The Corn Is Green

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Hey, Watty!

Stop!

What do you think of Wales?

- Gorgeous, isn't it?

- Very hilly.

It's very bumpy.

Goodbye.

Meet you at the house.

Anybody at home?

Good day, sir.

- Anyone home?

- Squire.

Oh, delicious lady, delicious surprise.

How are you, Jones?

Making the most of your half-day.

- Good afternoon, sir.

- Squat, man.

- No ceremony with me.

- I'll just get these out of sight.

Any sign of the new inhabitant?

Any moment now, I think,

if the train from London was on time.

And why, dear lady, did I not see you

at the Travazelis wedding?

Naughty man.

I sat with you at the breakfast.

Mr. Jones.

- Colonel?

- Colonel Moffat.

We must welcome him properly.

What is this? Is he married?

With children?

No mention of it in his letters.

- Do you speak English?

- I do.

Well, be a dear and hold that.

- Why don't you say something?

- Never speak till I'm spoken to.

- Who was that?

- My mommy. Never had no daddy.

It's heavy.

Give us a hand.

Oh, heavy.

Full of books, I shouldn't be surprised.

Don't stand there gawking.

Come on, give us a hand with the luggage.

Tallyho, I thought we'd lost you.

- Oh, dear. Good afternoon.

- Kitchen through here?

And garden through here.

Has anybody got a sweetie?

No.

Lovely.

Bigger than I expected.

So this is my house.

No, it isn't.

Well...

Isn't this Pengarth house?

The name of the building, I mean.

- Yes, it is.

- And it isn't yours, damn it.

- Belongs to this...

- Moffat.

Yes. Yes, it was left me by my uncle,

Dr. Moffat. I'm Miss Moffat.

And you must be Miss Ronberry,

who so kindly corresponded with me.

- How do you do?

- Do sit down.

But those letters were written by a man.

Well, if they were, I've been grossly

deceiving myself for all these years.

Surely you signed your name very oddly.

My initials, L.C. Moffat.

You see, I never felt that Lily Christobel

really suited me.

L.C.

I thought it meant lieutenant colonel.

Yes, but there was a military title

afterwards.

M.A., Master of Arts.

A female Master of Arts?

Any objections?

How long is this going to last?

Quite a long time, I hope...

...considering that we've been waiting

for it for 2000 years.

Are you saved?

Are you saved?

- Am I what?

- Are you high or low?

- I beg your pardon.

- Church or chapel?

I really don't know. Low, I suppose.

And now you know all about me.

What do you do?

I'm afraid I don't do anything.

Good heavens. Nothing at all?

What a waste.

- Well, I mean to say...

- Mr. Treverby owns the hall.

Interesting. I never had much to do

with landed gentry.

If I may say so, dear lady,

that is patently obvious...

...and I will not intrude

on you any longer.

Right, sir. Turn, sir. Out, sir. March.

- Good day, Jones.

- Good day, sir.

Nobody could say

that I've made a conquest there.

What's the matter with him?

- Oh, he's really very nice.

- When you get to know him?

- Yes.

- I'm afraid I'll never have the time.

I do thank both of you.

You've arranged everything

quite splendidly.

I like this house. May I look about?

Oh, yes, of course.

Dear, where's his lordship?

Took offense and left.

- At her?

- I'm afraid so.

Ain't she a clinker?

She is unusual.

She's a clinker, that's what.

Terrible strong-willed though.

Would bring me here.

I said, "No," I said.

- "Not with my past," I said.

- Your past?

Yes, before she took me up.

But now, what with her...

And since I've joined the corps.

- The corps?

- Yes.

The Militant and Righteous Corps.

Singing and praying

and collecting full blast.

I've been a different woman ever since.

- Are you saved?

- Yes, I am.

So am I. Ain't it lovely?

But what was your past?

Light fingers.

Light?

Fingers.

Terrible. It was everything:

Pennies, brooches, spoons, tiddly.

Every time there was a do,

everything went.

And I always knew it was me.

- Kitchen all right?

- Ain't seen no mice yet.

- I'm going outside.

- Oh, dear.

Come look at this.

Come out here a minute.

This barn out here.

- Is it mine, by any chance?

- No chance.

It belongs to the Gwalia farm,

but the farm burned down.

Sir Herbert Vesey owns it.

He lives in London.

Then it's available.

I mean, it could be bought or rented.

I suppose so.

We'll find out, we'll write him a letter.

- Can we get in?

- Only too easily.

But you haven't come down

to farm, have you?

Hardly.

Perfect.

Perfectly awful, the smell.

I like the smell of cow dung.

Don't you, Mr. Jones?

I don't think I ever thought about it.

- Room for 30 desks here, blackboard there.

- Desks?

- Cloakroom, office.

- Office?

We haven't properly met.

John Goronwy Jones, isn't it?

Goronwy.

- Goronwy.

- Yeah.

You've had a grammar-school education.

You work as a clerk in a law firm

and you're not happy in your work.

How much do they pay you?

Why, 33 shillings a week.

- I'll give you 34 and your lunch.

- You will?

Yes, I will.

I don't expect to pay you anything.

You've had a fair education,

you live alone in a large house...

...and have a quite ample annuity.

- I will give you lunch, naturally.

- Give me lunch?

Well, you can't pretend your life is so full

that you have no time for a worthy cause.

Well, not completely full

at the moment, perhaps.

But when the right gentleman

comes along...

If you're a spinster well on in her 30s,

he's lost his way and he isn't coming.

Why don't you face the facts

and enjoy life, same as I do?

You mean you've given up hope?

Oh, what a horrid expression.

I don't recall that I ever had any hope.

How very odd.

What's that singing?

Men, boys, coming from the mine.

They burst into song at the slightest

provocation. You mustn't take any notice.

On the contrary, I expect

to take the keenest possible notice.

How many families live around here?

- Families?

- I mean, within a radius of five miles.

Well, there's the squire, of course.

- Mrs. Rempryce in the castle out at...

- No, no, I mean ordinary families.

- The villagers?

- Yes, how many families?

- Really haven't the faintest idea.

- About 20 families in the village.

And 15 in the farms around.

- Many children?

- What age?

Up to 16 or 17.

Here, they are only children

until they are 12...

...then they're sent into the mine.

And after one week, they are old men.

And all for a few pennies.

- What did he say?

- Never mind.

How many can read or write?

- Next to none.

- Why do you ask?

Because she is going to start a school.

Perceptive of you, Mr. Jones.

For the ordinary children, you mean?

Yes, my dear, for the ordinary children...

...who came into the world

by the same process exactly as you and I.

A school for them? What for?

To teach them to read, teach them to write.

The old, the young...

But who will teach them?

- Me.

- You?

- And you.

- Oh, no.

And you.

My goodness, miss, I don't care

if you're not church or chapel, I'm with you.

Well, I couldn't teach those children,

they smell.

If we'd never been taught

to wash, so would we.

We'll put them under the pump. Well?

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