Relatively Speaking Articles By Alan Ayckbourn

Alan Ayckbourn's programme note for the Theatre Royal, Windsor, 1968

My only contact with the Theatre Royal until now was a rather embarrassing one. My mother-in-law, determined to see her daughter's newly acquired, un-employed actor husband established as a second Terence Rattigan, besieged John Counsell's office with 'phone calls, letters and visits insisting they presented a play of mine. Mr. Counsell politely but firmly declined the invitation. But all that was several years and six plays ago. The fact remains though, that when we heard that Relatively Speaking was to be presented here both mother-in-law and I glowed smug with contentment.
I thought it might be worth devoting these columns to describing exactly how a play comes to be written. In particular this play, since every single one is different, and the actual process of writing it down devious and mysterious. Some write in pencil; some directly on to typewriters; some at dawn some at midnight. Some wait for inspiration, some, like me, bash on with page one and hope they reach page ninety-five without confronting a major obstacle. Plays are sometimes written back to front with the first scene the last to be completed. This play, for the record, was written in pencil over several midnights, the second scene first and the first scene last and was completed in ten days flat. I remember I had a large woolly cat for company who didn't really belong to us but seemed to like basking in the heat generated by my creative processes. The creature rejoiced under the unlikely name of Pamela and sat unmoved as I tried out sections of newly written dialogue in her direction.
This was my seventh play to be produced for the stage and was written as a result of a 'phone-call from the late Stephen Joseph in October 1965. He asked if I could provide him with a play for his forthcoming Summer season in Scarborough's Theatre-in-the-Round. The only conditions were that the cast should not exceed four in number and the budget for the production not more than ten pounds. Undaunted by these technical hazards (I once wrote a play for two entirely separate companies who never met up until the first rehearsal, it was disastrous) I immediately set to work in my usual manner and forgot the entire project.
A 'phone call the following February and a polite enquiry about the play's progress brought forth the usual cascade of unashamed lies about the unwritten work. I resolved to set to without delay.
In May the pre-publicity posters were due and Stephen by now sensing that a helping push was required suggested that he bill the play Meet My Mother a new comedy by.... That night I sat up till 4 a.m. trying to think of a play which might possibly suit that title and finally decided it wasn't very inspiring. I 'phoned back the next morning and, on impulse rather than anything else, asked if the proof copy of the poster could be amended to read Meet My Father. It was bolder and had a good ring to it. By the middle of May, exactly a fortnight before rehearsals were due to start, one quiet midnight Pamela and I sat down to write. I remember little of this period, other than I have described, apart from calling the wife in the play by the same name as the woman who lived next door to us and then wondering vaguely if it was libellous. But I do know that whatever good qualities the piece has are almost entirely due to this pressure. The devious plot was the result of sheer frenzy and the dialogue, of tearing haste. In just over a week the play was written aided by my wife's blue pencil, her constant suggestions and her cups of coffee. It was posted to Stephen, who posted it to his manager, who posted it to the Duplicating Bureau and as far as I know the dear lady who typed it finally was the first person ever to read it through. By the following February the play having been re-christened Taken For Granted, Father's Day and finally Relatively Speaking was in rehearsal in London.
Which is not the way most plays are written thank heaven but is more or less the story of this one. Mind you, my latest play started life on the posters as The Silver Collection as I hadn't begun work on it when the publicity was due. It was later presented as The Sparrow but I'm not really happy with that title either. Please send your suggestions on postcards only please to....

Alan Ayckbourn's programme note for the Civic Theatre, Leeds, 1970

Oddly enough this, the most well known of all my plays, is the only one till now that I have never directed myself. I wrote it originally as a result of a phone call from the late Stephen Joseph, a truly remarkable man of the theatre, without whose unrelenting deadlines this would never have been written and to whom I dedicate the play, sadly, but with great affection. He asked me then simply for a play which would make people laugh when their seaside summer holidays were spoiled by the rain and they came into the theatre to get dry before trudging back to their landladies This seems to me as worthwhile a reason for writing a play as any, so I tried to comply. I hope I have succeeded.

Alan Ayckbourn's programme note for the Stephen Joseph Theatre In The Round, Scarborough, 1977

In general, the people who liked this play when it was first seen remarked that it was 'well constructed'; those that didn't called it old-fashioned. If the latter is true, then I suppose it's because, as the song goes, I am too. As to whether it's well constructed, well, in a way I hope it is, since I did set out consciously to write a 'well made' play. I think this is important for a playwright to do at least once in his life, since as in any science, he cannot begin to shatter theatrical convention or break golden rules until he is reasonably sure in himself what they are and how they were arrived at.
And this knowledge is really only acquired as a result of having plays produced, torn apart and reassembled by actors and held up to public scrutiny for praise or ridicule. I suppose I am extremely lucky, writing for a small theatre company as I did for so many years, to have had almost a dozen plays put through this very process before reaching the age of thirty. Not only this, but to have had to fight all the limitations of a small theatre - the number of actors available, difficulties of staging, even lighting complications - and, most important, being aware that if my play didn't at least break even at the box office, we'd all be out of a job on Monday. I wrote, in a sense, to order, and there was no harm in this, since the order was always of a technical nature and dealt only minimally with content. But there is no sharper lesson for a dramatist than to find himself sharing a dressing room with an actor for whom he has written an impossible quick change.
I wrote this play originally as a result of a phone call from the late Stephen Joseph, a truly remarkable man of the theatre, without whose unrelenting deadlines this would never have been written and to whom I dedicate the play, sadly, but with great affection. He asked me then simply for a play which would make people laugh when their seaside summer holidays were spoiled by the rain and they came into the theatre to get dry before trudging back to their landladies. This seemed to me as worthwhile a reason for writing a play as any, so I tried to comply. I hope I have succeeded.

Writing Relatively Speaking: Alan Ayckbourn’s View

In Alan Ayckbourn’s highly recommended book The Crafty Art Of Playmaking, he gives a detailed commentary on the construction of Relatively Speaking. This is an abridged extract from the book detailing Alan’s thoughts on constructing the play.

I had the tiniest idea for a situation wherein a young man would ask an older man whether he could marry his daughter. The twist was that the older man didn't have a daughter.

Not much to go on, really, but something. Later, I developed the idea slightly. What if the daughter who wasn't a daughter was in fact the older man's mistress? Now we were beginning to have the makings of a rather promising situation.

Continuing on, what if the older man has a wife who knows nothing of this and what if the younger man were to meet the wife first and start talking about her nonexistent daughter? And what if the daughter, appalled that the younger man was there at all, had to embrace the lie that the older man was her father, for fear that if she didn't she would lose the younger man? And the wife had no idea what was going on. A plot was gradually falling together. A quite promising situation comedy of confused identity.

The decisions were reasonably simple. Since the younger man, Greg, needed to meet both the older man, Philip, and his wife, Sheila, it made sense to set the piece in the older couple's house. All that was needed then was a contrivance to get the girl, Ginny, there as well. Perhaps she was there finally to break off her relationship with Philip? Feasible. There were all sorts of problems presented by that but it would do as an initial working plan.

Returning to the narrative problems, it was important that Greg arrived in the house convinced that it belonged to Ginny's parents. How does that come about? Obviously she must have told him it does. Why should she do that? Because she's coming down to break off her relationship with Philip and doesn't want Greg to know where she's going. It's a spur-of-the-moment lie by her, to put the boyfriend off the scent.

Where does she tell him? We are going to need a pre-scene, a prologue before we can start the narrative rolling. With luck, this prologue could be used to serve more than one purpose.

But how does he get there, to the house? Answer: he follows her. But if he follows her, it means he must necessarily arrive second. And for the sake of the initial confusion of identity it's important that he arrives first. In which case, it's important that although she leaves first, so that he is convinced he's following her, in fact she is delayed so he arrives first. (The plotting is getting rather complicated.)

But that means that Greg finds his way to the supposed parents' house without following her. Which means he already knows the address. How does he know the address? Because he finds it somewhere, written down in her flat, that's why. Which conveniently - wait for it - explains why Ginny tells him it's her parents' address. Which is not a very clever lie because why on earth should someone write down their parents' address? Which makes him suspicious, which is why he follows her. It's getting clearer.

Of course, when he arrives and there's this sweet middle-aged woman, Sheila, he realises Ginny wasn't lying after all and that this is her parents' house.

A side effect of all this is that the location question has been solved. A two-set play: Ginny's flat initially, then Philip and Sheila's house.

Since the plot demands two sets, this prologue in the flat does give us a chance to establish the relationship between Greg and Ginny. Once the intricacies of the convoluted mistaken identity plot start uncoiling, as soon as first he and then she arrive at the parents, there's going to be very little time or opportunity to establish much of a relationship. Events will be moving too fast.

So a two-scene first-act structure seemed to be presenting itself:

Establish boy-girl relationship.

Boy finds address.

Boy - establish suspicious nature - suspects the girl is up to something. Establish perhaps that she has a slightly murky past. Certainly murkier than his.

Girl explains it away by saying that it's only her parents' address.

Boy even more suspicious. Why has she written down her parents' address?

Her taxi fails to arrive - she decides to walk to the station.

She leaves.

The taxi arrives.

Boy resolves to follow her.

He takes the taxi.

End scene.

Note to self: explain in scene two how he catches the train, while she misses it.

Scene Two: the house, or perhaps the house exterior: less constricting than an interior and easier to lose characters who aren't needed in certain scenes - they can either go into the house or wander off to other parts of the garden.

That's the good thing about gardens. People just wander without much need to explain their actions. This plot was going to require quite a dextrous shuffling of characters.

Note: it's a fine day.

And so on. This type of play requires intensely detailed plotting. It relies on coincidence, on things not being said or sometimes being said and misunderstood. Quite apart from the action itself, it requires that we know from second to second the attitude of each of the four characters to each other and what each perceives as being the situation. The wife, Sheila, for instance, will know practically nothing throughout. Greg will know a little. Ginny and Philip, the guilty parties, will know it all. And both will try desperately, in an uneasy alliance, to maintain the charade.

It seemed important, though, that by the end the tables would be turned.

Another decision was also being taken at this point, about time structure. The play could conveniently cover a tidy and brief span. Early morning through to early evening. Neat.

Anyway, the play, or at least the first half of it, was taking shape. But, please note, without a word of dialogue being written.

Essentially, though, with this type of `clockwork' play - almost entirely plot-driven - once you've wound up the first act, the second act is to some extent easier as the spring is allowed to unwind again. Character in this instance is partly dictated by the requirements of the plot. Sheila, the wife, for instance, needed to be a vague, somewhat unworldly, apparently trusting woman - even if she was to get the last word. Greg, an innocent, impulsive young man - with a strong moral sense of right and wrong. Ginny, more difficult to establish, as she had to be sleeping around with older men and two-timing our young hero whilst still retaining our sympathy. Going to need an actress with a great deal of charm. (Charm is very difficult to write.)

Also, note to self: put her through it a bit as all her chickens come home to roost. The audience may then be prepared to forgive her if she is seen to suffer (just a little bit) for her misdemeanours.

Likewise with Philip, her ex-lover. Important to make him quite a sympathetic bumbler. (Though that's probably not how he sees himself.) Certainly not a suave, moustache-twirling seducer. He must also retain a certain sympathy - so also cause him a bit of angst.

Because of its very constructional artifice, Relatively Speaking, although always billed as a light comedy, is technically closer to farce - the hardest type of play to write. For some reason, at that time in the 1960s producers considered farce to be a little downmarket, so Relatively was accorded the light-comedy certificate.

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