The Killing of Sister George Page #4

from each other.

That's nice.

None at all. None whatsoever.

Let's all have tea first, shall we?

- Milk?

- Thank you.

- Sugar?

- No, thank you.

I say, what delicious-looking scones.

They're scotch scones.

About this little talk

you wanted to have with me...

A specialty of mine.

Copied from a recipe of my grandmother's.

You're quite a little housewife, aren't you?

Something of a literary figure, too.

She fancies herself as a poetess,

goes to evening classes...

to learn about meter and all that rubbish.

- Really?

- George.

- They look quite delicious. May I try one?

- Help yourself.

They're what we used to call girdle scones.

Or drop scones.

It's awfully important

not to let the oven get too hot...

otherwise the outsides will be brown

before the insides are cooked.

These are a lovely even color.

- I always cool them in a towel.

- Do you?

Yes, and I wait

until the bubbles rise to the surface...

- before I turn them over.

- They're very successful.

I use a half a level teaspoon

of bicarbonate of soda...

Now you're giving away trade secrets.

...and one level teaspoonful

of cream of tartar...

Shut up.

...and one egg.

- Shut up.

Some people prefer two eggs,

but I think one's enough.

Shut up!

Now. Then. Girls.

She hates me to talk about food.

She's a wee bit overwrought.

Bullshit.

- Cheerio.

- Bless you two.

Don't they make a lovely couple?

They do. They really do.

I'm surprised you haven't taken the plunge.

Still waiting for Mr. Right

to come along, are you?

There was a young man once.

You know, wartime it was.

He was in the RAF...

killed over Berlin.

There were lots of good boys went that way.

Lovely boys, all of them.

- That they were.

- They certainly were.

- Cheerio.

- Bye-bye.

She does get furious sometimes.

Actually, I wrote a poem about it once.

Now then, my dear, Mrs. Croft doesn't come

all this way to listen to you...

blathering on about your poetry and such.

There is Sister George talking again.

It's wonderful how the character

has evolved over the years.

One does learn from experience.

One does, indeed.

But, on the other hand,

experience isn't everything.

We don't want Applehurst

falling behind the times, do we?

No. Of course not.

One must constantly examine criticism...

and if it's constructive, we must act on it.

Ruthlessly, if need be.

Criticism? What sort of criticism?

- I wasn't thinking of anything in particular.

- But what?

That, I'm afraid, brings me...

to the unpleasant part of my business.

But first, would you show me

to the little girls' room?

Alice, show Mrs. Croft to the...

This way, Mrs. Croft.

..."little girl's room. "

- It's that door up there, beneath the landing.

- Thank you.

George. What are you doing?

- Keep a lookout.

- Don't. You can't. You mustn't.

- My own personal file, isn't it?

- Put it back.

Look.

"Sister George, Applehurst Series.

Confidential. "

There you are.

She's coming. Watch out.

She's coming.

And Emmeline said, "I don't think

I want another drop scone today. "

"But you must have one,

because they're good for you"...

said the old lady with the apple-red cheeks.

This is Emmeline, my favorite doll.

- Say "How do you do," Emmeline.

- How do you do?

How do you do?

Are those bathroom scales accurate?

Yes, I think so.

Good.

Now, then...

I'll just make myself scarce.

Please, sit down.

Thank you.

You won't hold it against me

if I speak quite plainly?

Please do.

It's my unpleasant duty

to haul you over the coals...

and administer a severe reprimand.

Really?

Believe me, Sister George...

I would much rather let bygones

be bygones.

Let sleeping dogs lie, eh?

This morning I received this letter

from the Director of Religious Broadcasting.

I should like to have your comments.

It's a lie.

It's an utter, bloody lie.

Please, Miss Buckridge, calm yourself.

- Kindly hand me back the letter.

- It's preposterous.

You're not going to deny

that you were, in fact, drinking?

I had a few drinks, yes, with some friends.

But I certainly wasn't drunk.

In point of fact, I gather you walked out

on a rehearsal.

Yes, I did, but that was a matter of principle.

Not because I was going

to hunt down nuns.

No, I trust not.

Nevertheless, this memo is quite specific.

Childie, was I drunk on Wednesday?

Wednesday? No, I don't think so.

No, not on Wednesday.

There you are. Of course I wasn't drunk.

I can remember everything that happened.

Everything I did.

Miss Buckridge, I'm sure your memory

of subsequent events is excellent.

But the fact remains that...

according to the Mother Superior of

the Convent of the Sacred Heart of Jesus...

you boarded a taxi...

I thought it was empty.

...a taxi bearing as passengers

two novitiate nuns from Ireland...

who had just arrived

at King's Cross Station.

How was I to know they were novitiates?

Their status in the hierarchy of the church

is totally irrelevant.

You boarded this taxi

in a state of advanced inebriation...

and proceeded to assault the two nuns...

subjecting them to actual physical violence.

Shut up. It wasn't a bit like that.

In the first place, I certainly wasn't drunk.

I saw this taxi draw up at a traffic light.

So, naturally, I got in.

And there were these two black things

screaming blue murder.

Why didn't you immediately get out again?

I would have, but the taxi started off.

Anyway, I'd had a very nasty shock myself...

what with their screaming

and flapping about.

I thought they were bats. Vampire bats.

It was they who attacked me.

I can remember now...

getting all entangled in their skirts

and petticoats and things.

If the taxi driver hadn't pulled me free...

they might have done me a serious injury.

A deplorable anecdote.

According to the Mother Superior...

one of the nuns required medical treatment

for shock.

She appears to have thought it

some kind of diabolical visitation.

George, how could you?

Don't you start on me.

It was all a ghastly mistake.

No doubt, but it will take some explaining.

Fancy reporting it

to the Director of Religious Broadcasting.

What a nasty thing for a holy woman to do.

The Mother Superior is responsible

for the nuns in her charge.

Then she should jolly well make sure

they know how to behave in public.

I got the fright of my life in there.

They were like mice. Albino mice.

With tiny little white faces

and weeny little red eyes, and...

They were vicious.

They scratched and bit.

I still have the tooth marks. Look. There.

I've a jolly good mind to put in

a counter-complaint to the Mother Superior.

They deserve to be scourged in their cells.

I can hardly put through a report

to the controller...

informing him of your allegation

that you were bitten...

by two nuns.

Why not?

For all we know they might have had rabies.

Please, Miss Buckridge, let's be practical.

We are all concerned with retaining the trust

and respect of the public.

Now, we do all we can

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