The Lady in the Van Page #4

- Here we are.

- Ah!

We were just saying how grateful she'll be.

Yes.

Put the van in your drive?

That never occurred to me.

I don't know. I don't know.

It might not be convenient.

No, I've thought it over.

Believe me, Miss Shepherd, it's all right.

Just till you sort yourself out.

Well, not convenient for you!

Convenient for me.

You're not doing me a favour, you know.

I have got other fish to fry.

A man on the pavement told me

if I went south of the river,

I'd be welcomed with open arms.

I was about to do her a good turn,

but, as ever,

it was not without

thoughts of strangulation.

She would come into the garden, yes,

but only as a favour to me.

That's it.

Have you put on the handbrake?

I am about to do so.

Whereupon she applies

the handbrake with such determination

that, like Excalibur,

it can never afterwards be released.

Are you all right?

Now she is on the premises,

I sometimes get a glimpse

of Miss Shepherd praying,

and it is seldom a tranquil

or a meditative process.

I hunger and thirst for fulfillment...

The fervour of her intercessions

rocking her to and fro.

In possible light received.

What is it

she's wanting forgiveness for?

I used to pray myself

when I was young, but never like this.

I'd never done anything,

but what has she done?

Who's the old bat?

Oh. She's a friend.

A friend?

Well, someone I know.

Weird.

Yeah, maybe.

Actually, I think I better be off.

You don't want to stay

for coffee or anything?

No.

Bye.

Mr Bennett?

That young man,

did he have an earring?

He did.

You want to be careful.

She'll be wanting to move in next.

Said my mother,

who's been in London on a state visit.

Why didn't you tell me

she was in the drive?

I forgot.

I got a whiff of her

when I first came. Whew.

Right nasty bad dishcloth smell.

Well, she's in the garden.

Next, it'll be the house.

What will folks think?

This is London. Nobody thinks anything.

It's with her being a

nun, not having got off.

They get thwarted.

An educated woman, and living like that.

Mind you, you're going down the same road.

Me?

No cloth on the table.

No holder for the toilet roll.

Given time, I could have

this place spotless.

You've got a home.

You won't want to live here.

On.

Where does she go to the lav?

It has something to do with plastic bags.

What sort of plastic bags?

Stout ones, I hope.

- You've not met her. Do you want to?

- Oh. No.

No. With her being educated

I wouldn't know what to say.

Oh.

- Oh. Give us a kiss!

- Oh.

- When will you be coming up next?

- Soon.

The thing is.

I keep seeing a car in the car park.

That's slightly to be expected, isn't it?

At night. Watching.

You taking your tablets?

When I remember. Hmm.

She should be in a home.

- Where does she go to the lav?

- I told you.

Looked after.

A place where they'd wash her

and make her presentable.

I'm surprised they let

her roam the streets.

It's like a fairy

story, a parable...

Good morning.

In which the guilty

is gulled into devising a sentence

for someone innocent...

Hello.

Only to find it is their own doom

they have pronounced...

King's Cross, please.

Because my mother

is much closer to being put in a home...

- Got your purse?

- Yes.

.-.Than Miss Shepherd.

I do miss your dad.

Give me a kiss.

I asked our Gordon, when he was a pilot,

did he go behind the clouds?

- Did he?

- I can't remember.

He's a love, though. I know that.

- Bye, Mam.

- Bye.

Good afternoon.

Does Jesus Christ dwell in this house?

No. Try the van.

Thanks.

Clear Off!

Mr Bennett?

These men who come late at night,

I know what they are.

Oh, Jesus.

They're communists.

Else why would they come at night?

We constantly come back to the same point.

Argentina was the invader. The Argentine...

I like the new vehicle.

Not a mark on it.

Not a bloody scratch!

What's your name now, Margaret?

My name's Mary! Go away!

Mary, is it now? Mary what?

Mary what?

- I'll call the police!

- Call the police?

I don't think you will,

you two-faced pisshole.

'Cause calling the police

is just what you didn't do.

Apropos of which,

I think another contribution is due.

Can I help you? What's all this din?

No din, sir.

Margaret and I were just taking a stroll

down memory lane.

No. Don't "Margaret" me.

That name is buried to sin.

You came before.

Of course, this isn't the van, is it?

She had another one.

Kind of you.

A homeless woman.

A thankless soul.

And not over-salubrious.

Good-bye, Margaret.

I thought you said your name was Mary.

- It is.

- So, why does he call you Margaret?

He's taken too much to drink

on an empty stomach, possibly.

It is your name? Mary Shepherd.

Subject to the Roman Catholic Church

in her rights and to amendment.

It's obviously not her name.

But although years have passed

since she drove her van into the garden,

I'm still too polite to ask who she is,

let alone what this fellow wants

who materializes at regular intervals

and comes braying on the side of the van.

Music has something to do with it.

But is it just the noise, or music itself?

I can hear the music.

I can hear it!

Why must you play that?

I can hear it!

How can you dislike music?

You used to play the piano.

How do you know that?

You told me.

I didn't say I didn't like it.

I don't want to hear it, that's all!

Should she speak now?

Should she explain?

Well, she never lets on. Never explains.

Well, maybe she should.

Well, I...

I was once left alone in a room

in the convent.

They didn't leave novices alone normally.

And there was a piano there.

I tried it, and it was open.

It needed tuning.

Some of the notes were dead.

But it sounded more beautiful to me

than any of the pianos I'd ever played.

And then

suddenly, the mistress

of the novices came in.

Crept in, possibly, 'cause I

didn't hear her. She said...

It's God's will.

That was what God wanted.

And that I'd been told before.

And don't argue.

I said,

couldn't I just play some hymns

for us to sing to?

And she said that was arguing.

And I'd never make a nun if I argued.

So, with painful symmetry,

my mother ends up in a home

in Weston-super-Mare

while her derelict counterpart

resides in my garden.

Putting my mother in a home,

I see as some sort of failure.

And giving the other a home,

that's a failure, too.

Oh, Jesus.

She's got herself a three-wheeler.

Where will you park it?

In the residents' parking.

- You haven't got a permit.

- Yeah, I have. Yes, I got one yesterday.

Well, you never told me.

Well, you'd only have raised objections

if I had.

Have you insured it?

I don't need insuring.

It's like the van, I'm insured in heaven.

So, who pays if you have an accident,

the Pope?

I shan't have an accident.

Well, what if you run into something?

I shan't run into anything.

I'm an experienced driver.

I drove ambulances in the blackout.

Well, what if someone runs into you?

Miss Shepherd,

what if someone runs into you?

You have no business saying that.

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