They're taking his telly again.
God, is it Tuesday already?
Does your granddad know what you do?
So much for night school. Mind the steps.
We know there's steps.
Why don't you let me have one of them nice little portables?
Save you a lot of bother.
There's going to be sweating when I get colour.
While you got it, have a look at that vertical hold.
Why don't you stay inside, Mrs Batty, eh? You know you always get me excited.
That's all he can talk. Filth.
There'll be your Harold wrapped up with his pigeons, eh?
Oh, give me a word of encouragement.
Stop flaunting your laundry in front of my face. Disgusting man.
Wash day's purgatory.
No wonder his missus went off with that Pole.
It's no good being lonely. He's not lonely.
There's a gang of them down at that public library.
They've nowt else do.
What does he do when library's closed without his telly?
Next door says he exposes himself.
Raar! Hee-hee!
Hello. Is that a pup?
No, not a pup. Older than you.
Don't it get trodden on?
What you want round here?
Can I give it a stroke?
Long way from home, aren't you? No.
You're not moving in round here, are you?
We're in. Next street up.
Dad's got a whippet.
And a motorbike.
Two days' stubble on his chin and sits out in his vest. I know.
Oh, dear, why aren't you in school?
I got spots. What?
See ya.
Oh, my God, they're all coming up.
Hello, Cyril.
You know, when I became a paying guest in this quiet little backwater, this superior area up the hill,
nobody said a word about it being right in the path of the migrating hordes of the proletariat.
What's up, Cyril? Have less of the Cyril.
Neighbours might hear. Eh, we were school mates together, weren't we? Shut up. I shall deny it.
I saw where they were scarred once in the penalty area.
I know all the details.
Have less of the Cyril, I said.
I prefer the more rounded tones of Mr Blamire.
Oh, you don't mind me telling you...
Spoken respectfully while clutching your tattered cap.
Your landlady's dog's crapping all over the pavement.
That's funny. It usually stores it up in little bags and sends it by post.
It's the fretting, Cyril.
You don't have to call for me, you know.
Suppose I'm not going to the library.
Give over.
She'll never allow you back in the house before teatime.
Well, she's not used to having me under her feet all day.
And you needn't think the only place I've got to go to is the library.
Look, get rid of this here airy pillock.
You've got a right goolie there, Cyril.
Your landlady's worse than the missus.
Come on, let's go and find Clegg.
Five paces behind, if you don't mind, Simmonite.
Dragged myself up by my boot heels out of Hardwick Street
and down towards the end of life's journey, here you are again undermining my confidence.
Now you wait here. It's not only my City and Guilds, it's the social chasm between us.
Eh, Cyril, give us a fag.
I'll give you a sniff of my socks.
This fella.
He picks up this tiny bird in his hands
and carries its quivering little body across this busy junction,
and feeds it to his cat.
Life's like that.
A complex texture of conflicting moralities.
Agreed.
So, what you doing here in your heavenly commissioner's suit?
Gasping for a smoke.
Reckon you know what's on t'other side?
Faith, Clegg, faith.
I'm supposed to be stopping. But then, on the other hand,
it's hardly fitting for me to be seen trying to live forever, is it?
I finished the book. Oh, you know where the others are.
How are you keeping?
My bowel is playing up a bit.
God moves in mysterious ways.
Duty calls.
He's still calling for me in broad daylight.
Tell the neighbours he doesn't belong to you.
You're just looking after him for somebody.
They've taken my telly again.
Only because you haven't paid.
It's nothing personal.
Oh, ta.
What are you writing? Just catching the passing thought.
I don't know why you bother.
Well, somebody's got to think about things.
And who's got more time than we have?
It's a might perishing, though.
Let's move on. Bring the bike.
Let's have coffee, then. Back up.
Here, you're on consecrated ground. I'm wearing rubber soles.
This chapel ain't been used for years.
And we all know that feeling.
No need to be prejudiced against him, Cyril, just because he looks like something from Rent-a-Drain.
That's true. I've got my feelings, you know.
Oh, I do know. I've seen you scratching them.
You've got to remember, Compo, that Cyril's a Tory.
And Tories can't stand it if you're filthy and obscene.
That's what the Labour party's for.
They fetched me in a car once, the Labour Party.
Fancy that, having a vote. I mean, you've only got to look at his flat head.
Who were they burying, then?
A fellow from Herbison Street.
Where else can you go after Herbison Street?
A definitely sub-normal flat head. You could see that at school.
Lovely bone structure. That's not the only thing you could see at school.
On a clear day, old ragged riches here could be grinning at you from all sorts of unsightly places.
It's not all that flat.
Feel here, where the bolt goes through.
Eh, you play your cards right, you could run your fingers through my hair any time.
Like a retarded camel.
Eh, do you think I ought to part it in th'middle?
That might go down well with Mrs Batty.
I should leave it be, naturally messy.
Just look how things have turned out.
To think that that used to bully me life out. Did you?
Well, he had his velvet suit.
You didn't, did you?
Well, my mam wanted to give me a start in life.
I should think you'd need a 50 yard start in Hardwick Street with a velvet suit.
You know, I can't weigh the Almighty up at all.
Oh, I don't believe in him. Except in a moving spirit behind the National Assistance. It's a puzzle.
Even old Canon Jameson.
Do you believe in old Canon Jameson?
He was a complex character.
A tyrant one minute, and yet more than democratic in his ways with the choir boys.
And that's just a Canon. So you've no chance of weighing up God.
Well, I believe in him.
You creeper!
I'm interested but... Your Edie was solid chapel.
You've been, you've seen.
I know. But despite even that, I'm still interested.
Well what was wrong with chapel, eh?
I felt somehow that it should have more humour.
And perhaps a bigger organ.
No, I'm not convinced. I mean, for a start, if God's omnipotent with all that choice available,
what could he possibly want with my old woman?
Blind chance working there, not selection.
Oh, I know I choose her, but think on.
She was a lot younger then. And it were the night of the Depression.
Nobody expected out fancying.
Well, even if you don't believe in God, he'd take her just for spite.
They're all like, the bosses.
What do you know, you tatty heathen?
I'm entitled to my opinion.
Not exactly an expert opinion, is it?
Considering how much experience you've had of either church or full employment.
It stands to reason. God's a boss.
Even if you don't believe in him.
What does it matter who takes your old woman?
You miss them when they've gone.
Chuffing Pole took mine.
She was a good wife to you, Clegg.
By every definition. She nagged incessantly.
She kept things spotless.
You couldn't fault her. You must miss her.
And my job at the Co-op emporium.
Aye. After 31 years niggling at each other, it leaves a hell of a gap. It's like going deaf.
Aye, it takes a lot of readjusting. Like this being redundant.
She wouldn't have liked me being redundant, eh?
Still, it's not all bad. There's a lot to think about. There's things we could do.
Could you get my foot out of here for a start?
Here, what are you faffing at?
Me foot's fast. Eh?
How did you get it stuck in there?
Oh, it's easy when you've got the knack.
Steady on, my bloody leg won't unscrew.
We'll have to take his welly off. Well, I'll hold the bike.
I'm not handling his feet.
Maybe you're right. The world's not really ready for his feet.
I used to keep myself clean once.
But it weren't any use. She still went off with that scabby Pole.
Least your missus were decent. Oh, aye, she was chaste.
But think on, she had certain natural advantages like,
that wart on her face and them serious bloomers.
Whoa! no!
Oh, Mr Wainwright.
Oh!
I have to touch you. It's a need. Mr Wainwright.
Now, there's no reason why we can't be adult about this thing, Mrs Partridge.
Not when you read the Sunday Times.
What truck have we with the middle-class morality of this nasty little town?
Did you read the DH Lawrence?
Well, I started but then his mother came, and afterwards my husband likes us to watch High Chapparal.
You poor deprived child.
Then I have to get his Ovaltine.
Oh, God.
But you read far enough to get the feel of the passionate intensity?
The honesty of the flesh?
Well, more or less. But he doesn't like me reading in bed.
Filthy Tory swine.
But at least we found each other, Mrs Partridge.
Fate and the library committee have thrown us together.
I come to work with a poem on my lips, do you know that?
It's a good job you've got your own car, Mr Wainwright.
I feel uplifted.
I feel alive. I feel...
New tights, Mrs Partridge?
Well, they're a bit more expensive, but worth it, I think.
Oh, God. Every penny.
I'll have to start charging that lot rent.
Never mind, their days are numbered.
Do you suppose they saw?
Nonsense. What was there to see?
We were merely engaged upon our multifarious activities upon the lower shelves.
Anyway, I'm going to get that lot barred.
If you need me, Mrs Partridge, I will be in natural history.
Here, how could you afford fags and backing horses?
Oh, it's not easy.
The bookie's got a car, and you've got a pair of wellies.
Doesn't that teach you something? Aye, he don't get enough exercise.
He never reads the front page.
Oh, give me diarrhoea.
He does right. I reckon the world's basically sound as long as there's racing at Chepstow.
He's been useless to society all his life.
You're only saying that because it's true.
When we were kids. The rest of us'd go for a swim,
and he'd go for a quick dip through his mam's handbag.
There weren't nowt in it, though.
We was poor.
We can all see how far you've come since.
Well, it's our family tradition.
It used to be a tradition around here if you were hungry, you could knock on any door
and without a moment's hesitation, they slam it straight in your face.
What's that got to do owt? Just shows they had character.
Now we're in an age of compassion.
The world's full of folk hating folk for hating folk.
I think I'll have a little treble on.
You see the deep social concern?
Gets that from his Uncle Bill, who's the first attempted conscientious objector in the area.
Was he, hell! On the grounds that war interfered with his obligations to earn at Pogmore's sweet shop.
They've all been layabouts, his lot. Our Frank went to grammar school.
Oh, aye, 11 o'clock one bloody night.
Left his homework behind.
Here, not that same Frank who was later apprehended in
Beaumont's yard about to activate a contraceptive device? Aye, would be.
Well, they were engaged. And we all know what at, don't we?
Well, he married her, didn't he? Oh, aye, for a bit.
He'd already had a bit.
Well, for a while, then, until he got fed up and walked out.
Well, she was always on about his ferrets.
She said it were either her, or them.
And he knew how good she'd be down a rabbit hole.
You see, no sense of responsibility.
Here, you'll have Wainwright down on us again.
Oh, he always knows we come in here for a bite.
We?! I hope he doesn't think I have owt to do with the obscene horrible wodges like that.
Why should he come in here?
He's probably thumbing through Mrs Partridge.
Many years ago, before even I was intimate with Muriel Fairfax.
Were ya?
In a manner of speaking, yes, one day, one Tuesday in the sandpit.
What, her on Pringle Street?
How do you mean, in a manner of speaking?
She let me see her without her vest.
I always felt it constituted a bond between us.
Although it didn't stop her marrying that bread man.
How old were you then there? Nine or ten.
But it was one of those formative experiences you don't forget.
She married a Watson from Dyer Avenue.
Now they are living in, er...
what's that, erm...Broomfield Road.
She works on the milk. You must have seen her.
Never without her vest. Not since that once.
She goes to bingo.
Well, they you are, you see. That's what happens to us in life.
A promising start like that and she ends up going to bingo.
Maybe we settle too quick for not enough.
Eh?
Do you realise that in China they'll pedal 50 miles just to look at a book?
Eh? They'd know how to treat this place in Peking.
You're out. You're finished.
I wanted my reading room to be a little light,
a beacon, shining in the darkness, keeping the flame of culture alight!
Get out. Go on. Get out of here!
Get over, don't come back!
Go on, get out, you're barred!
Barred!
He can't bar us.
He couldn't if you wasn't for you, you scruffy twit.
I wish I'd had you under me in the army.
Do you? Hark at him.
Bloody stores wallah.
Anybody'd think he invented the Gurkhas.
At least I was in full employment.
Any silly sod can work.
That's not strictly true.
Ivy? Ivy!
What's up now? What about this mucky plate?
It's been here three days.
Well give us it here, if you're allergic. Bloody petal-soft hands.
Well, cheer up, it's only the library gone.
The world's still our oyster.
Ah, but she has me tea ready for five.
Not so much a landlady more a way of life.
I know you'll never stop dripping, but you might take a look at these kitchen taps.
Oh, get back in there, you bloody...
CLATTERING AND ARGUING
Until it happens, you never realise how much
you're going to miss a close marital relationship like that.
Well, come on, get a move on.
Come on! Oh, now look what you've made me do!
Come on!
You can't catch fish, you know, if you frighten the mud.
I'm not on the same terms of familiarity with it as you.
You must be mad. All this exercise.
Enjoy it.
We ought to do things more.
That's what I keep telling Mrs Batty.
Oh, shut him up, can't you?
Did you notice? We came past Lovers' Lane just now.
They all used to come up here...
We know what they used to come up here for.
We come up here on a picnic once, me and the missus.
We hadn't been married long. I got stung.
Well, she didn't exactly get a bloody bargain.
Here, give us a fag.
I wouldn't task only I'm dead cheeky.
Oh, ta.
I'll have one of yours an' all, for old time's sake.
Here, where's your missus now?
Oh, I've no idea.
I don't even know if she's alive.
Do you reckon you meet up again, up there, afterwards.
Afterwards? You know. Up there?
There's a treat in store for us then.
Halfway through a hymn, and he'll come trotting up in his wellies.
You don't anticipate you're going to get through them gates, do ya?
Don't matter any road.
I don't believe in it.
Except to think about it sometimes.
Like will there be Wednesdays when you're dead?
Here, d'you reckon angels wear underpants? You what?
Under their overcoats.
It never shows on pictures.
Here, do you reckon they got parts?
You know, to hide.
He's a scruffy peasant.
They don't need them, do they?
There is no mucking about like that.
You see, no variety, even in the heavenly chorus.
Just rank after rank of sopranos.
I bet it don't even rain. And I'd like a drop of rain.
Choirs will assemble in the canteen on wet afternoons.
You have to believe in something. That's just
your background speaking because there's always been a Blamire in the armed forces or WH Smith and Sons.
Armed forces? Bloody catering corps.
What d'you know of service?
Always on the knock. Well, he hasn't altered much since school.
He could hear the rustle of toffee paper at 40 feet.
Him and Dougie Eastwood between them.
The only time I was happy in school
was when I was at home dying of something. He never caught nowt.
Germs used to stagger back, coughing.
And they says sex instruction's new.
They should have attended his tutorials round the back of t'bike shed.
Well, sup up.
Hey, somebody's been at it up the lane.
Hey, it's old Wainwright.
Aye, aye! Did you get any, did you?
I bet she blotted your copy book, didn't she? Eh?
Eh? Woohoo!
Well, I think we might be able to go back to the library.
Eh?
What's Wainwright going to think if he sees that in here?
He's going to think it's one of the penalties of making love to lady librarians.
It's disgusting. And he's in charge of the children's library.
Give over! You don't think they enjoy it, do you?
Well, it seems to be popular.
Adultery? It's nerve-wracking.
Poor devils.
Guilt and cramp in confined spaces.
And Wainwright deserves all our sympathy, anyway.
What for?
Because he's got intellectual aspirations.
Which means that, one day, he's going to lose all sense of reason and go and live down south.
Here, d'you reckon I'm in love with Mrs Batty? Or is it just sex?
Huh! Love!
Why not? Him? Do you know how he started his romantic career?
Stuffing broken biscuits down Susan Anderson's knickers.
Yeah, but that were research.
That was just an excuse, you see, to see if it were true what Dougie said.
Rubbish. Shut up a minute. What did Dougie say?
Well, Dougie reckoned they'd got a trap door.
A trap door?
Yeah, he said that's how babbies were born.
Through a trap door? Think about it, Cyril.
Is it any weirder than the truth?
Oh, it's a queer world for those of us brought up to believe in God,
the Queen, and the superiority of British bicycles.
Sometimes, Cyril, I could swear your idea of orgasm is a quick flick through Burke's Peerage.
Which one of you Burkes is going to give us a fag, then?
Here, come on, give us a fag, and I'll give you a sniff of my socks.
Here, keep them.
He'd give cork-tipper disease.
D'you know what they used to do to me at school?
They used to lift up my little shirt and squash butterflies in my navel.
Aye, but only in summer.
Poor little tiddler.
Don't just stand there, give us a hand.
I can't get up here on me own.
Come on then.
Oh!
He's off to the sea now.
I'll walk with thee. Clegg's off t'other way. Oh, well.
Only to the end of the street, mind.
It does me no good to be seen consorting with the depressed classes.
Well, see you. Tomorrow.
At the library. Ta-ra. Cheerio.
Ta-ra.
I don't know, lass, it's a rum old world.
None the less, I think I'll go and get a bit of sausage for my tea.
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