ALAN BENNETT

A Private Function

CONTENTS

1. Title Page

2. Introduction by Alan Bennett

3. The Old Crowd

4. A Private Function

5. Prick Up Your Ears

6. 102 Boulevard Haussmann

7. The Madness of King George

8. About the Author

9. Also by the Author

10. Copyright

INTRODUCTION

I have never been smitten with the romance of film or been much of a film buff. When I was a child the cinema seemed a less exciting place to visit than the theatre, partly, I suppose, because I was taken to the theatre less often and never took it for granted.

‘The pictures’, on the other hand, were routine; as a family in the forties we regularly went on a Monday and a Saturday (always to the first house) and sometimes on a Wednesday, too. Programmes changed once and sometimes twice a week and, with half a dozen cinemas within a mile or two, it was seldom hard to find a film you hadn’t seen.

This might make us seem film fans, but not then; in the years before television it was what people did. Thus in the course of my childhood I must have seen some of the classics of the screen at theit first outing – Casablanca, Citizen Kane, My Darling Clementine – with no notion that these were films of a different order from our usual twice-weekly fare. So the romance of film passed me by.

When I came to work with film directors like Lindsay Anderson, John Schlesinger and Stephen Frears I became more conscious of this gap, a gap not so much in my education (I had seen a lot of films after all) as in my sensibility. I didn’t understand the grammar of film (and still don’t); I didn’t carry a library of shots in my head and couldn’t draw on memories of classic films and how they were cut, the director’s touch and style seldom something I noticed.

I was most conscious of these shortcomings with Lindsay Anderson, whose living room was lined with videos of his favourite films, the virtues of which (sometimes quite obscure) he was always ready to expound. John Schlesinger was less of a teacher than Lindsay and was also more camp in his affiliations, and didn’t like to be thought in any way ‘arty’, so with him I felt less ignorant. Stephen Frears kept his enthusiasms to himself, sometimes seeing or contriving similarities with his favourite films, but never so explicitly as to be dubbed hommages, though his first film, Gumshoe, written by Neville Smith, was packed with such references, most of which were lost on me.

To begin with, though, the word ‘film’ did trail a certain glamour and mystery, and film acting seemed a subtler and altogether more calculated business than the acting I’d done on stage or on television. In retrospect, this seems absurd. The first filming I ever did was in Lloyd George Knew My Father (1965), a short film for television directed by Jack Gold. It starred John Bird, John Fortune and Eleanor Bron, with all of whom I was at that time regularly working on television … and on live television, too, which, if I’d thought about it, was a much more daunting process than film. At least on film you could have several goes at it (and didn’t need to know more than a few lines at a time). But it was the word ‘film’ that threw me into panic. It seemed so adult, whereas television was just playing about and being silly.

By the time I got round to writing films this sense of awe had long since gone, and when I did come to write a film it was almost without realising it. The first two television plays that I wrote, A Day Out (1972) and Sunset Across the Bay (1974), were done on location and on film, and to this day I don’t know whether to call them plays or films. They were only television films, it’s true, and in those days people working in feature films were quite condescending about television … but when I did eventually graduate to writing the occasional feature film there didn’t seem to be all that much difference anyway. The techniques were the same (though probably not the film stock), as were the personnel and even the food. It’s true feature filming was slower and more finicky, and the baggage train of vans, trucks and caravans more cumbersome, but this was presumably because feature filming was more expensive than filming for television and less routine. Certainly the fees were more generous; the actors were paid more; the writer was paid more; everyone, probably, was paid more. But it was hard not to wonder if this was one of the reasons why tempers on feature films were generally shorter: there was more at stake.

Certainly on my first feature film, A Private Function, there was more interference from the producers (to the general detriment of the film) than I’d ever experienced in a decade of making television films for the BBC. Scenes were cut without consultation, the budget was slashed, the score made jokier: all the usual weary litany of complaints film-makers have about ‘the money’. One of the producers was Denis O’Brien, the other George Harrison, and I never worked with either of them again. Experience in the world of entertainment is simply a list of people you would be happy to find yourself working with and another list of those you never want to see again; with luck the first list is longer than the second.

Included in this volume are the introductions originally published with the scripts of A Private Funotion, Prick Up Your Ears and The Madness of King George. The introduction to Prick Up Your Ears explains the circumstances in which this life of Joe Orton came to be written and the lengthy process whereby it eventually found a producer in Zenith. The earlier producers who, thinking the deal was in the bag, had then revealed their real intention to make ‘an English Cage aux Folles’ were Chrysalis Records.

This pre-production had been so protracted, though, that when at last we came to make the film I was just glad to get it out of the way so I could get on with something else. This is not the best frame of mind in which to do anything, though I can’t see how it doesn’t often afflict film-makers or at any rate scriptwriters. Besides which, as I explain in the introduction to the play, since I had mixed feelings about Orton himself it’s not surprising if I was sometimes in two minds over the film of his life.

I felt subsequently that so far as the sex scenes were concerned the film was a dry run for My Beautiful Laundrette, where Stephen Frears found a way of making the goings-on much more playful (and sexier). It was only towards the end of shooting Prick Up Your Ears that I noticed that in the bedroom scenes neither of our supposedly uninhibited characters even had their hands under the blankets.

To some extent this restraint can be put down to the times, though even in 1986 this was a little old-fashioned; and were a similar film to be made today it would need to be much more explicit (though that wouldn’t necessarily make it a better film). In the same way, I think the cottaging scene could have been earthier. It was filmed ‘artistically’ because, had it been more explicit, it would have been censored or received a harsher certificate. I have no experience of cottaging, but I’d be surprised if it was like this. Much truer in its way was a sillier lavatory scene Malcolm Mowbray improvised in A Private Function which was both funny and not implausible.

The scenes I particularly like in Prick Up Your Ears are Orton at home as a boy, Julie Walters as Orton’s mother shouting up the stairs, ‘I bet Dirk Bogarde didn’t distemper his mother’s bedspread,’ then having to bend double to avoid what she thinks is the rent-collector at the door. The scenes in Islington Public Library are also quite droll, though this, of course, is often the way with films and plays and for all I know novels: the characters who don’t carry the burden of the main plot are always the most fun to write; they’ve got time to be silly and don’t have to drive the action along.

102 Boulevard Haussmann (1990) came out of wanting to write about Proust, which in turn came out of having written about Kafka, around whom I had done two plays, one for television, The Insurance Man (1985), and a stage play, Kafka’s Dick (1986), both directed by Richard Eyre. All three scripts have to do with writers and their lives, and how life and art don’t always measure up.

Virtually contemporaries, Kafka and Proust both gave up their lives for their work, though the self-sacrifice didn’t quite make them saints – how they lived sometimes falling short of what they wrote. This is a not uncommon discrepancy, and and why writers are such tempting subjects for biography, clay feet always making for a good read. Kafka himself said that to write is to do the work of the devil, and there is a sense in which both he and Proust were supremely selfish, allowing nothing and nobody to stand in the way of the work.

Proust is tempting to write about for other reasons. The difficulty in dealing with writers in films or plays is that so often they have dull lives. Proust on the other hand had such an eccentric way of going on that it wasn’t simply a case of showing someone tearing an unsatisfactory sheet from the typewriter, screwing it up and throwing it in the wastepaper basket (Proust didn’t have a typewriter anyway).

Proust’s way of life, though well known, has not often been presented on the screen. He worked at night and slept much of the day; he had elaborate rituals involving food and clothes, and was rich enough to indulge them or have them indulged by his lifelong servant, Céleste Albaret. We took trouble about the exact representation of this life, making sure that the layout of the set at Elstree corresponded to the actual topography of Proust’s airless and cork-lined apartment in the Boulevard Haussmann; not, I’m sure, that anybody noticed or would have cared if they had.

In other respects, too, it’s a film that is faithful to the facts of Proust’s life. The quartet were summoned to his apartment to play for him in the middle of the night; he did (over) pay them in notes from a box of money from the sideboard before sending them off home in cabs having earlier fed them on food from the Ritz, which he was accustomed to use as a takeaway. There are, of course, much darker and more sensational episodes in Proust’s life, but for all its sad undertones this is one of the most appealing.

It was not an easy film to make, fiercely hot throughout most of the shooting, and no fun at all for Alan Bates, who was decked out in Proust’s suffocating assortment of vests and undergarments. At the time I thought the film would attract little notice, nor did it, and it’s never been repeated or the script printed until now. Still, we must have had a good time, and there’s a photograph of Alan Bates and myself (reproduced in Writing Home) sitting on one of Proust’s sofas, both of us helpless with laughter.

About The Old Crowd and The Madness of King George I have nothing much to add to what I’ve already written. The Old Crowd, the original TV script of which is printed in an earlier volume, was one of a succession of films that Lindsay Anderson developed but never managed to make. The money in this case had been allocated by the Swedish Film Institute, and I adapted my TV script, which Lindsay then rewrote. It was wasted labour for both of us as we then found that someone in Sweden had pocketed the funds, a circumstance which Lindsay found entirely unsurprising.

No such setbacks affected the making of The Madness of King George, which was an entirely happy experience. Nigel Hawthorne, who had played the part so notably on the stage, was anxious lest, like other stage successes of his, the part might be taken over in the film by an actor with more box-office clout. This had happened with the film of Shadowlands, in the play of which Nigel had had a great success as C. S. Lewis, but which, when it came to the film, was played by Anthony Hopkins.

So identified was Nigel with the part, no other actor was even considered, nor indeed any other director, though it would not have been hard to find one with a better track record than Nicholas Hytner, who, never having made a film, had no track record at all. The upshot was that the film was made with the same team as had done the play, a circumstance which gained us some moral credit in the profession. I’m not sure that this was entirely deserved, as my cupidity had never actually been put to the test. If someone in Hollywood had offered me five million dollars for the script on the understanding that George III was played by Sylvester Stallone, who knows what my reaction might have been?

Unsurprisingly, though, nobody did.

The Old Crowd

CAST

in order of appearance

PIANO TUNER

GEORGE

BETTY

HAROLD

GLYN

RUFUS

PAULINE

STELLA

DICKIE

BRIAN

KEVIN

SVEND

OSCAR

MOTHER

PETER

SUE

MR GREGORY

MRS BROOKSTONE

TOTTY

CAPTAIN

SERGEANT

ASSISTANT DIRECTOR, WARDROBE MISTRESS, YOUNG FAMILY, SCHOOLMASTER, PUPIL, NUNS, PATIENTS, CONDUCTOR, SOLOISTS, CABBY, SOLDIERS, MEDICAL AUXILIARIES, NURSE, OFFICIALS, ORDERLY, FUMIGATION SQUAD, DRESSER, ASSISTANT, DIRECTOR

EXT. ENGLISH ROADS. DAY.

A large furniture-removal van drives speedily across an empty landscape.

EXT. TOWN HOUSE (STILL PHOTO). NIGHT.

A still shot of the outside of a large, early twentieth-century London house. Camera tracks slowly in. Sound of piano tuning heard over.

INT. HOUSE. HALL AND MUSIC ROOM. NIGHT.

A spacious, completely empty hall. Walls are bare and white. Naked electric light bulbs – unshaded. No carpets on the floor. Windows are covered with newspaper. Through a door we see a large grand piano. At it is seated a Piano Tuner, a big man wearing dark glasses. Beside him is sitting a large dog. The camera tracks round until it is looking up an important staircase.

INT. UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR. NIGHT.

Camera tracks very slowly down the long corridor. The sound of voices from a room far down on the right.

BETTY Careful!

GEORGE That won’t work.

BETTY My idea was better.

George and Betty emerge slowly from the room, carrying a large mirror between them. She is in her undies: he is half-dressed in evening clothes. They edge across the corridor, disappearing into the bedroom on the left.

GEORGE I refuse to be defeated.

BETTY We shouldn’t be having to do this at all.

GEORGE (as they disappear into the bedroom) Over in the corner.

The corridor empty again. The piano-tuning noise continues downstairs. Sound of heavy bump.

The camera continues to track slowly down the corridor and eventually peers round the bedroom door. We see George and Betty, a middle-aged couple, getting dressed for a dinner party. The room is bare, with two camp beds with sleeping bags on them. Open suitcases on the floor; a travelling clock. A bathroom gives off the bedroom.

INT. BEDROOM AND BATHROOM. NIGHT.

George sits on his bed, cleaning his shoes. Betty gets her dress and carries it into the bathroom. She does her make-up in a cracked mirror propped up above the basin.

GEORGE You think we’re making the right decision?

BETTY What?

GEORGE You think we’re making the right decision?

BETTY Don’t let’s start all that again.

GEORGE I only wish Totty could be here.

BETTY Mmmm …

GEORGE It sounded quite serious.

BETTY It can’t be all that serious. She was talking about Scotland.

GEORGE It’s organic.

BETTY Is that serious?

GEORGE They’re called antibodies. Apparently she’s got too many. Or too few.

BETTY (running the tap) Oh dear!

GEORGE Poor Totty.

BETTY (switching off the tap) What?

GEORGE I said poor Totty.

BETTY (switching the tap on again. More slowly) Oh, yes.

GEORGE Is Oscar bringing that boy?

BETTY He does have a name.

GEORGE What is his name?

BETTY Svend. With a ‘d’.

GEORGE He never speaks.

BETTY He’s Swedish. I like him.

GEORGE He’s an improvement on the German.

BETTY Did you call the children?

GEORGE Yes.

BETTY Are they coming?

GEORGE If it’s humanly possible. I warned them to set off in good time just in case.

BETTY They’re both very sensible.

GEORGE No regrets?

BETTY No regrets.

GEORGE And you’re sure we’re doing the right thing?

BETTY Yes, we are.

GEORGE Just think, at this moment all over London our friends are making their way towards us.

They advance towards one another to embrace when the telephone rings. They look at the telephone. George picks it up. It is dead.

INT. CORRIDOR. NIGHT.

George and Betty emerge into the corridor as the telephone continues to ring. They listen outside doors. Betty opens a door, switches on a light, and signals to George. He comes up, and walks ahead of her into the room.

INT. EMPTY ROOM. NIGHT.

George comes up to telephone, on the floor in the middle of the empty room, still ringing. As he comes to it, it stops. George, picks it up, puts it to his ear. Nothing. He passes it to Betty. As she is handing it back to him, the front doorbell chimes.

INT. STAIRS AND HALL. NIGHT.

George comes down the stairs; he is still not completely dressed. The doorbell chimes again – two notes. The Piano Tuner echoes the same two notes on the piano. George goes to look through the open door at him.

INT. MUSIC ROOM. NIGHT.

The Piano Tuner senses George’s presence in the doorway and raises his head, but doesn’t strike any more notes. George softly closes the door.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

George unbolts the front door. Two men are waiting outside. One is tall, in his fifties, the other slighter and very unkempt, in his twenties. Harold, the elder, carries a small attaché case. Glyn, the younger, carries two large suitcases.

HAROLD Mr Nelson?

GEORGE Who are you?

HAROLD The slaves.

GEORGE The slaves! Of course. Enter. Enter.

George makes a point of bolting the door, looking out first. The waiters look round.

GEORGE (joining them) You got here all right? No problems?

HAROLD Harold.

GEORGE Harold.

HAROLD Glyn.

GEORGE Glyn.

George has put out his hand but somehow it is not seen and he puts it away again. The sound of piano tuning starts again.

GEORGE I’m afraid we have only the barest essentials at the moment, pending the arrival of our furniture … one’s bits and pieces. Still I think you’ll find we have gas, water and electricity. All mains services.

George leads the way towards a door connecting with the kitchen stairs. Harold and Glyn follow.

INT. KITCHEN STAIRS AND KITCHEN. NIGHT.

A large, old-fashioned kitchen with a door that gives on to a basement area outside. Large new oil stove and sink fittings. There is a large crate in the middle of the empty floor. George appears down the staircase.

GEORGE I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the kitchen. Plenty of elbow room here. And – (He indicates the crate.) – your people brought this round earlier. I imagine it’s all in there.

Harold puts his attaché case on the crate and opens it. Glyn snoops around, opens and closes the back door.

GEORGE Do you do this full-time?

HAROLD We’re actors. We act.

GEORGE Acting. That is exciting. Are you ‘resting’?

HAROLD Excuse me?

GEORGE That’s what it’s called, isn’t it, when you’re out of work? Resting?

HAROLD I call it out of work.

GEORGE What sort of parts do you play?

HAROLD Glyn frequently plays policeman’s parts, don’t you, Glyn?

Glyn smiles.

GEORGE He’s a bit slight for a policeman.

HAROLD That’s the sort of policeman he plays. The sensitive one who cracks under the strain of the constant brutality.

Harold has opened his attaché case. It contains a roll of cloth which he opens to reveal various tools in pouches. George picks up one out of curiosity but Harold takes it from him and puts it on one side.

GEORGE And what do you play?

GLYN Where is the toilet?

HAROLD I also play policemen, at a more senior level.

GEORGE Well, it’s all acting, isn’t it?

Harold hands him a large card.

GEORGE Ah. The bill of fare.

GLYN Where is the toilet?

HAROLD Where is the toilet?

GEORGE This looks delicious. Are you desperate?

GLYN I am.

GEORGE Well, we have a problem. Typical story. Workmen here going on six months … floors up, ceilings down. Nightmare. Job completed. Workmen depart. We come to use the toilet and it doesn’t work. Four toilets and three don’t work.

HAROLD He had every intention of going at the station, only the vandals had got there first.

GEORGE Come upstairs.

INT. HALL AND STAIRS. NIGHT.

George and Glyn emerge from the kitchen staircase, cross the hall and start to climb the stairs. We hear the piano tuning again.

INT. KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Harold has hung his dress suit from a hook in the ceiling. He finishes brushing it. He takes a tape from his case and starts to measure the walls.

INT. UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR. NIGHT.

As Glyn follows George down the corridor, he checks, tries a door, finds it open and goes inside, turning on the light. George goes back. He follows Glyn into the room.

INT. EMPTY UPSTAIRS ROOM. NIGHT.

As George goes into the room, Glyn disappears through another door, back into the corridor, so he is now ahead of George. George withdraws into the corridor again.

INT. UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR. NIGHT.

Glyn is now waiting innocently for George, who walks on down the corridor past him, again leading the way.

GEORGE This way.

INT. BEDROOM. NIGHT.

George enters, followed by Glyn. Betty, now dressed, enters from the bathroom.

GEORGE Glyn here is just going to use the bathroom.

Glyn edges his way past Betty, unnecessarily close. He grins unpleasantly and goes into the bathroom. Betty glares. George smiles.

INT. STAIRS AND HALL. NIGHT.

George is following Betty down the stairs; he is now fully dressed.

BETTY All I’m saying is, one doesn’t ask to use the loo before one has barely set foot in the house.

GEORGE They’re only human.

BETTY It’s a mistake to encourage them.

George opens the door into the music room. Betty follows.

INT. MUSIC ROOM. NIGHT.

As George and Betty enter, the Piano Tuner plays an ornate flourish. He then strikes up the waltz ‘Destiny’, and they start to dance. They waltz round the empty room. As they dance, Glyn appears in the open doorway. He looks in for a moment, then disappears.

George and Betty waltz past a gap in the set, through which we see camera, monitors, crew, etc., but we follow the dancers. They complete the circuit of the room, then suddenly the Piano Tuner stops playing. He starts to pack up his tools.

GEORGE It’s a mystery to me.

The Piano Tuner turns his head.

Music.

PIANO TUNER I’ve never liked it. I used to be a policeman.

BETTY Before you lost your sight?

PIANO TUNER (closing piano lid) Naturally.

GEORGE Hooligans?

PIANO TUNER A nuclear waste disposal demonstration … My coat?

The Piano Tuner gets up. George looks around.

GEORGE Yes. Now. Ah – here we are! (He crosses to fetch the Tuner’s coat from a window sill. Then brings it back to help him with it.).

You didn’t have a stick?

Betty pantomimes: George understands and takes a note out of his pocket. He puts it into the Piano Tuner’s hand.

PIANO TUNER What’s this?

GEORGE It’s just a little something for your trouble.

PIANO TUNER Is it a tip?

GEORGE Yes. Is it all right?

PIANO TUNER It’s not generous, but it’ll do.

GEORGE Thank you.

The Piano Tuner takes a folded-up white stick out of his case, and unfolds it.

GEORGE I say, that’s handy.

As he unfolds the stick, they all seem to become aware of a distant sound. They stand listening expectantly.

EXT. ENGLISH ROADS. DAY.

The furniture van drives up to and past camera in an urban area.

INT. MUSIC ROOM. NIGHT.

Continuation of interior shot. As the group stands listening, we hear the front door chime.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

Into the empty hall comes Glyn, still struggling into a very tight-fitting waiter’s costume. The bell rings again, as he goes to the front door and unbolts it. Rufus, a big, hearty man, and his voluble wife Pauline are waiting. Pauline is carrying a large potted plant.

RUFUS (crossing the threshold) Greetings. Greetings. As we enter these portals for the first time – greetings!

Led by his dog, and escorted rather tentatively by George and Betty, the Piano Tuner is heading for the front door. Rufus and Pauline edge out of the way. Pauline manages to trip over the step leading down from the door, and falls heavily.

GEORGE Be right with you.

PAULINE What a large dog. How sweet.

George pushes the Piano Tuner out through the door, but does not go down the steps with him.

GEORGE Three steps. One. Two. Three. You’ll be all right now? (He closes the door and bolts it.) Sorry about that. Blind.

RUFUS Blind? And venturing through the streets?

GEORGE Yes. He’s been a policeman.

BETTY (as it were beginning the ceremony of welcome afresh) Well! You got here.

GEORGE No problems?

Rufus takes out a large truncheon-like torch.

RUFUS No problems at all.

BETTY Oh my goodness.

RUFUS It’s perfectly simple. You just have to walk as though you’ve got somewhere to go to. Somewhere you’ll be missed if you don’t turn up. Walk as if you mean business.

GEORGE March.

RUFUS Exactly.

Betty kisses Rufus and is about to kiss Pauline.

PAULINE Are you all right?

BETTY All right?

PAULINE You haven’t been in contact with the virus?

BETTY What virus?

RUFUS Where have you been, you two?

BETTY We’re a bit out of touch, I’m afraid.

GEORGE We haven’t been reading the papers.

PAULINE It’s supposed to be Syrian but they’re not sure. Apparently you just feel vaguely ill, slight fever, sweating. Like ordinary flu. Two hours later it’s all over.

GEORGE Better?

PAULINE No. Dead.

BETTY How frightful!

RUFUS It’s everywhere, though of course they’re playing it down. Plymouth is a ghost city.

PAULINE Manchester is at a standstill.

GEORGE What are they doing about it?

RUFUS What can they do about it?

Glyn approaches for their coats.

RUFUS Ah, he has the look of a man wanting to take my coat. Well, there it is. Plus the coat belonging to my good lady. Camouflage.

INT. CLOAKROOM. NIGHT.

An empty room off the hall. Glyn brings Rufus’s and Pauline’s coats in, goes through their pockets and abstracts Rufus’s heavy torch. He throws the coats on the floor and practises cosh-blows with the torch. Pauline’s voice continues, off.

PAULINE … they say the vaccination’s worse than the disease.

RUFUS Bang through the stomach lining.

BETTY How awful!

PAULINE Naturally one thinks antibiotics, but it thrives on antibiotics. They’re its breeding ground. So of course the first places to be hit are hospitals. Don’t go to hospital whatever you do.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

The group are continuing to talk.

RUFUS Typical of this cockeyed world. The experts bring out a cure-all, and before you know where you are it’s killing everybody off.

BETTY How ghastly!

Pauline now embraces Betty.

PAULINE Betty!

They kiss and Pauline hands over a present she has brought: a large plant.

BETTY Is this for me? Look, George! Oh, Pauline.

They kiss again.

PAULINE (looking around) What a super house! Whee! The space. No things, no clutter. Lovely.

RUFUS I give you full marks for courage, Betty.

GEORGE Thank you, only the truth is: our furniture just hasn’t arrived.

PAULINE But it’s meant. It’s a style. Betty – Scandinavian. No?

George starts to lead the way down the hall. Rufus walks with him. Betty follows with Pauline.

GEORGE Thing was we’d invited everybody. Stella and Dickie, Oscar, Peter and Sue …

BETTY You and Rufus …

GEORGE Rufus and you. Invitations all sent out on the fairly reasonable assumption that we should be settled in by now.

INT. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

They progress into the empty drawing room. There are some gilt chairs piled against the far wall. Windows covered with newspaper.

BETTY That was three weeks ago.

GEORGE Still no sign.

PAULINE But where is it?

BETTY It’s still in transit.

PAULINE In transit?

GEORGE On the road. ‘Misrouted.’

PAULINE Misrouted? Oh Betty, where?

BETTY Leeds was mentioned.

PAULINE Oh, Betty!

GEORGE Same old story. Them.

PAULINE Three weeks! It’s incredible.

RUFUS I wish it was. I hope you gave ’em hell.

GEORGE It’s so difficult to get hold of anyone. Our phones don’t seem to be connected yet.

RUFUS I know, though you applied six months ago.

BETTY There is a box on the corner, only –

RUFUS Don’t tell me. Vandalised.

BETTY Naturally our first thought was cancel.

GEORGE But then we thought, no –

BETTY To hell with it.

GEORGE – just because some dreary little lorry driver is trying to notch up some buckshee overtime by ferrying our precious possessions up and down the country, why should that stop us having a good time? Why not camp out?

RUFUS Camp out?

GEORGE Squat?

BETTY So we’re squatting.

GEORGE Living out of a suitcase and loving every minute of it.

INT. DRESSING ROOM. DAY.

The actress playing Stella is putting the final touches to her dress, helped by a dresser.

A knock at the door.

STELLA Come in.

A boy enters and says something in Swedish. The dresser replies.

Is that me? … Thank you very much.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

Harold is crossing with a tray of drinks: He enters the drawing room.

INT. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

RUFUS And you’ve no idea where the van’s got to?

GEORGE None.

BETTY Nobody seems to care.

RUFUS They don’t.

PAULINE I think they do it deliberately.

BETTY But why?

PAULINE Envy.

RUFUS Spite. God, I hate this country.

PAULINE He doesn’t really.

Rufus is taking a drink from Harold.

RUFUS This piss-stained ammoniacal little island. This floating urinal. This rectal fistula of a nation. Where you can’t wipe your bottom without filling a form in first. And you can’t transport your worldly goods from point A to point B without getting pillaged in the process. It’s a pigsty.

BETTY Dear Rufus!

RUFUS Look at me, only last week I go into the office one morning, place a complete shambles. Paint all over the place.

BETTY Paint?

RUFUS Paint, glue, sand.

PAULINE And that was only half of it.

BETTY Oh no.

RUFUS Soiled clothing.

BETTY How frightful.

RUFUS It’s the same everywhere.

GEORGE It’s all round here.

PAULINE They never catch them.

RUFUS You are on your own these days. Wartime.

Rufus has turned, so that the camera, shooting directly on him, also takes in the stage behind. We see Dickie walking briskly past, accompanied by an assistant.

INT. STUDIO. OUTSIDE FRONT DOOR. NIGHT.

Stella is having last touches done to her hair.

Dickie walks into shot. A prop man rings the doorbell.

STELLA Got your radio?

DICKIE (panicking) Oh hell! …

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

The bell sounds again. Glyn crosses to the door, unbolts it. Stella enters. George and Betty come forward to greet her.

BETTY Stella, thank God!

STELLA Thank God, thank God! What a journey: I’m dead. Are we late?

GEORGE Not a bit.

STELLA What’s happened to the street lights?

BETTY There were some.

STELLA There aren’t now. Then Dickie would insist on looking for a policeman.

GEORGE A policeman?

STELLA Of course there weren’t any.

Pauline appears from the drawing room.

PAULINE Stella!

STELLA Pauline!

GEORGE Where’s Dickie?

Glyn takes Stella’s coat.

STELLA Oh, thank you very much.

GEORGE Come on, Dickie, hurry up. Let’s get this door closed.

As Glyn takes Stella’s coat to the room off the hall, he passes the open door. We stay on the door as Dickie comes in. George bolts the door. Glyn removes Dickie’s coat. Dickie hastens after him to remove a small transistor radio from the pocket.

INT. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

In the drawing room Rufus is left alone with Harold. Offstage we hear a reprise of the dialogue about the absence of furniture.

GEORGE On the road.

STELLA On the road? Where?

BETTY Leeds, possibly.

STELLA Leeds!

BETTY It was just going to be the old crowd, you and Dickie, Rufus and Pauline …

GEORGE Oscar, Peter, Sue.

BETTY Thinking we’d all be settled in.

Voices fade and return.

So we thought to hell with it. Why not camp out?

GEORGE Squat.

STELLA Squat.

BETTY So we’re squatting.

GEORGE Living out of a suitcase and loving every minute of it.

Rufus wanders round the room. Goes up to take his empty glass to put on Harold’s tray. Takes a full one. Looks hard at Harold, who is unperturbed.

RUFUS I’ve seen you before.

Harold says nothing.

RUFUS I know you. You don’t work for me, do you? You’re not one of my employees?

HAROLD I’m an actor.

RUFUS Really? I’ve never seen you. Are you out of work?

HAROLD Not at the moment.

RUFUS I could use someone like you. What are they giving you for this? Twenty pounds? Thirty? I could double that. You’re wasting your time here.

EXT. ENGLISH ROADS. DAY.

Camera tracks with the van. Brian is driving. Kevin is feeding him with sandwiches and coffee from a thermos.

INT. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

Dickie, with his transistor in his hand, is surveying the papers which cover the windows. He is carrying an empty glass in his free hand. Rufus approaches him.

RUFUS Where’ve you been, Dickie?

DICKIE Valparaiso.

PAULINE Where is that?

GEORGE Old Dickie’s been in Valparaiso. Now why’s that, Dickie?

DICKIE I needed to see what was happening over there at first hand. Taking the temperature of the water, you know.

STELLA The week before it was Delhi. And Washington before that.

PAULINE Did you see the Post-Impressionists?

DICKIE I was looking at the dollar.

PAULINE George. Betty! You must leave it like this. Bare. Empty. No things. We have too many things. Listen, everybody! We all have too many things.

BETTY Drinks, George. Drinks.

GEORGE (looking around, he realises that Harold and Glyn are not present) Yes. Drinks.

BETTY Where are they? You hire people to see to things, and when the time comes they behave as if they own the place.

DICKIE They were here.

PAULINE Two of them.

BETTY Find them, George.

George leaves the room.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

George looks round the empty hall, and through the music room and cloakroom doors. Deserted. He listens a moment – then makes for the door to the kitchen stairs.

INT. KITCHEN. NIGHT.

George comes down the stairs. There is the sound of a pick being wielded against brickwork. He listens for a moment. The figure of Harold can be glimpsed, mostly hidden, operating in a pantry at the opposite end of the kitchen.

GEORGE Hello. Hello.

The picking stops, not quite immediately. There is the sound of an implement being thrown down. Harold appears, in shirtsleeves, wiping his neck and hands with a handkerchief.

HAROLD Yes?

GEORGE People are wanting drinks.

HAROLD I’ve only got one pair of hands.

GEORGE Where’s your friend?

HAROLD I expect he’s finding his way round. (He crosses to the sink and starts washing his hands.)

GEORGE We must have somebody doing the drinks. We want this to be something of an occasion.

The doorbell sounds. George and Harold look at each other. Harold dries his hands.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

Glyn is coming downstairs, adjusting his dress. The doorbell rings again. Glyn opens the door. There is no one to be seen. He steps out into the darkness. There is a pause, then Svend comes in, a beautiful young Swede, in an expensive brown suede overcoat. Glyn returns, looks at Svend, and is closing the door when a walking stick is thrust in to stop the door closing. Oscar, a tall, theatrical figure wearing a scarlet-lined opera cloak, steps in, between Svend and Glyn. George and Betty approach, from their different doors.

GEORGE Oscar!

BETTY Oscar!

They kiss Oscar.

OSCAR Svend –

Oscar looks on indulgently as Betty and George (self-consciously) kiss Svend. Glyn takes hats and coats.

EXT. ENGLISH ROADS. DAY.

The van circumnavigates a complex motorway junction (for instance ‘Spaghetti Junction’, seen from overhead).

INT. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

George, Betty, Rufus, Pauline, Stella, Dickie, Oscar and Svend stand talking and drinking. Harold circulates with a tray of drinks, Glyn with canapés. Rufus, Betty and Dickie are in a group, glasses in hand.

RUFUS In the 1930s one could buy a three-bedroom house in a London suburb for between six and seven hundred pounds and a good second-hand car for less than a hundred pounds. A typical dinner in 1937 would consist of soup, sole Colbert, roast chicken and bacon or roast beef with appropriate vegetables, chartreuse of fruit or sherry trifle, biscuits and cheese and coffee. The price was five shillings a head. The wine list might offer a 1923 vintage champagne for thirteen-and-sixpence, a Liebfraumilch for five shillings, and a Graves for four-and-six.

Harold moves in with the drinks; they each take another glass.

BETTY With coal twenty-seven-and-six a ton.

DICKIE The 1930s was a decade of increasing prosperity – except of course for the unemployed. And they were very much a minority.

Harold walks on to another group. Oscar is holding forth to Svend, Stella and Rufus.

OSCAR We have seen it.

STELLA Isn’t it terribly bleak? We’re going next week.

RUFUS Terribly bleak. You can’t get in.

OSCAR The true optimist does not maintain that cruelty and misery are optical illusions. The optimism that gives life instead of denying it simply declares that the universe does make sense. I have no doubt (for the limits of foolishness have not yet been reached by the human race) that some will call this piece sentimental and therefore false. Dolts! While they stand on one leg and itch, this beautiful, funny and ripely theatrical parable is demonstrating that it is true precisely because it is true.

Glyn is handing out canapés from a plate on a small silver tray. We follow him across to where Betty is standing with Svend.

BETTY Do you like champagne?

Svend is politely impassive.

I adore champagne … I simply adore it.

After a pause she gives up and moves to another group – Oscar standing with George, Pauline, Stella.

GEORGE How’s mental illness, Oscar?

OSCAR I shall shortly be opening another clinic.

PAULINE That’s three.

OSCAR Four.

GEORGE According to one forecast, the mad will soon outnumber the sane. One in three people under the age of sixty already have some experience of a mental institution.

BETTY How gruesome!

Harold passes with drinks again.

OSCAR Your father sends his love.

STELLA How is he?

OSCAR He sat in a chair yesterday for a full quarter of an hour.

STELLA He sounds wonderful.

PAULINE What a pretty bracelet, Svend. Is it gold?

STELLA It looks like gold.

Svend smiles and says nothing.

GEORGE What’s it for?

OSCAR Nothing. No function at all. That’s the beauty of it.

Oscar and Svend move away.

GEORGE How did he meet him?

PAULINE How does he meet any of them? Applied for a job at the clinic. He’s a male nurse.

STELLA Too good to waste on the patients.

Glyn passes Dickie with his tray as Oscar and Svend come up: gradually the others circle round.

OSCAR And what has Dickie been doing? Making lots of money in clever-Dickie fashion?

PAULINE He made me go into commodities, didn’t you, Dickie?

DICKIE Did I?

PAULINE Coffee. I had to buy coffee in the forward market. And a forest. We bought a forest.

BETTY Where?

PAULINE Where was it, Rufus?

RUFUS In Sussex somewhere.

GEORGE Someone was telling me if you went into wine you couldn’t lose. At the right time, of course.

RUFUS What is the right time, Dickie?

DICKIE Not now.

GEORGE Somebody told me the thing to do now is sell money.

PAULINE I hope commodities are still all right. There’s nothing wrong with commodities, is there, Dickie? It’s all in coffee. Should I sell the forest?

DICKIE Everybody seems to be selling money. I’m more inclined to buy it.

PAULINE Should I sell the forest?

DICKIE No point in selling the forest.

Stella, bored, moves away and helps herself to a canapé from Glyn’s plate.

RUFUS (out of shot) What about the coffee?

DICKIE (put of shot) It’s hard to get a true picture. If we were in South America I could tell you exactly what to do. Brazil. Paraguay.

PAULINE (out of shot) Paraguay! Isn’t he brilliant!

RUFUS Now, everybody – a toast! A toast to this house!

Glyn fills Stella’s glass.

PAULINE But where’s Totty? Shouldn’t we wait for Totty?

GEORGE She’s not coming. She’s ill.

PAULINE Totty ill?

STELLA Totty? Is she?

BETTY Don’t spoil things, George. She’s perfectly all right. It’s just something she’s got.

PAULINE It’s not …

STELLA Oh, shut up, darling.

RUFUS A toast to this house – to its warmth and its welcome.

Everyone drinks.

And to George and Betty, our dear friends, and the life they will have here. George and Betty!

They repeat the toast and all drink again.

GEORGE What about a conducted tour?

PAULINE Yes, please. I love houses.

GEORGE Everyone all right? … Follow me.

George leads the way. They all follow. Glyn eyeing Stella as they go. Dickie remains, his attention caught by the newspapers over the window.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

Led by George, the party cross to the stairs and start up them.

OSCAR Dare one ask what it cost?

BETTY Oh, nothing.

OSCAR Nothing?

BETTY It was in the family.

GEORGE It belonged to Betty’s uncle. You should have seen it when we got it.

STELLA What was it like?

BETTY A pigsty.

GEORGE Filthy.

BETTY Uncle had lived here all his life: never done a thing to it.

GEORGE He was very old.

RUFUS Was he an eccentric?

BETTY No. He was a banker.

STELLA (calling) Dickie!

INT. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

Dickie turns away from the window, which he has been studying. His way is barred by Harold and Glyn, who start to set up a trestle table. He listens to his transistor radio.

INT. STAIRS. NIGHT.

The party is climbing the stairs – coming up towards camera.

GEORGE Of course before the war it was a palace.

BETTY When my aunt was alive.

GEORGE There were servants then.

BETTY Servants. A chauffeur. All devoted.

RUFUS Of course. Another world.

INT. UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR. NIGHT.

George and Betty lead the way down the corridor.

BETTY In due course she died, the servants left, he struggled on alone but for his little dog.

GEORGE Which he adored.

BETTY One day he picked it up and flung it against the wall.

Pauline screams.

RUFUS Tragic.

OSCAR Senile dementia.

RUFUS I suppose it had to be destroyed.

GEORGE When he died it was three weeks before anyone found him.

BETTY Anyone? Me … in here. (opening the door) Dead under a pile of newspapers.

INT. EMPTY UPSTAIRS ROOM. NIGHT.

The guests crowd in the doorway. The room is empty except for a telephone on the floor.

PAULINE Didn’t that put you off?

RUFUS Is must be worth all of two hundred.

OSCAR No. Two-fifty at least.

BETTY We haven’t decided on a colour yet. White will do for the time being.

PAULINE I’m never sure about white. So pitiless somehow.

INT. LARGE ATTIC ROOM. NIGHT.

Rufus, Betty and Stella are strolling through the empty room.

BETTY It’s not a particularly safe area, of course.

STELLA Where is nowadays?

RUFUS Nowhere. Nowhere’s safe. And the country’s as bad as the town. A cousin of mine was on a bus the other day …

STELLA On a bus?

RUFUS Country bus … night time, nine o’clock. Quite full, one of these jobs where the driver takes the fares.

STELLA They’re all getting like that now. It’s the wages.

RUFUS Opposite her there was this young chap, nineteen, quite well dressed, sitting there moaning.

STELLA Moaning?

RUFUS Coat wrapped round him, rocking to and fro, moaning. Naturally she thought drugs …

BETTY As one would.

RUFUS I say, this is a nice room … but she watched him out of the corner of her eye for a bit and she decided, ‘No. This young man is ill. Really ill.’ She went and had a word with the driver. He doesn’t like stopping, nine o’clock at night, middle of nowhere, but eventually he pulls up and comes back down the bus to investigate. And as they look at this youth they see that just where he’s hugging himself there’s a great patch of blood. Blood soaked right through his coat. (opening a door) What’s in here? Ah. So the bus driver gets this young lad to let him open his coat so they can see where he’s hurt. He opens his coat and out falls a hand. A human hand.

STELLA His hand?

RUFUS No, somebody else’s. With a ring on it.

BETTY What sort of ring?

RUFUS Gold. He must have cut off the hand to get the ring.

STELLA What happened then?

RUFUS I don’t know what happened then.

BETTY And where did you say this was – New York?

RUFUS Horsham.

INT. MOTHER’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Television image of a large eye fills the screen. As we cut back, we see an elderly lady watching a medical movie in an otherwise empty room. George, Pauline, Oscar and Svend enter.

GEORGE We won’t disturb you, Mother. We’ve given this room to Mother. It’s all right. She’s not one for social occasions.

George leads the way round the room. One of the walls is missing. A group of technicians watch.

PAULINE It’s so spacious. I long to see it furnished.

OSCAR I imagine there’ll be a good view.

GEORGE Splendid view. The whole of London.

OSCAR The whole of London? That’s handy.

PAULINE You’re not overlooked?

GEORGE We have neighbours, but we’ve never seen them.

OSCAR Probably foreigners. Only people who can afford to live here these days.

PAULINE You had it rewired, I suppose?

GEORGE Top to bottom.

PAULINE It’s the best.

OSCAR Cheapest in the long run.

PAULINE Are you oil-fired?

GEORGE Gas.

OSCAR Safest in the long run.

PAULINE Oh, much.

GEORGE Thank you, Mother.

They go out. Elderly lady continues watching television.

INT. UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR. NIGHT.

The whole party, minus Dickie, is strolling down a wide corridor.

STELLA I sometimes think – should one just go somewhere else?

GEORGE You mean emigrate?

RUFUS Why not?

BETTY But where?

OSCAR Precisely. One almost finds oneself thinking in terms of New York.

PAULINE Surely not New York?

They have arrived at a bend in the corridor. George halts them.

GEORGE Sorry, everyone – we haven’t got around to doing the windows here yet. Better keep down.

They continue down the corridor, crouching as they pass the windows, through which moonlight shines, and the occasional searchlight.

STELLA The thing about New York is they will at least let one work.

RUFUS Not officially they won’t. Officially one can’t work. Especially us. Not without a green card.

PAULINE A green card?

OSCAR People will do anything for a green card.

BETTY Do they all have green cards?

RUFUS No. That’s the point. The Chinese don’t.

OSCAR New York is full of Chinese, working, saving, going home to China. The authorities turn a blind eye.

PAULINE Communist China?

OSCAR Communist China.

They are past the dangerous part of the corridor now, and they get up from the floor.

STELLA How extraordinary.

BETTY Without the Chinese their restaurant business would fall apart.

GEORGE That couldn’t happen here.

STELLA People working illegally.

RUFUS Oh no. People don’t work here anyway, do they? Can’t work legally, never mind illegally. That’s the trouble.

They walk on, laughing. Dickie appears, trailing after them. He stops to listen to his transistor.

INT. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

A long, immaculate dinner table has been laid: linen and silver. Harold is checking. He corrects a knife and fork laid the wrong way round.

He looks up as Glyn enters, staggering under the weight of a large mirror, which he proceeds to prop on the serving table. As Harold and Glyn position the mirror, we see in it reflected the studio, cameras and lights. As they finish placing the mirror the door chimes go.

EXT. ENGLISH ROADS. EVENING.

The van is parked in a lay-by. Camera tracks past. Brian and Kevin are brewing up a pot of tea on a small spirit stove, sitting on two ornate wing chairs. The chimes sound again.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

Glyn unbolts the front door. Two figures in black motor-cycle gear advance, helmeted, gloved, anonymous. George and Betty appear at the top of the stairs.

BETTY Darlings. Look who’s here!

PETER Hi!

SUE (lifting her visor) Hi. We’re not late, are we?

BETTY It’s the children.

GEORGE Not late a bit. Anyway, what’s late these days?

They begin to take off their gear.

PETER We thought we’d never make it.

Pauline, Rufus and the others appear on the staircase.

PAULINE Oh look. It’s Peter and Sue. (calling) Sue, Peter!

PETER Hello, Auntie Pauline!

SUE Hello!

PAULINE Come on, everybody. The young people are here.

BETTY We were beginning to think something had happened.

RUFUS No fear. They’re young. They can look after themselves.

BETTY Hugs, hugs, hugs!

Universal greetings, kisses, handshakings are exchanged.

PETER Hello, Auntie Betty. Auntie Pauline. How are you, sir?

RUFUS Hello again.

PETER We had a couple of close shaves but we pressed on.

GEORGE That’s the spirit.

OSCAR Sue, my precious. You don’t know Svend, do you?

BETTY This is Svend, Oscar’s friend. This is Sue, Svend; she’s my sister’s daughter.

GEORGE And this is Peter, my brother’s son.

BETTY Now married to each other. And very dear.

PAULINE Let me kiss you again. Aren’t you pretty! And you, dear. Aren’t they pretty.

GEORGE (into a pause) Well, here we all are.

Piano Tuner appears, in a short overcoat and scarf, carrying a suitcase.

PIANO TUNER Well, goodbye, everyone: that’s me finished.

ALL (ad lib) Jimmy! You off already? Are you finished?

PIANO TUNER (making for the front door and leaving with a wave) So long – good luck – see you when I see you.

A pause again.

GEORGE Well, here we all are!

Harold appears from the kitchen door, holding a silver tray and large covered dish. He moves through the crowd to the drawing room. Betty crosses to Glyn, with hostess formality.

BETTY Would you announce dinner now?

Glyn slouches to the staircase, goes up three stops and announces aggressively.

GLYN Dinner is served.

Cries of laughter and chatter as they all move off.

INT. DRAWING (NOW DINING) ROOM. NIGHT.

BETTY (moving to a serving table at the side) Place people, George. Harold removes the silver lid from the dish and stirs an anonymous-looking stew. He discovers a pink rubber glove in it, which he abstracts and carefully places, folded up, in his inside pocket.

GEORGE Right, Stella here – Pauline there – Rufus, now, can’t have you sitting next to your wife, can we? You go there – Oscar and Svend there … (etc., etc.)

The guests start to sit, unfold napkins, etc. As they sit, we see that the table is at least eighteen inches too high – or the seats too low. This makes them look like children at a grown-up dinner. Nobody comments or complains.

STELLA Did you do this yourself?

BETTY No, we’ve had it all done.

STELLA How clever. Who by?

GEORGE This girl. She’s built up a vast organisation virtually from scratch and now they cater for practically everybody. The City, the Palace, government ministries. Everybody. Down to the last detail. She started off with nothing.

RUFUS There you are, you see. It can still be done. Provided you’re prepared to work.

Glyn is pouring wine. Betty has been putting some food on a plate while Harold waits with a tray.

INT. HALL/STAIRS. NIGHT.

Dickie is coming down the stairs, listening to his transistor radio. As he moves towards the dining room, he is passed by Betty, who goes upstairs followed by Harold with the loaded tray.

INT. UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR. NIGHT.

Harold follows Betty down the corridor. They turn into a room.

INT. MOTHER’S ROOM. NIGHT.

Mother is still watching television. Harold follows Betty in with the tray and they position it on a portable table in front of her. For a moment all three watch the TV image – sea-cows moving gracefully in the depths of a river. Then Betty and Harold leave. Mother continues to watch as she lifts her knife and fork. The camera moves into the TV screen. A commercial break interrupts the programme.

TV SCREEN. COMMERCIALS.

Two commercials – to be selected from actual examples of luxurious petty-bourgeois living – follow.

INT. DINING ROOM. NIGHT.

A large sponge pudding is being carved by Harold. The guests are eating; Glyn is going round, pouring a thick white sauce from a sauce boat. Rufus is holding forth.

RUFUS No – to tell the unpleasing truth. I don’t see any light at the end of our particular tunnel. Talking to a man the other day, managing director of a small family firm in the Midlands. Employing about 250 people. Mainstay of the local community. Making electrical components for use in heart-support machines – chief customer the Health Service. Right. One morning, letter from the Department of Health. Dear Sir and so on. New marketing developments cause cancellation of all forward orders. Components can now be obtained at a third of the price. Where? Taiwan. Come Friday night this chap locks up, puts key in an envelope, puts it through his bank manager’s door. That firm is now dead. I mean, what is the point?

GEORGE It’s the same all over the country.

RUFUS An entire community now on social security. And getting more than they would if they were working. Cost that in economic terms.

RUFUS Life is poorer.

PAULINE (between Peter and Sue) Aren’t they pretty? Every time I look at them I just think, ‘How pretty.’

SUE Lovely pudding.

PAULINE Sweet.

GEORGE A toast. Absent friends.

ALL Absent friends.

RUFUS (rising, solemn) Absent friends … Wherever they may be.

They drink. There is a sudden silence. Pauline puts her glass down heavily.

GEORGE Sorry. Didn’t mean to put a damper on the proceedings.

PAULINE I keep thinking about Totty.

BETTY Yes. Poor old Totty.

OSCAR Poor dear Totty.

PAULINE It’s not the same without Totty.

SUE I wish I’d met her. I’ve heard so much about her. I thought she might be here.

STELLA How long do they think it’s going to take?

OSCAR Three months.

SUE How awful!

GEORGE That can mean anything.

BETTY We seem to have known Totty for ever.

OSCAR Longer.

PAULINE Peter was her special favourite, weren’t you, Peter?

PETER Well, Auntie – she really brought us up, when …

PAULINE Peter’s no stranger to sadness either, are you, Peter? When you’ve lost both your parents in two separate air crashes you understand pain. Don’t you, Peter?

PETER I don’t know, Auntie, one presses on.

PAULINE He calls me Auntie, but I’m not really. He just wants someone to hold on to. I think that’s why he married so young. Aren’t they pretty? You’re pretty too, my dear. Isn’t she?

STELLA Yes. I gather you’re also an accomplished clarinettist.

SUE Oh, I’m not much good really.

Stella, who has been eyeing Glyn, folds her napkin up and drops it deliberately. Glyn moves towards the table, and suddenly drops down on all fours, disappearing.

OSCAR Is there money? Totty?

GEORGE I take it there is.

OSCAR Is there money, Dickie? Totty? Money?

DICKIE There’s some money.

RUFUS What sort of money though? There’s money and money.

BETTY I don’t think anybody’s going to starve.

RUFUS Oh, I don’t think anybody’s going to starve.

Under the table, Glyn is creeping on all fours towards Stella. He reaches her, takes her foot and removes her shoe, putting it inside his jacket. He takes a small pair of scissors from his pocket and cuts away the stocking round Stella’s big toe.

BETTY (out of shot) Talking of starving, George, look after people.

GEORGE (out of shot) Oh yes. More pudding, anybody? More pudding, Pauline?

PAULINE (out of shot) Well, just a little – it’s delicious … Not too much.

GEORGE (out of shot) Sue?

SUE (out of shot) I’d love to, but I mustn’t. Really.

GEORGE (out of shot) Stella?

STELLA (out of shot) I won’t if you don’t mind.

RUFUS (out of shot) Have you heard about these holes?

BETTY (out of shot) Holes? What holes?

Glyn puts his scissors away in his pocket and starts to suck Stella’s toe.

RUFUS (out of shot) There are these holes that keep appearing. Opening up in places. One in Camberwell yesterday, apparently. A couple last week near Norwich. Happening all over. Bristol. Dundee.

OSCAR (out of shot) Sabotage?

RUFUS (out of shot) Who knows?

BETTY (out of shot) How big?

RUFUS (out of shot) Varies. Cardiff one was two hundred feet across.

We cut back from Glyn under the table to the guests.

GEORGE Cardiff? I know Cardiff.

RUFUS Cardiff. Everywhere. Being hushed up, apparently.

Glyn appears from under the table. He proffers her napkin to Stella.

GEORGE They hush everything up. If they can.

The doorbell goes.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

Harold opens the door to admit a distinguished figure in a long overcoat, homburg hat, smoking with a cigarette holder. Mr Gregory looks perhaps like a leading actor. He is followed by a homely, rather stout lady. He carries a very expensive-looking attaché case. She carries a large canvas grip. Mr Gregory gives Harold his card. Harold goes to bolt the door while the arrivals look round.

INT. DINING ROOM. NIGHT.

OSCAR And that’s another thing they’ve hushed up – rabies in Burgess Hill.

BETTY Oh, how depressing!

OSCAR Four cases in the past week.

GEORGE Once that kind of thing gets a footing –

RUFUS Spreads like wildfire.

Harold has entered, and whispers to George. He rises, nodding significantly at Betty.

GEORGE Excuse me a moment. Something rather special. Betty will explain.

He leaves the room with Harold. Betty looks disconcerted.

BETTY No, George – you … we must tell them together.

STELLA Tell us what together?

OSCAR Secrets – secrets!

PAULINE I love secrets.

RUFUS Give us a clue.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

George greets Mr Gregory.

GEORGE Mr Gregory – you found us. This is so good of you.

MR GREGORY This is Mrs Brookstone. Mrs Brookstone is my acolyte.

GEORGE We thought this room – if it’s suitable.

He shows the way into the music room.

INT. MUSIC ROOM. NIGHT.

MR GREGORY Admirable, Ah – a Bechstein! (to Mrs Brookstone) You’ll enjoy that, Lily … Some of the instruments we’re offered are wretched.

Mrs Brookstone sits down at the piano and rattles off a few bars of ‘Goodbye, My Lady Love’, which modulates into ‘O Sacred Head Sore Wounded’. Mr Gregory opens his case and starts to erect a collapsible cross.

George is intrigued and picks it up to examine it. Mr Gregory removes it from him reproachfully.

East? East, Lily?

MRS BROOKSTONE (taking out a compass) That’s east.

Mr Gregory positions the cross. He continues to smoke.

INT. DINING ROOM. NIGHT.

The guests are still trying to guess the nature of the ‘surprise’. George returns.

PAULINE George!

STELLA We give up.

GEORGE Well – the truth of the matter is …

BETTY After all these years …

GEORGE We thought the time had come …

BETTY We decided to …

GEORGE Get married!

PAULINE Get married!

RUFUS When?

GEORGE Now.

STELLA Where?

BETTY Here.

DICKIE Who’s getting married?

PETER Aren’t you married already?

BETTY Not to each other, darling.

GEORGE We’ve both of us been married before but not to each other.

SUE You’ve been living together?

BETTY Yes.

PETER (who is obviously disconcerted) But we’re delighted, aren’t we. Sue?

SUE Oh, yes.

PAULINE You’re so brave, Betty.

RUFUS What now, for Christ’s sake?

PAULINE Totty ought to be here. Now they’re getting married, I just miss her more. (She weeps.)

STELLA Oh, shut up, Pauline.

GEORGE If you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment … Betty and I have to receive instructions from Father Gregory. Then we’ll have the ceremony.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

George and Betty cross the hall. Evidently nervous, Betty takes George’s hand. They knock.

MR GREGORY Enter!

INT. MUSIC ROOM. NIGHT.

George and Betty enter, rather shyly. Mrs Brookstone is pushing the piano into position. Mr Gregory, now fully robed, is doing the crossword.

MR GREGORY Nearly there. Mrs Brookstone is a tower of strength. She is a deaconess in her own right.

Mrs Brookstone erects some telescopic candlesticks on the altar.

Ceremonies in the home are becoming more and more popular. Cassettes the next stage, I fear. Though why not? At the turning points in one’s life one is entitled to expect a personal touch. Now, George, Betty. This is a moment of great importance for you both. The moment when together you embark on this great adventure of marriage.

He takes out a cigarette, which Mrs Brookstone, having just lit the candles on the altar, now lights.

MR GREGORY Marriage is of course a sacrament, and not one to be undertaken lightly.

GEORGE Are you married?

MR GREGORY I am married to God.

BETTY But not besides?

MR GREGORY No, though I have several friendships which, while stopping short of physical intimacy, supply that human contact none of us can do without. Shall we pray together?

INT. DINING ROOM AND STUDIO. NIGHT.

The guests are waiting in various attitudes of patience or fatigue. Only Dickie continues to eat steadily at the table: he positions his transistor set in front of him, switching on to a current-affairs programme. Stella, strolling behind him, raises her eye in weary boredom. She continues to stroll, out of the dining-room set onto the stage, where two or three of the cast are grouped, standing or sitting, round a tea trolley.

Pauline is sitting on a chair in her underwear; beside her is a wardrobe mistress stitching her dress.

STELLA I’ve been having some bizarre dreams lately. I can’t account for them at all.

PAULINE I can’t bear dreams. What’s the point? As if life wasn’t bizarre enough.

PETER Tell us your dream.

STELLA Well –

INT. EMPTY ROOM. DAY.

On the walls are empty picture frames. Stella is in the centre of a group of tourists (played by the guests in different garb) going through empty rooms and corridors (perhaps the studio corridor and an empty stage). The group remains together in the centre of the large room (stage?) while Stella moves out alone to investigate one of the doors.

A soldier sits against the wall by one door, guarding it, his chair tipped back against the wall.

From the room inside comes the sound of terrible tortures. Screams, groans, pleadings.

Stella ventures along the wall, ignored by the sentry, and looks in.

What she sees is a young family, idyllically happy. Husband, wife, the husband holding up their baby and laughing.

INT. DINING ROOM AND STUDIO. NIGHT.

The group round the tea trolley receive Stella’s dream with detached interest.

PAULINE Are you sure that was a dream? I’m sure I read something like that in the paper.

PETER That’s very like a dream I’ve been having. Quite different of course.

INT. EMPTY ROOMS. DAY.

The same hall. The same tourists. Another of the doors investigated by Peter. This time the sounds of sex, pantings, groanings.

Peter looks through the door and the two occupants look up, surprised. They are a gentle old schoolmaster and a young pupil, doing a Latin exercise.

INT. DINING ROOM AND STUDIO. NIGHT.

SUE I don’t dream at all.

PAULINE Very sensible of you.

SVEND (speaking good English) I dream a lot. All the time.

STELLA Tell US.

INT. LARGE EMPTY ROOM. NIGHT.

Like an impromptu hospital, the room is full of sick and dying people. They lie on camp beds or squat against the walls. Nuns are tending them. At the end of the room is a large door covered by a curtain. Music plays beyond the curtain: the last section of Beethoven’s Choral Fantasy.

Striding through the room comes an official: he is in a dress suit – white tie and tails. He holds back the curtain as the music ends, and the room fills with the sound of applause. A conductor and soloists come down steps into the room, flushed with effort and achievement. They ignore the sick and congratulate each other. As the applause continues the conductor goes back, then the soloists.

The performers return carrying large bouquets, out of which they distribute flowers to the dying.

INT. DINING ROOM AND STUDIO. NIGHT.

An Assistant Director comes into the set through the dining-room door, passing Dickie, still sitting at the dining table. He calls the group round the tea trolley.

ASSISTANT (speaking with a Swedish accent) Everybody ready, please, for Scene 68. (to Dickie) When you’re ready, sir. Refreshments off the set, now. (He adds a few words of Swedish.) Everybody stand by now, please. Hurry up, please. Collect your chairs.

The actors put down their cups, tidy themselves. Stella grabs her script for a last look, putting on glasses to read it. Pauline struggles back into her dress.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

Carrying their chairs, the guests cross the hall and enter the music room – George beckoning them in. We hear the sound of ‘Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring’, which Mrs Brookstone is playing on the piano.

INT. MUSIC ROOM. NIGHT.

As the guests file in and position their chairs, Mr Gregory, smoking, is having his face powdered by a make-up girl. Peter has brought two chairs. He offers one to Betty, who sits. Harold and Glyn are issuing hymn books.

STELLA (looking round) Where’s Dickie? Dickie!

GEORGE (looking out of the door) Dickie! Dickie! We’re starting.

MR GREGORY Is that everyone? Right: off we go.

He plainly wants to get rid of his cigarette. Harold comes forward and takes it from him, stubbing it out in an ashtray on the piano.

MR GREGORY Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation to join together this Man and this Woman in Holy Matrimony … It was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication; that such persons as not having the gift of continency might marry and keep themselves undefiled … But first, I think, a hymn. One of my favourites and I hope one of yours … Number 267 … ‘The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, is Ended.’

Mrs Brookstone reaches up to a tape recorder on the piano and switches it on. The sound of an organ fills the room, and the singing of a large congregation. The guests rise and start to sing.

As the second verse starts Stella turns, puts her book down on her seat and leaves. Her departure is noted by Mr Gregory and Harold. Betty looks round.

Stella leaves, closing the door. A few moments later Glyn, who has been standing by the door, follows her.

INT. HALL/STAIRS. NIGHT.

Stella limping slightly (she has only one shoe) comes out of the music room and crosses to the stairs. Waits. Glyn comes out of the door, leaving it ajar. He crosses after her. She starts up the stairs. Glyn follows.

INT. UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR. NIGHT.

Stella walks down the corridor, followed by Glyn. The hymn sounds in the distance. She stops and turns; he stops and throws down her shoe. Stella stoops dawn to straighten her shoe. Glyn watches. She puts her foot in the shoe. A long look between them. He moves forward; she retreats against a door. He opens it and pressures her gently through.

INT. MOTHER’S ROOM. NIGHT.

A travelogue featuring some African tribe is on the TV screen. Glyn and Stella enter: Mother takes no notice of them, but continues to watch intently. Glyn holds out his hand for Stella’s earrings. She surrenders them and he puts them in his pocket. They move slowly round. Glyn sucks Stella’s fingers. Mother glances up with irritation and turns the volume up. They embrace with sudden violence and sink down behind the TV screen.

EXT. ENGLISH ROADS. NIGHT.

Tracking shot past Brian and Kevin as the van speeds down an arterial road.

EXT. HOUSE. STUDIO. NIGHT.

A taxicab (the old-fashioned London variety) draws up outside the house. A large, imposing lady with a cloak and a stick descends and walks up to the front door. She is followed by the driver … an old-style London cabby with a walrus moustache, shapeless overcoat and muffler. He is carrying two cases.

The lady hammers on the door.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

Through the open door we can see the wedding service still taking place in the music room.

MR GREGORY If any of you know just cause or impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony …

The knocking is repeated on the front door. The voice breaks off. A murmur (George is saying, ‘Better go and see’). Betty appears, looking round.

BETTY Why does it always have to be me?

More knocking. Betty goes to open the door.

BETTY Totty!

GEORGE (emerging) Hello! Totty!

TOTTY I had to come …

GEORGE Look, everybody! It’s Totty!

The guests emerge from the music room, saying, ‘It’s Totty!’ or expressing surprise or pleasure. They come up to her in turn and kiss her, shake her hand, and she says their names, laughing and embracing.

RUFUS Totty – darling!

TOTTY Hello, my love.

Stella appears at the top of the stairs, rather dishevelled.

STELLA Is there one for me?

TOTTY Dear Stella.

OSCAR Que je suis enchanté.

TOTTY Oscar!

OSCAR You don’t know Svend.

TOTTY I feel I know you.

PAULINE I’m so glad you came.

GEORGE We’re all glad you came.

PAULINE George and Betty were just getting married.

TOTTY I know. Am I too late?

GEORGE Just in time.

BETTY As always.

TOTTY I brought you a present.

BETTY Totty – you shouldn’t have.

GEORGE There’s no need.

TOTTY Cabby!

The cab driver comes in with the cases.

Put them down there, will you.

Totty fumbles in her purse to pay the driver. Betty nudges George, who gives him a note. The driver goes.

PAULINE What is it?

STELLA Yes, what is it?

TOTTY Don’t you recognise it?

PETER I know what it is.

BETTY What?

STELLA I know.

OSCAR I know too.

BETTY What is it?

OSCAR Its the old epidiascope.

PAULINE Is it? Is it, Totty?

TOTTY Of course it is. I wanted you to have it.

PETER And the slides too.

They crowd round excitedly.

PAULINE Does it still work? Oh, do let’s see.

BETTY But we’re halfway through our wedding. We can’t keep Mr Gregory waiting.

PAULINE Oh, do let’s …

STELLA He won’t mind … ask him, George.

Mr Gregory has appeared in the doorway, watching the proceedings. Mrs Brookstone is behind him.

GEORGE Would you mind, Father?

MR GREGORY Not at all. Carry on. If you don’t mind us watching.

GEORGE Oh please. Peter, bring the machine. Come on, Totty.

BETTY This way, Totty.

They all move off to the drawing room.

PAULINE Oh, it’s so good to see you.

TOTTY So this is your new house.

Dickie appears in the music-room doorway.

DICKIE Is it all over?

INT. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

George has set up the machine with beside it the box of slides. Peter is just finishing the erection of the screen.

GEORGE Where shall we start?

BETTY Start with the holidays.

PETER Yes, start at Walberswick.

PAULINE No, the war.

DICKIE Or Dar es Salaam.

George is holding up the slides to the light.

GEORGE That doesn’t belong.

RUFUS Family. Start with family.

GEORGE They’re all jumbled up.

TOTTY I haven’t looked at them since Arthur died. He was the expert. He was the one who knew.

GEORGE Lights, Peter.

Peter switches off the lights.

GEORGE I hope this won’t seem too parochial, Father.

MR GREGORY No. We’re looking forward to it.

The lights are switched off.

There follows a selection of slides on different themes … family scenes, pets, weddings, funerals, young people now dead. There are scenes from colonial life and holidays at home and abroad.

A slide of a young woman raking grass.

TOTTY Who’s that?

GEORGE That’s you, Totty.

TOTTY Is that me? Poor me. If only I’d known.

GEORGE Known what?

TOTTY I don’t know. Just known.

A slide of two children by a pool.

RUFUS That child is now in the Foreign Office.

OSCAR She’s dead.

A slide of a young man.

STELLA That’s Percival. Before he went to India.

A slide of a cadet.

DICKIE That boy trod on a land-mine in Borneo.

A slide of a bicycle.

GEORGE My old Hercules.

A slide of an aeroplane.

DICKIE That’s the Comet at Dar es Salaam.

Another slide.

PAULINE Who’s that?

GEORGE That’s Angela.

RUFUS No, it isn’t. It’s Hugo.

BETTY Rubbish! It’s Percival. Surely, it’s Percival.

PAULINE Who is it?

Loud knocking at the front door.

BETTY Oh, no … don’t take any notice, George.

Knocking repeated.

GEORGE Perhaps it’s the furniture. I’d better … Lights, Peter.

Peter switches the lights on; the slide remains on the screen. George goes to the door and opens it a chink. He looks through. There is a murmur of voices.

It looks official. They’re soldiers.

BETTY Go and see. Tell them to go away.

GEORGE Good God!

He goes out into the hall in alarm.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

George crosses to the front door, where Harold is talking with an army officer.

GEORGE What is it? What do you want?

CAPTAIN Part of a routine search, sir. I’m afraid we shall have to disturb you. You have guests, I gather. How many?

GEORGE Really, Captain, is this necessary?

CAPTAIN Absolutely necessary. Sergeant, you’d better flush them out.

A burly Sergeant who has been standing in the doorway turns and shouts over his shoulder.

SERGEANT Number. 2 Section. Number. 2 Section. At the double. Form search party.

INT. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

BETTY (peeking through the door) It’s not the furniture.

There is a sudden cry from Sue, who has been attempting to converse with Totty.

SUE Mrs Nelson! Your aunt! I don’t think she’s well.

Stella, Pauline and Oscar investigate.

STELLA Totty! Totty!

PAULINE She’s … She’s not …

OSCAR She’s dead.

Rufus goes to look.

RUFUS My God! Do you think it’s …?

PAULINE (kneeling by her) She was having such a good time.

OSCAR Keep away. It may be …

Pauline withdraws hastily.

STELLA We all kissed her.

Betty turns from the door and calls a warning.

BETTY Look out! They’re coming!

The guests position themselves between the door and Totty, hiding her from anyone coming in.

OSCAR Tablecloth!

Peter hastily strips the cloth off the table and throws it to Oscar. He drapes it over Totty. The Sergeant strides brusquely through the door.

SERGEANT All right. Outside, everybody! Let’s have you in the hall. Look sharp.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

The guests file out into the hall. The Captain crosses to stand on the staircase, where Glyn announced dinner. (He is played by the same actor.)

OFFICER Sorry to break up your party, but this is an emergency. I take it you’re all familiar with the procedure. We’ve reason to believe that a carrier is in the area.

PAULINE A carrier! Oh, Betty.

OFFICER It’s obviously in your own interests that we lay him by the heels before more innocent people become victims. Now – will you please have your vaccination certificates ready. We shan’t put you to any more inconvenience than we have to!

The guests make for the cloakroom, where they have left their coats and bags. As they go, they pass medical auxiliaries who are carrying in screens, trestle tables and fumigating machines. Besides the military, there are men in white coats – doctors, presumably.

INT. CLOAKROOM. NIGHT.

The guests start searching for their things, which Glyn has simply thrown on the floor.

PAULINE I haven’t got my vaccination certificate.

RUFUS Too bloody bad. I’ve got mine.

GEORGE I’ve never been done.

STELLA Where the hell’s my bag?

OSCAR Most of them are forged, anyway.

A stout Black Nurse, in Army uniform and Red Cross armbands, appears in the doorway. She shouts aggressively.

BLACK NURSE Come on, you lot. No dawdling. Get your clothes off and bring your certificates. Women across the hall, men up the passage. Get cracking.

The Black Nurse bustles off.

PAULINE Why have we got to take our clothes off?

STELLA They won’t vaccinate us now, will they? They can’t vaccinate us now, can they, Dickie?

DICKIE They can do anything they like.

OSCAR Better do as they say – and don’t argue.

GEORGE Don’t antagonise them.

They all start to strip.

SUE Does she mean naked?

BETTY Surely not.

RUFUS Best to be on the safe side.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

Mr Gregory, still in priest’s robes, is talking with the Captain. Mrs Brookstone, who seems also to be immune, has returned to the music room, where she is softly playing the piano.

CAPTAIN (to the Sergeant) Hurry them up, Sergeant – and get that fumigation under way.

SERGEANT Now come along, ladies and gentlemen – we don’t want to be here all night. Gents to the left, ladies to the right. That’s the way.

Now virtually naked, the guests file out of the cloakroom, the men carrying their wallets, the women their handbags. Orderlies direct the men to the drawing room, the women to the music room. Peter and Sue rush to embrace each other, and are forcibly separated. A fumigation squad, carrying spraying machines, dons gas masks and starts up the stairs, spraying as they go.

INT. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

Two officials are seated at a table, a security official and a medical orderly.

George is at the table. The official puts out his hand for a certificate without looking at George. George has no certificate.

GEORGE I’ve never been done.

OFFICIAL Fill out this form.

While George fills out the form, Oscar is dealt with. He presents his certificate. The Orderly examines it suspiciously, before filing it.

ORDERLY Forged.

OSCAR It can’t be. I’m a doctor.

Orderly motions him behind the screen to be vaccinated, just as George is completing his form. Oscar disappears. A moment later he gives a terrible scream. George reacts.

Svend, whose turn it is next, does not react in the slightest. He is still wearing his bracelet, which the Orderly orders him to take off. He pockets it.

OSCAR (behind screen) Svend! Oh Svend! Help me.

Svend hands over his certificate.

ORDERLY OK. Get dressed.

George is next.

INT. MUSIC ROOM. NIGHT.

There is a similar arrangement with trestle table and screens. Stella presents her certificate to a woman orderly and as she does so takes some banknotes from her bra and hands them over with it.

The orderly glances at the certificate, staples the banknotes to it and motions her behind the screen.

STELLA Dickie! Dickie!

She is dragged behind the screen, screaming. Then suddenly stops, emerging a moment later, very cool, saying to Pauline who has been processed and is just going to be done:

STELLA It actually doesn’t hurt at all.

PAULINE Really?

She goes behind the screen and it is terribly painful.

PAULINE (screams) Oh, Betty!

Stella shrugs.

INT. UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR AND MOTHER’S ROOM. NIGHT.

The fumigation squad advances down the corridor, opening doors and spraying into the rooms. They enter Mother’s room: she continues to watch TV. They start spraying and she takes a gas mask which is hanging from her chair and puts it on.

INT. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

The guests huddle under blankets, recovering from their ordeal.

PAULINE It’s the worst pain I’ve ever had in my whole life.

STELLA Not worse than childbirth, surely?

RUFUS We’ve got to remember – they’ve got a job to do.

GEORGE We expect them to be there when we need them.

OSCAR The alternative is worse.

BETTY We should be grateful.

Harold appears with mugs of tea on a tray and serves the guests. The Sergeant appears in the doorway, and calls to Harold.

SERGEANT You! You there!

Harold goes to the Sergeant and is led outside.

STELLA What do they want him for?

RUFUS I never liked the look of him.

Stella crosses to the door and looks out on the hall.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

In a corner Harold is being interrogated. A group of soldiers, including a white-jacketed man, gather round him, hiding him from camera. There is a sudden, agonised cry from Harold.

INT. MUSIC ROOM. NIGHT.

Mrs Brookstone is at the piano, playing, while a group of soldiers softly sing ‘There’s a Long, Long Trail’. Mr Gregory is chatting with the Captain.

MR GREGORY An unpleasant job, but carried out with minimum of fuss. I shall send my appreciation to the Brigadier.

CAPTAIN That’s very good of you, sir. We try not to cause any more inconvenience than we need.

The Sergeant is at the door of the music room. Harold is behind him, guarded.

SERGEANT Sir! (He nods.)

CAPTAIN Well done! Carry on, Sergeant.

INT. KITCHEN/HALL/UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR. NIGHT.

Harold leads the Sergeant and three men down to the kitchen. He indicates a sheet of plastic sheeting which covers the pantry where previously he had been wielding his pick. He stands aside. The Sergeant pulls the sheet away. Glyn is hiding behind it. There is a scuffle. Glyn manages to escape. He bolts up the kitchen stairs, pursued by the soldiers.

Glyn rushes through the hall, where the guests are crowding in the doorways. He clutches at Stella, who pushes him off. Again he evades the soldiers and dashes up the stairs. There is much shouting.

In the upstairs corridor Glyn runs into the fumigators, advancing on him with gas masks and sprays. He is overpowered.

In the hall the guests watch as Glyn is carried, unconscious, down the stairs. His body has been wrapped in a transparent plastic bag.

Tables, screens, etc. are now carried out of the house.

SERGEANT I want this place left exactly as I found it.

The Captain leaves. The guests crowd into the cloakroom to get dressed.

INT. CLOAKROOM. NIGHT.

The guests start getting into their clothes. Pauline is peeking out through a window where the newspaper is loose.

PAULINE What are they doing?

The others crowd to the windows and try to find chinks to look out of.

INT. STREET OUTSIDE (STUDIO). NIGHT.

Glyn is lifted, still in his plastic bag, between orderlies, who are going to put him in an ambulance. The Captain has a word with the Sergeant, lifts his revolver and shoots Glyn. The plastic bag fills with blood.

INT. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

The guests are gathered round the shrouded figure of Totty. Oscar strips the sheet away.

BETTY You’re absolutely sure she is dead?

OSCAR Have we got a mirror?

They lift the large mirror from the mantelpiece and hold it with difficulty over Totty as Oscar checks.

RUFUS Steady, steady. What would you say, Padre?

MR GREGORY I don’t know. I’ve never met the woman before.

OSCAR She’s dead all right.

GEORGE Totty, Totty.

PAULINE Totty.

OSCAR It’s what people do. Die.

RUFUS We can’t notify the authorities. Not now.

OSCAR We’d be in quarantine for months.

RUFUS Only one thing to do. Bury her.

DICKIE What about a service?

RUFUS The padre here can do the honours.

MR GREGORY I’d be happy to.

STELLA Where?

OSCAR Is there a garden?

BETTY Yes, but it’s a frightful mess. Builders’ rubbish.

PETER Any spades?

GEORGE I think there are.

They go out to dig the grave. The others cluster round Totty.

SUE It’s so sad.

BETTY It is sad.

STELLA She had a very full life.

BETTY Oh yes.

OSCAR One dies … that’s what one does – dies.

DICKIE How are we going to get her out?

RUFUS It’s a case of all hands to the pumps. Now gather round, everybody.

They gather round Totty.

Prepare to lift … Lift!

They hoist her up and carry her out.

INT./EXT. GARDEN SET. NIGHT.

The camera starts with an overhead shot that makes it quite clear we are in a studio. George and Peter have used a builders’ ditch as a grave. They have a lantern.

The cortège arrives.

PAULINE What do we do now?

RUFUS Lower her in – get her on the tablecloth.

As Totty is lowered in, flashes illuminate the sky and there is a low rumble. A couple of distant explosions.

PAULINE It’s like the war.

STELLA If only it was.

BETTY Poor old Totty – goodbye.

Various murmurs – ‘Goodbye, Totty’, ‘Farewell, old friend’, ‘Goodbye, Totty. Till we meet again,’ etc. Pauline weeps.

MR GREGORY Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, In sure and certain hope of Resurrection …

Mr Gregory throws a handful of earth on the body.

GEORGE We’d better cover it up.

BETTY There are some planks here. Help me, George.

As George and Betty start to lift a long plank, the guests begin to stir, look at watches, cough, etc.

RUFUS We really ought to be going.

PAULINE Yes. Rufus has to be up in the morning.

STELLA Dickie has to be up in the morning too. Come along, Dickie.

BETTY You’re not all going?

OSCAR I think we ought to, out of respect.

BETTY Respect?

PAULINE She had such dignity.

RUFUS It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.

Betty and George are left covering planks across the grave.

EXT. ENGLISH ROADS. DAY.

The van is lost in a maze of suburban streets, Brian giving Kevin directions off a map.

BRIAN First left – next right – second right.

KEVIN There used to be a cinema on that corner.

BRIAN Three-quarters round the roundabout.

The van circles a roundabout and speeds off down a broad, straight road.

INT. HALL. NIGHT.

Betty and George return to the hall. It is empty. The front door is open.

BETTY Have they all gone? Where is everyone?

Peter and Sue emerge from the cloakroom in their motor-cycle gear.

PETER They went on. They wanted to stay together. They said goodbye.

SUE We’d better say goodbye, too. Goodbye, we did enjoy it.

PETER It was lovely seeing you all again.

GEORGE Goodbye.

PETER Goodbye.

BETTY Goodbye.

SUE Goodbye.

GEORGE Goodbye – and take care.

As George goes to close the door, he hears a discreet cough. Mr Gregory and Mrs Brookstone have emerged from the music room. Mr Gregory has changed back into mufti.

MR GREGORY We must go.

MRS BROOKSTONE Yes, it’s very late.

BETTY But what about us? …What about George and me?

MR GREGORY (vaguely) Another time.

But he waits still.

BETTY George.

GEORGE Oh yes. Sorry, sorry.

He hands Mr Gregory an envelope.

GEORGE I think you’ll find that’s right … all things considered.

They leave. George bolts the door.

GEORGE Well – it might have been worse. Shame about Totty.

Betty begins to put out the lights.

BETTY I think she enjoyed it.

GEORGE A good way to go – when you have to.

BETTY Yes.

There is a cry from the top of the stairs. Mother appears. She is walking with the aid of a frame.

MOTHER George! Betty! I can’t get anything on my set. It’s not working.

George and Betty go upstairs. Mother turns and they follow her down the corridor.

INT. UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR/MOTHER’S BEDROOM/STUDIO. NIGHT.

George and Betty follow Mother as she hot-foots it down the corridor and into her room. She sits in front of the TV set, which is emitting static and noise. George, hits it but without effect. He switches it off.

MOTHER Don’t switch it off. It may come on again.

She switches it on again.

George and Betty leave the room, leaving Mother looking at the screen of her set, which continues to show only atmospherics and emits only a hoarse roar.

As the word ‘Cut!’ is heard, the camera pulls back, up into the roof of the studio, showing the whole set, technicians, camera, etc. An assistant comes forward and escorts Mother from her chair, out of the set. Rapidly the unit disintegrates and a cover is thrown over the camera. Lights are switched out. Credits roll over the scene.

An assistant comes forward to the centre of the floor and calls up to the camera.

ASSISTANT Is that all, sir? Everything OK …?

A reverse shot zooms up to the camera unit on the gantry in the corner of the studio.

DIRECTOR Yes, that’s all. Excellent. Thank you very much.

End of film.

A Private Function

The year 1947 was one of repeated disappointments and steady perseverance, introduced by a winter of exceptional cold aggravated by a breakdown in fuel and electricity supplies. It ended on a note of almost unrelieved austerity. Supplies to the home consumer were cut to a minimum as a result of the virtual exhaustion of the nation’s dollar resources, and an energetic production drive was initiated.

All political parties were as one in demanding a return to the ‘Dunkirk Spirit’ of sacrifice and in promising the country a long period of hard exertion and small reward. The marriage of Princess Elizabeth to Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, on November 20th, though celebrated with restrained festivity, came as a welcome tonic to the public spirit and was an occasion of joy throughout Britain.

Britannica’s Book of the Year, 1948

PREFACE

‘A steam-filled bathroom. The camera pans along a shelf of toilet requisites, shampoo, talcum powder, toothbrushes in a glass, and slowly down towards the bath. Through the steam we see what appears to be a plump, white arm hanging elegantly over the side. In the bath is a dead pig.’

The idea for A Private Function came from Malcolm Mowbray. He wanted to make a film about the immediate post-war years, when rationing and food shortages were more severe than at any time during the war. Though the pig in the bath was an actual incident in the lives of his in-laws, who raised and killed a clandestine pig and scalded it in their own bath, the years just after the war were for Malcolm an historical period. I could remember them, though not with much nostalgia. My father was a butcher and the weekly worry that his allotted supply would not be enough to cover the requirements of his registered customers eventually landed him in hospital with a duodenal ulcer.

I dare say Leeds, where we lived, was no more corrupt than anywhere else; certainly there were quite a few butchers in our neighbourhood who were on the twist, and everyone knew who they were. Though Leeds is a much larger place than the town in the film, there was the same sense that, rationing notwithstanding, some people were still doing very nicely, thank you. The same must have been true in country areas. I know of one village that was regularly visited by a hearse, the visits seemingly unrelated to the death rate. Stopped one day by a Ministry of Food inspector, it was found to be carrying a coffin packed with pork … an incident far too theatrical to be put in the film, life as so often more over the top than anything one could invent. But ask anybody in the village today about pigs in that period and they still look over their shoulder before replying. So, though the central incident of the theft of the pig may nowadays seem far-fetched, I don’t think it would have been then. Though whether a fully qualified chiropodist, even when married, like Gilbert, to a distant relative of Lady Macbeth, would descend to such a deed is another matter.

Those days are hard to recall now, and the newsreel that starts the film was put in to inform as much as to entertain. Sticklers for historical accuracy will probably spot that the marriage of Princess Elizabeth to the Duke of Edinburgh took place in November, a November in our film when the trees are in full leaf and the countryside bathed in warm sunshine.

We filmed most of the story on location in Ilkley and Barnoldswick, happening to find in the latter place an empty parade of shops with, as a centrepiece, a disused cinema. Many of the countryside scenes are in Wharfedale around Bolton Abbey. Sutcliff’s farm was Laund House, an idyllic spot above the Wharfe where Beatrix Potter used to stay, the kitchen garden still overrun with rabbits but with no Mr McGregor to say them nay.

Betty was played by three different pigs, not in order to comply with the requirements of Equity or the RSPCA but because each pig had different skills. One was a good runner but shy in company; another could climb stairs but would not sit still; and the third, while much the most photogenic, had a black patch on its back that had to be painted out before it went in front of the camera. The lynx-eyed continuity buff will note that Betty may seem to vary in size from shot to shot. She does. The only way to persuade the pigs to perform was by constant feeding; they therefore grew at an alarming rate. Since the film was not shot in sequence this can mean that Betty is quite portly in one shot, suddenly slim in the next.

There are obvious hazards of working with a pig and they are not all that different from the hazards of stealing one. Toilet training is not their forte, and one of the unsung members of the unit was an unemployed Ilkley boy whose job it was to follow Betty round with a bucket and kitchen roll. The slightest quiver of the porcine sphincter and he was there poised with his pail. It was his first job in Mrs Thatcher’s New Model England and he deserves a credit with the director and the stars.

There is no such thing as a good script, only a good film, and I’m conscious that my scripts often read better than they play. Of some scenes in A Private Function this is certainly true. It is easy to write ‘The pig smiles’ or ‘The pig trots dutifully after him’ and quite another to persuade the creature to do so. So in any scene involving the pig the script tends to be a statement of intention rather than a description of what actually happens.

Pigs are undoubtedly intelligent creatures and nothing if not determined. The squeals of a pig being persuaded to go where it doesn’t want to or to do anything (which is most things apart from eating) that it doesn’t want to do is the sound of angry, frustrated will. By the exercise of patience and nerve (time always running out), Malcolm Mowbray generally managed to get some kind of convincing behaviour on film. But in the scene where Gilbert has to entice the pig into his car and drive away with it, we all but failed. The scene as shot is just about convincing, but in ideal circumstances (more money, more time) the sequence should have been longer, happier and in the end more triumphant. But it was a night shoot, the woods where we were filming were thick with wild garlic and the appeal of the tastiest morsel blunted.

In the end we were thankful to have got the pig into the car at all and had to abandon the scenes of Gilbert driving along with it as described in the script. Once in the car it had been no joke. With one trotter in his crotch and the other round his neck, Michael Palin compared it to being in the car with an overweight and over-amorous landlady. And like landladies they are, trotting naked over the linoleum in their little high heels, delicate and fastidious, their quivering bottoms wonderful to see. ‘Oh yes,’ said Denholm Elliott, ‘once that thing gets its snout into the lens I can see none of us are going to get a look-in.’ And not merely its snout.

In the end the pig is killed. It wasn’t our pig, admittedly, all three of it now living in retirement in Sussex. Still a pig was killed, several if one counts the carcasses in the bed and in the wardrobe. The final credits sequence, in which Gilbert and Allardyce fondle their newly acquired piglet was put in to take the edge off Betty’s death. But of course that piglet too will be dead by now. I haven’t eaten pork since, though without thinking this a sensible, sufficient or even logical response. The scene of the pig in the bath that started it all seemed, when shot, to hold things up and was cut from the finished film. That’s often the way. Still, it was a favourite scene so I’ve left it in the script as something that did once happen, even if not in the film we made out of it.

CAST AND CREDITS

The première of A Private Function took place on 21 November 1984 at the Odeon Cinema, Haymarket, London. The cast was as follows:

GILBERT CHILVERS

Michael Palin

JOYCE CHILVERS

Maggie Smith

MOTHER

Liz Smith

LOCKWOOD

John Normington

MRS ALLARDYCE

Alison Steadman

ALLARDYCE

Richard Griffiths

DR SWABY

Denholm Elliott

VERONICA

Amanda Gregan

MRS METCALF

Susan Porrett

WORMOLD

Charles McKeown

WORMOLD

Bill Paterson

INSPECTOR NOBLE

Jim Carter

PC PENNY

Reece Dinsdale

MRS METCALF’S FATHER

Donald Eccles

MRS FORBES

Rachel Davies

NUTTALL

Pete Postlethwaite

ERNEST

Eli Woods

BARRACLOUGH

Don Estelle

DOROTHY

Gilly Coman

WOMAN

Maggie Ollerenshaw

PAINTER

Bernard Wrigley

SUTCLIFF

Tony Haygarth

MRS SUTCLIFF

Eileen O’Brien

PRESTON

Philip Wileman

PAINTER’S BOY

Lee Daley

HOTEL MANAGER

Denys Hawthorne

MERVIN

David Morgan

MRS TURNBULL

Paula Tilbrook

Director

Malcolm Mowbray

Music

John Du Prez

Producer

Mark Shivas

Executive Producers

George Harrison

Denis O’Brien

INT. ARCADIA CINEMA. AFTERNOON.

As the title of the film fades from the screen the introductory credits roll, in the type and style of a late-forties movie. As they give way to the crowing cockerel of Pathé News we realise we are in a cinema.

NEWSREEL COMMENTATOR Nineteen forty-seven and Austerity Britain gets a longed-for whiff of glamour as preparations for the wedding of Her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth get into full swing.

At the back of the stalls Joyce and her Mother are coming in. Joyce is a thin, genteel woman, given to suffering. Her Mother is the woman who has made her so. As they come in the door Joyce whispers:

JOYCE Mind where you’re going, Mother. There’s a step.

Mother stumbles.

MOTHER You didn’t say there was a step.

Joyce and Mother go down the aisle as the urgent voice of the newsreel commentator lets us into a secret: the wedding cake for the forthcoming nuptials was made with ingredients supplied by Australian Girl Guides.

Joyce and Mother are now seated and looking up at the screen, though at a curiously acute angle. Indeed the screen seems almost above their heads.

It hurts your neck here.

Now the newsreel begins a fresh item: the announcement of a cut in the bacon ration. We see a week’s food rations displayed on a table.

There hardly seems enough for a square meal. A close-up of the bacon ration reveals it as only two rashers, and now a hand comes in and removes one of them: the bacon ration has been halved. Joyce looks at Mother. The halving of the bacon ration seems something of a last straw.

Joyce’s rig-out contrasts strangely with Mother’s.

Mother is in a dowdy coat with a fur tippet, Joyce is resplendent in a turquoise sequinned number with matching accessories. It seems a fancy frock for the afternoon cinema.

The newsreel commentator is now explaining how similar shortages in France have led to a flourishing black market. The implication is that in Britain there is no such thing.

NEWSREEL COMMENTATOR (winding up) In Britain for the moment our minds are on happier things.

There is another shot of the royal couple as Joyce begins to get restive.

JOYCE Go on, Mother. Sit on your seat.

MOTHER (looking round) Where?

JOYCE (panicking) Go on. I’m going up. Oh, Mother.

We cut to a wide shot of the cinema as the curtains close on the screen and Joyce rises to light and glory at the console of the cinema organ. As she rises, Joyce looks over her shoulder and flashes a beaming smile at the audience. The effect is somewhat spoilt by the dour figure of Mother, still sitting beside her. She too looks round but does not smile.

EXT. COUNTRY ROAD. DAY.

A moorland road on the edge of a small northern town. Joyce’s husband, Gilbert Chilvers, cycles along on a heavy, old-fashioned bike. He is a pleasant, mild-looking man in his thirties. In his bike basket is a little black bag. Piano music, hesitant in the playing and cheap and romantic in tone, begins to intrude upon this scene.

INT. SUBURBAN HOUSE. DAY.

Joyce is looking with somewhat self-conscious melancholy through the window of their semi-detached house. The cheap and romantic piano music now falters and stops. Joyce half-turns. Sitting at the piano is Veronica Allardyce, a child in pigtails. They look at one another and Joyce closes her eyes in despair. Veronica is beginning to practise her piece again when the doorbell goes.

EXT. CHILVERS’ HOUSE. DAY.

A delivery man waits at the door with an ungainly parcel. Joyce’s mother watches him. Standing in the garden, she is eating a sandwich. As Joyce opens the door she puts the sandwich behind her back.

JOYCE (having signed for parcel) Mother. Are you eating?

Mother shakes her head. Joyce closes the door and Mother takes another bite of the sandwich.

EXT. COUNTRY ROAD. DAY.

Gilbert stops to eat his packed lunch, with a view stretched out before him. He pours some coffee from the thermos, and opens his newspaper, which is headlined ‘BACON DOWN AGAIN’. Gilbert sighs and opens his lunch box. Wonderingly he takes out a couple of crochet hooks and half a crocheted dishcloth. There are no sandwiches. Looking even more glum, Gilbert takes an apple from his pocket and begins to peel it with a small surgical-looking knife.

INT. CHILVERS’ HOUSE. DAY.

Gilbert is seen cycling away down the drive. As the lace curtain held up from the window is let down, we see that the lady watching Gilbert leave has a stocking crumpled in her hand.

EXT. STREETS. DAY.

Gilbert bikes along, passing several queues outside shops, one of which is Barraclough’s butcher’s.

EXT. THE PARADE. DAY.

Dismounting, Gilbert wheels his bike along the Parade. As he passes the cinema entrance on the Parade, we hear Grieg’s Piano Concerto from the film The Seventh Veil, playing inside. Gilbert pauses by Hewson’s wireless shop, where a couple are regarding one of the new televisions, which is displayed in the window. A notice on the cabinet, which dwarfs the screen, tells people that they can ‘See the Royal Wedding Here’. The man throws a cigarette packet down in the doorway of the small empty shop next door. Gilbert looks askance. Moving into this doorway he picks up the man’s rubbish as he looks at a ‘Let’ sign on the door.

A look of satisfaction grows on his face.

EXT. ALLARDYCES’ HOUSE. DAY.

There are two cars parked in the drive. A handyman in an old khaki shirt is playing a hose over the first car. A lace curtain drawn back suggests someone is watching the handyman or Gilbert, who, having admired the cars, parks his bike.

INT. ALLARDYCE’S STUDY. DAY.

Three middle-aged men are in the room. Allardyce is an accountant, Lockwood a solicitor and Swaby a medical practitioner. Allardyce is a plump, genuine soul, and Lockwood is sour and small-minded, not genuine at all. Dr Swaby is a thoroughgoing shit. They all have sheets of paper on which are lists of names.

LOCKWOOD (reading from his list) Coddington. Jezzard. Ibbotson.

The doorbell rings. Allardyce looks up and from his point of vision we see a plump woman’s arm reach in and close the study door. (continuing) Starkey. Mrs R. Jack Palmer.

Allardyce is still looking at the door that has closed.

INT. ALLARDYCES’ SITTING ROOM. DAY.

Prosperously furnished. The most prominent object in the room is an early television set, screen about nine inches wide, in a large walnut console. On top of it is a bowl of bananas. Mrs Allardyce, a fleshy and masterful middle-aged woman, is in the act of lifting her skirt to undo her suspender, turning away from Gilbert slightly in order to do so.

MRS ALLARDYCE You’re younger than I’d been led to expect. However.

Gilbert doesn’t say anything.

Mrs Lockwood says she’s a new woman.

GILBERT Have you a newspaper, Mrs Allardyce? This is a good carpet.

MRS ALLARDYCE Wholesale from Halifax, of course it is.

INT. ALLARDYCE’S STUDY. DAY.

Lockwood is still reading out his list, with Dr Swaby repeating the names in confirmation as he ticks them off.

LOCKWOOD Gibson. Proctor. Chalmers-Smith. Major Hopkinson.

ALLARDYCE (smiling happily and ticking off a name) Great minds think alike.

LOCKWOOD Sutcliff?

Pause.

DR SWABY He might not want to come.

LOCKWOOD She Will.

Mrs Allardyce comes in, one stocking on, one off.

MRS ALLARDYCE Paper, Henry?

Allardyce is sitting on it.

ALLARDYCE It’s today’s.

She takes it.

MRS ALLARDYCE And? (Meaning ‘What of it?’)

She goes. Dr Swaby and Lockwood exchange pitying looks.

LOCKWOOD (continuing) Dickinson.

DR SWABY Dickinson.

INT. ALLARDYCES’ SITTING ROOM. DAY.

MRS ALLARDYCE Where do you want me?

She sits on a chair and Gilbert, opening the paper, places it under her feet. He then turns to his case. Glancing down Mrs Allardyce finds that her naked foot is on a portrait of the bridegroom-to-be, Lieutenant Mountbatten. Thinking this is lèse-majesté, she removes the page, only to find she now has her foot on some other royal person. This too she removes, settling eventually for the front page with its headline ‘BACON DOWN AGAIN’. Gilbert takes hold of her foot.

My other little man died. He used to say that a foot told him more than a face.

GILBERT Well, you’ve got quite a lot of hard skin. And this is a chilblain.

Mrs Allardyce plainly doesn’t feel this is much insight into the real her.

Are you on your feet a great deal?

MRS ALLARDYCE My husband’s an accountant. It’s one function after another.

She reaches over and gets a cigarette from the box, and as Gilbert bends over her feet she leans back and takes a luxurious drag. Somewhere in the house a comfortable-sounding middle-class clock chimes.

INT. ALLARDYCE’S STUDY. DAY.

Allardyce is now reading out his list.

ALLARDYCE Jezzard.

DR SWABY Had Jezzard.

ALLARDYCE Sorry. Wainwright.

Lockwood pulls a face.

Brierley?

LOCKWOOD It wants to be a bit select, Henry. Their daughter was a GI bride.

DR SWABY Only just. Six months pregnant when I examined her.

ALLARDYCE She was a Sunday-school teacher.

DR SWABY The state of her private parts told a different story, Henry. This is royalty. It’s a pure and unspoiled couple.

ALLARDYCE Goodman?

There is a slightly more awkward silence.

DR SWABY He’s not on my list.

ALLARDYCE They’re very well off.

DR SWABY Well apart from anything else, Henry, think what we shall be having to eat. (Pause.) Oink-oink.

ALLARDYCE Oh.

Dr Swaby and Lockwood exchange looks of long-suffering contempt. Someone starts to play the piano badly, the same tune we have heard at the Chilvers’ house. Allardyce gets up and opens the door. Not now, Veronica.

INT. ALLARDYCES’ SITTING ROOM. DAY.

MRS ALLARDYCE (calling) She’s got to practise sometime.

The piano starts again. Mrs Allardyce picks a chocolate and takes a bite. Not liking its taste, she drops the rest of the chocolate, and it lands among the clippings and shavings of hard skin on the newspaper. Looking up from it, Gilbert continues to clip her toenails. Mrs Allardyce smooths the stocking she has on.

Nylons. Henry gets them. Grateful clients.

GILBERT (cutting her big toenail) Bad for the feet.

The big toenail clipping flies off. Mrs Allardyce looks up as it ‘pings’ off a vase.

MRS ALLARDYCE (recovering) Good for the morale. I think we’ve let some toenail go on the carpet.

GILBERT Beg pardon. This is a bit hand-to-mouth. But I’ll have my own surgery soon. I’ve got premises on the Parade.

MRS ALLARDYCE Oh, the Parade. Umpteen opportunities for the go-ahead young man these days. The war killed so many off. And you’re married to Veronica’s piano teacher.

GILBERT Yes.

MRS ALLARDYCE You’re not wearing a ring.

GILBERT No. Tiny bits of skin and scurf from people’s feet tend to collect under it.

MRS ALLARDYCE Oh. My other little man was married, though his wife was bedridden. Life.

Allardyce enters. He does not see Gilbert as he is hidden below the level of the chair.

ALLARDYCE Still a long way to go with the invites. Have we anything tasty we could give Dr Swaby for his supper? You know what he’s like.

Mrs Allardyce mutely indicates the presence of Gilbert.

(peering round the chair) Ah!

MRS ALLARDYCE Steak?

Allardyce is going, when he stops and returns, having seen something.

ALLARDYCE Are you not eating that?

MRS ALLARDYCE They’re marzipan. You don’t like marzipan.

Allardyce nevertheless reaches down, and it’s only then that we realise he’s referring to the half-eaten chocolate lying among all the nail clippings etc. on the paper. He retrieves it from under Gilbert’s nose and goes out, carrying it in front of him in a way that suggests he isn’t going to eat it. Pause.

We generally have our main meal at night.

INT. ALLARDYCES’ HALL. DAY.

Veronica can be seen practising in a further room. Allardyce is standing by the doorway but he is looking off. Emerging from the toilet, Dr Swaby joins Allardyce. He looks in at Veronica with stony indifference.

Allardyce shows Dr Swaby the half-eaten chocolate and is about to say something when the sitting-room door begins to open and Dr Swaby hustles him unceremoniously back into the study. Mrs Allardyce leads Gilbert out of the sitting room towards the front door.

VERONICA I hate Mrs Chilvers.

MRS ALLARDYCE (sweetly) No, you don’t. This is Mr Chilvers. Children! You don’t have any?

GILBERT No.

MRS ALLARDYCE Very wise.

Looking out of the house, past Mrs Allardyce, we see Gilbert mounting his bike.

EXT. METCALF’S BUTCHER’S SHOP. EVENING.

We see Gilbert arriving on his bike. Mr Metcalf is just letting the blinds down, having shut the shop. Gilbert knocks and Mr Metcalf peeps out, then lets him in. As the shop door closes behind Gilbert, the camera pulls back and we see a black-gloved hand drumming impatiently on a steering wheel.

INT. METCALF’S SHOP. EVENING.

Gilbert goes through the back of the shop, where lights, beasts’ heads, etc., are hanging up and Mr Metcalf points him up the stairs into the house, while he starts putting his stock back into the fridge.

INT. METCALFS’ LIVING ROOM. EVENING.

Less moneyed than the Allardyces but nicely off too. Mrs Metcalf, a volatile ferret of a woman, talking all the time. Gilbert is already on the floor, doing her feet. Mr Metcalf is standing in the doorway, watching.

MRS METCALF Heartbreaking, these days, butchering. Meat ration at one and tenpence, what can you do with that? His stomach’s on a knife-edge.

Mr Metcalf goes.

And he’s the only one who’s straight. There’s two other butchers and they’re both on the twist. He comes in on a night, sits at that table and his face is grey. You’ve got some nice thick hair.

There is a loud banging at the door. She gets up and hobbles to the window. Below, in the shop, Mr Metcalf is scooting back from the door in a crouched position.

MR METCALF Gestapo!

MRS METCALF Oh, blood and sand!

She rushes off into the kitchen as the banging on the shop door is renewed. Gilbert is nonplussed. Mrs Metcalf runs back in with a side of pork, watched by the amazed Gilbert. As she rushes to the stairs down to the shop, Mr Metcalf is rushing up them, also carrying a side of pork.

MR METCALF Not down here, you fool. Get it upstairs.

They rush out, upstairs. The banging continues with Gilbert nonplussed. He gets up and half-goes to the door, but doesn’t know what to do. The letterbox is pushed back.

WORMOLD (out of vision) You. Open this door.

GILBERT I can’t. I’m the chiropodist.

INSPECTOR NOBLE (put of vision) This is the police. Open this door.

Gilbert starts trying to.

GILBERT It’s a funny lock.

Mrs Metcalf comes in from the stairs.

MRS METCALF (supremely calm) Is there somebody at the door? One moment.

She opens the door and Inspector Noble and PC Penny rush in, followed by the more sinister, black-gloved figure of Wormold, the Ministry of Food inspector. Wormold should be Scots or from Birmingham. He is not local.

WORMOLD Upstairs.

MRS METCALF You will find the shop downstairs.

WORMOLD Upstairs.

PC Penny, a young policeman, and Wormold are about to go upstairs.

MRS METCALF Excuse me. This is my house.

She leads the way, leaving Inspector Noble and Gilbert staring at one another. Noble admires himself in the mirror, seemingly unconcerned.

INT. METCALFS’ LANDING. EVENING.

Wormold knocks on a door.

MR METCALF (out of vision) I’m on the toilet.

WORMOLD I can wait.

Mr Metcalf comes out immediately. Wormold goes in and comes out empty-handed. Mr Metcalf goes back downstairs while Wormold continues to search the house.

INT. METCALFS’ LIVING ROOM. EVENING.

Inspector Noble and Gilbert are there.

MR METCALF (muttering to Noble) What happened to the telephone?

INSPECTOR NOBLE He’s a law unto himself.

We should see at some point Wormold’s attaché case, with ‘Ministry of Food’ stamped on it.

INT. METCALFS’ LANDING. EVENING.

Mrs Metcalf knocks on a bedroom door.

MRS METCALF Father? (to Wormold) Don’t get him excited. He has trouble with his waterworks.

Mrs Metcalf’s father, a small anxious head on a pillow, watches them as they look round the room and then go out. The search party goes into another bedroom. PC Penny looks under the bed, then looks in the wardrobe.

PC PENNY Nothing here.

WORMOLD Come out.

PC Penny makes room and Wormold, watched by Penny, flicks along the row of coats and dresses hanging up. Among them is a side of pork.

INT. METCALFS’ LIVING ROOM. EVENING.

Wormold comes down first, followed by PC Penny with the side of pork. Mrs Metcalf is hovering behind.

INSPECTOR NOBLE Dear oh dear. Dear oh dear.

MRS METCALF (to PC Penny) Put a bit of something under that, love.

She slips a cloth between the pork and PC Penny’s uniform.

The grease’ll go all over your uniform. Your mam’ll play pop.

PC Penny seems to be lingering. He is eyeing a single banana in a dish on the table. The others continue out.

PC PENNY Mrs Metcalf?

MRS METCALF What, love?

PC PENNY Are you wanting that banana?

MRS METCALF (apologetically) I am, love, I’m planning a trifle.

PC Penny goes, carrying the pork. The procession goes out to the car, watched by Mrs Metcalf. She closes the door and then beckons Gilbert to follow her upstairs.

INT. METCALFS’ LANDING. EVENING.

Mrs Metcalf leads Gilbert into her father’s room.

MRS METCALF’S FATHER Your mam feels cold, Dorcas.

MRS METCALF It’s not surprising. She died in 1937.

She pulls back the bedclothes and the old man is embracing a side of pork.

Can you manage that?

Gilbert begins to lift it gingerly.

See.

She yanks it off the bed, then puts it in Gilbert’s arms.

Downstairs.

INT. METCALFS’ LIVING ROOM. EVENING.

Gilbert comes down into the living room, Mrs Metcalf following.

MRS METCALF Down again.

INT. METCALF’S SHOP. EVENING.

Gilbert manoeuvres the side of pork down the stairs, through the beasts’ heads and bits of offal and into the big walk-in fridge. Following her directions, he hangs it up and comes out. Mrs Metcalf closes the fridge door.

MRS METCALF Well, don’t look at me. People have to live. You’d better come and finish my feet.

INT. CHILVERS’ DINING ROOM. EVENING.

The room, like the house, is excessively tidy. Joyce watches while Gilbert unwraps the parcel we saw being delivered earlier.

JOYCE Pork? In bed? They want horsewhipping. We never saw any of it. When did we last have pork? And it wasn’t clean. I’ve seen a cat on that counter.

Gilbert reveals a large porcelain foot from a box inside the parcel’s brown wrapping paper.

GILBERT What do you think?

JOYCE I suppose I’ve now got to start looking for another butcher. Wash it. It’s probably filthy. What was this meeting?

Gilbert carries the foot to the sink in the kitchen to wash it. Joyce follows.

GILBERT It’s a dinner they’re getting up for the Royal Wedding.

JOYCE No need to ask if we were invited.

GILBERT We don’t want to be going to dinners. What do we want to be going to dinners for?

JOYCE To meet people, that’s what for. How else are you going to get on? It’s dripping, Gilbert. It’s dripping! What was the house like?

GILBERT A palace. They were having steak for their supper.

JOYCE Steak! You were going to take this town, Gilbert.

GILBERT I’m a chiropodist, Joyce, not a Panzer division. Look. Jesus.

JOYCE I beg your pardon.

GILBERT Washing the feet.

Joyce turns away with a pained expression as Mother comes in.

MOTHER Have I had my tea?

JOYCE Eat some of your nougat, love.

MOTHER You don’t give me my proper rations. He has my rations.

Mother is transfixed, staring at Gilbert. She can only see the toes but the foot that he is drying looks horribly big. She turns and hurries out of the kitchen.

GILBERT (unaware) She had my sandwiches again today.

JOYCE She, Gilbert? She? She, as you call her, knitted you a lovely balaclava helmet but we don’t talk about that.

GILBERT It doesn’t have an opening for my mouth.

JOYCE She’s seventy-four.

INT. POLICE STATION. NIGHT.

We glimpse Inspector Noble sitting at his desk slowly taking balls out of his mouth. In another room PC Penny comes upon Wormold about to paint the pork with an indelible green dye. PC Penny rushes into Noble’s office.

PC PENNY He’s going to paint the pork.

Balls cascade from Inspector Noble’s mouth and we realise that in his spare moments the Inspector is a conjuror. This has nothing to do with the plot. Noble hastens out with PC Penny following.

INSPECTOR NOBLE We can do that, Mr Wormold. You’ve done enough for one day.

WORMOLD No. This is the part I enjoy. This means it’s unfit for human consumption.

PC PENNY Why?

WORMOLD Who killed it? Where?

Inspector Noble and PC Penny exchange looks.

I used to like painting when I was little. My mother wanted me to be an artist.

PC PENNY (looking at the pork) What a waste.

WORMOLD No. I’d never have been any good.

INT. MRS FORBES’S HOUSE (WORMOLD’S LODGINGS). NIGHT.

Mrs Forbes, a well set-up middle-aged lady, is sitting behind the table in the kitchen. Hearing the outside door close, she waits for a moment and then goes out into the passage. Wormold is hanging up his coat, very neatly. Mrs Forbes watches him fondly.

MRS FORBES Another day.

Wormold smiles faintly then comes down the passage to his room.

Nothing from Kuala Lumpur.

Wormold pauses over this and then is about to go into his cheerless room when he turns.

WORMOLD Mrs Forbes. Your information was correct. You’ll be happy to know an arrest was made and charges are being preferred.

Mrs Forbes comes back into the kitchen looking anything but happy.

EXT. NUTTALL’S BUTCHER’S SHOP, REAR. NIGHT.

A police car pulls up in the alley. The engine and lights cut out and it sits in the dark.

INT. NUTTALL’S SHOP. NIGHT.

Nuttall is standing waiting, his coat on over his butcher’s coat. Ernest, his ancient boy, is sitting on the counter, smoking. There is a knock at the back door. Ernest answers it and Inspector Noble and PC Penny come in, PC Penny bearing the pork in a blanket.

NUTTALL I’m waiting.

INSPECTOR NOBLE He’s just this minute gone.

PC Penny uncovers the green pork.

NUTTALL Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. No, no, no, no.

ERNEST No, no.

NUTTALL I’ve told you. I want it prior to the painting.

INSPECTOR NOBLE You don’t know what he’s like. He’s a demon.

Nuttall examines the pork more closely.

NUTTALL It’s dogmeat is this.

ERNEST Dogmeat is that.

PC PENNY We did try.

INSPECTOR NOBLE We did.

Nuttall grudgingly cuts them some chops, one for PC Penny, two for Inspector Noble, then even more grudgingly adding a third to Inspector Noble’s, before ushering them out of the back door, which he locks.

ERNEST Dogmeat is that.

NUTTALL Dogmeat be buggered. Get your coat off.

Ernest struggles out of his coat.

Bath. (Puts a zinc bath down.) Bucket.

Ernest hands him a bucket.

Bleach. (Wallops in a lot of bleach.)

Now then. Get scrubbing.

INT. ALLARDYCES’ DINING ROOM. NIGHT.

A lavish meal at which Mr and Mrs Allardyce, Dr Swaby and Lockwood are present.

MRS ALLARDYCE How’s your steak?

LOCKWOOD Just right.

An indeterminate noise halts all cutlery but Dr Swaby’s. Can he have farted?

MRS ALLARDYCE (breaking their pause) More sprouts, Dr Swaby?

INT. CHILVERS’ DINING ROOM. NIGHT.

Joyce, Gilbert and Mother are eating a sparse meal of luncheon meat, lettuce and one tomato. They eat in silence, Gilbert and Mother heartily, Joyce daintily.

GILBERT I saw another verruca today. Gone the wrong way again. They will hack at them with razor blades.

JOYCE Don’t bring feet to the table, Gilbert. And there’s crumbs cascading onto this carpet.

GILBERT You have to wait until they come to a head. Then it’s a piece of cake.

Joyce gives up any attempt to eat.

Still, Mrs Roach’s ingrowing toenail seems to have turned the corner. Thanked me profusely. Gave me a macaroon.

JOYCE (passionately) A macaroon! A macaroon! We’re better than this, Gilbert.

GILBERT Better than what?

Joyce sighs.

Are you not eating your spam?

Mother is on to it like a rat, long before Gilbert reaches it.

Listen, Joyce. Once I’m into these premises on the Parade then it’ll be different. They’ll be rolling up in their cars. We’ll be going out to functions, having steak.

JOYCE It’s not just steak, Gilbert. Can’t you see? It’s status.

MOTHER Is there any?

JOYCE What?

MOTHER Taties?

JOYCE It breaks your heart.

INT. MRS FORBES’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Mrs Forbes is half-dressed, bent over a chair, reading a newspaper. Nuttall stands behind her, still in his butcher’s clothes. He is adjusting the wardrobe mirror.

MRS FORBES Poor Mr Metcalf. I didn’t think he’d go to prison. You didn’t tell me he’d go to prison.

NUTTALL (taking down her knickers) I don’t care who goes to prison so long as it keeps your lodger off my back.

MRS FORBES (looking at the paper again) There’s no fun in this for me, Douglas. It’s all one-sided.

NUTTALL You have a magnificent bum, Doris.

MRS FORBES I don’t like that word.

NUTTALL Bottom, then.

MRS FORBES That either.

NUTTALL What then?

MRS FORBES There isn’t a word I do like. My husband never felt the need to refer to it.

NUTTALL No news?

Mrs Forbes shakes her head and reads an item from the newspaper on the Royal Wedding.

MRS FORBES ‘… Currants, British Guiana. Demerara sugar, Barbados. Desiccated coconut, Ceylon.’

NUTTALL What’s this?

MRS FORBES The Empire. Who’s sent what for the wedding cake.

NUTTALL Look. Cheek to cheek to cheek.

She looks round. He has his cheek against her bum and is looking in the wardrobe mirror.

MRS FORBES Oh, Douglas, you are common. Why can’t you just get on with it?

NUTTALL I wish I had this on the slicer. I could sell it fifteen times over.

MRS FORBES Be sharp. I’ve Mr Wormold’s dinner to get.

Nuttall leans over Mrs Forbes.

NUTTALL Doris. When you go in, drop him a hint about Barraclough.

MRS FORBES I’m fed up doing your dirty work, Douglas.

NUTTALL Go On.

MRS FORBES No. No.

Mrs Forbes looks pained and then a slight spasm crosses her face, indicating that Nuttall is getting on with it. She waits with the patience of an animal.

INT. MRS FORBES’S DINING ROOM. NIGHT.

A bare room. Wormold, having just finished his thin chop and two veg, is holding the remains of his chop up to the light when Mrs Forbes comes in with her tray.

WORMOLD Isn’t that green?

MRS FORBES (bringing her eye by Wormold’s) Yes. It’s spinach. You had spinach.

WORMOLD So I did.

MRS FORBES Did you enjoy it?

WORMOLD I don’t enjoy food, Mrs Forbes. I have no sense of taste, no sense of smell. I had German measles as a child.

MRS FORBES A little more, Mr Wormold?

WORMOLD There is no more, Mrs Forbes. I have eaten my ration.

MRS FORBES We’re only human, Mr Wormold.

WORMOLD My experience has been, Mrs Forbes, that when people say they’re only human it is because they have been making beasts of themselves. (Pause.) Do you make a beast of yourself, Mrs Forbes?

MRS FORBES My husband is missing in Malaya, Mr Wormold. I live the life of a widow.

WORMOLD I hope so, Mrs Forbes. (folding his napkin with meticulous care) I hope so.

She puts his plate on her tray.

MRS FORBES I’ll get your sweet.

Mrs Forbes seems to linger.

WORMOLD Yes, Mrs Forbes?

MRS FORBES (reluctantly) I was talking to a woman who gets her meat from Mr Barraclough. She says she gets some lovely stuff, only …

WORMOLD Only what, Mrs Forbes?

MRS FORBES Well, she’s not always sure she’s not eating something that’s run in the 2.30. Know what I mean?

INT. MRS FORBES’S KITCHEN. NIGHT.

His ear cocked, Nuttall is biting the last of the meat off his chop. Mrs Forbes comes in and, putting her tray on the sink, reaches for something underneath it.

MRS FORBES (whispered) I want this out of the house. Keep it somewhere else.

NUTTALL Why?

MRS FORBES He trusts me.

Mrs Forbes pulls a tightly rolled, dark-stained brown smock from under the sink. As she holds it out to Nuttall, it unravels from her hand, dumping Nuttall’s killing tackle on the floor. They freeze … the well-used knives, pig sticker, steel and hammer, on the floor between them.

EXT. BARRACLOUGH’S BUTCHER’S SHOP. DAY.

There is a queue outside, in which we notice Joyce and Mother, almost in the door. Mrs Forbes is at its head. Women are coming out with parcels, smiling and happy. Suddenly the queue is hushed as Wormold is seen to drive slowly by. Once he has gone on around the corner, they chatter expectantly again.

INT./EXT. WORMOLD’S CAR/BACK STREET. DAY.

Sitting with the window down, Wormold watches Mrs Forbes in the rear-view mirror, as she comes round the corner from Barraclough’s. As she comes up she quickly hands her parcel to him through the window.

MRS FORBES They shaved women’s heads for this in France.

She walks on and doesn’t look back. Wormold opens the parcel in his lap. The steak is very red and fleshy.

INT. BARRACLOUGH’S SHOP. DAY.

Joyce and Mother have reached the counter. Joyce is taking her three ration books from her handbag.

JOYCE I was registered with Mr Metcalf only he’s had to close.

BARRACLOUGH (winking) I heard. Pork in the wardrobe. What would you like?

JOYCE (hardly able to believe her ears) What would we like, Mother? Steak?

Mother nods eagerly.

BARRACLOUGH Certainly.

Lifting a large flank of steak onto the counter, he proceeds to cut them a thick juicy slice.

All right?

Joyce and Mother cannot believe their luck. Parcelling up the steak, Barraclough pushes it to them across the counter. Then suddenly Wormold strides into the shop, his parcel open in his hand.

WORMOLD Right. That’s it. Cease trading. Would you all kindly leave the premises?

JOYCE Why?

WORMOLD Horse, madam. Horse.

JOYCE Horse!

Joyce is horrified. Not so Mother.

MOTHER I don’t mind.

WORMOLD Out, everybody. Out.

Wormold is shoving them out, when Mother slips past and tries to take their parcel off the counter.

Touch that, madam, and you’re an accessory.

JOYCE She’s seventy-four. Horse!

As chaos grows, Joyce pushes Mother out through the mêlée.

INT. BARRACLOUGH’S SHOP. DAY.

Wormold and Barraclough, both somewhat white-faced, are alone in the shop, the doors of which are now locked. Outside, pressing their faces against the windows, are the angry housewives. They are in a very ugly mood, shouting and banging on the glass. The housewives break a window. Wormold rattles the phone up and down, trying to get a line. He sighs and drops it back onto its cradle as he sees the police car draw up, and Inspector Noble and PC Penny get out.

INT. BARRACLOUGH’S SHOP. DAY.

Once in, Inspector Noble and PC Penny experience the same fear of the angry, shouting crowd banging and pressing against the glass.

WORMOLD (definitively) It’s horsemeat!

BARRACLOUGH They eat it in Belgium.

WORMOLD We’re not in Belgium.

BARRACLOUGH They ate rats in Stalingrad.

They prepare to force their way out.

INSPECTOR NOBLE (looking accusingly at Wormold) These used to be ordinary decent people.

They begin to force their way to the police car.

INT. ALLARDYCE’S OFFICE. DAY.

Standing at the window with a cup of coffee, Allardyce is watching Gilbert on the Parade below. Gilbert is standing in the middle of the road, waving his arms about. Finishing his coffee, Allardyce glances at his watch, then takes his coat from the stand and puts it on.

Slightly surreptitiously, he takes a parcel wrapped in newspaper and puts it in his attaché case. Then, taking his empty coffee cup with a biscuit in the saucer, he goes into the outer office.

His secretary Dorothy is sitting there, also watching Gilbert. Allardyce puts his cup and saucer down.

ALLARDYCE Should the telephone ring, Dorothy, I’ve gone to see a client. (He is going out.)

DOROTHY Mr Allardyce.

Allardyce stops.

Are you not eating this ginger nut?

Allardyce shakes his head. He goes out and closes the door. Dorothy has just taken the ginger nut and is about to dunk it in her coffee when the door opens.

ALLARDYCE On second thoughts.

He takes the biscuit from her nerveless fingers and goes out again, leaving her bemused. Turning back to the window, she looks down at Gilbert waving his arms in the road. Allardyce is seen to come up by Gilbert’s side.

EXT. THE PARADE. DAY.

Gilbert is directing the painter in his premises. The painter is standing in the window holding up the porcelain foot.

To Allardyce’s casual glance the foot looks part of some much larger leg, going up into the shop.

ALLARDYCE (a friendly greeting) Mr Chivers.

GILBERT (turning) Chilvers. Do you think I’ve got it – (meaning the foot) – in the right place?

ALLARDYCE (meaning the premises) Oh, yes. Yes. Best place in town.

Gilbert turns, not understanding, but Allardyce has gone.

EXT. NUTTALL’S SHOP. DAY.

As Ernest pushes the blinds in for half-day closing, he tells every passer-by that ‘We’re closed.’ Nuttall can be seen in the shop, alone except for Mr Lockwood.

INT. NUTTALL’S SHOP. DAY.

Nuttall has just pushed a parcel wrapped in newspaper over the counter to Lockwood.

LOCKWOOD Sad about Metcalf. You’ll be the only butcher left soon.

Nuttall disembowels a chicken.

We’re all going to have to watch our step.

Nuttall chops the head off the chicken.

NUTTALL (holding his hand out for the parcel) Mr Lockwood.

Lockwood frowns and gives him the parcel. Nuttall puts the chicken’s head and giblets in it and gives it back to Lockwood, who puts the parcel in his attaché case. He barges his way out past Ernest, coming with the blindhook. Gilbert, passing on his bike, pulls up when he sees Lockwood.

EXT. NUTTALL’S SHOP. DAY.

GILBERT Morning, Mr Lockwood. My lease ready to sign?

LOCKWOOD (as he walks on) In due course.

GILBERT (following with his bike) No difficulty, is there?

LOCKWOOD Yes. Time. It’s in short supply.

Left in the road, Gilbert looks round awkwardly and then remounts his bike and pedals off.

EXT. STREET. DAY.

Gilbert is on his rounds again, cycling cheerfully along. Further up the street Dr Swaby is on the point of leaving a patient’s house. A woman is holding the door and behind her we see an elderly lady (Mrs Beevers).

DR SWABY (to woman) I think you’re doing the right thing. I’ll send somebody round for her tomorrow. Tell her she’s going to Bridlington. The grounds are immaculate. She’ll be very happy.

Dr Swaby raises his hand in a wave and then takes his leave, going towards his car parked in the road.

WOMAN (running) Doctor. Doctor Swaby.

Dr Swaby looks from his car to see the woman running down the path towards him, waving a parcel in gaily decorated paper at him. Gilbert, approaching on his bike, has also seen, the woman. Dr Swaby opens his car door into Gilbert’s path, causing him to swerve and fall off.

GILBERT Look out, you! Oh sorry, Dr Swaby.

A wagon coming the other way narrowly misses Gilbert sprawling in the roadway. The woman throws her hands up in horror. The parcel flies into the air. Coming down it hits the roof of the car and bursts, flinging its contents over Dr Swaby. Collecting himself, Gilbert looks up to find a seething Dr Swaby gathering potato peelings and kitchen waste from the road and his person. Glaring at Gilbert, Dr Swaby wraps this garbage in the remains of the gaily decorated paper. Showing no recognition of his having been at fault, Dr Swaby then gets back into his car with his parcel and drives off, leaving Gilbert sitting in the road.

EXT. BOWLING GREEN. AFTERNOON.

Allardyce and Lockwood are sitting by the pavilion, watching the game, attaché cases on their knees. Lockwood looks at his watch.

ALLARDYCE I’ve never committed a crime before.

LOCKWOOD I thought you were an accountant.

ALLARDYCE (opening his case) I’ve fetched her another ginger biscuit. Last week’s went down so well.

Dr Swaby arrives.

DR SWABY Ready?

LOCKWOOD Ready? We’re ready.

They follow Dr Swaby away, all with their little attaché cases.

DR SWABY I had a little contretemps with that new chiropodist. Why we need chiropodists I don’t know. Something wrong with their feet, people can come to me. They’d always find a sympathetic hearing.

ALLARDYCE You’ve got bacon rind on your shoulder.

Dr Swaby dashes the rind from his shoulder and violently wings it away. As they reach Dr Swaby’s car they stop short. Gilbert is labouring up the road leading past the bowling green on his bike. He smiles at them and snatches a quick wave as he passes.

EXT. OPEN COUNTRY. AFTERNOON.

Gilbert pedals on up the narrow twisting moorland road. Dr Swaby’s car makes no allowance for him when it roars past, its three occupants staring out disapprovingly.

EXT. SUTCLIFFS’ FARMYARD. AFTERNOON.

Allardyce, Lockwood and Dr Swaby pick their way across the mucky farmyard in their unsuitable shoes. Preston, the loutish son of the farm, stares at them. Mrs Sutcliff comes out of the house.

The three visitors pick their way over to a long shed. Through the open door we can see that it is lined with pig stalls, with an aisle down the middle. Sutcliff, a rough-looking character, is working at the far end.

ALLARDYCE We’ve come to see our friend.

He waves his case. Sutcliff comes out of the shed.

SUTCLIFF You want to watch out, coming all together. I’m the one who’ll cop it.

DR SWABY Nonsense, Sutcliff. (Raises his attaché case.) I’ve come to examine your good lady.

LOCKWOOD I’m here to draw up your will.

They both look at Allardyce.

DR SWABY What are you here for?

Allardyce looks baffled.

ALLARDYCE How do you mean?

Dr Swaby and Lockwood exchange pitying looks and then open their attaché cases and take out their parcels. Allardyce takes out his and begins to open it. Preston collects the parcels and, taking Allardyce’s from him, he goes over to another open shed, where he throws the complete parcels into the hopper of a large mincer. Kicking a small yapping dog out of the way, Preston then switches it on.

What about the paper?

SUTCLIFF She eats the paper. She’d eat you.

ALLARDYCE No.

Allardyce looks to the others for reassurance, which is not forthcoming. Leaving Preston with the mincer, Sutcliff leads them away out of the yard towards a wood.

INT. DARK STY. AFTERNOON.

It’s pitch-black. As Sutcliff and the others are heard approaching a pig begins to grunt excitedly in the dark. The door opens. As the light comes in we see that the ‘sty’ is an old van.

ALLARDYCE Betty! Betty! Where’s my Betty?

The pig snuffles.

Hello, how’s my friend? It’s your Uncle Henry.

LOCKWOOD (critically) Not much fatter, and it’s a bit since we’ve been.

SUTCLIFF She’s put on a couple of stone, only she’s gone lame.

ALLARDYCE Lame? Oh dear. Oh Betty.

DR SWABY What’s she doing, going lame?

SUTCLIFF I don’t know.

DR SWABY You should know, the money we pay. Get the vet.

SUTCLIFF Get the vet? You’re barmy. This is an unlicensed pig.

DR SWABY Square him, Sutcliff. We pay you enough. Lame.

Sutcliff becomes uneasy.

ALLARDYCE Here’s something for your poorly foot, Betty. A ginger nut, yes. You like ginger nuts.

EXT. ‘STY’/WOODS. AFTERNOON.

The old van that is the ‘sty’ sits without its wheels in a small clearing in the woods. Lockwood, Dr Swaby and Sutcliff come out of the back of the van and Dr Swaby gives Sutcliff an envelope. Allardyce then comes out, closing the door behind him, and they walk back towards the farm.

ALLARDYCE I shall miss her, you know, when it comes to the point.

LOCKWOOD Well, it’s coming to the point.

EXT. NARROW BANKED ROAD. AFTERNOON.

Gilbert is labouring up the road. He is about to turn off the road down a track leading to Sutcliffs’ farm when Dr Swaby’s car comes out unexpectedly, nearly fetching him off his bike, the third time that day.

DR SWABY (out of the car window) Clown!

INT./EXT. DR SWABY’S CAR/MOORLAND ROAD. AFTERNOON.

Dr Swaby roars ahead, glaring back at Gilbert in his rear-view mirror.

ALLARDYCE (in the back) I see he’s opening a surgery.

DR SWABY You don’t call a fly-blown room where you cut toenails a surgery. Where?

ALLARDYCE On the Parade. Frank rented him it.

DR SWABY This is a stab in the back.

LOCKWOOD I didn’t think.

DR SWABY You’re going to have to think. You’re going to have to think of a way of getting him out.

ALLARDYCE Why?

DR SWABY (sweetly) I don’t like him.

EXT. SUTCLIFFS’ FARMYARD. AFTERNOON.

Squatting by the bucket as the mincer riddles into it, Preston looks up as Gilbert arrives in the yard.

PRESTON Who’s this?

SUTCLIFF Her foot feller.

They watch Gilbert dismount.

Go fetch that lame bugger.

As Preston goes off, Sutcliff watches Gilbert go into the house.

INT. SUTCLIFFS’ KITCHEN. AFTERNOON.

Close-up of big hands with a small knife, paring some skin on a foot.

GILBERT (to himself) Touch of tinea pedis here.

Mrs Sutcliff looks.

Athlete’s foot.

MRS SUTCLIFF Oh, do women get that?

GILBERT Nothing to worry about.

MRS SUTCLIFF I hear you were there when the Gestapo arrived.

GILBERT Gestapo?

MR SUTCLIFF (having come up silently behind Gilbert) Wormold.

Mrs Sutcliff cries out in pain as Gilbert jumps.

GILBERT Sorry. He made me jump.

MRS SUTCLIFF You made him jump, you great puzzock.

SUTCLIFF Have you got a minute?

Gilbert looks a bit askance but Sutcliff jerks his head authoritatively so he gets up.

MRS SUTCLIFF He’s not done me yet. Bernard. Bernard. Bloody hell!

INT./EXT. LONG SHED/SUTCLIFFS’ FARMYARD. AFTERNOON.

Gilbert, Sutcliff and Preston are in one of the stalls in the shed. In the other stalls, pigs are standing up, watching. Preston and Sutcliff are trying to corner the pig for Gilbert. In the struggle Gilbert gets very mucky. Eventually they corner Betty and hold her while Gilbert looks at her poorly foot.

GILBERT (holding up a nail) Here’s the culprit.

He shows it to the pig, which nuzzles him gratefully. A telephone is heard ringing.

EXT. SUTCLIFFS FARMYARD. AFTERNOON.

Suddenly Mrs Sutcliff runs out of the farmhouse, one shoe on, one shoe off, and runs across to the long shed.

We hold on the farmyard as Gilbert is hurried out of the long shed and into the farmhouse by Mrs Sutcliff. Once Gilbert is out of the way, Sutcliff and Preston come out of the long shed with the pig, herd it towards and into a dog kennel, and shove a board over the opening. A moment later, Wormold’s black car noses into the yard.

INT. SUTCLIFFS’ KITCHEN. AFTERNOON.

Mrs Sutcliff rushes out of the pantry with a bowl of eggs. Putting them in a coal scuttle she then gets out a leg of ham which she puts behind a cushion. Gilbert, trying to clean his trousers, is a bit unsettled by all this. Finished, Mrs Sutcliff sits down for Gilbert to go on with her feet.

GILBERT They’re only old trousers.

MRS SUTCLIFF Act normally.

GILBERT I think you’ve trod in something.

Sighing at his fussing, she goes over to the sink and hoiks her leg up into the sink and runs the tap over her bare foot. Through the window she sees Wormold getting out of his car.

EXT. SUTCLIFFS’ FARMYARD. AFTERNOON.

Wormold crosses the yard. The little dog is yapping at its kennel. Seeing Wormold it comes up affectionately to him, whereupon Preston kicks it away. Sutcliff and Preston proceed to follow Wormold about.

SUTCLIFF Sometimes I wonder what the last war was for.

Wormold looks in the long shed, down the centre aisle and at the pigs standing up in their stalls, looking at him.

WORMOLD The people, Mr Sutcliff. That was what it was for. Fair shares for all.

They leave the shed, cross the yard and go into the farmhouse.

INT. SUTCLIFFS’ KITCHEN. AFTERNOON.

Mrs Sutcliff hands Wormold a sheaf of forms.

MRS SUTCLIFF Sty specifications. Swill schedule. Slaughtering certificates.

SUTCLIFF You find one wrong pig on this farm and I’ll give you a hundred pounds.

WORMOLD (unimpressed) If I do it’ll cost you more than that. (Wormold looks hard at Gilbert.) I’ve seen you before.

GILBERT How do you do.

WORMOLD Yes. You were there the other day.

He walks over to Gilbert and looks down at his case of instruments. He picks up one of the sharp knives and studies it. He looks at Gilbert.

You get about.

GILBERT I do people’s feet.

Wormold looks at his soiled trousers.

I knelt in something.

WORMOLD Maybe you ought to have a look at my feet. Can you fit me in?

Gilbert opens his appointment book and gives him a card.

GILBERT Tuesday at four?

Wormold takes the card and pauses at the door, surveying the farmyard.

WORMOLD On we go. No rest for the wicked.

He sets off across the yard towards his car. The little dog is yapping at his kennel. Wormold stops and looks over. He glances at the farmhouse and then goes over to the kennel. Sutcliff and Preston exchange anxious glances. Crouching down by the kennel, Wormold gives the little dog an affectionate pat and a stroke. He then leaves. As he drives off, Preston goes out to the kennel. Gilbert is picking up his newspaper to tip the bits of toenail, hard skin, etc., onto the fire.

SUTCLIFF Is that skin? Put it in the pig bucket. It’s a delicacy.

Gilbert tips it into the bucket.

You want to save any scraps. Peelings and whatnot. All contributions gratefully received. And we’ll see you all right. How much do we owe you?

GILBERT Five shillings.

SUTCLIFF Soon earned. Sharper than farming.

He peels one off a vast roll of notes. As Gilbert searches for change Sutcliff is drawn to the kitchen table.

Where’s the ham?

MRS SUTCLIFF Oh, pissing hell! (She goes and gets the ham from behind the cushion, rubs it on her apron and bangs it down on the dish.)

SUTCLIFF What’s happened to the fire? (He picks up the coal scuttle and without looking at the contents swings it at the fire, covering it with three dozen eggs.) You silly cow, Hilda!

INT. CHILVERS’ GARAGE. DAY.

Joyce and Mother are sitting in the back seat of the pre-war Vauxhall Big Six. We do not see Gilbert.

JOYCE Where shall it be today, Mother? Any preference?

MOTHER Where what?

JOYCE Our destination. I thought we might have a little run to Harrogate.

The car is gently rocked.

MOTHER Joyce.

JOYCE What, Mother?

MOTHER We’re in the garage.

JOYCE I have to breathe, Mother. I have to breathe.

We see Gilbert cleaning the car.

MOTHER Why doesn’t he put the wheels on, Joyce?

JOYCE (winding down the window) Because we’ve no coupons, Mother. Gilbert can’t get the juice. I’ve got a husband who can’t get the juice. What are you eating, Mother?

MOTHER A cream cracker.

JOYCE Where did you find it?

MOTHER In my cardigan.

JOYCE Well, get out of the car and eat it. You know the rules. No crumbs in the car.

Mother get out.

MOTHER He’s missed a bit here, Joyce.

Joyce, still in the car, looks out of the open window at the bit Mother is pointing at.

JOYCE You’ve missed a bit here, Gilbert.

As Gilbert comes from the back of the car with his polishing rag, Joyce gets out and we see it’s on blocks.

GILBERT I never have. I can see my face in that.

JOYCE (sadly) So can I.

EXT. NUTTALL’S SHOP. DAY.

A long queue stretches along the front of the shop and beyond. Mrs Allardyce, Veronica, and Mrs Sutcliff are just inside the shop. Joyce is a little way behind them, stonding outside with a stony-faced woman between her and them.

There is a poster of Princess Elizabeth and Lieutenant Mountbatten in Broadbent’s window, and next door the man is hanging up Union Jack bunting.

Joyce is trying to get herself noticed, but is being obstructed by the stony-faced woman ahead of her in the queue.

MRS SUTCLIFF Who’s this woman behind me?

MRS ALLARDYCE (surveying queue but not stopping talking) Busy this morning, of course it will be now the other two are closed down, the chiropodist’s wife.

JOYCE Veronica’s making great strides.

MRS ALLARDYCE Really?

JOYCE How’re you going on with ‘The Soldier’s Chorus’, Veronica? Keeping the fingers bent?

Veronica looks as if she would like to keep her fingers bent round Joyce’s throat.

(nailing Mrs Sutcliff) Gilbert was telling me you’d like us to save some of our scraps for your pigs.

MRS SUTCLIFF Well … yes … if you’ve got anything to spare.

MRS ALLARDYCE (over-sweetly) But don’t give them anything you can eat yourself.

Nuttall comes over and puts a ‘Closed for Lunch’ notice in the window. Then he forces the door closed. Joyce is left outside.

NUTTALL Sorry. I’m run off my feet.

Veronica, inside the shop, pulls a face at Joyce outside.

INT. GILBERT’S PREMISES. DAY.

The painter and his boy are having their lunch, sitting on boxes. As Joyce looks in, Gilbert picks up his framed diploma and holds it up in the place he has chosen for it.

JOYCE You ought to put up a brass plate.

GILBERT Brass? (laying down his diploma) Bakelite would do to be going on with.

JOYCE Bakelite?

Joyce becomes aware of a flat, dour voice. The painter’s boy is reading the newspaper out loud for the painter. It is an article on the royal wedding cake.

PAINTER’S BOY ‘… raised garlands of York roses mingle with the daintiness of ears of corn, happy symbol of plenty, then twine upwards to join with sprays of orange blossom in the centre medallion.’

JOYCE Is this the wedding dress?

PAINTER’S BOY No. It’s the cake.

INT. CHILVERS’ KITCHEN. DAY.

Gilbert is cutting the leaves off some rhubarb. He puts them into a parcel of waste, potato peelings, apple peelings, etc., that he is preparing for Sutcliff’s pigs. Joyce, followed by Mother, comes in carrying the dirty breakfast dishes to the sink. She goes to scrape the bits into the bin.

GILBERT (stopping her) Here. Here. It’s for the pigs.

Joyce gives his somewhat sparse collection a critical look. Opening a tin of corned beef, she puts half in the parcel. She then opens a tin of cling peaches and dumps that in the parcel.

JOYCE Don’t give them anything you can eat yourself.

Gilbert and Mother look on wonderingly.

I’m not having her thinking we just put rubbish in the bin.

I wish I’d one or two maraschino cherries, then it’d show we had cocktails.

GILBERT We don’t have cocktails.

JOYCE (sighing) I’m carrying you, Gilbert.

INT./EXT. ‘STY’/WOODS. DAY.

Allardyce is inside the back of the old van leaning over the stall. He is looking at the pig, which is smiling and grunting away and snuffling at Allardyce’s hands and pockets. Allardyce scratches its back.

ALLARDYCE Now, then, Betty. Have you missed me? How’s your foot? Is it better? It’s better, isn’t it? You’re champion again, aren’t you? What is it? What is it, Betty?

EXT. NARROW BANKED ROAD. DAY.

Gilbert is labouring up the road towards the track down to Sutcliffs’ farm.

EXT. SUTCLIFFS’ FARMYARD. DAY.

Dr Swaby sits fuming in his car, waiting for Allardyce. Sutcliff is by his window, trying to make conversation. Allardyce runs into the yard from the woods, opens the passenger door and takes out a brown-paper parcel.

ALLARDYCE I forgot to give Betty these. She looked right downcast.

Dr Swaby looks contemptuous. Allardyce nips round the car and gives the parcel to Sutcliff, who proceeds to open it.

There’s a ginger nut in there, she likes them whole, so could …

Sutcliff is watching Gilbert cycle into the yard.

SUTCLIFF I don’t like him seeing you here.

As Gilbert goes and knocks on the door, he sees Sutcliff pass a brown-paper parcel to Allardyce. Guiltily, Allardyce pops the parcel through Dr Swaby’s open window.

ALLARDYCE You think he might tipple to it?

Having been opened, the parcel’s contents of kitchen waste tip out all over Dr Swaby’s lap.

DR SWABY (tight-lipped and furious) Get in.

Dr Swaby, brushing off his lap, watches Gilbert waiting at the farmhouse door.

Jaunty toenail-clipping little sod. Biking around.

Seeing Dr Swaby looking at him, Gilbert touches his hat.

Don’t touch your hat to me, you festering, bunion-scraping little pillock. I want him out of that shop.

ALLARDYCE (seating himself uneasily by Dr Swaby) Frank’s got the lease back now. It’s in his office.

DR SWABY (psychopathically calm and sweet again) Well, what are we waiting for then, Henry?

Gilbert goes into the farmhouse.

INT. SUTCLIFFS’ KITCHEN. DAY.

MRS SUTCLIFF Now let’s see if I can find you a little something.

Gilbert waits awkwardly as she goes into the larder.

(out of vision) Leg of ham suit you?

In the larder, Mrs Sutcliff picks up a ragged shank of ham with a bit of meat on it. She sniffs it. Mrs Sutcliff comes out of the larder with what looks to be a substantial brown-paper parcel, which she ties with string.

Keep this under your hat.

Gilbert gives what he imagines is a sophisticated wink, feeling he’s joined the club.

EXT. SUTCLIFFS’ FARMYARD. DAY.

Gilbert waves goodbye to Mrs Sutcliff, who comes out of the house and goes into an open shed with Gilbert’s parcel. Screaming, Preston rushes out of the open shed with a spade raised above his head. Gilbert sees the rat just as Preston smashes it with the spade. Picking it up by its tail, Preston watches Gilbert start off up the track and then returns to the open shed.

INT. OPEN SHED. DAY.

Mrs Sutcliff has emptied Gilbert’s parcel into the hopper of the mincer and is looking at the contents contemptuously. We see the rhubarb leaves. Then the dead rat is flung on top. Preston starts the motor and the stuff starts riddling through the mincer – potato peelings, blood, leaves and rat – dropping into the bucket below.

EXT. NARROW BANKED ROAD. DAY.

Gilbert has stopped to pump up a tyre. Hearing a noise, he looks up over the bank. In glimpses he can see Preston going through the woods with a bucket.

EXT. ‘STY’/WOODS. AFTERNOON.

As Preston opens the back door we follow him in. The pig looks up at him expectantly.

PRESTON Soon you’re going to die, pig.

The pig smiles.

I’m going to kill you, pig.

The pig smiles on.

That’ll wipe the smile off your face.

EXT. NARROW BANKED ROAD. DAY.

As Preston disappears towards the farmyard, Gilbert is seen cautiously threading his way through the woods and up to the old van in the clearing.

EXT./INT. WOODS/‘STY’. DAY.

Gilbert opens the van’s back door and sees the pig contentedly feeding on the terrible contents of the bucket. Seeing Gilbert, the pig recognises him and moves towards him excitedly. Failing to recognise the pig from their earlier encounter, Gilbert stumbles back down the steps and shuts the door as he thinks the pig is trying to escape.

EXT. ARCADIA CINEMA. DAY.

Mother and Joyce come out and walk off down the Parade.

EXT. TOWN. DAY.

Mother and Joyce bump into Gilbert.

GILBERT We’re in.

JOYCE In where?

GILBERT (handing her the parcel) Ham. We’ve joined the club. We’re on the circuit.

MOTHER Ham?

GILBERT Have a look.

JOYCE In the street? I will not.

GILBERT This is just the beginning. Listen, why don’t we splash out? I’ve just got to call at the surgery, you go to the Grand and order afternoon tea. (turning) You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mother?

Mother looks at Joyce, fearful of what this courtesy portends.

EXT. THE PARADE. DAY.

Full of joy, Gilbert walks towards his premises. He says a cheery first-name hello to the chemist, who is standing out at his door. The chemist is reticent, his attention on something further down the Parade. Several of the other proprietors are seen to be looking out, down the Parade. Gilbert notices the painter’s boy coming past on his bike. Gilbert calls to him cheerily. The boy ignores him.

Outside Gilbert’s premises, parked back to back, are the painter’s handcart and Dr Swaby’s car. The painter comes out of the shop, carrying some of his gear to his cart. Seeing his porcelain foot and other paraphernalia piled on the pavement, Gilbert parks his bike at the kerb in front of Dr Swaby’s car and picks up the foot and carries it back to the surgery.

GILBERT (to painter) No. All this has to stay put.

The painter seems not to have heard him and locks the surgery premises.

No, don’t do that. I’ll lock up. Have you finished? You haven’t finished.

Gilbert is becoming confused.

LOCKWOOD (out of vision) I have to ask you for the keys to these premises.

Gilbert turns to find Lockwood peering at him, sitting in the car with Dr Swaby at the wheel. The painter has given Lockwood his keys and is going to his cart.

GILBERT (showing them) Keys? I’ve got keys. (Gilbert is lost.)

LOCKWOOD I know. (Leans across Dr Swaby and snatches them through the window.) I want them.

GILBERT Here. (He puts his porcelain foot on the bonnet.)

DR SWABY He’s put his foot on my bonnet.

LOCKWOOD You’re in breach of agreement. Failure to declare a change of use.

ALLARDYCE (in the back) You’re supposed to declare a change of use.

DR SWABY Take your foot off my bonnet.

Dr Swaby is closing the window.

GILBERT You knew. You knew what I wanted it for.

LOCKWOOD You need planning permission.

ALLARDYCE You could apply for planning permission.

GILBERT Who should I apply to?

DR SWABY Me.

Dr Swaby starts up the car and Gilbert hurriedly snatches his foot off the bonnet as the car suddenly moves off, running over his bicycle as it does so. Gilbert is aghast, and we see Allardyce’s anguished face looking back at him and his shattered bike as the car speeds off. In anger and frustration Gilbert kicks the pile of painter’s rubbish. Paint goes all over his trouser bottoms.

INT. HOTEL TEA LOUNGE. AFTERNOON.

A ladies’ orchestra is playing. In the background we see decorations being put up for the Royal Wedding Dinner. Photographs of the royal couple. Bunting. Flowers. Gilt chairs being carried through. These preparations intrude on Joyce and Mother, who are having tea.

JOYCE You see this is where I belong, Mother. Get me into a long dress and surround me with sophisticated people, I’d bloom. (Pats the parcel, sitting on Gilbert’s waiting chair.) This is just the beginning.

Mother takes an interest in the parcel and starts to unwrap it. The Hotel Manager takes note. He begins to hover.

Ham, eggs, stuff under the counter. It’ll come, you see.

MOTHER (seeing the parcel’s contents) It’s a bit of scrag end.

Mother starts to pick at it.

HOTEL MANAGER Excuse me, madam. Patrons are not permitted to consume their own food on the premises.

Joyce is deeply humiliated. At which point Gilbert staggers in and threads his way through the tables with his pot foot, his paraphernalia and his paint-stained trousers.

JOYCE Gilbert. Are you deliberately trying to humiliate me?

GILBERT I’ve got something that will humiliate you more.

The orchestra strikes up, drowning their conversation, but we see Joyce hear Gilbert’s bad news.

JOYCE This town. These people. They’re going to have to be made to sit up and take notice. They’re going to have to be made to realise who we are. My father had a chain of dry, cleaners. We regularly used to drink wine with the meal, as Mother well knows. Telling us what we can and can’t do. My father wore a carnation in his buttonhole every day of his life. Lend me threepence.

Gilbert gives her a threepenny bit, which she pushes towards the unimpressed waitress as a tip. Joyce leading, they begin to thread their way out.

I want a future that will live up to my past. Only when’s it going to start? That’s what I want to know.

MOTHER (stopping by a table) These are having cream cakes.

INT. HOTEL LOBBY. DAY.

On their way out, Joyce and Mother spot the menu for the Royal Wedding Dinner, which is posted in the lobby.

JOYCE (reading out the menu) Melon surprise. Moules niçoise. Porc royale… It breaks your heart.

GILBERT Listen, I’ve had just about enough. If you want roast pork we can have roast pork. We can have it next Sunday if you want it. And the Sunday after that. And the Monday. And the Tuesday. We can have pork till you’re blue in the face. You could be fed up of pork. Porc royale! (Tears down the menu and turns to Mother.) And you. You can have bacon, ham, sausage, pork pies. Tripe. Pig’s feet. Liver. Kidneys. You can pig yourself on pork if you want. Come on.

JOYCE Take no notice, Mother. He’s just out to torment you.

GILBERT I mean it. We could. We can.

JOYCE How? How?

Gilbert is already starting to regret what he’s said.

GILBERT Steal a pig.

A delivery boy struggles in with more decorations for the Royal Wedding Dinner.

JOYCE What did you say?

GILBERT Nothing, let’s go.

JOYCE Steal a pig?

They make their way out against yet more decorations coming in.

INT. CHILVERS’ SITTING ROOM. AFTERNOON.

Joyce is taking another pupil, Mervin, through his faltering exercises. Mother is sitting cracking nuts, an activity Joyce finds distracting.

JOYCE You’ve dropped a bit, Mother.

A banging starts elsewhere in the house and a pained expression crosses Joyce’s face. Life is not as she would like it to be.

INT. CHILVERS’ HALL. AFTERNOON.

Veronica is watching Gilbert redecorate the spare room, which he is having to make into his ‘surgery’. Putting down the hammer, he takes up his paintbrush again. Joyce lets Mervin out of the living room and he goes to the door.

JOYCE Haven’t we forgotten something, Mervin?

MERVIN Oh, sorry, miss.

JOYCE Mrs.

Opening his hand, he gives Joyce her five shillings fee. She looks pained and humiliated. He then leaves.

Go on in and start your piece, Veronica.

Veronica sullenly complies, regarding Mother eating her nuts with distaste. As the familiar piece begins, Joyce finds herself looking in the mirror in the spare room.

Good job I put my foot down about children.

Gilbert is puzzled.

GILBERT Why bring that up?

JOYCE Well, we wouldn’t have had the room, would we?

The look on Gilbert’s face makes it plain he would have preferred children to the room.

(contemptuously) Steal a pig! It’s not as if there are pigs to steal. If there were pigs to steal butchers would be stealing them.

Gilbert says nothing.

It’s you all over. All talk. Promises. You were going to take this town, Gilbert.

GILBERT Listen. This morning I went up to Sutcliffs’ farm.

Veronica stops playing. Gilbert looks up sharply. His manner gives Joyce cause for thought.

JOYCE (calling) Da capo, Veronica. And a little more mezzo forte. As Joyce closes the door lest they be overheard, Gilbert starts telling Joyce what he has seen in the woods by Sutcliffs’ farm.

INT. GILBERT’S AND JOYCE’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Gilbert lies in bed, watching Joyce at her dressing table.

GILBERT It’s all a bit clandestine for me, Joyce.

JOYCE Whose pig is it?

GILBERT I don’t know. It’ll belong to them at the farm.

Joyce goes into the bathroom, where we see her preparing her contraceptive device, an antiquated douche with a rubber tube. Gilbert is unable to see these preparations.

(to himself) I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. (shouting to Joyce) It’s illegal.

JOYCE (shouting from bathroom) It wouldn’t be illegal. Why is it illegal? A black-market pig’s illegal.

GILBERT I wish I’d never mentioned it. Anyway, we’ve no means of transport.

JOYCE We’ve got the car.

GILBERT It’s on blocks.

JOYCE Get it off the blocks.

GILBERT And put a pig in it? ‘No crumbs in the car, Gilbert.’ ‘No cake on the seat.’ A pig in the car!

JOYCE I could put a paper down. This is an emergency.

GILBERT Let’s sleep on it.

Joyce brings the douche into the bedroom.

GILBERT (alarmed) What’s put this into your head all of a sudden? Tomorrow’s a working day.

INT. ‘STY’, DAY.

The pig is lying in its stall, not very well. Dr Swaby, Lockwood and Allardyce are looking at her anxiously. The pig farts.

EXT. SUTCLIFFS’ FARMYARD. DAY.

Sutcliff, Preston and Nuttall are coming out of the farmhouse and making for the sty.

NUTTALL (to Preston) Do you know how to do it?

PRESTON I’ve done it before.

SUTCLIFF And a right mess you made of it.

PRESTON I want to be there.

SUTCLIFF You can watch. Only it’s not going to be stuck today. We’ll have to wait till it’s better. Them rats wouldn’t have upset it, would they, Preston?

PRESTON No. It’s had rats before.

SUTCLIFF It’s what I say. Rhubarb leaves always mean the squits. You should know that, Preston.

INT./EXT. ‘STY’/WOODS. DAY.

Sutcliff, Preston and Nuttall crowd into the back of the old van, with Allardyce, Dr Swaby and Lockwood.

SUTCLIFF Rhubarb leaves.

PRESTON I knew it wasn’t the rats.

ALLARDYCE Rats! You’ve never been giving her rats?

SUTCLIFF No. Scraps.

ALLARDYCE Could you not give her something, Charles? You’re the doctor.

DR SWABY Thank you. This is a pig not a person. You want a vet.

ALLARDYCE The principle must be the same.

DR SWABY How would you know?

LOCKWOOD Take a bit of weight off her. Diarrhoea always does.

DR SWABY Oh, are you a doctor now?

LOCKWOOD I am not a doctor, Charles, but my wife has two topics of conversation. One is the Royal Family and the other is her bowels.

The pig farts again and they stagger back at the sheer horror of the stench.

PRESTON Why not kill it now?

ALLARDYCE No.

NUTTALL I’m not having this joker in my fridge a minute longer than I have to. I’ve fetched up my tackle. I’ll kill it in a day or two.

DR SWABY The dinner’s on Thursday.

SUTCLIFF I still haven’t had my invite.

DR SWABY Blame Henry.

SUTCLIFF I’m taking such a risk.

DR SWABY (giving him an envelope) Not for much longer.

ALLARDYCE There! She’s stood up.

INT. CHILVERS’ GARAGE. EVENING.

Gilbert is putting the wheels back on his car. While Mother squats by a rear wheel with a kerosene lamp, Gilbert is straining to tighten a nut. There are newspapers on the back seat and Joyce can be seen intermittently through the far window as she pumps up the other rear tyre with a hand pump. Gilbert stumbles as he moves to the back of the garage.

GILBERT Over here.

Mother, still crouched at the rear wheel, comes over with the torch to help Gilbert, who ferrets out a can of petrol that he has hidden.

This was going to take us to Scarborough.

JOYCE (as she pumps up the tyre) Scarborough! It’ll take us further than Scarborough. It’ll take us to the top in this town, will this. They’ll be lining up, wanting to get to know us then. Dr Swaby. Mr Allardyce. Oh yes. And I’ll give them cocktails and we’ll nibble at those refined little sausages before going in to a sumptuous meal. It’s not just pork. It’s power.

GILBERT (pouring the petrol in) Leave off, Joyce.

MOTHER Sausage. Have you been having sausage?

GILBERT (crossly) Hold it up.

JOYCE She used to be such a grand woman.

INT. MRS FORBES’S HALL. NIGHT.

Mrs Forbes is listening at a door. She knocks and goes in.

MRS FORBES Mr Wormold, what are you doing, sitting in the dark? (Switches the light on.) Put the fire on.

WORMOLD We’ve been asked to save power.

She collects a teacup and a side plate.

MRS FORBES You are a model, Mr Wormold. Will Mr Barraclough go to prison?

There is a silence.

I wouldn’t do it for anybody else.

WORMOLD You believe in my mission, Mrs Forbes. No news of Mr Forbes?

MRS FORBES No, Mr Wormold. (Crouches down by his chair and puts the fire on.) Stop in tonight.

WORMOLD I must catch the killer. The man who butchers the pigs.

MRS FORBES He doesn’t have to be a butcher?

WORMOLD Who knows?

Wormold shakes his head. Mrs Forbes is not getting up.

What?

MRS FORBES You’ve not been crying?

INT. CHILVERS’ KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Gilbert is getting ready to go out. Joyce is holding some newspapers. Mother can be seen asleep in the sitting room.

GILBERT (indicating Mother) You’d better get her out of the way.

Joyce goes to her and shakes her.

JOYCE Wake up, Mother. It’s time you were in bed.

Gilbert is putting together a parcel of tasty scraps. Coming in, Mother tries to pinch one. It is Joyce who stops her.

No, Mother. Naughty.

She slaps her hand. Mother frowns.

Goodbye. Good luck.

She kisses Gilbert passionately. He isn’t so keen on the kissing as she is and is groping behind him for his torch.

MOTHER When did you start all this kissing?

Gilbert takes the torch and goes out the back door. Joyce runs to the door.

JOYCE (whispered) Gilbert.

GILBERT (out of vision) What?

JOYCE I hope it’s a clean one.

She then takes the newspapers and considers where to put them. She wanders out of the kitchen. We follow her into the hall and into Gilbert’s newly decorated ‘surgery’. Having considered it for a moment she starts to put the newspapers down on the floor.

MOTHER (in doorway) Is the sweep coming?

INT. SUTCLIFFS’ SITTING ROOM. NIGHT.

They are sitting round, very torpid, listening expressionlessly to the radio. A comedy programme. Gales of laughter from the radio. None from the Sutcliffs. Sutcliff gets up and winds the clock.

SUTCLIFF Did you ought to go see how that pig is going on, Preston?

Preston doesn’t make an immediate move.

MRS SUTCLIFF I miss the war.

Pause.

SUTCLIFF Come on, Preston. You reckon to be i/c pig.

Preston slowly begins to get himself together.

INT./EXT. ‘STY’/WOODS. NIGHT.

Gilbert comes up the steps and through the back door, into the old van.

GILBERT Hello, sunshine. Hello, pig. Pooh, you stink, pig.

He is shining the light of the torch on the pig. He pulls up the front of the stall. The pig watches this and snuffles.

We’re going to go for a little walk.

Sensing the scraps in the parcel, the pig comes forward out of the stall, grunting.

Shsh. Here, here.

Gilbert stumbles down out of the back of the van, throwing down scraps for the pig, who gobbles them up. Gracefully the pig comes down the steps. Out of her sty, the pig sniffs the air and looks as if she is going to wander. To Gilbert’s relief the pig finds another scrap and snuffles it up. She begins to thread her way through the trees after Gilbert’s trail of scraps.

INT. SUTCLIFFS’ KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Preston comes through from the sitting room. He becomes furtive and shuts the door behind him. He gets out Nuttall’s killing tackle. Taking the pig-sticker, he puts his boots on and then, collecting a torch, goes out, leaving the door open.

EXT. NARROW BANKED ROAD. NIGHT.

Gilbert is panicking. The pig is standing on the top of the bank, eating scraps from Gilbert’s hand but refusing to come down for the pile of scraps Gilbert has on the back seat of his car. A torch flashes in the woods. Preston is going to the ‘sty’. Gilbert gets into the car, he’s off. The pig sniffs the air. She turns her head looking back, watching Preston. Snuffling, the pig comes down the bank and climbs into the back of the car. Gilbert reaches out and shuts the door as he lets his handbrake off and rolls away.

INT. SUTCLIFFS’ KITCHEN. NIGHT.

The door is open. The cold is coming in.

SUTCLIFF (out of vision) Preston! Preston!

Sutcliff is seen as he crossly opens the sitting-room door. Mrs Sutcliff is seen sitting beyond him.

MRS SUTCLIFF I don’t wonder he failed the Sea Scouts.

Sutcliff goes to close the kitchen door, when Preston bursts in. He flings the pig-sticker down on the table, where it sticks quivering. Sutcliff looks at him in wild surmise.

That’s my table.

INT./EXT. GILBERT’S CAR/OPEN COUNTRY. NIGHT.

Gilbert still has the hill with him and is rolling down without the engine. The pig is sitting on the back seat, very much enjoying the ride. The mood is triumphant.

INT. GILBERT’S SURGERY. NIGHT.

Joyce sits staring. Gilbert also staring. They are almost mesmerised.

JOYCE It’s off its paper, Gilbert. It’s off its paper.

GILBERT It won’t know to stay on it.

JOYCE Fetch some more papers then.

Gilbert goes, still watching the pig. It looks cheerfully back at him. (calling, panic-stricken) Gilbert! Quick. It’s doing its business. Gilbert returns and watches the pig, which we do not see, with distaste.

GILBERT It’ll be nervous. (Catches a whiff of the smell.) Jesus!

He opens the door. She shuts it.

JOYCE I don’t want her next door smelling it.

They stare at it again. Joyce puts a cloth to her face.

I can’t stand this. You’d better do it now.

GILBERT Do What?

JOYCE Kill it. Look at the floor.

GILBERT My nice clean surgery. I’d imagined it in the kitchen.

JOYCE I hadn’t.

GILBERT I keep wanting to call it something. A name.

JOYCE Why? You’re going to kill it, Gilbert. You’re going to slit its throat.

GILBERT Couldn’t you get fond of it?

JOYCE I couldn’t, wetting all up and down.

GILBERT Your mother does.

JOYCE I didn’t hear that, Gilbert. I can’t stand this. Look at the floor. I was quite right not to want kiddies if this is what it’s like. Kill it, Gilbert.

GILBERT I’ve never killed anything in my life.

JOYCE You should’ve thought of that.

GILBERT Whose idea was it?

JOYCE Yours. Who did you think was going to kill it?

GILBERT I thought I could ask somebody.

JOYCE Ask somebody? Ask somebody? This is a crime.

GILBERT What do I do it with?

JOYCE One of your feet knives. They’re precision tools.

GILBERT Not for pigs.

JOYCE It’s got hard skin. I thought you were an expert when it came to hard skin.

Gilbert shakes his head and goes up to the pig. It nuzzles his shoes.

Listen, Gilbert Chilvers, this country has just emerged from a second world war, a war in which millions of people died, most of them killed by their fellow men.

GILBERT Not with chiropodist’s tools.

JOYCE It’s not the tools. It’s the will. It’s doing its business again. Trust you to pick one with diarrhoea.

GILBERT A strange place. Strange people. You can understand it. We ought to let it settle down.

JOYCE Settle down? Kill it.

She thrusts a knife into his hand and goes out. Gilbert strokes the pig.

GILBERT With this? (It is a very small knife.) How?

INT. CHILVERS’ LANDING. NIGHT.

Joyce is spraying scent about from an old-fashioned scent spray. Mother appears in her nightie.

MOTHER Joyce.

JOYCE What?

MOTHER Can you smell a smell? I can smell a smell.

JOYCE (continuing to squirt) There’s no smell, Mother. You’re imagining it.

MOTHER I wondered if it was me.

Gilbert comes upstairs.

GILBERT I can’t do it.

MOTHER (as Gilbert passes) It’s him. He smells, Joyce.

JOYCE He doesn’t smell, Mother. Go to bed.

Mother goes to bed, unconvinced.

MOTHER He does smell, Joyce.

Something is knocked over downstairs.

INT. CHILVERS’ HALL. NIGHT.

Joyce and Gilbert come quickly down the stairs. They find the surgery door ajar.

JOYCE Oh my God.

There is a noise. They look to the sitting room. The door is ajar.

INT. CHILVERS’ SITTING ROOM. NIGHT.

Joyce and Gilbert appear in the doorway, watching aghast. The pig is eating fruit out of a bowl on the dining-room table.

JOYCE That bowl was a wedding present.

GILBERT It’s not to know that.

The pig runs into the kitchen, followed by Gilbert.

INT. CHILVERS’ KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Gilbert shuts the door carefully. Then Joyce opens it a fraction and slips through with a cloth.

JOYCE Another parcel in the umbrella stand.

Joyce goes to wring the cloth out in the sink. Her eye catches the gas oven.

Maybe we could put it to sleep.

She takes a bowl of food from the larder and puts it into the gas oven.

INT. MOTHER’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Mother sits on her bed. She sniffs the air. After a moment’s thought she sniffs herself.

INT. CHILVERS’ SITTING ROOM. NIGHT.

Gilbert and Joyce are waiting outside the kitchen door. We see the crack beneath the door has been stuffed up. Joyce listens at the door.

MOTHER (out of vision) Joyce.

JOYCE What?

MOTHER (out of vision) I think it’s gas.

JOYCE No.

MOTHER (out of vision) I can smell gas.

GILBERT Go to bed.

JOYCE It’s past your bedtime.

Suddenly there is a ring at the front door.

INT. CHILVERS’ HALL. NIGHT.

Mother, standing at the top of the stairs, watches Joyce go to the door. Joyce seems unaware of Mother.

MRS TURNBULL Mr Turnbull thought he could smell gas.

JOYCE It’s Mother. She switched it on and never lit it. She’s getting like that.

MRS TURNBULL So long as we know.

She is going away but turns back and tries to peer round the door.

You can’t smell something besides? I don’t know. A bit of a sickly smell.

Joyce nods, closing the door.

JOYCE It’s Mother again. She had a bit of a do with her tummy. She keeps bringing stuff back.

Mrs Turnbull spies Mother’s feet at the top of the stairs and crouches down to see her.

MRS TURNBULL Bless her.

Joyce closes the door, her face like an axe. Gilbert is looking through to her from the kitchen door on the far side of the sitting room.

JOYCE Did it go off?

As if in answer the pig pokes its cheerful head round the kitchen door. Seeing Joyce, it makes towards her. Joyce violenly indicates Mother’s presence to Gilbert.

Gilbert turns the gas off, vaults the furniture and just beats the pig to the hall, shutting it in the sitting room and out of Mother’s sight. Joyce sits on the steps in despair.

Could we poison it?

GILBERT If we poison it we can’t eat it.

In thought, Gilbert looks up. Mother hovers on the landing.

(looking down to Joyce) We’re going to have to take professional advice.

MOTHER What about? Me? Joyce.

JOYCE What?

MOTHER Don’t go calling Dr Swaby. He’ll put me away.

JOYCE We’re going to have to tell her.

Gilbert makes a gesture of despair.

Come down, Mother.

MOTHER You just told me to go to bed.

JOYCE Come down.

MOTHER I can still smell that smell.

JOYCE Never mind the smell, Mother. Sit down.

MOTHER Are you sure it’s not me?

JOYCE No, Mother, love, it’s not you.

Gilbert listens to the sitting-room door.

Mother. Love. I’ve got something to tell you. We’ve got a pig in the house.

Not sure her daughter isn’t being sarcastic, Mother’s gaze flickers to Gilbert. Mother says nothing.

Do you understand, Mother? A pig.

Mother looks at Gilbert again, fearfully.

MOTHER What sort of a pig?

JOYCE A pig, Mother. A proper pig.

Mother is silent.

MOTHER Do you want to put me in a home?

Gilbert gestures in despair.

JOYCE Shut Up.

GILBERT I didn’t say anything.

Mother begins to cry.

MOTHER Dr Swaby put Mrs Beevers away. He asked her the name of the prime minister, she didn’t know and they carted her off to Low Moor. You want my room.

GILBERT We don’t want your room. Why does saying we’ve got a pig in the house mean we want your room?

JOYCE (crisply) Leave this to me, please, Gilbert. This is my mother. It’s not like Mrs Beevers, love. Mrs Beevers imagined things. That’s why Dr Swaby sent her away. You don’t imagine things. It’s just that we’ve got a pig in the house.

GILBERT It’s so’s if you catch a glimpse of it you won’t think you’re going bananas. (muttering to Joyce) Though she is going bananas.

JOYCE (hissing) She wouldn’t think she was going bananas, love, if you pulled your socks up and cut its throat.

MOTHER What’s this bananas? I could eat a banana.

GILBERT There are no bananas. There is a pig. There are no bananas.

JOYCE Gilbert! Love, forget the bananas. There aren’t any bananas, but there is a pig.

GILBERT Only tell her, if anybody comes round there isn’t a pig.

JOYCE Yes, that’s right, love. If anybody should call, there isn’t a pig. With us, a pig. Anybody else, no pig.

MOTHER Who’s going to come? Is it Dr Swaby? He came to Mrs Beevers.

JOYCE Nobody’s going to come, Dr Swaby, nobody. But if anybody does come, no pig.

MOTHER He told her she was going to Bridlington. She ended up in Low Moor. It was her house.

JOYCE Nobody is going to put you in Low Moor, Dr Swaby or anybody. We love you, Mother. We wouldn’t put you away. It’s just we’re in the slightly unusual situation where there is a pig in the house.

GILBERT Show her it.

JOYCE I won’t show her it. She’s seventy-four, and it’s past her bedtime. Go to bed, love. With luck – (looks meaningfully at Gilbert) – in the morning all this will seem like a bad dream.

Mother goes slowly upstairs, accompanied by Joyce.

Gilbert peers in through the sitting-room door. He grimaces. Below, the pig thrusts its snout out. It shoulders aside Gilbert and the door and comes out, heading for the stairs. Gilbert heads it off, shepherds it into the surgery and shuts it in.

INT. CHILVERS’ LANDING. NIGHT.

Gilbert, ready for bed in his dressing gown, tries the bedroom door. It’s locked.

GILBERT Joyce. Joyce.

JOYCE (out of vision) Have you done it?

Gilbert goes downstairs.

INT. GILBERT’S SURGERY. NIGHT.

Gilbert sits in his dressing gown with the smiling pig.

INT. HOTEL FUNCTION ROOM. AFTERNOON.

ALLARDYCE Betty. Betty. Betty.

LOCKWOOD We’re going to look that silly.

DR SWABY Silly? We’re finished.

LOCKWOOD We’ve put a lot of money into that pig, Howard.

INSPECTOR NOBLE It’s my understanding it doesn’t exist.

DR SWABY You’ll wish it existed on Thursday, when you’re sitting down to a scrutty bit of lettuce and tomato.

INSPECTOR NOBLE Why can’t he slaughter one of his other pigs?

DR SWABY Because the other pigs are all licensed and listed, stupid!

INSPECTOR NOBLE Steady, Charles, I’m still a police officer.

LOCKWOOD You’re not behaving like one.

INSPECTOR NOBLE I’ll sniff around.

LOCKWOOD Sniff around. It’ll be the other side of the Pennines by now, sold to the Jewboys in Manchester.

INSPECTOR NOBLE Pork?

DR SWABY Pork, nylons, anything. I don’t know what the last war was about.

INT. GILBERT’S SURGERY. AFTERNOON.

In an open book, we see stark photographs of cuts, joints of pork. The pig sits pleasantly, watching Joyce and Gilbert study the book.

JOYCE (toying with large knife) How to kill them, that’s what we want. Does it say?

GILBERT It doesn’t say.

JOYCE Let me look.

As Joyce flicks through the book, Gilbert glances at the pig. It catches and returns his look warmly.

It doesn’t say. You’ll just have to improvise.

She puts the knife in his hand. A loud knock at the front door startles them. Gilbert attempts to hide the large knife on his person while Joyce quickly gathers up the book.

EXT. CHILVERS’ FRONT DOOR. AFTERNOON.

Veronica has arrived for her piano lesson. As she waits for the door to be opened Wormold comes up, with his attaché case. The door is opened by Mother. She looks from one to the other.

MOTHER No pig. No pig.

Mother looks again at the man with the attaché case. Has he come to commit her? She cowers back. Joyce, then Gilbert, appear anxiously behind her.

JOYCE Come in, Veronica. (mouthing to Wormold) She’s seventy-four.

GILBERT (behind Joyce and Mother) Come in, Mr Wormold.

INT. CHILVERS’ SITTING ROOM. AFTERNOON.

Veronica is doing her piece, with Joyce standing, partially blocking our view, at the end of the piano.

VERONICA Your house smells. Our house doesn’t smell. Poor people smell.

Joyce looks back over her shoulder to Wormold, who is sitting in an armchair having his feet done.

JOYCE It’s Mother. She’s getting a bit careless.

WORMOLD I can’t smell anything. But then I can’t smell anything. German measles.

GILBERT You have perfect feet. I don’t know why you come.

Wormold looks round, looks at Gilbert’s knives, but says nothing.

INT. CHILVERS’ HALL. AFTERNOON.

Mother listens at the sitting-room door, which is open a crack.

MOTHER No pig.

There is a grunt behind her from the surgery. She sneaks a look in. The pig gets out, crosses the hall and goes into the sitting room. Mother follows it.

INT. CHILVERS’ SITTING ROOM. AFTERNOON.

MOTHER No pig.

They look up at her. Seemingly unnoticed, the pig wanders through.

VERONICA There’s a pig! There’s a pig!

Looking to Veronica, Wormold is about to see the pig that is passing behind his chair. Gilbert sticks his knife into Wormold’s foot.

GILBERT Sorry.

The pig disappears into the kitchen. Mother follows.

VERONICA A pig!

JOYCE Pigs here? Don’t be silly. The idea!

A rigid hand on Veronica’s shoulder forces her back to the keyboard. Da capo, Veronica. Come on, da capo.

It has been a narrow squeak.

INT. CHILVERS’ LANDING. EVENING.

Mother is standing thoughtfully, with her hand on the knob of her bedroom door. She opens it and looks in. The pig is sitting on her eiderdown looking out of the window. The front door bangs downstairs. Mother and the pig look out and watch Wormold going away down the path. Then he stops and looks back.

INT. CHILVERS’ HALL. EVENING.

GILBERT Do you think he noticed anything?

There is a ring at the doorbell. Gilbert opens the door. Wormold stands there.

WORMOLD Thought so.

Gilbert and Joyce don’t move. Wormold steps in, takes his attaché case from the hall stand, waves it and leaves. Joyce shuts the door.

GILBERT There must be easier ways of getting roast pork than this.

At the top of the stairs. Mother and the pig look out from her bedroom.

JOYCE It’s got beyond roast pork now, Gilbert. It’s self-respect.

GILBERT Joyce.

JOYCE Our marriage is in a corner. I want to push down the walls. Open out. Take your clothes off.

GILBERT (startled) What?

JOYCE There’ll be blood. Strip.

She helps him strip down to his underpants and socks, Gilbert occasionally murmuring in protest.

GILBERT But she’s my friend.

JOYCE Kill her. (Puts the large knife in his hand.) Kill your friend.

She pushes him upstairs. Mother and the pig disappear into her bedroom. Gilbert goes in after them. The pig runs out. Gilbert follows. They come down the stairs. Joyce heads them into the surgery. Grabbing Gilbert, she kisses him deeply.

Do it for me.

Pushing him into the surgery, she closes the door behind him.

INT. GILBERT’S SURGERY. EVENING.

Gilbert advances on the pig with the large knife in one hand and now a small knife in the other. The pig gives him a look of pure love.

INT. CHILVERS’ HALL. EVENING.

Joyce waits, listening and breathing hard. Suddenly terrific scuffling and screaming is heard from the surgery. Then quiet. The door opens slowly.

GILBERT (shattered and bloody) Joyce.

JOYCE Oh my darling.

GILBERT I’ve cut my finger.

The pig, still very much alive, pushes its head round the door. Joyce thrusts Gilbert away.

JOYCE Coward! Yellow! You’re yellow, Gilbert Chilvers.

GILBERT Joyce.

JOYCE A pathetic cringing nancy. Don’t touch me … nancy!

Gilbert is dressing.

Where are you going?

GILBERT For a drink. I’m going to have a drink, then I’ll be able to do it.

JOYCE You won’t, I should have married a man.

GILBERT I will. I promise.

JOYCE Nancy!

Gilbert rushes out. Joyce looks at the pig, then purposefully puts on an apron. She gets the knife and begins to move in on the pig.

INT. HOTEL FUNCTION ROOM/KITCHEN. NIGHT.

The preparations for the Royal Wedding Dinner, which we observed earlier, are now nearly complete. Three or four tables run the length of the room, one running across the top. Floral decorations are being prepared. Portraits of Princess Elizabeth and Lieutenant Mountbatten being put into position. We track through this to the kitchen. Where we find Dr Swaby, Lockwood, Inspector Noble and Nuttall sitting around despondently, holding a council of war.

LOCKWOOD A hundred and fifty people. A hundred and fifty people. (He opens a bare cupboard.)

INSPECTOR NOBLE It’ll be in the papers, of course. They’ll jump on it. ‘Leading Lights in Dinner Fiasco.’

Lockwood opens another cupboard. The same.

DR SWABY Of course it’s practical socialism. That’s what it’s going to be like now. What’s yours is mine. Excuse me while I help myself. I’d have them bastinadoed. I’d flay them alive.

LOCKWOOD What about some tinned salmon?

DR SWABY Tinned salmon? Tinned salmon? I’ve got the North Western Area President of the Prudential Building Society coming. You don’t offer Arthur Cunliffe tinned salmon.

INSPECTOR NOBLE ‘Civic Row Over Paltry Fare.’

NUTTALL I’ve been trying to put my hands on a few chickens. (Shakes his head.) People I’ve dealt with for years.

DR SWABY Well, I’m not surprised. Not surprised at all. God, it’s a nasty piss-stained little country now, is this. It’s like this new Health Service. Do you realise that any little poorly pillock is henceforth going to be able to knock on my door and say, ‘I’m ill. Treat me.’ Anybody! Me!

The hotel manager comes in.

HOTEL MANAGER I can put my hands on two turkeys in Bradford.

LOCKWOOD Two? Two? We’ve got a hundred and fifty people coming, and Jesus isn’t one of them.

DR SWABY Two turkeys in Bradford. Five years of war and that’s what it’s come to: two turkeys in Bradford.

HOTEL MANAGER Well, do you want them or don’t you? I’ve got him on the phone.

Nuttall, Lockwood, Dr Swaby and Inspector Noble get up and go with the hotel manager. They see Gilbert sitting at the bar.

DR SWABY We’re finished, you and me, Lockwood. That’s what’s coming to the top. The scum. No class. No breeding. No morals.

INSPECTOR NOBLE No pig.

DR SWABY I give this country five years.

INT. ALLARDYCES’ SITTING ROOM. NIGHT.

Veronica can be heard practising her piece. Allardyce sits in his chair, very glum, the newspaper on his knee. Mrs Allardyce, without speaking to him, removes the paper and ostentatiously reads about tomorrow’s royal wedding. The piano stops. Veronica comes in and sits on the arm of her mother’s chair. She regards poor Mr Allardyce with some hostility.

VERONICA It smells at piano.

MRS ALLARDYCE Well, they don’t have as much money as we do.

VERONICA They’ve got a pig.

MRS ALLARDYCE (looking at Henry dozing) They’re not the only ones.

VERONICA I saw it. Walking about the house.

MRS ALLARDYCE Don’t tell stories, or you’ll get a big nose. Bedtime.

VERONICA Shall I kiss Daddy?

MRS ALLARDYCE Please yourself.

Veronica decides she won’t and goes out with Mrs Allardyce.

VERONICA (out of vision) I did see a pig. It was all stinky.

Allardyce is roused from his doze. He sits for a while thinking. Then gets up and goes to the foot of the stairs.

ALLARDYCE (calling) Veronica?

INT. CHILVERS’ LANDING. NIGHT.

Joyce is face to face with the pig. She makes a grab for it. She misses. It runs into the bathroom.

MOTHER Joyce. I want to use the toilet.

JOYCE You can’t. Go somewhere else.

MOTHER Where?

JOYCE Anywhere.

She is cornering the pig in the bathroom, but it knocks her aside and runs out. Joyce rests, exhausted.

MOTHER Joyce. Why don’t we leave him and the pig and just go to Grange-over-Sands and live?

JOYCE It’s too late for Grange-over-Sands, Mother.

She begins to stalk the pig again.

INT. ALLARDYCES’ DINING ROOM. NIGHT.

Mrs Allardyce sits waiting at the dinner table. Two plates set.

Allardyce’s plate is laden, but he is not there. Mrs Allardyce sighs. Eyes the food.

MRS ALLARDYCE I’m waiting.

Looking cross, she starts to help herself. Allardyce enters, transformed. He is carrying a newspaper. He scrapes his dinner on to the paper. Then takes some of the contents of a tureen.

Henry!

As an afterthought Allardyce turns back and scrapes Mrs Allardyce’s dinner onto the paper too. He wraps it all up and rushes out.

INT. HOTEL BAR. NIGHT.

Gilbert drinks in sad determination.

EXT. HOTEL. NIGHT.

Allardyce rushes into the hotel with his parcel. But someone is watching the hotel from a car. It is Wormold.

INT. HOTEL BAR. NIGHT.

Gilbert is struggling with another drink. In the background, Allardyce is seen to go into the function room. Gilbert gags on the drink he is forcing down. Recovering, he finds Inspector Noble at his side, with Nuttall at the other side.

INSPECTOR NOBLE Drink?

GILBERT Me?

INSPECTOR NOBLE My birthday this year.

GILBERT No. I’m due back.

Nuttall sniffs Gilbert’s clothes. Noble also does so.

INSPECTOR NOBLE Been round the farms?

GILBERT Farms?

INSPECTOR NOBLE You smell a bit rustic.

NUTTALL Pigs, I’d have said.

GILBERT Got to go to the toilet.

He gets up and goes towards the Gents.

INT. HOTEL GENTS. NIGHT.

There are six stalls in the lavatory. The end one is occupied and as Gilbert comes in we see the man glance at Gilbert. Suddenly Gilbert is conscious of someone on either side of him, also pissing. It is Inspector Noble and Nuttall. He doesn’t say anything. Then Dr Swaby comes in and stands in a stall and so does Lockwood. Allardyce tries to, but there is no room for him, so he hangs about behind. From his agitated demeanour he is plainly the only one who actually wants a piss.

LOCKWOOD How much do you want?

GILBERT Beg pardon?

DR SWABY You’ve got something we want. Something that belongs to us. Something with four legs and a little curly tail.

INSPECTOR NOBLE Shall we adjourn?

They are all leaving.

ALLARDYCE (stepping into a stall) Hang on. I haven’t been.

Allardyce steps into a stall, thankful at last to be able to relieve himself. But the man in the end stall now sidles up and stands in the stall next to him. A look of consternation comes over Allardyce’s face and he rapidly buttons up and leaves, still not having managed to empty his bladder.

INT./EXT. WORMOLD’S CAR/HOTEL. NIGHT.

Wormold studies the men as they come out of the hotel. He becomes agitated – Nuttall is not among them. Then Nuttall does come out. As he sets off in his van, Wormold follows.

INT. CHILVERS’ HALL. NIGHT.

Gilbert opens the door.

GILBERT (going into sitting room) Come in.

They follow him in, Mother watching them pass from behind the door.

MOTHER No pig. No pig.

Seeing Dr Swaby, Mother claps her hands to her face in horror.

INT. CHILVERS’ SITTING ROOM. NIGHT.

GILBERT I’ll just get my wife.

DR SWABY We don’t want your wife. We want the pig.

MOTHER There is no pig. No pig.

Gilbert goes.

I know the name of the prime minister. I know what year it is. I’ve been going to beetle drives till quite recently.

INT. JOYCE’S AND GILBERT’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Joyce, knife in hand, is crouched by the dressing table. Gilbert comes in.

JOYCE Don’t move. I’ve got it cornered.

GILBERT Stop. You can’t.

JOYCE Out of my way, nancy!

GILBERT Dr Swaby’s downstairs. Mr Lockwood.

JOYCE Downstairs? But I’m not dressed.

GILBERT It’s their pig. We stole their pig.

JOYCE (stunned, large knife in hand) Their pig?

GILBERT We stole their pig.

JOYCE We? You. Get me my dress.

The bedroom door is pushed open as we hear Allardyce’s voice.

ALLARDYCE (out of vision, enticingly) Betty. Who’s this then, Betty?

Round the door comes his hand holding a ginger nut biscuit. Joyce can only stare. The pig appears from behind the dressing table and makes a beeline for the ginger nut.

INT. CHILVERS’ SITTING ROOM. NIGHT.

GILBERT I wasn’t to know.

INSPECTOR NOBLE It was theft. Whoever it belonged to, it was theft.

DR SWABY You’re a professional man. You’ve got letters after your name.

GILBERT We were hungry.

LOCKWOOD Hungry? People aren’t hungry. Who’s hungry? Who’s your butcher?

Nuttall is peeping out through a crack in the curtains.

NUTTALL I can’t satisfy everybody.

Allardyce comes in. The pig follows him.

ALLARDYCE She’s in very good condition. Did she have a bit of a tummy upset?

GILBERT (wearily) Yes.

INSPECTOR NOBLE The important thing is the property has been recovered, the status quo has been restored. You are happy, the police are happy … it’s all been a big mistake.

DR SWABY Mistake! I want this man crucified.

Inspector Noble takes Dr Swaby on one side.

INSPECTOR NOBLE You crucify him, Wormold crucifies you.

LOCKWOOD He’s got us by the scrotum.

ALLARDYCE Did she take to you? I found her very affectionate.

GILBERT I did too.

DR SWABY Henry! (to Gilbert) Listen, you tapeworm. You’ve been found out in a nasty, cheap little crime. I’d like to see you put away for a long time. I’d like to see you drummed out of whatever miserable association you chiropodists belong to and hounded out of this town with your tail between your legs. However, in Westminster Abbey tomorrow morning a young couple are getting married, of a purity and a nobility scum like you just can’t comprehend. As a gesture to them we’re going to say nothing about this, but take a tip from me. Leave this town. We don’t want you. (turning to the others) Now let’s get the pig and get out of here.

NUTTALL We can’t. We’re being watched.

At which point Joyce comes in, looking like Greta Gynt, in her cocktail dress, with a corsage, a trolley of drinks and a tray of cocktail snacks.

JOYCE Dr Swaby, Mr Lockwood, Mr Allardyce! And Inspector Noble. This is an unexpected pleasure. I gather there’s been some silly, silly, misunderstanding over this … this animal. Well, we’re all civilised people and I’m sure we can talk it over. Give Dr Swaby a cocktail snack, Mother.

She looks round for Mother, but she is not there.

Mother!

She goes out into the hall and finds Mother cowering there, terrified of Dr Swaby, but still managing to eat the cocktail snacks. Joyce propels her back into the sitting room.

Hand them round, Mother. (mouthing to the others) Seventy-four, and never misses a trick.

While Mother offers round the snacks, Joyce tries unsuccessfully to get them to have drinks. Mother has no more success with the cocktail snacks, Allardyce being the only one to take one, and he looks round in order to give it to the pig. To each one Mother is whispering, ‘No pig. No pig.’

(nailing Allardyce) I think little Veronica is going to startle us one of these days. I’m going to throw caution to the winds and have a sweet sherry. Nobody else?

Awkward pause.

MOTHER (to Dr Swaby) I went by train to Lytham two years ago to see my sister-in-law. I travelled all by myself and I changed twice. Didn’t I, Joyce?

JOYCE Dr Swaby’s not interested in your holidays, Mother. Gilbert, I don’t think we want that animal in here while we’re having our cocktails, do we?

Allardyce is feeding the pig cocktail snacks, those, at any rate, that Mother isn’t eating.

DR SWABY Let’s get the pig and go.

NUTTALL (looking through curtains) We can’t. He’s sat outside.

INSPECTOR NOBLE Who?

NUTTALL Wormold. He suspects me.

INSPECTOR NOBLE Jesus. Is there a back way?

JOYCE Alas, no.

INSPECTOR NOBLE Can you get over the wall?

LOCKWOOD We can’t get the pig over the wall.

INSPECTOR NOBLE I’m not thinking about the pig. I’m thinking about me.

DR SWABY (barring the way) We’re all in this together.

INSPECTOR NOBLE (to Nuttall) Why should he suspect you?

LOCKWOOD Because he’s the only flaming butcher left, that’s why. He’s shopped all the others. Now it’s his turn.

NUTTALL (hurt) That’s unkind. There’s only one thing to do. I shall have to kill it here.

ALLARDYCE Here?

GILBERT Now?

JOYCE Slaughter it here? What a splendid idea. We’d be only too pleased. All our facilities are at your disposal.

She brings out the large knife. Nuttall takes it ponderously. Joyce smiles a disarming smile.

NUTTALL I’m going to need lots of hot water. And get Preston round. Ring Sutcliff’s.

Gilbert puts more coal on the fire.

MOTHER (to Dr Swaby) Seven nines are sixty-three.

INT. CHILVERS’ HALL. NIGHT.

Allardyce is saying his last farewells to the pig. It’s snuffling cocktail snacks from his hand. Gilbert witnesses this scene as he comes up from the cellar, below the stairs, with a heavy hammer. He hides it behind his back.

GILBERT We Could …

ALLARDYCE What?

GILBERT (looking about) We could let her go.

ALLARDYCE Yes? Where?

GILBERT I don’t know. Set her up somewhere in a sty. Not kill her, just keep her.

ALLARDYCE They’d go mad. All right.

GILBERT I’ve got a car. Grab hold.

As Gilbert moves towards the back-kitchen door, Nuttall comes out of the surgery.

Too late. (suddenly opening the door) Go on, Betty, go on.

Barging his way through, Nuttall slams the door, locks it and takes the key. Turning, he looks at Gilbert and Allardyce.

NUTTALL Silly twats.

Grabbing the hammer off Gilbert, he goes back into the surgery, weighing the hammer in his hand. Assembled in there is an ad hoc killing tackle, mostly drawn from Joyce’s kitchen.

INT. CHILVERS’ SITTING ROOM. NIGHT.

The back-boiler fire is roaring away. It is swelteringly hot. Dr Swaby, Lockwood and Inspector Noble sit there sweating while Joyce makes desultory conversation.

JOYCE I must apologise for this room. It’s in dire need of decorating. More sherry, Inspector?

INSPECTOR NOBLE Don’t mind if I do.

Dr Swaby, disgusted by him letting the side down, peeps through the curtains.

LOCKWOOD I wonder what he thinks we’re doing.

DR SWABY Playing cards. It’s a perfectly normal activity.

JOYCE Bridge! Why didn’t I think of it? Do you play, Doctor?

DR SWABY No.

Lockwood also shakes his head. Pause. Allardyce comes in quietly. He is holding himself back.

JOYCE The royal wedding is exciting a great deal of interest.

Pause.

DR SWABY Could I ask you something?

JOYCE Certainly.

DR SWABY Have you ever had any mental illness?

Nuttall pops his head round the door. He is wearing a floral apron, one of Joyce’s.

NUTTALL There might be some noise. Put the wireless on.

JOYCE We don’t need the wireless. (She approaches the piano.)

INT. GILBERT’S SURGERY. NIGHT.

Gilbert, also wearing one of Joyce’s floral aprons, is trying to hold the pig’s head still. Joyce is heard to start playing Ivor Novello’s ‘Rose of England’ on the piano. Nuttall raises the heavy hammer. Gilbert cringes, waiting for the blow. There is a knock on the door. Nuttall stops just short with his hammer. He jerks his head at Gilbert.

INT. CHILVERS’ HALL. NIGHT.

The piano playing loudly in the sitting room, Gilbert opens the door in his apron.

PRESTON (anxious) Am I too late?

Nuttall beckons him sharply but then sends him back for Gilbert’s apron. As Preston puts it on, Nuttall hustles him into the surgery and shuts the door. Left in the hall, Gilbert covers his ears and sits at the foot of the stairs.

INT. CHILVERS’ SITTING ROOM. NIGHT.

Joyce is playing with élan. She talks over her shoulder as she plays.

JOYCE Nice that he’s in the Navy. Of course she was in the ATS, Princess Elizabeth. I believe she can drive a heavy-goods vehicle. Not that she has to, of course. Still, nice to have something like that up your sleeve. Were you heavily involved in the war, Mr Lockwood?

Lockwood loosens his collar, sweat pouring down his face.

Too modest to say, I know. Gilbert did his bit, in the ARP. I was in the St John’s Ambulance. Lost count of the cups of tea I served. They also serve … I must say I’m looking forward to the wedding. I read in the paper they are going to spend the honeymoon at Broadlands.

DR SWABY (to Lockwood) Unfortunate name. Could be an institution.

JOYCE Of course, it’s what we do best, isn’t it, the pageantry? The carriages passing through the streets, the Household Cavalry, the bells ringing out. Oh, England. It’s like a fairy tale.

There is a shrill scream from the pig.

I know they’re going to be very happy.

Allardyce bursts into tears.

INT. CHILVERS’ HALL. NIGHT.

Gilbert is sunk against the banister in despair as Mother creeps anxiously down the stairs. Nuttall comes out of the surgery with two brimming buckets of blood and Preston following.

NUTTALL Gangway.

Mother flattens herself against the wall, horrified.

The water hot?

Gilbert nods. Nuttall starts up the stairs.

(to Preston) With a bit more leisure I’d make black pudding. (to Gilbert) Got a razor?

INT. CHILVERS’ SITTING ROOM. NIGHT.

Gilbert comes in; he is plainly upset and puts his arm round Allardyce. Through the open door can be seen the hindquarters of the dead pig.

GILBERT I’m sorry.

DR SWABY Sorry? I thought you called yourself a medical man. The first requirement of a medical man is to have no feelings.

Nuttall comes in.

NUTTALL I want a hand. We’ve got to get it upstairs.

DR SWABY I’m dressed up.

LOCKWOOD I have a hernia.

JOYCE (brightly) My brother-in-law has a hernia.

Allardyce goes meekly Out. Gilbert follows.

What a charming man. (Knocks back the sherry.) So sensitive. I teach the daughter piano. One day I feel she will surprise us all.

There is a sound of a great fart from the pig as it is lifted up the stairs.

INT. CHILVERS’ HALL. NIGHT.

Mother stands looking up the stairs. Nuttall comes down, followed by Gilbert and Allardyce. They go into the sitting room.

NUTTALL Right, when I’ve seen to the carcass I’ll leave.

INSPECTOR NOBLE I leave first.

NUTTALL I’m the one he’s watching. I leave first but empty-handed, right? You take the pig.

DR SWABY We’re not taking the pig.

NUTTALL Do you want the pig, or don’t you?

Mother comes in.

MOTHER Joyce. Can I use the toilet?

JOYCE Of course, Mother. There’s no need to ask. (mouthing) Seventy-four.

MOTHER (confidentially to Dr Swaby) Eleven elevens are a hundred and …

JOYCE Go to the toilet, Mother.

INT. CHILVERS’ BATHROOM. NIGHT.

Pan down from bottles of shampoo, tins of talcum powder, in clouds of steam, reclining in the bath, one leg delicately poised over the edge, is the dead pig. Mother looks at it from her seat on the toilet. Going to the door, she opens it to find the busy Nuttall waiting, razor in hand.

INT. CHILVERS’ SITTING ROOM. NIGHT.

Lockwood peeps through the curtains, watching the street. He nods.

INSPECTOR NOBLE Right. Off you go.

Nuttall, seen waiting for the word in the hall, leaves with Preston.

INT./EXT. WORMOLD’S CAR/CHILVERS’ HOUSE. NIGHT.

Wormold becomes alert as he sees his quarry emerging. As Nuttall drives off in his van, Wormold follows at a discreet distance.

INT. CHILVERS’ SITTING ROOM. NIGHT.

Lockwood nods as he peeps through the curtains.

DR SWABY We’ll wait five minutes. Get the pig ready. (to Mother) Do you have a hat and coat?

Mother shrinks back in horror.

Think yourself very lucky, the pair of you. You’ve got off very lightly indeed.

ALLARDYCE But he was fond of her. You were fond of her, I can tell. (to Joyce) And don’t be too upset. We’re as much in the wrong as you are. If anybody found out about this we’d all be ruined.

There is a silence, while the others turn accusingly on Allardyce.

JOYCE Oh, really? I think you’d better sit down. I think we’ve got some talking to do.

GILBERT Joyce.

JOYCE Shut up. Sit down.

Dr Swaby, Lockwood, Inspector Noble and Allardyce sit down.

DR SWABY (to Allardyce) Pillock.

JOYCE Perhaps you’d like a little sherry now?

DR SWABY Very well.

Joyce smiles sweetly.

INT. CHILVERS’ HALL. NIGHT.

The front door is open. Dr Swaby and Allardyce are on the point of leaving.

JOYCE Now you’ve found the way to our door, I hope you’ll come again.

ALLARDYCE (eagerly) Yes, rather.

DR SWABY I’m bound to say, Mrs Chilvers, you’ve gone up in my estimation. You’ve got more about you than your husband.

They step nimbly aside as Lockwood and Inspector Noble come smartly from the sitting room with the pig in one of Mother’s hats and a button overcoat. They go straight out the front door. Gilbert has followed them into the hall.

DR SWABY And incidentally, if you ever want your mother put in a home I’m on the board of several.

JOYCE Oh, how kind! À bientôt.

They go and she closes the door in triumph.

Well, Gilbert, I think sexual intercourse is in order.

She pushes him back into the sitting room and closes the door. At the top of the stairs, Mother looks out from her room. She comes down the stairs. She listens at the sitting-room door.

MOTHER No pig. No pig.

EXT. HEWSON’S WIRELESS SHOP. DAY.

A crowd watches the royal wedding on the tiny screen of the television in the shop window. Gilbert, passing on his bike, stops. He tries to peer over the crowd but those sitting on stepladders at the back defeat him.

INT. ALLARDYCE’S SITTING ROOM. DAY.

Mrs Allardyce and Veronica watch their television. They shush Allardyce as he comes in.

INT. MRS FORBES’S BEDROOM. EVENING.

The radio is giving highlights of the wedding. Mrs Forbes is getting poshed up. She is staining her legs with gravy browning, to represent nylons.

INT. WORMOLD’S ROOM. EVENING.

Wormold is sitting still. The room is quiet. A single light burning.

MRS FORBES (out of vision) Are you busy?

WORMOLD (warming) No.

MRS FORBES (out of vision) Are you any good at painting?

INT. MRS FORBES’S BEDROOM. EVENING.

Mrs Forbes stands on a table. Wormold has an eyebrow pencil in his hand.

MRS FORBES I wouldn’t ask anybody to do this, only you’re a professional man and we’ve been through a lot, one way and another.

WORMOLD Shall I start at the bottom or the top?

MRS FORBES Oh, it’s perhaps better if you work your way up … Maurice.

Wormold, under some strain, begins to draw the seam up her leg. There is a knock at the door.

WORMOLD (stopping) There’s somebody at the front door.

MRS FORBES Take no notice. We’re busy, aren’t we?

EXT. MRS FORBES’S HOUSE. NIGHT.

Nuttall waits at the front door in his finery. He is mystified. A call through the letterbox brings no joy. Giving the house a look, he walks away. Ahead of him, down the street. we see the hotel and the Town’s Best arriving for the dinner.

INT. MRS FORBES’S BEDROOM. EVENING.

Wormold’s pencil passes over the back of her knee. He starts up the back of her thigh.

WORMOLD I love you, Mrs Forbes.

MRS FORBES I wondered if you did.

WORMOLD Will you marry me?

MRS FORBES Possibly. Only I’m still waiting to hear from Kuala Lumpur. Anyway, we can cross that ‘t’ when we come to it. (Pause.) Mr Wormold.

WORMOLD What?

MRS FORBES You’ll have to be less keen on your job.

WORMOLD (lifting up her skirt slightly) Shall I draw in the stocking tops?

INT. HOTEL FUNCTION ROOM. NIGHT.

The Royal Wedding Dinner. Prominent on the top table is the pig’s head, with an apple in its mouth. Dr and Mrs Swaby, Mr and Mrs Lockwood, Mr and Mrs Allardyce and Inspector Noble are also at the top table. Nuttall has an empty place at his side. In a fairly lowly seating position we find Gilbert and Joyce, and even Mother. Sitting near them are the Sutcliffs. There is a good deal of coming and going behind them.

JOYCE They would put us right next door to the toilet. What are you doing?

GILBERT Nothing, nothing.

Joyce thinks she’s seen him take something she’d left on the side of her plate. Mother is still eating, though most people have finished.

JOYCE Still, toilet or no toilet, we’re in now. In ten years’ time that’ll be us.

Gilbert looks towards the fairly dispiriting collection of notables on the top table. He notices Allardyce turn the pig’s head away. Allardyce looks briefly at Gilbert. Dr Swaby rises.

DR SWABY My Lord Mayor, My Lady Mayoress, ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to propose to you now the toast of ‘The Happy Couple’.

Everybody rises except Mother, who is still eating, and only a nudge from Joyce fetches her to her feet. As they raise their glasses, a Brussels sprout rolls out unnoticed from Gilbert’s serviette.

ALL The Happy Couple.

INT. HOTEL FUNCTION ROOM. NIGHT.

At the after-dinner dance, Dr Swaby and Joyce make a handsome couple in the foxtrot. We notice that Dr Swaby’s hand wanders.

INT./EXT. OLD RAILWAY WAGON. DAY.

In another secret ‘sty’, a chubby pink piglet is being lovingly fed titbits by Gilbert and Allardyce. Gilbert picks the piglet up, cradling it. End credits over this.

Prick Up Your Ears

This is the unspoken contract of a wife and her works. In the long run wives are to be paid in a peculiar coin – consideration for their feelings. And it usually turns out this is an enormous, unthinkable inflation few men will remit, or if they will, only with a sense of being overcharged.

Elizabeth Hardwick,

Seduction and Betrayal: Women and Literature

PREFACE

The original idea for a film based on the life of Joe Orton came from John Lahr. When in 1978 he was about to publish Prick Up Your Ears, his biography of Orton, Lahr offered Stephen Frears and myself an option on the film rights. He anticipated that when the book was published there would be other film offers and, having had an unhappy experience over an earlier book, Lahr wanted to make sure Orton’s story would be properly handled. Whether these other offers materialised I don’t know, but his caution was probably justified. One Hollywood producer who saw an early draft of the script said that he saw no problems so long as Orton was made into an American; oh, and he should of course be heterosexual.

Some writers rattle off adaptations with great facility almost as a form of relaxation. Alas I am not one of them and my initial attempts to turn the book into a film were clumsy and heavy-handed. To begin with, Orton’s life was unevenly documented. There was ample material covering the years from his first success as a playwright in 1964 to his death at the hands of his lover Kenneth Halliwell in 1967. Nor was it difficult to write about Orton’s childhood in Leicester, since in period and background it approximated to my own in Leeds. The problem was how to tell the story of the ‘lost’ years, from 1951, when Orton and Halliwell first started to live together, to 1963, when Orton came to the BBC with his first completed play. It was in this period Orton was learning to write. Dramatising the act of writing is never easy: the paper ripped from the typewriter and flung into the waste-paper basket, the overflowing ashtray and the lights burning late into the night … one needs no experience of the pangs of creation to be only too familiar with the screen’s shorthand for it. But how else do you do it?

There was another problem. I never met Orton; he died the year before my first play was produced. I admired his plays, particularly Entertaining Mr Sloane, Loot and The Good and Faithful Servant, but from what I read in Lahr’s biography I had mixed feelings about the man. In fact I didn’t like him, or (it amounts to the same thing) I felt he wouldn’t have liked me. I didn’t object to the promiscuity and the cottaging; what I found hard to take was his self-assurance and the conviction (however painfully and necessarily acquired) of the superiority of his talent. Disliking Orton, I took sides with Halliwell, who, having educated and sustained Orton during years of obscurity, found that when his friend’s talents were at last recognised he himself was left in the shadows, his contribution never publicly acknowledged. Had I met the two of them I am sure my reaction would have been different. Those who did talk of Orton’s fun and charm, the perpetual bickering of Halliwell and his embarrassing bids for attention. But charm does not come off the page, nor does embarrassment, so in the first draft of the script, uncharmed by Orton and unembarrassed by Halliwell, I made the playwright the villain and the victim his friend.

This version didn’t work, nor was it true to the facts, so I did a second draft in which, at Lahr’s suggestion, I introduced him as a character writing the biography. I also introduced myself as another character writing the screenplay of the biography, hoping in this way to come to terms with my own hostile feelings about Orton. Not surprisingly this many-layered construction didn’t work either, though it was this version that in 1980 we took to a new company who were originally interested in making the film. Or making a film. Any film. I think they just fancied the idea of ‘making films’. They must have done because they professed to be pleased with this baroque script, even though it was about four hours long and largely incomprehensible. More shrewdly, they were banking on our selling them the rights so that they could then hack it to the shape they wanted. Fortunately at a late stage in the negotiations they let it slip that what they really had in mind was ‘an English Cage aux Folles’. At which point we beat a hasty retreat.

There the matter rested for four years until in 1984 Zenith expressed an interest. I dusted off the script, wincing at a good deal of it, and decided that what it really needed was a strong central narrator. Narrators don’t normally work on film – they’re a confession of some failure in the storytelling – but one that does is George Sanders as the critic Addison de Witt, who tells the story in All About Eve. So I wrote a third version, beginning as All About Eve begins at an awards ceremony with the tale being told by Orton’s agent, Peggy Ramsay. It’s basically that version with many additions and subtractions that is printed here.

All the various versions of the script have carried an epigraph from Seduction and Betrayal by Elizabeth Hardwick: ‘This is the unspoken contract of a wife and her works …’ From the start it seemed to me that the interest of Orton’s and Halliwell’s story was as an account of a marriage, or at any rate a first marriage. ‘Ken was the first wife,’ Peggy Ramsay remarks, and there is some evidence to suggest that in the final months of his life Orton was considering leaving Halliwell for someone else. The idiosyncrasies of the relationship apart, one sees many marriages like this. A young couple marry early with the husband still to make his way in the world. The wife sustains her partner through the years of struggle and endeavour, bears his first crop of children and then, just as the rewards can be expected to flow in, the husband leaves her for someone less careworn, less battle-scarred, someone more calculated to show off his new status. Never having married, I find my sympathies in these circumstances going to the wife, just as, reading Lahr’s book, I found they did to Halliwell. Whether that comes over as clearly in the film I’m not sure, nor am I sure that it should. To be stuck in the same room as Kenneth Halliwell for fifteen years can have been no joke.

On one point I have been unfair to Orton. In the film Orton’s refusal to make public acknowledgement of his debt to Halliwell is dramatised by his refusal to take Halliwell with him to the Evening Standard awards. Instead he takes Peggy Ramsay. Reading Orton’s diaries I find this is the reverse of the truth. Though he did take Peggy, Orton would have been happy to take his lover; it was Halliwell who refused to go. This was 1966, and had Orton and Halliwell gone together it would have been quite bold. Six years later I was at the same ceremony sitting at the same table as Edward Albee, who had brought along his friend. It was a gesture I suspect would have been taken for granted in America (and so not a gesture) but that still raised a few eyebrows here.

Orton’s style is contagious and much of my first script was written in Ortonese. This would have been a mistake and in later versions I wrote it out. Orton’s language is above all theatrical and not suited to a naturalistic film. (It’s for this reason that the films of Entertaining Mr Sloane and Loot don’t seem to me to work.) However, to write in this oblique and epigrammatic way is both a temptation and a pleasure, and I have indulged myself a little, chiefly in the character of Mrs Sugden. From Orton’s own diary there is almost no direct quotation, but a line like ‘My vagina came up like a football’ is not one for which I can take the credit.

The screenplay is not an exact transcript of the film in that I have included some scenes that had to be cut in the editing. Shorter is usually better, and although we lost some good laughs there was general agreement about the cuts, with one exception. This was the final scene in which Peggy Ramsay and the Lahrs go and look at the Orton flat as it is (supposedly) today. Now a bright and cheerful place, they find it lived in by a young couple. The girl is all smiles but the young man is plainly impatient with the visitors and as he ushers them out we see that in this marriage, too, there are going to be problems. This seems to me a wittier and more thoughtful ending than the scattering of the ashes which is how the film now ends. Perhaps, too, the young man’s ‘Have you seen enough?’ echoes some of my own ambivalent feelings about gossip and biography, and about Orton himself.

CAST AND CREDITS

Prick Up Your Ears opened in London in the Spring of 1987.

The cast was as follows:

JOE ORTON

Gary Oldman

KENNETH HALLIWELL

Alfred Molina

PEGGY RAMSAY

Vanessa Redgrave

JOHN LAHR

Wallace Shawn

ANTHEA LAHR

Lindsay Duncan

ANTHEA’S MOTHER

Joan Sanderson

MRS SUGDEN

Janet Dale

MR SUGDEN

Dave Atkins

YOUNG WOMAN

Susie Blake

YOUNG MAN

Paul Bown

ELSIE ORTON

Julie Walters

WILLIAM ORTON

James Grant

LEONIE ORTON

Frances Barber

GEORGE BARNETT

Stephen Bill

MARILYN ORTON

Sian Thomas

DOUGLAS ORTON

Karl Johnson

MADAM LAMBERT

Margaret Tyzack

EDUCATION OFFICIAL

Eric Richard

RADA CHAIRMAN

William Job

RADA JUDGES

Rosalind Knight

Angus Mackay

RADA INSTRUCTOR

Linda Spurrier

JANET

Charlotte Wodehouse

ORTON’S RADA FRIENDS

Helena Mitchell

Sean Pertwee

BRICKIE

Liam de Staic

PUBLISHER

Christopher Guinee

YOUTH (Kenneth)

Stevan Rimkus

MR CUNLIFFE

Charles McKeown

MISS BATTERSBY

Selina Cadell

PROSECUTING COUNSEL

Antony Carrick

POLICEMAN

Nell Dudgeon

MAGISTRATE

Bert Parnaby

PRISON PSYCHIATRIST

Richard Wilson

BBC ACTORS

Michael Mueller

Anthony Douse

PHILIP

Noel Davis

PEGGY RAMSAY’S SECRETARY

Philippa Davies

PATRICK PROCKTOR

Derek Jarman

GALLERY OWNER

Julie Legrand

GUESTS AT PRIVATE VIEW

Jane Blackburn

Stella Richman

Neville Phillips

DIRECTOR (Sloane)

John Kane

ACTORS (Sloane)

Garry Cooper

Roger Lloyd Pack

WIGMAKER

John Moffatt

YOUTH (outside lavatory)

Jonathan Phillips

MAN (outside lavatory)

Richard Ireson

BRIAN EPSTEIN

David Cardy

BEATLES’ CHAUFFEUR

Mark Brignal

SIMON WARD

Steven Mackintosh

STAGE MANAGER (Loot)

Joanne Connelly

AWARDS CHAIRMAN

Max Stafford-Clark

MOROCCAN BOYS

Ahmed El Jheur

Moktar Dagmouni

UNDERTAKER

David Bradley

UNDERTAKER’S BOY

Simon Adams

LABOURER

James Duggan

CHAUFFEUR

John Salthouse

POLICE INSPECTOR

Neville Smith

POLICE CONSTABLE

Spencer Leigh

MORTUARY ATTENDANT

Robin Hooper

Director

Stephen Frears

Producer

Andrew Brown

Director of Photography

Oliver Stapleton

Editor

Mick Audsley

Production Designer

Hugo Luczyc Wyhowski

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. NIGHT. 1967.

Kenneth Halliwell is looking straight at the camera. He is naked and bloody. He looks at something across the room.

HALLIWELL Joe? John? (He looks back at the camera.)

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DAY. 1967.

The light changes to mid-morning light and we see the door of the flat. Sound of knocking.

MRS SUGDEN (voice-over) Hello. Mr Orton. Mr Orton? Mr Halliwell? Hello.

Slowly a bicycle pump comes through the letterbox, pushing aside a fur coat on the back of the door. We see the chauffeur’s eyes looking through the letterbox. There is a short pause, then footsteps run rapidly downstairs. The door of the flat is broken down, suddenly and completely, falling flat on the floor, very theatrically. A Police Inspector in raincoat and trilby enters, looks round.

INSPECTOR Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Somebody here has been playing silly buggers.

He is followed by a Constable who takes in the room and looks sick.

He sits down, takes off his helmet and puts it on top of Orton’s diary, which we do not particularly note, though we see there is a spot of blood on it.

INT. LANDING AND ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DAY. 1967.

The police photographer is just leaving. Peggy Ramsay comes up the stairs, carrying her coat. She waits outside. Then turns round and goes in backwards. The Constable is there. We see his face as he lifts the blanket, watching Peggy as she turns round and looks at what is underneath the blanket. She sits down on the same chair he had earlier sat on, with his helmet beside her. She looks, sees the spot of blood and sees it is the diary.

PEGGY You don’t look well. They have some brandy in the kitchen.

The Constable goes out of the room. She slips the diary from under the helmet, puts it under her coat and leaves.

CONSTABLE (voice-over, from kitchen) Where?

He comes back into the room and she has gone. Cut to Peggy passing door of Sugdens’ flat. The Inspector is on the phone.

INSPECTOR One of them writes, apparently.

MRS SUGDEN (to Mr Sugden) Tell him. Plays. He writes plays.

Mr Sugden doesn’t. Mrs Sugden hands the Inspector a fancy.

He’s had his dinner at the Savoy.

INSPECTOR Don’t know what the other one does. Hammers people’s brains out, but that’s in his spare time.

Peggy goes on out of the house, with the diary. Fade to black.

INT. PEGGY RAMSAY’S OUTER OFFICE. DAY. THE PRESENT.

The door is open to the inner office. Peggy and Lahr are in the outer office. A secretary is typing.

PEGGY I won’t keep you a moment.

INT. PEGGY RAMSAY’S INNER OFFICE. DAY. THE PRESENT.

Peggy takes the diary out of a dusty envelope, tied up with one or two exercise books. She brushes the spot of dried blood on the cover with her finger. She walks to the bookshelves, and places the diary on them.

Lahr gets up. Approaches Peggy.

PEGGY (at the door of her office) I can’t find his diaries.

LAHR Can’t find them! (He goes into her office.)

PEGGY It is twenty years ago.

LAHR But they’d be so valuable.

PEGGY Yes. I don’t like to think what they’d be worth.

LAHR For a biographer!

PEGGY Tessa’s so disorganised.

As the door closes we catch an injured look from Tessa.

Lahr puts the tape recorder down ready to start.

PEGGY Oh dear.

LAHR Don’t worry.

PEGGY I can’t stand those things. Every little word. One can’t possibly be natural. (Pause.) Is it on?

He nods.

I knew nothing about him when he first walked in. When?

My God … 1964! He had considerable confidence and charm.

It was his first play. Some radio thing. I thought it was derivative.

I told him so. He didn’t mind.

INT. LAHR’S FLAT. DAY. THE PRESENT.

As Peggy speaks we cut to Anthea Lahr, transcribing Peggy’s voice from the tape recorder and typing it out.

PEGGY (voice-over through cassette) I thought it was derivative.

I told him so. He didn’t mind. Not Joe. ‘I’ll try and write you a better one, dear,’ he said. I said, ‘Well, that would be gorgeous.’

As he was leaving …

INT. PEGGY RAMSAY’S OFFICE. DAY. THE PRESENT.

PEGGY He said, ‘Next time can I bring my friend?’ And I thought, ‘Does he mean friend?’ And I thought, ‘Yes, he does mean friend.’ Which was quite bold in those days. It was the Dark Ages. Men and men. And they could still put you in prison for it. And did, dear.

INT. PATRICK PROCKTOR’S STUDIO. DAY. 1967.

Orton shrugs and smiles. He starts taking his clothes off. Shoes, trousers, shirt in that order.

ORTON Bollock naked?

PROCKTOR Oh no. Keep your socks on.

Orton grins. We cut to Procktor watching him as he lies on the couch, leg drawn up slightly so we do not see his cock, but do see his tattoo. Procktor begins to draw.

PEGGY (voice-over) London was still quite exciting then. Remember that? No. No, you wouldn’t.

LAHR (voice-over) That was when?

PEGGY (voice-over) 1967.

PROCKTOR You’re in good shape.

ORTON It’s the weights. When I die I want people to say, ‘He was the most perfectly developed playwright of his day.’

INT. STAIRCASE UP TO PEGGY RAMSAY’S OFFICE. DAY. 1967.

Orton walking up some stairs. He is carrying a bag from a boutique.

He stops outside a door marked ‘MARGARET RAMSAY PLAY AGENT’.

PEGGY (voice-over) Joe was having a wonderful time. His second play Loot was a smash hit.

Orton takes off his coat and pulls a fur coat out of his carrier bag.

LAHR (voice-over) So he was making lots of money?

PEGGY (voice-over) Oh yes, dear. Offers to do this and write that.

Orton puts on the fur coat.

And he had six months to live.

LAHR (voice-over) Wow!

Orton puts the collar of the coat up and goes into the office.

INT. PEGGY RAMSAY’S OFFICE. DAY. 1967.

Peggy walks round him.

PEGGY Is this it? Is this my present?

Orton nods happily.

It’s terrible, darling.

ORTON It was fourteen quid.

PEGGY Joe! I said splash out.

ORTON Cheap clothes suit me, they always have. It’s because I’m from the gutter. (Orton stares at himself happily in the mirror.)

PEGGY A contract from New Zealand.

ORTON (incredulous) New Zealand?

PEGGY I know, dear, but we’re not going to think about it. Now am I right in thinking we’re still interested in writing the Beatles script?

ORTON Oh, yes …

PEGGY Then why don’t I call Brian now and set up a meeting?

Orton looks delighted.

ORTON Smashing!

She stops dialling.

PEGGY Now, is it Epsteen or Epstine? Better wait. (She hesitates and then puts the phone down.) Americans are so sensitive about their names.

ORTON He’s not American, is he?

PEGGY (who hadn’t known) Well, he moves in that world. We shall see each other later.

Orton makes a small face.

ORTON I hope people come.

PEGGY They will. I’ve put out a three-line whip.

ORTON (gratefully) Peggy.

PEGGY How is he?

ORTON Fine. He’s fine.

EXT. NOEL ROAD. DUSK. 1967.

Orton walks down the street.

INT. STAIRS TO ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT, 25 NOEL ROAD. DUSK. 1967.

Orton goes up slowly.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DUSK. 1967.

The walls of the flat are covered in a collage made up of illustrations from art books, colour magazines, etc. The effect is claustrophobic.

Orton enters. Halliwell, without his wig, is oppressively silent. Orton, still in his coat, opens his letters which are on his glossy, white desk.

Orton is seemingly oblivious of the silence.

ORTON (showing him the coat) Well?

HALLIWELL It is five o’clock. It’s a quarter past five.

ORTON Only fourteen pounds. Peggy hates it.

HALLIWELL That’s where you’ve been.

ORTON She likes you. Peggy is one of your few fans.

Orton gets a pan from the stove, sniffs the contents, then starts eating them with a spoon while looking at the letters on his desk.

ORTON Any calls?

HALLIWELL (hands him a note of the calls) I was worried stiff.

ORTON Why? It doesn’t start till nine.

HALLIWELL The point about irrational behaviour is that it is irrational. I don’t worry about anything. I just worry.

Halliwell sits on the bed, head against the wall. Orton sits down beside him, similarly. Orton puts one leg over Halliwell’s.

Stop that.

ORTON You stop being such a bilious queen.

HALLIWELL I ought to be there by eight to check all the arrangements. I’m frightened nobody’s going to come.

ORTON They’ll come. (Pause.)

HALLIWELL ‘What sort of day have you had, Kenneth?’

ORTON What sort of day have you had, Kenneth?

HALLIWELL Well, not unproductive, Joe, actually. I caught up on a big backlog of dusting. Then I slipped out to the end of the road to replenish our stock of cornflakes. When I got back I rinsed a selection of your soiled underclothes by which time it was four o’clock, the hour of your scheduled return. When you failed to appear I redeemed the shining hour by cutting my toenails. What do you expect me to fucking do, shag the Dimplex?

ORTON You can still be quite funny.

HALLIWELL ‘Still.’

Orton opens a drawer of his desk to put in a letter and sees his diary there. There is a slight suggestion in his face that it is not where he remembers leaving it.

ORTON You’ve been reading my diary?

HALLIWELL No.

ORTON Why not? I would.

Halliwell goes to a cupboard and, from a string behind the door, takes an Old Etonian tie and puts it on. Orton changes into a clean T-shirt. Halliwell, behind him, puts on his wig.

Over this action Peggy’s interview with Lahr continues.

PEGGY (voice-over) They lived in Islington.

LAHR (voice-over) Isn’t that very fashionable?

PEGGY (voice-over) Not then, dear.

LAHR (voice-over) In an apartment?

PEGGY (voice-over) Hardly. It was a cupboard!

HALLIWELL All right?

ORTON (seeing him in the mirror) Smashin’.

But looking critically at himself he takes off his jeans, removes his underpants and then puts his jeans back on again, as Halliwell puts on some make-up. Halliwell retrieves the underpants and puts them to wash as Orton puts on a leather jacket. Orton now puts on a jaunty little cap.

Can we go past the theatre?

HALLIWELL Oh no. I knew you’d say that. I knew. This was supposed to be my night.

ORTON (as the door closes) Actually, I just want to get out of this fucking room.

As they go downstairs we see the room in its entirety.

HALLIWELL (voice-over) I’d better have my Valium now.

ORTON (voice-over) Give us a couple.

INT./EXT. NOEL ROAD. DUSK. 1967.

Mrs Sugden, the middle-aged occupant of the bottom flat, is at her door. Mr Sugden comes up behind her. She addresses Halliwell and Orton as they come down the stairs.

MRS SUGDEN Name in the paper again last night. Mr Sugden says you’re halfway to being a household word. Kenneth looks smart. Don’t look at me. I’m not washed.

She looks through the door as they go out.

Going out to supper. Candlelit probably. It’s one function after another.

Mr Sugden comes to the door and watches.

They’ve got the world at their feet.

EXT. CRITERION THEATRE. NIGHT. 1967.

Orton and Halliwell pass by the theatre. We see the neon sign, which reads:

‘OUTRAGEOUSLY FUNNY’

LOOT

BY JOE ORTON

There is a HOUSE FULL sign outside the box office.

INT. KING’S ROAD GALLERY. NIGHT. 1967.

A small and not very smart gallery, possibly subterranean and a bit damp. Halliwell’s collages are ranged round the walls. A screen made by Halliwell is also on show. A table of glasses filled with white wine, cocktail snacks. The Gallery Owner is an eager woman, determinedly cheerful. Orton and Halliwell stand in the middle of the gallery, which is otherwise empty.

GALLERY OWNER (looks at watch) Early yet.

She goes and looks at one of the collages with Halliwell.

When I was hanging them I kept thinking Schwitters. Wrong?

HALLIWELL Not entirely. Because when I first started …

Cut to Peggy and Philip coming into the gallery entrance and down the stairs.

PHILIP It would be in a cellar.

PEGGY Shut up. This is our ‘Let’s be nice to Ken’ evening.

GALLERY OWNER Ah! The avalanche begins.

The Gallery Owner breaks away and goes to the table to get glasses for Peggy and Philip.

PEGGY We came together.

ORTON Always the best way. Philip.

He kisses Philip.

PHILIP Joe.

PEGGY Ken.

She kisses Halliwell.

PHILIP Kenneth. Your big day. How are you, Joe?

PEGGY Now, where are these pictures?

She takes Halliwell’s arm and he walks round with her, leaving Orton with Philip, who stands in the middle of the room, surveying the pictures but not very interested. More people are arriving.

ORTON (muttering to Philip) Nice of you to come.

PHILIP Girls must stick together. I had a friend once who was in soft furnishings. The times I’ve trailed round the Ideal Home Exhibition!

ORTON I’ve had an invitation from the Lord Mayor of London.

It’s a banquet for those eminent in the Arts and Sciences.

PHILIP How exciting.

ORTON It’s just because I’ve sold the film rights to Loot. I’m as rich as they are so they invite me to their rubbishy dinner.

PHILIP I believe they have excellent turtle soup. (Pause.) Who’s paying for this?

Orton says nothing but it’s plain that he is.

You’re a saint.

The Gallery Owner passes.

GALLERY OWNER Success! Our first sale.

HALLIWELL Peggy’s bought my cat screen. And I’ve almost sold another.

He goes to someone looking at the picture as Peggy joins Orton and Philip.

ORTON You’ve no need to.

PEGGY I like it.

PHILIP You’ve no need to either. Not any more. You don’t owe him anything, Joe. Leave him.

ORTON I can’t. No, I couldn’t.

Peggy goes to the table and signs a cheque and we see the Gallery Owner put a red dot on the screen as Peggy’s interview with Lahr continues.

LAHR (voice-over) And was he going to leave him?

PEGGY (voice-over) No shortage of offers. (She sighs.) I don’t know.

LAHR (voice-over) Could he have left him?

PEGGY (voice-over) You’re married. How can you tell?

WOMAN He was in prison you know. They both were.

MAN What for? Sex?

WOMAN (shrugs) I suppose that’s where he learned it. Therapy.

There is a group around Orton chatting and laughing, with fewer and fewer people looking at the collages.

And what do you do?

HALLIWELL I’m the artist.

WOMAN Really? They’re very unusual.

GALLERY OWNER It seems to be going well.

HALLIWELL Have we sold any more?

GALLERY OWNER No, but I’m getting lots of enthusiasm.

WOMAN 2 Isn’t that Joe Orton?

HALLIWELL Yes.

WOMAN 2 I loved Loot.

HALLIWELL The title was mine actually. I give him all his titles.

I’m his personal assistant.

WOMAN 2 Really? I don’t care for these at all. (Refers to the collages.) What does that entail?

HALLIWELL It entails washing his underwear. It entails taking his jumpers to Sketchley’s. It entails poaching his fucking eggs and it entails reading his manuscripts and finding every single thing I have ever thought or said has been included.

WOMAN 2 (who has not been listening) That must be very rewarding.

HALLIWELL (shouting) If you are referring, madam, to the occasional bout of mutual masturbation, no, it is not rewarding at all.

PEGGY (rescuing Halliwell) I love my screen.

HALLIWELL Honestly?

PEGGY (putting her arm through his) Ken.

The gallery empties as we jump forward in time with Peggy.

(voice-over) People tried, you see. But Ken was so touchy.

Nobody could understand it. One of them so bright and funny and clever, the other such a plain, envious failure … Oh, that’s not fair … It’s just that people shouldn’t marry young, that’s all.

INT. UNDERGROUND STATION. NIGHT. 1967.

Orton and Halliwell are going down in a crowded lift.

A good-looking youth has caught Orton’s eye.

HALLIWELL ‘How do you justify your existence?’ ‘I’m Joe Orton’s friend.’ As if it’s a profession. It’s not a profession. It’s a fucking full-time job, but it’s not a profession.

The lift stops and as the passengers go down the tunnel to the platform Orton hangs back. Halliwell goes on. The youth stops, looks back at Orton then turns and follows him. Halliwell stops and watches the successful pick-up, then goes on alone.

INT. EMPTY UNDERGROUND STATION. NIGHT. 1967.

Close-up on Orton’s face, waiting. The youth appears. We hold on youth’s face and see Orton’s hand go out of frame and hear a zip go down. A faint smile spreads over the youth’s face.

LAHR (voice-over) Was this customary?

PEGGY (voice-over) Oh yes! According to the diaries practically a daily occurrence.

LAHR (voice-over) But you lost his diaries.

PEGGY (voice-over) Oh yes.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. NIGHT. 1967.

Halliwell sits in the flat waiting for Orton’s return. He telephones.

INT. PEGGY RAMSAY’S OFFICE. NIGHT. 1967.

Close-up on Peggy.

PEGGY I just called in to get some contracts. No. I haven’t seen him. I thought he left with you. Of course I wanted it.

I wouldn’t have bought it if I hadn’t. I shall have it here in the office. Yes, if he rings I’ll tell him. Bye.

She puts the phone down, looking a little shame-faced. Camera pulls out and we see Orton is there with Philip. Orton seems oblivious of the call, or deliberately so.

PHILIP Then what?

ORTON Then he did the same for me.

Philip looks interested. Peggy less so.

PEGGY Can we eat? I’m starving.

ORTON I write it all down. All the sex. It’s all in my diaries.

PEGGY How did he know you were here?

ORTON (shrugs.) You do, don’t you? When you’re in that state.

You know everything.

PHILIP I don’t know how you stand it.

INT. LAHRS’ FLAT. EVENING. THE PRESENT.

Anthea is preparing supper. She is alone in the flat. Lahr comes in, late.

LAHR Sorry.

Anthea says nothing.

I’ve got the melon.

She takes it from him and cuts it in two, scooping out the seeds.

Any calls?

She wordlessly hands him the paper.

I’m sorry.

The doorbell rings.

ANTHEA Shit.

She whips her pinny off. He puts his coat back on and opens the door. Peggy is on the doorstep with a parcel containing the diaries.

LAHR You found us.

PEGGY Eventually.

LAHR I just got in myself.

Lahr brings Peggy in.

This is my wife, Anthea. Miss Ramsay.

PEGGY I think it’s perhaps Peggy.

ANTHEA Why don’t you get Miss Ramsay a drink, John? White wine?

PEGGY White wine. You’re not American?

ANTHEA No. He’s American. John’s American. He is. I’m not.

PEGGY Yes. I think I’ve just about got that straight.

Lahr and Peggy retire to sofa while Anthea finishes off preparing the meal. We see from Anthea’s point of view Peggy unwrapping her parcel and taking out the exercise books, etc., which form Orton’s diaries. Anthea mashes potatoes, strains sprouts, etc.

PEGGY Now these are the diaries. You must guard them with your life.

ANTHEA We can eat.

They come to the table. Anthea is lighting the candles. They are eating melon.

PEGGY (turns to Lahr.) Urinals figure largely, of course.

ANTHEA Sugar?

Peggy puts some on.

PEGGY The more insalubrious the circumstances, the more Joe seemed to enjoy it.

ANTHEA Ginger?

PEGGY His first taste of sex, or the first that he records, seems to have taken place in a cinema lavatory in Leicester at the age of fourteen. The film was My Favourite Brunette.

LAHR Bob Hope and Dorothy Lamour.

PEGGY Quite. Joe says he came all down the man’s raincoat. Lovely melon.

LAHR Oh, thank you.

Anthea clears the plates.

I’ll set Anthea to work transcribing these, then you can have the originals back. What is this?

PEGGY This is the film script he was writing for the Beatles that final summer.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DAY. 1967.

Orton answering the phone in shirt and pants.

INT. PEGGY RAMSAY’S OFFICE. DAY. 1967.

PEGGY Darling, I’m about to get Brian Epstein on the phone.

When can we set up a meeting?

SECRETARY (calling) Not there, Miss Ramsay. On the coast.

PEGGY (picking up the phone) When you say he’s on the coast, dear, do you mean he’s in Brighton?

We only hear Peggy’s end of the conversation.

Well, when he gets back and has shaken the sand out of his shoes, perhaps you could ask him to call me. (She puts the phone down.) Slut.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DAY. 1967.

We only hear Orton’s end of the call.

ORTON (to Peggy) I’ve started on the script for the Beatles. I’m using some of a novel I wrote years ago. I’m surprised how good it is. (He puts down the phone and goes to put his trousers on.)

HALLIWELL You didn’t write this. We wrote it.

ORTON So what were you planning on doing? Selling it to Warner Brothers?

Orton goes back to work, but can’t, as Halliwell is now pacing the room.

HALLIWELL I wouldn’t care if you gave me some credit. If you only said … told people I helped you. Tell the Beatles I helped you.

ORTON You’re not being much help now. Have you nothing to do?

HALLIWELL (who is cleaning up) Look at me.

ORTON I hate your pinafore number.

HALLIWELL So you do it. Try a spot of post-coital dusting yourself. (shoving the mop or whatever at him, shouting) It always has to be me!

A knock at the door. Sudden silence. Whispering.

Who’s this?

Orton gives a ‘search me’ shrug.

It’s the police. It’s one of your pick-ups. Your sex life has caught up with you. Now you’re going to have to pay.

Orton gets up wearily and opens the door. It is Mrs Sugden.

MRS SUGDEN I thought you might like a preview of my frock. It’s for the firm’s get-together in a month or two’s time. The venue’s not definite yet, but it’s thought to be one of the leading London hotels.

She parades in a gaudy full-length dress of some printed material.

There’s been some dispute about the design. It’s a floral motif, obviously. All hand-done. Only I say these are roses. And Mr Sugden will insist they’re peonies.

HALLIWELL This could be a lily.

ORTON Looks more like a rhododendron to me.

MRS SUGDEN That’s a thought. I’ll go and try that one out on Clifford. Do you notice I’m limping? Spilt a hot drink over my dress. My vagina came up like a football.

She goes. Orton and Halliwell are hysterical with laughter and collapse on the bed.

ORTON If you were successful … so successful you couldn’t walk down the street, what would you do? I’m thinking of the Beatles.

HALLIWELL I’d have a home in the country. Servants.

ORTON I wouldn’t. I’d just screw everything in sight.

Halliwell touches Orton.

Lay off. Have a wank.

HALLIWELL (furiously tidying up the flat) Have a wank? Have a wank? I can’t just have a wank. I need three days’ notice to have a wank. You can just stand there and do it. Me, it’s like organising D-Day. Forces have to be assembled, magazines bought, the past dredged for some suitably unsavoury episode the dog-eared thought of which can still produce a faint flicker of desire. ‘Have a wank.’ It’d be easier to raise the Titanic.

Orton typing.

HALLIWELL And don’t write it down.

ORTON It’s only my diary. Do you read it?

HALLIWELL I’ve told you. No.

ORTON My mum did. I used to have to put the dirty bits in shorthand. Only time it’s been of any use.

INT. PEGGY RAMSAY’S OFFICE. DAY. THE PRESENT.

Peggy is on the phone.

PEGGY I’m sorry, I can’t help you. My secretary does shorthand, but I’m on my own here.

Her secretary puts some papers on her desk.

You’ll just have to use your imagination.

INT. LAHRS’ FLAT. DAY. THE PRESENT.

Anthea puts the phone down. Her Mother is in the flat.

ANTHEA Mother, didn’t you once do shorthand?

MOTHER Yes, for about five minutes.

ANTHEA It’s this playwright John is writing about. He went to secretarial school as a boy and took shorthand. This is his diary.

Anthea shows it to her Mother.

He keeps going into shorthand, you see.

MOTHER Yes. It was a long time ago, dear. I never got the diploma. (She studies the text.)

ANTHEA ‘Woke up late. Did not go to school. Told Mum I felt sick. When she had gone to work I listened to Housewives’ Choice.’

MOTHER ‘… then went into Mum’s bedroom and arranged her dressing-table mirrors and … had a lovely long slow … wink.’

ANTHEA Wink? Are you sure that’s an ‘i’?

MOTHER No, dear. I’m not sure at all … ‘Read all morning, but got another hard-on. Just putting soap on it when Mum came in. Said I thought I had a spot coming. Mum quiet all through meal.’ I should think so. Do they go on like this?

ANTHEA No. The early ones stop just when his life got interesting.

MOTHER Sounds quite interesting already. Where’s John?

ANTHEA Gone to Leicester to see the sister …

EXT. FAYHURST ROAD, LEICESTER. DAY. THE PRESENT.

Lahr walks towards a house on a poor council estate.

ANTHEA (voice-over) … to look at the house where Joe was brought up.

An Asian woman comes out.

LAHR Hello. Was this the Orton house?

She doesn’t understand. An old woman next door watches. Lahr walks away.

OLD WOMAN Ask me, young man. I’m English. Ask me.

INT. LEONIE ORTON’S SITTING ROOM. DAY. THE PRESENT.

Comfortable sitting room. Some books. Pictures of Orton.

LEONIE I hated that house. There was no love in it. No wonder he couldn’t wait to get out. In those days if you wanted to be an actor and you were from Leicester you had to get rid of your accent. Not that Mum knew about the acting. She just wanted John to talk posh.

LAHR You still call him John?

LEONIE (out of vision) That was his name when we were little.

It was after he was famous he was Joe.

EXT. MADAM LAMBERT’S HOUSE. DAY. 1950.

Orton, aged sixteen, knocks at a little semi-detached house with a brass plate on the gate. An impressive matronly woman opens the door.

ORTON Mrs Lambert?

MADAM LAMBERT Madam Lambert.

INT. MADAM LAMBERT’S HOUSE. DAY. 1950.

They have come inside. She is looking at his letter.

MADAM LAMBERT You are anxious to improve your diction?

ORTON (mutters) Yes, Madam Lambert.

MADAM LAMBERT What is your chosen field?

ORTON I want to be an actor.

MADAM LAMBERT Indeed? Leicester has produced some fine actors. Leicester is the home town of Richard Attenborough. Tea? You’ll find a biscuit in the barrel.

INT. MADAM LAMBERT’S HOUSE. DAY. 1950.

Orton sits with a book open. He has just been reading.

MADAM LAMBERT … movement, elocution. These I can teach you. The arts proper to the stage: how to smoke a cigarette with poise, elegance and, above all, conviction. The powder compact as a means of expression. Go to any production in the West End and you will see these arts brought to a pitch of perfection. But all that is as nothing without the one essential requirement.

ORTON I have the money.

MADAM LAMBERT Money! Pish. I am not speaking of money. I am speaking of talent. Judging by what you’ve read, you have no talent. No talent whatsoever.

ORTON I still want to learn.

MADAM LAMBERT Bravo! No marks for talent. Full marks for the Dunkirk Spirit.

She toasts him with the teacup.

INT. ORTON’S BEDROOM. DAY. 1950.

Orton is pinning up a poster of an amateur performance on the wall.

INT. ORTON HOUSE. LIVING ROOM. DAY. 1950

Elsie Orton is raging.

ELSIE Bloody plays!

She looks down at a stained bedspread.

INT. LEONIE’S HOUSE. DAY. 1980.

LEONIE My mum didn’t have much of a horizon. She’d have liked him a civil servant. A suit every day of his life.

INT. ORTON HOUSE. LIVING ROOM. DAY. 1950.

ELSIE Next time tell them to provide you with a costume. Using our bedspread. It’s wicked.

INT. ORTON’S BEDROOM. DAY. 1950.

Orton looks at his scrapbook. He has obviously been in several plays by now as there are various pictures and notices.

ELSIE (voice-over) You’ll clean it! Covering it with distemper. It’s ruined. Bloody ruined.

She comes to the foot of the stairs.

(voice-over) I bet Dirk Bogarde didn’t distemper his mother’s bedspread!

He closes his scrapbook

(voice-over) Bloody disgusting. And get some clothes on.

Walking around like Sabu. I don’t know where to look.

There is a knocking at the front door and a sudden silence.

INT. ORTON HOUSE. HALL. DAY. 1950.

Elsie, at the foot of the stairs. Point of view from top of the flight.

ELSIE (whispering) John. John.

Orton goes to the top of the stairs.

ORTON What?

ELSIE Somebody at the door. Fetch me my teeth.

Orton goes to the bathroom and gets her tooth glass and takes it downstairs. She jiggles the glass and puts them in.

It’ll be the gas man. I never paid.

She retreats into the room as the banging on the door gets louder. Suddenly the door opens.

OFFICIAL Good afternoon. I am a council official. I have come about your lad.

ELSIE Why? What’s he done? (turning to Orton) What have you done?

OFFICIAL Some Shakespeare, that’s what he’s done. Taken a very good part. He has favourably impressed a prominent member of the Education Committee.

ELSIE Yes. In our bedspread.

Elsie is dumbfounded. The door opens and William Orton comes in. Leonie ventures out from under the table.

WILLIAM Who’s this?

OFFICIAL Good afternoon.

ELSIE This is my husband. Ignore him.

OFFICIAL Your son is a born actor.

ELSIE An actor? But he went to Clarks College. He has done shorthand. He has a badge on his blazer.

OFFICIAL This boy will never make a typist.

WILLIAM He can do forty words a minute.

ELSIE Shut up.

OFFICIAL He must take up a dramatic career.

ELSIE But I’ve sacrificed all down the line in order for him to land a job in an office. (She is gathering up the spoilt bedspread as she is saying this.)

OFFICIAL Mrs Orton, your lad must go in for a scholarship to RADA.

WILLIAM RADA?

OFFICIAL The Royal Academy of Dramatic Art.

INT. MADAM LAMBERT’S HOUSE. LIVING ROOM. DAY. 1950.

MADAM LAMBERT (putting down The Lady) RADA?

EXT. ORTON HOUSE. BY GARDEN FENCE. DAY. 1950.

ELSIE (to Neighbour) RADA! The Royal Academy of Dramatic Art.

INT. ELSIE’S BEDROOM. DAY. 1950.

Orton is in front of his mother’s three-way bedroom mirror, so that he is pictured three times.

ORTON RADA!

INT. RADA BUILDING. AFTERNOON. 1950.

Auditorium at RADA. Orton is acting Smee and Captain Hook from Peter Pan, playing both parts. The judges sit at a table halfway up the auditorium. They laugh occasionally.

ORTON (Hook:) Do you know who I’m looking for, Smee?

(Smee:) Tell me again, Captain. (Hook:) I’m looking for a boy, Smee. (Smee:) What kind of boy, Captain? (Hook:) A wicked boy, a heartless boy, a boy who never ate his rice pudding.

(Smee:) Oh horror. Can there be such boys? (Hook:) Aye, there can. It was a boy like that cut off my arm and gave it to the crocodiles. His name was Peter Pan. (Another voice:) Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

CHAIRMAN (a voice out of the gloom) You’ve had some amateur experience, I gather. Tell us about it.

They confer, while Orton shades his eyes and tries to see them.

ORTON I … started off in Rlchard III.

VOICE (voice-over) As what?

ORTON A messenger.

Laughter.

CHAIRMAN Well, that was most original, Mr Orton. You’ve done very well.

Orton leaves.

INT. RADA BUILDING. DAY. 1950.

RADA auditorium. Halliwell emerges from the darkness and stands in a pool of light on the stage. His camel-hair coat is draped over his shoulders. There is a pause before he embarks on a speech from Hamlet. A suppressed groan from the panel.

MAN Rather old.

WOMAN (rustle of a form) Not as old as he looks.

ANOTHER MAN Useful to have someone as old as that, just for casting.

WOMAN We seem to be taking practically anything that stands up.

Camera closes in on Halliwell.

MAN At least he’s got the coat.

INT. RADA REHEARSAL ROOM. DAY. 1951.

The students are doing improvisations of the movements of various animals, hens, penguins, etc. A woman Instructor is moving round the class and comes on two students rubbing up against one another.

INSTRUCTOR And what are you?

STUDENTS Cats, miss.

She claps her hands.

INSTRUCTOR We’re going to change the exercise slightly. I’ve got a cat here.

She mimes stroking a cat.

Here you are. Catch it.

She mimes throwing it to a student, who catches it, strokes it and passes it on. It reaches Halliwell, who makes a great fuss of it, then begins to get angry when it scratches him and eventually strangles it in an awesome display of fury which silences the class, all, that is, except Orton, who laughs loudly.

INT. RADA BUILDING. ENTRANCE. DAY. 1951.

The entrance hall is empty except for Halliwell, who is looking fixedly at the notice board, examining the timetable. Orton comes in, looks at the clock and sits down to wait for his friend. Silence.

HALLIWELL Movement. Enunciation. Breath Control. (Pauses.)

It’s all so wildly dated. Don’t you agree?

ORTON (startled at being spoken to) Er … yes … yes …

HALLIWELL Still, I suppose the beginners find it useful.

He turns around at last and favours Orton with a look of superior benevolence.

ORTON Are you new to London?

HALLIWELL Hardly. A small legacy has enabled me to spend several weekends at the Strand Palace.

ORTON Hotels are a closed book to me.

HALLIWELL You’ll like the Strand Palace. We might venture there for coffee one evening.

Orton’s companions come down the stairs. Another boy and his girl, and Janet, Orton’s girl.

JANET Ready?

They are going out when Orton turns back.

ORTON We’re off over the South Bank. The Festival.

Janet is dismayed. Halliwell considers.

HALLIWELL It might be amusing, I suppose.

ORTON (trying to be sophisticated) Yes. The plebs at their simple pleasures.

Halliwell precedes them through the door as Janet mouths to Orton.

JANET What did you ask him for?

ORTON He’s got a … (Makes steering-wheel motions.)

EXT. STREET. DUSK. 1951.

Halliwell’s open car riding along beneath the Festival lights. Halliwell is driving. Orton is sitting in the front seat with Janet on his knee. The other two students are perched behind.

EXT. FESTIVAL OF BRITAIN. NIGHT. 1951.

Orton, Halliwell, Janet and two students are walking through a park. Fairy lights in the trees, loudspeakers attached to trees. Music playing (or they are moving towards distant music and the lights of an open-air dance floor). People are lying on the grass in sleeping bags; rows of people. Some locked in each other’s arms. Halliwell strides ahead.

HALLIWELL (declaiming)

‘Let us go then, you and I

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherised upon a table …’

Orton is looking at the lovers and sleepers.

JANET Come on.

Orton comes running up beside Halliwell.

ORTON You know, some of these people are … well, having sexual intercourse.

HALLIWELL Fucking, you mean? Well, what do you expect?

Many of them are from Australia.

A sailor passes by. Halliwell looks at him. Orton sees and looks at Halliwell. They walk on and come to an outdoor dance floor with couples dancing.

LAHR (voice-over) What was the Festival of Britain?

PEGGY (voice-over) Oh, that was when it all came off the ration.

LAHR (voice-over) You mean food and stuff.

PEGGY (voice-over) Life, dear. Sex. Everything. Only they didn’t, of course.

EXT. FESTIVAL OF BRITAIN. BALCONY (OR HUNGERFORD BRIDGE). NIGHT. 1951.

Orton and Janet go to the wall by the river and kiss.

JANET I wish he’d never come. I wanted it to be just us.

Orton kisses her again, interested in the sex but not the conversation.

John.

Orton is trying to touch her up. During the scene the lights of the Festival gradually go off, section by section.

No.

ORTON Why?

JANET Not here. People are looking.

ORTON Fuck people.

JANET You can’t live like that, John. I want to take things gradually.

ORTON I don’t.

JANET You don’t know what life’s like, you.

ORTON And I’m not going to find out at this rate either.

He leaves Janet and goes back to Halliwell, who is now looking at the Festival, where the only thing left glowing between them in the darkness is the Skylon. Suddenly the Skylon goes out. There is a moment of total darkness, then the fireworks explode in the sky, illuminating the upturned faces of Orton and Halliwell.

INT. CAR. LONDON STREET. DAY. 1953.

Orton and Halliwell come out of gents’ outfitters and get into the car. Orton is wearing new clothes.

ORTON Thank you.

HALLIWELL Cheap clothes suit you. It’s because you’re from the gutter.

Orton and Halliwell drive along in Halliwell’s car with the hood down.

It occurs to me. Since we’ve so little in common, why don’t we share a flat?

ORTON I’ve said I’ll move in with Janet.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. STAIRCASE. DAY. 1953.

Mrs Sugden taking Halliwell and Orton up the staircase.

MRS SUGDEN This is the room.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. BEDROOM. DAY. 1953.

Halliwell walks around. Orton stays outside the door with Mrs Sugden.

ORTON I’m only looking. I’m fixed up elsewhere.

HALLIWELL Is it a northern light?

MRS SUGDEN Never had any complaints. It’s in dire need of decorating of course.

HALLIWELL What’s that smell?

MRS SUGDEN Air-freshener. The carpet came from Reading originally. Friends, are you?

ORTON Students.

MRS SUGDEN I’ve nothing against friendship. It’s the most wonderful thing in the world. Within reason.

ORTON I’m only looking.

Halliwell is testing the beds.

HALLIWELL They say Islington’s coming up.

MRS SUGDEN It is. They’ve turned the greengrocer’s into an antique shop, and the pub does salad.

HALLIWELL What do you think?

ORTON I think I ought to keep an open mind.

MRS SUGDEN Nice woolly.

She strokes Orton’s new jumper.

A glance at the toilet might clinch it.

She shows Halliwell the toilet while Orton remains looking at the room, obviously liking it.

(voice-over) Every Wednesday I give the whole place a good going over with Dettol. You ought to feel secure in your mind in a toilet.

Mrs Sugden and Halliwell go downstairs.

(voice-over) Waiting for Miss Right, are we?

Orton is still in the room.

(voice-over) Got a lovely skin, hasn’t he? I like a nice skin.

Orton sits on one of the beds. After a while Halliwell comes back and sits on the other.

HALLIWELL Well?

Orton lies on his back on the bed and puts his hands behind his head, looking at Halliwell. Halliwell is about to go to him when Mrs Sugden comes in with a tray and some hot drinks.

MRS SUGDEN We were just having our hot drink.

Mr Sugden comes in.

This is my hubby.

MR SUGDEN You’re older than him.

Halliwell shrugs.

MRS SUGDEN Some people might take advantage.

MR SUGDEN No. Women don’t understand, do they? You’re a lucky lad. Friend like this. Your own little flat. It’s a real start in life.

EXT. BUILDING SITE. DAY. 1953.

A street in Islington. The sound of distant church bells. Decorations.

A dusty, half-naked young brickie is talking to Orton, laughing.

BRICKIE Help yourself.

Orton takes three or four bricks.

Here.

He piles about half a dozen bricks into Orton’s arms, and watches him as he staggers away.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. HALLWAY. DAY. 1953.

Orton nudges the door of the flat. Halliwell opens it.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DAY. 1953.

HALLIWELL Where did you get them?

ORTON Nicked them while he wasn’t looking.

He starts arranging the bricks against the wall with two planks across to make bookshelves. Halliwell is hanging a picture. Orton opens a case and gets out a framed certificate and hangs that.

Halliwell looks at it.

HALLIWELL You can type?

ORTON Forty words a minute. Neither of us seems to have any family photos.

HALLIWELL I’m an orphan.

ORTON I’ve always wanted to be an orphan. I could have been if it hadn’t been for my parents.

HALLIWELL My mother died when I was a boy. She was stung on the tongue by a wasp. One minute we were sitting down to breakfast, ten minutes later she was dead.

ORTON That still leaves your dad.

HALLIWELL Put his head in the gas oven when I was eighteen. Came down one morning, found him lying there. I switched the gas off, shaved, made a cup of tea and called the ambulance. In that order.

ORTON I understand. My dad always took a back seat.

Halliwell gets out a pile of manuscripts.

HALLIWELL My novels.

Orton looks at them.

Anybody can act.

Orton is obviously impressed. He looks at Halliwell’s books as he helps to put them on the shelves.

ORTON All these books. I’ll never catch up.

HALLIWELL I’m a cultivated person. You’ll find it rubs off. Dictionary.

He hands Orton the big two-volume Oxford dictionary.

Can you spell?

ORTON Yes. (Pauses.) But not accurately.

It is a conscious joke and they both laugh. Orton gets some records and puts them on the lower shelves. Confidingly:

I don’t understand Shakespeare.

HALLIWELL We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

He gets the TV set going and they settle down in front of it, as the Coronation service starts. After a while Halliwell gets up and draws the curtains.

Improves the contrast.

They watch for a while then Halliwell puts his hand on Orton’s knee.

ORTON This is a new experience for me. (Pause.)

HALLIWELL Yes?

ORTON Television. I’ve never seen it before.

Halliwell goes on playing with Orton, the scene played largely on Orton’s face with the Coronation service over.

HALLIWELL Do you like it?

ORTON This?

HALLIWELL Television.

Orton grins. Halliwell eases Orton’s trousers down and off, with Orton still seemingly glued to the screen, though lifting his legs to enable Halliwell to get his trousers off. Halliwell now has his arm around Orton, who is sitting there in sweater, underpants, socks, but no trousers.

ORTON It’s the beginning of a new era.

They get up. Halliwell goes into the bathroom. Orton gets into bed. Halliwell is in the bathroom. The music is the build-up to the beginning of Zadok the Priest. Halliwell gets into bed and they kiss. Cut to them lying happily in bed, Orton cradled in Halliwell’s arms as the congregation on television in Westminster Abbey are heard singing ‘All People that on Earth Do Dwell’.

INT. LEONIE ORTON’S HOUSE, LEICESTER. THE PRESENT.

Leonie, her husband George Barnett, Lahr, Anthea (now pregnant).

The tape recorder is on. A child plays under the table.

LEONIE Are you up here helping John?

ANTHEA Holding his hand.

LAHR Did Kenneth ever come up?

Leonie shakes her head.

Did you like him?

George pulls a slight face.

LEONIE I didn’t dislike him. I could see what he saw in Joe after all. I couldn’t see what Joe saw in him. Of course, I didn’t know what went on.

GEORGE (to the child) Upstairs.

CHILD Aww, Dad.

GEORGE Upstairs.

The child goes.

LAHR Did you know Joe was that way?

LEONIE Yes.

GEORGE You didn’t.

LEONIE I did and I didn’t. The way you do, don’t you? Mind you, at our Douglas’s wedding Mum caught him in bed with a bridesmaid.

GEORGE So it’s what I say. He can’t have learned it in Leicester. He was corrupted.

LAHR Joe wanted something from Kenneth. Kenneth wanted something from Joe. That’s not corruption, it’s collaboration.

LEONIE He was born that way, or else it was my mum.

ANTHEA Women don’t care anyway.

LEONIE Taste of their own medicine.

Anthea and Leonie giggle as George goes over to the door. The child is just outside.

GEORGE What did I say? Upstairs. (He closes the door and comes back.)

LEONIE The lavatories shocked me a bit. When I read his diary. But a boy stopped me the other day. ‘I want to thank you for your brother’s plays.’ So what do you do?

GEORGE Personally I think a lot of that’s made up.

LEONIE What?

GEORGE The toilets. You have to go into all that, do you?

LEONIE George.

GEORGE Well, it all seems a bit unnecessary to me.

LEONIE The lawnmower’s not unnecessary. The Fiesta’s not unnecessary. You want to be grateful we get the money from his plays.

GEORGE Grateful? I work too, you know. This isn’t royalties. This is plumbing money. He’s nothing in Leicester, Joe Orton.

He goes out. Pause. The child comes back into the room and sits on Leonie’s knee.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. NIGHT. 1953.

ORTON Ken.

HALLIWELL What?

ORTON You know you could be put in prison for this?

HALLIWELL So could you.

ORTON No. I’m the innocent party. (Orton laughs in the dark.)

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DAY. 1955.

Orton and Halliwell are working side by side. Halliwell passes pages to Orton. Orton makes notes on them, passes them back. Halliwell laughs.

Orton gets bored. Stretches. Touches Halliwell.

HALLIWELL No, I want to get on. Writing, John, is one-tenth inspiration, nine-tenths perspiration.

ORTON (chiming in) Masturbation.

HALLIWELL No.

Orton, sulking, starts cutting up books.

That’s a library book. You should respect books.

ORTON I respect them more than you. You take them for granted.

(He is angry.) Oh shit. I’ll never catch up.

HALLIWELL (indicating the manuscript) So? What’s this? We’re halfway through a novel.

ORTON You are, you mean.

Orton lies on the bed with a book. Halliwell goes and strokes him.

HALLIWELL It’s a collaboration. We’ve written this together.

ORTON (sulkily) Stop it. I’m reading.

HALLIWELL You’re not!

ORTON Test me then.

HALLIWELL (still stroking) What on?

ORTON Mythology.

HALLIWELL Who was the father of Oedipus?

ORTON Laius.

HALLIWELL Who was his mother?

ORTON Oh, fuck his mother.

Fade out and fade up to Orton getting up from the bed in his pants and sitting at the typewriter. The typing wakes Halliwell, who looks, smiles and goes back to sleep.

INT. FABER AND FABER BOARDROOM. DAY. 1956.

Halliwell and Orton are talking to a Publisher, sitting at the boardroom table. The room is lined with books. Photos of Faber authors. He has their manuscript in front of him. Halliwell concentrating on the Publisher, Orton on his surroundings.

PUBLISHER The Boy Hairdresser. Nice title. Ye-es. I showed it to one or two … selected colleagues and we laughed.

HALLIWELL You’re kidding?

PUBLISHER We had a real chuckle. The trouble is, normal sex is still a novelty for most people. In book form. A book such as yours which … very wittily …

HALLIWELL We thought it was witty …

PUBLISHER … explores the by-ways of sexuality … is … ahead of its time. We’re a very conservative firm …

Orton has started to wander round the room. He looks at the bookcase and while the Publisher is talking to Halliwell slips an art book under his coat.

HALLIWELL Isn’t one of the directors T. S. Eliot?

PUBLISHER Yes. That’s right.

HALLIWELL Is he in the building?

PUBLISHER Er … Thursday … yes, he is.

HALLIWELL Fancy, John, we’re under the same roof as T. S. Eliot.

Orton mutters to Halliwell.

He wants to know which is his chair.

PUBLISHER Er … that one.

Orton sits on it. Halliwell smiles indulgently from him to the Publisher, who is now slightly alarmed by them. The Publisher hands Halliwell his manuscript back.

Well, thank you for letting us see this.

HALLIWELL You could keep it a bit longer if you want. Show it to a few more friends.

PUBLISHER Thank you, no.

They are approaching the door.

HALLIWELL And, remember, next time you run into Mr Eliot, tell him he’s got two devoted fans in Islington who think The Waste Land is a real knock-out.

EXT. LONDON STREETS. DAY. 1956.

Orton and Halliwell are walking away from Faber and Faber. Orton is stowing away the book he has pinched in Halliwell’s ex-army pack.

HALLIWELL Never mind. At least you can say you’ve sat in the same chair as T. S. Eliot.

ORTON Yes. I’m never going to wipe my bum again.

HALLIWELL Why do you always leave the talking to me? It was your book as much as mine.

ORTON I’m shy. It’s not my territory.

A youth is coming towards them.

Now this is dead-centre me.

The youth passes.

Nice bum.

HALLIWELL He heard that.

ORTON So what? Now you’re shy.

They laugh and we should realise maybe for the first time why it is they are a good match. They walk along, eyeing the talent.

HALLIWELL This is Mr Halliwell.

ORTON Really? Doesn’t knock on my box one bit. He’s got a big one.

HALLIWELL How do you know?

ORTON Written all over his face.

They walk on. He sees another youth coming.

Look at the package on this. He’s lovely.

HALLIWELL (frantically) Where? Where?

ORTON Here.

The youth looks back.

We’re on.

HALLIWELL How? What did he do? I didn’t see anything.

ORTON What do you want, a telegram? Come on.

They follow. Fairly deserted streets.

He’s built like a brick shithouse.

HALLIWELL He’s probably a policeman.

ORTON I know. Isn’t it wonderful?

HALLIWELL Listen. We’ve got tickets to the Proms.

The youth hesitates now and again, so that they catch up, then he is off again. Orton is exhilarated.

ORTON What’s your name?

HALLIWELL How do you mean, ‘What’s my name?’

ORTON Mine’s Kevin.

HALLIWELL Mine’s … Howard.

ORTON Howard! That’s a poncey name.

HALLIWELL Patrick then.

ORTON Oh. Catholic, are you? What do you do?

HALLIWELL I don’t know. What do you do?

ORTON I’m a fitter. Car components.

HALLIWELL I’m … a dog handler.

ORTON On an individual basis, or are you a tool of a large organisation?

HALLIWELL I’m so shit-scared, I don’t know if I’ll be able to do anything.

Orton exhilarated and excited, Halliwell still quite worried.

We don’t want to let this make us late for the Proms.

ORTON Listen, sweetheart, which do you prefer, him or Sir Malcolm Sargent?

The youth has gone into a doorway by a shop. The door closes.

INT. YOUTH’S HOUSE. DAY. 1956.

Orton and Halliwell get to the door. Orton pushes it slightly. It is open.

They go up the stairs. A landing. Another door. Locked.

They go up a further flight. A door ajar. Orton pushes it slowly.

INT. YOUTH’S HOUSE. HIS ROOM. DAY. 1956.

Orton goes in first. The youth is standing in the middle of the room.

Halliwell knocks before coming in and when he does come in it is with a kind of social smile on his face. Orton, on the other hand, stands square in front of the youth, saying nothing.

YOUTH Hello, my name’s Kevin.

ORTON Mine’s Kenneth.

HALLIWELL Oh. Mine’s Kenneth too!

ORTON Oh shit!

HALLIWELL (hurriedly) Only my friends call me Patrick.

YOUTH We’re all friends here.

Orton slowly undoes the youth’s shirt.

ORTON Do you kiss?

The youth nods. Orton kisses him. Halliwell watches.

Orton then turns and kisses Halliwell.

HALLIWELL (whispering to Orton) I don’t think he likes me.

ORTON (to youth) You like him, don’t you?

YOUTH Sure.

ORTON Kiss him!

The youth does so. Orton watches them both with a kind of triumph on his face.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. NIGHT. 1956.

Tranquil scene with them both in the flat at Noel Road – where the collage has begun to spread further round the walls and the book Orton has stolen lies open with an illustration cut out. Working and listening to music on the record player. The collage spreads round the room as Peggy speaks.

PEGGY (voice-over) And so ten years passed.

LAHR (voice-over) Not like that?

PEGGY (voice-over) No, silly. Though quite like that. Nothing happened. Looking back on it I suppose it was some kind of preparation.

LAHR (voice-over) An education maybe.

PEGGY (voice-over) Well, if it seemed like that to Joe, it can’t have done to Ken.

LAHR (voice-over) No.

PEGGY (voice-over) His hair was falling out.

LAHR (voice-over) Oh God! I know the feeling.

PEGGY (voice-over) And whereas he had stopped writing, Joe had started. But still they were both failures, so it didn’t matter.

LAHR (voice-over) It didn’t matter yet.

PEGGY (voice-over) Quite.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DAY/DUSK. 1962.

The walls are three-quarters covered in collage. Halliwell cuts a picture out of a library book and tries to find a place for it on the wall. Orton is reading. Halliwell goes into the kitchen, the camera staying with Orton, placidly reading.

HALLIWELL (out of shot) Do you want rice pudding with the sardines or separate?

ORTON With.

HALLIWELL (out of shot) Jam?

Halliwell is in the kitchen, poised with jam.

ORTON (voice-over) No.

Halliwell puts jam on his own plate of sardines and rice pudding, but not on Orton’s. He carries the food in. Orton eats his while reading. Halliwell sits on the bed eating his.

Orton stops and looks out of the window.

Mozart was dead by the time he was my age. I’m not even young any more.

HALLIWELL What about me?

ORTON You never were.

He carefully sticks a piece of paper on the dust-cover of a library book.

I can’t see how we’re ever going to make our mark defacing library books.

He props up the library book on his desk. It is a biography of Sybil Thorndyke, now adorned with a picture of a Stone Age woman with large tits.

INT. ISLINGTON PUBLIC LIBRARY. DAY. 1962.

Cut to a library date stamp coming down hard in a book. Orton and Halliwell have just had their books stamped and are going out. The assistant, Miss Battersby, looks after them suspiciously, as does Mr Cunliffe, the librarian.

CUNLIFFE You didn’t tell me one of them was a nancy.

MISS BATTERSBY I’m sorry, Mr Cunliffe?

CUNLIFFE The bald one, Miss Battersby. A homosexual. A shirt-lifter.

MISS BATTERSBY battersby In Islington?

CUNLIFFE Haven’t you noticed? Large areas of the borough are being restored and painted Thames Green.

Cunliffe is looking at their address on the library tickets.

Noel Road. This calls for a little detective work, Miss Battersby.

EXT. NOEL ROAD. DAY. 1962.

Cunliffe is standing outside Noel Road, looking up at No. 25. Faint sounds of typing from upstairs. Cunliffe looks up and walks on. There is a wrecked car further down the street. He stops by it as voice-over begins, accompanied by a typewriter.

INT. CUNLIFFE’S OFFICE. DAY. 1962.

An office, glass-panelled, overlooking the library’s stacked shelves.

CUNLIFFE (dictating to Miss Battersby) Registration KYR 450.

The above-mentioned vehicle appears to be derelict and abandoned in Noel Road and I have been given to understand that you are the owner thereof.

Mix through to:

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DAY. 1962.

Halliwell is reading the same letter.

HALLIWELL ‘… before enforcing remedies I give you the opportunity to remove the vehicle from the highway.’ The little prick. Standard Vanguard indeed. Seat yourself at our trusty Remington, John, and we will piss on this person from a great height.

Orton sits at the typewriter.

(dictating) ‘Thank you for your dreary little letter.’

ORTON Dismal’s better.

HALLIWELL Dismal then. ‘I should like to know who provided you with this mysterious information …’

ORTON Furnished is better than provided. More municipal in tone.

HALLIWELL ‘… as I have never possessed a car of any make whatsoever.’

INT. CUNLIFFE’S OFFICE. DAY. 1962.

A magnifying glass examining two specimens of typing. We come out slightly to see it is the letter Halliwell has sent being compared with one of the book jackets we have seen Orton doctoring. Other doctored books lie on the table, some with outrageous covers, including one of the Collected Poems of John Betjeman illustrated by a picture of a nude old man, tattooed from head to foot.

CUNLIFFE (voice-over, the magnifying glass looking at the book jacket) You will note that the typing, Miss Battersby, is the same. Our book jacket! Their letter! Got you my beauties! ‘Fucked by Monty,’ indeed. Men died, Miss Battersby. Died.

INT. POLICE COURT. DAY. 1962.

Islington Magistrates’ Court. Orton and Halliwell are in the dock.

COUNSEL Exhibit 7.

The clerk hands him Exhibit 7.

This is the novel Clouds of Witness by the noted authoress Dorothy L. Sayers. Can you read what you found on the back of the jacket?

As the policeman reads, the camera takes in the various people in the court. The thinly attended gallery, a woman eating a sandwich, Mrs Sugden, Cunliffe looking pleased with himself.

POLICEMAN ‘When little Betty Macdree says she has been interfered with her mother first laughs. It is only something the kiddy has picked up off the television. But when, sorting through the laundry, Mrs Macdree discovers a new pair of knickers are missing, she thinks again. Her mother takes little Betty to the police station where, to everyone’s surprise, she identifies PC Brenda Coolidge as her attacker. A search is made of the Women’s Police Barracks. What is found there is a seven-inch phallus and a pair of knickers of the type worn by Betty. All looks black for kindly PC Coolidge. This is one of the most enthralling stories ever written by Miss Sayers. Read it behind closed doors. And have a good shit while you’re reading it.’

INT. POLICE COURT. DAY. 1962.

MAGISTRATE The Probation Officer has suggested you are both frustrated authors. Well, if you’re so clever at making fun of what more talented people have written you should have a shot at writing books yourselves. You won’t find that such a pushover. Sheer malice and destruction, the pair of you. I sentence you both to six months.

ORTON Both? Fucking Ada!

HALLIWELL It was your idea.

ORTON But I’m the youngest.

EXT. OPEN PRISON. DAY. 1962.

Orton, stripped to the waist, exercises with the weights on a lawn in the sunshine.

PEGGY (voice-over) Prison worked wonders for Joe. Made a man of him if you like. And being a man, of course, he made out of it much more of an ordeal than in fact it was.

LAHR (voice-over) Where did he go?

PEGGY (voice-over) Brixton, for about five minutes. Then one of those open places in Sussex. Quite near my health farm actually, and with much the same effect.

LAHR (voice-over) Though at rather less expense.

PEGGY (voice-over) Yes.

INT. PRISON PSYCHIATRIST’S OFFICE. DAY. 1962.

PSYCHIATRIST What about your parents?

ORTON Dead. Both of them, when I was a little kiddy. I’m an orphan. The guy I share a room with, Ken, he cracks on he’s the orphan. Don’t you believe it. Reckons he got up one morning and found his dad with his head in the gas oven and didn’t even call an ambulance. How is he by the way?

The Psychiatrist nods.

INT. PRISON PSYCHIATRIST’S OFFICE. DAY. 1962.

The sound of Halliwell weeping out of shot.

PSYCHIATRIST Well, that was your mother. Tell me about your father.

Halliwell blows his nose.

HALLIWELL Nothing to tell. I was eighteen. Came down one morning and found him with his head in the gas oven.

PSYCHIATRIST You called the ambulance, naturally?

HALLIWELL Eventually. I made a cup of tea first. Well, he was quite plainly dead.

PSYCHIATRIST You weren’t fond of him?

HALLIWELL Not particularly.

PSYCHIATRIST You’re fond of your room-mate?

HALLIWELL We’re everything to one another.

PSYCHIATRIST Sleep together, do you?

HALLIWELL No, but we have sex.

Psychiatrist smiles patiently.

PSYCHIATRIST Are you sure?

HALLIWELL Yes.

PSYCHIATRIST You don’t mean you want to have sex?

HALLIWELL No, we do.

PSYCHIATRIST But your friend’s not like that, is he? He’s married. He’s got a child. You seem surprised. Are you?

HALLIWELL Not really.

PSYCHIATRIST Besides, your friend’s much younger than you.

INT. PRISON. CORRIDOR. DAY. 1962.

The Psychiatrist strolls with Orton down the corridor, back towards Orton’s room.

PSYCHIATRIST This may come as a shock to you, but I suspect your friend may be … homosexual.

ORTON Jesus. And there I am sleeping in the same room with him.

PSYCHIATRIST You mentioned your wife. Where is she now?

ORTON Last time I heard she’d taken the kiddy to Lyme Regis.

PSYCHIATRIST Try and team up with them again. Make a fresh start.

ORTON Don’t you worry.

They have come to the door of Orton’s room.

PSYCHIATRIST Not too spartan, is it?

ORTON On the contrary. A room of one’s own.

He enters the room.

INT. PRISON. ORTON’S ROOM. DAY. 1962.

Orton lies down on the bed, smiling. He takes up a pad and starts writing.

PEGGY (voice-over) Prison gives a writer credentials.

LAHR (voice-over) For everyone else it takes them away.

PEGGY (voice-over) It was the first time in ten years they’d been split up.

LAHR (voice-over) So prison was a taste of freedom.

PEGGY (voice-over) For Joe.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DAY. 1963.

Orton takes the cover off his typewriter and begins to copy something out.

HALLIWELL I can’t stand you typing. It’s a dead end; we’re going to have to forget all that.

ORTON Why don’t you go dangle your flaccid tool over the window sill? Some casual passer-by might give it a pull. I’m working.

HALLIWELL (shouting at Orion’s back) Working? This doesn’t bring anything in. It never has. We owe money. We want jobs. Proper jobs. Work nine to five. It’s time we joined the human race.

Orton is typing with a set face.

ORTON You can. I’m not.

Halliwell starts reading over his shoulder.

HALLIWELL When did you do this? I haven’t seen this.

ORTON It’s a radio play. I did it on my own. In prison. I’ve sent it to the BBC.

HALLIWELL Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you write a proper letter. You’ll never hear back.

ORTON (indicating the letter) I already have.

Halliwell reads and Orton begins weight-lifting. Halliwell starts to read aloud.

HALLIWELL ‘We had a little room. And our life was made quite comfortable by the National Assistance Board. We had a lot of friends. All creeds and colours. No circumstances at all. We were happy enough. We were young.’

INT. BBC STUDIO. DAY. 1963.

Actors in front of microphone.

ACTOR 1 I was seventeen. He was twenty-three. You can’t do better for yourself than that, can you? We were bosom friends. I hope I haven’t shocked you.

ACTOR 2 As close as that?

ACTOR 1 We had separate beds. He was a stickler for convention.

INT. BBC STUDIO. PRODUCER’S BOX. DAY. 1963.

Halliwell, Orton and the Producer are listening.

ACTOR 1 (voice-over) But we spent every night in each other’s company. It was the reason we never got any work done.

Orton laughs.

(voice-over) I used to base my life round him. You don’t often get that, do you?

ACTOR 2 (voice-over) No.

We see Halliwell listening.

ACTOR 1 (voice-over) He had personality. That indefinable something.

INT. PEGGY RAMSAY’S OFFICE. PASSAGEWAY. DAY. 1964.

Orton is going down the passage to Peggy’s office with voice-over of

Actor 1 continuing.

ACTOR 1 (voice-over) His mentality wasn’t fully developed, but he was bound to make good sooner or later. He was the go-ahead type.

Orton opens the door marked ‘MARGARET RAMSAY PLAY AGENT.’

He goes in.

INT. PEGGY RAMSAY’S OFFICE, DAY. 1964.

Peggy’s voice is heard, as in the earlier scene.

PEGGY (voice-over) I knew nothing about him when he walked in.

He had considerable confidence and charm. I thought the radio play was derivative. I said so: he didn’t mind.

ORTON I’m writing a better one. For the stage.

PEGGY Well, Mr Orton, that sounds gorgeous. Would it be very rude to inquire how you are managing to live?

ORTON National Assistance. Three pounds ten a week. I’ve just come out of gaol.

Peggy roots in her handbag.

PEGGY Excellent. The papers love all that. Now this is what we call an advance. It means that when you finish this new play you’re writing, the one that’s going to be better, you bring it along and show me. (She gives Orton a bundle of pound notes.) John Orton. (Frowns.) Don’t like that. Sounds too much like John Osborne. Are you attached to John? As a name? No? Then try to think of another, dear.

Orton is leaving.

ORTON Next time …

She looks up.

Next time I come can I bring my friend?

INT. ARTS THEATRE. STALLS. DAY. 1964.

A rehearsal of Entertaining Mr Sloane is in progress. Orton is in the stalls and Halliwell in the circle. The Director plots some stage business with two of the actors. One of them is in his underpants.

DIRECTOR Now is that better? Joe?

ORTON Fine. (He is writing on a pad on his knee.)

DIRECTOR It feels better to me. Does it feel better to you?

ACTOR 1 It’s better for me.

ACTOR 2 Better for me too.

DIRECTOR Success!

The actors smile. An atmosphere of relief.

HALLIWELL Except that it’s not our play.

Orton is expressionless.

You’re making it into a cheap sex farce. That’s not what we wrote.

Orton says nothing.

DIRECTOR We?

ORTON Ken thinks …

DIRECTOR Listen. You wrote the play. I’m directing it. I don’t care a damn what this refugee from a second-hand clothes shop thinks.

Halliwell leaves and we hear the swing doors flapping behind him.

I won’t have him at rehearsals. It fucks up the actors. After all, it’s your play. It is your play, isn’t it?

ORTON Of course it is. (Orton gets up to go.)

DIRECTOR Then what’s all this ‘we’?

INT. ARTS THEATRE. FOYER. DAY. 1964.

Orton goes into the foyer and sits down, still studying his pad. A charwoman mops the floor expressionlessly while this is going on.

HALLIWELL You just want to be liked, that’s your trouble.

ORTON Am I twenty-five or twenty-six? (Orton is writing on a pad.) For publicity purposes. Peggy is pestering me for some undisputed facts.

HALLIWELL Why not tell the truth? Thirty-one.

ORTON I can’t put thirty-one. I don’t look thirty-one. Besides thirty-one is a well-known bus. Married or single? (Silence.)

Married and divorced. One kiddy. Look. (He shows Halliwell the manuscript.) I’ve dedicated it to you. What more do you want?

Halliwell looks at the dedication.

HALLIWELL Could you put my full name? Not just Kenneth.

Orton shrugs.

ORTON I’ll put your phone number too if you want.

INT. WIGMAKER’S SHOP. DAY. 1964.

A cubicle. Halliwell’s head is being measured by a Wigmaker. Orton is watching. The Wigmaker goes out.

HALLIWELL Why now? You’re not ashamed of me?

Orton shakes his head as the Wigmaker returns with one or two wigs, which Halliwell tries on, with Orton watching critically.

ORTON Hair loss is often thought of as a sign of sexual potency. Does your experience bear that out?

WIGMAKER More people wear wigs than is commonly realised: trades-union leaders, sporting personalities, members of the Royal Family.

ORTON It’s better than the beret.

Halliwell is obviously taken with it.

WIGMAKER Shall we keep it on?

HALLIWELL Oh yes. I think so. I shall wear it to our first night.

He is obviously very pleased, and Orton is pleased that he is pleased.

WIGMAKER That will be seventy pounds.

HALLIWELL Seventy pounds!

ORTON This is on me.

HALLIWELL And this is on me. (He looks at himself in the wig.)

EXT. ARTS THEATRE. NIGHT. 1964.

Neon sign: ‘ENTERTAINING MR SLOANE BY JOE ORTON.’ Orton and Halliwell looking at it.

HALLIWELL I’m not calling you Joe. You sound like rough trade.

To me you’re John. You’ll always be John.

Orton puts his arm round Halliwell’s neck.

ORTON For Ken and Joe. Opportunity Knocks.

INT. ARTS THEATRE. DRESSING ROOM. NIGHT. 1964.

Over the tannoy the sound of the last scene of Sloane, punctuated by laughter. An old waitress from the theatre arranges glasses on the dressing-room table. Bottles of champagne, telegrams, etc. Applause starts, tumultuously. She betrays no sign of emotion or expectation, merely opens the door and waits outside in the corridor.

INT. ARTS THEATRE. BACKSTAGE. NIGHT. 1964.

Later, in the corridor. The party is in full swing. It has spilled out into the corridor and Orton fights his way out of the room, glass in hand.

Orton straightens Halliwell’s wig and pulls him out of the room.

PARTYGOERS (out of vision) Joe, Joe!

ORTON I won’t be long.

HALLIWELL I was enjoying myself. Where are we going?

EXT. GENTS’ LAVATORY. NIGHT. 1964.

Orton and Halliwell walking along by a park.

HALLIWELL Where’re we going? What about the party?

They are approaching a gents’ lavatory.

ORTON I just want to see if it works.

HALLIWELL What?

ORTON The wig.

HALLIWELL No, no. Please, Joe. I don’t want to.

ORTON Stand there.

He leaves Halliwell standing uneasily outside the lavatory.

Orton withdraws and sits on a seat. Halliwell’s hand keeps straying nervously to his wig. Orton smiles reassuringly.

Unseen by Halliwell, a youth comes up to Orton.

YOUTH You got the time?

ORTON Not right now. (Pause.) See the fellow in the wig? He’s wanting it. Ask him.

YOUTH No fear.

ORTON Go on.

He slips the youth a quid. The youth goes up to Halliwell, pretty insolently.

YOUTH You got a match?

HALLIWELL What?

YOUTH A light?

HALLIWELL I’ve just stopped smoking as a matter of fact.

YOUTH Pity. I was thinking of popping in for a Jimmy Riddle. You know.

The youth goes into the lavatory. Halliwell rushes over to Orton.

HALLIWELL It works. It really works.

ORTON Go on then. Get in there.

HALLIWELL I daren’t.

ORTON Do you want me to come in?

HALLIWELL No. No.

He adjusts his wig and goes in, leaving Orton on the seat.

A man comes up and sits beside him. Behind them we see either two policemen approaching, or the flashing blue light of a police car.

MAN You don’t want it stuck up your arse by any chance?

ORTON If you mean what I think you mean, no.

Man gets up.

MAN No harm in asking. Hey up.

Orton looks round and sees the police car or the policemen. He gets up very quickly and rushes into the lav.

INT. GENTS’ LAVATORY. NIGHT. 1964.

The lav seems to be empty.

ORTON Ken, Ken! Where are you, for Christ’s sake?

A cubicle door opens. He is there with the youth, but plainly nothing has happened.

HALLIWELL We were just having a chat.

ORTON Police. Out. Quick.

YOUTH Jesus.

There are two entrances to the lav. Orton and Halliwell run out of one and a moment or two later the policemen come in at the other as the youth stands in a stall. One stands behind the youth while the other pushes open the doors of the cubicle. The youth zips up his flies.

A piss is as good as a pint. Night all.

EXT. STREET. NIGHT. 1964.

Cut to Orton and Halliwell running. Halliwell takes off his wig to run more easily. They eventually slow down. Halliwell puts on his wig again. They have come back to the Arts Theatre. They look up at the neon sign: ‘ENTERTAINING MR SLOANE WRITTEN BY JOE ORTON’. HALLIWELL Thank you.

ORTON Thank you. (He checks no one is looking, then kisses him.)

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DAY. 1967.

Orton is sitting at his desk, above which is a collage made by Halliwell of the notices and comments on Loot.

ORTON My second play Loot is a bigger hit than my first. It’s also a better play. And it is the critics’ choice: Best Play of the Year. The film rights have been sold for a record figure. Currently I am working on a screenplay for four boys who are nudging Jesus Christ for position of Number One Most Famous Person Ever. But have I met these fabled creatures? Have I met their manager. Miss Brian Epstein? Have I been paid? No. Then why am I doing it?

HALLIWELL Vanity.

ORTON Answer supplied by the envious queen with whom I share what is laughably called my life. Well, I’m going to jack it in, Beatles or no Beatles. What I would like to do at this moment would be to ease down their Liverpudlian underpants and ram my Remington up their arses. The lovable mopheads.

HALLIWELL What about me?

ORTON What about you?

HALLIWELL I can’t remember when you last touched my cock. Well, I can actually, it was about two years ago, only I don’t know the actual date. Pity. If you’d said, ‘Ken, this is the last time I’m going to touch your cock,’ I could’ve done something to mark the occasion. Cracked a bottle of champagne, maybe, or put in my diary, ‘The last time Joe touched my cock. Grouse shooting begins.’

ORTON Maybe we should go away. Somewhere there’s plenty of sex. And I don’t mean Southport. Somewhere even you might be happy. Morocco maybe. What do you think?

HALLIWELL I don’t want to go away. I just want to go to the awards. I could. Look. (Shows him the invitation.) ‘Joe Orton and Guest.’ I’d behave. I wouldn’t say a word. Promise.

ORTON No.

HALLIWELL Why?

ORTON Because it’s for me. I wrote it.

HALLIWELL I gave you the title.

ORTON OK. So when they have awards for titles you can go to that.

Halliwell launches himself at Orton with a carving knife.

Jesus!

They wrestle. The telephone rings.

HALLIWELL Yes? No. This is Mr Orton’s personal assistant. No. He’s tied up at this moment. (His tone changes.) Oh, I see. Yes. Yes. Thank you. (to Orton) Paul McCartney is calling to see you. He’s on his way now.

ORTON Here?

Halliwell nods.

Shit!

He immediately starts taking off his clothes. Halliwell immediately starts tidying the flat. Both rushing around, Orton changing, Halliwell tidying, and having this conversation.

Was that him?

HALLIWELL No. Someone more cultured. The chauffeur, I think.

ORTON Did you tell him the address?

HALLIWELL He knew the address. I wish I’d known. The place is a pigsty.

ORTON He won’t mind. He’s used to it. He’s an ordinary working-class boy. They all are.

HALLIWELL (putting on some make-up) He’s the nicest, though.

I’ve always liked him. The others are more … instinctive.

I won’t stop. Just introduce me and say who I am, then I’ll make myself scarce.

They are now sitting side by side on one of the beds, waiting. There is the sound of a car door slamming.

This is what it must feel like when one’s about to meet the Queen.

ORTON Except when one meets the Queen one normally hasn’t just threatened to ram a typewriter up her arse.

The bell rings downstairs. Orton jerks his head for Halliwell to answer. Halliwell goes out, leaving Orton sitting on the bed.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DOWNSTAIRS. DAY. 1967.

Halliwell opens the door.

CHAUFFEUR Mr Orton?

HALLIWELL I’m his personal assistant.

He glances over the Chauffeur’s shoulder at the waiting Rolls.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S ROOM. DAY. 1967.

Orton sitting on the bed. Sound of Halliwell running up the stairs.

HALLIWELL He’s waiting for you in the car.

Orton goes out, leaving Halliwell.

EXT. NOEL ROAD. DAY. 1967.

The Chauffeur opens the door. Orton gets in and closes the door. The Chauffeur goes round and is about to start when Halliwell runs out of the house with the script. He bangs on the window.

HALLIWELL Joe.

The window slides down and Orton takes it, maybe with a wink. Halliwell gazes after the car as it drives off.

That was Paul McCartney.

MRS SUGDEN Was it? Oh Kenneth, you are going to have some memories.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DAY. 1967.

Halliwell enters the flat and begins to look for the remainder of his pills. We see him put the awards ceremony invitation card back on the table as Peggy’s voice-over begins.

INT. DORCHESTER HOTEL. AWARDS CEREMONY. NIGHT. 1967.

We see Peggy sitting next to Orton at a table, as the awards chairman begins his presentation.

PEGGY (voice-over) So Ken didn’t get to the awards and I did.

At moments of triumph men can do without their wives.

LAHR (voice-over) They cramp our style.

PEGGY (voice-over) But sharing is what wives want.

LAHR (voice-over) Right. And Ken was a coach as well as a wife.

PEGGY (voice-over) Poor Ken. Still, it was a popular win. Joe was young. The play was naughty. It all seemed very bold.

ORTON My plays are about getting away with it. And the ones who get away with it are the guilty. It’s the innocent who get it in the neck. That all seems pretty true to life to me. Not a fantasy at all. I’ve got away with it so far. And I’m going to go on.

INT. DORCHESTER HOTEL CLOAKROOM. NIGHT. 1967.

A few guests from the dinner mill around. Outside the cloakroom Orton is handed his fur coat.

PEGGY Can I drop you?

ORTON Actually the twenty-four’s handier.

PEGGY Why, where are you going?

ORTON (giving her a kiss) Just going on somewhere.

EXT. GENTS’ LAVATORY, HOLLOWAY ROAD, NIGHT. 1967.

Orton is carrying the award in a plastic camera bag. He goes down the steps into the gents’ lav.

INT. GENTS’ LAVATORY, HOLLOWAY ROAD, NIGHT. 1967.

Standing on the steps, his head level with the top step, is an old man. As Orton goes by, the old man coughs, loudly. Orton goes along a short tiled passage into a dimly lit lav. One man is pissing in a stall. Orton stands in the next-but-one stall to him and takes out his cock. The man looks, then edges back slightly, showing his. Orton has put the bag with the Evening Standard award down by his feet. It is a statuette of an impassive bronze woman. Orton goes over to the bulb holder, removing the bulb. This leaves the gents’ lit only by light spilling in from the street. Figures can be seen in silhouette. Light sometimes falls on flesh or underwear. Orton goes up to the man and puts his hand down to his cock. The door of one of the cubicles opens and another man is there. He comes out, loosens Orton’s trousers and feels his bum. There is a cough. Everyone bags a stall as a youth in black leather comes in, pisses, then goes. By which time everybody is at it again. Another man comes in and watches what is going on. There are about seven or eight men in the toilet in all. Someone is sucking Orton’s cock. He comes. Zips up his fly. Does a farewell tour of the toilet. Goes down the cubicles to where one man is kneeling on the floor, his face pressed to the partition. On the other side of the partition another man is pressed up against the partition, his cock presumably through a hole in the partition in the other man’s mouth. As Orton looks at this spectacle, the man doing the sucking turns and looks mutely up at Orton. Orton goes.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. NIGHT. 1967.

Orton typing.

HALLIWELL What did you say? Did you say anything?

ORTON Nothing. You know me. ‘Thank you.’ Various people kissed me.

It seems he is talking about the lavatory, but as we see Halliwell looking at the award we realise he is talking about the dinner.

Halliwell runs his finger over Orton’s name on the award.

HALLIWELL You should pack.

Orton is finishing typing and, taking the paper out of the typewriter, he puts it in a loose-leaf folder, which forms his diary.

ORTON Do you read my diary?

HALLIWELL No. Why?

ORTON It puts things in perspective. (Pause.) Should I take my typewriter?

HALLIWELL No. This is a holiday.

ORTON Just in case.

EXT. STREET, TANGIER. DAY. 1967.

A long row of Arab boys sitting smiling on a wall. Their heads all turn as Orton and Halliwell pass. Two Arab boys help them with their suitcases. Orton and Halliwell walk along with them, obviously very pleased with this state of affairs, Halliwell particularly. They knock at the door of a house. Another smiling boy opens it.

INT. APARTMENT, TANGIER. DAY. 1967.

Orton and Halliwell are shown round the apartment by the three smiling boys. Particularly the bath and the shower and the beds. All the boys sit on the beds and bounce up and down, laughing a lot.

EXT. THE BEACH, TANGIER. DAY. 1967.

More boys running across the sands, this time with Orton and Halliwell, splashing, etc., in the sea. The music is ‘By the Sea, By the Sea, By the Beautiful Sea’, as in Some Like It Hot.

INT. APARTMENT, TANGIER. DAY. 1967.

Music suddenly stops and Orton and Halliwell are sitting across the kitchen table opposite two of the boys.

ORTON Which do you want … Abbott or Costello?

HALLIWELL Which do you think likes me?

ORTON I’m not sure liking comes into it.

He takes boy onto the balcony. They stand there, looking at the view, as Orton runs his hand down the boy’s back. The boy smiles. Orton sits on the parapet looking into the kitchen, where Halliwell is getting nowhere.

HALLIWELL And you say your brother’s in Epsom?

BOY 2 Epsom. Yes.

HALLIWELL Working in a hotel?

BOY 2 Yes. Waiter.

HALLIWELL Epsom’s in Surrey. Near London.

BOY 2 London. Yes.

Boy 2 yawns. Orton nudges Boy1, who goes into the kitchen and says something to Boy 2 in Arabic. Boy 2 instantly gets up and puts his hands around Halliwell’s neck. They get up and go into one of the bedrooms. Boy 2 leads.

INT. APARTMENT, TANGIER. HALLIWELL’S BEDROOM. DAY. 1967.

Boy 2 making love to Halliwell. Halliwell is trying to keep his wig on. Boy 2 smiles. Reaches out and takes it off. Halliwell stops him. Boy 2 smiles. Pushes his hand away. Takes off the wig and puts it by the bed and smiles. Halliwell smiles.

INT. APARTMENT, TANGIER. DAY. 1967.

Orton and Halliwell are in bed with the two Arab boys.

A joint is circulating.

ORTON And to think there’s another two coming round at seven.

My life is beginning to run to a timetable no member of the Royal Family would tolerate.

HALLIWELL I’m improving.

ORTON You are. Having your dick sucked regularly is turning you back into a human being.

The phone rings.

HALLIWELL Who’s this? Nobody knows we’re here.

ORTON I gave the Beatles’ office the number just in case. It’s Brian Epstein.

Cut to Epstein, then cut between the two. Epstein is looking through the script.

EPSTEIN I was very impressed with your screenplay, Joe. Some areas I’m not sure I’ve understood correctly and perhaps you could talk me through those?

ORTON Delighted.

EPSTEIN Yes. (looking through the script) Now the Beatles are all pursuing the same girl, right?

ORTON Yes.

EPSTEIN We-ell, maybe. Knowing the boys as I do, I’d say that was … well … iffy. However, it’s on page fifty-three, scene eighty-six we definitely seem to kiss reality goodbye. ‘Cut to the boys in bed with Susan. One of them is smoking a joint. He passes it round.’ Two points there, Joe. One: these boys do not take drugs. They never have taken drugs. They never will take drugs.

ORTON It’s only a joint.

EPSTEIN (ignoring this) Second point: if the boys are all in bed with Susan this means, as I understand it, they are all in bed with each other. No, no, no. No, no. NO. (He forces a laugh.)

ORTON (innocently) Why?

EPSTEIN Why? Because these are normal healthy boys.

ORTON I take it they do sleep together?

EPSTEIN They do not.

ORTON They are all very pretty. I imagined they just had a good time. Sang and smoked and fucked everything in sight including each other. I thought that was what success meant.

EPSTEIN Mr Orton. Success means … well, it means a respect for the public. Besides, one of the boys is happily married. I’m sorry, Mr Orton. I hope you are having a pleasant vacation.

ORTON You bet we are.

INT./EXT. TANGIER. MONTAGE. 1967.

Orton and Halliwell lying on rocks, sunning themselves like lizards. Moroccan boys showering against the white stucco outside wall of a beach house. Orton showers with them. Rubbing oil on boy’s back, hand under bathing suit. Orton hosing down the lush foliage on the patio, turning the hose on the boys. Coming out of the water. Rolling in the hot sand. Muddy and happy. Baking in the sun. Sequence ends with Orton and Halliwell on a balcony at sunset. They kiss.

INT. APARTMENT, TANGIER. DAY. 1967.

Sound of typing. Halliwell enters the apartment.

HALLIWELL Why do you have to work? Enjoy yourself.

ORTON I am enjoying myself. Listen to this.

HALLIWELL I don’t want to. Not here. There’s going to be enough of this when we get back to London.

Orton goes on typing.

Stop it!

ORTON Piss off.

Halliwell seizes the typewriter and throws it off the balcony.

You stupid nutter.

A boy watches, horrified.

HALLIWELL When we get back to London we’re finished. This is the end.

ORTON Why don’t you add, ‘I’m going back to mother.’

HALLIWELL That’s the kind of line that makes your plays ultimately worthless.

The boy is speechless.

ORTON (wearily) He’s waiting to be paid.

The boy looks at Orton.

Actually he’s rather sweet. I think I shall retire to lick my wounds, (taking the boy’s hand) Or have them licked for me.

Halliwell weeps.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. NIGHT. 1967.

The door is pushed back. Orton comes in, picks up the pile of mail behind the door. He turns on the light, puts his case down and starts opening his letters. Halliwell comes in with cases and a bottle of milk.

HALLIWELL You might open the curtains. This place stinks.

(He opens the window, then takes the milk into the kitchen.)

ORTON That’s good. Peggy’s sold the Beatles script to someone else. I get paid twice over apparently.

Halliwell bangs something down in the kitchen. Orton registers this, but goes on.

The Observer would like to interview me.

Another bang.

And Vogue wonders if I’d be interested in modelling some clothes. So much for the holiday.

HALLIWELL What?

ORTON I take you away for four weeks. We come back and you’re still the same miserable, jealous bitch you were before we went. Have you got them out? You have, haven’t you. I know you.

Orton gets up and Halliwell tries to hide the bottle of pills he has taken from the cupboard.

HALLIWELL Joe.

ORTON Come on. Do your act. Count them out.

He sets out the pills. Halliwell tries to get at them, but Orton holds him off.

How many is it, the fatal dose? Twelve, is it? One, two, three.

HALLIWELL I’ll do it one of these days, you’ll see.

ORTON You never have so far, ducky.

He hurls a tablet across the room.

Fetch. Fetch.

Halliwell chases it.

And another.

The telephone rings.

Answer that.

HALLIWELL No.

ORTON Answer it.

HALLIWELL Yes. Hello, Leonie. Yes, very nice, thank you. Hold on.

ORTON Hello. When was this? Does that mean there’ll have to be a funeral? Shit. (He looks at his watch. He puts the phone down.) My mother’s dead.

HALLIWELL Oh. Joe. I know what it’s like. My whole life changed when my mother died. I’m sorry.

ORTON I’m not. (He starts getting ready.) And while I’m away you should see a doctor. A proper doctor. You’re sick.

INT. FAYHURST ROAD. DAY. 1967.

The Orton home. The family sits in the living room. Orton, Orton’s two sisters Leonie and Marilyn, his brother Douglas and William Orton, his father. Leonie is pregnant. George Barnett, her husband, is there. Orton sits next to Leonie and nudges her and she giggles. The Undertaker appears.

UNDERTAKER Mother’s ready now if you’d like to come in and pay your respects.

They all get up.

Father first.

William Orton has been sitting unnoticed by the fire. They get him up. He goes in first and they file into the sitting room after him. Marilyn nudges her husband and mouths ‘cigarette’. He puts it out. Elsie lies in an open coffin, an undertaker’s boy standing by the wall with the coffin lid. Orton files in after Leonie.

LEONIE (just before they get in) Stop it, Joe. I don’t want to laugh. I didn’t love her, but I don’t want to laugh.

MARILYN I still don’t know why you want to go calling yourself Joe. John’s a much classier name.

ORTON You’ve left her glasses off.

UNDERTAKER You’ll find that’s normal procedure. Generally speaking, people prefer it.

ORTON What’s happened to her teeth?

UNDERTAKER Mislaid, apparently.

ORTON Shame. She was proud of her teeth.

They file out. The undertaker’s boy, whom Orton eyes, waiting to put the coffin lid on.

UNDERTAKER This is Mother’s nightgown.

MARILYN I don’t want it. A thing like that.

LEONIE Someone ought to have it.

DOUGLAS Chuck it out.

LEONIE That’s no way to talk. Not dead five minutes and it’s into the bin with her nightie.

UNDERTAKER If you leave it with me I’ll dispose of it. We pass them on to old folks. Many of them are quite grateful.

LEONIE Joe. Take Dad to spend a penny. We don’t want him having an accident in the car. Go with John, Dad.

DOUGLAS How long will this affair go on?

MARILYN Why?

DOUGLAS I’m running a business.

INT. FAYHURST ROAD. LAVATORY. DAY. 1967.

Orton takes his father’s trousers down, leaving them round his ankles.

ORTON Come on, Dad. Hold it, Dad.

William doesn’t. Orton has to hold his father’s cock and aim for him.

WILLIAM What are you doing?

William turns and looks into his son’s face.

INT. FAYHURST ROAD. DAY. 1967.

The coffin is just being carried out of the room and into the hearse. They all stand up.

UNDERTAKER I think just Father’s tribute on the coffin.

ORTON Simple, but effective.

LEONIE (quietly) I’ll kill you, Joe, if you don’t stop it.

MARILYN Dash yourself off, Duggie. You’re covered in scurf.

EXT. FAYHURST ROAD. DAY. 1967.

The relatives go down the garden path to the waiting cars. People watching.

INT. FAYHURST ROAD. BEDROOM. DAY. 1967.

Leonie enters. Orton has been going through the dressing-table drawers. He holds his hand out to Leonie. In it are his mother’s false teeth.

LEONIE Chuck them away.

ORTON I want something to remember her by.

He puts them in his pocket.

LEONIE You’ve no feeling at all, you.

She is clearing out another drawer.

I’ve started night school now. Modern English Literature.

Pause.

It’s amazing how many writers are queer.

Orton doesn’t react. She goes on clearing out the drawer, whilst Orton sits in front of his mother’s dressing table and alters the mirrors so that he can see himself three ways.

Do you think Mum was why you liked lads?

ORTON Lay off.

He goes downstairs. She follows him.

INT. FAYHURST ROAD. SITTING ROOM. DAY. 1967.

LEONIE You do look at lads. I’ve seen you.

ORTON I’ve had a better time than they had (in heavy inverted commas) ‘sexually’.

WILLIAM We had no time at all.

Pause.

LEONIE There must have been times when you were happy.

WILLIAM Oh yes. Several.

Pause before the cut to next morning.

EXT. FAYHURST ROAD. DAY. 1967.

Leonie and Orton go out to the garden gate.

ORTON I don’t expect it’ll be long before I’m back.

LEONIE Why?

ORTON He’s not going to last long, is he?

He kisses her. She smiles.

LEONIE You kiss now. You never used to kiss. That’s London.

He walks down the street, turns and calls back.

ORTON I never told you. I met Paul McCartney.

EXT. LEICESTER BUS STOP. DAY. 1967.

Orton waits at a bus stop. A labourer comes by. Not a dish. He looks at Orton. Orton notes the look.

INT./EXT. DERELICT HOUSE. LEICESTER. DAY. 1967.

Orton and the labourer are crossing a piece of waste ground towards some derelict houses. They go into one of them. No door. No windows. Surrounded by a bleak landscape of cleared sites and distant factories.

LABOURER Thought you were a bobby at first. Black tie.

ORTON Funeral.

LABOURER Who died?

Orton has undone his trousers and let them fall.

ORTON Mother and two sisters. Dead in the fire that consumed our home.

LABOURER You must be heartbroken.

ORTON I am. Handle my balls.

The labourer does so, then goes out of shot. Orton lifts his arms above his head and stretches. He yawns. It should be very bleak.

INT. CRITERION THEATRE, WINGS. NIGHT. 1967.

We hear the actors doing Loot on the stage, and Simon Ward is waiting to make his entrance when Orton appears.

SIMON WARD Sorry.

ORTON What about?

SIMON WARD Your mother.

ORTON Have you got to the prop teeth?

Simon Ward takes them out. Orton takes them.

SIMON WARD Don’t mess about. I’m on.

Orton takes out his mother’s teeth and gives them to Simon Ward. He looks at them.

ORTON My mum’s teeth.

SIMON WARD Jesus Christ.

STAGE MANAGER You’re On.

She pushes Simon Ward onto the stage. SImon Ward is so confused, looking at the teeth in his hand, that he forgets his words and the Stage Manager has to prompt. He looks furiously at Orton, who is watching through a hole in the scenery and laughing.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. NIGHT. 1967.

Halliwell is on the telephone.

PEGGY (voice-over) It wasn’t a rational act.

LAHR (voice-over) Well, obviously.

PEGGY (voice-over) I didn’t mean that. These things happen, that’s all.

Orton is getting into bed.

HALLIWELL (on the phone) I’ve an appointment with the psychiatrist at ten tomorrow. Yes. Thank you for all the trouble you’ve taken. (Halliwell puts the phone down.)

ORTON You don’t want a psychiatrist. It’s this room. We’ve lived here too long.

HALLIWELL So? I keep finding places. You won’t even go look. (Seizes a newspaper.) ‘Two bedrooms, two reception rooms, patio and bathroom. This well-proportioned accommodation can be maintained with the minimum effort, thereby leaving more time for leisure pursuits.’

ORTON Where?

HALLIWELL East Croydon.

ORTON I won’t live in East Croydon.

HALLIWELL You’re so unadventurous. I like the country. It would be nice to see the occasional green field.

ORTON In East Croydon?

HALLIWELL Anywhere. Not you. You’d be content to trail up and down the Pentonville Road till your balls dropped off.

ORTON What did the doctor say?

HALLIWELL He’s already talking about hospital and I haven’t even seen the psychiatrist yet. Still he’s a very good doctor.

He treats cabinet ministers.

ORTON What happens if we split up?

HALLIWELL How would that help me? We’re talking about me.

ORTON Well, we can’t go on like this.

HALLIWELL I’ve given you everything. I made you.

ORTON I’m not Eliza fucking Doolittle. I made myself.

HALLIWELL These are my books.

ORTON I’d see you all right.

HALLIWELL I taught you.

ORTON I taught you too.

HALLIWELL What? How to go into a public lavatory?

ORTON Anyway, if I hadn’t met you it would have been someone else. Sleep on it.

HALLIWELL How?

ORTON I could give you a wank.

Halliwell groans.

Well, what do you want?

HALLIWELL Joe. John.

ORTON I’m not John. John’s dead. (Turns to go to sleep.) If you change your mind about the wank don’t wake me up. (Pause.)

HALLIWELL Joe.

No answer. Halliwell sits at Orton’s desk.

I don’t understand my life. I was an only child. I lost both my parents. By the time I was twenty I was bald. I’m homosexual. In the way of circumstances and background to transcend I had everything an artist could possibly want. It was practically a blueprint. I was programmed to be a novelist or a playwright. But I’m not. And you are.

Halliwell gets his suicide pills and arranges them on the desk. He goes to the tool box and gets a hammer. He stands looking at Orton asleep.

You do everything better than me. You even sleep better than me.

Possibly Orton wakes up as Halliwell hits him, starting up shouting, ‘You stupid nutter!’ The hammer comes down several times, Orton’s blood splattering over the collage.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. 1967.

Halliwell sees the Evening Standard award on the desk.

HALLIWELL I should have used that. More theatrical. You’d have spotted that straight away.

He writes a note and then adds a PS and props it neatly on the diary. It reads: ‘If you read his diary all will be explained. K. H. P.S. Especially the latter part.’ Halliwell picks up the pills and the grapefruit juice and looks at the camera.

I loved him. I must have loved him. I chose him to kill me. (He swallows the pills and drinks the juice.) Joe. John.

He lies down, leaving the frame empty. The camera pulls back from the room. Orton’s body, Halliwell dead. Sunlight streaming in through the window.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DAY. 1967.

The door of the flat from the inside. The telephone rings inside the flat. Close in on the keyhole of the door. An eye looking.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. LANDING. DAY. 1967.

Outside door. A uniformed chauffeur is peering in through the keyhole, watched by Mrs Sugden.

MRS SUGDEN They’re not away. It’s not five minutes since they got back from Tangier.

CHAUFFEUR I was scheduled to pick him up at twelve. A private lunch.

MRS SUGDEN He leads an increasingly glamorous life.

CHAUFFEUR Is he a heavy sleeper?

MRS SUGDEN I know nothing about his personal life. Idle curiosity has never been my strong point. Try looking through the letterbox.

CHAUFFEUR There’s a coat.

Cut to the inside of the door.

MRS SUGDEN (voice-over) One moment while I fetch an implement.

The coat is pushed aside by the long bicycle pump. The chauffeur’s eyes at the letterbox.

Do you know Mr Orton?

CHAUFFEUR Not personally. I have driven him in the firm’s car to different destinations. Has the other got a bald head?

MRS SUGDEN No. He wears a wig.

CHAUFFEUR Can we break down this door?

Mrs Sugden calls to her husband, who is downstairs.

MRS SUGDEN Clifford, can we break down this door?

MR SUGDEN Certainly not. If there is damage to be done call the police. That’s their job.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DAY. 1967.

The door is immediately broken down. A Police Inspector in a raincoat and trilby, like Truscott in Loot, comes in.

EXT. NOEL ROAD. DAY. 1967.

We see Peggy arrive by car. She goes upstairs. As the Inspector and photographer arrive, Peggy comes downstairs and leaves.

INT. MORTUARY. DAY. 1967.

Peggy, Leonie and Douglas Orton. Peggy has one urn. An attendant comes in with another.

PEGGY (voice-over) There were two ceremonies. Joe’s at Golders Green, everybody there. House full. Ken’s at Enfield, you couldn’t give tickets away.

LAHR (voice-over) That’s sad.

PEGGY (voice-over) Well, they finished up together at the end.

ATTENDANT Strictly speaking, we would have preferred it if both the deceased had been cremated on the premises. Intermingling would then have been carried out by experienced personnel under controlled conditions.

He pushes the urn across to Peggy, plus another empty urn. Also a scoop. Leonie begins to scoop ashes from each urn into the third.

LEONIE I think I’m putting in more of Joe than I am of Kenneth.

PEGGY It’s a gesture, dear, not a recipe.

DOUGLAS I hope nobody hears about this in Leicester.

EXT. MORTUARY GARDEN. DAY. 1967.

A long shot of them scattering the ashes.

INT. PEGGY RAMSAY’S OFFICE. DAY. THE PRESENT.

LAHR If he hadn’t murdered Joe nobody would ever have known his name.

PEGGY Ken was the first wife. They do all the work, the waiting, and then …

LAHR First wives don’t beat their husbands’ heads in.

PEGGY No. Though why not I can’t think.

LAHR So what does that make you? The second wife?

PEGGY Better than that, dear. The widow.

She switches off the tape recorder.

Have you ever seen the flat?

Lahr shakes his head.

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DAY. THE PRESENT.

Peggy, Lahr, Anthea and young couple.

PEGGY These days I could make a living just talking about Joe.

Theatre conferences, gay groups, arts programmes. When those who have known the famous are publicly debriefed of their memories, knowing as their own dusk falls that they will only be remembered for remembering someone else.

YOUNG MAN Is that all? Have you seen all you want?

He opens the door for them and they leave. The young man glances glumly at his wife before coming back into the room. He closes the door and goes out of shot. We hold on the closed door as the film ends.

102 Boulevard Haussmann

CAST AND CREDITS

102 Boulevard Haussmann was first transmitted on BBC2 on 17 February 1991. The cast was as follows:

CÉLESTE

Janet McTeer

PROUST

Alan Bates

ODILON

Jonathan Coy

CONCIERGE

Gillian Martell

AMABLE MASSIS

Paul Rhys

DR BIZE

Philip McGough

GASTON POULET

Philip Rham

LOUIS RUYSSEN

Peter Geeves

VICTOR GENTIL

Michael Wilcox

MME MASSIS

Celia Imrie

PRINCESS SOUTZO

Lesley Nightingale

PAUL MORAND

Michael Grandage

HEAD WAITER

Richard Syms

PETAIN

Benjamin Buckton

Producer

Innes Lloyd

Directed by

Udayan Prasad

Music adapted and directed by

George Fenton

Music performed by

The Delme String Quartet

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. DAY.

Céleste Albaret, a tall young woman of twenty-five, handsome rather than pretty, sits at the kitchen table.

She is dressed in maid’s uniform.

Sunshine floods in through the window.

Superimpose opening captions.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. DAY.

Proust is sitting propped up in bed, wearing a cardigan round his shoulders.

He is writing in one of his notebooks.

PROUST (voice-over) People think of a novel as a sort of cube, one side of which has been removed, so that the author can put in the people he meets. But it’s more like a huge cemetery in which on the majority of tombs the names are effaced and can no longer be read, even by the author.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. DAY.

The bell board.

The buzzer in Proust’s bedroom has rung.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN/KITCHEN CORRIDOR. DAY.

The kitchen and Céleste’s bedroom are the only rooms that have natural light. Since the shutters are kept closed and the curtains drawn in the apartment it seems always night.

Céleste manoeuvres a silver tray through the kitchen door and walks down the kitchen corridor.

PROUST (voice-over) Céleste has many virtues and one of them is that in the two years she has been with me she has never asked if she has been put in the book.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. SALON. DAY.

Céleste opens a door into the main salon.

She switches on the light and we see a room crowded with heavy furniture.

A pair of double doors are on the wall facing Céleste as she crosses the room.

She makes for the right-hand set of doors and opens the right-hand panel of the double door.

She goes in, closing the door behind her.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. DAY.

The room is lit only by the bedside lamp. The light is sufficient, though, to take in the geography of the room.

To the right of Céleste, as she stands with the tray at the door, are two long windows, shutters closed, full-length blue curtains drawn.

This room too is crowded with furniture, including a grand piano that is crammed against the wardrobe that stands between the two windows.

On the wall facing Céleste is a fireplace, and to the left of the fireplace, the focal point of the room, a simple brass bedstead with behind it a Chinese lacquer screen.

Proust is sitting propped up in bed.

Céleste puts the tray of coffee down on the bedside table.

CÉLESTE I’ve had a letter from Odilon, monsieur.

PROUST How is he?

CÉLESTE Well, monsieur. He sends his respects. He’s at the front now. Where is the front, monsieur?

PROUST Getting nearer.

Proust looks up and smiles. Céleste starts to go.

INT. KITCHEN OF A FASHIONABLE RESTAURANT (LARUE’S). NIGHT.

The cooks and waiters are working in the kitchen.

A chef is frying a sole.

Céleste waits.

The sole is put in a dish and wrapped up in tea towels.

Céleste is led out of the kitchen by a waiter.

INT. DINING ROOM OF LARUE’S. NIGHT.

Céleste carries the sole through the now darkened restaurant.

The waiter accompanies her and opens the door.

WAITER Bon appetit, mademoiselle.

CÉLESTE Madame.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Close-up on the sole and potatoes on a tray.

Proust toys with it.

Céleste watches.

Proust pushes the sole aside and puts down his fork, motioning it aside.

Céleste takes the tray.

Proust goes back to his writing.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Céleste eating up the sole and potatoes with some bread.

She puts the remains from the plate into the slop bucket.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Céleste prepares the night tray: a lacquer tray, lime blossoms, bottle of Evian water, little cup, sugar bowl.

INT. DOOR OF PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Céleste pauses at the door.

CÉLESTE Goodnight, monsieur.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. DAY.

Céleste opens the curtains.

It is already light.

She picks up two empty mineral water bottles from beside the sink.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. SERVICE STAIRS. DAY.

Céleste opens the service door and puts out the two empty mineral-water bottles.

A little girl is coming down the stairs on her way to school.

LITTLE GIRL Good morning, madame.

CÉLESTE Good morning, Claudine.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. DAY.

Proust working. Thinking. He hums a tune. Hums it again, a tune he is trying to recapture.

INT. KITCHEN/CÉLESTE’S BEDROOM. DAY.

Céleste is unpinning her hair.

She closes her bedroom door.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. DAY.

Proust is working.

PROUST (voice-over) One cannot properly describe human life without showing it soaked in the sleep into which it plunges night after night. That sleep in which one is no longer a person. So how then, on waking, does one recover one’s own self rather than another’s? Why, among the millions of human beings one might be, does one unerringly lay one’s hands on the person one was?

Mix to:

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. HALL/LANDING. NIGHT.

Proust is wearing his overcoat.

Céleste holds up some money for him to see and shows him which pocket she is putting it in.

CÉLESTE Money.

She does the same with his handkerchiefs.

CÉLESTE Handkerchiefs.

PROUST You have no plans for this evening?

CÉLESTE Plans, monsieur?

PROUST You could go out. A café perhaps?

CÉLESTE I’m a married woman, monsieur. Paris is full of soldiers.

PROUST Yes. Still, the war is not without its blessings. I have had a letter to say Monsieur Rivière is reading my novel in his prison camp.

Céleste follows Proust into the lift and closes the door.

INT./EXT. ENTRY TO 102 BOULEVARD HAUSSMANN. LATE AFTERNOON.

The concierge brings the chair which she has been sitting on into the hallway. Proust sits in it.

A child comes and stares at Proust.

Céleste tries to shoo him away.

A chauffeur appears.

Proust gets up and follows him out to the car.

Céleste accompanies Proust to the front door and returns, passing the child.

CÉLESTE Have you never seen a gentleman before?

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. DAY.

The shutters are open so that the early-evening light fills the room and we see it fully for the first time.

Céleste begins to tidy and reset the room.

INT. CONCERT HALL. NIGHT.

Proust in the audience, listening intently and watching the players.

It is a young quartet, all the players in their twenties: Gaston Poulet (cello), Victor Gentil (first violin), Amable Massis (viola), Louis Ruyssen (second violin).

Poulet and Gentil are both twenty. Ruyssen, the second violin, the drollest of the quartet, is short and fat. Massis is pale and handsome, a stick by his chair.

They are playing the Franck Quartet in D.

INT. CONCERT ROUGE FOYER. NIGHT.

The quartet comes out: Poulet, and next Massis, who has a limp. Proust intercepts Massis.

PROUST Forgive me, monsieur, if I detain you a moment. It is to tell you how greatly I enjoyed your performance. Though ‘enjoyed’ is hardly the word for music which both moved and excited me. And in particular, if I may single it out, your superb rendering of the César Franck, which seemed to me …

MASSIS Forgive me, monsieur, but you must excuse me if I sit down.

Massis takes a seat near a display of flowers.

Proust reluctantly follows him, taking out his handkerchief as he does so.

PROUST You are ill? Your leg?

MASSIS I was wounded at the front. I am on sick leave still.

PROUST You are a soldier!

MASSIS But you are pale, monsieur. Are you ill? Please –

He indicates the chair beside him.

PROUST How kind. No. I must be brief on account of these terrible lilies. I have a favour I wish to ask of you. It is also a business proposition.

Proust’s chauffeur has come inside the foyer and observes this conversation at a distance – the two men talking, Proust at one point putting his hand on Massis’s knee.

The chauffeur is impassive.

Massis writes his address on Proust’s programme.

PROUST A wounded soldier. The pain was in the playing. And now I must flee in the face of my particular enemy.

MASSIS Monsieur?

Proust hands his card to Massis.

PROUST These dreadful flowers. Au revoir.

Proust hurries away.

Massis looks at Proust’s card.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM/DRESSING ROOM CORRIDOR. NIGHT.

The sound of Proust struggling for breath in the middle of a severe asthma attack.

He switches on the light and sits up. He shuffles into the corridor for the candle.

Back at his bedside he gets a packet of powders from a box, pours a powder into a saucer, lights a slip of paper at the candle and ignites the powder, producing fumes which he breathes in as deeply as he can manage.

After a while his breathing becomes easier.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. DAY.

Céleste at the door with the tray, the room thick with fumes.

Céleste says nothing but puts the tray down by the bed and watches Proust, still not breathing properly.

PROUST I’m better now. There were lilies at the concert. Terrible flowers. I’m feeling better now.

CÉLESTE I’ll light the fire. It will draw out the fumes.

PROUST Thank you, Céleste. Can I see the first three notebooks again, please?

Céleste goes to get him the notebooks.

He lies back and the room fills with the music he was listening to in the Concert Hall. Franck Quartet in D.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. DAY.

Proust is being examined by his doctor, Dr Bize, a short, grey-haired man.

BIZE Maître.

He finds his way through layers of sweaters to Proust’s back and applies a stethoscope.

BIZE In. Out. In. Out. With asthma in is not difficult. Out is where problems arise.

PROUST I think it’s neurotic.

BIZE Oh, I don’t. You’d know if it were.

PROUST Why? If a condition is capable of deceiving the doctor why should it not also deceive the patient? Do you dine out much, Doctor?

BIZE From time to time, though not by choice. Madame Bize – she insists.

PROUST Ah, do people tell you about their ailments, consult you at the dinner table?

BIZE All the time.

PROUST Tell me.

BIZE People mistake their symptoms for small talk. This’ll interest you, Doctor, they say. Interest me! The other evening at dinner, my neighbour actually invited me to look down her throat. Which is all very well, but what will one be looking down or up next? I say, what will one be looking down or up next?

Proust listens intently, smiling slightly.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. DAY.

Céleste is standing at the stove.

BIZE Is he eating?

CÉLESTE As much as he ever does.

BIZE Well he’s not in bad shape, for him. It’s a good job. You have to be pretty fit to go on being as ill as he is.

CÉLESTE It was a bad attack.

BIZE He blamed it on some roses.

CÉLESTE Lilies.

BIZE Lilies, roses. Anybody else I’d say pull your socks up. I hope he is a great man. Making fools of us all if he’s not. How are you, madame? This regime wouldn’t suit everyone.

CÉLESTE His nights are days, that’s all. You get used to it.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. HALL. DAY.

Céleste helps Bize on with his coat.

Proust comes out in his dressing gown.

BIZE So. My advice is to stay clear of lilies. Give them a wide berth. No flowers by request. Useless to suggest a more sensible regime.

PROUST My dear doctor, any regime that we follow counts for less than our temperament. Should I make that more sensible?

BIZE A little fresh air does no one any harm.

PROUST On the contrary, a little fresh air is where I came across the lilies.

BIZE Windows closed. Curtains drawn. And you work like a ploughman. How can you live like this?

PROUST If I didn’t, I couldn’t work at all. Ask Céleste.

BIZE Maître.

Bize goes.

Proust closes the door.

PROUST Like a ploughman, Céleste. I work like a ploughman.

He goes back to his room, while Céleste goes back to the kitchen.

Mix to:

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. DAY.

Céleste sitting, waiting.

The sound of footsteps approaching the service door.

She flies to it, then checks her appearance before opening it.

A little knock.

It’s her husband, Odilon, a stocky man with a moustache.

CÉLESTE (betraying no excitement) Come in, Odilon.

He comes in, slightly awkwardly in his army uniform, nervous about coming in his big army boots, lest he dirty the floor.

She takes his cap and looks at him.

Suddenly the bell goes.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. DAY.

Proust is looking among his papers on his desk.

Céleste enters the room.

PROUST There was a concert programme here with an address on it, Céleste. I remember particularly putting it here a week or two ago. You must have moved it.

CÉLESTE No, monsieur. Here it is, monsieur.

PROUST Of course. Good.

Proust goes back towards the bed.

PROUST I shall be going out this evening.

CÉLESTE Sir.

Céleste goes to the door.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. DAY.

Odilon is taking off his puttees.

ODILON No need to tell him I’m here.

CÉLESTE I must tell him. What if he comes into the kitchen?

ODILON He never comes into the kitchen.

Odilon draws the curtains.

ODILON I didn’t come to see monsieur. I’ve only got twenty-four hours.

CÉLESTE He’d want to see you.

ODILON If he sees me he’ll want me to drive him somewhere.

CÉLESTE No. He’ll want to know how the war’s going.

ODILON I don’t know how the war’s going. I’m a soldier.

CÉLESTE Odilon –

ODILON No.

He takes hold of her and, again at the crucial moment, the bell rings.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. DAY.

Céleste enters with the reluctant Odilon.

PROUST Odilon.

ODILON Monsieur Marcel.

PROUST But how convenient. I have to go out this evening and suddenly you turn up. How is the war?

ODILON We are winning, monsieur, no doubt about that.

Another victory yesterday.

PROUST Yes. Except there is something curious about these victories: they get nearer and nearer. Of course I am still on the reserve. If things get worse, I suppose I may be called upon. This is hardly work of national importance. I gather conditions are not ideal.

ODILON No, monsieur.

PROUST A lot of the front sounds very damp. I would have a difficulty there. How do you think your wife is looking?

ODILON Beautiful, monsieur.

PROUST She is a paragon.

There is a silence. A little movement of the hand and a half-smile as they go.

PROUST This evening then.

Odilon and Céleste go through the door and into the salon.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. SALON. DAY.

As soon as the door to the bedroom is closed, Odilon turns an accusing face on Céleste.

She just smiles.

EXT. OUTSIDE 102 BOULEVARD HAUSSMANN. NIGHT.

Proust comes out of the building and gets into Odilon’s taxi.

Odilon is waiting by the taxi.

ODILON Monsieur Marcel.

PROUST This is just like old times.

Céleste arranges an eiderdown over Proust’s knees, though he is wearing a large fur-lined coat already.

PROUST First to the Ritz.

The taxi drives off.

INT. RITZ KITCHEN. NIGHT.

A chef puts some mashed potatoes in a tureen. He swathes the tureen in towels.

A kitchen boy takes it, goes out with Odilon and the chef to the taxi.

EXT. RITZ KITCHEN ENTRANCE. NIGHT.

The kitchen boy carrying the tureen follows the chef to the taxi, followed by Odilon.

The tureen is put on the jump seat.

Proust gives the chef a note.

PROUST Now we are going to Number 1 Rue Clovis.

The taxi drives off.

INT. 1 RUE CLOVIS. DOOR OF MASSIS’S APARTMENT. NIGHT.

Odilon waiting on the stairs while Proust goes up to the door and rings the bell.

The door is opened by Madame Massis, Amable’s mother, a formidable woman.

MME MASSIS Yes?

PROUST Good evening. Is Monsieur Massis at home?

MME MASSIS At this hour? Certainly not.

PROUST You are the mother of Monsieur Massis?

MME MASSIS It’s possible. who are you?

PROUST An admirer, madam, of his talent, a devotee of his playing.

He hands her his card.

She studies it as Amable Massis appears.

MASSIS Who is it, mother?

He is in shirt-sleeves, without his collar.

PROUST Ah, good evening, Monsieur Massis. You remember we met at your last concert. Would now be a convenient time?

MASSIS Now, monsieur?

Massis nods.

MME MASSIS For what?

Massis half-closes the door and there is a whispered conversation, Madame Massis looking round the door at Proust from time to time.

MME MASSIS Go out? It’s midnight. What? Monsieur. My son is getting over a war wound. He needs an early night. Who is this man?

Now other members of the family have joined them.

A little boy in a nightshirt peeps at Proust.

PROUST Charming, charming, charming. Don’t worry, madame. I have a car waiting downstairs.

Madame Massis glances over the banisters and sees Odilon waiting below.

EXT. 1 RUE CLOVIS. NIGHT.

Proust and Massis come out of the apartment building.

They get into the cab.

Odilon is in the driver’s seat.

PROUST Now. Where do all your colleagues live?

MASSIS My colleagues?

PROUST Well, yes, of course.

The cab drives off.

EXT. 27 RUE CHATEAU D’EAU. GENTIL’S APARTMENT. NIGHT.

Proust and Odilon approach the cab with Ruyssen and Gentil.

Massis and Poulet are in the cab.

POULET He says he spoke to you after the concert. You never mentioned it.

MASSIS When he asked me to play for him at his apartment I thought he was trying it on.

POULET I was asleep.

Ruyssen and Gentil get into the cab, followed by Proust.

RUYSSEN What is all this?

PROUST Our full complement. Off we go.

EXT./INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. HALLWAY TO LIFT. NIGHT.

Odilon opens the door and stands in the doorway, holding the tureen. Proust enters, followed by the musicians.

PROUST You are the leading exponents of the modern composers?

MASSIS Yes.

GENTIL Are we?

MASSIS Gaston … Monsieur Poulet is a friend of Debussy.

Poulet muttering to Ruyssen.

MASSIS He says he’s a novelist.

RUYSSEN I don’t care if he’s Racine. He’s no business knocking on doors in the middle of the night. (Pause.) What’s in there?

Looking at the tureen.

POULET Mashed potatoes.

Ruyssen rolls his eyes at the insanity of it all.

Proust and Massis are standing by the lift. The other musicians get into the lift.

PROUST I’m particularly interested in César Franck. A true artist, he achieved recognition only on the brink of the grave. His last and to my mind his greatest work was performed at the Salle Pleyel twenty-five years ago, the only public triumph he ever had …

Massis and Proust follow the other musicians into the lift.

PROUST I must apologise for the lift. It dates from the period before lifts were invented.

Proust closes the door behind them.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. SERVICE STAIRS. NIGHT.

A majestic Odilon carries the tureen up the stairs.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. HALL. NIGHT.

Céleste relieves the players of their coats.

CÉLESTE Coat. Follow me. And don’t touch anything.

Massis pulls a face behind her back, which Céleste still manages to catch.

The players file through the apartment into the bedroom.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Proust is not in his room when Céleste shows the players into it. She waits a while as they find places to prop up their scores.

Massis moves a pot to prop up his.

Céleste unsmilingly removes it.

Whilst Céleste is occupied, Massis removes an ornament.

Céleste frowns and leaves the room.

The musicians continue to collect books and ornaments to use as makeshift music stands.

They begin to tune up, which leads to some musical larking about.

This is still going on when Proust comes in, followed by Céleste.

Gentil, Massis and Poulet are aware of his entry and fall instantly silent, leaving Ruyssen to look foolish.

They then do a more orthodox tuning up as Proust lies on the chaise longue.

PROUST Forgive me for lying here, but for me it is the best position when listening to music.

POULET Monsieur would like the Franck Quartet.

Proust nods and closes his eyes.

They begin to play.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Céleste puts a tray of glasses on the table, gets some plates out and puts them to warm, watched by Odilon, who sits at the table.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

The musicians continue to play.

In between movements the players look at each other but do not dare to speak.

Proust does not open his eyes or stir.

They start to play the second movement.

Proust listens intently.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Céleste is frying the mashed potatoes.

Odilon watches.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

The Quartet ends.

Proust applauds.

PROUST Bravo! Superb!

POULET We’ve played it better.

RUYSSEN Not at one o’clock in the morning.

PROUST So perhaps you’d do me the exquisite kindness of playing it again?

RUYSSEN Now?

PROUST You’re right. An entr’acte.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. HALL/KITCHEN CORRIDOR/SALON/ PROUST’S BEDROOM DOOR. NIGHT.

A procession of two, Céleste with linen, cutlery, plates, etc., and Odilon bringing up the rear with the food and drink.

Odilon waits just outside the bedroom while Céleste takes in the crockery, linen and champagne.

Odilon closes the door and waits outside.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

The players tucking in, all except Poulet, who drinks but does not eat. Céleste replenishes their glasses.

CÉLESTE Monsieur is not eating?

POULET Oh, I have to be careful. It is very late.

PROUST I understand. I too suffer.

RUYSSEN You not eating yours? Don’t mind if I do.

Ruyssen leans over and takes Poulet’s.

Odilon waits just outside the bedroom door.

Ruyssen is taking out a pack of cigarettes as Céleste is filling his glass. She shakes her head. Ruyssen puts the cigarette pack back in his pocket.

Massis starts to get up.

MASSIS Er …

PROUST Céleste.

CÉLESTE Monsieur.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. CORRIDOR BY LAV/HALL/DINING ROOM. NIGHT.

Massis comes out of the lav. He is alone.

He crosses the hall and goes into a dining room, where the furniture is covered in dust sheets. He looks round him in wonder at the muffled apartment.

Céleste reappears.

CÉLESTE They are waiting, monsieur.

MASSIS What does Monsieur Proust do? Does he just write?

CÉLESTE He’s a gentleman.

MASSIS What’s the matter with him? Is he ill?

CÉLESTE I have told you. He’s a gentleman. He’s delicate.

MASSIS It’s quite a place.

CÉLESTE We seldom use it. This carpet was given to Monsieur Proust’s father by the Shah of Persia.

Céleste goes.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

POULET What is this on the wall?

PROUST Cork. Otherwise the noise … the street, the children … one could not work.

He shrugs.

POULET It’s perfect for music. We’ve never sounded so well.

Massis returns.

PROUST Ah! Our lost viola.

The music begins again, cut off sharply as Céleste closes the bedroom door and leaves.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Odilon sits by the open window and lights a cigarette.

Céleste is washing up. She disapproves.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

The musicians are playing.

Proust sits up.

PROUST Stop, stop, that section. Play that again.

Proust listens as the Quartet play the last music of the César Franck Quartet in D. He tries to sing the tune.

Proust’s face.

The Quartet ends.

Ruyssen begins to pack up immediately, but is stopped by a warning look from Poulet.

Monsieur Massis. Would you be good enough to hand me the box on the bureau? That one, yes.

Proust stands up.

He gives eight thousand francs to Poulet.

POULET But monsieur. This is too much.

Ruyssen gives him a wild eye, indicating that nothing is too much for being woken up in the middle of the night.

PROUST No. I have put you to some inconvenience. I am indebted to you and I hope I’ll be permitted to call on your services again. Goodnight, gentlemen. Your cabs await you downstairs.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. HALL. NIGHT.

Céleste closes the door after the departing musicians and goes back into the bedroom.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

The door to the dressing-room corridor is open.

Céleste sets the room to rights.

PROUST (out of vision) What a nice bunch, did you not think?

Proust enters in his dressing gown.

CÉLESTE Monsieur.

PROUST And so talented. Did you notice the one with a limp?

He’s a soldier on sick leave.

CÉLESTE I’ll bring your night tray, monsieur.

He sits on the edge of the bed, which she has turned back.

He takes a notebook from the table.

Céleste returns with the night tray.

Proust, working, and without looking at her.

PROUST You can go to bed now, Céleste.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN/KITCHEN CORRIDOR/ CÉLESTE’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Céleste winds up the clock and looks round the room.

She becomes aware of Odilon.

He is standing in the bedroom doorway, shirt open, waiting.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. SALON/HALL/KITCHEN CORRIDOR. NIGHT.

Céleste gives a stifled cry.

Proust comes out of the salon, crosses the hall and starts to walk along the kitchen corridor towards Céleste’s bedroom.

Céleste cries out again.

Proust looks back towards his bedroom.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. NIGHT.

The bell rings.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Céleste comes in.

PROUST I can’t seem to get comfortable.

CÉLESTE Shall I straighten the bed?

PROUST Mm.

She does so.

Proust takes her hand in his.

PROUST Dear Céleste.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN CORRIDOR/CÉLESTE’S BEDROOM/KITCHEN. DAY.

Céleste goes back into her bedroom. She sees that Odilon is not there and goes into the kitchen.

Odilon is back in uniform, waiting to go. He shrugs.

The curtains are open, letting in the morning light.

Mix to:

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. HALL/LANDING. NIGHT.

Paul Morand, a young diplomat, and Princess Helene Soutzo enter the apartment.

MORAND Céleste.

CÉLESTE Monsieur.

She takes his coat, and the Princess is about to give her hers.

Perhaps Madame la Princesse should keep her wrap.

MORAND That’s right. There won’t be a fire.

PRINCESS No fire? How quaint.

CÉLESTE I’ll see if monsieur is ready.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Proust is waiting by his bedroom door.

PROUST (whispering) What does she look like?

CÉLESTE Rather small with a very straight neck.

PROUST A straight neck?

CÉLESTE A bit like a doll. I think she’s older than Monsieur Morand.

PROUST No! Let’s see!

Céleste goes out, closing the door behind her.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

MORAND The Princess is thinking of closing down her house and moving into the Ritz. With the air raids it’ll be safer.

PRINCESS What’s more to the point, it will be cheaper. The war has made everything so expensive.

PROUST The war, the war. I cannot think of it objectively. It permeates everything. As saints used to live in God so one now lives in the war. Has Paul told you that when hostilities began I was called for a medical examination?

PRINCESS But that’s absurd.

PROUST Well, not so absurd, surely. I am on the reserve.

MORAND The joke was that they called Marcel for 3.30 in the morning.

PROUST I thought someone had tipped off the authorities about my topsy-turvy regime. That they were being considerate. Alas, it was only a printer’s error. One has lost so many friends, and that one feels, of course. But the deaths of tens of thousands happening every day is the most insignificant of sensations, hardly as disagreeable as a draught.

CÉLESTE Do you feel a draught, monsieur?

PROUST What? No, no. One death means more than a thousand. When men are dying like flies, that is what they are dying like.

CÉLESTE A jumper round your shoulders, perhaps?

PROUST No. More coffee perhaps.

Céleste goes out.

PRINCESS She’s very impressive.

PROUST A gem. She’s from the country. Auxillac in the Lozère.

PRINCESS She adores you, obviously.

PROUST When she first came I had to explain that Napoleon and Bonaparte were the same person.

The Princess and Morand laugh.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. SALON. NIGHT.

Céleste crosses the salon, carrying a coffee pot.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

The Princess, Morand and Proust are laughing as Céleste returns.

PROUST Ah. The beautiful Céleste.

It is plain Céleste knows she has been talked about.

This ensuing conversation is background, the camera concentrating on Céleste.

I had a delightful young man here the other day, a musician.

He plays in the Quattuor Poulet.

MORAND I don’t know them.

PROUST They’re the leading exponents of Franck and Debussy.

PRINCESS I don’t know Franck.

PROUST He’s in the army.

PRINCESS Franck?

PROUST The young man. He can only play when on leave. Such a waste.

MORAND He played here?

PROUST They all did. They said their music had never sounded as well. The acoustics are superb.

MORAND The food isn’t bad either.

PROUST Céleste. Monsieur Morand is paying you a compliment.

CÉLESTE Monsieur.

PROUST Music seems to be playing a bigger part in the novel than I had originally envisaged. But I have so much to do.

MORAND We must be going.

Morand gets up.

Mix to:

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. HALL. NIGHT.

Poulet, Ruyssen and Gentil are sitting waiting in the hall, with Céleste standing guard.

Gentil is in evening dress.

GENTIL I was depping at the Opera.

POULET Where were you?

RUYSSEN Bed. Again.

He is still half-asleep.

POULET While we’re waiting for Monsieur Massis, perhaps we could warm up by playing Monsieur Proust a trio?

Céleste, expressionless, disappears.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Proust is sitting on his bed, working.

CÉLESTE There are only three of them, monsieur. The other one’s on his way.

PROUST Which one?

CÉLESTE The one with the big violin. They wondered if you wanted them to play you a trio.

PROUST A trio? No. No. Trio. No use to me.

He goes on working.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. HALL. NIGHT.

The doorbell rings.

Poulet opens the door, but Céleste appears and Poulet falls back apologetically.

Céleste takes over.

It is Massis, with his stick.

MASSIS Sorry.

POULET Where were you? We tried Isabel.

MASSIS What! I told her I was practising with you.

RUYSSEN Who were you practising with?

Massis smiles.

CÉLESTE When you’re ready, gentlemen.

She goes.

GENTIL You wouldn’t last five minutes with her.

MASSIS I wouldn’t want to.

RUYSSEN You see, I find her very attractive.

Céleste returns and waits for them to come.

MASSIS After you, Victor.

GENTIL No, let Louis go first. Louis.

Ruyssen leads as the musicians follow Céleste.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. SALON. NIGHT.

Céleste sitting on a chair outside the door, which is open a fraction, listening to them play Fauré Quartet in G Minor with Gentil at the piano.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

The musicians are eating.

Céleste offers Ruyssen more fried potatoes.

Looking, Ruyssen, mesmerised by her, does not protest.

Poulet and Massis exchange glances.

Céleste observes this.

Proust is not eating. He watches.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

PROUST The quartet again, if you please.

They begin again.

INT./EXT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Céleste is washing up.

The sound of aircraft and bombs falling.

Céleste looks out of the window.

Lights are flashing onto the buildings opposite and searchlights are crossing the sky.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

The musicians play on oblivious, the siren inaudible in the cork-lined bedroom.

Proust listening.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. SERVICE STAIRS/KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Céleste sees people trooping down into the cellar.

She goes back into the kitchen, closing the door behind her.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Céleste gets under the kitchen table.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

The musicians continue to play.

Proust listens.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. NIGHT. LATER.

Céleste is still under the table. She is praying.

The bell goes.

She starts to get up.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

PROUST (shaking hands) You’ve been a great help to me.

Monsieur Gentil. Monsieur Ruyssen. Monsieur Poulet.

Monsieur Massis.

They file out of the room.

Just as Massis is going Proust calls him back.

PROUST Monsieur Massis.

MASSIS Monsieur.

PROUST Do you have any party pieces? Solo items that you perform?

Céleste has returned and has overheard this.

MASSIS Yes. We all do.

PROUST Yes. But you, you do?

MASSIS Yes.

PROUST Perhaps we’ll talk about it.

Proust makes a small sign of dismissal, which Massis, not being versed in these niceties, does not catch.

Céleste does.

CÉLESTE Monsieur.

She shows Massis out.

Proust is already working.

INT./EXT. 102 BOULEVARD HAUSSMANN. LIFT/HALLWAY/STREET. NIGHT.

The musicians are all in the lift when the all-clear goes (‘le berloque’). They get out and cross the hallway to the street.

POULET Air raid?

GENTIL No, it’s not. It’s the all-clear.

RUYSSEN There’s been an air raid on. We’ve been stuck up there and bombs have been falling.

POULET He’s brave.

RUYSSEN Well, I’m not. I saw one of his books the other day.

GENTIL What was it about?

RUYSSEN Love, all that sort of stuff.

Mix to:

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. HALL. NIGHT.

Céleste opening the door to Massis, who is alone.

She takes his coat. He has a flower in his buttonhole.

Céleste hesitates, then:

CÉLESTE Permit me, monsieur.

She removes the buttonhole, then starts to take Massis through to the bedroom.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Céleste puts the buttonhole in a glass of water.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Proust is holding Massis’s viola.

PROUST None of you compete, have you noticed that?

MASSIS Compete?

PROUST You and your colleagues. You criticise each other, but you don’t take offence. You collaborate.

MASSIS Naturally.

PROUST It’s not at all natural.

MASSIS It is in quartets.

PROUST Then they are a lesson to us all.

MASSIS What I’d like one day is an Amati.

PROUST (smiling) Not a Stradivarius?

MASSIS No. A Stradivarius is a concert instrument. An Amati is more … intimate.

PROUST A Stradivarius is for oratory, an Amati for conversation. And both are very expensive.

MASSIS Is your novel about music, monsieur?

PROUST Music occurs in it, music recurs in it. A particular piece of music.

MASSIS The César Franck?

PROUST Not exactly. Though it will do. But then novels are like that. People think this tune must be that tune, that this character is modelled on so-and-so. This other is a portrayal of someone else.

He shakes his head.

It isn’t like that. Art does not correspond to life. It is life. For instance there’s a violinist in my novel. Or he could be a viola player.

MASSIS What’s he like?

PROUST I don’t think he’s like you. His name is Morel. He’s a poor boy, the son of a valet. He acquires a rich friend and patron, whom I think he will abandon … he hasn’t quite decided to yet, but I can see it coming. He’ll be very cruel to him, unfeeling.

MASSIS Where did they meet?

PROUST (smiling) Not at a concert. At a railway station. A setting fruitful in chance encounters.

He holds up the viola for Massis to play.

Massis takes the viola, stands beside the bed and starts to play.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. HALL. NIGHT. LATER.

Céleste is helping Massis into his coat.

He is ready to leave when she opens her hand to give him something. It is the buttonhole.

CÉLESTE Monsieur Massis. Your flower.

Céleste closes the door.

EXT. RUE DE TOURNON. CONCERT HALL. DAY.

The musicians come out of the building and go their separate ways. Massis walks past a waiting taxi.

Proust is sitting in the taxi.

PROUST Monsieur Massis. Please.

The taxi driver opens the door for him.

Massis gets in.

The taxi drives off.

INT. RESTAURANT/CAFE. DAY.

Proust and Massis sit at a table.

PROUST Have you ever visited Venice?

MASSIS Alas, no.

PROUST What would assist me immeasurably in my work would be to listen to you and your colleagues play some of my chosen pieces by moonlight while waiting for the dawn.

MASSIS In Paris?

PROUST In Venice. A palazzo on the Grand Canal, possibly.

MASSIS All of us?

PROUST Of course.

MASSIS Well … er … that’s quite a tall order. To begin with, the authorities wouldn’t let us just go to Italy and back.

PROUST Why not?

MASSIS Well, the war. The frontiers.

PROUST Well, those are details, I have powerful friends. Artistically, how does it strike you? Practical considerations apart, can you see any objection to the scheme? Imagine the sun rising over the lagoon while the moonlight fades.

MASSIS There is another difficulty.

He gets out a piece of paper.

MASSIS I didn’t want to mention this.

He hands the paper to Proust.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Proust has just been examined by Dr Bize.

BIZE No sense in my giving you advice. You’ll just carry on as usual.

PROUST I like you, Monsieur Bize. Before you were a doctor I think you must have been a patient.

BIZE We soldier on.

PROUST I have a young friend, a viola player, a charming and gallant young man of immense talent. He was wounded at the front and is now convalescing. However, the exigencies of the war effort are such that he’s been threatened with a return to active duties. I cannot believe that the fortunes of war are so nicely balanced that they can be tipped by a return to the colours of one broken string player. You are associated with the medical board. Is it beyond the bounds of possibility that you could write a letter on his behalf? I’m approaching Pozzi, who has a formal position on the board, but I just wondered in addition if you …

BIZE Of course, Maître. I should have to see him.

PROUST Of course, of course. He’s a charming fellow. It must be happening all the time.

BIZE All the time.

Dr Bize and Proust shake hands.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. HALL. NIGHT.

Céleste closes the door of the salon behind Dr Bize as they enter the hall.

BIZE He seems better. Or at any rate no worse. The same, which is the most one can hope for.

Céleste helps Dr Bize on with his gloves and hands him his cane and hat.

BIZE Who’s this viola player?

CÉLESTE These young men. They take advantage. Money, favours … And they’re not grateful. He’s too soft-hearted. I wish they’d leave him alone. When you think of the others, mown down like so much grass in a meadow. He’ll end up getting upset, so then he works harder, and then he makes himself ill. You’d think he’d have more sense.

Céleste opens the door to Dr Bize, who leaves.

INT. DOCTOR BIZE’S SURGERY. DAY.

Massis is being examined by Dr Bize.

BIZE What did you say it was?

MASSIS A shell. A fragment of shell. My companion was killed.

BIZE Oh dear. Pain?

MASSIS Not now. Just stiff.

BIZE Getting less so?

MASSIS Yes.

BIZE Good. Or not. Did you – did you have a weak chest before your injury?

MASSIS No. But others in my family did.

Massis is putting his clothes on.

BIZE And you play the violin?

MASSIS Viola.

BIZE I am wondering if the nerves have suffered any permanent damage in the leg.

MASSIS Do you think so?

BIZE Well, it’s hard to say at this stage. Ideally one would like to keep you under observation, particularly in view of the weak chest. Prudence would postpone an immediate return to active service. I think one can make out a case for that. I shall write to Doctor Pozzi.

MASSIS Who’s he?

BIZE He sits on the board. He’s another friend of Monsieur Proust.

MASSIS Thank you.

BIZE You’re lucky to have found a protector.

MASSIS I’m sorry?

BIZE Monsieur Proust. He seems to have taken you under his wing.

MASSIS He’s fond of music.

BIZE Of course.

MASSIS My colleagues and I played for him.

BIZE Maître Proust is a sensitive man. He lives for his work.

MASSIS You call him maître. Have you read his books?

BIZE Not exactly. But he’s a great man, nevertheless.

MASSIS I will write and thank him.

BIZE What for?

MASSIS For this.

BIZE There’s no need to do that. All I’ve done is give you my honest clinical judgement. Had you appeared before me at a military tribunal I’d have said the same thing. For you to thank Maître Proust would be to suggest this letter I am writing is simply a favour to him.

MASSIS But I am going to the country tomorrow. I must write.

BIZE Monsieur Massis. There’s no need. I shall be seeing Monsieur Proust myself. I’ll convey your thanks.

MASSIS No, I’d prefer to do –

BIZE I promise.

Massis goes to the door.

MASSIS Thank you.

BIZE Monsieur Massis.

Massis has forgotten something.

BIZE Your stick.

Massis collects his stick and exits, confused.

Mix to:

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Bize is listening to Proust’s lungs.

PROUST The tribunal did excuse him?

BIZE Of course. I know every member of the board personally. He’s young. They have other things to think of. One forgets.

PROUST He seemed such a courteous young man. I thought he might have written.

CÉLESTE Monsieur is too good. They take advantage. I tell monsieur.

PROUST We know what you tell monsieur, Céleste. What was your impression of him?

BIZE He seemed a nice enough young man …

PROUST A superb musician.

BIZE … a little self-concerned.

PROUST He’s an artist.

CÉLESTE They take monsieur for granted.

PROUST Thank you. Thank you.

He dismisses them and they go, making a slight face at one another as they do.

Proust takes up a notebook and writes:

PROUST (murmuring to himself as he reads) People who are not in love themselves feel that a clever man ought to be unhappy only about such persons as are worthwhile. This is rather like being astonished that anyone should condescend to die of cholera at the bidding of so insignificant a creature as the common bacillus.

Céleste comes in.

PROUST I shall have some things to paste in later. Céleste.

She is going.

PROUST Céleste.

She turns.

PROUST No one has called?

CÉLESTE No, monsieur.

Céleste leaves, closing the door behind her.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

A glue pot, the manuscript of the novel, and long inserts waiting to be pasted in.

They have been pasting in various additions.

PROUST Read it back to me.

CÉLESTE (with some hesitations) ‘Sometimes when we have made a rough sketch of a painful passage in our writing and can advance no further a new affection and a new suffering come our way which enable us to complete it, to give it substance. And on the score of these great but useful unhappinesses we have little ground for complaint; they are plentiful and we seldom have to wait long for one.’

INT. LARUE’S RESTAURANT. NIGHT.

Proust is dining with Morand and Princess Soutzo.

PROUST I find it extremely interesting to see how people’s faces grow older. That woman over there. I thought she was the mother of someone I once knew. Certainly she could have been this woman’s daughter. But I see now mother and daughter are the same woman. She is the woman I once knew.

PRINCESS Is she in your book?

PROUST People are apt to think of a book as a sort of cube, one side of which has been removed so that the author may ‘put in’ the people he meets.

MORAND How is your quartet? Any more private performances?

PROUST Not lately, alas.

PRINCESS I can’t imagine anything more romantic, music in one’s bedroom.

PROUST Would you like to hear them?

PRINCESS Not in the middle of the night.

PROUST No. Here. Now. I’ll go and fetch them.

MORAND Marcel.

PROUST Please, I insist.

The Head Waiter comes over as Proust starts to leave.

HEAD WAITER Going so soon, Monsieur Proust? I hope you’re not ill.

PROUST Not at all. We thought we’d have a little concert. I’m just off to round up some musicians.

HEAD WAITER A concert? But there’s a war on, Monsieur Proust.

But Proust has gone.

INT. RUE DE HERRAN. LIFT/HALLWAY/POULET’S APARTMENT. NIGHT.

Proust comes out of the lift and crosses the hallway to Poulet’s apartment.

He rings the bell.

The sound of a bolt being drawn.

Poulet appears in his pyjamas. He is carrying a baby.

PROUST Monsieur Poulet. How can I apologise? Don’t bother to deny it. I have woken you up.

POULET I am woken up already.

PROUST Charming, charming. Forgive me. I am with friends, and I was telling them about your exquisite artistry and they would not rest until I’d sallied forth into the middle of the night to collect my band of warriors. Dare I presume on your good nature just once more?

POULET Alas, monsieur, I wish I could oblige you, but it is impossible. The Quartet for the moment is disbanded. Monsieur Ruyssen has been ill with his stomach. Now he is in hospital with appendicitis.

PROUST Do not say so. Still, accomplished though Monsieur Ruyssen is, there must be other players.

POULET Not at this hour of the night, monsieur. Besides, we are also short of a viola.

PROUST Ah yes, Monsieur Massis. What has happened to him? Not recalled to the front, surely?

POULET Happily no, monsieur. The authorities have extended his leave indefinitely and they have gone to the country to convalesce.

PROUST They?

POULET His fiancée, monsieur. I am sorry, monsieur. You have been so generous.

PROUST No matter. It was just a thought. I have disturbed you.

POULET No.

PROUST Forgive me, Monsieur Poulet, and remember me to all your colleagues.

POULET I will, monsieur, I will.

PROUST Charming, charming.

INT. RUE DE HERRAN. LIFT. NIGHT.

Proust impassive.

INT. LARUE’S RESTAURANT. NIGHT.

The restaurant is now virtually empty except for Morand and Princess Soutzo, who are preparing to leave.

Proust does not bother to take his coat off.

MORAND Ah. No luck?

Proust shakes his head but does not explain.

PRINCESS No matter. It’s getting late.

The Head Waiter brings the bill.

Proust scrutinises it carefully.

PROUST Remember, Paul, one does not forfeit the manager’s esteem by examining one’s bill provided he thinks one is doing it not so much from poverty as from avarice.

He takes some notes from his pocket and pays.

They make their way to the door.

The commissionaire is standing by the door.

PROUST Would you be so kind as to lend me fifty francs?

COMMISSIONAIRE Certainly, monsieur.

The commissionaire offers Proust a fifty-franc note.

PROUST No, no. Keep it. It was for you, anyway.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Proust is lying with his eyes closed, his hands outside the sheets, dead-looking.

Céleste comes in.

PROUST No one has called, Céleste?

CÉLESTE No, monsieur.

PROUST And there were no other letters?

CÉLESTE No, monsieur. Was monsieur expecting something?

PROUST No. (Pause.) Any word from Odilon?

CÉLESTE A letter this morning, monsieur.

PROUST Is he well?

CÉLESTE He’s safe, monsieur. That is all one can hope for.

PROUST Do you miss him, Céleste?

CÉLESTE A little, monsieur.

PROUST But he misses you?

CÉLESTE Oh yes, monsieur.

PROUST That is how it should be. Do you read novels. Céleste?

CÉLESTE Occasionally, monsieur.

PROUST Why?

CÉLESTE They take me out of myself, monsieur.

PROUST They should take you into yourself.

Céleste looks blank.

PROUST Every reader, while he is reading, is a reader of his own self. A book is merely an optical instrument, a lens which the author offers the reader to enable him or her to discern what, without the book, they would never have perceived in themselves.

Pause.

CÉLESTE Am I in the book, monsieur?

PROUST Would you want to be?

CÉLESTE If it is of any help to monsieur.

PROUST There is a servant certainly. But you are not she and I am not he. You can say anything, you see, as long as you don’t say I. You are reading a book, a novel say, and you come across something familiar. It is a thought or an emotion you yourself have had but thought secret, even shameful, but peculiar to you. And here it is, set down in the book. And it is as if a hand has come out and taken yours.

Proust holds out his hand. Céleste takes it between hers.

CÉLESTE Is your book like that, monsieur?

PROUST To write like that takes courage, Céleste. Nerve. Everything one has.

CÉLESTE (seeing his ink-stained fingers) Look at Monsieur’s fingers.

PROUST And that’s another thing about writing.

She is wiping his fingers.

PROUST It’s a dirty business.

INT. 102 BOULEVARD HAUSSMANN. LIFT/LANDING/DOOR OF PROUST’S APARTMENT/HALL. NIGHT.

Massis bounds out of the lift and across the landing. He rings the bell. Céleste opens the door.

MASSIS Is Monsieur Proust at home?

CÉLESTE No, monsieur.

Céleste tries to shut the door, but Massis manages to stop her.

MASSIS Will you please go and enquire? It’s Monsieur Massis.

CÉLESTE I know who it is, monsieur. He is not at home.

Looking past her, Massis sees on a table in the hall an open violin case.

Céleste, following his look, glances back but does not explain.

Massis goes away.

Céleste closes the door.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Céleste enters the room with a tray of refreshments.

A young soldier (Petain) is playing the violin.

Proust watches her put down the tray and indicates she should go, as the soldier goes on playing.

Céleste leaves.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Céleste sitting at the kitchen table.

It would be hard to tell what she is thinking.

Mix to:

Closing roller.

The Madness of King George

PREFACE

The first draft of The Madness of King George (then called The Madness of George III) was prefaced with this note:

The Windsor Castle in which much of the action takes place is the castle before it was reconstructed in the 1820s. The eighteenth century wasn’t all elegance and there should be a marked contrast between the state rooms, in which the King’s life was largely spent, and the back parts of the building, those tiny rooms and attics, cubicles almost, where, because the court was so crowded, most of the courtiers had to lodge. This was certainly the situation at Versailles and, I imagine, at most of the courts of Europe. Greville is lucky to have a little room to himself and the pages sleep stacked in a cupboard like a scene from Alice in Wonderland.

It’s not simply a contrast between public opulence and private squalor. I don’t imagine the living quarters of the court, cramped though they were, to have been particularly squalid; I think of them as being long boarded passages lined with doors, with narrow staircases and abrupt changes of level … accommodation not unlike that in the colleges at Oxford and Cambridge or on the top floors of country houses. But scrubbed and white-painted as these quarters may have been, cramped they certainly were and often situated behind and adjacent to the state rooms and grand corridors where the ceremonial life of the court was led. Access to these back parts is through doors flush with the panelling or covered in camouflaging wallpaper; when Greville, say, comes on duty it’s as if he’s threading his way through a complicated backstage before coming out onto the set.

There should be a sense too that what happens to the King in the course of his illness is reflected in the topography of the castle. His behaviour, previously geared to the public and state rooms, gradually becomes inappropriate for such settings; when he periodically escapes into the back parts of the castle (as when he is looking for the Queen, for instance), it’s comparable to his escape into the back parts of his personality, the contrast between what he seems and what he is echoed by that between the state rooms and the attics.

The notion of courts as overcrowded places I took from Nancy Mitford’s The Sun King, with its vivid account of conditions at Versailles. Not to be at court in France was social death, and the aristocracy were prepared to put up with almost any inconvenience to avoid having to reside on their estates. In order to cope with the demand, rooms in the palace were divided and divided again, the elegant state apartments of the palace backing on to a labyrinth of poky lodgings and what were, in effect, bedsitters.

While the social set-up was different in England, the court never quite the same magnet, nevertheless here too conditions must have been pretty cheek-by-jowl, particularly in unreconstructed Windsor. Formality there was (too much of it, the courtiers complained), but, with a crowd of well-to-do people crammed together in a tight place, etiquette was always under strain, and once the door closed on the King and Queen, the relief must have been as palpable as it is in the film; the royal brothers sink thankfully onto the vacated thrones and take off their shoes, and poor pregnant Lady Townsend is at last permitted to sit down. In the first version of the script I wanted to emphasise the unbuttoning that occurred once the King and Queen left the room by having Fitzroy unexpectedly return; the court is suddenly stunned back into silence and immobility, thinking Their Majesties are about to come back; however, Fitzroy is only retrieving a shawl the Queen has left, so the hubbub resumes. Revising the script, I could see that there would be no time for such underlining and it was an early cut.

‘No time’ is, of course, always the problem. Film is drama at its most impatient, ‘What happens next?’ the perpetual nag. One can never hang about, thinks the writer, petulantly. There’s a bit more leeway on stage, depending on the kind of story one’s telling, and more still on television, where the viewers are so close to the characters as not to mind whether they dawdle a bit. But with film, meandering is out of the question; it has to be brisk, so most of my atmospheric backstairs stuff never made it to the final film – so little, in fact, that I wonder now how I could ever have thought it would, and was that preamble to the script just a sales pitch?

Not really, as the odd glimpses of life behind the scenes that did make it to the screen do pay off. There is the cupboard in the wall opened by the distraught King to reveal his three pages sleeping stacked on shelves one above the other (like the Fettiplaces on their monument in Swinbrook church in Oxfordshire). The King dashes along a vaulted corridor (Broughton Castle), bursts in upon a sleeping lady-in-waiting and demands her chamber pot. ‘Do it, England,’ he adjures himself, ‘do it.’

But time and the budget put paid to much of the rest … no back corridors thronged with courtiers, still primping and titivating themselves as they hurry down to the opening concert; no shot of the same corridors silent in the small hours as one by one the doors open and sleepy courtiers stumble out en déshabille to listen to the distant howling of the King. The loss of such scenes was a sacrifice but they were cut with resignation and general agreement, the telling of the King’s story always taking priority and so edging out some of these nice vignettes.

Besides, the screenwriter’s hopes for his film must always be a little fanciful. I’d have liked (who wouldn’t?) the scene (later cut) where the King, gone suddenly mad, is followed at a discreet distance by the wondering court to have had some of the suspense and trepidation of a similar scene in Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible. I may even have put that daunting note in the stage directions. It can’t have helped; I might as well have said, ‘If it can be arranged I’d like this film to be a masterpiece.’

Earlier in life I used to revel in the break from my routine that filming provided, while feeling myself as scriptwriter to have as necessary a role as the Make-Up department or Costumes. The scene often needed tweaking, for instance, to adapt it to the chosen location; the dialogue might need tweaking too, particularly if it was a Northern piece. So I used to take my place in that ritual dance that unfolds before the shot: the production assistant calls for ‘final checks’ and as the camera assistant runs out his tape to determine the focus, Make-Up and Costumes dart in to powder a nose or straighten a tie, while the author (director, of course, permitting) has an earnest word with the actor about some emphasis or other.

That this hands-on authorship has loosened is partly due to age. Happy enough to sit around on the set all day if I’m acting, when I’m in attendance as scriptwriter I feel it’s not a proper investment of time. Besides, many of the cast knew this piece better than I did, having played it on the stage off and on for two and a half years. So whereas once upon a time I’d have been able to give a day-by-day account of the shooting of the film, my visits during the summer of 1994 to the unit on The Madness of King George were quite sporadic. Here are my notes on some of them:

8 JULY Thame Park, Oxfordshire. First day of shooting George III. Twenty-two years since I first went on location (to Halifax in 1972 for A Day Out). Then I was full of jokes and enthusiasm, watching every shot and fussing over how my precious words were spoken. Today it’s raining and I’m full of aches and pains and can scarcely bother to trail along the track to the pigsty, which is the first set-up of the film – and Nicholas Hytner’s first set-up ever. As always, even on a modest film like ours, the sheer size of the operation depresses: a dozen vans, two or three buses, half-a-dozen caravans, rows of cars and dozens and dozens of people, all of whom have good reason for being there except me, who started it all.

I watch the first shot, Nigel Hawthorne as George III on the brink of madness, talking to a pig, marvelling between takes at some wonderful run-down eighteenth-century barns with intricate grey-beamed roofs and sagging tiles. Nick H. seems happy enough and has at least got round the obstacle which always stopped me directing films – namely, having to say: ‘Action!’ My instinct would be to say: ‘Er, I think if everybody’s agreeable we might as well sort of start now – that is, if you’re ready.’ Today Mary Soan, the first assistant, says the dread word, Nick simply Making Decisions about the Shot.

28 JULY Thame Park. From the outside the house looks pleasantly dilapidated, with a handsome eighteenth-century front, behind that a Tudor house which in its turn incorporates the quite substantial remains of a medieval priory. It’s a country house out of a novel and in its lost park scattered with ancient oaks an easy metaphor for England.

And maybe it still is because until ten years or so ago it was lived in by the descendants of the original owners, then was bought at the height of the Thatcherite boom by a Japanese consortium to turn into a country club. So step inside and one finds all the period features intact, a magnificent staircase, fine fireplaces, the original doors, but all so spick and span and squared off they might have been designed by Quinlan Terry. And (the metaphor still holding) work is at a standstill: having done a radical conversion job, the consortium ran out of money and now the house is empty, just rented out from time to time for films such as ours or as a setting for commercials.

In yesterday’s morning mist, when we started shooting, it must have looked like the park and mansion in Le Grand Meaulnes but Ken Adam, our designer, has had a hard job taking the new look off the interior. The house is standing in for Kew Palace, where George III was briefly confined during his illness. The requirements of the script mean that it should look cold and uncared for, so the air of dereliction the Japanese so ruthlessly banished is being just as ruthlessly reintroduced, our painters still hard at work distressing the walls and pasting on peeling wallpaper. Incurious, careless, mildly destructive, the crew isn’t much concerned about the house; and though Thame Park isn’t Brideshead, film units nowadays are not unlike the units of a different sort that were billeted in such places fifty years ago.

5 AUGUST Oxford. Most of the cast of the stage play are taking part in the film, though some of them in much smaller roles just for old times’ sake. I have been given the part of a loquacious MP who happens to be addressing the Commons when news arrives that the King, whom everyone believes still to be mad, is actually outside in Palace Yard. The House rapidly empties, leaving the MP (MP2, as he’s known in the script) addressing the empty benches with only the Speaker left. Eventually the Speaker tiptoes out too.

The House of Commons has been set up in Convocation, with the adjoining Divinity School representing the Lobby. Coming on to the set, with Pitt and Co. on the front bench and the place crammed with two hundred extras, I am struck, as one often was in the stage production, by how like an eighteenth-century illustration it looks.

‘Do you do much extra work?’ says my neighbour on the back benches. ‘Not really,’ I say and am thankful for it, as it’s swelteringly hot and more humid inside than out because of the vapour machine pumping out steam to make the scene more photogenic and blur its edges a bit. The extras, some of them undergraduates, others local amateurs, are far more tolerant and unprotesting than their professional London counterparts. Despite the heat, they seem actually to be enjoying themselves, strolling about between takes in the Sheldonian quad, showing off their costumes and being photographed by Japanese coach parties, who maybe think that this is all a normal part of university life.

Between shots I sit around chatting with the actors, John Wood, Geoffrey Palmer, Jim Carter and Barry Stanton, whiling away the day in a fashion I still find powerfully seductive.

6 AUGUST Oxford. Today is cool and grey (‘Shakespeare in the park weather,’ someone says), which is perhaps fortunate as we have to get through eighteen or so set-ups in the day (the normal quota for a feature film some five or six). Still, everybody is greatly encouraged from having seen last night a rough assembly of what has been shot so far, the snow scenes at Thame looking particularly good, with no hint that these were filmed on the hottest day of the year. Nor had I anticipated the change-over to much more muted colours as the King’s madness takes hold, Kew (Thame Park) almost in black and white, with the bearded King in his black cloak looking especially dramatic. Though at the moment we don’t have enough money to finish the shooting at Thame, where we needed an extra day, just as we really need an extra half-day in Oxford.

The Unit Base is in the grounds of the Dragon School and after lunch I walk across the playing fields to look at the war memorial, a cross by the cricket pavilion on the bank of the river. Names of boys virtually cover the cross, and not listed in an impersonal fashion with surname and initials but with the boy’s first name (and sometimes his nickname) written out in full, with no indication of the rank he attained or the service in which he died. After the rain there are mushrooms dotted about the field and two of the ground staff are marking out the football pitch for next season. I have a pee behind the sight-screen as the school lavatories have no locks on the doors (though at least they have doors), the bleak dressing rooms and showers making me thankful it’s not a childhood I had to go through.

10 AUGUST Eton. Eton is standing in for the Palace of Westminster and the exteriors of the State Opening of Parliament at the start of the film. We film first in the cloisters, the walls of which are studded with memorial plaques to the dead of two world wars, the First War particularly. There are bronze plaques so dark as to be indecipherable, ceramic panels that look quite festive, a memorial to all the Etonians who died in the Grenadier Guards and umpteen tablets besides, some in self-conscious Latin to masters as well as boys, the conclusion of many of them, Floreat Etona.

A dolly mounted with a ramshackle light-screen trundles the camera round the cloisters with the actors rushing along behind as the King argues with the Prince of Wales and the courtiers scurry after them, trying to keep up. What I hope we capture is how wanting in proper ceremony the eighteenth-century monarchy was; how slipshod and unmanaged were its public appearances, and, whatever the flummery, not much dignity about it at all.

Then we shift to School Yard, where the MPs mass on the staircase by the chapel, watching the departure of the royal party. I sit by the statue of Henry VI (a pigeon feather caught on his nose) as the coaches wheel about the yard and Janine Duvitski as Margaret Nicholson rather shyly tries to assassinate the King. Afterwards I wander down the immaculately preserved High Street. Here is Coutts Bank and some smart tailor’s, established in the eighteenth century; there’s a grand photographer’s that looks as if it was established not long after, and other smart and elegant shops are hangers-on and camp-followers of the school.

The message is plain: these boys are rich. And I hate it and feel the worse for hating it, because the school has been so helpful and co-operative over the film. I can see, though, that to be educated here isn’t an unmixed blessing and that afterwards it could, as in Cyril Connolly’s case, be downhill all the way, even the most lustrous Oxford or Cambridge college something of a comedown after all this.

I go back to the filming to find Greville on camera, knocking at a door covered, as is most Eton woodwork, in ancient graffiti. Some of it, though, is not quite so ancient (or not ancient enough for us) and it’s only when we view the rushes that we see the date ‘1862’ large and plain on this door at which he is knocking in 1788.

3 SEPTEMBER Broughton. Drive in grey drizzle to Banbury. Feel, even just passing through the town, the rootless anonymity that has swamped the place, the centre still intact and even handsome, but ringed by superstores and huge drive-in centres that service the acres of fuck-hutch estates that house its expanded population. ‘Thriving’ as I suppose it’s called.

Broughton, a mile or two away, could not be in sharper contrast: the most beautiful of houses, medieval in a sixteenth-or seventeenth-century shell with Gothick additions, entered across a moat and through a gatehouse – almost a standard kit for an idyll. There’s a formal garden, great plush borders along the old ramparts, and cows and sheep grazing in the water meadows beyond, and overlooking it all this rambling honey-coloured house.

Onto this rural paradise the film unit has descended like an invading army. Twenty or so vans have ploughed up one of the meadows, thirty cars are parked under the trees; there are half a dozen caravans, two marquees and the sodden ground is rapidly turning into a quagmire. Churning up the edges of the perfect lawns, company cars ferry the actors to and from the location in the house where the sparks, who have seen it all before, lug their lights and tripods down the superb vaulted corridors.

Seemingly unaffected by all this is the lady of the house, Mariette Saye … really Lady Saye and Sele (only nobody is quite sure whether one says Saye and Sele or just says Saye; say nothing the simplest). She’s tall, cheerful and wonderfully welcoming, happy to show anybody round the house, as magical inside as out, handsome rooms lined with linenfold panelling and a splendid drawing room overlooking the moat. My wonder at the place makes me foolish and I’m sure I gush, though it’s partly to offset the unimpressed one-location-very-much-like-another behaviour inseparable from film crews, who congregate at the door, having coffee and a cig and trampling on yet another bit of lawn.

As always I find I’m pretty surplus to requirements, my only contribution a muttered suggestion to Nick Hytner that Rupert Graves’s ad lib, ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ would be more in period if he said, ‘It is no matter, no matter.’ I watch Nigel H. rehearse the pisspot scene, then walk round the garden with Mark Thompson before buying some plants on sale in the potting shed and coming away. Except then I call in at the church, which is full of the sound of hoovering, a friendly grey-haired man, Welsh, who may be the vicar, though I don’t like to ask, seemingly vacuuming the altar. It’s the bats, he explains, the church disputed territory between English Heritage, who want them expelled, and English Nature, who don’t. In the meantime he hoovers.

Unnoted in my diary were locations even more spectacular. The opening concert was shot in the Double Cube room at Wilton, where the hand-bell ringers give their somnolent rendering of ‘Greensleeves’ (‘Fascinating stuff!’ says the King) in front of the sumptuous backcloth of Van Dyck’s portrait of the Earl of Pembroke and his family. The Prince of Wales’s lodgings were at Wilton and the Royal Naval College at Greenwich, where Wren’s Painted Hall was the setting for the second concert, when the King runs amok. The long gallery in which George III sees Pitt at the start of the film and its close, and down which Pitt bows himself endlessly out, is at Syon House, as was the Prince of Wales’s breakfast room. Arundel Castle doubled for Windsor. Medievalised around the same time, Arundel shares many of the features of its more familiar counterpart, though catch either of them on a wet day and they look like long-stay institutions for the criminally insane.

The title of the stage play is The Madness of George III and of the film, The Madness of King George. This was a marketing decision; the American backers somewhat shamefacedly explained that the audience might think, seeing The Madness of George III, that they had missed out on The Madness of George and The Madness of George II, a survey having apparently shown that there were many moviegoers who came away from Kenneth Branagh’s film of Henry V wishing they had seen its four predecessors. Where this leaves The Third Man (or The Second Mrs Tanqueray) I’m not sure.

Many of the actors and actresses in the stage play took part in the film, though not always in the same roles. Nigel Hawthorne remained George III and Julian Wadham Pitt, and two of the King’s doctors and two of his pages were the same on stage and on film. Even when this continuity wasn’t possible there was often a niche in the film for actors who had been displaced: Iain Mitchell, who played Sheridan on the stage, is the pig farmer (with terrible teeth) at the start of the film. Helen Mirren played Queen Charlotte, but Selina Cadell, who had played the Queen in the second National Theatre production, became Mrs Cordwell, a patient in Dr Willis’s Lincolnshire asylum who lost her wits when her sea-captain husband was drowned off the Goodwin Sands. The scene in the asylum was originally much longer, with the patients due to be played by some of our leading stage directors, including Richard Eyre, Sam Mendes and Declan Donnellan. The directors proved, of course, much more temperamental and hard to please than actors and one by one got cold feet, leaving only Stephen Daldry gamely plying a lonely sickle. Alas for his loyalty, his scene was one of the earliest cuts.

The marriage of the Prince of Wales to Mrs Maria Fitzherbert comes into the film as it didn’t into the play. The Prince had married her secretly (in her own drawing room) in 1785, really in order to satisfy Mrs Fitzherbert’s Catholic conscience as she refused to sleep with him otherwise. Valid in the eyes of her Church, the marriage was always invalid in legal and constitutional terms, as the Prince could not marry without his father’s permission and if he married a Catholic he forfeited his right to the throne. Not that this mattered to Mrs Fitzherbert, who, sensible woman that she was, had no interest in the throne anyway. No one has a wrong word for her: sweet-natured, amiable and no great beauty, she was received at court and was on good terms with the King and Queen, both of them seemingly in no doubt about her relation to the Prince. However, when, early in 1787, the existence of the marriage was raised in Parliament, the Prince of Wales denied it even to his friend Fox, who, believing him, stood up in the Commons and denied it too. Not surprisingly, Mrs Fitzherbert was very cross and, though she forgave the Prince, she never forgave Fox, who in turn found it hard to forgive the Prince.

All this had blown over by the time George III became ill late in 1788 and the marriage played no part in what came to be called the Regency Crisis. In my script it does, partly because the plot needed thickening and also because I wanted Mrs Fitzherbert to have her own story and not just be sitting around as the companion of the Prince. At the end of the film the Prince is seen to have rejected Mrs Fitzherbert, but in fact they lived together openly for another fourteen years, even after the Prince’s marriage (legal but disastrous) to Princess Caroline of Brunswick. Rejection, when it did come in 1803, was as crude and brutal as royal behaviour often is, recalling the unfeelingness with which a later Prince of Wales, having met Mrs Simpson, briskly put aside his long-time mistress, Mrs Dudley-Ward. Sometimes it’s as if royalty know about good behaviour by hearsay and can give only a faulty imitation of it, or, as Willis remarks before meeting the King, ‘Deferred to, agreed with, acquiesced in. Who can flourish on such a daily diet of compliance? To be curbed, stood up to, in a word thwarted, exercises the character, elasticates the spirit, makes it more pliant. It is the want of such exercise that makes rulers rigid.’ Or spoiled, as Nanny would say.

In general the Prince of Wales is more forceful and more of a villain in the film than he was on the stage or in life. There’s no doubt that he was anxious to be made Regent, but he was more careful of appearances than I have made him and was more governed too by that fellow-feeling all royals have for each other. The Prince of Wales, for instance, was understandably sensitive to any suggestion, particularly in the press, that his father was mad. For a subject to remark on the King’s state of mind seemed to the Prince insolent and intolerable. Or sometimes seemed to him insolent and intolerable. For the Prince himself to make such a suggestion (and to make jokes on the subject) was permissible and permissible too, a lot of the time, for his cronies. But suddenly they would find they had gone too far, the Prince would get on his high royal horse again and his friends would have to mind their p’s and q’s for a bit. It’s a characteristic of royalty that one minute they are happy to masquerade as ordinary persons and the next they demand to be treated as a race apart. Like the rest of us, I suppose, they just want things both ways, but this ‘Now you “Sir” me, now you don’t’ must make intimacy with royalty a little wearing, and friendship with them must always involve an element of Grandmother’s Footsteps. Like Fitzroy, courtiers must learn to be pretty sure-footed, with little hope of ever being ‘natural’, the ideal somewhere between those who can’t forget the royals’ highness (and so are stilted) and those who forget it altogether (and so are cheeky).

These reservations apart, I found I was less sceptical about the monarchy as an institution than my colleagues on the production team, partly because (and slightly to my surprise) I was older than most of them and more set in my ways. Certainly I’m no republican and find nothing particularly extraordinary in the difficulties and embarrassments of the present Prince of Wales. It’s a role, after all, which has seldom been satisfactorily filled; I suppose George V was good enough at it, but he was a dull man who was heir-apparent for a relatively short time, acceding to the position on the unexpected death of his much less suitable elder brother for whom no one had a good word, some even identifying him with Jack the Ripper. (Even the Sun hasn’t managed to insinuate that Prince Charles is a serial killer.) But when the Prince of Wales in the film says that to be heir to the throne is not a position, it is a predicament, it’s meant to be both a cry from the heart and a statement of an obvious truth.

Given my royalist inclinations, I haven’t followed the goings-on over the break-up of the marriage of the Prince and Princess of Wales, or read any of the literature it has occasioned. I don’t say this prissily. In my own circle of friends divorce dismays me for entirely selfish reasons: it alters the social landscape in unpredictable ways, curtailing friendships, shutting down havens and generally making life less comfortable. The Prince of Wales’s marriage, I need hardly add, does not impinge in quite this way, but like everything to do with the monarchy I’d just like to be able to take it for granted as one used to do. I don’t want to have to think about it. I just want it to be there.

However, I would like to tiptoe into a royal bedroom if only to see how far, when one party is royal and the other not, the game of Grandmother’s Footsteps still goes on between the sheets. At what point is rank suspended and royalty discontinued, and is the subject, even when forgetting him/herself utterly, still obliged to remember his/her place? Toiling over that regal eminence, I can imagine Edward VIl’s mistresses still feeling constrained to call him ‘sir’, and without their ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ royals may feel too naked altogether. Though maybe the discarding of this last rag of distinction gives them a thrill denied to the rest of us who, when we have no clothes on, have nothing left to take off. More reports, please.

The parallels with today’s monarchy were largely unsought, but they become more obvious as the film proceeds, the final shot of St Paul’s consciously recalling the television coverage of the marriage of the Prince and Princess of Wales. (On the other hand, if one is going to film the entry into St Paul’s, there is only one place from which to do it; television chose it and so did we.)

Still, the conversation as the Royal Family pauses at the top of the steps to acknowledge the crowds has acquired a resonance it did not quite have when the play was written three years ago.

‘We must try to be more of a family,’ says the King. ‘There are model farms now, model villages, even model factories. Well, we must be a model family for the nation to look to.’

‘But, Pa,’ complains the Prince of Wales, ‘I want something to do.’

‘Follow in my footsteps,’ says his unfeeling father. ‘That is what you should do. Smile at the people. Wave to them. Let them see we are happy! That is why we are here.’

George III has a bad reputation in the United States, because he is thought of as the king who caused the War of Independence. Were this true (which it isn’t), then he could be said to have earned America’s gratitude: if without him there would have been no war, there would also have been no United States (or they would at least have been postponed). By the same token I always feel Judas deserves some sort of slap on the back, because without him Christianity would never have got off the ground.

By 1788, as Pitt says in one version of the stage play, ‘America is over,’ meaning not merely the war but the relevance of America as a factor in English politics. In the shake-up of parliamentary allegiances brought about by the war, Pitt had sided with Fox against the King and Lord North. This so rankled with George III that he would not leave the subject alone, to the extent that when at the King’s request Pitt formed a ministry in 1784 he made it a condition the King would not mention America. So when at the outset of his illness the King starts to ‘harp on about America’, it is a sign that the royal self-control is beginning to break down.

Fox was temperamentally drawn to the colonists, Pitt less so, but neither was in sympathy with the King’s view that the colonies were an inalienable estate and part of his royal patrimony. The King’s attitude has echoes today, with the monarch much more wedded to the idea of the Commonwealth than is the Prime Minister; it was one of the points of difference between the Queen and Mrs Thatcher, who probably found Her Majesty every bit as intractable on the subject as Pitt did George III. In the language of the higher Civil Service, George III was ‘a bit of a loose cannon’; one never knew what he would be up to (and into) next. At the end of the eighteenth century the monarch was, of course, less circumscribed than today, and constitutional practice still permitted the Crown a good deal of freedom, and it wasn’t a freedom George III was prepared to share.

KING When people in Parliament oppose, go against my wishes, I still find it very vexing. Try as I can, it seems to me disloyalty.

PITT Your Majesty should not take it so personally.

KING Not take it personally? But I’m King. This is my government. How else should I take it but personally?

PITT The Whigs believe it is their duty to oppose you, sir.

KING Duty? Duty? What sort of duty is that?

It was a duty to the future, in fact, as the idea of an opposition that was legitimate and not simply bloody-minded was only just beginning to emerge. I have made Pitt say, ‘The King will do as he’s told.’ That’s a bit in the future too, as it was quite hard, until his health began to fail, to tell George III anything; he was far too conscientious and well informed for that. Certainly had he been less dutiful, less busy, he would have been less trouble to the politicians and perhaps to himself, as some at least of his mental torment can be put down to the frustration of a conscientious nature. ‘Cork too tight in the bottle,’ says Dundas. ‘The man has to break out somehow.’

Whether America played any part in causing his ‘breaking out’, it would be hard to say. He never wanted to be opposed, and to be contradicted as ordinary mortals were was, as Willis says, one of the lessons he had to learn. Certainly after his illness he was able to swallow America as he could not before, and he learned to be more sly, neatly reversing Pitt’s embargo on mentioning America by making Pitt promise that he in his turn would not mention, still less propose, Catholic emancipation.

KING As for the future, Mr Pitt, you are not to disagree with me on anything, what? My mind is not strong enough to stand it.

PITT (drily) I will do my duty, sir.

Whether or not George III was suffering from the metabolic disease porphyria remains an open question. In their book George III and the Mad Business (1969), Ida Macalpine and Richard Hunter argue convincingly for this retrospective diagnosis on the strength of the purple tinge the King’s urine took on while he was ill. Less convincingly, they trace the supposed incidence of the disease in other royals, nipping up and down George III’s family tree, attributing no end of assorted ailments to the same cause. So Mary Queen of Scots was said to have had the condition and her son James I; Queen Anne, George IV and even Frederick the Great. Although Hunter and Macalpine suggest that George IV’s brother, the Duke of Kent, was similarly affected, the condition does not seem to have been passed on to his daughter, Queen Victoria, so the (rather heartless) joke of the final caption probably has no substance.

The condition presents problems that are as much metaphysical as medical. If porphyria is a metabolic disease, the symptoms of which are similar to, and which even today can be mistaken for, those of mental illness, in what sense is a sufferer from porphyria different from someone who is more routinely deranged? In what sense is all mental illness physical in origin? These are large questions and I didn’t want to venture into what is both a swamp and a battlefield, but felt that I needed at least to show that I was aware of the problem. Hence this exchange between Greville and Dr Willis:

GREVILLE Do you think His Majesty is mad? Sometimes he seems … just … ill.

[The dots indicating my opacities as much as Greville’s.]

WILLIS Perhaps. But he has all the symptoms of madness.

GREVILLE So what is the difference?

WILLIS I am a doctor, Mr Greville, not a philosopher.

‘And this is a film,’ he might have added. ‘And I’ve not been got up in a bob wig and black silk stockings just to safeguard the intellectual credentials of the author.’ So the exchange was, of course, cut.

There had to be some sort of explanation, though, if only because of the scenes involving the urine. But since it was only identified in the 1930s, porphyria could not be acknowledged in the film or the play without anachronism. When the play was first put on at the Royal National Theatre, there was a penultimate scene which catapulted the pages and equerries into the twentieth century, where Mrs Macalpine explained about the blue piss. This didn’t entirely work and when the play was revived the following season, the scene was omitted. Trying to work out how to get across this information in the film, I sometimes wished I’d been writing for Hollywood thirty years ago, because then there would have been no problem:

EXT. RIVER BANK. DAY.

As Braun and Papandiek pour the contents of their chamber pots into the river a sudden shaft of sunlight catches Papandiek’s face and he looks up, dreamily.

PAPANDIEK There will one day come a time when our master’s disease will be recognized for what it is … not madness – (Cue Heavenly Choir.) – but porphyria!

He raises the crystal chamber pot to heaven and we see looking down on him the faces of Mary Queen of Scots, James I, Queen Anne, George IV and Frederick the Great. And they are all smiling!

Except, of course, that they wouldn’t be smiling, because even though the condition is more often (though not always) diagnosed today, there is still no cure, just improved alleviation.

Monarchy is a performance, and part of the King’s illness consists in his growing inability to sustain that performance. When the King is on the road to recovery, Chancellor Thurlow discovers him reading King Lear and congratulates him on seeming more himself.

‘Yes’, says the King, ‘I have always been myself … Only now I seem myself … I have remembered how to seem.’

The King is then rushed off to Westminster to be shown to the MPs, who, still under the impression that he is mad, are busy passing the Regency Bill. They rush out to greet him and he addresses them, haltingly at first but with increasing confidence, muttering to the pages at the finish, ‘How’s that, lads? Not bad, eh?’ – i.e., the performance has gone well; he has remembered how to seem.

Finally, as the Royal Family go up the steps of St Paul’s for the Thanksgiving Service at the close of the film, the King urges his family to smile and wave and pretend to be happy, because that is their job. These scenes would, I hope, have rung a bell with the late Ervin Goffmann, the American sociologist whose analysis of the presentation of self and its breakdown in the twentieth century seems just as appropriate to this deranged monarch from the eighteenth century.

The Thanksgiving Service at St Paul’s did not have to be invented; it’s a nice conclusion to the King’s illness and needed no departure from historical truth. Beginning my career as a historian, I find it harder to take liberties with the truth than someone whose upbringing has been less factually inhibited. I have to be forced into departures from history by the exigencies of the drama, the insistence of the director and sheer desperation. Had Nicholas Hytner at the outset suggested bringing the King from Kew to Westminster to confront the MPs, I would have been outraged at this adjustment to what had actually happened. By the time I was plodding through the third draft I would have taken the King to Blackpool if I thought it would have helped.

Alan Bennett, 1995

CAST AND CREDITS

The Madness of King George was released in December 1994. The cast was as follows:

GREVILLE

Rupert Graves

QUEEN CHARLOTTE

Helen Mirren

LADY PEMBROKE

Amanda Donohoe

AMELIA

Charlotte Curley

ROYAL CHILDREN

Peter Bride-Kirk

Eve Cadman

Thomas Copeland

Joanna Hall

Cassandra Halliburton

Russell Martin

Natalie Palys

PRINCE OF WALES

Rupert Everett

DUKE OF YORK

Julian Rhind-Tutt

FOOTMEN

David Leon

Martin Julier

GEORGE III

Nigel Hawthorne

FITZROY

Anthony Calf

PAPANDIEK

Matthew Lloyd Davies

FORTNUM

Adrian Scarborough

BRAUN

Paul Corrigan

THURLOW

John Wood

FOOTMEN

Don Hammond

Nick Irons

SERGEANT AT ARMS

Nick Sampson

BLACK ROD

Jeremy Child

SPEAKER

Nicholas Selby

PITT

Julian Wadham

FOX

Jim Carter

SHERIDAN

Barry Stanton

DUNDAS

Struan Rodger

MARGARET NICHOLSON

Janine Duvitski

MRS FITZHERBERT

Caroline Harker

FARMER

Iain Mitchell

BAKER

Roger Hammond

WARREN

Geoffrey Palmer

LADY ADAM

Celestine Randall.

PEPYS

Cyril Shaps

AMPUTEE

Michael Grandage

WILLIS

Ian Holm

WILLIS’S ATTENDANTS

James Peck

Clive Brunt

Fergus Webster

Barry Gillespie

Joe Maddison

MRS CORDWELL

Selina Cadell

FOOTMAN

Dermot Keaney

CLERGYMAN

Peter Woodthorpe

MEMBERS OF PARLIAMENT

Collin Johnson

Roger Ashton-Griffiths

1ST MP

Robert Swam

2ND MP

Alan Bennett

Director

Nicholas Hytner

Producers

Stephen Evans

David Parfitt

Director of Photography

Andrew Dunn, BSC

Editor

Tariq Anwar

Production Designer

Ken Adam

Costumes

Mark Thompson

Music

George Fenton

INT. WESTMINSTER. A DOOR. DAY.

A hand (the sleeve military, the hand gloved) knocks tentatively on the worn wood.

INT. WESTMINSTER. ANTEROOM. DAY.

Opening, the door discloses a royal waiting room. Robed and crowned, but settled comfortably among her children, is the Queen, Queen Charlotte. A middle-aged, plain-spoken woman (German but not in a governessy way), the Queen is attended by her Mistress of Robes, the Countess of Pembroke, tall, beautiful, alert. The Queen beckons to Amelia, her daughter of four years old, and licks her handkerchief to wipe a smut off the child’s face. Too old for her to wipe anything off his face (except the smile) is the Queen’s eldest Son, George, Prince of Wales. Now twenty-six, the Prince of Wiles is beginning to lose his looks through drink, hanging about and the usual difficulties associated with being heir to the throne, the job specification for which would have to include the ability to kick your heels for half a lifetime. With the Prince is his younger brother Frederick, Duke of York, a silly boy, with a startled wig but no malice in him at all. Both are in full ceremonial rig. Heedless of these lustrous personages and their royalty, pages and equerries bustle in and out, somewhere we do not yet see, robing His Majesty. Busy, busy, busy, except that the tentative opening of the door by an attractive young man briefly halts the proceedings. Queen, princes, pages, royal retainers, all pause and take him in. Bowing, the young man comes into the room; he might be Alice walking through the Looking-Glass.

LADY PEMBROKE (whispering to the Queen) Captain Greville, ma’am. His Majesty’s new equerry.

The Queen acknowledges Greville. The Prince of Wales and the Duke of York, his younger brother, are standing, bored, to one side.

PRINCE OF WALES (managing to combine languor with impatience) Oh, God. Come on, Pa. What’s that one, Fred?

He points to a cross nestling among the scores of decorations clustered on the coat of his brother.

DUKE OF YORK This? The other day I discovered I’m Bishop of Osnabrück. Amazing what one is, really.

The Prince is about to sneak a drink from his flask when he is spotted by his mother.

QUEEN George!

He takes a defiant swig before passing it to his brother, the Queen’s attention now distracted by the somewhat flustered arrival of the Lord Chancellor, Thurlow.

THURLOW Majesty.

QUEEN Ah, Lord Chancellor.

THURLOW (aside) God, this place is as cold as a greyhound’s nostril.

Greville is bewildered by the fret and bustle of the room. Nobody offers to help; pages brush past him and when Greville tries to buttonhole the haughty senior equerry, Captain Fitzroy, he ignores him too.

GREVILLE Captain Fitzroy? Excuse me … I wondered if … Could you show me …

INT. WESTMINSTER. ROBING ROOM. DAY.

Meanwhile, behind a curtain His Majesty is being assembled. The Garter is fastened round a white-stockinged leg; orders are pinned to a crowded coat and, at a whispered ‘Crown’ from page Fortnum, page Braun goes in search of the box containing the supreme bauble. Baby Amelia has parked her toy horse just where everyone will fall over it, which Fitzroy would have done had he not kicked it smartly out of the way. Weeping, the King’s little daughter goes in search of her papa, whose adorning is reaching its climax with the putting on of the crown. Taking the priceless and intricate thing out of its battered case, Braun spots a flaw on an otherwise flawless emerald, so spits on it and buffs it with his elbow. He is about to place the crown on the royal head when a little cough and a raised eyebrow from Fitzroy indicate that this is not Braun’s place. Fitzroy takes the crown and does the honours himself. It is at this moment, with the crown on the King’s head and his ermine train fully unfurled, that Amelia peeps through the curtain, sees her papa and runs to him.

AMELIA Papa, Papa! Papa, Papa! Lift me up.

KING Hey, hey, what’s this, madam? Hey, hey?

So, though he is crowned and in his robes of state, it is as a family man that we first see George III, the father of his people perhaps, the father of fifteen children certainly, the youngest of which he now picks up and, pointing out a place on his cheek, lets her kiss him. Together they regard themselves in a long pier-glass. A solid, red-faced man in his fifties, he is kindly and good-natured but nervous and abrupt. So, having put Amelia down, he picks up the reins of government, the genial family man banished in favour of his testy, impatient, official self.

Right!

INT. WESTMINSTER. CLOISTERS. DAY.

The King strides briskly out of the robing room and, collecting the Queen en route, heads the procession round the cloisters. The royal couple are preceded by an ancient sword-bearer, walking (or rather stumbling) backwards as etiquette demands, and they are followed, practically at a run, by the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York and the rest of the court. This is not royalty in its processing as we know it today – stately, ordered, a performance as well as a progress. This is a rout, a scramble almost, and leading the scramble the King. And though this isn’t a Sunday run-out in the car with the parents in the front and the children at the back, what better place is there for a quarrel?

KING The son is so … unwholesome.

QUEEN He is fatter. Always fatter.

KING Fatter because he is not doing, what, what? Do you know England, sir?

PRINCE OF WALES I think so, sir.

KING You know Brighton, Bath – yes, but do you know its mills and manufactories? Do you know its farms? Because I do. Do you know what they call me?

PRINCE OF WALES What do they call you, sir?

KING Farmer George. Do you know what that is?

PRINCE OF WALES Impertinence, sir?

KING No, sir. Love.

QUEEN Affection.

KING It is admiration, sir. You ought to marry, sir. Settle down.

QUEEN Yes, grow up.

KING A good plain woman. That’s what you want.

The Queen makes the best of this.

Then the people will love you, sir, as they love me. It is not good, this idleness. That is why you are getting fat, sir. Do not be fat, sir. Fight it! Fight it! Stop!

The procession stumbles to a halt.

Now. Who’s got that blasted speech?

THURLOW Here, sir.

KING Lord Chancellor. (to Queen) Ready?

QUEEN (wearily) Yes.

KING Come on. Let’s get it over with.

The procession swings round out of vision, up the stairs to the House of Lords.

INT. WESTMINSTER. HOUSE OF COMMONS. DAY.

The House is crammed with MPs. Black Rod approaches the Speaker’s chair.

BLACK ROD The King commands the members of this Honourable House to attend His Majesty in the House of Peers.

The Speaker leads the MPs out of the House, Pitt, the Prime Minister, paired with Fox, the Leader of the Opposition. A rabble of MPs follows, many of them less respectable than their successors today and certainly less formal. Some wear hats, some don’t, and others look like farmers at a cattle market.

INT. WESTMINSTER. LOBBY TO HOUSE OF COMMONS. DAY.

The MPs make their way through the Lobby towards the House of Lords. Fox, genial and loose-living, tries to make conversation with his opposite number, who is young, glacial and quite without humour.

FOX Do you enjoy all this flummery, Mr Pitt?

PITT No, Mr Fox.

FOX Do you enjoy anything, Mr Pitt?

PITT A balance sheet, Mr Fox. I enjoy a good balance sheet.

INT. WESTMINSTER. HOUSE OF LORDS. DAY.

Pitt and Fox lead the Commons into the Lords to hear the King’s speech. Over their heads, we see the King start to read the speech from the throne at the far end.

KING (reading) Whereas we, George III, in this year of our Lord 1788, do open this Parliament, giving notice that our will and pleasure is that the following bills shall be laid before this House:

A bill for the regulation of trade with our possessions in North America …

There is a reproving cough from the Lord Chancellor, Thurlow, and the King pulls a face.

Our former possessions in North America …

The King’s speech goes on in the background.

FOX I see that the King did not write his own speech, Mr Pitt.

PITT The King will do as he’s told, Mr Fox.

FOX (to Sheridan) Then why not be rid of him? If a few ramshackle colonists in America can send him packing, why can’t we?

EXT. WESTMINSTER. COURTYARD. DAY.

Greville and a crowd of pages and equerries run down the steps into the yard, Greville then marshalling the crowd to await the coming of the royal party.

GREVILLE Attend. Attend.

EXT. WESTMINSTER. COURTYARD. DAY.

The crowd watches as the King, now divested of his ceremonial robes goes towards his coach. Fitzroy draws his attention to a small queue of petitioners, each waiting with a written request.

FITZROY The petitioners, Your Majesty.

KING Oh, yes … thank you … thank you … thank you … thank you.

As her turn comes, Margaret Nicholson suddenly draws a knife from her scroll and strikes the King’s chest.

What? What?

There is a moment of shocked silence as he feels for the wound, then Nicholson strikes at him again, and there is turmoil.

No, no. I am not hurt.

Greville and Fitzroy struggle with Nicholson, as the Queen embraces the King.

FITZROY His Majesty is unharmed.

NICHOLSON I have a property due to me from the Crown of England.

KING The poor creature’s mad. No, no, no, no. Do not hurt her, she’s not hurt me.

NICHOLSON Give me my property or the country will be drenched in blood.

KING Will it indeed, madam? Well, not with this. It’s a fruit knife. Wouldn’t cut a cabbage. Who are you, sir?

FITZROY This is Captain Greville, sir, the new equerry.

KING (pointing at Greville’s epaulette, which has become unbuttoned in the struggle) Well, you’re undressed, sir, do yourself up, sir. You’re an equerry, not a scarecrow.

Greville retires to adjust his dress.

NICHOLSON I have a property due to me from the Crown of England.

Nicholson is hustled away.

QUEEN You murderous fiend! (embracing King) Oh, thank God I have you yet.

KING Do not fuss, madam. The King has no wound, just a torn waistcoat.

PRINCE OF WALES (aside to the Duke of York) One would consider that almost as vexing.

KING What was that?

PRINCE OF WALES I was rejoicing, sir, that you are unharmed. They are now getting into their coaches.

QUEEN (bitterly) The son rejoices. The Prince of Wales rejoices. Faugh!

DUKE OF YORK Me too, Pa. God save the King and so on.

The Queen gets into the coach as Pitt and Thurlow come hurrying down the steps and over to the King, who is now on the steps of the coach.

PITT Your Majesty.

KING Ah ha, Mr Pitt. Well, you’ve had a lucky escape, what, what?

PITT I, Your Majesty?

KING Yes, you. You’re my Prime Minister. I chose you. If anything happens to me, you’ll be out, what, what, and Mr Fox will be in, hey, hey.

PITT I think there’s no danger of that, sir.

KING Right! Back to Windsor.

As the coaches move off, the Queen calls to the Prince of Wales, who is in his own coach.

QUEEN George, smile, you lazy hound. It’s what you’re paid for. Smile and wave. Come on, everybody, smile and wave. Everybody smile and wave, smile and wave.

The Prince of Wales sinks back out of view, leaving only his languid hand acknowledging the cheers of the crowd.

INT. WESTMINSTER. ROBING ROOM. DAY.

The King gone, all ceremony is abandoned, the pages bundle up the royal robes, toss the crown between them before they put it back in its box and hurry to depart.

INT. COACH. DAY.

Greville crammed into the coach with all the pages, innumerable boxes, etc., en route for Windsor.

EXT. WINDSOR. DUSK.

Establishing shot of Windsor with the King’s coach entering the castle as servants run across the green to attend the royal party as they disembark.

INT. CARLTON HOUSE. PRINCE OF WALES’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

The Prince of Wales is in bed, waiting for Maria Fitzherbert, who is at her prayers. Maria is warm, pretty and not very clever. She is genuinely devoted to the Prince and tries to believe the best of him.

PRINCE OF WALES Pa’s right. I am getting fatter.

MARIA I don’t mind that.

PRINCE OF WALES What do you mind?

MARIA That the world thinks I am just your mistress, that’s what I mind.

PRINCE OF WALES You shall be Queen one day, the whole bag of tricks, I am determined.

MARIA (shaking her head) I just don’t want to be thought a Catholic whore.

She gets into bed.

George.

PRINCE OF WALES Mmmm?

MARIA If you tried harder to get on with the King, you could tell him the truth and …

PRINCE OF WALES He’d forgive me?

He laughs, kissing her.

You are a sweet, silly creature.

MARIA Try, George.

The Prince of Wales looks fed up.

EXT. WINDSOR GREAT PARK. DAY.

An avenue of trees, with Windsor Castle in the background. It is early morning. The King is riding hard and Fitzroy is finding it difficult to keep up.

EXT. WINDSOR PARK. DAY.

Close-ups of the King’s hot and sweating face.

EXT. COUNTRYSIDE NEAR A FARM. DAY.

The King reins his horse in and we hear the sound of screaming. The King turns his horse, sniffing the air.

KING Pigs! Come on, boy, come on.

EXT. FARMYARD. DAY.

The King rides into a yard with some pigsties and dismounts.

KING I say, these are fine specimens. What are they, Tamworths, what?

FARMER If it please Your Majesty.

KING Yes, oh yes. Fine breed. Plenty of meat on them, hey? Big litter. Show me the youngster, what, what? Yes, that’s the one. Yes, I say, hey hey. You know what you are, don’t you? You’re a Tamworth. Really? Are you really?

Beaming, the King holds the squealing piglet up to his face and talks to it. Fitzroy looks on with some disapproval.

Cut from the pandemonium of the farmyard to the sudden quiet of:

INT. WINDSOR. THE LIBRARY. DAY.

At the far end of a long library the King is signing warrants and state papers handed to him by Pitt, who stands stiffly by. The King takes care to look through each paper before signing it.

KING Married yet, Mr Pitt, what, what?

PITT No, sir.

KING Got your eye on anybody then, hey?

PITT No, sir.

KING A man should marry. Yes, yes. Best thing I ever did. And children, you see. Children. Great comfort, of course.

He looks at one of the warrants he is signing.

This fellow we’re putting in as professor at Oxford, was his father Canon of Westminster?

PITT I’ve no idea, sir.

KING Yes, yes. Phillips. That’s the father. This is the son. And the daughter married the organist at Norwich Cathedral. Sharpe. Yes, and their son is the painter. And the other son is a master at Eton. And he married somebody’s niece.

He tries to think whom.

PITT Your Majesty’s knowledge of even the lowest of your appointments never ceases to astonish me.

KING What’s happened to Mr Fox?

Pitt simply raises his eyebrows.

Such a dodger. Reform! And too many ideas. Not like you, Mr Pitt. You don’t have ideas. Well, you have one very big idea: balancing the books. And a very good idea it is to have too, what, what? The best. And one with which I absolutely agree, as I agree with you, Mr Pitt, on everything, apart from the place we must not mention.

The King goes over to a globe and runs his finger along the coastline of North America. Pitt says nothing.

The colonies.

PITT They’re now called the United States, sir.

KING Are they? Goodness me! The United States. Well, I haven’t mentioned them. I prefer not to, whatever they’re called.

Pitt, unable to restrain himself, speaks again.

PITT They are a fact, sir.

The King turns, furious, and thrusts his face into Pitt’s and seems about to explode, then suddenly the thunder evaporates.

KING The vicar of Lichfield.

PITT Sir?

KING The vicar of Lichfield. It was his niece that married the second son of the organist at Norwich Cathedral. Goodnight, Mr Pitt.

PITT Goodnight, Your Majesty.

The King returns to his desk, as Pitt gathers up his papers, bows and walks backwards the whole length of the enormous library.

INT. WINDSOR. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

A line of hand-bell players perform an exquisitely boring (and slow) version of ‘Greensleeves’ for the benefit of the King and Queen and the court. The King and Queen listen with rapt attention and seem actually to be enjoying themselves. But then they are sitting down; everybody else, the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York included, is standing and wilting with boredom and fatigue. As they pretend to listen, the court ladies are sizing up the charms of the new equerry, Greville, and whispering behind their fans. Greville, a shy young man, is uncomfortably aware of their attentions. We note that one of the ladies, heavily pregnantt, is visibly distressed. Eventually the bell-ringers reach their somnolent conclusion and the King bursts into applause, in which he is joined by the Queen and (less enthusiastically) by the court.

KING (turning round and getting the courtiers to clap louder) Fascinating stuff, what, what? Let’s have it again.

The hand-bells start again. The court dies of boredom.

INT. WINDSOR. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

The pregnant lady-in-waiting whispers to Lady Pembroke. Lady Pembroke waits until the Queen acknowledges her, then murmurs something in her ear.

LADY PEMBROKE Your Majesty, Lady Townsend wishes to sit down.

QUEEN Certainly not.

KING What?

QUEEN Lady Townsend. Wants to sit down.

KING What for?

The Queen whispers to him.

So? You’ve had fifteen children, (raising his voice so that the court can hear) If everybody who is having a baby wants to sit, the next thing it will be everybody with gout. Before long the place will look like a Turkish harem, what, what? Oh, that’s enough.

He stops the music.

Thank you, gentlemen, thank you.

The King strides out in a huff, with the Queen hurrying after him, followed by Lady Pembroke, Fitzroy and Greville.

As the doors close on them, the courtiers sink exhausted into chairs, with the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York flinging themselves onto the newly vacated thrones, kicking off their shoes and groaning with relief.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. DRESSING ROOM. NIGHT.

KING (patting Greville’s shoulder at the newly fastened epaulette) Ah, Greville. Good. Thank you. Oh, yes, that’s better, what, what?

GREVILLE (looking at the King and smiling) Your Majesty.

KING Yes. You don’t look at the King, Greville. Didn’t they tell you that?

GREVILLE Forgot, sir.

KING Well, don’t forget.

Lady Pembroke appears, carrying a candlestick, indicating that the Queen is ready to retire.

Now, that’s Lady Pembroke. Handsome woman, what?

Daughter of the Duke of Marlborough. Stuff of generals.

Blood of Blenheim. Husband an utter rascal. Eloped in a packet-boat.

A look passes between Greville and Lady Pembroke, as the King goes into the Queen’s bedroom.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. QUEEN’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

The Queen is sitting up in bed in her nightcap, tatting.

KING Good evening, Mrs King.

QUEEN Good evening, Mr King.

KING When we get this far I call it dandy, hey?

QUEEN Yes, Mr King.

The King is restless and uncomfortable. He takes the Queen’s hand and puts it on his belly.

KING I ate a pear at supper.

QUEEN Two pears, sir. It is as tight as a drum.

She gives him an affectionate hug.

KING Saving your presence, I will try a fart.

He does so unsuccessfully.

QUEEN No?

He shakes his head.

KING Cold fish, Pitt. Never smiles.

QUEEN He works hard, though.

KING Never stops. Drinks, they say.

QUEEN They all drink.

KING His father, poor man, went mad. Doesn’t show any sign of that. Well, not at the moment anyway.

They both laugh, but then the King cries out in pain.

Pain in my belly now.

QUEEN Oh, George!

He begins to groan and shout.

KING Oh, oh!

QUEEN Help! Help us! Help!

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. DRAWING ROOM. DAY.

Peering through the keyhole into the King’s bedroom is the portly figure of the King’s First Physican, Sir George Baker.

BAKER He looks well enough. I sent over some senna. Was that given to him?

GREVILLE Yes. The pain got worse.

BAKER Whereabouts was the pain?

GREVILLE Would it not be better to ask His Majesty that?

BAKER How long have you been in waiting? I cannot address His Majesty until he addresses me. I cannot enquire after His Majesty’s symptoms until he chooses to inform me of them.

GREVILLE Sir George. Whatever his situation His Majesty is but a man …

BAKER You’re the King’s equerry with radical notions like that? Good God. With any patient I undertake a physical examination only as a last resort; it is an intolerable intrusion on a gentleman’s privacy. With His Majesty it is unthinkable.

Shouts of ‘Sharp! Sharp! The King! The King!’ The King comes in, followed by the pages.

KING Ah, Baker. Yes, a ninny, what, what? Well, you can tell him I am much better. I had a pretty smart bilious attack, very smart indeed, but it has passed.

BAKER Sir. Would it be possible to take His Majesty’s pulse?

GREVILLE Would it be possible to take Your Majesty’s pulse, sir?

KING Yes, go on. Do it. Do it, do it. Do not faff, sir. Hold it, do not fondle it. Now, were you responsible for the senna, Baker, what, what?

BAKER I prescribed it for Your Majesty, yes, sir.

KING Then you are a fool, Baker, what, what?

BAKER It’s only a mild purgative, sir.

KING Mild, sir, mild? Fourteen motions and you call it mild! I could have manured the whole parish. Well, if two glasses of it can lay the King low, it could be the end of all government.

BAKER Two glasses? Your Majesty was only supposed to take three spoonfuls.

KING When did three spoonsful of anything do anybody any good? Measure the medicine to the man, Baker. How is the pulse?

BAKER It’s very fast, sir.

KING Good, good.

BAKER Your Majesty would probably feel better after a warm bath. A warm bath has a most settling effect on the spirits.

KING Yes, well, you have one, then. Your spirits are more agitated than mine. Come on.

The King rushes out of the room. Fitzroy looks at Greville as if he ought to know what is expected of him. Greville hesitates, then rushes after the King, together with Papandiek, the nicest of the King’s pages.

EXT. WINDSOR GREAT PARK. DAY.

The King walks very briskly along, talking so fast it is almost nonsense. Greville and Papandiek are finding it hard to keep up.

KING Breathe this air, Mr Greville. Breathe it. Come on, lads, keep up. Keep up.

He slashes at thistles.

This is the way we deal with America, sir. I’ll teach you, sirs. Take that, Mr Colonist! And that, sir! And that!

GREVILLE Fetch the Queen.

Papandiek runs back.

EXT. ANOTHER PART OF WINDSOR GREAT PARK. DAY.

A cricket match is in progress in the park. The King interrupts it, marching straight to the wicket.

KING No, no, no, no, that’s not cricket, you don’t hold the bat like that, man.

The King seizes the bat from a startled boy and clouts the ball for six. There is general acclamation from the other players and the King is delighted.

Now the Queen and Lady Pembroke, followed by Fitzroy and the pages, come hurrying across the park.

QUEEN What is he doing?

Bored with being a batsman, the King is now fielding; the monarch, after all, is expected to be an all-rounder. He stumps the young batsman, whipping off the bails, and the umpire, more out of deference than fair play, gives the batsman out.

The King then throws the ball in the air and is again congratulated by the sycophantic young cricketers.

The Queen puts a good face on this, smiling bravely and even applauding as if this were the King’s normal behaviour.

Fitzroy applauds more politely, but he is not deceived.

KING Over there, out of the way, ha. How’s that?

FITZROY Oh, God.

INT. WESTMINSTER. HOUSE OF COMMONS. LOBBY. DAY.

With MPs passing to and fro, Pitt, his colleague Dundas, Lord Chancellor Thurlow and Fitzroy confer in a corner of the Lobby.

FITZROY The following day he rose before dawn, went down to the Provost of Eton’s lodgings and by persistent battering on the door roused the Provost and commanded him to show him the chapel.

THURLOW So?

FITZROY Well, Lord Chancellor, it was still dark.

PITT Have we come to the end of this catalogue of regal noncomformities? Because I have heard nothing to suggest His Majesty’s behaviour is in any way unusual.

FITZROY (knowing this is a trump card) He also harps on America. The colonies.

At this Pitt turns and looks, and there is a slight pause. Pitt nods to Dundas. Dundas steers Fitzroy away.

DUNDAS Captain Fitzroy. For the strongest reasons, both foreign and domestic, a degree of discretion. And a hold on public functions. No levees or concerts. Just … Just …

He indicates that things should be damped down. Fitzroy nods imperceptibly.

THURLOW The cork’s too tight in the bottle, that’s the trouble. He must be the first King of England not to have a mistress.

PITT Fifteen children seem to me to indicate a degree of conscientiousness in that regard.

THURLOW I’m talking of pleasure, not duty. Actually, there was a mysterious illness once before, in your father’s time; government was at a standstill.

DUNDAS (returning) Well, it was of no consequence.

THURLOW It was of no consequence because he recovered.

PITT It was of no consequence because the Prince of Wales was then a child of three. It was of no consequence because Air Fox and his friends were not perched in the rafters waiting to come in. We consider ourselves blessed in our constitution. We tell ourselves our Parliament is the envy of the world. But we live in the health and well-being of the Sovereign as much as any vizier does the Sultan.

THURLOW And the Sultan orders it better. He has his son and heir strangled.

EXT. CARLTON HOUSE. DAY.

Fitzroy hurrying through the courtyard.

INT. CARLTON HOUSE. DINING ROOM. DAY.

Fitzroy has finished reporting to the Prince of Wales, Duke of York and Dr Richard Warren, the Prince’s personal physician.

The sound of company next door.

PRINCE OF WALES Cricket? Pa?

DUKE OF YORK Howzat, what, what?

PRINCE OF WALES Well played, hey, hey?

Laughter.

FITZROY To watch, sir, it was quite distasteful. He was not himself.

PRINCE OF WALES Warren, what do you think?

WARREN I am not the King’s doctor.

PRINCE OF WALES No, nor ever will be. He’s more likely to go to my tailor than my doctor.

FITZROY But, sir, this is not the same.

PRINCE OF WALES Could he be ill?

WARREN (pausing, before bringing in the diagnosis the Prince plainly wants) Ye-es.

They go into the breakfast room.

INT. CARLTON HOUSE. BREAKFAST ROOM. DAY.

ALL Good morning, sir.

PRINCE OF WALES Sherry, what would happen if the King were ill? I mean gravely ill.

SHERIDAN Your Royal Highness would have to be declared Regent.

DUKE OF YORK Regent?

SHERIDAN King in all but name.

PRINCE OF WALES With all the powers?

FOX Subject to Parliament.

PRINCE OF WALES Charles, don’t quibble.

FOX And certainly all the funds.

PRINCE OF WALES Just think of it. Regent. (indicating Fox) Prime Minister!

FOX America forgiven.

PRINCE OF WALES London rebuilt.

FOX Parliament reformed.

PRINCE OF WALES A palace on Primrose Hill!

FOX The slave trade abolished.

PRINCE OF WALES (tetchily) Oh, yes, all that too.

FOX Sir. Is he ill?

PRINCE OF WALES (lamely) He’s not well.

General laughter.

I know, I know. One day. One day.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. KING’S BEDROOM. DAWN

The King lies awake, the Queen sleeping beside him. Troubled, he gets up and wanders into his dressing room.

KING It’s four o’clock. Where are you, sirs? What’s this? The King is unattended. Up with you, sirs. Braun! Fortnum! Papandiek!

Though he is hurrying and bustling about, as he continues to do throughout the scene, the King now has some difficulty with his legs.

Where are you, sirs?

INT. WINDSOR. PAGES’ CUPBOARD. DAWN

The King flings open the door of what seems like a cupboard in the wall of his bedroom and we see three or four bunks inside, the pages stacked in them. They begin to tumble out.

PAPANDIEK What’s the matter, sir?

KING The matter is, sir, that it is morning. That is the matter. Morning is the matter. Not being attended to is the matter.

PAPANDIEK What is it, sir?

KING And don’t mutter. Or mutter will be the matter.

PAPANDIEK (trying to dress as he follows the King) What time is it, sir?

The King hurries through to the dressing room.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. DRESSING ROOM. DAWN.

KING What is that to you? The King is up. When the King is awake, you are awake. Four o’clock. Six hours’ sleep is enough for a man, seven for a woman, and eight for a fool.

FORTNUM We’ve only had three. We didn’t go to bed till one.

KING Is that insolence, sir?

FORTNUM No, sir. Arithmetic.

The King tries to strike him.

KING What’s your name?

FORTNUM Fortnum, sir.

KING Fetch me my breeches. Yours?

PAPANDIEK You know my name, sir.

KING Don’t tell me what I know and don’t know. What is it?

PAPANDIEK Papandiek, sir. Arthur, sir.

KING (peering at him) Is it Arthur?

PAPANDIEK Yes, sir.

KING And yours?

BRAUN Braun, sir.

KING And yours?

FORTNUM (wearily) Fortnum, sir.

KING Well, come on, boys, we’re missing the best of the day.

EXT. WINDSOR TERRACE. DAY.

The King hurries out onto the terrace, and then towards the park, followed by the pages.

KING (singing)

‘Awake my soul and with the sun

Thy daily stage of duty run.

Shake off dull sloth and joyful rise,

To pay thy morning sacrifice.’

EXT. WINDSOR PARK. THE FOLLY. DAY.

The pages pursue the King through the morning mist as he runs past a Gothick folly in the castle grounds.

KING Where’s that other rascal, Braun? He’s not gone back to bed?

BRAUN (bringing a shirt) I’m here, sir.

KING Well, give me my shirt, man. What shirt is this? It’s calico. Sailcloth. It’s a hair-shirt. Fetch me another. Another shirt, lad, a softer shirt, a softer one.

INT. WINDSOR. LIVING QUARTERS. DAY.

Braun banging on Greville’s door.

BRAUN Wake up, sir. Attend, sir, attend.

Greville put his head out from under the sheets.

EXT. WINDSOR PARK. THE FOLLY. DAY.

KING Have you said your prayers this morning?

FORTNUM I started, sir, but I was interrupted.

KING Say after me – ‘Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven …’ (etc.)

The Queen, Lady Pembroke and Greville, all in various stages of undress, come hurrying across the park, accompanied, immaculate as ever, by Fitzroy. Seeing them, the King continues to pray but takes the Queen’s hand and makes her kneel down with them, kissing her hand repeatedly. Then he makes Lady Pembroke kneel, gazing fixedly at her before suddenly throwing himself onto her with passionate kisses.

Greville, whose attention is as much on Lady Pembroke as the King, puts an involuntary hand out to stop him.

GREVILLE Sir.

FITZROY (outraged and slapping the hand down) Sir!

The Queen tries to pull the King away from Lady Pembroke.

QUEEN Sir, we are in company.

KING Mind your own business.

QUEEN George!

FITZROY The King has fallen. Help, sirs!

QUEEN Help. Help the King. Help him. George.

LADY PEMBROKE Sir. You must rest.

KING I am the King. I cannot rest. I must rule.

He finally breaks from her.

Half the day gone already. There is much to do, there is government …

PAPANDIEK Government hasn’t begun yet, sir. Government is still in bed.

BRAUN Government is lucky.

INT. WINDSOR. TERRACE. DAY.

The King runs into the castle, pursued by the pages.

INT. WINDSOR. LIVING QUARTERS. CORRIDORS. DAY.

The King in headlong flight, pursued by the pages and Greville and gabbling all the time.

KING Do you love God, Arthur?

PAPANDIEK Yes, sir.

KING Oh, he loves you. He loves us all if only we will let him.

GREVILLE Do not discuss the Deity, sir. It does not do.

The King rushes along a vaulted corridor and bursts into the room of a lady-in-waiting, who is in bed.

KING Does not do? Does not do? I am the King. What is the Deity to me? Pisspot, pisspot.

The lady gives him the pot.

LADY Your Majesty.

KING Do it, England! Do it. That’s better. I am obliged to you, madam. Can’t stop now. On, England, on!

The King hands back the chamber pot to the startled lady-in-waiting and rushes away, followed by Greville and Papandiek. Fortnum politely relieves her of the (brimming) receptacle and, mouthing a silent ‘Thank you’, takes it outside, where he runs into Braun.

FORTNUM Look, it’s blue.

FITZROY (coming round the corner) What are you dawdling here for? The King is unattended.

FORTNUM It’s the King’s water, sir. It’s blue, sir.

FITZROY So?

FORTUM It’s been this colour since this business began.

FITZROY What business? Don’t be insolent.

FORTNUM We thought it might be important.

FITZROY What is important is not to dangle about. Where is the King? Half-undressed and unattended. That’s what’s important. Give me that.

INT. WINDSOR. CORRIDOR OUTSIDE KING’S APARTMENTS. DAY.

Fitzroy carries the chamber pot along the corridor and encounters Baker, who is on his way to see the King.

FITZROY Sir George … This is the King’s water.

BAKER Well?

FITZROY It’s blue.

BAKER So?

FITZROY It’s been blue since His Majesty has been ill.

BAKER Oh, God, another doctor. Medicine is a science. It consists of observation. Whether a man’s water is blue or not is neither here nor there.

He goes into the anteroom, leaving Fitzroy with the chamber pot.

FITZROY (calling after Baker) Well, there’s one blessing. At least he’s stopped all the what-whatting.

INT. LIBRARY. NIGHT.

Greville, exhausted and miserable, sits by the fire. He keeps nodding off. Lady Pembroke comes in and watches Greville, amused that he is so sleepy. He struggles to his feet.

GREVILLE Lady Pembroke …

LADY PEMBROKE Mr Greville. Her Majesty spoke favourably of you today, Mr Greville. (conspiratorially) And we do not like Mr Fitzroy.

She touches him on the arm and smiles.

You will go far.

INT. WINDSOR. THE GREAT HALL. DAY.

Preparations for a concert. Footmen are lighting candles in a huge candelabrum before hauling it up to the ceiling. Two large ceremonial chairs on a dais in the centre of the hall face an orchestra, which is already tuning up. Pitt and Dundas, both in topcoats, walk through the hall, where the court is already assembled. Pitt is plainly very cross.

PITT Captain Fitzroy! I said no concerts. No public appearances.

FITZROY It’s by order of the Prince. His Royal Highness thought it might cheer His Majesty up.

THURLOW Come on, if we’re late he will be mad.

Across the hall we see the Prince of Wales with Dr Warren.

PRINCE OF WALES Do you like music, Warren?

WARREN If it’s played, sir, I listen to it.

PRINCE OF WALES Soothes the savage breast, do you think?

WARREN Not, I fear, in this case, sir.

Warren permits himself a wintry smile.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. DUSK.

The King has finished being attended to by Baker. Pitt has given him some papers.

KING Push off, you fat turd.

BAKER Yes, Your Majesty.

KING What is this? (looking at the paper) America, I suppose.

PITT No, sir.

KING Oh, America is not to be spoken of, is that it?

PITT For your own peace of mind, sir. But it is not America.

The King drops the paper. Pitt desperately gives him another. And another. The King takes no interest in them, dropping them or handing them to one of the pages.

KING Peace of mind! I have no peace of mind. I have had no peace of mind since we lost America. Forests, old as the world itself, meadows, plains, strange delicate flowers, immense solitudes. And all nature new to art. All ours. Mine. Gone. A paradise lost.

Enter Fitzroy.

FITZROY Her Majesty is waiting, sir.

PITT I must ask you not to attend this concert, sir. You are not fit, sir.

KING Not fit?

PITT To be seen, sir.

KING Not fit?

PAGES Sharp. Sharp. The King, the King.

KING Not fit?

PITT Sir, I beg you. I beg you, sir.

Pitt loses all semblance of self-control and tries to prevent the King leaving the room, but he is restrained by his colleagues and the King strides into the concert in an extremely bad temper.

INT. WINDSOR. THE GREAT HALL. DUSK.

A fanfare as the King and Queen enter, the King quite plainly not fit to be seen, with stockings wrinkled and wig awry. The shock is seen on the faces of the court as the royal couple move to their seats. There is some craning of heads, some courtiers jumping on seats to try to catch a glimpse of this wreck.

KING Not fit, not fit. I’ll give him not fit. Telling me! I’m the King, do you hear? The impudence. Well, I’m here now.

The King and Queen take their seats, but no sooner do they sit down than the King jumps up again and starts haranguing the orchestra.

Play, damn you. Play. Aha, remember this one? Louder, sirs, louder, lay it on, lads, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. Come on, boys, let’s hear you. Give it some stick. You, put your heart into it, sir.

He pushes the startled harpsichord player off his seat, sits down and starts playing.

All right, move over. My turn. Where are we? Oh, yes, I see. This is child’s play, man. Oh, this is my favourite bit. That’s how to do it, see. Come on, trumpets, give it some heart.

QUEEN (coming up and whispering in the King’s ear) Sir, you are talking.

KING I’m not, I’m playing.

QUEEN But, sir …

KING Not now, not now. Now give it a good whipping. Come on, come on. Thrash it, thrash it, you villains, what’s the matter with you? Right.

He gets up from the harpsichord, pointing out the place for the original player, who takes over again.

There. Yes, this is Handel. I met him once. Ordinary-looking fellow. I have his harspichord. All right then, let’s be having you.

He goes round the assembled company on Greville’s arm, peering into their faces.

Intercut in this scene with shots of various members of the court watching and whispering about the King, including the Prince of Wales, who is urbane and unperturbed, and Maria Fitzherbert, who is alarmed and distressed.

Elbow people. Knee gentlemen. Bending persons, handkissers.

He stops in front of Lady Pembroke, and addresses his remarks about her to the Queen, who has followed him.

Looking at Lady Pembroke’s breasts:

Fine cluster there, eh?

He gestures to the Queen to look.

Go on, look, look. Go on. You might learn something. Good arse too, and warm, eh, I’ll bet.

He rubs his backside against hers and then moves on and stops in front of Maria Fitzherbert. He stares hard in her face, and then addresses the Prince of Wales.

What brings you to Windsor, sir?

PRINCE OF WALES I had heard Your Majesty was indisposed. But I see …

KING Indisposed!

PRINCE OF WALES If there is any way I can assist …

KING Want to hump the old bird out of the nest, is that it?

PRINCE OF WALES (suddenly in earnest) No, sir. There may be responsibilities that I could share …

KING Want to get your fat hands on government, is that it?

The Prince of Wales shoots a look at Warren, then at Maria Fitzherbert.

Well, I am old and infirm. I shall not trouble you long.

PRINCE OF WALES I wish you the best of health, Father.

KING Wish me, wish me? You wish me death, you plump little cuckoo.

PRINCE OF WALES (laughing and pretending this is a joke) Hush, Father, hush.

KING Hush? Hush? You dare to stop the King of England from speaking his mind? You powdered puppy.

He turns away, then suddenly turns back and tries to throttle the Prince of Wales. There is turmoil as the Prince turns to flee and the King scrambles after him, jumping on his back and wrestling him to the ground.

PRINCE OF WALES Pa! Pa!

KING I’ll kill you. Choke the air out of you. Let me at him! I’ll wring his neck.

QUEEN (desperately) It was something he ate.

Father and son are separated and, as the King is helped out by Greville and Fitzroy, he shouts back.

KING You fools, can’t you see that you will all be put out?

QUEEN (to Prince of Wales) We know your game, you monster.

She follows.

Some of the courtiers crowd after the King and Queen, some after the Prince of Wales.

INT. WINDSOR. DRAWING ROOM. LATER. NIGHT.

Pitt, Dundas and Thurlow are with the now bandaged Prince of Wales. Several courtiers look on, including Maria Fitztherbert and Fitzroy.

PRINCE OF WALES As heir to the throne, Mr Pitt, I know that His Majesty bears a heavy burden. I fear the time is coming, Mr Pitt, when it is a burden we shall be forced to share.

PITT Sir.

He looks at Maria. She half-rises, is ready to go.

PRINCE OF WALES No, no, Mrs Fitzherbert has our entire confidence.

Thurlow raises an eyebrow. Baker comes in.

Ah, Baker, how is the King?

BAKER Still demented, sir, and the pulse is 104.

PRINCE OF WALES Then he is not in command of his senses?

WARREN Nor likely to be, if I may say so, sir.

PRINCE OF WALES In that case, since His Majesty is not fit to look after himself, we must do so.

Pitt is alarmed.

In the future, you – Warren – will partner Baker as the King’s physician.

PITT I must insist that this arrangement be subject to the approval of His Majesty’s ministers.

PRINCE OF WALES Insist? Approval? A son’s concern for his sick father. What is the world coming to, Mr Pitt?

THURLOW His Royal Highness is quite right. This is a family matter.

PRINCE OF WALES Thank you, Lord Chancellor.

INT. WINDSOR. THE NURSERY. NIGHT.

The King, now more dishevelled than ever, leads a train of pages and equerries as he stumbles round the castle, followed by the Queen and Lady Pembroke.

KING The children, the children!

QUEEN The children are asleep, sir.

We see three or four of them, sleeping in a large bed.

KING We must wake them. London is flooding. We must take the children and flee to higher ground. Save Amelia, Adolphus and little Octavius. Come, come, come …

He picks up Amelia.

QUEEN Octavius is dead, sir.

KING Who killed him? His brother, the Prince of Wales? Yes, he would kill me too, I know.

The King rushes outside, clutching Amelia and followed by the desperate Queen, Lady Pembroke and the pages.

INT. WINDSOR. STAIRCASE TO ROOF. NIGHT.

The King rushing up the staircase to the roof with Amelia.

KING Hush, my baby. You’re safe with Papa. Papa loves you, only he doesn’t want you to get your feet wet, that’s all. Come, come. But Papa’s not mad, my darling. No, no. He has just lost himself, that’s all. Hurry, we must get to the roof. We’ll be safe up here, Amelia.

EXT. WINDSOR. ROOF. NIGHT.

They come out onto the roof. A surreal landscape of chimneys and castellations, windblown and lit by a full moon. As the Queen and the pages chase the King, they look like an army of lunatics.

QUEEN Put her down, sir, you are talking.

KING I know I am talking. Do not tell me I talk. I follow my words. I run after them. I am dragged at locution’s tail. I have to talk in order to keep up with my thoughts.

AMELIA I’m frightened.

KING (to Queen) I thought he had taken you.

QUEEN Who, sir?

KING The other George. The fat one. You were not in my bed.

I thought you had deceived me with the son.

QUEEN Sir!

KING Still, Elizabeth comes to my bed, don’t you, Elizabeth?

QUEEN Elizabeth, you leave us. All of you go, just go. Go, you too, go.

The Queen wrests Amelia, who is now hysterical, from the King, puts her in someone’s arms, and chases them all through the roof door. She turns to the King.

You want to talk? Well, talk! Talk away!

KING What do you do with him that you do not do with me, madam? At it like pigs, the pair of you, huh? Those fat hands, that young belly. Your warm thighs. Harlot.

QUEEN Be still, sir. For pity’s sake. Listen. George. Hear me.

She holds his mouth closed, and finally he is still.

Do you think that you are mad?

KING (with sudden clarity, from the heart) I don’t know. I don’t know. Madness isn’t such torment. Madness is not half-blind. Madmen can stand. They skip! They dance! And I talk. I talk and talk and talk. I hear the words so I have to speak them. I have to empty my head of the words. Something has happened.

Something is not right. Oh, Charlotte.

They embrace, weeping in each other’s arms.

INT. WINDSOR. STAIRCASE TO ROOF. NIGHT.

Fitzroy, pursued by Greville, runs up a winding stair.

GREVILLE I will not do this, sir.

FITZROY It is by order of the Prince.

GREVILLE I am equerry to His Majesty, not the Prince.

FITZROY His Majesty is out of his mind.

EXT. WINDSOR. ROOF. NIGHT.

Fitzroy comes out onto the roof, followed by Greville.

QUEEN Can we never be solitary? I told you to leave us. I am talking with His Majesty.

KING Is it the floods? Have the waters spread?

QUEEN Hush, George. Hush, George.

KING No, no, no, my dear. Greville is right. He is right to take precautions. We must fetch the children. Take them to the higher ground. Save Amelia, Adolphus, little Octavius. Bring the Queen.

GREVILLE Bring the Queen.

FITZROY I have been instructed by His Royal Highness to move Your Majesty’s lodgings, ma’am.

QUEEN Why? Where?

FITZROY It is to assist His Majesty’s recovery.

GREVILLE Captain Fitzroy.

FITZROY Go, sir. Go.

Greville begins to lead the King away, as Fitzroy prevents the Queen from following.

QUEEN George!

FITZROY Your Majesty is not to have access to the King’s presence.

QUEEN Not have access? But I am the Queen. Where are you taking him? No. No. Stop. George. Tyrant!

The King is taken away.

INT. WINDSOR. PRINCE OF WALES’S ROOM. NIGHT.

Maria Fitzherbert quickly hides behind some other ladies as the Queen and Lady Pembroke burst in. The Queen advances smartly on the Prince and slaps his face.

PRINCE OF WALES Assaulted by both one’s parents in the same evening! What is family life coming to?

INT. WINDSOR. ANTEROOM TO PRINCE OF WALES’S ROOM. NIGHT.

The courtiers crowded at the door, giggling.

INT. WINDSOR. PRINCE OF WALES’S ROOM. NIGHT.

QUEEN I was told it would be so. In England always the Prince hates the King.

PRINCE OF WALES Is that why he is mad?

QUEEN If he is mad, sir, you have made him so by your idleness.

PRINCE OF WALES If I am idle, madam, it is because the King gives me nothing to do.

QUEEN Do? Do what I do. I support him. I have his children. Fifteen of them.

PRINCE OF WALES Then you should be grateful to me for giving you a breathing space … no, a breeding space, (trying not to laugh) I’m sorry, that really is awfully funny.

The Queen looks around. Everyone is laughing. She breaks down.

QUEEN No, George, please. Please. Let me stay with him. Please, George.

She is on her knees. Cut away to Maria Fitzherbert, stopping her ears.

PRINCE OF WALES No, madam.

QUEEN On what authority?

PRINCE OF WALES On medical authority, ma’am. On the authority of a son, ma’am, who cares for his sick father.

QUEEN But I am his wife. Do I not care for him too?

PRINCE OF WALES Possibly, madam. But in his current frame of mind – (He looks at Lady Pembroke.) – I’m afraid His Majesty does not seem to care for you.

QUEEN Monster!

LADY PEMBROKE Come, madam. Let me show Your Majesty where they have lodged us.

INT. MEDICAL AUDITORIUM. DAY.

An amputation is about to be performed, with Baker and Pepys among the small audience of physicians and surgeons watching.

Thurlow and Warren come into the auditorium.

The patient is strapped to the operating table and his gangrenous leg is exposed; the conversation between the doctors is punctuated by the patient’s screams.

BAKER This is Sir Lucas Pepys, Lord Chancellor, whom I have taken the liberty of consulting.

THURLOW The more the merrier. Are you familiar with His Majesty’s condition?

PEPYS I have spent a lifetime in the study of the anfractuosities of the human understanding.

THURLOW (irritably) What?

PEPYS The mind, sir, and its delinquencies. If it were possible, I would value an early view of one of His Majesty’s motions.

THURLOW Yes. That could be arranged, couldn’t it? But what the devil is the matter with him?

BAKER Persistent delirium. And the pulse sometimes rises to 110.

WARREN Oh, the pulse varies. It doesn’t signify.

PEPYS I agree. I’ve always found the stool more eloquent than the pulse.

The surgeons prepare to amputate. Thurlow pushes the doctors towards the exit.

THURLOW So what do you suggest?

PEPYS An immediate purge.

THURLOW Warren?

WARREN He needs blistering. Blistering on the back to draw the humours from the brain; blistering on the legs to draw the humours to the lower extremities.

The patient howls, out of view.

BAKER I agree, but he will never submit.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. KING’S BEDROOM. DAY.

View of Braun’s legs coming into a room, seen from underneath the bed. The King’s hot face peering out.

BRAUN Hello there, Georgie boy.

Warren, the pages, Fitzroy and Greville come in.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. DRESSING ROOM. DAY.

Cut to elaborately bandaged King, bound to a bench, his arms pinioned to his side but his back and legs bare for blistering.

In desperation the King prays aloud as Braun heats the glass cups over the flame from a spirit burner.

KING Not my skin, not my skin. Please. Oh, for pity’s sake. No. I am the Lord’s Anointed. ‘O God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid, cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of Thy Holy Spirit that we may perfectly love thee and worthily magnify Thy holy name. Through Christ our Lord. Almighty and most merciful Father … We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. Have mercy upon us, miserable offenders …’

Warren now takes the heated cups and applies them to the King’s back. The King screams in agony and Greville puts his hands over his ears. Fitzroy is unmoved and helps hold the King down.

INT. WINDSOR. QUEEN’S LODGINGS. DAY.

The Queen, in her distant apartment, hears the King’s screams.

KING Do not touch me, I’m the King. Go tell the Queen I am assaulted. The Queen, the Queen, help!

EXT. WINDSOR. THE TERRACE. DAY.

Pitt and Fitzroy alone. A cold day. Winter.

FITZROY He soils his clothes. Urine. Excrement. He talks filth. The slops of his mind swilling over. I am not a nurse. If His Majesty cannot regulate himself, how should he regulate the country?

Pitt says nothing.

I shall be relieved when it is ended … one way or another.

The King comes round a corner, helped by Greville, followed by the pages. He is wrapped in a rug, on his morning walk.

KING Arch-grand proprietor. Omni-felonious. Omni-victorious, happy and glorious.

FITZROY Mr Pitt, Your Majesty.

KING Where?

PITT Here, Your Majesty.

KING Stand close, Mr Pitt. You’ll have to speak up, I don’t see very well. There is a fog here and in my ears – in my ears – in my ears – ears …

PITT There have been questions in the House, sir.

This causes the King to be suddenly lucid, though he quickly loses control again.

KING Parliament … do nothing, Mr Pitt. I am not mad. I can’t see. There is a mist. Oh, the Queen, missed, oh, oh, missed her, gone gone gone gone …

PITT The doctors thought it best, sir.

KING (instantly more agitated) Doc doc doc doctors doctortures doctormentors doctalk doctalk talk talk talk talk.

The King is howling helplessly and he takes Greville’s hand and puts it over his mouth to stop him talking, while clutching his incontinent behind and motioning them to take him away.

GREVILLE Come, sir, I’ll hold you, sir, I’ll hold you.

To the distaste of Fitzroy and the horror of Pitt, the King lowers his breeches and squats miserably against the wall, moaning to himself. Pitt and Fitzroy withdraw; Greville holds the King’s hand for a little while before he too withdraws and the King is left alone. Over this wretched, moaning figure we hear, out of view, the imperturbable voice of Pitt addressing the House of Commons.

PITT (out of view) Honourable members would, I am sure, like to know that I saw His Majesty yesterday, and the only symptoms of his disorder were a tendency to repeat himself and a wandering from one topic to another … a characteristic that is shared by most of the converse of polite society, which if judged severely would warrant the consignment to Bedlam of many in this House.

INT. WESTMINSTER. HOUSE OF COMMONS. DAY.

Laughter.

SPEAKER Mr Fox.

FOX Mr Pitt’s consoling pleasantries should not deceive the House. The King is incapacitated.

Shouts of ‘No, no.’

There are those who say he has lost his reason.

Uproar.

Shouts of ‘Nonsense,’ ‘No.’

In which case I propose that a Bill be drawn up to make the

Prince of Wales Regent.

More uproar. Shouts of ‘Close the doors.’

SPEAKER Order, order. The motion before this House is that a Bill be speedily drawn up to appoint the Prince of Wales Regent of this Kingdom. The House will divide.

INT. WESTMINSTER. HOUSE OF COMMONS. LOBBY. DAY.

The MPs are queuing up to vote. Fox is talking to the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York.

FOX Thank you, thank you, gentlemen. Sir, I must vote.

PRINCE OF WALES Charles, for the life of me I can’t see why they need to vote. The King is incapable. We know it. They know it.

Fox looks at the MPs waiting to vote.

FOX Sir. These are the nation’s representatives. Now, some of them come to Parliament in the hope that they might serve their country, but most of them, being human, are here to fill their pockets. Pitt … and your father … have done them very well – pensions, places, bribes. But once it is plain that Pitt is finished and there is no more swill in the trough, Your Royal Highness will be made Regent. Sir, I must join the line.

Fox rushes over, his name is ticked off and he goes through the Lobby. There is a silence, followed a second later by a great shout. The Prince of Wales and the Duke of York look delighted. The Duke of York shakes the Prince’s hand as MPs rush out of the chamber. Fox pushes through to the Prince.

Rather good. Government majority of thirty.

PRINCE OF WALES Government? Thirty?

DUKE OF YORK You mean we haven’t won?

FOX Well, we didn’t expect to win outright, not the first vote.

PRINCE OF WALES I thought they liked me.

FOX They will, sir, they will. In time.

PRINCE OF WALES (furious) Time, time, always time! Now is the time, Charles. Now!

The Prince’s fury briefly silences the hubbub in the Lobby as the Prince and the Duke of York sweep out.

SHERIDAN And that’s our boy.

FOX God rot all royals. Give us the wisdom of America.

EXT. WESTMINSTER. COURTYARD. DAY.

Pitt, Dundas and Thurlow are parting. Other MPs also leaving the courtyard.

DUNDAS But he will recover in time … surely?

PITT What good is that? Once he’s made Regent the Prince will have him locked away in some Windsor hellhole and mad or sane no one will ever know.

THURLOW You have been reading too many novels.

PITT He has to recover soon or we are done for.

As he leaves them, Pitt is surprised to find Lady Pembroke waiting in the cloisters.

LADY PEMBROKE Mr Pitt.

PITT Lady Pembroke?

LADY PEMBROKE Her Majesty understands that you are dissatisfied with His Majesty’s doctors.

PITT The King is no better.

LADY PEMBROKE Mr Pitt. My mother-in-law lost her wits, and a succession of physicians failed to recover them for her. There was, however, one doctor who was confident of her return to health, and accordingly she was placed in his care.

PITT And is she recovered?

LADY PEMBROKE Entirely. Rides to hounds. Founded some almshouses. Embroiders round the clock. I have written down his name.

She gives the note to Pitt.

EXT. LINCOLNSHIRE. DAY.

Against a flat Lincolnshire landscape silhouetted figures are engaged in rustic tasks. They are smartly dressed and well above the general run of farm labourers, genteelly (if somewhat ineffectually) tilling the soil. Elegant women pick potatoes, gentlemen hoe, ladies rake… all under the benevolent supervision of a severe figure in black: Dr Willis.

EXT. LINCOLNSHIRE. A FIELD. DAY.

Greville picks his way across the field. Everyone turns and looks at him. As he approaches Willis, a lady drops her hoe and runs to embrace him.

MRS CORDWELL At last! At last!

WILLIS (reproving) Mrs Cordwell.

MRS CORDWELL This is my husband. Come post-haste from Portsmouth.

She puts her arm happily through Greville’s.

WILLIS Mrs Cordwell. Captain Cordwell drowned off the Goodwins three years since.

MRS CORDWELL (ruefully agreeing) But he is very like.

WILLIS Back to work, Mrs Cordwell.

She is led away.

GREVILLE Dr Willis?

EXT. WINDSOR. MAIN ENTRANCE. DAY.

Willis’s attendants, who are five heavy-set young men of brutal appearance, unload some mysterious wooden sections from a cart.

INT. WINDSOR. WALKING THROUGH KING’S APARTMENTS. DAY.

WILLIS I must have certain undertakings. Authority over the patient. Access to him at all times.

PITT You will reside here at Windsor. And Parliament will have to be kept informed, so you will need to write bulletins. They must be confident, optimistic. The survival of the Government depends upon it. And, Dr Willis, you are my doctor, do you understand?

WILLIS I am the King’s doctor, sir.

PITT It is the same thing.

GREVILLE (leading Willis away) In here, sir.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. ANTEROOM. DAY.

Willis’s attendants, carrying the wooden sections.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. DRAWING ROOM. DAY.

Footmen in attendance. Willis is examining the arrangements in the King’s apartments.

WILLIS Yes. Do you know, Mr Greville, the state of monarchy and the state of lunacy share a frontier. Some of my lunatics fancy themselves kings. He is the King so where shall his fancy take refuge?

GREVILLE We do not use the word lunatic, sir, in relation to His Majesty.

WILLIS Oh! Well, who is to say what is normal in a king? Deferred to, agreed with, acquiesced in. Who can flourish on such a daily diet of compliance? To be curbed, stood up to, in a word thwarted, exercises the character, elasticates the spirit, makes it more pliant. It is the want of such exercise that makes rulers rigid.

PAGES (out of view) Sharp, sharp. The King, the King.

GREVILLE This is the King, sir.

WILLIS Whom I must cure.

The pages bring in the King, who talks all the time, very fastand without pause.

He is accompanied by Fitzroy and a couple of pages. He sees Willis and slowly circles him, looking at him keenly but with no change in his tone.

KING … plough you a furrow as straight as a ruler, straight as a ruler done by a ruler. Ha! And another beside it and another beside that until you had as pretty a ploughed field as you could find this side of Cirencester. Put us out of our kingdom tomorrow and I would not want for employment.

WILLIS (interrupts) I have a farm.

KING Give me the management of fifty acres and ploughing and sowing and harvest, and I could do it and make me a handsome profit into the bargain.

WILLIS I said I have a farm, Your Majesty.

The King stops, looks at him, then starts talking again.

GREVILLE This gentleman, sir, has made the illness under which Your Majesty labours his special study.

KING A mad-doctor, is it? I am not mad, just nervous.

WILLIS I shall endeavour to alleviate some of the inconveniences from which Your Majesty suffers.

KING Inconveniences? Insults. Assaults. And salts beside rubbed into these wounds. Look.

He tries to tear off the bandages. Willis examines the open wounds.

By your dress, sir, and general demeanour, I would say you were a minister of God.

WILLIS That is true, Your Majesty. I was once in the service of the Church. Now I practise medicine.

KING Well, I am sorry for it. You have quitted a profession I have always loved, and embraced one I most heartily detest.

WILLIS Our Saviour went about healing the sick.

KING Yes, but he had not £700 a year for it.

Greville laughs; the pages laugh; Willis is unamused.

Well, it’s not bad for a madman.

WILLIS I have a hospital in Lincolnshire.

KING Lincolnshire, yes, I know Lincolnshire. Fine sheep there.

Admirable sheep. Pigs, too. But I know of no hospitals.

WILLIS My patients work, sir. They till the soil, and in so doing they acquire a better conceit of themselves.

KING Well, I am King of England. A man can have no better conceit of himself than that.

Willis takes hold of the King’s shoulder. The King starts at the indignity and Greville makes an involuntary movement of protest. Willis is not deterred and deliberately looks the King in the eye.

Do you look at me, sir?

WILLIS I do, sir.

KING I have you in my eye.

WILLIS No. I have you in mine.

KING You are bold, sir, but by God I am bolder.

He attacks Willis as the pages rush forward to pull him back. Willis continues to look the King in the eye.

Do not look at me. I am not one of your farmers.

WILLIS You must behave, or endeavour to do so.

KING (still fighting) Must, must. Whose must is this? Your must or my must? Get away from me, you scabby bum-sucker.

Lincolnshire lickfingers.

WILLIS Clean your tongue, sir. Clean your tongue.

KING I will not. I will be a guest in the graveyard first.

WILLIS Very well. If Your Majesty will not behave, you must be restrained.

He opens the door to the anteroom, where his attendants wait: brutal, unsmiling figures stood around a large wooden chair fitted with straps and a headrest. The King falls silent looking at it.

KING When felons were induced to talk, they were shown first the instrument of their torture. The King is shown the instrument of his to induce him not to talk. Well, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. ANTEROOM. DAY.

Willis’s attendants seize the King, to the consternation of the pages and equerries. There is a struggle between the royal retainers and Willis’s attendants in which the attendants are easily the winners, hurling the pages off and bloodying Greville’s nose, while the King tries to scramble away, shouting and screaming obscenities. Eventually he is bundled into the chair and fastened in.

WILLIS Sit him down, sit him down.

If the King refuses food, he will be restrained. If he claims to have no appetite, he will be restrained. If he swears and indulges in meaningless discourse, he will be restrained. If he throws off his bedclothes, tears away his bandages, scratches at his sores, and if he does not strive every day and always towards his own recovery, then he must be restrained.

The King has been buckled into the chair and is helpless, a pathetic parody of the King on his throne.

KING I am the King of England.

WILLIS No, sir. You are the patient.

Underscoring the ‘enthronement’ in the restraining chair is Handel’s Coronation anthem ‘Zadok the Priest’, which, when the King is bound and gagged and helpless, bursts forth at full volume.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. DAY.

Overhead shot of the King struggling in the chair.

EXT. WINDSOR CASTLE. DAY.

Faint lights in rooms; snow falling. Some servants scuttle across the courtyard.

INT. WINDSOR. QUEEN’S APARTMENTS. DAY.

The Queen is crouched over the fire, mittens on, while Lady Pembroke indefatigably embroiders.

QUEEN Not permitted. Not permitted. We recommended him and still it’s not permitted. None of them knows him.

INT. WINDSOR. QUEEN’S WINDOW. DAY.

She looks out of the window as the coach bearing Warren and Baker arrives. We see them alight and go up the steps.

WARREN Come on. Baker, for heaven’s sake.

INT. WINDSOR. QUEEN’S APARTMENTS. DAY.

QUEEN He is not himself. How can they restore him to his proper self not knowing what that self is?

Lady Pembroke embroiders on.

He is an angel of kindness and goodness.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. BEDROOM. DAY.

Under Willis’s paternal gaze, the King hands his bedpan to Fortnum. Fortnum, who has always been the prissiest of the pages, takes it from the King and without comment hands it to Greville.

GREVILLE (astonished at being given the bedpan) Fortnum.

FORTNUM Sir?

GREVILLE What are you doing?

FORTNUM I’m going, sir. To Piccadilly, sir. To start a provision merchant’s. It isn’t much, sir, but it’s a cut above emptying pisspots.

He bows to the King and goes out backwards.

GREVILLE (holding the bedpan out) Braun.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. DRAWING ROOM. DAY.

Braun now takes the bedpan out to where Pepys is waiting. Pepys takes it eagerly.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. ANTEROOM. DAY.

Pepys puts the bedpan on a long table covered with chamber pots and the notebooks in which he has been recording the King’s motions. Warren and Baker come in.

WARREN Pepys?

PEPYS Good news! A foetid and a stinking stool. (He displays it.)

The colour good, well shaped and a prodigious quantity. Mind you, the urine is a little dark. Or is it the light?

WARREN (motioning Pepys out of the room, out of earshot of Willis’s men) Pepys!

INT. WINDSOR. CORRIDOR OUTSIDE KING’S APARTMENTS. DAY.

WARREN Pepys. This Willis.

PEPYS Yes?

WARREN A dangerous man.

PEPYS Is he?

WARREN Not a proper doctor.

BAKER Not a member of the Royal College of Physicians.

WARREN Wants us out, Pepys.

PEPYS No!

WARREN We must stick together. And remember: one voice.

PEPYS/BAKER One voice.

INT. CARLTON HOUSE. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

Maria Fitzherbert embroidering. Prince of Wales and Warren perambulating, Prince looking grave.

PRINCE OF WALES What kind of fellow is he?

WARREN Parson. Quack. Has some modern ideas. He’ll need watching.

They exchange looks.

MARIA I’ve heard very good things about him. They say he does a lot of it with his eyes.

PRINCE OF WALES You mean he looks at the King?

WARREN Yes.

PRINCE OF WALES Damned impudence.

MARIA (artlessly, and as ever trying to reconcile father and son) Poor King. And no Queen. He must be very lonely. It’s such a pity he’s not nearer, then you could go visit him.

The Prince looks at her thoughtfully.

PRINCE OF WALES Ye-es.

WARREN You don’t mean … here?

PRINCE OF WALES Good God, no. Kew.

WARREN Kew?

EXT. WINDSOR. COURTYARD. DAY.

The King, dressed only in his nightshirt and a straitjacket, is dragged across the snow-covered courtyard towards a waiting carriage. He is shouting and struggling.

INT. WINDSOR. QUEEN’S APARTMENTS. DAY.

The Queen, hearing the commotion, goes to the window. She is horrified.

EXT. WINDSOR. COURTYARD. DAY.

WILLIS (fixing the King with his eye) I see you, sir.

KING No, sir. You do not see me. Nobody sees me. I am not here. (to his captors, who are dragging him to the coach) Get your filthy hands off me, you …

INT. WINDSOR. QUEEN’S APARTMENT. DAY.

The Queen watches as:

EXT. WINDSOR. COURTYARD. DAY.

The King breaks away from his captors but is caught again.

EXT. WINDSOR. COURTYARD. DAY.

WILLIS I have you in my eye, sir, and I shall keep you in my eye until you learn to behave and do as you are told.

KING I am the King. I tell. I am not told. I am the verb, sir. I am not the object.

WILLIS Until you can govern yourself, you are not fit to govern others, and until you do so I shall govern you.

KING Govern yourself, then, you goat.

He blows a raspberry at Willis.

WILLIS Get him in the coach.

The King is heaved, struggling, into the coach.

KING Then I am dead. I am a coffin king. I shall be taken out, murdered and my genitals torn off and pulled apart by horses and my limbs exhibited in a neighbouring town. Help me, please, help me.

EXT. WINDSOR. COURTYARD. DAY.

The Queen and Lady Pembroke rush out to see coach departing.

EXT. WINDSOR. COURTYARD. DAY.

The Queen runs alongside the coach.

QUEEN Mr King.

INT. CARRIAGE. DAY.

The King is sitting by the window, Fitzroy beside him, opposite him Greville and one or two of Willis’s attendants. The King stares out at the Queen. The Queen stares at the King.

EXT. KEW. PALACE. DAY.

The coach arrives at Kew. It is snowing. The exterior of the house is cold, forbidding and doom-laden.

INT. KEW. ENTRANCE HALL. DAY.

The King is carried up the steps while in his restraining chair, and then indoors.

INT. KEW. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

It is so cold one of the pages grabs a dust sheet from a statue to wrap round the King.

KING The Queen will be at Kew, you said.

WILLIS She will, sir, in time.

KING It was a lie. You are an ordained minister and you told me a lie. Well, that lie will have you out of that famous farm of yours and loose your tame lunatics across Lincolnshire. You liar! Liar!

INT. KEW. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

A plate of soup is brought to Willis, who feeds the King with a spoon. Willis forces the King to look at him as he holds a spoonful of soup, which he puts into the King’s mouth. The King looks at him boldly. Then spits the soup out in Willis’s face. Willis is unmoved, and feeds him some more. The King is about to spit it out again but Willis’s look stops him. Willis turns away and the King, glowering, swallows it.

INT. KEW. DINING ROOM. DAY.

The King, now formally dressed in black, sits at a table, with Willis, the pages, Fitzroy and Greville looking on.

KING I’m here, but I’m not all there.

The King eats, feeding himself. All begin to applaud.

INT. KEW. DINING ROOM. DAY.

The King drawing, Willis sitting by him. He is drawing a picture of Willis.

WILLIS (looking at the picture) Ye–es.

He pins it on the wall.

EXT. KEW. DAY.

The King sits in the grounds with Papandiek. The King, cloaked and bearded now, looks like Lear.

INT. KEW. DRAWING ROOM. DAY.

Willis is watching the previous scene through the window.

PITT (out of view) I used to sit with my father when he was ill.

We pull out to find that Pitt and Thurlow are now with Willis.

I used to read him Shakespeare.

WILLIS I have never read Shakespeare.

Pitt looks at him somewhat askance.

I am a clergyman.

EXT. KEW. MAIN ENTRANCE. DAY.

Willis is waiting on the steps of the house with Pitt and Thurlow. Seeing them, the King is nervous and dismayed, his step falters and, though Papandiek takes his arm, his confidence has plainly gone and he reverts to his old state.

KING They have killed the Queen. Did you know that?

PITT No, sir.

KING Ah, yes, sir. Are you cold?

THURLOW It is chilly, sir.

KING Not for me. I make the weather by means of mental powers.

They go inside.

INT. KEW. ENTRANCE HALL. DAY.

KING Well, actually, actually it is not too bad about the Queen, because actually I was never actually married to her. I was married to the tall one, Elizabeth. Sie öffnet ihre Beine zu jeder Zeit wenn ich es will. Vier, funf Mal am Tag, wie mich die Laune trift.

WILLIS What are you saying, sir?

KING Oh, do they not speak German in Lincolnshire? Then allow me to translate, sir. Her Ladyship is game for it any time. I just have to say the words and her skirt’s up, legs in the air … I just tip her the wink and I’m in there. Or she’s down here.

WILLIS Gag!

The King is gagged and Willis’s attendants drag him away cursing.

PITT You assured me you could cure him.

WILLIS I can, sir, given time.

PITT We do not have time.

INT. CARLTON HOUSE. PRINCE OF WALES’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

Maria Fitzherbert is kneeling at the altar. The Prince of Wales is watching her.

PRINCE OF WALES What are you praying for now?

MARIA The King.

PRINCE OF WALES You should pray for us, because if he did die, or stay mad –

MARIA George!

PRINCE OF WALES – what is to stop us saying we are man and wife? Huh?

INT. A CHURCH VESTRY. DAY.

Thurlow is interviewing a shabby and bibulous clergyman.

THURLOW Didn’t you know who the bridegroom was?

CLERGYMAN (looking through a parish register) It’s a year or two ago.

THURLOW And did the bride not mention she was a Catholic?

CLERGYMAN (shakes his head) Why should she? Ah, here it is.

THURLOW (looking at the entry) The Prince cannot marry without the King’s permission. And he cannot marry a Catholic. You performed an illegal marriage.

CLERGYMAN And he only gave me ten pounds!

THURLOW Here is ten pounds more. Keep your mouth shut.

Thurlow rips the page out of the register.

CLERGYMAN Here, that’s against the law.

THURLOW I am the law.

INT. WINDSOR. QUEEN’S APARTMENTS. NIGHT.

The Queen is sitting at her dressing table, preparing for bed, Lady Pembroke standing by her side.

QUEEN Oh, long, long days, Elizabeth.

Lady Pembroke smiles, sadly.

LADY PEMBROKE And longer for His Majesty.

INT. KEW. ENTRANCE HALL. DAY.

The three doctors bustle in from the cold outside.

FITZROY In the drawing room, gentlemen.

INT. KEW. DRAWING ROOM. DAY.

FITZROY The doctors, Your Majesty.

BAKER Good afternoon, Your Majesty. And how are we today?

The King says nothing, sulking. Warren examines his head, while Baker reads the bulletin.

WARREN The blisters have healed up very nicely. Which won’t do at all.

He forces them open again with his fingers. The King screams out. Greville and Papandiek turn away in disgust.

KING Get off me, you barbarian.

Willis looks reprovingly at the King, who sighs and goes over to the restraining chair, where he allows himself to be gagged and strapped in.

WILLIS (handing Warren the bulletin) Bulletin.

WARREN (reading) Much better? Well, I can’t see it.

WILLIS Do you doubt my word, sir?

WARREN (screwing up the paper) I’ll write it.

PEPYS Could we mention the stool this time?

WARREN (writing) Oh, the stool, the stool. My dear Pepys, the persistent excellence of the stool has been one of this disease’s most tedious features. When will you get it into your head that one can produce a copious, regular and exquisitely turned evacuation every day of the week and still be a stranger to reason?

INT. HOUSE OF COMMONS. DAY.

Close-up on the bulletin. Pitt has it on the Dispatch Box in front of him. The Prince of Wales and Warren sitting smugly in the gallery.

PITT Mr Speaker. I will not trouble the House with the detailed contents of the latest – and I may say generally optimistic – bulletin, but honourable members would, I am sure, like to know that while His Majesty has had his ups and downs, his health continues … steadily to improve.

Fox is on his feet. The Prince of Wales and Warren are outraged.

WARREN Barefaced lie!

FOX Ups and downs? Ups and downs? Mr Speaker, I can – with your permission – quote from a copy of the same bulletin handed to me by Dr Warren. Some of these ‘ups and downs’: His Majesty’s obscenities; his blasphemies; his interminable ramblings …

Uproar.

Suffice it to say that this optimistic bulletin concludes thus: that while His Majesty has had lucid intervals, he remains periodically demented and incapable of rational thought.

In the gallery the Prince of Wales nods in approval.

INT. KEW. DINING ROOM. DAY.

This and the following scene are intercut between Kew and the House of Commons. At Kew preparations are being made to shave the King. As bowls of water and a shaving brush are placed on the table, we see behind him rows of drawings, all dated and pinned to the wall. Papandiek clips the King’s beard before sharpening the razor.

FOX I put it to the House that we have been deceived too long over His Majesty’s continuing illness. When are we going to see the Bill appointing the Prince Regent?

The King regards himself in the mirror, then reaches for the razor with Willis, Greville, Fitzroy and the pages all watching him. The King makes a sudden movement with the razor, as if he’s going to attack them. Braun jumps back. The King laughs.

MPS (out of view) When? When?

PITT In due course. It is still being drafted.

More shouts of ‘When?’

SPEAKER Order, Order!

PITT Soon.

Uproar. The faces of the MPs in close-up are madder than the King’s ever was.

SPEAKER Order, order. On Mr Fox’s motion to present the Bill, the House will divide. Ayes to the right, noes to the left.

The King proceeds to shave himself perfectly.

INT. WESTMINSTER. HOUSE OF COMMONS. LOBBY. DAY.

The sound of cheering from the chamber as Dundas pushes through to Pitt and Thurlow.

DUNDAS They won. Just three votes.

THURLOW Then you must present the Bill. The Prince must be made Regent.

INT. A CHURCH. DAY.

Fox and Sheridan sitting in a pew. Fox impatiently looking at his watch. Thurlow comes in with exaggerated stealth and takes the pew behind them, kneeling down and holding the bridge of his nose fastidiously between thumb and forefinger.

FOX Well?

THURLOW I’m praying, goddamn it.

He finishes praying.

I’m almost ready to give you my support.

FOX Now? We don’t need you now.

THURLOW I think you do.

He hands Fox the page torn from the marriage register.

Your boy’s married.

FOX No. She’s just his mistress.

He looks at the page.

THURLOW I haven’t told Mr Pitt. Yet.

SHERIDAN What is it you want?

THURLOW The good of the country.

Fox snorts contemptuously.

To remain as Lord Chancellor.

INT. CARLTON HOUSE. DINING ROOM. DAY.

Thurlow, Fox and Sheridan are now at dinner with the Prince of Wales, Maria and Warren.

PRINCE OF WALES Well, I’m sure that can be arranged. When, and if, we ever manage to get our hands on government.

The Prince glares at Fox.

FOX The Bill is ready, sir.

PRINCE OF WALES I am a snail, Lord Chancellor, creeping my way towards the throne. Even Maria is becoming impatient.

MARIA Only for His Majesty’s recovery, sir.

FOX And now the Lord Chancellor has come out in favour of Your Royal Highness, the end is surely in sight.

THURLOW I have always been in favour of His Royal Highness.

FOX Of course.

THURLOW Though I would say the present situation calls for a certain delicacy.

MARIA (to Prince of Wales) This is your father, sir. Be kind.

THURLOW Lie on your oars, sir, the tide is with you.

PRINCE OF WALES (fuming) The tide? Lie on my oars?

MARIA George!

THURLOW Your Royal Highness has but to wait.

PRINCE OF WALES Wait! Wait! Lord Chancellor, my life has been waiting. I endeavour to cultivate languor. But it is difficult to be languid when the throne of England is pending. People laugh at me. What must I do to be taken seriously? I tell you, sir, to be Prince of Wales is not a position. It is a predicament.

He gathers up Maria and leaves.

FOX She has more sense than he has.

THURLOW It takes character to withstand the rigours of indolence.

INT. WESTMINSTER. HOUSE OF COMMONS. DAY.

The Regency Bill being distributed at the House of Commons. MPs reading it.

INT. CARLTON HOUSE. DRAWING ROOM. DAY.

Thurlow has brought the Prince of Wales a copy of the Regency Bill. The Prince reads it, looking for some mention of his wife.

PRINCE OF WALES Maria is not mentioned.

THURLOW No, sir. It’s a little early for that.

PRINCE OF WALES It will happen, Maria, I promise you. Won’t it, Thurlow?

THURLOW Sir.

It is plain that he doesn’t think so, nor does she.

INT. WINDSOR. QUEEN’S APARTMENTS. DAY.

The Queen is reading over the Bill.

QUEEN No, no. This must not be, the son in charge of the father.

He will be put away. This is his death warrant. Elizabeth. I must see him. Elizabeth!

Close-up on Lady Pembroke, who knows what is expected of her. She collects her cloak and makes to leave.

INT. KEW. GREVILLE’S ROOM. DAY.

Lady Pembroke is sitting. Greville is standing. She has just finished explaining her request.

GREVILLE I cannot do it, ma’am.

Lady Pembroke gets up.

Besides, if Her Majesty sees him … he… he … he still… utters such improprieties.

Lady Pembroke smiles at his confusion.

LADY PEMBROKE What about?

GREVILLE About … about you, madam.

LADY PEMBROKE Tell me.

GREVILLE I cannot say.

LADY PEMBROKE What is it His Majesty dreams of doing, Mr Greville?

She has him backed up against the door.

Is it this?

She takes Greville’s hand and puts it on her breast.

Greville shakes his head helplessly.

This? Or this?

Her left hand goes down out of frame and Greville catches his breath. Greville dissolves into a kiss, out of control.

Lady Pembroke is perfectly in control.

INT. KEW. STAIRCASE. DAY.

The King’s delighted face, as he and the pages slide down the banisters. The King is well shaved and looks healthy and Willis seems in good spirits. Baker and Fitzroy, on the other hand, are disdainful.

KING Come on, lads! Race you to the door. Come on … I won!

INT. KEW. ENTRANCE HALL. DAY.

Baker is leaving. King, Willis, Fitzroy and the pages see him off.

KING (winking at the pages) Oh, Baker. Baker, before you leave …

BAKER Sir?

KING I have a little job for you. A secret mission.

BAKER Yes, sir.

KING Yes. I want you to hand over Gibraltar to Spain and see if you can get Minorca in return. Now, do you think you could do that?

BAKER I’m a physician, sir.

KING Then you should have no difficulty. Good afternoon.

Baker shakes his head at Willis and goes out. With more whoops of delight, the King gives Papandiek a piggyback and runs with him into the drawing room.

INT. KEW. DRAWING ROOM. DAY.

Where he is suddenly confronted by the Queen. Silence. Fitzroy glares at Greville, who plainly is responsible for the visit.

QUEEN Your Majesty.

The King appears to ignore her, and sits down.

Have you nothing to say to me, sir?

KING Say, madam? What is there to say? We were married for twenty-eight years, never separated even for a day, yet you abandoned me to my tormentors.

QUEEN The doctors said it was for your good.

KING My good? What do they know of my good?

QUEEN George. They may not permit me to see you again. A Bill has been prepared to make the son Regent.

KING (laughing incredulously) Regent?

QUEEN (producing the Bill) Do you understand? He is to rule in your place.

KING Regent? The fat one?

FITZROY His Majesty has not been told about the Bill, madam.

QUEEN He must know. George, you must know. He must know. Do you understand? The son.

FITZROY Come away, madam. Come away.

He pushes the Queen out of the room.

KING The son! The father pushed aside, put out, put away. Ruled out. The father not dead even. By whose authority? (reading) ‘The Prince of Wales should have full power and authority’ … ‘All authorities, prerogatives.’ Why was I not told of this?

Papandiek tries to calm and restrain him, but the King pushes him violently to the floor and tries to run after the Queen.

WILLIS (taking the Bill from him) The Bill doesn’t matter, sir.

GREVILLE (desperately) Your Majesty, this Bill is to be presented today, sir. The Prince of Wales has a majority in the House.

Willis looks at the King and the King straight away calms down.

KING Greville! Dr Willis is right. Take it away.

INT. WESTMINSTER. LOBBY. DAY.

MPs are thronging into the House. Fitzroy forces his way through the crowds to where the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York are standing with Warren and Fox. Fitzroy whispers in the Prince’s ear.

DUKE OF YORK What’s that? He’s on the mend? I say, that’s good news!

PRINCE OF WALES Does anyone else know?

Fitzroy shakes his head.

FITZROY No, sir.

WARREN It may be only temporary.

Fitzroy doesn’t say anything to encourage this.

PRINCE OF WALES Well, I see no reason to disseminate the information. We can decide how ill His Majesty is when the Bill is passed, eh, Warren?

They are about to go into the gallery.

Nearly there, Charles.

Fox looks unhappy.

FOX Where’s Thurlow?

INT. KEW. UNDER A TREE. DAY.

Thurlow approaching. The King and Willis reading.

WILLIS ‘These weeds are memories of those worser hours …’

KING ‘I prithee put them off.’ Go on, man, go on.

WILLIS ‘I prithee put them off.’

KING ‘How does the King?’

WILLIS ‘How does the King?’

Willis is obviously no actor.

PAPANDIEK Lord Thurlow, sir.

THURLOW Your Majesty.

KING Ah, Thurlow. The very man. Yes, we are reading a spot of Shakespeare. Willis, give him the book.

THURLOW (sotto voce to Willis) King Lear? Is that wise?

WILLIS I’d no idea what it was about.

KING I’m asleep, apparently, and Cordelia comes in and asks the doctor – that’s Greville here – how I am, you see. Off we go.

THURLOW Who’s Cordelia?

KING You are. Yes, but …Willis can’t do it. He’s a fine doctor, but a hopeless actor. Off you go.

THURLOW (as Cordelia)

‘O you kind gods

Cure this great breach in his abused nature.

Th’untuned and jarring senses, O wind up,

Of this child-changed father.’

KING That’s very good. ‘Child-changed father’ is very good. Go on, Greville, it’s you now.

GREVILLE ‘He hath slept long, be by, good madam, when we do awaken him. I doubt not of his temperance.’

THURLOW

‘O my dear father! Restoration hang

Thy medicine on my lips, and let this kiss

Repair those violent harms which my two sisters

Have in thy reverence made.’

KING Well, come on, man. Come on. Kiss me.

Thurlow goes for the King’s hand.

KING No, not there, man. Here. Here. It’s Shakespeare. Right.

Gives him his cheek to kiss.

Now, push off again. This is the moment when the King awakes, you see. Are you ready? That’s it, come on.

The King does an elaborate and old-fashioned pantomime of waking up.

THURLOW ‘How fares my Royal Lord? How does Your Majesty?’

KING (as Lear)

‘You do me wrong to take me out o’ th’ grave.

Thou art a soul in bliss, but I am bound

Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears

Do scald like molten lead.’

Oh, it’s so true!

‘Pray do not mock me.

I am a very foolish, fond old man.

And, to deal plainly,

I fear I am not in my perfect mind.’

WILLIS Is that the end, Your Majesty?

KING Oh, good Lord no … Cordelia – that’s Thurlow – dies. Hanged. And the shock of it kills the King. So they all die. It’s a tragedy.

THURLOW (moved) Very affecting.

KING Well, it’s the way I play it.

THURLOW Your Majesty seems more yourself.

KING Do I? Yes, I do. I have always been myself even when I was ill. Only now I seem myself. That’s the important thing. I have remembered how to seem. What, what?

Greville starts.

GREVILLE What did Your Majesty say?

KING What? I didn’t say anything. Besides, Greville, you’re not supposed to ask the King questions, you should know that. What, what?

Thurlow, in close-up, recognises what the ‘What, what?’ signifies. Greville breaks into a broad smile.

THURLOW Get him ready.

EXT. KEW. LAKE. DAY.

Braun and Papandiek carrying chamber pots to the lake.

BRAUN Here, look at his piss. We’re back to lemonade.

PAPANDIEK No. Mine’s still a bit inky.

BRAUN But that’s yesterday’s. This is today’s. Here, Piss the Elder! Piss the Younger!

They both laugh. They pour the piss into the lake in two brightly coloured streams.

EXT. KEW. FRONT STEPS. DAY.

The King’s coach leaves Kew.

INT. WESTMINSTER. HOUSE OF COMMONS. DAY.

The Prince of Wales coming into the gallery, acknowledging the cheers of the MPs.

SPEAKER The matter before this House is a Bill to provide for the care of His Majesty’s royal person and for the administration of the royal authority during the continuance of His Majesty’s illness.

EXT. CHISWICK. LONDON ROAD. DAY.

Shots of Thurlow’s coach going hell for leather.

INT. WESTMINSTER. HOUSE OF COMMONS. DAY.

MP Mr Speaker. We on this side of the House count ourselves fortunate that we have in the person of the Prince of Wales a young man of such character and aptitude …

EXT. LONDON ROAD. DAY.

Thurlow looking out of his coach, which is now surrounded by sheep, baa-ing (not unlike the MPs).

THURLOW God’s teeth. What now?

INT. WESTMINSTER. HOUSE OF COMMONS. DAY.

Fox is brandishing a list of reforms he intends to bring in.

FOX And so, Mr Speaker, I would like to set out some measures of long-overdue reform and, yes, I make bold to say it, necessary expenditure, that when His Royal Highness is declared Regent …

Cheers.

Pitt and Dundas on the front bench, looking glum.

EXT. WESTMINSTER. COURTYARD. DAY.

The coach rattles into the yard. Thurlow staggers out of the coach (windows still curtained) and rushes into the Palace, sending an attendant to fetch Pitt from the Commons.

INT. WESTMINSTER. HOUSE OF COMMONS. DAY.

A note is passed to Pitt, who hurriedly leaves the House with Dundas.

INT. WESTMINSTER. LOBBY. DAY.

THURLOW I’ve just been with His Majesty and have had two hours’ uninterrupted conversation with him

DUNDAS Oh, God, you mean he’s talking again?

THURLOW No, damn it. Well, yes. But not fifty to the dozen, and not nonsense either. He’s actually a damned clever fellow. Had me reading Shakespeare. Have you read King Lear? Tragic story. Of course, if that fool of a messenger had just got that little bit more of a move on, Cordelia wouldn’t have been hanged, Lear wouldn’t have died, and it would all have ended happily … which I think would have made a much better ending. Because as it is, it’s so damned tragic …

DUNDAS Lord Chancellor …

THURLOW The point is, the King is better.

PITT Better than he was?

THURLOW No. Better. The ‘What, what?’ is back, the ‘Hey, hey’. Come.

Incredulity on Pitt’s and Dundas’s faces as they follow Thurlow down the corridor, gradually breaking into a run.

INT. WESTMINSTER. HOUSE OF COMMONS. DAY.

An MP is on his feet speaking.

MP No one, Mr Speaker, entertains a higher regard for His Majesty than I do. But we cannot close our eyes to the fact that His Majesty has been overtaken by a terrible and, I fear, long-lasting illness that seems immune to all forms of medical treatment.

As he drones on, we see the word pass along the benches that the King is outside and MPs begin to leave rapidly. Fox stands up and looks over to the gallery, where the Prince of Wales, not having heard the news, is puzzled. Then someone whispers to him and he too rushes out.

INT. WESTMINSTER. HOUSE OF COMMONS LOBBY. DAY.

Pandemonium as MPs rush through the Lobby, pushing and shoving and trying to get out into the courtyard, the Prince of Wales and Fox among them.

EXT. WESTMINSTER. COURTYARD. DAY.

As the MPs spill out into the courtyard we see the curtains of the coach drawn back. Thurlow opens the door and Willis comes round to hand out the King. The Prince of Wales forces his way through the crowd and shrinks back in despair at the sight of the recovered King, who is just gathering himself together before he addresses the MPs, now suddenly silent, waiting to see if he is indeed better.

KING (haltingly, but with growing confidence) I … we … are touched by the concern shown by our most loyal subjects and are very happy to be amongst you all again. Be assured that now that our strength has returned, we will once more take up the reins of government.

A pause. The courtyard erupts to shouts of ‘Long live the King’, etc. The King turns to Willis.

How was that, lads? Not bad, eh, what, what?

The King is surrounded by jubilant MPs, as the Prince of Wales swoons.

EXT. WINDSOR. COURTYARD. DAY.

The King’s carriage arrives back at Windsor as all the castle servants cheer.

PAPANDIEK Your Majesty! Sharp, sharp. The King, the King.

ALL The King, the King!

AMELIA Papa, Papa!

KING Oh, Amelia.

ADOLPHUS Pa, you’re back, you’re back. Come with me, come with me, Mama is in the garden.

EXT. WINDSOR. TERRACE/GARDEN. DAY.

We see the Queen approach the King, curtsy and kiss his hand.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. DRAWING ROOM. DAY.

QUEEN Two hours late. He does this on purpose. He knows it is his lateness that always drives you mad.

She claps her hand over her mouth at this faux pas, but the King is unperturbed.

KING Fear not. I shall strike a note of reconciliation. Love, that is the keynote.

FITZROY Their Royal Highnesses, Your Majesty.

KING (to Duke of York) Fred.

DUKE OF YORKPa.

KING George.

DUKE OF YORK Ma.

KING (motioning them to sit) Oh do, please.

PRINCE OF WALES How is Your Majesty?

KING A fat lot you care.

QUEEN Love, George.

KING You smile, sir.

PRINCE OF WALES I am happy to see my father his old self and in such good spirits, sir.

KING (with growing anger) Good or bad, I am in control of them, sir. When a man can control himself, his spirits are immaterial. When a man cannot control himself he would do well to be sober, he would do well …

Willis moves in as the King stutters to a halt. He coughs. The King gives Willis an irritated look but recovers himself and calms down.

Marry, sir.

PRINCE OF WALES (with a big effort) I am married, sir.

Willis looks alarmed.

KING Somebody big, somebody German. Children. What, what?

PRINCE OF WALES I am married, sir.

KING (furious) Not without my say-so. And I do not say so. I will not say so. You are not married, sir.

Willis gives a little cough. This irritates the King but he visibly controls himself.

If you have a cough, sir, take it outside.

Willis hesitates, then goes.

(to Prince of Wales) Put her away, sir. Your debts will be paid … and you will have an income that is … appropriate.

INT. WINDSOR. LIBRARY. DAY.

The King is with Pitt, the King signing warrants and state papers. Pitt hands him a warrant. Willis is sitting in the background, waiting.

KING (looking at the warrant) Is it any wonder a man goes mad? Doctors. Thirty guineas a visit? And travelling expenses. For six months’ torture. They would have a man pay for his own execution, what, what? How much is he getting?

He looks at Willis.

PITT An annuity. A thousand a year, sir.

KING Well, he has done me some service.

PITT I think it is time has done you the service, sir.

KING Yes? Mmm … But what of the colonies, Mr Pitt?

PITT America is now a nation, sir.

KING Well, we must get used to it. I have known stranger things. I once saw a sheep with five legs.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. BACKSTAIRS. DAY.

Greville, Braun and Papandiek.

BRAUN Sacked? Jesus!

PAPANDIEK And me? I was His Majesty’s devoted servant.

BRAUN Yes.

GREVILLE Forget what you have seen. Majesty in its small clothes. Wipe it from your memory.

PAPANDIEK He was ill. We knew that.

GREVILLE Yes, and now he is well. Here …

He throws them each a purse.

INT. WINDSOR. LIVING QUARTERS. GREVILLE’S ROOM. DAY.

Fitzroy gives Greville a letter. He reads it.

GREVILLE Me too. I am no longer in service.

Fitzroy does not look surprised.

FITZROY You were kind to His Majesty during his illness, Greville.

GREVILLE I did what I could, Captain Fitzroy.

FITZROY Colonel Fitzroy. Did you not know that? It seems unfair, I agree. But a word of advice. To be kind does not commend you to kings. They see it, as they see any flow of feeling, as a liberty. A blind eye will serve you better. And you will travel further.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. BACKSTAIRS. NIGHT.

Greville surprises Lady Pembroke, proceeding, in her usual stately fashion, towards the Queen’s bedroom.

GREVILLE Elizabeth.

LADY PEMBROKE His Majesty has yet to retire, Mr Greville.

GREVILLE I am to leave tomorrow.

LADY PEMBROKE Yes.

GREVILLE You knew?

LADY PEMBROKE It’s a pity. You seemed such a promising young man.

GREVILLE Could I?

She waits without softening her expression. He tries to kiss her but she draws back.

LADY PEMBROKE Mr Greville, please.

GREVILLE But … when …

LADY PEMBROKE It was what was required, Mr Greville, that was all.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. DRESSING ROOM. NIGHT.

They move into the dressing room as the King appears, announced by three new pages.

PAGES Sharp, sharp! The King, the King!

The King takes Lady Pembroke out of earshot of the unhappy Greville.

KING Madam, when I was ill they tell me I said certain things.

LADY PEMBROKE I have no memory of them, sir.

KING It is not so much what was said as what was done. So, did we, did we …?

LADY PEMBROKE Your Majesty?

KING Did we … did we … did we ever forget ourselves utterly, because if we did forget ourselves I would so like to remember, what, what?

LADY PEMBROKE No, sir. Your Majesty’s behaviour throughout was impeccable.

KING Heh, hey?

LADY PEMBROKE Like the kindest father as well as the most generous of sovereigns.

KING (sadly) Good, good.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. QUEEN’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

The King enters. The Queen is sitting, waiting for him, on the end of the bed.

KING Mrs King.

QUEEN Mr King.

KING You’re a good little pudding, what, what?

QUEEN It was said, when you were ill, that if you had led a … normal life … this might not have happened.

KING A normal life?

QUEEN Other women, sir.

KING Kicked over the traces, you mean. No life is without its regrets. Yet none is without its consolations. You are a good little woman, Mrs King. And we have been happy, have we not?

QUEEN Oh, yes, Mr King.

They embrace.

KING And shall be again.

The King makes the faintest shudder; fear shows in his eyes. He cannot tell if he is still ill or not.

EXT. ST PAUL’S. DAY.

High shot of St Paul’s, with the royal coaches arriving: flunkeys, heralds, cheering crowds, etc. The King and Queen draw up at the foot of St Paul’s steps and get out, the King turning to lift down Amelia and two other royal children. Willis, hovering, intercepts the King.

WILLIS Your Majesty, I shall be in the cathedral, should the ceremony prove to be too much of a burden for you.

He has laid his hand on the King’s arm. The King looks at the Queen, whose eyes urge the King to dismiss Willis. A moment of suspense. Then the King looks at Willis’s hand, and Willis removes it.

KING You may tell Dr Willis that the ceremony will not be such a burden as the want of ceremony has been. And do not look at me, sir. Presume not I am the thing I was. I am not the patient, sir. Be off with you, sir. Back to your sheep and your pigs. The King is himself again.

The King turns away. Willis puts on his hat, ready to leave. He does not look altogether unhappy. The Royal Family at the foot of the steps. They acknowledge the crowds, among whom, standing forlornly with the common herd, we see Maria Fitzherbert. The Prince of Wales, with an effort, ignores her. The King leads his family up the steps, all the time waving to the crowds.

We must try to be more a family. There are model farms now, model villages, even model factories. Well, we must be a model family for the nation to look to.

QUEEN (to Duke of York) Yes. You must try to be more typical, Fred.

PRINCE OF WALES But Pa, I want something to do.

KING Do? Well, follow in my footsteps, that is what you should do. Smile at the people. Wave to them. Let them see we are happy! That is why we are here.

As a Handel anthem swells inside the cathedral, the Royal Family wave to the crowd. Willis is at the edge of the cheering crowd and even he takes his hat off to give a modest cheer before pushing his way back through the throng and past Maria Fitzherbert, who is trying hard to smile.

At the top of the steps the Royal Family smile and wave. Who could think they are not happy?

Alone in the shot George III takes off his hat and waves it to his people. His people wave back.

Before the credits there is a final caption:

THE COLOUR OF THE KING’S URINE SUGGESTS

HE WAS SUFFERING FROM PORPHYRIA,

A PHYSICAL ILLNESS THAT AFFECTS

THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. THE DISEASE IS

PERIODIC, UNPREDICTABLE – AND HEREDITARY.

About the Author

Alan Bennett has been one of our leading dramatists since the success of Beyond the Fringe in the 1960s. His television series Talking Heads has become a modern-day classic, as have many of his works for the stage, including Forty Years On, The Lady in the Van, A Question of Attribution, The Madness of King George III (together with the Oscar-nominated screenplay The Madness of King George), and an adaptation of Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows. At the National Theatre, London, The History Boys won numerous awards including Evening Standard and Critics’ Circle awards for Best Play, an Olivier for Best New Play and the South Bank Award. On Broadway, The History Boys won five New York Drama Desk Awards, four Outer Critics’ Circle Awards, a New York Drama Critics’ Award, a New York Drama League Award and six Tonys. The Habit of Art opened at the National in 2009; in 2012, People, as well as the two short plays Hymn and Cocktail Sticks, was also staged there. His collection of prose Writing Home was a number one bestseller. Untold Stories won the PEN/ Ackerley Prize for autobiography, 2006. Recent works of fiction are The Uncommon Reader and Smut: Two Unseemly Stories.

Also by the Author

PLAYS ONE

(Forty Years On, Getting On, Habeas Corpus, Enjoy)

PLAYS TWO

(Kafka’s Dick, The Insurance Man, The Old Country, An Englishman Abroad, A Question of Attribution)

THE LADY IN THE VAN

OFFICE SUITE

THE MADNESS OF GEORGE III

THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS

THE HISTORY BOYS

television plays

ME, I’M AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF

(A Day Out, Sunset Across the Bay, A Visit from Miss Prothero, Me, I’m Afraid of Virginia Woolf, Green Forms, The Old Crowd, Afternoon Off)

ROLLING HOME

(One Fine Day, All Day on the Sands, Our Winnie, Rolling Home, Marks, Say Something Happened, Intensive Care)

TALKING HEADS

screenplays

A PRIVATE FUNCTION

(The Old Crowd, A Private Function, Prick Up Your Ears, 102 Boulevard Haussmann, The Madness of King George)

THE HISTORY BOYS: THE FILM

autobiography

THE LADY IN THE VAN

WRITING HOME

UNTOLD STORIES

A LIFE LIKE OTHER PEOPLE’S

SMUT

fiction

THREE STORIES

(The Laying on of Hands, The Clothes They Stood Up In, Father! Father! Burning Bright)

THE UNCOMMON READER

Copyright

First published in this collection in 2004

by Faber & Faber Ltd

Bloomsbury House

74–77 Great Russell Street

London WC1B 3DA

This ebook edition first published in 2016

The Old Crowd © Forelake Ltd, 2004

A Private Function first published by Faber and Faber Ltd in 1984 © Handmade Films (Productions) Limited, 1984

Prick Up Your Ears first published by Faber and Faber Ltd in 1987 © Civilhand Limited, 1987

102 Boulevard Haussmann © Forelake Ltd, 2004

The Madness of King George © Forelake Ltd, 1995

Extracts from the author’s production diary included as an introduction to The Madness of King George were first printed in the London Review of Books

Introduction by Alan Bennett © Forelake Ltd, 2004

Cover design by Two Associates

Cover photograph © Steve Pyke / Katz

The right of Alan Bennett to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights whatsoever in this work, amateur or professional, are strictly reserved. Applications for permission for any use whatsoever including performance rights must be made in advance, prior to any such proposed use, to United Agents, 12-26 Lexington Street, London W1F OLE. No performance may be given unless a licence has first been obtained

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

ISBN 978–0–571–33290–8

The History Boys

Bennett, Alan

9780571335831

160 pages

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Designed to meet the requirements for students at GCSE and A level, this accessible educational edition offers the complete text of The History Boys with a comprehensive study guide. Highlights of Andrew Bruff's guide include: - detailed analyses of character, theme and structure;- a clear introduction to the context of the play and its author;- key quotations and activities both for the student working alone and in the classroom. An unruly bunch of bright, funny sixth-form boys in pursuit of sex, sport and a place at university. A maverick English teacher at odds with the young and shrewd supply teacher. A headmaster obsessed with results; a history teacher who thinks he's a fool. In Alan Bennett's award-winning and hugely popular play, staffroom rivalry and the anarchy of adolescence provoke insistent questions about history and how you teach it, about education and its purpose.

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Inadmissible Evidence

Osborne, John

9780571283019

128 pages

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I can't escape it. I can't forget it. And I can't begin again.Bill Maitland, a middle aged lawyer, struggles to avoid the harsh truths of his life. As those closest to him draw away, he puts himself on trial to fight for his sanity. John Osborne's poignant, witty and compelling portrait of loss, betrayal and defeat releases the author's characteristic display of soaring rhetorical venom to powerful effect. First performed at the Royal Court Theatre in 1964, Inadmissible Evidence received a major revival at the Donmar Warehouse, London, in October 2011.'This is a work of stunning and intemperate power, a great bellow of rage and pain... there is a self-lacerating honesty about his writing that few other playwrights have come close to matching.' Daily Telegraph

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Uncle Paul

Fremlin, Celia

9780571380886

225 pages

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One family's skeletons emerge on a 1950s seaside summer holiday in this classic mystery from 'Britain's Patricia Highsmith' and 'the grandmother of psycho-domestic noir' (Sunday Times)'A slow-burning chill of a read by a master of suspense.' Janice Hallett'Sinister, witty and utterly compelling. A genius.' Nicola UpsonAnother face, cool and smiling, framed against another rose arch, fifteen years ago. Cool in spite of the summer heat; smiling for the last time before the fearful discovery was made ...The summer holidays have begun. In a seaside caravan resort, Isabel and her sister Meg build sandcastles with the children, navigate deckchair politics, explore the pier's delights, gorge ice cream in the sun. But their half-sister Mildred has returned to a nearby coastal cottage where her husband - the mysterious Uncle Paul - was arrested for his first wife's attempted murder: and family skeletons emerge. Now, on his release from prison, is he returning for revenge, seeking who betrayed him? Or are all three women letting their nerves get the better of them? Though who really is Meg's new lover? And whose are those footsteps ...?

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The Kind Worth Killing

Swanson, Peter

9780571302239

320 pages

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THE SUNDAY TIMES TOP TEN BESTSELLERA RICHARD & JUDY BOOK CLUB CHOICEBEST THRILLER, iBOOKS BEST OF 2015SHORTLISTED FOR THE IAN FLEMING SILVER DAGGER, 2015SUNDAY TIMES, TATLER, GOOD HOUSEKEEPING AND GOLDSBORO BOOK OF THE MONTHYou should never talk to strangersWith his flight delayed, Ted Severson meets Lily Kintner, a magnetic stranger, in an airport bar. In the netherworld of international travel and too many martinis, he confesses his darkest secrets, about his wife's infidelity and how he wishes her dead. Without missing a beat Lily offers to help him carry out the task.'Gripping, elegantly and stylishly written and extremely hard to put down.' Sophie Hannah'A work of lovely violence and graceful malevolence, it slips into your life like a stiletto in the ribs.' Joe Hill'Gone Girl on speed.' Daisy Goodwin'Chilling and hypnotically suspenseful ... an instant classic.' Lee Child

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Floodmeadow

Martinez de las Rivas, Toby

9780571376445

80 pages

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The Floodmeadow draws us into a seething pastoral where lightning threatens and thunder gathers, pylons and powerlines hum, and steel-framed gates sing out into the wind. In these incantatory pieces, everything is present at once. The landscape, teetering on apocalypse, is characterised by collision and disintegration. Among fragments of memory and history are meticulously journaled observations of the natural world: the moorhen who 'with exaggerated delicacy steps / free of the reedbeds'; the dragonfly that 'pushes itself through the armour / of its body' to be born. The world is populated by archangels and wild gods, the roar of military aircraft, hunting dogs caught permanently suspended in the chase and a car that veers from the road into the floodwater in which the whole collection is saturated. Human relations are fleeting and vulnerable, appearing in the impression of a wedding or the recurring moments captured between a father and son, who make between them delicate balsawood constructions, which - as the poems do themselves - take flight in the turmoil, ecstatic one moment, plunged into darkness the next. This is a visionary collection that invokes other times, dimensions and soundscapes to tell out some word of beauty and abundance in the here and now.

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