To Walk Invisible: The Bronte Sisters Page #6

Get a cloak on!

Let's get him inside.

Branwell, eh?

Come on, son, sit up.

Let's get him in the house. Come on.

DOOR OPENS:

You know where I am. Yes, yes.

Thank you for coming, Doctor.

DOOR CLOSES:

There is hope.

He's home, he's back with us.

And, with nourishment

and abstinence,

and prayer, and peace and quiet,

we may yet hope for better things.

His body has suffered the ravages

of gross neglect. And...

abuse.

Self inflicted.

And I cannot, in all conscience,

do other than blame that woman.

That...sinful, hateful woman.

Who, with her more mature years

and social advantages,

surely should have shown

better responsibility.

He has come very low.

But, you know, sometimes

a man must sink to the bottom

before he can turn his life around.

And perhaps that's what's happened,

what's happening.

Here. Where's he been?

How's he been living?

Does he want to abstain?

Oh, he has to. He has to abstain.

Halifax, I assume.

I don't know. That's where

John always imagined he was.

Or where John knew

damned well he was.

Have you talked to him?

About abstention?

He's asleep.

It'll only work if he's determined

to do it himself.

Anne. Ssh!

I...

Anne.

I should have done more.

At Thorp Green.

I should have stopped him,

I should've told someone,

I should've...

I'm...complicit in their sin.

No, you're not.

You were in an impossible position.

I let it happen.

All I did was leave, in the end...

I was a coward.

A moral coward, before God.

WOMAN LAUGHS:

CHORUS OF LAUGHTER

LAUGHTER BECOMES MORE RIOTOUS

Are you all right, lad?

Lydia.

Wake up! Wake up! There's a fire.

HE SHIVERS:

I think I've put it out.

Branwell! Branwell! Branwell!

Look at me.

Branwell!

Delirium tremens.

It's when someone

who's been drinking solidly

for weeks suddenly stops.

Either through choice

or, more usually, lack of funds.

The body doesn't know how

to respond, so it goes into spasm.

Will it happen again?

With care...no.

But you do need

to keep an eye on him.

He's lucky.

You could've been sending

for the undertaker this morning,

Mr Bronte, not me.

I think

rather than come back in here,

he should stay

in my bedroom with me.

For the time being.

I wrote a rhyme for you.

Did you?

Well, I wrote it, and I was thinking

about you, after I'd written it.

So...

It goes...

D'you want to hear it?

Yes.

It starts, it's...

The first line is...

It goes...

"No coward soul is mine

"No trembler in the world's

storm-troubled sphere

"I see Heaven's glories shine

"And Faith shines equal

arming me from Fear..."

Take your time.

"Oh, God, within my breast...

"Oh, God, within my breast

"Almighty ever-present Deity

"Life

That in me hast rest,

"As I Undying Life,

have power in Thee

"Vain are the thousand creeds

That move men's hearts

"Unutterably vain,

"Worthless as withered weeds

"Or idlest froth

amid the boundless main

"To waken doubt in one...

"To waken doubt in one

Holding so fast by thy infinity,

"So surely anchored on

The steadfast rock of Immortality

"With wide-embracing love

"Thy spirit animates eternal years

"Pervades and broods above

"Changes, sustains, dissolves,

creates and rears

"Though earth and moon were gone

"And suns and universes ceased to be

"And Thou wert left alone

"Every existence would exist in thee

"There is not room for Death

"Nor atom that his might

could render void

"Since thou art Being and Breath

"And what thou art

may never be destroyed."

There's nothing

to be frightened of.

Not for someone like you.

I love you.

Good.

I love you.

Who? Currer. Bell.

There's no-one of that name here.

No, I know that, Mr Bronte,

only it's addressed to here, so...

That's a mystery.

There's no-one of that name

in the entire parish,

as far as I'm aware.

No, well, that's why I thought

happen a visitor.

No, no. No visitors.

Not at the moment.

Fair enough, I'll take it back

to sorting office then.

Ah, morning, Miss Bronte.

Did I hear the name?

Currer Bell? Yes.

Good. That's not me. Obviously.

But if I could take it,

I can make sure it reaches him.

Him.

You see, he... Papa, he forgets.

He's... Mr Bell, he's not here.

He was here. But now...he isn't.

So, I can forward it to him.

I have his address.

It's a funny name.

Currer. I thought happen it were

summat to do wi' Mr Nicholls.

Arthur Bell Nicholls. No.

No, no, no, that's... It's just...

That's just coincidental.

Can I take it?

Good! Well, that saves me filling in

a docket back at sorting office.

I'm much obliged. And so will he be.

How's your...brother? Is he...?

Oh, he...

He's...you know.

Till tomorrow, then! Miss Bronte.

Bye! Bye. Bye.

Where's Emily?

Kitchen. D'you want her?

Letter from a publisher.

Emily!

Thomas Cautley Newby

is offering to publish

Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey.

His terms are steep,

but he's offering to publish them,

which is more than anyone else

has done, so...

What about The Professor?

No.

No, he's not offering

to publish that. Why?

So you need to think about how you

want to approach this. No, that's...

We should publish them

all together or not at all. Surely.

That's sentimental, it's kind,

but it's nonsense.

This is a solid offer,

not a generous one, as I say,

but I'll persevere in sending out

The Professor

and with the other one

that I've been writing.

But in the meantime, you've got

a choice to make. Read it.

He's asking for you to provide

an advance of 50

towards the cost of publication.

But clearly he believes it's viable

or he wouldn't make the offer.

This is addressed to Currer Bell.

Yes. That was interesting.

You didn't...

Of course not! I had to...

..fib.

50.

Perhaps that's normal. Perhaps

whoever undertook to publish it

would ask for an advance

of that sort.

We're a risk, we're unknown, despite

the poems. Because of the poems.

Two copies sold.

You will...persist?

Oh, yes.

BANGING ON DOOR:

Yes?

I'd like to speak to Mr Bronte.

The Reverend Bronte?

Mr Patrick Bronte.

What shall I say it's to do with?

Is he in?

Who wants to know?

I'm a bailiff of the county

appointed by Mr Rawson,

the magistrate at Halifax.

I'm here about an unpaid debt.

Is Mr Bronte in?

I'll...

You'll just have to

give me a minute.

SHE KNOCKS ON DOOR

Yes?

The's a man at the door, Mr Bronte.

He says he's here about

an unpaid debt.

He says he's been sent

by a magistrate at Halifax.

Now, then, gentlemen. How may I help

you? Mr Patrick Bronte? Yes.

I'm appointed by the Magistrate

at Halifax to collect a debt of

14, 10s 6d,

owing to Mr Crowther of the

Commercial in Northgate, Halifax,

and now outstanding

for a total of eight months.

What's going on?

Branwell, what's going on?

Branwell...

Shift. Shift...

Whoa, whoa, whoa!

Not so fast, little fella.

Steady now!

You don't want me to hurt you.

And you don't want to hurt me,

cos, if you do,

there'll be bother. Get off me!

I think it must be

my son that you want.

Your son? Right, well,

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