The Ploughman’s Lunch Read online

  A little later. The bedside lamp is on. James lies still, his expression numb. The bedclothes are in disarray. His bedroom door is just closing.

  79. Interior. Newsroom. Late morning.

  The Newsroom at its busiest, as in Scene One. Linger on the activity before finding James. He sits writing a report in longhand, referring to News Agency material. Much dictating going on around him, so that Philip who sits across from him has almost to shout to be heard. He has picked up a phone and is covering the mouthpiece.

  PHILIP. It’s that lady from Norfolk again.

  JAMES. I’m not here.

  PHILIP. I’m terribly sorry. He doesn’t seem to be here . . . No . . . Yes, if I see him, I will . . . Goodbye. She’s going to phone back.

  JAMES. Next time tell her I’ve gone away.

  CHARLES. Aha. James giving some woman the old heave-ho.

  JAMES (grim smile). Exactly that.

  80. Interior. James’s flat. Evening.

  Tight shot of Edward on the phone.

  EDWARD. Hello, you don’t know me. My name’s Edward Long. I’m a friend of James Penfield. He asked me to phone you. I don’t know what any of this means, but he said you would understand . . . Yes, that’s right. He said he’s got to go away for a while, and that he’ll be writing to you and please don’t try and contact him . . . Hello?

  Pulling away, we see where we are. James sits in a chair reading a magazine.

  God, that was terrible. Don’t ever ask me another favour like that.

  JAMES. You were wonderful. I’m very grateful.

  EDWARD. She hung up. Why couldn’t you just write to her?

  JAMES. I will, sooner or later. (Standing.) Trouble is I hate writing letters. Now, where are we going to eat?

  81. Interior. Film studio. Morning.

  What we see first is the actual set and only subsequently the surrounding technical apparatus of film-making.

  We are suddenly in a deeply contented pre-war middle-class sitting-room. Guide track: sweet, period music. Dad sits in an armchair reading a newspaper. A pipe is near at hand. To one side, a wireless. At his feet, a girl plays with a doll; a boy plays with a model steam engine.

  Mum enters with a tray of steaming hot drinks. As she sets down the tray on the arm of Dad’s chair, the music peaks and the children half rise and arrange themselves on either side of Dad’s legs. Everyone smiles up at Mum.

  Once this has unfolded, we pull back to see the camera crew, continuity, make-up, etc. James is standing to one side watching.

  MATTHEW. And . . . cut. Steve?

  STEVE (camera-man). Not the best, guv’nor.

  MATTHEW. Right . . . we’ll go again, please.

  Matthew to ad lib instructions to actors and crew. He notices James.

  James, good, you made it. We’re just going to do one more take, then we’ll break for lunch.

  The commercial is set up and shot again, with Matthew continuing to give ad libbed directions. As soon as the take is over, Matthew snatches his jacket, gives a quick kiss to a young woman who could well be his current lover, and steers James out of the studio.

  Right, James. Come on. Let’s go before the clients get hold of me.

  82. Interior. Pub. Day.

  Lunchtime. Matthew stands at the bar where he is buying drinks and lunch. Then the two men sit at a small table face to face.

  MATTHEW. I’ll tell you another thing. We might have led the world once into the Industrial Revolution, now we lead with television commercials. We’re the best, it’s as simple as that. Even the Americans will admit it now . . . the camera work, the acting, the scripts, special effects. We’ve got the lot. Nearly all the good directors here have ambitions to make serious films. (A sudden laugh.) That food you’re eating.

  JAMES. Yes.

  MATTHEW. What would you call it?

  JAMES. I dunno. Ploughman’s Lunch.

  MATTHEW. Ploughman’s Lunch. Traditional English fare.

  JAMES. Uh-huh.

  MATTHEW. In fact it’s the invention of an advertising campaign they ran in the early sixties to encourage people to eat in pubs. A completely successful fabrication of the past, the Ploughman’s Lunch was.

  We look at James’s plate, the unappetising food. Matthew takes a long drink.

  Listen, James. There’s something else I want to talk to you about.

  Matthew pauses.

  I’m pretty broadminded, and I’d rather be frank than have everybody misunderstanding one another. If you see what I mean.

  James does not.

  Susan told me that your visits to Norfolk had . . . well, an ulterior motive.

  JAMES. She said that?

  MATTHEW. You weren’t really interested in Suez at all. Incredibly enough, you were interested in my wife.

  JAMES. Now listen . . .

  MATTHEW. No, no, let me go on before you get the wrong idea. Ann and I have kept to our separate bedrooms for the last three years. And I can’t imagine that Susan hasn’t hinted at the kind of life I lead in London. I’m not telling you how to run your affairs. I’m just saying . . . I don’t mind. I’m giving you permission.

  We are close in on James’s reaction.

  83. Interior. James’s car. Early morning.

  James drives towards Susan’s flat. Jeremy sprawls in the back seat, slowly peeling the foil from a champagne bottle. Both are well-dressed. As they draw up outside Susan’s flat, Jeremy leans forward and murmurs in James’s ear.

  JEREMY. Still in love?

  JAMES. I’m not sure.

  He presses the horn and gets out. Jeremy gets out too. Susan comes down the steps. She is also smartly dressed. She kisses James. He takes her small suitcase and puts it in the boot. She kisses Jeremy.

  JEREMY. Darling Susan. You look like an angel. But where’s your hat?

  SUSAN. Oh no!

  JEREMY. They won’t let you in without one.

  James hands Susan into the front seat.

  JEREMY. Brighton, James!

  84. Exterior. London street. Day.

  The car slips through the London traffic.

  85. Interior. James’s car. Day.

  In the car, a few minutes later. Much hilarity. Susan is holding a glass ready as Jeremy eases out the cork.

  SUSAN. Don’t point it at James!

  JEREMY. Voila!

  The cork flies. The champagne is poured. Susan hands a glass to James.

  To the ninety-ninth conference of the National Union of Conservative and Unionist Associations!

  All repeat the toast with various stumbling inaccuracies.

  86. Interior. Car park, Brighton. Day.

  James drives into a multi-storey car park. Jeremy gets out of the car and goes to look at the view which is of modern office developments.

  JEREMY. Ahh—the seaside! Isn’t it heavenly!

  Susan joins Jeremy.

  SUSAN. Gorgeous.

  Jeremy is taking out his Press Pass and pinning it to his lapel.

  What have you got there?

  JEREMY. You’d look naked without one.

  SUSAN. Oh, yes! Where’s mine? I want to look like you.

  James joins them. There follows a little charade of mock sympathy.

  What about James?

  Jeremy and Susan chorus a sympathetic moan.

  JEREMY. We’ll see what we can do.

  SUSAN. Promise?

  JEREMY. Promise.

  87. Exterior. Brighton promenade. Day.

  James, Jeremy and Susan walk along the promenade and cross the road towards the Grand Hotel. The Conference Centre is visible and so too are the police and demonstrators. Jeremy has linked arms with Susan. James lags behind a little. Jeremy tells a joke, barely audible above the sound of traffic and the chants of the protestors. Susan giggles as she and Jeremy skip forward to dodge the traffic.

  88. Interior. Lobby, Grand Hotel. Day.

  The lobby is crowded with delegates, MPs, Press and TV people.

  JEREMY. There goes my deep
throat. Excuse me.

  Jeremy darts away. Susan is looking about her.

  JAMES. Shall we have a drink or something?

  SUSAN. Oh . . . excuse me. There’s Nicholas.

  James is left.

  89. Exterior. Hotel balcony. Afternoon.

  Delegates and MPs, and media people, are taking tea on the long balcony of the Grand Hotel. Jeremy is interviewing an MP. James and Susan sit at the same table listening.

  JEREMY. Then, the theory goes, you’ll be back in favour. In line for a real job. Is that right?

  MP. Well, it’s a theory . . . interesting. Oh, excuse me, there’s Willy.

  The MP makes off.

  JEREMY. I want to see him too.

  Jeremy leaves. James comes and sits closer to Susan.

  JAMES. We don’t seem to get much time to talk.

  SUSAN. I know. I’m sorry.

  An announcement comes through on the hotel’s PA.

  PA. Miss Susan Barrington, Miss Susan Barrington. A phone call for you.

  Susan makes a halfhearted apologetic gesture and leaves. As she goes she passes Jeremy who holds a Press Pass for James. He kneels by James’s chair and pins the card to his lapel.

  JEREMY. General Sir James Penfield . . . services during the Norfolk campaign.

  90. Exterior. Conference Centre. Late afternoon.

  The three walk towards the Conference Centre, along the gauntlet of protestors and onlookers. Among them are Carmen and Betty, holding a placard which says ‘Women’s Peace Camp’. They catch sight of James. Some puzzled recognition. James hurries away from the women and through the doors into the Centre.

  91. Interior. Press balcony, Conference. Centre. Day.

  James, Susan and Jeremy come onto the Press balcony and find their seats while Francis Pym delivers a speech.

  PYM. It was they who rebuffed aggression, they who struck such a powerful blow for democracy . . .

  JAMES (to Susan). I managed to book us a table at Wheelers.

  PYM. I believe this will prove of wider significance even than the event itself. We were seen to be fighting to defend principles which are fundamental to free nations everywhere, and our reputation has been enhanced as a result.

  JEREMY (to Susan). Francis is in cracking form, don’t you think?

  92. Interior. Bar. Early evening.

  James, Jeremy and Susan. Journalists, delegates, etc.

  SUSAN (triumphant, excited). It was incredible. He came back, made a pompous little bow and said, ‘My dear girl you may film me all afternoon if you wish.’ And he’s promised not to talk to the Press.

  JEREMY. It’s because he desires you. The women get all the breaks at these conferences.

  SUSAN. It’s true! I was here last year doing a piece, remember? I was in the bar with all these Northern trade unionists and their sponsored MPs. They were all incredibly fat and beery, huge trousers and braces. And so sweet. They all stood round me like children saying ‘You? Working for television? You’re just a young thing.’ They wouldn’t let me buy drinks even when I told them the programme was paying. They kept looking at my pass which was pinned here and saying (Mock Yorkshire.) ‘Oo, can I?’

  JEREMY. Then one of them was sick all over your new dress.

  SUSAN. No, he wasn’t. He just lowered himself into a bar stool and said . . . (Yorkshire.) ‘Oo I do feel bad. I ’ad three pints of lager and six onion bajees!’

  They all laugh.

  I’ve got to go. See you at dinner.

  She kisses them both. They watch her go. Their different expressions.

  JEREMY. Six onion bajees! Great girl. (Then confidential.) Did you shake the mother off?

  JAMES. Yes, finally.

  JEREMY. Big mistake, I think. You might have learned a lot.

  JAMES (sudden). Are you up to something?

  Jeremy shrugs innocently and shows his empty hands.

  93. Interior. Conference Centre. Day.

  James wanders through the Centre in search of Susan. He enters the debating chamber. Michael Heseltine is addressing the Conference. James wanders out to the space below the platform where journalists and photographers are gathered. He goes up the aisles between the seated delegates. No sign of Susan. He leaves the chamber.

  HESELTINE. . . . left-wing councils employ labour candidates in the paid voluntary sector. We now face a professional left financed at the ratepayer’s and taxpayer’s expense! Just more money is not a solution in itself. As we have given more money to the professional left . . .

  94. Interior. Lobby, Conference Centre. Day.

  Much later. James crosses the crowded lobby, still in search of Susan.

  95. Interior. Stairs, Conference Centre. Day.

  James climbs the stairs to the Press balcony. He hears Mrs Thatcher’s voice, and from the street below, the chanting of protestors.

  THATCHER (off). This is not going to be a speech about the Falklands campaign, although I would be proud to make one. But I want to say just this because it is true for all our people.

  96. Interior. Press balcony. Day.

  James passes through the doors and finds a seat.

  THATCHER. The spirit of the South Atlantic was the spirit of Britain at her best. It has been said that we surprised the world, that British patriotism was rediscovered in those spring days. Mr President, it was never really lost!

  James suddenly notices Susan down on the lower floor. She passes through the doors and is gone. James gets to his feet.

  But it would be no bad thing if the feeling that swept over the country then were to continue to inspire us. But if there was any doubt about the determination of the British people . . .

  Jeremy and Susan come through the doors onto the Press balcony. James stops. They have not seen him. He watches as they stand together. Clearly a new intimacy has been established.

  . . . it was removed by men and women who a few months ago brought a renewed sense of pride and self-respect to our country.

  Jeremy kisses the nape of Susan’s neck. They are not interested in staying for the speech. James watches stonily as they leave.

  They were for the most part young. Let all of us here, and in the wider audience outside, pause and reflect . . .

  Numbed, James returns to his seat.

  . . . on what we who stayed at home owe to those who sailed and fought and lived and died and won. If this is tomorrow’s generation, then Britain has little to fear in the years to come!

  Mix to the last sentence of the Prime Minister’s speech.

  We will tell the people the truth, and the people will be our judge!

  James sits through the standing ovation. The delegates cheer, ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ is sung. James chews his nails.

  97. Interior. Conference Centre. Day.

  Hours later. Workmen are dismantling the platforms, taking away props, taking down the Conference backdrop and slogans. In long-shot we see Jeremy making his way between the rows of chairs. James pursues him enraged, shouting. The ad-libbed obscenity can barely be heard.

  98. Exterior. Brighton sea front. Dusk.

  James and Jeremy.

  James’s rage is spent. It has collapsed into bitterness. The two men stop under a street lamp.

  JEREMY. Susan and I are very old friends, James.

  JAMES. Fuck off.

  JEREMY. And you were obviously getting nowhere with her. I was waiting for the right moment to tell you that.

  JAMES. My God. You even cooked up that Norfolk trip.

  JEREMY. It might have worked. Really. I would have been delighted for you if it had. But she wasn’t interested. Not my fault.

  JAMES. You’re a piece of shit.

  JEREMY. I’ve known Susan for more than fifteen years. James, we’re old allies.

  At this last word, James looks up. Jeremy walks away.

  99. Interior. James’s flat. Day.

  A few weeks later. We don’t see James. We see and hear words pounding onto the page. A fury in the typing. The page is pu
lled clear. Silence. We stay on the typewriter.

  100. Interior. BBC Newsroom. Day.

  James is leaving in a hurry. He pulls on a thick overcoat, gathers up some papers, ignores someone who calls after him as he leaves.

  101. Exterior. Langham Place. Day.

  James leaves Broadcasting House and walks towards Oxford Circus.

  102. Interior. Gold’s office. Day.

  Gold stands by his desk as James comes in, pouring two glasses of wine.

  GOLD. James . . . I can’t begin to tell you how pleased we all are. (He hands James a glass.) Congratulations, and I really mean it.

  JAMES. Thank you.

  GOLD. It’s everything we wanted. A very good read. A terrific piece of work. So, here’s to you and Suez.

  JAMES. And to history.

  Close in, the glasses touch.

  103. Exterior. Cemetary. Day.

  A group of mourners round a grave. A grey day. A priest reads from the Book of Common Prayer, but his voice is virtually lost to us. We find James’s father, hunched in his overcoat, face immobile with grief. Next to him, James, expressionless.

  James glances at his watch.

  Freeze frame. Optical zoom. Ends.

  PRODUCTION

  CREDITS

  The Ploughman’s Lunch was produced by Simon Relph and Ann Scott and was made entirely on location in London, Brighton and Norfolk by Greenpoint Films Limited. It went on general release in Great Britain in 1983 and in the United States of America in 1984.

  Cast

  (In Order of Appearance)

  JAMES PENFIELD • Jonathan Pryce

  JOURNALISTS • William Maxwell, Paul Jesson & Andy Rashleigh

  YOUNG JOURNALIST • Christopher Fulford

  NEWSREADER • David Lyon

  GOLD • David de Keyser

  GOLD’S ASSISTANT • Polly Abbott

  JEREMY HANCOCK • Tim Curry

  SUSAN BARRINGTON • Charlie Dore

  BOB TUCKETT • Peter Walmsley