Going My Way Page #6

O'MALLEY:
There's no hurry about it.

We can do that anytime, Father.

Is there anything you'd like me to do.

I mean, now?

O'MALLEY:
Nothing.

Well, then...

if you don't mind,

I'll lie down a while before dinner.

O'MALLEY:
All right, Father.

When you and the Bishop

had your little talk...

it was more or less

along those lines, wasn't it?

O'MALLEY:
Yes.

[Solemn instrumental music continues]

I think you better start without him.

Looks like he's not coming down for dinner.

He said he wanted to take a little nap.

He didn't look well, did he,

when he came in this evening?

Go see if he's awake.

If he's coming down, I'll wait for him.

MRS. CARMODY:
Father O'Malley!

Father O'Malley!

Father! He's gone.

He's packed his things, everything.

He's gone.

- Where would he go?

- I can't imagine.

Okay, sure, but keep at it, will you?

No, you can't miss him. A little guy. Old.

Got a grip and an umbrella.

Okay.

Nothing yet, Father. They're gonna check

the subways, the hospitals.

Look, Father, take it easy, will you?

You better go home.

No use the two of us getting drowned.

Call me the minute you hear anything.

- I don't care what time it is.

- I will.

[Clock ticking]

MRS. CARMODY:
Shall I make some coffee?

[Exclaims questioningly]

No, thank you.

Come on. Now what's the matter?

If you don't mind it,

I'd rather go in by myself.

If you don't mind, I found you

and I'll deliver you personally.

That's not necessary.

There's no reward, you know.

It's going to be a little difficult...

and I'd rather explain to Father O'Malley

in me own way.

And I can do that better

when you're not around.

Okay. But if you want my advice...

you just tell him you've been a bad boy,

you ran away from home and you're sorry.

And if you want my advice,

you'll go to church on Sunday...

and say you haven't been to Mass

in 10 years and that you're sorry.

[Chuckles]

[Clock ticking]

[Door opening]

Hello.

If you don't mind, I've come back,

but only temporarily.

Until me plans are more formulated...

maybe you wouldn't mind letting me stay.

I'll be no bother to you.

Here, Father. Let's get out of these

wet clothes and get you up to bed.

But I don't expect me old room.

That's yours now.

- I haven't moved in there yet.

- I insist. That's your room.

I'll sleep on a cot anywhere.

FITZGIBBON:
I'll not even be bothering you

for me food. I'll eat out.

We'll talk later.

Mrs. Carmody will bring you something.

- No. I'm not a bit hungry. I'll...

- Come on now, Father, just a wee snack.

I've been keeping it for you on the stove.

Nice juicy cut of roast beef,

Yorkshire pudding...

and there were some creamed onions, too.

And some asparagus

with buttered breadcrumbs.

And golden brown potatoes

and a nice cup of coffee.

Well, if you insist...

just a small portion of everything.

I hope it wasn't too much trouble for you,

Mrs. Carmody.

- No trouble at all, Father.

- I feel I ought to help with the dishes.

Don't worry about the dishes.

It isn't much washing they'll be needing.

You're still a little cold, Father.

You were drenched to the skin.

You ought to take a little something

to warm you up.

Do you have a wee drop

of the "crature" about?

Matter of fact, I might have a little one

with you. I was out myself tonight.

I went out for a paper.

Well, in that case...

- I'll ask Mrs. Carmody where she keeps it.

- No. Look yonder in the bookcase.

No, the other side. Now down.

You'll find it behind

The Life of General Grant.

[Music box playing Irish lullaby]

A bit of old Ireland?

Yes. Every Christmas since I left,

my old mother sends me one of these.

With a degree of abstinence,

it becomes me calendar.

I get a little behind during Lent,

but it comes out even at Christmas.

That's me mother.

O'MALLEY:
She's very beautiful.

Of course that was taken some time ago.

She's 90 now.

Let's drink to your mother.

Hope you'll be seeing her soon, Father.

What about your mother?

I don't remember much about her.

She died when I was quite young.

Let's drink to the two of them, anyway.

Thank you, Father.

You know, Father O'Malley...

I always planned

that as soon as I got a few dollars ahead...

I'd go back to the old country

and see my mother.

Now, would you believe it,

that was 45 years ago...

and every time I get a few dollars ahead...

There's always somebody

that seems to need it more than you do.

You'd like her. She'd like you, too.

She always had a song in her heart.

I can almost hear her now.

[Music box playing]

Me boy, do you know Too Ra Loo Ra Loo?

[Singing] Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

Too-ra-loo-ra-li

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

Hush now, don't you cry

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

Too-ra-loo-ra-li

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

That's an Irish lullaby

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

[Humming tune]

FITZGIBBON:
Good night.

[Laughs softly]

Take it easy, boys.

Here, Tony, here's the fare.

O'MALLEY:
Everybody right home

and to bed. Get a lot of rest.

I'm responsible for you. Don't forget

we got a rehearsal in the morning.

- Aren't you coming with us?

- No, I think I'll walk home.

I want to think about my sermon for Sunday.

- It'll be extra special for your parents.

- Oh, good.

On how to bring up children.

Father! Good luck to you!

[Children's voices harmonizing]

Chuck.

- Jenny!

- Chuck, it's good to see you.

It's good to see you, too.

- Where were you going, Jenny?

- To work, and I'm late. Come along.

[Musical instruments being tuned]

MAN:
Gangway.

What are you doing here?

This is the Metropolitan.

- This is where I work.

- Wait a minute. Isn't that Carmen?

[Laughs heartily]

What do you play,

one of the spectators at the bullfight?

Believe it or not, I'm Carmen.

O'MALLEY:
Jenny Tuffle, Carmen?

I've changed that. It's Genevieve Linden.

I was singing Carmen in Rio

and they heard me and said:

"Would you sing it here?"

Here. Can you imagine?

- Jenny Tuffle at the Metropolitan.

- Imagine that.

Well, Chuck, make yourself comfortable.

I have to be getting on with it.

It's good to see you, Chuck.

[Soft instrumental music]

Come on, Effie, I'm terribly late.

I don't know why I'm even talking to you.

O'MALLEY:
No?

JENNY:
Why didn't you write?

- I did write.

- I know you did, but why did you stop?

O'MALLEY:
Didn't I tell you?

JENNY:
No, you didn't, but you're going to.

Jenny? Please, I want to ask you

just a small favour.

Hello, Tommy. What is it?

Tonight, would you be so good

as to glance occasionally at my baton?

Tonight, let's not race.

Let's try just for once to finish together?

[Jenny laughs]

JENNY:
All right, Tommy,

I promise. And, Tommy, do me a favour.

Meet Chuck O'Malley.

He's a very old friend of mine.

Chuck, Signor Tommaso Bozanni.

Father. "Chuck"?

She always calls me that.

You haven't told me yet, Chuck.

Why did you stop writing?

I did tell you in my last letter.

Which letter was that?

I guess that must have been

the letter you didn't get.

You wrote to me in Rome, in Florence...

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