In Which We Serve Page #4

- Happy Christmas.

Come on, now. Silence, everybody.

The Lady Mayoress

is about to declare the bazaar open.

Don't let him get you down, Alix.

Ladies and gentlemen,

I'll begin by taking my husband's advice...

- Hooray!

...and wishing you all a very happy Christmas.

I'm sure Elizabeth and June will back me up

when I say I am going to deliver,

on behalf of all wretched naval wives,

a word of warning to Maureen,

who has been unwise enough

to decide to join our ranks.

Hear hear!

Dear Maureen,

we all wish you every possible happiness,

but I think it only fair to tell you in advance

exactly what you are in for.

Shame, shame.

Speaking from bitter experience,

I can only say that the wife of a sailor

is most profoundly to be pitied.

To begin with, her home life,

what there is of it, has no stability whatever.

She can never really settle down.

She moves through a succession

of other people's houses,

flats and furnished rooms.

She finds herself having to grapple

with domestic problems

in Bermuda, Malta or Weymouth.

We will not deal with the question of pay.

That is altogether too painful.

What we will deal with

is the most important disillusionment of all.

- And that is...

- Stop her, somebody. This is rank mutiny.

And that is, that wherever she goes,

there is always in her life

a permanent and undefeated rival.

Her husband's ship.

Whether it be a battleship or a sloop,

a submarine or a destroyer,

it holds first place in his heart.

It comes before wife, home,

children, everything.

Some of us try to fight this

and get badly mauled in the process.

Others, like myself,

resign themselves to the inevitable.

That is what you will have to do,

my poor Maureen.

That is what we all have to do

if we want any peace of mind at all.

Ladies and gentlemen,

I give you my rival.

It's extraordinary

that anyone could be so fond...

...and so proud of their most implacable enemy.

This ship.

God bless this ship, and all who sail in her.

Well... she did her stuff, sir.

Best ship I ever served in, sir.

That goes for me too, sir.

It makes one feel sort of lost, doesn't it?

A very happy and a very efficient ship, sir.

Thank you.

(Snivels)

Wipe your face, Edgecombe.

You don't want oil fuel in your eyes.

Aye aye, sir.

Well... do you know what I'd like now?

Anice hot cup of tea.

I'd like a nice beer myself.

Look out! Here come the bastards back again.

Koob yo u r h oads dow n as ow as yo u ca n

Missed, butterfingers!

Blimey. I spoke too soon.

- Aargh!

- Did it get you badly?

Don't rightly know, sir.

Knife, somebody.

Cut his sleeve carefully.

Hit a mother with a baby in her arms, you would.

Oh, look, boys.

Shot through the heart.

- I always did hate the sight of blood.

- Give us a rag, somebody.

What's your name? What's your name?

What's your name? What's your name?

What's your name? What's your name?

What's your name?

Quite a loving cup, isn't it?

You never know your luck.

I always say travel broadens the mind.

Now then, saucy.

You keep your hands to yourself.

- Want a drop, dear?

- No, thanks.

Come on. It won't hurt you.

I'd rather not, thanks all the same. I don't like it.

Oh, fancy that, now! Ever so sorry, I'm sure.

If she doesn't want it,

she doesn't have to have it.

Who do you think you are, anyway?

Father Flanagan?

Here, play a hymn, there's a dear.

I didn't know we was in Sunday school.

Some people don't know

when they've had enough.

What was that you said?

You heard. You ain't got cloth ears.

Here, miss, you change places with me.

- It's all right, really.

- You'll be more comfortable in the corner.

I'd be ever so much obliged, I'm sure,

if you'd change places with me, too.

My mother always warned me

never to sit next to sailors.

Pity she didn't warn you

about a few other things while she was at it.

Ah, shut up arguing, pal. Here, have a fag.

Life's too short.

# If you were the only

# Girl in the world

# And I was the only boy

# Nothing else would matter in the world today

# We could go on loving...

Comfy?

Yes, thanks.

What's your name?

Freda. Freda Lewis.

Freda? It's a pretty name, isn't it?

- Is it?

- Do you mind if I smoke?

Of course not.

- Have one?

- I don't mind.

These are special, HM ships only.

We get'em in the canteen.

My uncle by marriage is in the Navy.

He's on a destroyer.

Isn't that a coincidence, now? So am I.

There, now.

He's a petty officer.

They call him by a funny name.

We often call petty officers funny names.

- It begins with a B.

- It generally does.

Oh, you are awful!

What's his ship?

I'm not supposed to tell you that, am I?

It's careless talk.

You can tell me.

I'm in the same firm, as you might say.

Well, chief buffer, that's what he's called.

He's on the Torrin.

Well, it's a small world, and no error!

Here, Joey.

Our chief buffer's her uncle by marriage.

Makes you sort of Siamese twins.

This is my friend Joey Mackeridge.

Miss Lewis.

- How do you do?

- Pleased to meet you, I'm sure

What's your name?

- Funny us meeting like that, wasn't it?

- Yes.

- Sort of... unexpected.

- Yes.

That long train, all them people in it,

and I had to pick on that one carriage.

- It's fate, I shouldn't wonder.

- Yeah, I feel that way, too.

- I suppose we ought really to be going now.

- Yeah, I suppose we ought.

Your family will be wondering

what's happened to you.

- Well, I'm wondering that myself.

- How can you?

Does er... Does your aunt let you go out much?

She doesn't mind,

so long as I don't get back too late.

What about tomorrow?

We might go to the Palais de Danse.

- Do you like dancing?

- Yes.

Well, that's a date, then.

6.30, under the clock, Victoria Station.

You don't waste much time, do you?

- I can't afford to. I've only got weekend leave.

- That's not long.

Well, here we are.

Come in and meet my mum and dad.

No, not now. I'd really rather not.

I've got to be getting along.

- And they wouldn't want a stranger butting in.

- You're not a stranger, not any more.

Ah, but to them I would be.

Give me that bag, there's a dear.

Not until you say it's OK about tomorrow night.

- Oh, you are awful!

- 6.30, under the clock, Victoria Station.

All right.

Cross your heart and hope to die?

I cross my heart and hope to die.

- So long, Freda.

- So long, Shorty.

(Clattering)

(Whistles) Mum.

Shorty Blake!

You ought to be ashamed of yourself,

and no mistake.

Your telegram only arrived half an hour ago.

You never said what time you was coming.

I'm here, aren't I? Sound in wind and limb.

You can't grumble.

Oh, you bad boy, you!

May, Sh o rty's h o m o!

Dad! Dad!

Doesn't he look well?

How's the war going, son?

See any submarines?

Hundreds. Sunk 14 last week,

and a couple of cruisers thrown in.

Oh, Mum, he's fibbing, isn't he?

N t h o ast wa r, was n a convoy onco

Put a sock in it, Fred.

We've heard quite enough

about all what you did in the last war.

- Dad?

- Yes, old man?

Where did you first meet Mum?

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