The Lady in the Van Page #2

I'm on my own.

I know you're on your own.

We're all on our own.

Well, can I come down there for a bit?

Is it a big house?

Not really. You wouldn't like it.

It's too many stairs.

They have these chairlift things now.

Are you still there?

Yes.

Oh!

The foot feller came today.

- Who?

- The foot feller.

Do you mean the chiropodist?

- You've written that down.

- I haven't.

Hey, I've given you some script.

I'm just raw material.

- No, you're not.

- Hmm.

Mam.

Are you all right?

Yeah. It's the van.

- It gets very close.

- I imagine.

You're tall.

My husband was tall.

I'm Mrs Vaughan Williams.

I won't shake hands. Gardening.

What, the composer'? Greensleeves?

Among other things.

Why? Are you musical?

I don't even know your name.

It's Miss Shepherd.

But I wouldn't want it bandied about.

I'm in an incognito position, possibly.

Safe with me.

Shepherd. Drove ambulances

in the war, apparently.

Well, where did she spring from?

- And a nun once.

- A nun?

In the convent up the street.

Still, everybody's got something to hide.

My brother-in-law's a policeman.

That's Camden!

People wash up here. Like me.

- Oh.

- Oh!

- She'd be a good subject.

- What for?

You. One of your little plays.

Remember, I planted the seed!

No. No.

I'm writing about Mam half the time

as it is. One old lady's enough.

I live, you write. That's how it works.

- Yeah, except you don't much.

- Don't what?

Live. Put yourself into what you write.

How? We're both so f***ing tame.

Miss Shepherd? I'm Lois. The social worker.

I don't want a social worker. I'm about

to listen to the repeat of Any Answers?

I brought you some clothes.

You wrote asking for a coat.

Not during Any Answers? I'm a busy woman.

I only asked for one coat.

I brought three,

in case you fancied a change.

Where am I supposed to put three coats?

Green is not my colour.

Have you got a stick?

The Council have that in hand.

It's been precepted for.

Will it be long enough?

Yes. It's one of our special sticks.

I don't want a special stick.

I want an ordinary stick, only longer.

Shut the door.

If I want to get in touch with you,

whom should I call?

Well, you can try Mr Bennett at 23.

Only don't take any notice of what he says.

He's a communist, possibly.

Well, have you tried

the people opposite? They're nearer.

Well, they said they don't relate to her.

You were the one she related to.

Is that what they said? "Related to"?

No, that's me.

They said you were her pal.

- She was your girlfriend.

- Oh, Jesus.

Does she use your lavatory?

Well, only in an emergency.

That might give her squatter's rights.

We'd be much happier if she moved on.

"We"?

Camden.

All right, I've got everything.

The sherbet lemons, Cup-a-Soup,

the miniature whisky.

Mmm.

That's medicinal.

Well, she seemed very understanding,

the social worker.

Mmm-hmm. Not understanding enough.

I mean, I ask for a wheelchair,

and what does she get me?

A walking stick.

And she says I don't get an allowance

unless I get an address?

Look, "The Van, Gloucester Crescent".

Isn't that an address?

No! It needs to be a house.

A residence.

Anyway, I might be

going away soon, possibly.

How long for?

Broadstairs, possibly.

Why Broadstairs? Have you family there?

No. No.

Have you got any family?

I just need the air.

I saw a snake this morning.

It was coming up Parkway.

A long grey snake.

- It was a boa constrictor, possibly.

- No.

It looked poisonous.

It was keeping close to the wall,

and I have a feeling

it was headed for the van.

No, Miss Shepherd...

I thought I'd better warn you,

just to be on the safe side.

I've had some close shaves with snakes.

Listen to me, Miss Shepherd, there are no

boa constrictors in Camden Town.

What, are you calling me a liar?

I know a boa constrictor when I see one.

You all right, my love? Looking

especially lovely today, sweetheart.

Don't "sweetheart" me.

I'm a sick woman! Dying, possibly.

Well, chin up, love, we

all gotta go sometime.

Smells like you already have.

I do not believe

in the snake, still

less that it was en

route for the van.

Only next day, I find there has been

a break-in at the local pet shop.

So, there may have been a snake on the run.

Good God.

So, of course, I feel guilty.

Giles! Giles! Giles!

A real writer would have asked her

about her close shaves with snakes,

only she seems to have cleared off.

Quick as you can, love.

I'm getting off.

Don't rush me! Don't rush me.

Nightie?

This is not a nightdress.

This style can't have

got to Broadstairs yet.

And I know the law. You can't be

arrested for wearing a nightie.

What're you doing in Broadstairs?

I am minding my own business!

Alan! Come out here!

What for?

There's some massive birds on the wall.

There never are.

There's nothing on the wall.

You're imagining things.

There are.

And there were,

lined up on the garden wall,

four peacocks from the Hall.

So, boa constrictors in the street,

peacocks on the wall.

It seems that both at the northern

and southern gates of my life

stands a deluded woman.

- Except you just said they aren't.

- Aren't what?

- Deluded.

- Well, not in this particular instance.

And they're not the same, Alan.

Mam and Miss Shepherd.

No, Alan, they are not.

But they are both old ladies.

That appears to be my niche apparently.

Whereas my contemporaries

lovingly chronicle

their first tentative investigations

of the opposite sex,

or their adventures

in the world of journalism,

I'm stuck with old ladies.

All right. I'm keeping a sodding notebook.

But only on the off chance.

She's not a project. She's

not in the pipeline.

I don't want to write about her. She's...

She's just something that's happening.

So, what do you want to write about?

I want to write about spies.

Spies?

Yeah, you see?

You think that's barmy. Spies, Russia.

I can't always be writing about the North.

"I was born and brought up in Leeds,

where my father was a butcher."

"And as a boy, I would often go out

on the bike with the orders."

It's not Proust. It's not even J.B.

Priestley.

The houses in the Crescent

were built as villas

for the Victorian middle class.

And their basements are now being enlarged

by couples who are liberal in outlook,

but not easy with their

newfound prosperity.

Guilt, in a word.

Which means that in varying degrees,

they tolerate Miss Shepherd.

Their consciences absolved by her presence.

Merry Christmas!

Shut the door!

Shut the door.

I'm a busy woman. I'm a busy woman.

Oh.

Crme brule.

What was your first play about?

Public school. Which, more accurately,

is what you Americans call private school.

But you didn't go to public school.

No. But I read about it.

And what was your next play about?

Sex. I read about that, too.

Very good.

Stop it! Stop it! Just...

Get away from us! It's her!

Do you have a problem?

- They were making the noise!

- They're children!

I am a sick woman!

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