The Year of the Sex Olympics and other TV Plays (2 page)

He ducks under a branch and makes for where Jeff pointed.

THE CLEARING

Sam is standing where he was, still listening and watching for something.

A wider shot shows this as a small clearing. In it is a fallen tree, a grotesque lightning-seared ruin with one end torn open. It is covered with flat plates of fungus.

There is a tiny squeal a short distance away in the darkening undergrowth. He starts, with the twig cross clutched to his chest. The thin sound is drowned by a series of sharp screeches that move rapidly away.

Lukey appears through the branches at his side.

LUKEY
: Killin’ early tonight, that owl.

SAM
: Ay.

LUKEY
: An old rat squealin’ there . . . make some folk frikkened, they dunno what it were.

SAM
: I know them noises. ’Tweren’t like I heard that other time.

LUKEY
(scrutinising him)
: Ay?

SAM
: Lukey, I don’t want to come back here tonight.

LUKEY
: Tell that to the squire. Come on now . . .

THE ROPED TREES

The lad has strung the last scraps of chain and iron on the completed barrier. Men are picking up their bundles and coils of rope as Lukey and Sam join them.

BIG JEFF
: Hey, Lukey . . . reckon we all get a free drink on this?

LUKEY
: Squire’s promised it.

Grunts of approval as they start to move off.

BIG JEFF
: I’ll say this for squire. He may be soft in the head, but he’s open in the hand . . .

They hurry off along the track. One of them whistles and calls to his dog.

OUTSIDE A TAVERN

The last glow in the sky picks out an inn sign: “The Three Companions”, pictured as a donkey, a dragoon and death, walking arm in arm.

The camera pans down. The windows of the tavern are lit. Outside the front door stands a large four-wheeled handcart with a long shaft. It is loaded with wooden boxes, planks and lanterns.

Beside it are two men.

One of them, in the decent dress of a rural gentleman, is Sir Timothy Hassall, Bt, squire of the district—tall and nervous, his face sensitive and uncertain. He lifts a wooden box from the cart and as he turns with it, the other man, a servant, makes to relieve him of the burden. But he is not to be trusted with it.

Sir Timothy makes for the tavern door, carrying the box carefully.

INSIDE THE TAVERN

The tavern is a crabbed little old place, no more than an occasional halt for passing coaches. Its customers come from the surrounding village, and there are half a dozen of them in the bar now, men in smocks or jerkins exchanging the days slow gossip over tankards of ale.

They watch Sir Timothy pass through with his box. One man with his back turned is nudged out of the way by a neighbour.

MAN
: Oh . . . sorry, squire.

SIR TIMOTHY
: No matter, Gibbs. No matter.

He has almost reached the door of the private parlour at the back when it flies open. The landlord, a harrassed, grizzled man, emerges in a hurry.

SIR TIMOTHY
: Careful!

LANDLORD
: Beg pardon, squire!
(Confusedly)
I’ll just get the logs.

SIR TIMOTHY
: Logs? Surely I need no logs.

LANDLORD
(nodding at the private room)
: He wants ’em!

A deep-throated roar from the room sends him on his way.

GIDEON COBB
(off-stage)
: And brandy, landlord! Quick, now!

LANDLORD
: Yes, sir.

Sir Timothy disappears into the private room, closing the door. The landlord hurries behind the bar and shouts to his daughter, Tetsy, the ugly-pretty girl of 18 who is serving ale there.

LANDLORD
: Where’s Jack?
(She shrugs)
Devil take him! Brandy then—quick! I must go for logs.

He shuffles out through a dark open doorway behind the bar and can be heard thumping about there and cursing.

Tetsy finds the brandy bottle, looks for glasses. There is a ripple of renewed interest among the villagers.

FIRST VILLAGER
: Makin’ your ol’ daddy jump, girl!
(A nod at the private room)
Who is he?

TETSY
: Mr. Cobb.

FIRST VILLAGER
: Who’s Mr. Cobb, then?

SECOND VILLAGER
: Friend o’ squire’s.

FIRST VILLAGER
: I can see that, but . . .

TETSY
: He got off the London coach.

She polishes glasses.

SECOND VILLAGER
: I seen ’em—him an’ his black man.

FIRST VILLAGER
: Black man?

TETSY
(sharply)
: Shhh!

The door of the private room has opened. A tall negro is standing there. He is impeccably liveried as a gentleman’s personal servant. His manner is cool and dignified. He calls in a voice that carries both culture and authority.

JETHRO
: Where is the brandy for my master?
(Seeing Tetsy with the bottle and glasses)
Bring it.

She manages to nod, and he goes back into the room. She is plainly terrified.

TETSY
(whispering)
: My mam says black men come from the Devil.

SECOND VILLAGER
(grinning)
: He comes from London. Same thing, eh, Tetsy?

FIRST VILLAGER
: ’Tis the fashion there, they say, to have a black boy in yer house, dressed up like a great dolly. All the rich men got one. An’ ladies too!

Tetsy has brandy and three glasses on a tray. She calls into the dark doorway.

TETSY
: Father, I’ve got the brandy.

LANDLORD
(off-stage)
: Take it in, then.

TETSY
: Eh? Me?

LANDLORD
(off-stage)
: Yes, you!

Trembling, Tetsy makes for the private room and knocks. The door opens immediately and there is Jethro’s face a foot from her own. She nearly drops the tray.

INSIDE THE PRIVATE ROOM

There are three people in the private room. Sir Timothy is standing by the table, using what part of it is not covered with food to display the apparatus he has brought in—a couple of weirdly-eccentric, lop-sided jars with stubby off-shoots of tubing and stoppers, not unlike alchemists’ alembics but with heavy, domed lids added.

He also has a crude electroscope in an ornamented case. Some of its internal parts are made of small bones, and it is topped with a mummified cat’s head with whiskers.

Behind sits his wife Lavinia in an elegant riding habit. She is something of a beauty, not much over 20 and ambitious. Her clothes are London fashion. So is her imitated, malicious smile.

But dominating the room is Mr. Gideon Cobb. Bulky and ugly, he carries himself with style. His fleshy face is neatly shaved and laced about at the neck. His clothing is plain but characterful in contrast to the absent-minded dullness of the squire’s. It seems designed to set off the pugnacious force of his expression. He is a man accustomed to dominate, and takes it for granted that his hearers enjoy the experience.

Many of them do.

He now has a collection of used plates in front of him, the remnant of a steak pie and an empty pudding bowl, with coffee jugs and cups. He is still gobbling spoonsful of pudding from a plate, while Sir Timothy tries to explain his apparatus.

SIR TIMOTHY
: . . . and in jars like this I’m hoping to secure samples of the imponderable fluids which, if I am right . . .

Cobb swings round in his chair to shout through a mouthful of pudding.

COBB
: Where are those damned logs? Send him in with them! I’m dying of cold.

Tray of brandy in hand, Jethro turns to disclose the girl in the open doorway. Seeing his mistake, Cobb guffaws.

COBB
: Ah, my dear! Thought it was your villain of a father.

TETSY
: He’s getting the logs, sir.

Cobb on his feet and taking the brandy from Jethro.

COBB
: Good. What’s your name?

Tetsy with a rapid, unskilled curtesy.

TETSY
: Tetsy, so please you.

Sir Timothy has swung round to his wife in a cold fury.

SIR TIMOTHY
(whispering)
: Why did you ask him here?

Lavinia flicks him a look of faint amusement. Then the door is closing and Cobb is pouring himself brandy.

COBB
: Mm, pretty.
(To them)
Will you join me?
(Sir Timothy puts up his hand. Lavinia shakes her head, smiling. Cobb drinks)
. . . You’re wise. At least it washes away the coffee. I really doubt that they’ve ever made coffee here before. I do.

LAVINIA
: I must apologise again, Mr. Cobb, for having put you to all this . . .

COBB
: No, no. The coach was late.

LAVINIA
: We had everything ready for you at the Hall. Timothy’d even been to the cellar to choose wines.

COBB
: Wines? Not imponderable fluids? I’m honoured.
(He laughs. She laughs. Sir Timothy is tight-lipped, and Cobb is quickly grave again)
Sir, do you keep a chymical chamber at the Hall? A laboratory?

SIR TIMOTHY
: Yes.

COBB
: You’ve studied long?

SIR TIMOTHY
: A number of years, mostly on my own.

COBB
: Rewarding, heh?

SIR TIMOTHY
: Yes, indeed.

LAVINIA
: Often I scarce see him for a week. He’s shut away there with his reports and the whole parish may go rot.

COBB
: Most singular—a squire that would sooner hunt a chymical element than a fox.

SIR TIMOTHY
(hand on the jar again)
: Shall I go on?

COBB
: Please.

SIR TIMOTHY
: If tonight there should be a manifestation, I’d expect changes in the air, the release of—of imponderable fluids. Phlogiston caloric, even the electric fluid. Now, for the electric—

He draws forward the electroscope. At the same moment there is a bump on the door, which flies open. It is the landlord, with his arms full of logs.

LANDLORD
: Here you are, sir.

SIR TIMOTHY
: It’s intolerable.

LANDLORD
: Logs.

COBB
: Throw them all on—I need a great blaze to thaw my vitals. If you’d dragged for ten hours behind those damned lame jades . . .

LAVINIA
: I feel so guilty!

Cobb to the landlord as he builds up the fire.

COBB
: And then make more coffee
(To the others)
I don’t know how he brews it—I’ve tasted naught like it in London.

LANDLORD
(with modest pride)
: We have our ways, sir.

COBB
(heavily)
: Ay.
(To Lavinia)
Coffee is the element I float in, madam, be it exquisite or vile. I chart my way through the flavours like the great whale in his sea. Now where did we meet in London—I’d swear it was at Mrs. Brook’s?

LAVINIA
: It was.

COBB
: There! I never forget a bean! The aroma . . . nay, the aura . . . of that Mrs. Brook’s. But you, squire . . . I think you were not there?

SIR TIMOTHY
: No.

LAVINIA
: I was up in town alone, visiting my cousin.

Cobb gives a faint smile as he glances from wife to husband.

COBB
: No, sir, I think you were not.

The landlord turns from the fire and picks up the tray of plates.

LANDLORD
: There, sir . . . that’ll soon pick up.

COBB
: Thank’ee.

Sir Timothy looks at his fob watch. He follows the landlord to the door and looks out.

SIR TIMOTHY
: My men not returned?

LANDLORD
: Not yet, sir.

SIR TIMOTHY
: Be sure to let me know. Send Lukey to me.

LANDLORD
: I will, squire.

He goes, shutting the door. Cobb has risen and is warming his back at the fire.

COBB
: This witness of yours.

SIR TIMOTHY
: Sam Towler

COBB
: He’s with them?

SIR TIMOTHY
: Yes. They’ve been roping off the area with alarm bells to detect intruders.

COBB
: You mean hoaxers?

SIR TIMOTHY
(unhappily)
: Yes.

COBB
: You admit it could all be an imposture, then?

SIR TIMOTHY
: To keep an open mind, I must. But I
think
not. I think there is something here worth probing with all the means we have!

He claps his hands confidently on the alembic-like jars.

LAVINIA
: Not forgetting pussy.