Sometimes, things are just meant to happen. Greyhounds and our new Podcast is perhaps one of those things.
As we are all thrust into these changing times, we’ve brought forward some plans for launching our Museum podcast. Had our VE Day Celebration Weekend gone ahead, our friends at Time and Again Theatre had planned to be with us, performing their play Greyhounds.
With no event to perform to, they reached out to us with a fascinating idea. Why not re-write the play for audio?
So here it is. Greyhounds.
The year is 1941. Preparations have begun for a production of Shakespeare’s Henry V. The objective? To fund a Spitfire….
The full story will be appearing right here on our website for you to listen through your favourite podcast or audio service over a period of several weeks, twice each week.
Each episode is split into segments of around 20 minutes each, making it an easy way for you to enjoy.
GREYHOUNDS
WRITTEN BY LAURA CROW
EPISODE ONE – A FLYING START
Copyright © Laura Crow 2020
Please note that this script is fully protected by copyright. The script is available only for private, personal use and not for any other form of wider distribution. Any enquiries concerning the rights for professional or amateur stage production, broadcasting, readings etc should be made to the author, Laura Crow, via Time & Again Theatre Company at www.timeandagaintheatre.com
EXT. LONDON STREET - NIGHT
High heeled feet running along a pavement. Nancy Wilde. Sounds of backstreet London post air raid:
– Ragged children pick over a bomb site. They argue over their
share in the spoils.
– Faint sounds of sirens and fire.
Nancy ignores them all – she’s used to it.
High heeled feet walking. Sounds of crowds, theatres, all keeping
calm and carrying on despite the traces of carnage – “two tickets
left!”, “taxi!” etc.
Nancy walks along an alleyway towards the actor’s entrance of a West End Theatre. A young actress, Maggie, is smoking by the stage door. Long, dignified drags just like she’s seen them smoking in the movies. She breaks off at the sight of Nancy.
MAGGIE
Nancy? Look at the state of you! That’s a nasty cut! You’re lucky
you didn’t have your eye out. Was it Beckworth Road? Stan said
it’s been hit pretty badly.
NANCY
Must have been.
MAGGIE
Get yourself into the theatre. We’ll have you cleaned up before
Act II.
NANCY
Not tonight, Maggie. I’ve got a train to catch.
MAGGIE
A train?
NANCY
I just needed to drop this letter off. My notice.
There’s a pause. The penny drops for Maggie. Nancy has obviously turned up looking like this before.
MAGGIE
(Cautiously)
That cut… it was no bomb, was it? Where will you go?
NANCY
My aunt married a greengrocer. Funny little chap, with a shop in
the country. Middle of nowhere. Just fields and cows and a bit of
peace and quiet. He died just before the war so she could use the
help.
MAGGIE
What do you need peace and quiet for when you can spend the night
down Piccadilly Circus and sleep like a queen?
NANCY
I’ve heard enough choruses of We’re Going to Hang out the Washing
on the Siegfried Line to last a life time.
MAGGIE
What will you do?
NANCY
Sell vegetables, I suppose.
MAGGIE
Sounds rather dull if you ask me.
NANCY
I can’t stay here. I can’t. Not anymore.
Nancy spits out the words. Maggie doesn’t know what to say so she continues to play the role of happy-go-lucky actress. But it doesn’t reach her voice. She’s concerned.
MAGGIE
Just when old Hutchinson’s given you a line. You’re almost main
cast.
NANCY
You can have it. I’ve asked for you. Will you make sure he gets
the letter?
MAGGIE
You know I will. Take care of yourself girl.
The stage door opens and the opening strains of Henry V wafts out
from the stage of the theatre:
“O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention…”
MAGGIE
I’d better get back in. His nibs has just started. Good luck in –
where is it – this greengrocer’s shop?
NANCY
Shuttlefield.
Maggie laughs.
MAGGIE
Shuttlefield? What kind of name is that?
Maggie disappears inside, shutting the stage door and deadening the sounds of the performance inside.
INT. LONDON CAFE - DAY
A drab utilitarian sort of place:
– Wooden chairs scrape across the floor.
– Coffee clinks in chipped mugs.
The room is crowded and busy but we draw in on a young woman who
is alone and quiet. A focal point. Katherine Winters. Early
twenties. Neat lipstick, neat yet masculine clothes. Close up on
her thin, restless hands as she cooly arranges the utensils, menu
and anything else on the table into precise, particular rows. A
waitress materialises from the throng and starts instantly on her
pre-rehearsed patter.
WAITRESS
Welcome to Davenport’s Cafe. One slice of bread per customer, 2
potatoes per customer, free milk for the under fives.
KATHERINE
I’m not under five. I’m an adult.
WAITRESS
Would you like the fish pie or the corned beef fritters?
The waitress looks down, pencil poised. A strand of greasy hair
protrudes from her cap. A look passes across Katherine’s face as
though she’s resisting the urge to jump up and stuff it back in place. Her own hair is neatly rolled and pinned; quite compliant.
KATHERINE
No.
WAITRESS Right.
Sounds of her feet starting to move to the next table where a
young woman is prattling away quite happily to her crying baby.
KATHERINE
Where are you going?
WAITRESS
To take the orders. I haven’t got all day, you know.
Sound of the waitresses pencil tapping on the pad.
KATHERINE
You haven’t written down my order yet.
WAITRESS
(Letting out a snort of exasperation)
You said you didn’t want anything.
KATHERINE
No, I didn’t.
WAITRESS
You did. I said ‘fish pie or corned beef - ’
KATHERINE
You asked if I would like them, and I’m not very fond of either,
so I said no. Was that wrong?
Katherine isn’t trying to be funny. It’s a genuine, innocently
poised question.
A pause stretches on uncomfortably. The chairs scrape. The tap, tap, tap of the pencil pounds in her head.
WAITRESS
Do you want lunch or don’t you?
KATHERINE
Of course I want lunch. I wouldn’t have sat down at a table
otherwise.
The baby continues to scream. Tap, tap, tap. Snort.
WAITRESS
Heaven’s save me. Would you like –
KATHERINE
No, you’re doing it again. If you asked ‘Do you want to order fish
pie or corned beef?’ it would make things much easier.
WAITRESS (Sarcastically) Would it?
KATHERINE Oh yes.
With a final tap, the lead gives way, leaving a smudgy grey mark on the pad. By this point, the waitress would like to snap Katherine in a similar fashion. Behind them, a clock chimes two.
WAITRESS
Fish pie or corned bloody beef?
Katherine stands up.
KATHERINE
I’m sorry, I’ve just been reminded that I have an appointment at
half past two. This order took three minutes and twenty seven
seconds longer to place than I expected so I no longer have time
for lunch.
She gathers up her bag and adjusts the collar of her shirt.
KATHERINE (CONT’D)
Goodbye. And I thought it best to let you know - your lipstick has
smeared, just near your right nostril. Yes, that’s it. And really,
you shouldn’t wear a pink-based red. It only brings out your ruddy
complexion.
With the feeling that she’s really been quite kind, Katherine
turns on her heel and pushes the cafe door open, breathing in the
smutty air of the city street.
INT. OFFICE FOR CEMA (COUNCIL FOR THE ENCOURAGEMENT OF MUSIC AND
THE ARTS) – DAY – SATURDAY 22ND FEBRUARY 1941
A large, airy room. Official looking but rather empty. Seated at a
table in the middle, three well-dressed, well-fed individuals.
They are confident. Kings presiding over their kingdom. They look
as though the war is something merely happening around them, not
to them.
Seated opposite: a woman in her early thirties. Tired and a little
worn down by life, but vivid. Beads, bangles, scarves – the
trappings of a thwarted artist, a would-be bohemian. Ruby Winters
– Katherine’s older sister.
CLERK
Miss Ruby Winters for you Mr Clarke.
MR CLARKE
Come in Miss Winters, come in. The panel are looking forward to
your proposal. Each candidate has fifteen minutes.
Sounds of chairs pushing back. Ruby accidentally kicks over her handbag as she settles nervously in her chair. Several boiled sweets and tubes of paint spill out.
RUBY
So sorry. Always knocking things over. Humbug? Not that, it’s a
tube of oil paint. There we go. Humbug?
MR CLARKE
No thank you, Miss Winters. Perhaps we should press on? There’s
rather a lot of candidates to get through. Are you taking notes
Mrs Leyton?
MRS LEYTON
Quite ready.
MR CLARKE
Now, we’re looking for thoughtful, considered pieces. Here at CEMA
our aim is far greater than to simply distract war-weary audiences
with any old nonsense. This war doesn’t need another dose of
cheery musical hall hun-bashing. Now is the time for Britain to
fight for its cultural heritage. We must defend the values of our
civilised nation by any possible means. Wouldn’t you agree Miss
Winters? Now, your theatre -
RUBY
It’s not exactly a theatre, sir, more of a village hall.
MR CLARKE
I see. And where is this village hall?
RUBY
Shuttlefield.
MR CLARKE
And that’s a... town?
RUBY
A village. Near Biggleswade.
MR CLARKE
Oh I see. Near Biggleswade.
Mr Clarke’s tone is not encouraging.
MR CLARKE (CONT’D)
Well, the panel is ready to hear your request. The floor is yours,
Miss Winters.
RUBY
(Uncertainly)
Yes, well... I... umm... I wanted to -
The handbag nearly goes again.
MR CLARKE
It’s says here you wish to raise money for the Biggleswade
Spitfire Fund?
RUBY
Yes, that’s correct.
MR CLARKE
You have prepared a project to bring to the panel?
RUBY
Yes, of course.
MRS LEYTON
One of educational and national merit?
Mr Clarke leans forward, dramatic pause – time to impress his visitor.
MR CLARKE
Only last week, we had the exciting opportunity to collaborate
with the Ballet Rambert.
Ruby remains blank. She makes a nondescript murmur of recognition.
MR CLARKE (CONT’D)
They will be touring to factories and garrisons across the
country! You like the ballet, Miss Winters?
RUBY
Oh yes. All those swans. Terribly beautiful.
MRS LEYTON
Perhaps we should break for lunch?
There is a general feeling from the panel, shifting and murmuring, that they are wasting their time. Ruby senses this.
RUBY
No! I’m sorry, I’ve travelled rather a long way. I’m getting
myself terribly flustered, aren’t I?
She loses her bluster and speaks earnestly, with true feeling.
RUBY (CONT’D)
We don’t have a ballet or an opera or anything like that.
Shuttlefield’s a small village, it’s – nowhere – really. We work
in the fields or in shops. We do our best to get by. The village
hall always used to bring everyone together for a song or a dance,
before the committee disbanded at the start of the war. It was
only old favourites round the piano, or perhaps one of the lads
would juggle, which is why…
She realises she has lost the committee. They are already filing
her application into a pile marked ‘rejected’. Their thoughts are
firmly with lunch.
Ruby gets a glint in her eye and changes tack:
RUBY (CONT’D)
...which is why I want to do something rather more important. A true
rallying cry to rural Britain! A stirring interpretation that will
bring out the best in the entire community!
The panel lean forward as one.
MR CLARKE
Yes..?
INT. RECEPTION OF THE OFFICE FOR CEMA (COUNCIL FOR THE ENCOURAGEMENT OF MUSIC AND THE ARTS) - DAY
Large, high-ceiling. Marbled floors. An ageing clerk sits behind a wooden reception desk. He picks up the phone:
CLERK
Hello, you’re through to the Council for the Encouragement of
Music and the Arts.
A large clock is ticking loudly from the wall; tick, tick, tick. Katherine is seated on a wooden bench opposite. Ruby comes through a door into the reception area and crosses to Katherine.
RUBY
I thought you were having lunch.
KATHERINE
You said you’d be finished at two thirty.
RUBY
I said, about two thirty. Have you really been waiting here –
KATHERINE
43 minutes and 20 seconds. Yes.
There was a dead body in the street. Well, parts of one anyway.
RUBY
Oh really, Katherine.
KATHERINE
It was just lying there with bits of plaster and wood. And hair,
tufts of hair. I think they’d tried to sweep it up.
Ruby is not shocked by this pronouncement. She is used to Katherine’s abrupt leaps of topic.
RUBY
Aren’t you going to ask how it went?
KATHERINE
There’s no need. You’re clearly going to tell me.
Sounds of the clerk working at his desk fade as they cross towards the door.
RUBY
They said yes! Not to a full grant – they’re very rare, of course
they are – but they’ll provide timber, extra material for the
costumes and enough to get the posters printed. Isn’t that simply
marvellous?
KATHERINE
I’m surprised they considered The Daisy Left Out in the Storm
uplifting, educational, and national. It says in this pamphlet
that’s what they’re looking for.
It is obvious that she has memorised it in the said 43 minutes, 20 seconds, for want of something to do.
KATHERINE
(Quoting)
“In a war which is being increasingly fought on the Home Front,
the COUNCIL FOR THE ENCOURAGEMENT OF MUSIC AND THE ARTS have
become a vital weapon to remind people what the country is
fighting for.”
RUBY
Yes, well, I didn’t actually show them my script in the end. I
thought perhaps, on reflection, that it was a project for a
happier time, one when artistic merit can sing out for itself –
As they exit through the front door and out onto the street...
EXT. ON THE STREET OUTSIDE THE OFFICE FOR CEMA (COUNCIL FOR THE
ENCOURAGEMENT OF MUSIC AND THE ARTS) – DAY
Sounds of feet walking, car horns tooting.
KATHERINE
So what did they issue their support for? If you’re not doing your
play.
Ruby was clearly hoping this question would take a little longer to arise.
RUBY
Yes, well, I ummm, I said we were staging Henry V. Shakespeare’s
Henry V.
KATHERINE
In the village hall?
RUBY
Yes.
KATHERINE
With three actors?
RUBY
Well, naturally, the society is going to have to grow slightly in
the wake of our good news. But I think, with a positive outlook,
and plenty of enthusiasm, we can certainly be ready in time.
A red double-decker bus rumbles past. The street is busy and full of people.
KATHERINE
When do they want you to perform the play?
RUBY
St George’s Day. For the morale, you see.
KATHERINE
That’s in 7 weeks.
RUBY
Ruby reaches her limit.
Yes.
KATHERINE
49 days.
RUBY
Yes.
KATHERINE
1,176 hours.
RUBY
And I thought it would be rather lovely if you played the
Archbishop of Canterbury. Shall we go home?
EXT. TRAIN TRACKS - DAY A deep crimson London, Midland and Scottish Railway steam train steams through the war-torn outskirts of London and into lush, unspoiled countryside.
INT - LMS TRAIN CARRIAGE - DAY
Katherine reads a newspaper. She sighs audibly and corrects parts with a little pencil.
KATHERINE
‘Raid On Port In Northern Town. Some Deaths: Champion Rescue
Parties Prevail’. No. (Scratch, scratch of pencil) 40 deaths. Raid
on port in Hull.
Ruby, oblivious, is scribbling down ideas in a red notepad. She
mutters lines from Henry V to herself as she draws.
An old lady shuffles in front of Katherine and stops.
OLD LADY Excuse me.
After a pause, the old lady coughs politely.
RUBY
Katherine, your seat.
KATHERINE
What about it?
Katherine continues to busily correct the newspaper without breaking concentration.
RUBY
Vacate it.
KATHERINE
Why?
OLD LADY
I’ll find somewhere else.
Ruby flushes, clearly embarrassed.
RUBY
So that this nice lady can sit down.
KATHERINE
She said she’ll find somewhere else.
OLD LADY Really!
The lady glares and shuffles off, mumbling about the youth of today.
RUBY
No, wait! Please, take my seat! It’s no trouble.
The lady ignores her. Ruby glares down at her sister, who is quite uninterested.
RUBY
Sometimes you’re really too much, Katherine!
KATHERINE
Too much what?
Ruby sits down with a purposeful thud and takes up her notebook once more.
EXT. TRAIN TRACKS - DAY The train shoots into a tunnel with a huge puff of billowing steam as a guard calls ‘Next station, Shuttlefield. Five minutes, you have five minutes!’.
INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - DAY
The room of a military hospital. There are medical sounds in the
background:
– A tannoy calls a doctor into theatre.
– A trolley or wheelchair squeaks down the corridor.
- Nurses chatter.
It is sterile and sparsely furnished. A man sits alone on a neatly made bed. Edward Holmes. RAF moustache, military stance. He has a cast and sling on his left arm.
A nurse opens the doors and enters the room holding a clipboard.
NURSE
Everything appears to be in order, Mr Holmes. You need to keep
wearing the sling as per doctor’s instructions, but you’re free to
go.
EDWARD
Thank you.
He speaks politely but without any emotion.
NURSE Is it back to the base for you? Or would that be ‘careless talk’?
EDWARD
No, it’s desk work I’m afraid. Seems the forces at be think I’ve
had enough action for the time being.
NURSE
Quite right too. Give that arm a chance to heal properly.
You’ll find your coat in the cloakroom. Your suitcase is waiting
in the hall.
Edward stands up slowly.
EDWARD
Of course. I can see myself out.
He pauses. There’s something else. He tries to make his voice lighter, more casual:
EDWARD (CONT’D)
How’s Stapleton? I heard they had to take the leg off, in the end.
Is he bearing up alright?
A strange tone creeps into the nurse’s voice.
NURSE
Mr Stapleton died. It was all rather sudden. Matron didn’t want to
upset the ward. He’s at peace now.
Edward doesn’t respond. He hardly reacts at all. The nurse continues a little nervously.
NURSE (CONT’D)
No one coming out to meet you? You could place a call. I’m sure
Doctor wouldn’t mind.
Edward remains silent. It’s all terribly stiff-upper-lip.
NURSE (CONT’D) Well, you take care of yourself now. Where is it you’re going?
EDWARD
Home.
NURSE
That’ll be nice, won’t it? Plenty happening to keep your mind off
things.
Edward pauses.
EDWARD
Nothing happens in Shuttlefield.
EXT. SHUTTLEFIELD HIGH STREET - DAY
A damp spring morning. Sounds of every day village life: - Villagers compare coupons and rations as they queue for the shops. - A horse-drawn cart plods past. - Birds sing quietly.
The Hare and Hounds public house sits at the end of the street. A pretty sign with painted greyhounds hangs in front of it. Red post box, red phone box outside.
A young farm hand is perched on the back of the cart as it heads out of the village towards the farm, reading. Will Croft. The book in his hands, bound in red leather, is a small copy of A Farewell To Arms.
A middle-aged woman passes the other way, walking an enormous array of dogs: two Dachshunds, three Alsatians, a Greyhound, and a Fox Terrier. Mrs Holt.
MRS HOLT
Good morning, Mr Croft!
WILL
Morning, Mrs Holt. How’s Percy today?
MRS HOLT
Much better, aren’t you, young sir?
Sounds of a terrier barking.
MRS HOLT (CONT’D)
He just needed a few days in his basket. What’s that you’re
reading?
WILL
Just an old favourite.
MRS HOLT
I could never get on with Hemingway. All those fish. Far too
slippery. Why’s the cart down here at this time?
Will calls out as the cart rattles on:
WILL
Delivery for Palmers!
A shop bell rings as the door opens. Nancy Wilde comes out of Palmers the greengrocers carrying a large crate of tomatoes. Mrs Holt and her canine entourage continue towards her.
MRS HOLT
Any onions this morning?
NANCY You should be so lucky! There’s a choice of tomatoes or tomatoes.
Mrs Holt laughs and passes on. Ruby crosses over to Nancy as she struggles to arrange the crate.
RUBY
Can I interest you my dear? We’re having our first meeting on
Sunday. 2pm in the village hall. Here, I’ll just give you a flyer
to read over. What lovely apples. They’re such wonderful colours
this year.
NANCY
Yes, thank you. (Pause) Sorry, a meeting about what?
INT. THE STUDY AT THE HOLMES RESIDENCE - DAY
Edward sits in his father’s study. A clock ticks. A plush, comfortable room. A large desk; red lamp, blotting pad. A decanter of port sits on a table in the corner.
Sounds of glass hitting glass as Mr Holmes pours himself a drink.
Edward’s father. Stern, neat, wealthy.
MR HOLMES
Care for a glass?
EDWARD
No thank you.
MR HOLMES
Suit yourself. What do you think?
EDWARD
Henry V. I didn’t know Shuttlefield had a Dramatics Society. Where
on earth did you hear about this?
MR HOLMES
Elizabeth White. Good woman. Her mother used to be the housekeeper
up at the Grange. Before the war.
EDWARD
You mean the Great War.
Mr Holmes clearly saw distinguished service in the First lot and resents being too old for this war. There’s a picture of him in uniform on the desk, probably wearing medals, probably wearing a high rank that was bought rather than earned.
MR HOLMES
Of course.
EDWARD
Well, I - I need to spend some time getting ready for the Court of
Inquiry. And there’s the new position to think of.
MR HOLMES
There’s nothing to get ready, if you’re telling the truth.
He says this pointedly.
MR HOLMES (CONT’D)
It’d do you good to put your name to something like this. A proper
welcome back into village life - raising money for the Spitfire
Fund - doing your bit.
EDWARD
(Angrily)
I have been doing my bit.
MR HOLMES
And what are you doing now, eh? Pen pushing. Filing like a pretty little secretary. You really think you’ve landed on your feet. Injured arm, roped into some nonsense for GC&CS, safely behind a
desk.
EDWARD
How do you know about that?
MR HOLMES
I know about everything. You wouldn’t have caught Jack hiding away
like that. He had backbone.
Edward rises to his feet sharply but manages to catch himself before he shouts back.
EDWARD
Is that everything, Father?
MR HOLMES
Just see to it that you’re there on Sunday.
EDWARD
Yes, sir.
Edward crosses to the door and exits. Sounds of the door opening and closing. Cuts to:
INT. CORRIDOR OF THE HOLMES RESIDENCE - DAY
Edward leans back against the wall next to the closed door and breaths deeply. He mutters to himself shakily:
EDWARD It’s not your fault, it’s not your fault, it’s not your fault.
EXT. MATLOCK’S FARM - DAY
Out in the fields. Sounds of the farm land: - Spades dig into the soft ground. - Birds call faintly. - Sheep bleat in the distance.
- Boots squelch in the mud.
Will stands apart from two other farm hands, Bert and Tom, as they take a short break from digging the fields. He leans against the trunk of a tree to shelter from the spitting rain. His book is open in his hands but he’s not reading it. The others chat as they wipe dirt from their hands.
BERT
We had a letter from our Sam this morning.
TOM
How’s he getting on?
BERT
Training somewhere up north. They’ve got them doing all sorts. He
says they’ve been running along the beaches without their shoes or
socks on.
TOM
Hardens the feet.
BERT
Wish I was with him.
TOM
The doctor knows what he’s talking about.
BERT
But I manage alright, don’t I? Don’t I? What do you think, Will?
I’m fit for service, aren’t I?
Sounds of feet running.
Will watches with interest as Katherine Winters runs up the hill
of the top field opposite, to the highest point in the village.
She’s out of earshot and unaware that she’s being watched.
WILL
What’s she doing up there?
BERT Who?
WILL
That girl. On the hill.
BERT
Oh, her! (He snorts) That’s Katherine Winters. You know the one
who –
TOM It gives you the best view of the flight path, that does. You can
see our boys going in and out of Duxford.
WILL
But it’s raining!
TOM
She don’t notice the rain.
BERT
She makes note of the planes in that book of hers. And the German
ones too. Tries to guess where they’re going. And she’s always
right. It makes me shiver.
Bert and Tom turn away but Will continues to watch.
TOM
Nah, there’s no harm in her. Lucky guesses, that’s all. She’s
always been that way, simple like. Up there.
BERT
I still don’t like her. She looks through you, like you’re not
there. Like she’s not even listening.
We can tell from the way they talk that Tom is the friendlier of the two.
WILL Perhaps she’s just not interested in what you’ve got to say.
BERT
We can’t all be going about quoting poetry and the like. Some of
us is plain talking folk.
TOM
The Winters are alright. Miss Ruby’s always very kind. Used to sit
and read to my mother, every night ’til she passed.
WILL
She’s the one running this play, isn’t she? In the village hall. I
thought I might drop in.
They break off at the sound of engines. There’s a plane in the distance. They take a moment to subconsciously check that it’s friendly; one of ours.
BERT
That’s just like you, that is. Well, you won’t catch me prancing
about on stage in a pair of tights, Spitfire Fund or not. My old
man would never let it die.
TOM
Come on. There’s some ale waiting back at the house. Let’s get in
and warm up for a bit. I think we’ve earned it. (Calls out) Down
spades lads. Home time!
They pick up their spades and head off towards the distant farm. As the leave, Will glances back at Katherine.
Cut to:
EXT. UPPER FIELD - DAY
Katherine stops running and looks upwards as a large Spitfire passes low over head. Sound of the engine, whoosh of the trees and grass. She breaths deeply.
KATHERINE
K9942, fitted with a Merlin II, liquid cooled, 27 litre capacity.
Named after the bird of prey known colloquially as the pigeon
hawk. Swift flier. Skilled hunter.
EXT. SHUTTLEFIELD HIGH STREET - DAY
MR NELSON
Morning Pip.
MR JONES
Alright, Arthur. How’s the crossword coming along?
He sits down on the bench next to Mr Nelson.
MR NELSON
Twelve down is giving me a run for my money. A preservative of
teeth. 6 letters.
MR JONES
A preservative of teeth… Teeth… I’ve had terrible trouble with my
upper set. Mrs Henderson’s Bath Buns. Now, if we were firing them
at the Germans instead of messing about with bullets then we might
be in with a chance. (Pause) How are things looking out here? All
quiet on the western front?
MR NELSON
There was a terrible fuss outside Carraway’s. The old girl from
number 25 tried to make off with three mackerel fillets instead of
two, greedy so and so. Said her son was back on leave and needed
feeding up. Only trouble is, he’s been in the ground since the
Somme. Mrs White soon put her foot down.
MR JONES
Already? It’s only quarter past eleven. She’s normally still
limbering her ankles up.
MR NELSON
I can’t stand that sort of thing.
MR JONES
Mrs White’s ankles?
MR NELSON Cheats. Liars. Rationing’s there to make things fair. I have to weigh my bit of cheddar and scrape my butter thin, same as the next person. Fair’s fair, a war’s a war. But then people like her come along, a little extra here, a little more there. Rotten.
That’s what they are.
MR JONES
Mackerel… now that can be tricky on the chompers too. All those
bones. My Aunty swallowed a fish bone once. It was lodged in her
throat for three years before it came unstuck. But she could do a
marvellous impression of a sinking ship. It helped to create the
most marvellous whistling sound. It was quite the party piece
until the Titanic sank. Seemed rather crass after that.
MR NELSON
Edward Holmes is back.
MR JONES
Is he? Nice boy. Or was that the brother?
MR NELSON
I’ve seen that look before. Used to get it in the First lot. Too
many times, far too many times.
Billy Sherringham paces over and cuts into the conversation without ceremony.
BILLY SHERRINGHAM
Got any tobacco, Arthur? I’m all out.
MR NELSON
Yes I have. And I’ll be smoking it at half past the hour, as I do
every other morning. You need to learn how to pace yourself.
MR JONES
Not at the garage this morning, Billy?
BILLY SHERRINGHAM
Not today. I’ve been helping old Butler at the Hare and Hounds. He
can’t order any more glasses until August so from now on, all
lunchtime orders will be served in enamel mugs!
MR NELSON
Enamel! That’s it! Got the blighter!
BILLY SHERRINGHAM
You feeling alright?
MR NELSON
Twelve down, a preservative of teeth. Thank you kindly.
BILLY SHERRINGHAM
Happy to be of service. (Pause) I’m keeping a low profile. Ruby
Winters is on the prowl. Trying to organise some to-do in the
village hall, floating around like the second coming.
MR JONES
I thought it sounded rather fun.
BILLY SHERRINGHAM
That’s the trouble with these un-married types. Nowhere to expel
their energy. What they need is a good – oh bloody hell! She’s
coming over. Catch you later, gentlemen!
Sound of quickly retreating footsteps. Mr Nelson also rises.
MR JONES
I thought you were going to smoke your pipe.
MR NELSON
Extenuating circumstances I’m afraid Pip. It’s every man for
himself. Good luck.
EXT. BY THE FRONT DOOR OF SHUTTLEFIELD VILLAGE HALL - DAY
Ruby pins one of her flyers, written in neat red letters, announcing the first rehearsal of Henry V, onto the noticeboard outside the village hall. Elizabeth White, fifties, bossy, suited, pounces as if from nowhere like a tiger cornering its prey.
MRS WHITE
Miss Winters, there you are. I was trying to wave you over earlier
but you must have missed me.
RUBY Oh, did I? I’m so sorry, Mrs White, I must have... ummm... not quite -
Mrs White ploughs on without thought of an answer. She is used to domineering; the village committee, the village itself, Churchill - if she could lay her hands on him. She manages every side of a conversation.
MRS WHITE
Have you received permission from the Vicar to be pinning posters
onto the parish noticeboard?
RUBY Yes, I –
MRS WHITE
Who are these CEMA people? I’ve never heard of them.
RUBY
They set up at the start of the war. To help the arts. To keep it
all going and keep spirits up - that sort of thing. Local groups
mainly, though I believe they’re now -
MRS WHITE
Are you quite sure you can manage? It wouldn’t be too late, you
know, for me to step in. Remember all that business with the
Stevens at Moorhanger, with the pigeons and the -
She makes a flapping gesture and whispers conspiratorially
MRS WHITE (CONT’D)
- yes, well you remember.
RUBY
I’m sure everything will be perfectly –
MRS WHITE
You have to understand, that this Council of yours, they’ll be
looking for a leader. They’ll want people who can take control and
get the job done.
Ruby walks from the noticeboard to the door of the village hall, where she pins another flyer. Mrs White follows at her heels.
RUBY
Yes, I think I’ve got a good idea of –
MRS WHITE
Now, about the refreshments. You understand that everything in the
kitchen goes through the Village Committee?
RUBY
Yes, I think you did mention -
MRS WHITE
You can make tea on Mondays and Wednesdays; so long as you don’t
touch the sugar, coffee on Tuesdays and Fridays. No biscuits are
to be eaten on Saturdays. Have you spoken to Mr Martin?
RUBY Yes.
MRS WHITE
About the telephone?
RUBY
I understand it’s his vein of communication.
They are interrupted as Mrs Henderson bustles over. There is a rustle of shopping bags and brown paper parcels. Mrs Henderson is in her forties, rather drab, but she comes alive at a chance to gossip.
MRS HENDERSON
There’s a new girl in Palmers! Served me just now. Four tomatoes
as bold as brass.
MRS WHITE
Good morning, Mrs Henderson.
RUBY
I thought she seemed rather nice.
MRS HENDERSON
She had red lacquer on her nails. In a grocers! I’m just thankful
my mother isn’t still with us – because what she would have
thought!
RUBY
She seemed rather keen to join our merry troupe.
Mrs Henderson brandishes one of Ruby’s flyers.
MRS HENDERSON
Yes, I found one of your little pamphlets pushed through my
letterbox. Shakespeare, in the village hall?
She is incredulous. Ruby’s voice becomes more and more fixed.
RUBY
It’s officially endorsed. To boost morale. And help raise money
for the Spitfire Fund.
MRS HENDERSON
Well, it’s not a very popular one, is it? Why not do A Midsummer
Night’s Dream? Now, that’s funny.
RUBY
Might I count on your presence on Sunday?
Mrs Henderson rustles her bags indignantly.
MRS HENDERSON
Certainly not! My work for the VAD keeps me far too busy.
RUBY
I thought you rolled a few bandages from time to time.
Mrs White decides it’s time to step in and cuts over them imperiously.
MRS WHITE
No one should be working on a Sunday. It’s the Lord’s day. A day
of rest.
RUBY
Well, it’s the only time I could get the hall, so him upstairs
will just have to turn a blind eye. And there is a war on you
know.
Ruby gathers up the rest of her flyers; spilling out of her bag, upside down, some folded. There is always a slight air of chaos around Ruby.
RUBY (CONT’D)
Do let me know if you change your mind.
She walks away.
MRS HENDERSON
I didn’t know there was a local Spitfire Fund.
MRS WHITE
I believe Miss Winters has just started it. No doubt she means to
have it in the air by summer.
EXT. BACK GARDEN OF THE WINTERS’ HOUSE - NIGHT
Katherine, lying back on a bench, looking up at the sky. Sounds of the night: - An owl hoots. - The drone of engines fills the air, getting louder.
Katherine has no paper to hand so she scribbles a time down on the bench. If we could see the bench, we would notice that the whole thing is covered in times, dates and equations, written down and weathered over the years.
Suddenly a fleet of German Bombers appears, humming loudly.
Ruby bursts out of the house.
RUBY
What are you doing? Get inside at once! For heaven’s sake!
KATHERINE
They’re not coming here.
RUBY
Maybe not, but you hear of stray bombs - accidents - all sorts of
things!
Ruby is drawn and flustered. Katherine is not.
KATHERINE
Then being in the house wouldn’t make any difference. We’d still
be blown apart into tiny pieces.
RUBY
It’s the middle of the night.
KATHERINE
You weren’t sleeping either. I could smell the charcoal. You were
drawing.
RUBY
It distracts me. (Pause) How can you sit there like that... so calm?
So -
KATHERINE
Will getting upset make them stop?
RUBY
Of course not.
KATHERINE
Then there isn’t any point. Is there?
Ruby seems to accept the logic of this and find it almost calming. She takes a deep breath.
RUBY
I wonder where they’re going?
Katherine doesn’t stop to think.
KATHERINE
Glasgow.
RUBY
Oh. The poor souls.
KATHERINE
At least we won’t be able to see the sky burning this time.
Ruby perches on the bench next to her.
RUBY
I always find it strangely comforting to see that great red glow
go up above London. I know it means there’s been awful
destruction, but it really makes one feel - just for a moment - as
though they really are living in the real world. The world in the
newspapers and on the wireless. It makes me feel as though I’m
almost a part of things.
Katherine hardly reacts.
KATHERINE
Are you going back to bed?
RUBY
I thought I might sit here for a while.
KATHERINE
Alright.
They sit in silence as the drone of engines fades.