To Walk Invisible: The Bronte Sisters Page #5

Paddy? Come on, lad. What's up?

I sent for thee.

Look at state he's in...

No, you've done right.

Come on, lad.

BRANWELL WEEPS:

Come on, you're all right.

Nothing I do, John.

You're just tired. Nothing I do.

Let's get you home. Come on.

Why are we going up here?

It's where you live.

I don't want to go home,

I don't want to go home.

Well, where d'you want to go, then?

Keighley.

I think meself

you'd be better off at home.

No, no! I need to go to

Thorp Green, John.

I need to go to Thorp Green.

Fair enough, but not just now,

not today, not in this state.

Yes, in this state.

This is the right state.

Well, you can. I can't, obviously,

it's two o'clock in the afternoon,

I've to get to work.

Ah, Mr Nicholls.

He's... He's had a bad do,

he's had a bit of bad news.

Down you go.

Nearly there.

Careful. Nearly there.

BRANWELL SOBS:

Calm down. Get off me!

Please, keep your voice down.

Shut up, I hate you!

Tell me to calm down

in my own house!

I want to kill you!

Get your hands off me! Calm down.

Don't tell me to calm down.

I don't want you

to tell me anything.

My house!

Nothing wrong with me.

Look at them, all looking at me!

They're always looking at me!

With your stupid, empty faces!

Please, stop looking at me!

Just stop.

And him!

What do you want, eh?

You've had everything!

You've had everything

you're getting.

You just stand there

staring at me all the time!

I hate you!

BRANWELL WEEPS:

AND MUMBLES INCOHERENTLY

Come on upstairs, have a lie down.

Have a few knock-out drops, eh?

Eh? Come on.

Ohh...I feel sick.

Come on.

Up we go. You heard him. Lift me up.

I can do it!

Sorry. Sorry.

"Dear Ellen.

"We have been somewhat

more harassed than usual lately.

"The death of Mr Robinson has served

Branwell for a pretext

"to throw all about him

into hubbub and confusion.

"He's become intolerable.

"To Papa he allows rest

neither day nor night and

"he's continually screwing money

out of him, sometimes threatening

"that he'll kill himself

if it's withheld from him."

BELL RINGS:

BRANWELL AND FATHER ARGUE IN ROOM

Morning, Miss Bronte. Thank you.

BRANWELL:
Are you stupid

as well as blind?

There's nothing out there!

Not for someone

who's fit for nothing, like me!

"He says Mrs Robinson is now insane,

that her mind is a complete wreck,

"owing to remorse for her conduct

towards Mr Robinson,

"whose end it appears was hastened

by distress of mind,

"and grief for having lost him.

"I do not know how much to believe

of what he says.

"He now declares that he neither can

nor will do anything for himself.

"Good situations have been offered

more than once,

"for which by a fortnight's work

he might have qualified himself,

"but he will do nothing except

drink and make us all wretched."

BRANWELL:
Just tell me where it is!

BRANWELL AND FATHER CONTINUE ARGUING

I beg you to recognise it -

you are ill!

Two reviews. One from The Critic

one from The Athenaeum.

Both anonymous,

but both really, really quite good.

Especially about you.

"Refreshing, vigorous poetry,

no sickly affectations,

"no namby-pamby, no tedious

imitations of familiar strains."

Are they still fighting?

Are you going to be all right?

When I go to Manchester with Papa?

It's only three weeks. I'm more

concerned about when he comes back.

He'll need rest and quiet.

Not...

Oh, did you get what you wanted?

Yeah, you!

Are you proud of yourself, eh?

Wangling money out of a blind man?

A man practically in his 70s.

F*** off. Eh! Come back here and say

that. Yeah, go on. Have a go.

See what happens. I haven't time.

No? Just the blind and the elderly

then, is it?

Otherwise I would.

Course you would!

It's nothing.

Did he just hit you?

Don't make a fuss.

I'm still aiming to finish my story

by the end of this week.

There's a handful of passages

I'd like to look at again,

but then, depending on where

you and Anne are with yours...

Oh, The Professor's finished.

As much as it ever will be.

Perhaps we could aim to get them off

to a publisher

before you set off for Manchester.

Emily.

Good luck.

And you.

Keep him wrapped up, see.

All the bags on?

Everything's under control, Papa.

Has she heard? Yes! I've heard.

Emily, Emily.

You know where the gun is?

Yes.

We're all in. Thank you.

I'll send you the address

as soon as we know what it is.

DRIVER:
Walk on!

Branwell doesn't know

where the gun is. Does he?

Not any more.

Is he still abed?

Daft question.

You give him no money.

Whatever sob stories

he comes up with.

All right?

He won't hit you.

And if he hits me,

I'll hit him back. Harder.

"Dear Ellen. Papa and I came here

on Wednesday.

"We saw Mr Wilson, the oculist,

the same day.

"He pronounced Papa's eyes

quite ready for an operation

"and has fixed next Monday

for the performance of it."

HE SIGHS WITH PAIN

"Think of us on that day, dear Nell.

"Mr Wilson says we will have to

stay here a month at least.

"It will be dreary.

"I wonder how poor Emily and Anne

will get on at home with Branwell."

KNOCK ON DOOR, BELL RINGS

Thank you.

"...not able at present

to consider publication."

Do you think

they actually read them?

Do they look like they've been read?

Who's next on the list?

Chapman and Hall,

186 Strand, London.

RAINFALL, THUNDER RUMBLES

RAIN PATTERS:

"There was no possibility...

"..of taking a walk that day."

Do you think it's wrong to write

about something very close to home?

Like what?

A woman...

..forced to abandon her home.

A good, well-off home,

to protect her child and herself,

because of a change in her husband's

character when he sinks into...

You know, addictive behaviour.

And then forced to make her own way

in the world.

No. I don't think it's wrong.

I'd never have invented Hindley

if I hadn't been set

such a fine example at home.

Have you seen Branwell today?

No.

Have you heard him?

"I see a corpse

upon the waters lie,

"With eyes turned,

swelled and sightless, to the sky

"And arms outstretched,

to move as wave on wave

"Upbears it

in its boundless billowy grave.

"Not time, but Ocean thins

its flowing hair;

"Decay, not sorrow,

lays its forehead bare;

"Its members move,

but not in thankless toil,

"For seas are milder

than this world's turmoil.

"Corruption robs its lip

and cheeks of red,

"But wounded vanity grieves

not the dead;

"And, though those members

hasten to decay,

"No pang of suffering takes

their strength away;

"With untormented eye,

and heart, and brain,

"Through calm and storm

it floats across the main.

"Though love and joy

have perished long ago,

"Its bosom suffers

not one pang of woe;

"Though weeds and worms

its cherished beauty hide,

"It feels not wounded vanity

or pride."

WIND BLOWS:

Where's ye going, lad?

Haworth.

HORSE WHINNIES:

Whoa. Whoa!

Go on!

Oh, hello.

Branwell!

Branwell's here! He's collapsed!

He's outside!

Branwell?

Branwell.

Branwell?

One of you go and fetch

Dr Wheelhouse.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes