The Killing of Sister George Page #5

to gloss over minor disciplinary offenses.

But we simply cannot tolerate

this sort of behavior.

What do you want me to do?

You must write a letter of apology

to the Mother Superior.

You mean, humbling myself?

Don't worry, Mrs. Croft, I'll see she does it.

And I'll also see she doesn't get

into any more of that kind of mischief.

Now there speaks a true friend.

You're very lucky to have someone

like Miss McNaught to rely on.

Treasure her.

I'll treasure her all right.

But what about Applehurst?

That's another

rather more complex problem.

I mean, have they decided anything

for the future?

Are they planning any changes?

I'm afraid I can't say anything about that

at the moment.

I say, I'm sorry, you know...

if I've been a bad boy.

Goodbye, dear Sister George.

Keep your chin up. Because things

are never as bad as they seem.

But, remember,

no more walkouts at rehearsals.

And if things get difficult,

just give me a call.

It's the creaking gate that gets oiled.

A somewhat unfortunate simile.

So nice to have met you.

- I'll see you out.

- Thank you.

Cheerio!

Goodbye.

Bye.

There you go.

- Bye, then. Very nice to meet you.

- Nice to have met you.

The dirty, rotten little sneak.

The crummy little swine.

Did she say anything?

Did she drop any hints behind my back?

No, just general comments, you know.

She asked me about my poetry.

Made one or two passing references

to nuns in taxis.

What do you mean?

Nuns. You know.

N- U-N-S.

Brides of Christ.

I knew you'd bring that up again.

Whatever happens, it's always my fault.

How could you?

How could you make such an exhibition

of yourself?

Don't you start on me as well.

I think you owe me

some sort of explanation.

Come off it.

You want a graphic description, do you?

A blow-by-blow account?

I say, when I think of all those skirts

and petticoats and things...

it's the sort of thing you used to do

when I first met you.

In that club in Notting Hill Gate.

And I remember how you used

to go clomping around without a bra.

Hitting girls over the head.

Lovely.

Kindly keep your foul-mouthed recollections

to yourself.

And remember who pays the rent here.

Not for much longer, perhaps.

Did she say something, then?

No, I don't think so. Nothing in particular.

No, she doesn't bloody well have to.

Not with this.

Why? What does it say?

None of the other characters have ever come

near me in the popularity ratings.

And now this idiot Leo Lockhart...

who got the sack from Stratford-on-Avon

after six months of carrying a spear about...

and creeps around saying to everybody:

"I gave up my career in the theatre,

you know...

"because I found the television medium

so very interesting. "

- What's he done now?

- Now?

Now he's succeeded. Look.

"Sister George:
64.5."

"Ginger Hodgkins: 68."

Bastard.

But you remember this:

- Two wrongs don't make a right.

- You're right.

- Where there's a will, there's a way.

- I know.

As long as I am the chairman

of the darts committee...

you won't be dropped from the team

without a fair hearing.

Now off you get home,

and we'll talk about it tonight.

- Cue end titles.

- You're a pal.

- Don't mention it.

- All right, cut.

We're rehearsing, ladies and gentlemen.

Move about quietly, please.

That was wonderful, children.

A thing of beauty.

If you'll gather around the table

we'll read through the next installments...

while we've got our worthy scriptwriters

with us.

Mildred, hand the scripts out, will you?

There's a dear.

- Have a cigar, old chap. You deserve it.

- Thank you.

Ernest Hemingway, I presume.

May I say

how much I've enjoyed reading your work?

As a matter of fact,

I think you'll find most serious critics...

feel that Hemingway is a little pass.

Really? How rotten for him.

They're very touchy, you know,

these literary gents.

All right, children,

let's settle down now, shall we?

George, I think you'll find

the first part of this is all you and Ginger.

So I gather.

The old double act again, eh, George?

This episode opens in the saloon bar

of the Rose and Crown.

It's just on opening time,

and Ginger is polishing some glasses.

- Just read this through.

- Yes.

You're not going to do it that way, are you?

"What'll it be, then?

A bottle of the old malt stout?"

"No, not today. I think I'll have a whiskey.

"A large one. "

"Going on the hard stuff, eh?

Been one of those days, has it?"

"It's always one of those days for me.

"Never get a minute to myself, I don't.

"The fact is, my dear,

I think I'm getting a bit of a cold. "

"Whiskey, is it, then?"

"Have a drop of honey in it,

that's what I always do.

"Can't beat it for stopping a cold.

"Take some more when you get home

with a drop of hot water and some sugar...

"and you'll be as right as rain

in the morning. "

"I don't know about that.

"It could be the flu.

Last time I had a bout of the flu...

"I was off for a fortnight. "

Am I to understand

I'm being written out of this episode?

Well?

Really, George...

just because you appear

to have a nasty cold coming on...

I don't think you should start jumping

to conclusions.

Why not?

Ginger's jumped to the conclusion

that I'm to be struck down by anything...

from the common cold

to the bubonic plague.

That is a slight exaggeration, you know.

After all, he's merely offering

a layman's opinion.

Nonsense!

Everybody in Applehurst knows...

that Ginger

is one of nature's own diagnosticians.

He can often put his finger on the trouble...

when old Dr. Williams is still groping

in the dark, can't he?

Yes, but at this point he's merely

suggesting you wrap up well and go to bed.

And evidently I'm to remain between

the sheets for the next two installments.

Is that right, Jack?

The rest is taken up with Rosie's reaction

when she finds out the tests are positive.

Initially, she's contemplating suicide.

Then, at the last minute...

Ginger saves her.

If there was anything wrong with Rosie,

I'd be the first person she consulted.

Yes, she's right.

Yes, normally she would...

but that's the whole point, you see.

You've got flu.

I know I've got the bloody flu.

Rosie just doesn't know who to turn to.

But who decided

she was going to have the flu?

It was all thrashed out

at the script conference.

Come along, George,

it's only a passing cold.

It's not the passing cold I'm concerned with.

I want to know when, if ever,

I'm expected to arise again?

Fair enough.

What about it, Jack?

I couldn't tell you, old chap. Peter and Eddie

are writing the next three installments.

We'll contact them after rehearsals.

Now, do let's get on with it, shall we?

Let's go back to Ginger's...

Since I'm to be mute for the rest

of this enthralling installment...

I hope you'll excuse me.

Now, if you could make an exit like that,

you'd really be an actor.

"BBC Television Center...

"Shepherd's Bush, London W12.

"Dear sirs.

"We are greatly concerned...

"about last Thursday's episode...

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