Original subtitles

What's that?

Only some book.

Let me do it. Never waste a drink.

Thing I learned from my old nanny.

Three things you should always carry in your pocket, she told me.

A penknife, a shilling, and a piece of string. What for?

Well, emergencies, of course.

In Cyprus, my sergeant major got his leg blown off, leading to death.

With my bit of string, I put a tourniquet on him. His mother said it

life.

When pyramids decay.

They pretty decayed when I last saw them. That was, good Lord, 30 years ago.

I was a young Saddleton on leave from Aidan.

They're all the same.

What on earth do you want six copies of the same book for?

When pyramids decay by E .K. Hamilton.

But that... Me?

Yes.

Have you written a book?

You are a dark author. Why didn't you tell me?

I didn't think you'd be interested.

Why do you use your maiden name?

Oh, the publisher thought Eve Peregrine was a bit of a mouthful for people when

they're asking for it.

You mean it's for sale? People get to buy it?

Just a few, perhaps.

Good Lord.

Did you pay to get it published?

They paid me.

I say, how much?

£500.

Well, it's a bit thin.

Not much work in it, I suppose.

Ah, poetry.

I don't expect you to read it.

Well, not much in my line, poetry.

It doesn't look like poetry.

Not in verse.

It's all chopped up.

It doesn't seem to rhyme, either.

Would you like me to read it?

You don't have to.

My dear poetry, something with a good beat to it.

like marching behind a band.

The boy stood on the burning deck whence all but he had fled.

And when the flames there burnt his feet, he stood upon his head.

It was a good morning's work.

It was bullets for a good buy.

Hope they do well.

Not going from corn to horn, are you?

My small contribution to the beef mountain.

These subsidies can't last. They're crazy.

Oh, we to complain.

How's your wife?

Oh, not too good at the moment.

Up and down, up and down. More down than up just now.

I'm sorry.

Funny thing as women tell them.

Indeed they are, sir.

Talking of subsidies, did I tell you what I'm going to do with my hundred

this year?

Oh, no, tell me.

You're not going to give up barley.

Sorry to take so long. I read your book last night.

You don't have to.

Look, I wouldn't have asked, only you offered.

I let you off the hook, George.

Don't bother.

You didn't really read it, did you?

Well, first few pages. I got a bit wet looking at some heifers, thought I had a

cold coming on.

So I took a couple of aspirin and a whiskey and, um, just dropped off, to be

honest.

I'll take it off to town with me tomorrow.

Will you be gone long?

Well, three or four days this time. I've got a meeting of the Landowners

Association. I'm kicking up a stink at the minister about common market

bureaucracy.

Will you be staying at the club?

Yes, unless somebody offers to put me up.

Porter will know where I am.

Porter's a gentleman's establishment.

Notorious for never telling ladies where their gentlemen are.

Yours is rightfully well -trained.

Anybody bought your book yet?

It's only been in the shops a week.

In the shops?

That's where you buy books.

You mean it might be in the windows?

Why shouldn't they? Is that important?

It does as well.

The things that you see in windows nowadays.

I'm rather proud of these. They're a new hybrid.

Very nice. Smell.

Yes, very nice.

How splendidly old -fashioned.

I should be wearing a transparent negligee, have champagne in a bucket by

bed. But we have got to go, my darling, because I've managed to book a couple of

seats for that musical about the French Revolution, which you'll absolutely

hate, so you need to stoke yourself up on gin first.

There's something for you on the table.

It goes with that barbarian part of you you're always trying to hide.

A bit more cheery than that Robbie Dole thing you wear.

But it's the old school tie.

It's not a folky tie, George.

It's time you were redecorated.

Now, bag, please.

Oh, George, isn't it your wife, is it, who's written this book for such a

bell? What do you mean?

The pyramids collapse or something.

I went to an audition and three people were reading it. I went to my agent's,

was reading it.

Who's it by?

A woman called Hamilton.

You'd think my agent were making commission the way he went on about her.

He said her real name was Peregrine. I said, oh, I know somebody called

Peregrine. He said her husband was a colonel in the army.

And sooner you didn't talk about me to your friends.

Oh, of course not. I said it can't be the same one.

Right, um, ready, laugh.

Gas off.

He said they say this colonel's a regular old stuffed shirt.

Oh, you know better than that.

And if my wife had written the book, I'd have finished to know about it,

wouldn't I?

Nice to see you.

That's not your usual sort of rag.

Country life, farm is weak, no more your line.

Something caught my eye.

Don't be modest, old chap. You were swatting up on a bit of culture.

What's it like being the husband of a celebrity?

I don't know what you're talking about. Come off it. Everybody knows E .K.

Hamilton's your wife.

It's not often that even I get to know about a book of poetry.

And there's a photograph offer in the shop round the corner, looking smashing.

By the way, I'm lunching with Basil Dashwood.

He's not really my sort of person, but he's helping my son get into publishing.

He'd love to meet you.

Who's Basil Dashwood?

Don't you have a telly in your neck of the woods?

Dashwood. The critic.

He runs that, um, that arts program.

He wrote a rave review of Evie's book in one of the Sundays.

Didn't she show it to you?

Basil. Um... This is George Peregrine.

Do you remember last week I told you... Oh, not her husband.

How are you?

Is she in town by any chance? I'd very much like to meet her.

My wife doesn't like London. She prefers the country.

Simply not sideways by her book. I'd like to have her on my programme.

I can't go to a movie nowadays without full frontal nudity, open a paper

sexual details that used to be unmentionable, go to a play without

four -letter words, and hear someone actually daring to write about love

She evades nothing, obscures nothing, and still manages to make what I can

call, have to call, magic.

Magic somehow undiminished by the plain earthy facts of what really goes on

between a man and a woman in bed.

Very good of you to say such nice things about my wife's little book. I'm sure

she'll be delighted.

But I have a train to catch and I want to get a bite of lunch.

Excuse me.

Do you have... Do you have a copy of The Pyramids Decay? When Pyramids Decay,

sir?

I'm sorry, we've completely filled out.

I've just seen it in the window.

That's our display copy, sir. It's reprinting. We should have a large order

couple of weeks. People are buying it, then.

It might be novel, the way it's selling.

I thought nobody read poetry nowadays.

Well, actually, it's the story they like.

It has a story.

My wife couldn't put it down.

Tragic. And very sexy, he said.

Obviously autobiographical.

Um... Is there another bookshop nearby?

I doubt if you'll find a copy in London, sir.

I really had no idea.

Here we have been nodding at each other for ages and ages.

I think they didn't know who you were.

And I didn't know I was someone different until last week, but it seems

The penalties of pain, eh?

Now, I picked up the last copy in Harrods, and I have been totally

I just finished when I was waiting for Cleo at the pony club.

Here you are, darling. You must ruin your teeth.

Oh, dear.

I am sure even the author wouldn't think it quite required reading at your age.

Here are your dreadful horsey magazines. They're much more suitable.

It's less of last.

Do you like the book?

Would you autograph it, please?

Oh, um...

What shall I do?

To Cleo, with the author's compliment.

Cleo's with an I. Yes.

That's the Greek news of poetry and history.

What did you like best?

Poetry.

I've put with love, too.

My dear, collecting science editions already.

She get it from her father. He collect things.

I collect people.

I was wondering, Mrs. Peregrino.

Should I call you Miss Hamilton?

Oh, I haven't thought.

I suppose I'd better be Mrs. in the country and Miss in town.

It feels rather disreputable.

No, just Evie will do fine.

Hi, Marina.

Oh, hello.

Have you seen a book I left here before I went to town? Some sort of porridge

-coloured cover.

No, sir.

Well, there was more than one copy. Six copies, to be precise. They can't all

have vanished.

Perhaps in Mrs.

Peregrine's room, sir.

No, I've looked there. I've looked everywhere.

What size was the book, sir?

What sort of, um... Mrs.

Peregrine did give me some parcels to post, sir.

Who were they addressed to?

Just people who come to their house, sir. Local people?

I think so, sir.

Oh, God.

Anyway, they asked us to dinner next week. I made an excuse.

Why?

They've never asked us before.

It's the best shooting in the county.

The only people who get it are Greeks and Arabs.

Oh, I didn't think of that. I thought it would bore you.

Did they ask us or just you?

In point of fact, they didn't ask you. Well, I call it damn rude of them. I

suppose they thought it wouldn't be your sort of evening.

Irina likes writers and people like that. She's invited Basil Dashwood, the

critic. some sort of coven, and he wants to meet me for some reason.

It was nice of you to refuse, Evie.

I don't suppose I'd have much in common with the sort of people who'd be there.

George, I've got an awful chore to do.

They've sold my book to America.

America?

Well, I suppose they speak the same language.

They've sold it to Holland and Scandinavia too, but never mind.

Anyway, the American publisher's coming over next week and my publisher's giving

a party for him.

I'd love you to come.

Moral support?

Well, it's not the crashing ball, but if you really want me to, I'll put in an

appearance. It would be sweet of you.

Black tie, I suppose.

Evie?

Eve?

Fraud's in the furnace.

I was enjoying myself.

Stop the car.

I want to get out.

I'm sorry, Evie. I'm going to spend the night at the club.

Taxi!

I hit somebody.

Why?

Oh, patronising clot.

There's something absolutely foul about my wife.

Oh, how chivalrous.

Do you want to stay the night? Because I won't be back until the crack of dawn.

I've got a bit in a commercial.

Night location on Tower Bridge.

Oh, no, I've just passed.

Or get me a gin, for God's sake, a large one.

Are you sure?

You sound to me as though you've had a few already.

Where did you get this?

Oh, that's that book I was telling you about. Have you read it?

I couldn't get it anywhere.

It's sold out.

Oh, I'm not surprised. It's marvellous.

True and funny and sad.

At the beginning, she meets this man.

No, no, I won't spoil it. You must read it properly.

And not just the sexy parts.

There in the middle, that's what everybody talks about. I don't like it

It's all breasts and chest and flanks and thighs and his flat belly, his

beautiful legs.

But then, well, he must have died because the last part's called a

And it's all over. And he's alone and just remembering.

And he cries.

Is that the cops referred to here?

Yes. It's always easier when you see it on the ground.

Well, Evie's looking well.

You hardly need gardeners with all her energy.

Well, I don't see any problems with this.

Good thing to get it all down in writing.

Perverting these old footpaths can be a problem. I'll bring it up with the

council.

You mustn't let Evie overdo it, you know.

I slipped that disc, pushing a barrow.

Have you read her book?

Yes.

Yes, I have.

Fancy Evie breaking out into poetry.

Wonders will never cease.

She's made me look an absolute idiot.

Rubbish, George.

There's no harm in her writing a book. You ought to be proud of her.

Well, think of the lolly.

You'll have to start thinking of getting her a Swiss bank account.

It's her own story. You know that, and so does everyone else.

George, you're getting paranoid.

If she'd written a romantic novel about pirates, highwaymen, you wouldn't think

she'd had an affair with one.

This is not a romantic novel.

It's words.

Things I never thought that she... I suppose I'm the only one who doesn't

know who her lover was.

George, you're talking to me as an old friend or as your solicitor.

There's no reason to think the whole thing wasn't made up.

Pure imagination.

Do you believe that?

Who was the man?

I don't know.

And I wouldn't tell you if I did.

I want you to get a private detective and find out.

I suppose you did have an affair. As I read it, the fellow's dead.

It was all years ago. Far too late to get any evidence.

I don't want evidence. I want the man's name.

Get me a detective, Harry.

I won't. And if you want to do that, you'd better consult someone else.

Have you always been faithful to her?

More or less.

After all, we've been married for 24 years.

She's been a damn good wife.

I thought she was fond of me.

She couldn't have written that book unless she hated me.

I don't think Evie's capable of hatred.

You're not going to pretend that she loves me?

No.

What does she feel for me, indifference?

It's not uncommon in lasting marriages.

I'm late.

I must know who you are.

Why don't you ask her yourself?

I'm afraid to find out.

Perhaps you have to.

One thing I'll never understand until my dying day.

What in the name of heaven did that fellow ever see in her?

Why didn't Harry say goodbye?

I had been cutting school.

Evie. You know what I regret?

When I married you, I should have grubbed out all those old ramblers and

thornless roses.

Rose without a thorn.

Isn't that what Henry VIII called one of his wives?

Didn't stop him having her head chopped off, though.

You passed me the rake.

I've read your book now.

Right through. Yes.

Look, it's all right, old thing. You don't have to say anything.

I've had about 15 stunning reviews and now the bad ones are beginning to come

in.

I just want to forget it.

You think I can?

Someone at that frightful party, she was a novelist. She said, people read the

most extraordinary things into what you've written.

If you put them in a book, they never recognize themselves.

And if you put a bit of yourself in, they think the whole character's based

you.

I don't think I'm cut out for the literary life.

Do you know what I was thinking?

Next winter, I'm going to pull out all those dreary evergreens and plant a

border of white peonies.

What do you think?

Who was it?

Oh, that?

No one now.

There was.

But you didn't.

For me, yes.

For a long, long time.

What was his name?

You sure you want to know?

Yes.

Even if it hurts?

Yes.

It was you, George.

You were what you were.

In the beginning.