The Jester's Daughter, Page 3

having much difficulty when we were youngsters.

  BRIAN: I said real love. Not lust; they're practically opposites – that's why by itself it can turn so easily into hatred. Nor dalliance, although it's a pale imitation of love and may lead to the real thing. Setting out to sea in the gentle breeze of a light flirtation and then running into a force nine gale can be quite terrifying – or exhilarating, for those with the guts to take it. Imagine what it must be to face the full hurricane. That needs a lot of guts.

  HELEN: What was the quotation about tempering the wind to the shorn lamb?

  BRIAN: I'm talking about completely mature sheep, capable at last of taking a fully informed, irrevocable decision. One way or the other. And the other, as I see it, is to be left to one's own devices.

  JOHN: Not quite the conventional picture of Hell.

  BRIAN: That's a metaphor – the only way we can speak of the divine, or the diabolical. You must be familiar with sexual frustration. That's torment enough, just in one specific function. Hell is the frustration of an entire being, intended for the company of God, yet refusing it.

  ANNE (considering this): Unquiet spirits, perhaps? What do you think of ghost stories?

  BRIAN: A literary convention. On a par with the house–party detective yarn. An acceptable excuse for telling a highly improbable but entertaining tale.

  ANNE: No, I meant the ones that people take seriously.

  BRIAN: Oh, sorry. The usual view in the churches is that as a rule we shouldn't. But they don't quite rule out the possibility that on occasion there may be something in them – a lingering presence of evil, perhaps. Anything of the sort lurking in your dungeons, Geoffrey?

  GEOFFREY: Not that I know of. So far as I'm aware the only spirits down there are the kind you find in bottles – and I'm not thinking of Aladdin's lamp!

  HELEN: Actually …

  GEOFFREY: Yes?

  HELEN: I was once talking to old Megan who had some tale about figures in mediaeval garb being seen around the place. But people said she was more or less barmy anyway.

  GEOFFREY: And I suppose they were dimly seen in a half–light by people of doubtful sobriety and accompanied by a deathly chill around midnight.

  HELEN: Something like that. Only there was no chill. If anything, a sense of warmth and comfort for people with particular anxieties.

  GEOFFREY: Benign spirits, then. If spirits they were.

  BRIAN: Actually, that's quite a thought. We've no real idea what the blessed may be up to in heaven. The conventional notion of performing some everlasting celestial cantata appals me.

  GEOFFREY: From your efforts in last year's carol service, I'm not surprised.

  BRIAN: Quite. I should certainly hope for something more constructive.

  ANNE: Such as ?

  BRIAN: Who knows? But it's conceivable that for those who have been particularly effective comforters of the grief-stricken on Earth, the task may be to continue the good work. After all, there's a long tradition of praying to the saints.

  GEOFFREY: Usually just for them to put in a good word with the boss, surely?

  BRIAN: Yes, but maybe they aren't always limited to mere intercession.

  Pause.

  HELEN (meditatively): One thing that bothers people is the idea of praying for the dead. Some disapprove of it, but others think it's worth while. What do you say?

  BRIAN: I suppose it could give a helpful nudge to someone who's teetering on the edge, undecided in the last moments of consciousness whether to let go or not. Or it might ease the pain of doing so.

  GEOFFREY: Pain?

  BRIAN: If you come from an interior room into full sunlight, you can't stand the glare at once. And looking directly at the naked sun is positively dangerous. The full light of God must be infinitely harder to bear, and slipping back into the darkness a very attractive alternative. And then there's cutting the ties to things of earth – those that are good in a transitory way as well as the evil or merely harmless. Some people have cultivated detachment before the end; most don't, so far as I can see.

  ANNE: All right, supposing for the sake of argument that prayer can help people who are dying, I still don't see what good it can do for those already dead.

  BRIAN: Don't forget, these are matters of eternity. God isn't limited by time. It's all present to him. There's a story that Padre Pio was once found praying for a happy death for his father, who'd been gone for ten years.

  JOHN: At that rate you might as well pray for the redemption of Adam – or Judas Iscariot.

  BRIAN: You can't alter what's already happened in the temporal order, of course, but prayer at any time will have been a factor in determining it. Not changing God's mind – no one can do that, for all the anthropomorphism in a lot of the tales – but supporting the poor weak humans who are involved. Like the backing supporting the damaged panel with that picture. As for Adam, I don't see why not. It hadn't occurred to me, but it might not be a bad idea at that.

  DISSOLVE TO THE VILLAGE WAR MEMORIAL.

  During the following exchange, continued in voice-over, zoom in across a Remembrance Sunday gathering to focus on the list of names on the memorial.

  Pause

  HELEN: I was looking at the war memorial this morning, thinking of the Remembrance Day ceremony. All those names. Many of them the names of people I know in the village – their fathers, uncles, grandfathers. Does remembrance do any good?

  BRIAN: It depends. Remembrance pure and simple is no more use than remembering you left the chip pan unattended after the house has burned down. It just depresses the living. But there must be many a mental prayer during the two minutes' silence. And C. S. Lewis said something about the courtesy of heaven being to take the best that men know as better than they know. When someone is remembered with affection and gratitude, even by an unbeliever, I'm sure it will be taken as a kind of prayer.

  Pause.

  DISSOLVE BACK TO THE SITTING ROOM

  HELEN: That's quite a thought.

  Brian double–takes the level of whisky in his glass.

  BRIAN: Geoffrey, you old devil! You've been topping up my glass!

  GEOFFREY: Someone had to; you were far too engrossed.

  BRIAN: Cask strength, too. No wonder I've been rabbiting on, lecturing you like a class of undergraduates. I do apologise, everyone.

  HELEN: No, it was fascinating. A lot better than anything on the telly!

  ANNE: Yes, thank you, Brian. I'm not sure I'm convinced, but it's something to think about.

  GEOFFREY: Refill, Anne?

  ANNE: No, thanks. I've had quite enough already. Will you please excuse me? It's been a long day.

  HELEN: Yes, of course. Have you everything you need?

  ANNE: Everything, thank you. Good night.

  Exit

  HELEN: Is she all right?

  JOHN: Just tired. Exhausted, in fact.

  GEOFFREY: An unusual rush of business?

  JOHN: Not particularly. But Judith's off on maternity leave, so Anne and Greg have had to cover for the past few weeks. Which means that it's mostly Anne who covers, because Greg still has to do all the buying and what not. (Yawns) Oh hell, I've started now. I think I'd better turn in as well. Good night.

  Exit

  HELEN: Oh dear. You don't think …

  GEOFFREY: No, Helen, I do not think. It's none of our business.

  HELEN: But ...

  GEOFFREY: And if it were, after the way you've been going on about wanting grandchildren before you're too old to enjoy them, you could hardly blame him for taking some steps. What say you, Brian?

  BRIAN: If anything of the sort were going on, it would hardly be for the sake of procreation. And Helen obviously wants the steps to start where they should, in church.

  GEOFFREY: You disappoint me. I thought you'd come up with something more original than that.

  HELEN: Yes, I know it's old fashioned, but –

  GEOFFREY: She wants an excuse to lash out on a new hat.

  HEL
EN: Well, it would be nice, it's true. But I don't like all this modern immorality.

  GEOFFREY: You're just jealous.

  BRIAN: In any case, if it's any comfort, there are far worse immoralities than fornication – what Dorothy Sayers (was it?) called one of the more generous sins. And she pointed out that those who are hardest on it tend to go for the meaner, grubbier ones. Oh lord, there I go again, lecturing. Time to call it a day. When do you want me down for breakfast, Helen?

  HELEN: We usually have it ....

  FADE OUT.

  Back to Contents

  FADE IN TO A RURAL MILL, 1437.

  A dozen peasants armed with sticks and clubs are arguing with the miller and his journeyman. The confrontation becomes violent, and damage is done. A party of mounted men–at–arms appears, led by Robert; the men dismount, separate the disputants, and some lead off those of the peasants who fail to escape. The rest of the troop continue on their way.

  CUT TO A PARLOUR IN THE CASTLE.

  Cedric, the elderly castle steward, ushers in Justin and Nicholas (now in his teens), who have recently arrived after a lengthy journey. A table is set with a jug of wine, goblets and a plate of cakes.

  CEDRIC: I'm sorry His Lordship hasn't returned yet, but he said you're to make yourselves at home..

  JUSTIN: As we shall – as usual.

  CEDRIC: Do you need anything else, my lord?

  JUSTIN: Not for the moment, thank you. I was glad simply to get my boots off. (Sampling one of the cakes) Ah, do I detect Mistress Alice's hand in this?

  CEDRIC: Actually Alison's – my granddaughter's.

  JUSTIN: Well, I'm glad she's being trained in the family tradition. Go on, Nicholas, tuck in.

  NICHOLAS: Thank you, my lord.

  He does, with teenage enthusiasm.

  CEDRIC: Will you please excuse me now? There are things I must see to.

  JUSTIN: Of course, Cedric. And thank you.

  CEDRIC: A pleasure, my lord – you're always welcome here.

  Exit.

  JUSTIN: And it isn't everywhere that a bishop hears that.

  Nicholas looks at him, smiles, and after a moment's indecision takes another cake.

  JUSTIN: I think I'll join you. I can't absolve you in advance from the sin of gluttony, but ...

  He also takes a cake.

  CUT TO THE CASTLE COURTYARD

  Robert's party arrives. All dismount. The men lead their horses off towards the stables; a groom takes Robert's. He enters the castle.

  CUT TO THE PARLOUR.

  Justin is seated while Nicholas pours wine for Justin and a little for himself as Robert enters hastily.

  ROBERT: Ah, there you are, Justin. Sorry I wasn't here to greet you.

  JUSTIN: No matter. Any problem?

  ROBERT: A bit of trouble as I came by the mill. The constable couldn't cope by himself and called for help.

  JUSTIN: Serious?

  ROBERT: Not really. A bunch of peasants had accused the miller of cheating and turned up with clubs to make their point – if you can make a point with a blunt instrument, before you get in with one of your cracks.

  JUSTIN: And was he?

  ROBERT: Cheating? I very much doubt it. Old Jack would certainly be careful to take his due, but not a whit more if I know him.

  JUSTIN: As I dare say you do – pretty well.

  ROBERT: In any case clubs are no way to deal with that kind of issue. They'll be up in court for affray at the next sitting.

  JUSTIN: And then a hanging or two?

  ROBERT: Not likely. Not that I've any compunction when they're called for, as you know well enough, but there's no sense in being more severe than necessary.

  JUSTIN: Of course.

  ROBERT: In any case we've never fully recovered from the plague – don't want to lose any more hands than we must from the land.

  JUSTIN: Keep them at their spades rather than their clubs?

  GRADUALLY ZOOM IN ON NICHOLAS WHO IS GAZING ABSTRACTEDLY OUT OF THE WINDOW

  ROBERT: Nice one. They'll have to make good the damage, and a good bit more for the trouble they've caused, then we can call it quits. Least ill feeling all round. But I'm neglecting my duties. I hope your accommodation is all right?

  JUSTIN: Of course. Cedric saw to everything with his usual efficiency. You've a good man there.

  ROBERT: I know. I've been very lucky with my staff