Free The Year of the Sex Olympics and other TV Plays by Nigel Kneale Page B

(wildly) Peter!
    She sits up, tense and trembling, her fists held tight against her breasts and her body rigid. She is on the brink of hysteria.
    He moves closer, stroking her, soothing her.
    BROCK : Jill, Jill, Jill. Easy now. (He kisses her but she stays rigid in his arms) I’m sorry. I didn’t listen to you before. Tell me about it.
    JILL : What?
    BROCK : The accident.
    JILL : It isn’t that.
    BROCK : Tell me.
    JILL : I—I hit a pile of sand, that’s all. There were vans and—I couldn’t have been watching. (Suddenly) I hate this place! I didn’t want to come here!
    BROCK : No. You didn’t. (His face sets a little. Now he feels he knows where he is. They are on old ground. He sits back. Her fists are still pressed tight against her body like a barrier. He gently eases them down) Here. Dump the moist hankie.
    JILL (opening her hand) : Not—not a hankie.
    Brock takes it.
    BROCK : Oh. Father Christmas’s letter.
    She shakes her head.
    BROCK (reading) : “What I want . . . for Christmas is . . . please go away. Signed Martin Tasker”. Well.
    JILL (whispering) : Not what you’d say.
    BROCK : I don’t know. One of my kids is like that, hates the idea of him coming down the chimney.
    JILL : It wasn’t to Father Christmas.
    BROCK : Who, then?
    JILL : I know. I think I know!
    Again the rising note of hysteria. Brock hardens himself against it. He gets up.
    The room is only half finished. It will be very luxurious indeed but at present is still a mess of hanging wires and unopened crates.
    BROCK : How do you like it now? They’ve done a bit since we came down that time. All the shelving and— (He looks into the adjoining office, where a huge desk stands in a sea of unsecured carpet, and back to her) I quite liked it even without the shelving. Didn’t you? (Her face is unresponsive) You know what all this is about. You’re getting at me. (He waits for a protest but there isn’t any) Mind you, I quite enjoyed your previous ploys. “How are Christine and the kids? How are Timothy’s mumps? How’s the dog’s toothache?” Oh my Jilly. You’re a very female one. (He sits on the bed) I need you. I know you weren’t keen to transfer but I need you for your brain as well—if that doesn’t sound crass but of course it does. If you’re in doubt ask Eddie and the boys. (He strokes her forehead) What’s in there is so rare and . . . valuable. (After a moment) Do it your own way. Commute home to old mummy or stay here. Stay? (She says nothing) Sometimes, anyway.
    Jill looks him straight in the face. She is calmer, but only by her own effort.
    JILL : I saw a ghost.
    Just for a moment Brock’s eyes soften—then the response dies and they are hard again. He gets up briskly.
    BROCK : Let’s get out of here for a while. Leave Colly to fight the labour relations.
    He helps her up. when she is on her feet he kisses her.
    JILL : Let’s go . . .
    A LOCAL PUBLIC HOUSE
    The brewers’ gimmick when they face-lifted this roadside pub was ‘motoring’. The beer handles are gaitered gear levers, and the whole bar looks like an accessory shop. Babycham bottles peep through spokes and steering wheels. Muffled muzak throbs.
    Any jollity is dispelled by the bar lady, a genteel harridan, who forks out cold meats and pickles for Jill and Brock. Her helper, an ungainly little countrywoman, is allowed to work the beer engine.
    HELPER (beaming) : One Danish draught, one Super-Strong.
    BROCK : One for yourself.
    HELPER : Ta.
    BAR LADY : No, thank you. Are they really making poison gas up there?
    BROCK : No—we aren’t.
    BAR LADY : It’s what I heard.
    BROCK : Not a whiff.
    BAR LADY (wearily) : I mean germs. You know what I mean.
    Feeling Jill’s tension rise, he puts his hand over hers.
    JILL : Do you know the place?
    BAR LADY : I’ve only been here a month. That’ll be—with the bread—one pound eighty pee. (As Brock pays) I mean, it won’t do us any good. These days people don’t like that sort of thing.
    JILL : It’s