with Anthony, but it wasn’t.

Hal:
No. I’m not trying to get you to do anything. It doesn’t really matter. All I’m doing is visiting an old friend whom I haven’t seen in many years.

Angela:
He lived quite a life, didn’t he?

Hal:
The three of us have.

Angela:
But not like his. Hunter, fisherman, war correspondent, playwright, Nobel Prize winner. Scandalous romances. Then a fiery death.

Hal:
He’s one of the great men of American letters; some say the greatest. Do you know that as much as twenty years after we last saw him, he said that were you to appear he would drop everything for you?

Angela:
Yes. A newspaper correspondent interviewed me about my time with the Red Cross for some anniversary or other. He asked me about it. The entire interview soon became nothing more than a discussion of Anthony. I never did read the piece but I don’t know what he could’ve written about the Red Cross. He told me about that quote. It was probably a public relations invention to sell the play. 

Hal:
Why do you suppose he waited so many years to write about it?

Angela rises and collects the dishes and the tray.

Angela:
I don’t know, Hal. I don’t know why he did many of the things that he did. Excuse me for a moment. (Hal rises as Angela exits to the kitchen with the dishes and tray.)

Hal:
(Calls after her) I hope that I’m not upsetting you.

Angela:
(Returns) No, of course not. It’s all so long ago. Though I wish that you would not stand every time I get up. We live in a different world now.

Hal: 
Fair enough.

They both sit.

Angela:
You wrote that you’re considering writing a book about that time.

Hal:
Yes, but it’s to be a memoir about my years in the foreign service that will include my time in the war. Even after all these years and so many wars I remember it as though it just happened. Whether anybody will ever read it I don’t know but it will be there so that people will know what it was like.

Angela:
Anybody interested in Anthony will read it. That’s a large number of people.

Hal:
I thought of that. He’s our ticket to immortality.

Angela:
That he is. Though I’m not sure that I wish to be immortalised. Not like that. It’s not very complimentary to be remembered as that woman rather than as I really was. You must think me an old fool to still be angry after more than forty years. 

Hal:
Not really.

Angela:
After I’m gone, that play will be what people remember of me. That woman.

Hal:
Do so many people mistake you for her?

Angela:
Not really. Only the biographers and Anthony scholars. But that’s enough. Fortunately they’ve always published my side of it. It was just impossible to do those things that he describes. The man wasn’t Anthony either. They believe that he was though. Those wounds he got were made in a place he had no reason to be. He wasn’t supposed to be there. And they were not made by five or ten or however many machine gun bullets. There were two bullets, one in his knee, the other in his foot. Neither caused any serious damage. The remaining wounds were shrapnel, most of them superficial. It’s true he was awarded medals for bravery but the way he paraded around in a tailor made uniform and showed them off was ridiculous. It showed how immature he was. The British government wanted to keep their ally happy. They decorated anybody who was American.

Hal:
But he loved you. He wanted to marry you.

Angela:
He was too young for me. I was in love with my officer. 

Hal:
It didn’t work out for either of you.

Angela:
No. Life has been good though, at least to me. That sounds very hard and selfish, doesn’t it?

Hal:
No. I understand. How different would it have been?

Angela:
I can’t say, Hal. I’m not a seer. I’m only a woman, an old woman who knew a famous person for a few months and has been made sort of famous as a result. I’m sorry that his life was not happier, that it ended as it did, but it was through no fault of mine. Had we married, he might have been different but I don’t know that. And if he was different? What then? Would he have been the artist that he was? Those questions are unanswerable.

Hal:
I’m delving, aren’t I?

Angela:
Yes, you are. But it’s all right. If you wish to learn, it’s all right. I have nothing to hide from you, Hal. Or from anybody else.

Hal:
Why do you suppose he never married?

Angela:
I don’t know. If the newspapers are to be believed he had many opportunities. He seemed to be constantly in the company of beautiful women. I understand that some of them actually loved him but nothing ever came of it.

Hal:
No, but there are those who think that he never married because of you.

Angela:
I can’t say what was in his mind. I met some of those women. Like everybody else, they were taken with his charm and his boyishness. Helen Maury loved him dearly but it fell apart and she knew that it was time to end it. She would have probably been the best thing that ever happened to him.

Hal:
Including you?

Angela:
Including me. We still exchange Christmas cards. I saw her not very long ago. It must have been...it doesn’t seem that long ago but it must be about four years now. She loves to talk about her grandchildren. Have you ever met her?

Hal: 
No, I’m afraid I haven’t. You and his sister are the only people that I know who had any relationship to Anthony, except for myself, of course. 

Angela:
It’s not right.

Hal:
What’s not right?

Angela:
That we should be adjuncts to his life. We both have our own accomplishments, our own lives. Why must we be nothing more than footnotes to the life of another person? Are you sure that I can’t get you something else, Hal?

Hal:
No, nothing at all, thanks.

Angela:
How about a scotch? I’ll have a glass of wine with you. Actually, I’d like some wine but don’t want to drink alone.

Hal:
All right. I’d like that.

Anne:
Over ice?

Hal:
Yes, please. With just a splash of water.

Angela:
Coming right up. (She rises. He begins to get up.) Now, you stay right there in that chair. You’re making me sea sick getting up and down like that.

Hal:
All right. (Angela exits to the kitchen. He calls after her.) Do you like living in Florida?

Angela (O.S.):
We avoid the northern winters here. If it wasn’t for that, I’d prefer New York. Jack loves it here though; he loves the fishing. That’s the real reason I think he came here, not the weather. (She re-enters and places a drink next to Hal. She places her wine on the coffee table and sits.)

Hal:
To London.

Angela:
To London. (They drink.) Where do the years go? We were so young. Do you think we would have gone if we were a bit older? I mean, I was a bit older, but if we were more mature?

Hal:
Not if we were married I don’t think. It was a time and place for the young, as most wars are.

Angela:
Yes it was. The young of today don’t even know it happened. They probably don’t even know who Anthony was.

Hal:
No. They wouldn’t understand what it was like to live then and to want to go to the war. Nowadays most seek to avoid responsibility; we sought it.

Angela:
I wonder who is more right, they or us.

Hal:
You spent a lot of years in New York, did you?

Angela:
A few. I wouldn’t say a lot. After returning from England, I lived there while I worked at Bellevue Hospital for about four years, then I left for Southern Europe. I lived there again for about two years after returning from the Carribean. After I married Jack, we moved to Washington and then Virginia and then here. I’ve lived here longer than any other place that I’ve ever lived before. You’ve not spent a lot of time in one place either.

Hal:
No. I’ve been in Europe, Asia, South America, every place but my own country. I’ve enjoyed it though.

Angela:
That’s what matters. Anthony travelled all over the world too, but it seems like he travelled in search of something that he never found. The hunting, the fishing, the war correspondent business, all seemed to be a cover for a feverish search for something.

Hal:
His image.

Angela:
How do you mean?

Hal:
It all fed the image that he wanted to reflect. The posturing, the public brawls, all the other, seemed to fit the image that he wanted the public to have of him.

Angela:
The writing should have been enough.

Hal:
It should have. I’m only speculating of course.

Angela:
Yes, we both are. Even when he was older, he seemed to be still a boy somehow. Almost to the end he seemed to still be the boy that we knew in the hospital in England. Helen thought so too. She said to me that she always felt like she was almost as much his mother as his lover.

Hal:
From what I’ve read about her and their relationship, she loved him dearly.

Angela:
You can love someone dearly without being blind to his faults.

Hal:
Yes, but that particular fault did not seem to have come to her notice while they were together. I understand that he was a demanding person though. As someone once said of Theodore Roosevelt, he wanted to be the bride at every wedding and the corpse at every funeral. And would brook no competition. Of course, all of that is in the biographies. He may have been completely different. We really don’t know.

Angela:
No, we don’t. You mentioned on the phone that you have seen some letters.

Hal:
Yes. I’d almost forgot. My wife and I were in Colorado. I called his sister and she invited me over. 

Angela:
She never mentioned any letters to me. 

Hal:
I read them.

Angela:
Did you?

Hal:
Yes.

Angela:
How many were there?

Hal:
She said that she had quite a few but she only showed me three.

Angela:
He kept them all those years, did he? What did they say?

Hal:
One that I saw is the one in which you told him that you were getting married. I wish that I’d made copies.

Angela:
I remember it. 

Hal:
He was very angry, hurt I should think.

Angela:
His response was very nasty and insulting. I’m sorry that I destroyed all of his letters. Arthur persuaded me to burn them. Scholars would love to have them.

Hal:
So would humble memoirists.

Angela:
They were written after you left the hospital. They wouldn’t have anything in them that would help you.

Hal:
They might have descriptions of things that I don’t remember clearly. I’d like to see them just for the sake of curiosity too.

Angela:
Perhaps. Do you know what she did with them?

Hal:
Yes. She’s gave them to the library that has all of his manuscripts and papers.

Angela:
I wish she had destroyed them. (There is a long pause.) Did I write to him that I loved him in the others?

Hal:
In one of them, yes.

Angela:
I didn’t though. I wrote that to keep him from having a tantrum. He could be very difficult when he didn’t get what he wanted. I understand that he was that way all his life. So rather than quarrel, I told him what he wanted to hear. I wish she had destroyed them.

Hal:
They’re historic treasures now.

Angela:
They’re letters from a young woman to a kid. They’ll be misinterpreted and people will believe that I am that woman in the play.

Hal:
Does that trouble you so much?

Angela:
Horribly. I was not like that. I was nothing like her. He even made her English. How can people believe that she’s me?

Hal:
Because he loved you.

Angela:
He was just a boy.

Hal:
No, Angela. He was a man. Experience of war makes men of boys. Would you mind if I used your wash room? I’m afraid it’s getting late and I must be going.

Angela:
Of course. It’s right through here. (Hal exits through the bedroom. Angela begins straightening up. Suddenly, she stops with the glasses in her hands and gets lost in a reverie. She smiles slightly. Hal re-enters.) I was just straightening up a bit.

Hal: 
I wish that I could stay longer. I’ve had a wonderful afternoon. However, I’m afraid that my daughter will think that I got lost. 

Angela:
I hope that you’ll come back. I’ll try to find those pictures that I have. I’m sure that I still have them somewhere. They must be in storage. I’ll ask Jack to look for them for me. There may even be one of you.

Hal:
I look forward to it. Please let me know when it’s convenient.

Angela:
I will. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again, Hal.

Hal:
The same here. So long, Angela. (He turns to go but instead of doing so he looks at her for a long moment while she looks at him. He then turns to go.)

Angela:
Hal. (He turns back to face her.) I’ve not been completely honest with you. Or with anybody else. (She goes back to the sofa and sits.) I did love him. I would have married him if I hadn’t lost my nerve. Arthur was just an excuse to cover my fears. I was relieved when his family objected to our marriage. I loved Anthony beyond words. Sometimes I think I still love him. It was just so impossible then. He was so...

Hal:
I know.

Angela:
I was sure that you did.

Hal:
I knew it when I read the letter that you wrote. Seeing you today confirmed it. The look in your eye when you speak of him told me that it was true even though your voice denied it. You may not like being thought of as the woman in the play, but as long as it’s read and performed you and he will be inseparable. But your secret is safe with me. After all, even a humble memoirist is a friend first. 

Angela:
Thank you, Hal. For some reason, I couldn’t let you go without telling you. Who really knows if we’ll ever see each other again. Finally admitting it to someone has made me feel as though a burden has been lifted from me. You’ve done me a favor.

Hal:
I’m glad. Good-bye, Angela, or rather, so long. We’ll see each other again; I know we will.

Angela:
I hope so. So long, Hal. And thank you again.

Hal exits. Angela rises from the sofa and begins to tidy the room but stops, places the glasses on the coffee table and sits again. She returns to her reverie as the lights around her dim leaving her lighted on the dark stage. Lights come up behind her a moment later. Behind a scrim, the young soldier on crutches stands with the nurse. He says something to her and they both laugh. He reaches out and gently touches her cheek. She takes his hand and kisses it. He switches his right crutch to beneath his left arm where both crutches are now. He places his right arm about the nurse’s waist and pulls her to him. The two embrace and kiss. The nurse then pulls away and remonstrates with him. She takes one of the crutches and places it beneath his right arm. She then kisses his cheek.

The scene behind the scrim fades. Angela is again alone on the darkened stage. She sits back and smiles at the memory as the lights go down.

The End