A Canterbury Tale

"When that April with his showers sweet...

"the drought of March

hath pierced to the root...

"and bathed

every vein in such liqueur...

"from which virtue

engendered is the flower;

"When Zephyrus seek

with his swete breath...

"inspired hath

in every holt and heath...

"the tender croppes...

"and the young sun hath in the Ram

his half cours y-ronne...

"and smale foweles maken melody...

"that slepen all the night

with open eye-

"so priketh them nature in their corages-

"then longen folk

to go on pilgrimages...

"and palmers for to seken

stranger strands...

"to distant shrines

known in sundry lands;

"And especially from

every shire's end of England...

"to Canterbury they wend...

"the holy blissful martyr for to seek...

that them hath helpen

when that they were weak. "

600 years have passed.

What would they see,

Dan Chaucer and his goodly company today?

The hills and valleys are the same.

Gone are the forests

since the enclosures came.

Hedgerows have sprung.

The land is under plow...

and orchards bloom

with blossom on the bough.

Sussex and Kent are like a garden fair...

but sheep still graze

upon the ridges there.

The Pilgrims' Way

still winds above the weald...

through wood and break

and many a fertile field.

But though so little's changed

since Chaucer's day...

another kind of pilgrim

walks the way.

Alas,

when on our pilgrimage we wend...

we modern pilgrims

see no journeys end.

Gone are the ring of hooves,

the creak of wheel.

Down in the valley

runs our road of steel.

No genial host at sinking of the sun

welcomes us in.

Our journeys just begun.

Chillingbourne!

Canterbury, next stop!

Chillingbourne!

Chillingbourne!

Canterbury, next stop!

Next stop, Canterbury!

Canterbury? Hey, that's my station.

- Sorry, folks. Thanks.

- Watch it. Watch it.

Thanks, pop.

I'll sit the next dance out.

Ah. You'll break someone's neck one of these days.

Yourn too, I shouldn't wonder.

Don't you know there's a bylaw against

getting out of a moving train, penalty 40 shillings?

Why don't you light up the names of your stations?

How do you expect folks to read the signs?

I don't. Nor don't the company.

I'm here to call out the name of the station.

Why wait till the train gets going?

Now look here. In the first place,

I called out the name of the station...

loud, precise and clear,

while the train was stationary.

You had ample time to alight. Ample.

I heard you with my own ears calling out

Canterbury after the train started to move.

- He called out, "Canterbury, next stop."

- See?

But I'm going to Canterbury, darn it.

- The train's going to Canterbury.

- And you're stopping here at Chillingbourne.

Well, son of a gun.

- What time is the next -

- 8:
57.

- 8:
57?

- A.m.

- Here, what do those stripes mean?

- Sergeant.

Well, they're the wrong way up.

He's a sergeant. See?

Cut the quiz questions, pop.

What kind of a place is this with no train all night?

This is the kind of place

where people sleep at night.

- Are you all right, Sergeant?

- Yeah. I'm for Chillingbourne Camp.

- Okay. Ticket, please.

- Right. Here we are.

You can keep yourn. Miss.

Here.

These two gentlemen

will accompany you to town hall.

Why do you think I need an escort?

No young lady must go alone at night.

Mr. Colpeper's orders.

This way, please.

- Who is Mr. Colpeper?

- Local magistrate, justice of the peace.

- Say, pop, is there a hotel in this place?

- They'll tell you down at town hall.

Town hall?

- Eh?

- I said don't tell me this whistle-stop is a town.

Chillingbourne was constituted

a municipal borough in the year 1085...

407 years before Columbus

discovered America.

I didn't mean

to hurt your civic pride, pop.

Granted, sonny boy. And my name's

Thomas Duckett, stationmaster, acting.

- Mine's Bob Johnson, sergeant, also acting.

- Peter Gibbs, sergeant, underpaid.

Nice to know you both. Now, where's this hotel?

I'll give your town hall a miss.

You can't do that. All visitors must report

to town hall. Mr. Colpeper's orders.

- That guy again?

- How do I get to the camp?

- Last bus. You'll catch it if you hurry.

- Where?

- Marketplace by town hall.

- How do we get there?

- Charing Street and follow your nose.

- Where's Charing Street?

- Through that gate.

- Right. Let's go.

- Here. Wait a minute. Have you all got torches?

- Not me.

- I have.

- I'll show you a real flashlight.

- Put that light out!

- What's wrong with it?

- Everything.

- It does the job, doesn't it?

It'll do your job

if the police catch you flashing it on.

- You won't catch no 8:57.

- A.m.

- Okay, okay.

- Shall we go? If you're going to catch your bus.

- Yes. That's right.

- See you in the morning, pop.

You'll be clever if you do.

I don't come on till 12:00.

- P. M?

- A.m.

- And keep an eye on young lady.

- Check.

Why do railway companies

always have gates like this?

I'll go ahead and shine my torch for you two.

Don't blind us.

Oh.

- What are you doing?

- What's going on?

- What's that?

- What's what?

- Oh, my goodness. It's my hair.

- Hair?

Somebody came out of nowhere

and poured something on it.

- Hi! Where are you?

- What's wrong with your hair?

- It's some sticky stuff.

- Sticky stuff?

- Your hair's full of it.

- So this is England. Never a dull moment.

Listen.

Somebody up the street.

Quick, Bob. Searchlight.

There he goes.

Hey, soldier!

- Can you run, miss?

- Watch me.

Ow!

Hey, Bob.

- There he goes, round that building.

- Come on!

This way. We'll head him off.

- Come on, Bob. You take the river.

- Okay.

- What's that?

Oh, it's me, darn it.

- Any luck?

- Not a sausage. Now, you wait here.

- What, alone? No fear.

- Think we missed him?

- Well, we couldn't have.

- It's a cinch he didn't double back.

Shh!

He's inside. Nowhere else he could be.

Let's find the door.

Here it is.

- Is that a bus?

- Sounds like it.

- What's going on out here?

- Is this the town hall?

- It is.

- Then that's my bus. You can handle this, Bob?

- Sure.

- Good hunting. Let me know what happens.

Good evening. Where's my bag?

- In the road.

- Peter Gibbs is my name,

First Battalion, the Loamshires.

- Here.

- A man is in this building. A soldier.

He must have got in through one of the windows.

Just a minute, miss.

And who might you be?

- My name's Alison Smith.

- She's going to work here.

- I'm going to work on Mr. Colpeper's-

- May I see your identity card?

Identity card nothing!

What kind of a cop are you?

- American.

- Anything the matter, miss?

- Matter?

- Somebody's poured some sticky stuff on my hair.

Sergeant, the Glue Man's out again.

While you're looking us up

in the Domesday Book, he's making a getaway.

- Door there!

- And what about my hair?

Just a minute, if you please. One thing at a time.

- Are you the incident, miss?

- Yes. Look. My hair's full of it.

- Oh, it's the Glue Man, all right.

- Glue Man?

Let me have a look, deary.

Oh, we'll soon see to that, all right.

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