The Complete Talking Heads Read online

  And it goes on, the mileage in it endless. I said to Geoffrey that when I stood up at AA I sometimes told the story about the flower arranging. Result: he starts telling it all over the diocese. The first time was at a conference on The Supportive Parish. Gales of deep, liberated, caring laughter. He’s now given it a new twist and tells the story as if he’s talking about a parishioner, then at the end he says, ‘Friends I want to tell you something. (Deep hush.) That drunken flower-arranger was my wife.’ Silence … then the applause, terrific.

  I’ve caught the other young, upwardly mobile parsons sneaking looks at me now and again and you can see them thinking why weren’t they smart enough to marry an alcoholic or better still a drug addict, problem wives whom they could do a nice redemption job on, right there on their own doorstep. Because there’s no stopping Geoffrey now. He grips my hand in public, nay brandishes it. ‘We’re a team,’ he cries. Looks certain to be rural dean and that’s only the beginning. As the bishop says, ‘Just the kind of man we’re looking for on the bench …someone with a seasoned compassion, someone who’s looked life in the face. Someone who’s been there.’

  Mr Ramesh sold his shop. He’s gone back to India to fetch his wife. She’s old enough now apparently. I went down there on Sunday. There was a boy writing Under New Management on the window. Spelled wrong. And something underneath in Hindi, spelled right probably. He said he thought Mr Ramesh would be getting another shop, only in Preston.

  They do that, of course, Asians, build something up, get it going nicely, then take the profit and move on. It’s a good thing. We ought to be more like that, more enterprising.

  My group meets twice a week and I go. Religiously. And that’s what it is, of course. The names are different, Frankie and Steve, Susie and Clem. But it’s actually Miss Frobisher and Mrs Shrubsole all over again. I never liked going to one church so I end up going to two. Geoffrey would call that the wonderful mystery of God. I call it bad taste. And I wouldn’t do it to a dog. But that’s the thing nobody ever says about God … he has no taste at all.

  FADE OUT,

  A Lady of Letters

  Irene Ruddock: Patricia Routledge

  PRODUCED BY INNES LLOYD

  DIRECTED BY GILES FOSTER

  DESIGNED BY TONY BURROUGH

  MUSIC BY GEORGE FENTON

  MISS RUDDOCK IS AN ORDINARY MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. THE ROOM IN WHICH WE SEE HER IS SIMPLY FURNISHED AND THERE IS A BAY WINDOW. IT IS AFTERNOON.

  I can’t say the service was up to scratch. It smacked of the conveyor-belt. In fact I wrote to the crematorium. I said I thought the hallmark of a ceremony of that nature was reverence, whereas the word that kept coming into my mind was brisk. Moreover, I added, grief-stricken people do not expect to emerge from the Chapel of Rest to find grown men skulking in the rhododendrons with tab-ends in their mouths. If the hearse drivers must smoke then facilities should be provided. I’d heard good reports of this crematorium, but I hoped that they would agree with me that on this occasion it had let itself down.

  Of course if I’d happened to be heartbroken I’d have felt much worse. I didn’t let on to the crematorium because I thought it might get them off the hook but I actually didn’t know her all that well. I used to see her getting on the 37 and we’d pass the time of day. She lost her mother round about the time I lost mine, she had a niece in Australia and I have the one cousin in Canada, then she went in for gas-fired central heating just a few weeks before I did, so one way and another we covered a lot of the same ground. I’d spent years thinking she was called Hammersley, which was way off the mark because her name turns out to be Pringle. There was a picture of her in the Evening Post (she’d been a big voluntary worker) with details of the funeral on the Wednesday afternoon, which is the one time I’m dangling my feet a bit, so I thought I’d get out my little maroon coat and put in an appearance. At least it’s an outing. And I was glad I’d gone but, as I say, the ceremony was a bit lack-lustre and topped off by these young fellers smoking, so I thought the least I could do was write.

  Anyway I had a charming letter back from the director of operations, a Mr Widdop. He said he was most grateful I’d drawn this matter to his attention and, while he was aware the practice sometimes went on, if he personally caught anybody smoking he would jump on the culprits with both feet. He knew I would appreciate that discipline within the chapel precincts presented special problems as it wasn’t always convenient to tear a strip off somebody when there were grief-stricken people knocking about. What he personally preferred to do was to keep a low profile, then come down on the offenders like a ton of bricks once the coast was clear. With regard to my remarks about facilities, they had no plans to provide a smoking area in the Chapel of Rest in the foreseeable future as I must understand that space was at a premium and top of their list of priorities at the present moment was the provision of a temporary temple for the use of racial minorities. However, he would bear my remarks in mind, and if I were to come across any similar infringements in the future I was not to hesitate to get in touch.

  I wrote him a little letter back thanking him for his prompt and courteous reply and saying that though I hoped not to be making any further visits to the crematorium in the near future (joke) I took his point. I also dropped a line to the relatives, care of the undertakers, saying that I was an acquaintance of Miss Pringle, had been present at the ceremony and had taken the liberty of entering into correspondence with the crematorium over the unfortunate lapse. I enclosed a copy of Mr Widdop’s reply but they didn’t write back, which I can understand because the one thing death always entails is a mass of correspondence. When Mother died I had fifty-three letters. Besides, they may not have even seen them smoking, they were probably blinded with grief. I see we’ve got a new couple moved in opposite. Don’t look very promising. The kiddy looks filthy.

  GO TO BLACK.

  Come up on Miss Ruddock in the same setting. Morning.

  A card from the opticians this morning saying that their records indicate that it’s two years since they supplied me with spectacles and that by now they would almost certainly be in need of verification and suggesting I call at my earliest convenience. I thought that was nice so I took my trusty Platignum and dashed off an answer forthwith. I said I thought it was very considerate of them to have kept me in mind and while I was quite satisfied with my spectacles at the present moment I was grateful to them for drawing the matter to my attention and in the event of my noticing any deterioration I would in due course get in touch with them. (She picks up her pen.) It’s stood me in good stead has this pen. Mother bought it me the last time she was able to get over to Harrogate. It’s been a real friend. (She glances in the direction of the window.)

  Angie her name is. I heard him shout of her as I went by en route for the Post Office. He was laid out underneath his car wanting a spanner and she came out, transistor in one hand, kiddy in the other. Thin little thing, bruise on its arm. I thought, ‘Well, you’ve got a car, you’ve got a transistor, it’s about time you invested in some curtains.’ She can’t be more than twenty and by the look of her she’s expecting another.

  I passed the place where there was the broken step I wrote to the council was a danger to the public. Little ramp there now, access for the disabled. Whenever I pass I think, ‘Well, that’s thanks to you, Irene.’ My monument that ramp. Only some dog had gone and done its business right in the middle of it. I’m sure there’s more of that than there used to be. I had a little Awayday to London last year and it was dog dirt everywhere. I spotted some on the pavement right outside Buckingham Palace. I wrote to the Queen about it. Had a charming letter back from a lady in waiting saying that Her Majesty appreciated my interest and that my letter had been passed on to the appropriate authority. The upshot eventually is I get a long letter from the chief cleansing officer to Westminster City Council apologising profusely and enclosing a rundown of their Highways and Maintenance Budget. That’s been my experience generally …people are only too grat
eful to have these things pointed out. The keynote is participation. Of course I wrote back to thank him and then blow me if I didn’t get another letter thanking me for mine. So I wrote back saying I hadn’t been expecting another letter and there was no need to have written again and was this an appropriate use of public resources? They didn’t even bother to reply. Typical.

  Pause.

  I’m just waiting for the paper coming. Not that there’s much in it. The correspondence I initiated on the length of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s hair seems to have gone off the boil. Till I wrote up to Live Letters nobody’d actually spotted it. Various people took up the cudgels until there was an impassioned letter from the Rural Dean of Halifax who has a beard and that seems to have put the tin hat on it.

  Getting dark.

  The couple opposite just having their tea. No cloth on. They must have put the kiddy to bed. When I put the milk bottle out I heard it crying.

  GO TO BLACK.

  Come up on Miss Ruddock sitting in an easy chair reading the newspaper.

  Afternoon.

  Prison, they have it easy. Television, table tennis, art. It’s just a holiday camp, do you wonder there’s crime? And people say, ‘Well, what can you do?’ Well, you can get on to your MP for a start. I do, regularly. Got a reply to one letter this morning. I’d written drawing his attention to a hitherto unnoticed factor in the rise in crime, namely the number of policemen these days who wear glasses. What chance would they have against a determined assailant? He noted my comments and promised to make them known in the proper quarter. He’s Labour but it’s always very good notepaper and beautifully typed.

  When I’d dusted round and done my jobs I had a walk on to the end and bought a little packet of pork sausage and some Basildon Bond. Big black hair in the sausage. So I wrote off to the makers enclosing the hair. Stuck it under a bit of Sellotape. Little arrow: ‘This is the hair.’ I emphasised that I didn’t want a substitute packet, as it was plainly manufactured under unhygienic conditions, so would they send me a refund of the purchase price plus the cost of postage. I don’t want inundating with sausage.

  I keep wondering about the kiddy opposite. Haven’t seen it for a week or two. And they’re out all the time. Every single night they go off, and the kiddy doesn’t go. And nobody comes in to sit. It can’t be more than five. Where do they get the money to go out, that’s what I’d like to know? Because he’s not working. Spends all day tinkering with that car. There wants to be a bit less of the car and a bit more of the kiddy. It never plays out and they want fresh air do kiddies, it’s a well-known fact. You don’t hear it crying now, nothing. And I’ve never seen a cloth on. Teapot stuck there. Milk bottle. It’ll surprise me if they’re married. He has a tattoo anyway.

  GO TO BLACK.

  Come up on Miss Ruddock sitting on a dining chair in the window. Dusk.

  My mother knew everybody in this street. She could reel off the occupants of every single house. Everybody could, once upon a time. Now, they come and they go. That’s why these tragedies happen. Nobody watching. If they knew they were being watched they might behave. I’d talk to next door’s about it only there hasn’t been any contact since the business over the dustbins. And this other side’s Asians so they won’t know what’s normal and what isn’t. Though I’ve a feeling he’s been educated and their kiddies are always beautifully turned out. I just wish they’d do something about their privet.

  I thought I’d go and have a word with the doctor, drop a hint there somehow. There used. to be just one doctor. Now they’ve all amalgamated so it’s a bit of a lucky dip. Young fellow. I said I was getting upset, like I did before. ‘Before what?’ he said. I said, ‘It’s in my notes.’ So he read them and then said, ‘You’ve been getting a bit upset, like you did before. I’ll give you something to take.’ So I told him about the kiddy, and he said, ‘Well, these tablets will help you to take a more balanced view.’ I gave them three or four days and they didn’t seem to me to make much difference so I went along again. Different doctor this time. Same rigmarole. I said I didn’t want any more tablets, I just wanted the name of the firm manufacturing the ones I’d already had, because I think they ought to be told if their product isn’t doing the trick. The doctor said it would be easier if he gave me some new tablets and anyway I couldn’t write, the firm was Swiss. I said, ‘What difference does that make, everybody speaks English now.’ He said, ‘We don’t want to get into that, do we?’ and writes me another prescription. I shan’t bother with it. In fact I put it down the toilet. I don’t know who you write to about doctors.

  After I’d had my tea I sat in the front room in the dark watching the house. He’s messing about with the car, one of those little vests on they have now without sleeves. Radio going hammer and tongs. No kiddy still. I don’t even know their name.

  GO TO BLACK.

  Come up on Miss Ruddock in her hat and coat against a bare background.

  Thinking about it afterwards, I realised it must have been the doctor that alerted the vicar. Came round anyway. Not the old vicar. I’d have known him. This was a young fellow in a collar and tie, could have been anybody. I didn’t take the chain off. I said, ‘How do I know you’re the vicar, have you any identification?’ He shoves a little cross round the door. I said, ‘What’s this?’ He said, ‘A cross.’ I said, ‘A cross doesn’t mean anything. Youths wear crosses nowadays. Hooligans. They wear crosses in their ears.’ He said, ‘Not like this. This is a real cross. A working cross. It’s the tool of my trade.’ I was still a bit dubious, then I saw he had cycle clips on so I let him in.

  He chats for a bit, this and that, no mention of God for long enough. They keep him up their sleeve for as long as they can, vicars, they know it puts people off. Went through a long rigmarole about love. How love comes in different forms …loving friends, loving the countryside, loving music. People would be surprised to learn, he said (and I thought, ‘Here we go’), people would be surprised to learn that they loved God all the time and just didn’t know it. I cut him short. I said, ‘If you’ve come round here to talk about God you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m an atheist.’ He was a bit stumped, I could see. They don’t expect you to be an atheist when you’re a miss. Vicars, they think if you’re a single person they’re on a good wicket. He said, ‘Well, Miss Ruddock, I shall call again. I shall look on you as a challenge.’

  He hadn’t been gone long when there’s another knock, only this time it’s a policeman, with a woman policeman in tow. Ask if they can come in and have a word. I said, ‘What for?’ He said, ‘You know what for.’ I said, ‘I don’t,’ but I let them in. Takes his helmet off, only young and says he’ll come straight to the point: was it me who’d been writing these letters? I said, ‘What letters? I don’t write letters.’ He said, ‘Letters.’ I said, ‘Everyone writes letters. I bet you write letters.’ He said, ‘Not like you, love.’ I said, ‘Don’t love me. You’d better give me your name and number. I intend to write to your superintendent.’

  It turns out it’s to do with the couple opposite. I said, ‘Well, why are you asking me?’ He said, ‘We’re asking you because who was it wrote to the chemist saying his wife was a prostitute? We’re asking you because who was it gave the lollipop man a nervous breakdown?’ I said, ‘Well, he was interfering with those children.’ He said, ‘The court bound you over to keep the peace. This is a serious matter.’ I said, ‘It is a serious matter. I can’t keep the peace when there’s cruelty and neglect going on under my nose. I shouldn’t keep the peace when there’s a child suffering. It’s not my duty to keep the peace then, is it?’ So then madam takes over, the understanding approach. She said didn’t I appreciate this was a caring young couple? I said if they were a caring young couple why did you never see the kiddy? If they were a caring young couple why did they go gadding off every night, leaving the kiddy alone in the house? She said because the kiddy wasn’t alone in the house. The kiddy wasn’t in the house. The kiddy was in hospital in Bradford, that
’s where they were going every night. And that’s where the kiddy died, last Friday. I said, ‘What of? Neglect?’ She said, ‘No. Leukaemia.’

  Pause.

  He said, ‘You’d better get your hat and coat on.’

  GO TO BLACK.

  Come up on. Miss Ruddock back at home. Day.

  I’ve got two social workers come, one white, one black. Maureen I’m supposed to call the white one, shocking finger nails, ginger hair, and last week a hole in her tights as big as a 50p piece. She looks more in need of social work than I do. Puts it all down to men. ‘We all know about men, don’t we, Irene.’ I never said she could call me Irene. I don’t want to be called Irene. I want to be called Miss Ruddock. I’m not Irene. I haven’t been Irene since Mother died. But they all call me Irene, her, the police, everybody. They think they’re being nice, only it’s just a nice way of being nasty. The other one’s Asian, Mrs Rabindi, little red spot on her forehead, all that. Sits, talks. She’s right enough. Said I’d be useful in India. You can earn a living writing letters there apparently as they’re all illiterate. Something daubed on her door last week. She says it’s what you get to expect if you’re Asian. I said, ‘Well, there’s all sorts gets chucked over my wall.’ We sit and talk, only she’s a bit of a boring woman. I tell her I loved my mother and she says how she loved her mother. I tell her I’m frightened to walk the streets and she tells me how she’s been attacked herself. Well, it doesn’t get you any further. It’s all ‘me too’. Social work, I think it’s just chiming in.