To Walk Invisible: The Bronte Sisters Page #4

Like he was goading John Walker

to come and fetch it. If he dared.

And did he dare? I doubt it.

But the worst thing Jack Sharp did,

one of old Mr Walker's sisters

had a son,

grown up by then, called Sam Stead.

And Jack Sharp apprenticed him

in the trade,

like he himself had been apprenticed

by old Mr Walker.

And he cleverly,

calculatedly, bit by bit,

indulged and degraded Sam Stead

with gambling and drink,

and the lad was too feckless

to know any better.

Why would you do that?

He did it to cause as much misery

and humiliation

to the Walkers as he could.

That's... I know. All that anger.

It's so...rich.

Anyway, if we're writing novels.

I imagine we'll need more paper.

BELLS PEAL:

Of course we're not going to

use our real names!

But must they be men's names?

When a man writes something, it's

what he's written that's judged.

When a woman writes something,

it's her that's judged.

We must select the poems

we want to use and then...

yes, if we're to be taken seriously

and judged fairly

and make anything resembling

a profit...

..we must walk invisible.

What about names that are

neither men's nor women's?

"Dear Ellen. I reached home

a little after 2 o'clock

"all safe and right yesterday.

"Emily and Anne were gone

to Keighley to meet me.

"Unfortunately,

I had returned by the old road

"while they were gone by the new,

and we missed each other."

KNOCK ON DOOR:

I'm back home.

Ah, Charlotte...

Miss Bronte!

Mr Nicholls.

"I went into the room where

Branwell was, to speak to him.

"It was very forced work

to address him.

"I might have spared myself

the trouble as he took no notice..."

Branwell?

"..and made no reply."

Branwell.

"He was stupefied."

What's this?

Branwell? What's this?

That's for you.

I opened it by mistake.

It said "Esquire."

Give me that.

Proof pages!

How much are you paying them for

the privilege of being published?

I assume you're paying them.

I assume you've all

clubbed together.

I assume they're not paying you.

You've been sick.

I didn't confirm or deny,

I made no reply.

I don't care about him knowing

we're paying them,

it's a means to an end

as far as I'm concerned.

I care about him talking to people.

About us. Where's he got the money

from anyway? To get into that state?

He screwed a sovereign out of Papa,

yesterday. He claimed to have

some pressing matter, and Papa said

no. And the next thing you know

he's given it to him. God knows how

or why and he's trotting off

down the hill to get it changed

at the Black Bull.

Perhaps, when he's sober,

he'll not even remember he's seen

our proof sheets. I'll write to

Aylott and Jones and ask them

to address our correspondence

differently in future.

Was he angry, Branwell?

What can we do?

We can't include him, the way

he is now! He's unmanageable!

We'd never get anything

agreed or done!

Anyway, why would Northangerland

want to publish with his sisters?

He certainly couldn't afford

to contribute to the costs.

We're doing the right thing, Anne.

It's hard, it's tough,

but I'm sorry, he'd drag us down

with him if we let him.

Right, come on, you big oaf.

That way. Shift.

TRAIN WHISTLE BLOWS

HAMMERING:

Hello, Joe.

Well, I never.

Eh?

How y'doing, lad? I've resolved

this morning to keep myself busy.

Good.

Good!

Me too.

I thought I'd go and see

John Frobisher.

I thought I might write

something to set to music.

And he'd be the man.

He is still here, isn't he?

At the church?

So far as I know, yeah.

Have y'not thought any more

about going abroad?

Not... No...

I haven't seen any vacancies,

at least nothing, you know...

Not with the way things are

at the moment.

How are things at home?

It's like living with people

who don't speak

the same language as I do.

Honestly, Joe.

I could be with some tribe

from some far flung corner

of the globe

for all I have in common with them.

They despise me,

and I...

I only live there because

I'm such a f***ing pauper.

They need to get married,

those three.

Only, who'd have 'em?

Who'd have any of us?

What a ridiculous set we've become.

And we used to be

quite a nice little family.

She...she does love me, you know,

Joe, Lydia.

Yeah. Well...

You know, I don't know.

I wasn't there, I can't say.

I know everyone thinks I'm...

God knows, but if you saw her,

if only for a moment,

you'd get it, you'd see.

What would I see?

That she's the kind of woman

that can change a man's life.

His whole...everything.

You've got to look forward,

though, eh? Not back.

We've talked about this.

Am I boring you, Leyland?

No, lad. No. You're not boring me.

I worry that you're kidding yerself.

Eh?

A woman her age, in her position.

My only hope is that he'll be dead

soon and I'll be asked back.

Hello.

Hello.

Look.

I know.

Ahh, it's beautiful!

The same moon that's shone down

since we were children.

Since our ancestors were children.

We're so tiny, really.

Aren't we? So...

..so unimportant.

All of us.

That's right.

DOGS BARK IN THE DISTANCE

Bloody dogs.

HE HOWLS:

SHE JOINS HIM:

A CACOPHONY OF HOWLING

HE LAUGHS:

THEY CONTINUE HOWLING

There's a fella in Black Bull

lookin' for thee. Who?

He says he's from Thorp Green.

Who?

I'll get my coat.

Shift!

Is there a fella looking for me?

Aye, he's through there.

Mr Bronte.

Someone's dead. Mr Robinson.

He passed away three weeks

this last Tuesday.

Did you not know?

No. How could I?

Well, it's been in t'papers.

We don't get the York papers.

You're advised...

..to stay away.

Does she not...want me

to go to her?

She didn't say that.

No, it isn't her.

It's Mr Evans.

One of the trustees

of Mr Robinson's will.

Apparently...he's said

if he sees you, he'll shoot you.

Did he send you?

No. No.

She did.

She was concerned you might turn up.

And that Mr Evans might feel

obliged to do as he's threatened.

But, as well as that,

you should know

by the terms of the will...

..that if she marries again,

she'll forfeit any right

to her husband's fortune.

What?

Every penny.

And the house.

She...

She asked me not to tell you

how wretched she is.

You'd not recognise her, Mr Bronte.

She's worn herself out these past

few months in attendance upon him.

And then, the last few days

before his death,

his manner was so mild, so, er...

..conciliatory.

It's a pity to see her,

kneeling at her prayers.

In tears.

I suppose we can only guess at

what torments of conscience

she might be going through...

..now.

But...she sent you.

Hm.

To beg you to think of

your own safety, Mr Bronte.

And her sanity.

Which...

below stairs,

we fear hangs by a thread.

I don't give a damn

about my own safety.

No.

But the thing is...

..it's never going to happen,

Mr Bronte.

Do you understand?

You're advised to stay away.

Mr Brown! Mr Brown!

Mr Brown! What do you want,

you little bugger?

You've to come! Mr Thomas at

Black Bull says you've to come!

Now what? God knows.

There were a fella here.

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