The Ghost and Mrs. Muir Page #6

Of course you have.

2O million discontented females

in the British Isles

and every blessed one of them

is writing a novel.

Don't tell me what's in it.

I know.

Bless my soul, madam,

I've got to publish this bilge

in order to stay in business,

but I don't have to read it.

No, madam, I do not.

And now if you'll pardon me,

I'm busy.

Come back here,

you blasted grampus.!

Madam.

Tsk, tsk, tsk.

You're such

a nice-looking woman, too.

Oh, I'm terribly sorry,

Mr. Sproule.

I didn't mean to say that...

but you're all wrong

about the book.

It isn't what you think at all.

It's...

It's a biography.

It's the unvarnished record

of a sailor's life.

A sailor's life, eh?

I ask your pardon, madam...

but what do you know

about sailors?

Oh, a great deal,

believe me.

Unvarnished, you say?

Well, perhaps I have time

for a few pages, at that.

What's your name?

Mrs. Muir.

Heh heh heh!

Ho ho ho ho!

I have been waiting here

for three hours.

I consider it outrageous!

Still in there?

Sent luncheon in at 2:OO.

For two?

Well! You're not going to pretend

that you wrote this.

No.

No. It's a man's book...

and what a man.

Is he-- Is he your husband,

Mrs. Muir?

Oh, no.

This Captain X,

I'd like very much to meet him.

Oh, I'm afraid

that's impossible.

He's--He's away.

On a voyage, of course.

Yes. A very long voyage.

Bless my soul,

what a yarn!

What a life!

I'll tell you a secret.

If I hadn't had a mother

and two sisters to support...

I'd have gone

to sea myself.

Bless my soul,

to live like that!

Instead of sitting there

turning out

indigestible reading matter

for a bilious public.

Tsk tsk tsk!

Of course we'll publish it,

Mrs. Muir.

Now, you're empowered by

the captain to act for him?

Yes. He's given me the rights.

Good. Well, my dear...

you presented me

with a most enjoyable day.

Bless my soul,

yes, remarkable.

Now, you just leave

everything to me

and be happy that

you know such a man.

There aren't many

like him these days.

You appreciate that?

Yes, I think so.

Well, goodbye, Mr. Sproule.

Goodbye, Mrs. Muir.

Goodbye.

Mr. Fairley.

Coming.

It's easy to understand

why the most beautiful poems

about England in the spring

were written by poets

living in Italy at the time.

How do you do?

I'm not a poet,

but I've got an umbrella...

and your hat,

if I may say so...

is singularly inadequate

under the circumstances.

I didn't bargain

for this blasted rain.

That is, I'm afraid

I shall be late

and miss the last train

for home.

I could call you a cab...

if you ask nicely.

Oy! Cab!

Where to?

Victoria.

Victoria. What a coincidence.

Victoria, cabby.

I know you won't mind

Sharing my cab with me, will you?

Not at all.

The word you're

looking for is ""brass.''

Brass?

To describe

my behavior and me.

You don't approve

of either, do you?

Not very much.

Still, in a way

I should be grateful to you.

Of course...why?

Because Mr. Sproule

has agreed to publish my book.

Splendid. So the old boy

has developed a weakness

for feminine literature, has he?

I can't say

that it's one of mine.

This book

might surprise you.

It's surprising enough

to find a lady author

infinitely more exciting

than her heroine

could possibly be.

Do you write, Mr., uh...

My name is Miles Fairley.

Yes, I write a little.

Children's books.

Children's books? You?

I should like to see one.

I'm afraid you already have.

I write under the name

of Uncle Neddy.

Uncle Neddy?

You're Uncle Neddy?

Ridiculous, isn't it?

Then all of your cynicism

must be nothing but a pose.

You're adored by half

the children in the world.

Uncle Neddy is a pose.

Deep in

my innermost heart...

I loathe

the little monsters.

My little daughter

is not a monster...

and she'll be

very excited to know

I've been talking

to her favorite author.

I shall make an exception

of your daughter.

I'm looking forward

to meeting her

and your husband, too.

My husband is dead.

Oh.

Oh?

Oh, I do wish he'd hurry.

Well, there's no rush now.

We'll get there in time.

Here's an empty one.

Well, goodbye, Mrs. Muir.

Goodbye, Mr. Fairley,

and thank you very much.

Not at all.

Are you all right?

Oh, yes, quite all right.

Thank you.

Cheero!

Oh. You've been

eavesdropping.

Feminine literature.

What's he mean,

feminine literature?

He had no way of knowing

it's your book.

Brass, he says.

I'll polish his brass for him.

And the way he was

smirking at you...

like a cat

at a fishmonger's.

You should have

slapped his face.

Why? I found him

rather charming.

Rather charming. Now you're

starting to talk like him.

How in blazes

do you want me to talk?

That's better.

I think you're being

extremely childish.

I'm only trying to

protect you

from your

own worse instincts.

I'll manage my own instincts,

thank you.

What made you lie

to the blighter?

I didn't lie to him.

You did. You told him

he was Anna's favorite author.

You know perfectly well

she hates Uncle Neddy

and reads nothing but Deadeye Dick,

the Rover of the Spanish Main.

Well, I had to say something.

You should have

pushed him out of the cab.

In another minute,

I would have.

Why, Daniel,

I believe you're jealous.

Of course

I'm not jealous!

Do you take me

for a blasted schoolboy?

Besides,jealousy

is a disease of the flesh.

I've never known you

to be so disagreeable...

today of all days.

What's so wonderful

about today?

The book, Daniel.

Mr. Sproule liked the book.

Of course he liked it.

And now I can buy

the house.

Just as we planned.

I'm not sure

I want you to have

the blasted house after all.

Oh, Daniel, please.

Oh, I suppose being a woman,

you can't help it.

Can't help what?

Making a fool of yourself.

Daniel, you stop sulking.

You yourself said that

I should mix with people...

that I should see...men.

I said men, not perfumed

parlor snakes.

He's a man

and a very nice one.

Anyway, I shall never

see him again.

Cheer off, you blasted mud turtle!

There's no room!

I beg your pardon, madam.

Ha ha ha ha!

Ha ha ha ha!

Ha ha ha ha!

Ha ha ha ha!

Will my name stay there

forever, Mr. Scroggins?

Forever and a day...

and I've cut it

nice and deep

so all the ships at sea

can see it as they sail along.

My goodness!

Mummy!

Mummy, come and see

what Mr. Scroggins has done!

I'll be right out, darling!

Mr. Scroggins says

I'll always be here...

and all the captains

of all the ships

will look at me

through spyglasses.

Why, that's very thoughtful

of Mr. Scroggins.

Just think of all

the lovely shipwrecks

we'll have on this beach.

Now, in the meantime,

what do you say to getting dressed

and plotting

our course for home?

Oh, please, Mummy!

Mr. Scroggins and I

have got to build

a breakwater and a canal!

I'll be pleased

to bring her home, ma'am.

All right, Skipper,

but mind you're not too late.

Life is just one coincidence

after another, isn't it?

Thank you for returning

my handkerchief, Mr. Fairley.

Rate this script:3.0 / 2 votes