Original subtitles

I can't say the service was up to scratch.

It smacked of the conveyor belt.

In fact, I wrote to the crematorium.

I said, "I thought the hallmark of a ceremony

"of that nature was reverence,

"whereas the word that kept coming into my mind was brisk."

"Moreover," I added, "grief-stricken people do not expect to emerge

"from the Chapel of Rest to find grown men

"skulking in the rhododendrons with tab ends in their mouths."

If the hearse drivers must smoke, then facilities should be provided.

I'd heard good reports of this crematorium,

but I hoped that they would agree with me that, on this occasion,

it had let itself down.

Of course, if I'd happened to be heartbroken,

I'd have felt much worse.

I didn't let on to the crematorium

cos I thought it might get them off the hook,

but I actually didn't know her all that well.

I used to see her getting on the 37 and we'd pass the time of day.

She lost her mother round about the time I lost mine.

She had a niece in Australia, and I have the one cousin in Canada.

And then she went in for gas-fired central heating

just a few weeks before I did,

so one way or another, we'd covered a lot of the same ground.

I'd spent years thinking she was called Hammersley,

which was way off the mark cos her name turns out to be Pringle.

There was a picture of her in the Evening Post -

for which she'd been a big voluntary worker -

with details of the funeral on the Wednesday afternoon,

which is the one time I'm dangling my feet a bit,

so I thought I'd get out my little maroon coat

and put in an appearance.

At least it's an outing.

And I was glad I'd gone, but, as I say,

the ceremony was a bit lacklustre

and topped off by these young fellas smoking,

so I thought the least I could do was write.

Anyway, I got a charming letter back from the director of operations,

a Mr Widdop.

He said he was most grateful

that I'd drawn this matter to his attention,

and, while he was aware the practice sometimes went on,

if he personally caught anybody smoking,

he would jump on the culprits with both feet.

He knew I would appreciate

that discipline within the chapel precincts

presented special problems,

as it wasn't always convenient to tear a strip off somebody

when there were grief-stricken people knocking about.

What he personally preferred to do was to keep a low profile

and then come down on the offenders like a tonne of bricks

once the coast was clear.

And with regard to my remarks about facilities,

they had no plans to provide a smoking area in the Chapel of Rest

in the foreseeable future,

as I must understand that space was at a premium,

and top of their list of priorities at the present moment

was the provision of a temporary temple

for the use of racial minorities.

However, he would bear my remarks in mind,

and, if I were to come across any similar infringements

in the future, I was not to hesitate to get in touch.

I wrote him a little letter back,

thanking him for his prompt and courteous reply,

and saying that though I hoped not to make any further visits

to the crematorium in the near future - joke -

I took his point.

I also dropped a line to the relatives,

care of the undertakers,

saying I was an acquaintance of Miss Pringle's,

had been present at the ceremony

and had taken the liberty of entering into correspondence

with the crematorium over the unfortunate lapse.

I enclosed a copy of Mr Widdop's reply,

but they...they didn't write back,

which I can understand,

because the one thing death always entails

is a mass of correspondence.

When Mother died, I had 53 letters.

Besides, they may not have even seen them smoking.

They were probably blinded with grief.

I see we've got a new couple moved in opposite.

Don't look very promising.

The kiddy looks filthy.

A card from the opticians this morning

saying that their records indicate

that it's two years since they supplied me with spectacles,

and that by now they would almost certainly be in need of verification

and suggesting I call at my earliest convenience.

I thought that was nice,

so I took my trusty Platignum and dashed off an answer forthwith.

I said I thought it was very considerate of them

to have kept me in mind,

and while I was quite satisfied with my spectacles at the present moment,

I was grateful to them for drawing this matter to my attention,

and in the event of my noticing any deterioration,

I would in due course get in touch with them.

It's stood me in good stead, has this pen.

Mother bought it me the last time

she was able to get over to Harrogate.

It's been a real friend.

Angie, her name is.

I heard him shout of her as I went by en route for the Post Office.

He was laid out underneath his car wanting a spanner,

and she came out, transistor in one hand, kiddy in the other.

Thin little thing, bruise on its arm.

And I thought, "Well, you've got a car, you've got a transistor,

"it's about time you invested in some curtains."

She can't be more than 20,

and by the look of her, she's expecting another.

I passed the place where there was the broken step

I wrote to the council was a danger to the public.

Little ramp there now. Access for the disabled.

Whenever I pass, I think, "Well, that's thanks to you, Irene."

It's my monument, that ramp.

Only some dog had gone and done its business right in the middle of it.

I'm sure there's more of that than there used to be.

I had a little awayday to London last year.

It was dog dirt everywhere.

I spotted some on the pavement right outside Buckingham Palace.

I wrote to the Queen about it.

Had a charming letter back from a lady-in-waiting

saying Her Majesty appreciated my interest

and that my letter had been passed on to the appropriate authority.

The upshot eventually is I get a long letter

from the Chief Cleansing Officer to Westminster City Council,

apologising profusely

and enclosing a rundown of their highways and maintenance budget.

That's been my experience, generally.

People are only too grateful to have these things pointed out.

The keynote is participation.

Of course, I wrote back to thank him,

and then blow me if I didn't get another letter thanking me for mine.

So I wrote back saying I hadn't been expecting another letter.

There was no need to have written again,

and was this an appropriate use of public resources?

They didn't even bother to reply.

SHE SIGHS

Typical.

I'm just waiting for the paper coming.

Not that there's much in it.

The correspondence I initiated

on the length of the Archbishop of Canterbury's hair

seems to have gone off the boil.

Until I wrote up to Live Letters, nobody'd actually spotted it.

Various people took up the cudgels

until there was an impassioned letter

from the Rural Dean of Halifax, who has a beard,

and that put the tin hat on it.

Getting dark.

The couple opposite just having their tea.

No cloth on.

Think they must have put the kiddy to bed.

When I put the milk bottle out, I heard it crying.

SHE SCOFFS

Prison.

Ugh, they have it easy.

Television, table tennis, art.

It's just a holiday camp.

Do you wonder there's crime?

And people say, "Well, what can you do?"

Well, you can get on to your MP for a start. I do, regularly.

I got a reply to one letter this morning.

I'd written, drawing his attention to a hitherto unnoticed factor

in the rise in crime,

namely the number of policemen these days who wear glasses.

What chance would they have against a determined assailant?

He noted my comments

and promised to make them known in the proper quarter.

He's Labour,

but it's always very good notepaper and beautifully typed.

When I'd dusted round and done my jobs,

I had a walk on to the end

and bought a little packet of pork sausage and some Basildon Bond.

Big black hair in the sausage.

So I wrote off to the makers enclosing the hair.

I stuck it under a bit of Sellotape. Little arrow - "This is the hair."

I emphasised I didn't want a substitute packet

as it was plainly manufactured under unhygienic conditions,

so would they send me a refund of the purchase price

plus the cost of postage?

Cos I don't want inundating with sausage.

I keep wondering about the kiddy opposite.

I haven't seen it for a week or two.

And they're out all the time.

Every single night they go off, and the kiddy doesn't go.

And nobody comes in to sit.

It can't be more than five.

Where do they get the money to go out? That's what I'd like to know.

Because he's not working!

Spends all day tinkering with that car.

There wants to be a bit less of the car and a bit more of the kiddy.

It never plays out and they want fresh air, do kiddies.

It's a well-known fact.

Don't hear it crying now. Nothing.

And I've never seen a cloth on.

Teapot stuck there.

Milk bottle.

It'll surprise me if they're married.

He has a tattoo anyway.

SHE SIGHS

My mother knew everybody in this street.

She could reel off the occupants of every single house.

Everybody could, once upon a time.

Now they come and they go.

That's why these tragedies happen.

Nobody watching.

If they knew they were being watched, they might behave.

I'd talk to next door's about it,

only there hasn't been any contact

since the business over the dustbins.

I thought I'd go and have a word with the doctor,

drop a hint there somehow.

There used to be just one doctor.

Now they've all amalgamated, so it's a bit of a lucky dip.

Young fella.

I said, "I was getting upset, like I did before."

"Before what?" he said.

I said, "It's in my notes."

So he read them and then he said,

"You've been getting a bit upset, like you did before.

"I'll give you something to take."

So I told him about the kiddy,

and he said, "Well, these tablets will help you

"to take a more balanced view."

So I gave them three or four days,

and they didn't seem to me to make much difference,

so I went along again.

Different doctor this time. Same rigmarole.

I said I didn't want any more tablets.

I just wanted the name of the firm

manufacturing the ones I'd already had, because I think

they ought to be told if their product isn't doing the trick.

And the doctor said it would be easier...

..if he gave me some new tablets,

and anyway I couldn't write - the firm was Swiss.

I said, "What difference does that make?!

"Everybody speaks English now!"

He said, "We don't want to get into that, do we?"

and writes me another prescription.

I shan't bother with it.

In fact,

I put it down the toilet.

I don't know who you write to about doctors.

After I'd had my tea,

I sat in the front room

in the dark

watching the house.

He's messing about with the car,

one of those little vests on they have now without sleeves.

Radio going hammer and tongs.

No kiddy still.

I don't even know their name.

Thinking about it afterwards, I realised

it must have been the doctor that alerted the vicar.

Came round anyway.

Not the old vicar. I'd have known him.

This was a young fellow in a collar and tie. Could have been anybody.

I didn't take the chain off.

I said, "How do I know you're the vicar?

"Have you any identification?"

He shoves a little cross round the door.

I said, "What's this?" He said, "A cross."

I said, "A cross doesn't mean anything.

"Youths wear crosses these days. Hooligans.

"They wear crosses in their ears."

He said, "Not like this.

"This is a real cross.

"A working cross.

"It's the tool of my trade."

I was still a bit dubious,

then I saw he had cycle clips on, so I let him in.

He chats for a bit, this and that,

no mention of God for long enough.

They keep him up their sleeve for as long as they can, vicars.

They know it puts people off.

Went through a long rigmarole about love.

How love comes in different forms.

Loving friends, loving the countryside, loving music.

"People would be surprised to learn..." he said.

I thought, "Here we go."

"People would be surprised to learn that they loved God all the time

"and just didn't know it." I cut him short.

I said, "If you've come round here to talk about God,

"you're barking up the wrong tree. I'm an atheist."

He was a bit stumped, I could see.

They don't expect you to be an atheist when you're a miss.

Vicars -

they think if you're a single person, they're on a good wicket.

He said, "Well, Miss Ruddock, I shall call again.

"I shall look on you as a challenge."

And he hadn't been gone long when there's another knock,

only this time it's a policeman with a woman policeman in tow.

Ask if they can come in and have a word.

I said, "What for?"

He said, "You know what for." I said, "I don't."

But I let them in.

Takes his helmet off - only young -

and says he'll get straight to the point.

Was it me who'd been writing these letters?

I said, "What letters? I don't write letters."

He said, "Letters."

I said, "Everyone writes letters. I bet you write letters."

He said, "Not like you, love." I said, "Don't 'love' me.

"You'd better give me your name and number.

"I intend to write to your superintendent."

Turns out it's to do with the couple opposite.

I said, "Well, why are you asking me?"

He said, "We're asking you because who was it who wrote

"to the chemist, saying his wife was a prostitute?

"We're asking you because who was it

"who gave the lollipop man a nervous breakdown?"

I said, "Well, he was interfering with those children."

He said, "The court bound you over to keep the peace.

"This is a serious matter."

I said, "It is a serious matter.

"I can't keep the peace when there's cruelty

"and neglect going on under my nose.

"I shouldn't keep the peace when there's a child suffering.

"It's not my duty to keep the peace then, is it?"

So then madam takes over, the understanding approach.

She said, "Didn't I appreciate this was a caring young couple?"

I said, "If they were a caring young couple,

"why did you never see the kiddy?

"If they were a caring young couple,

"why did they go gadding off every night,

"leaving the kiddy alone in the house?"

She said, "Because the kiddy wasn't alone in the house.

"The kiddy wasn't in the house -

"the kiddy was in hospital in Bradford.

"That's where they were going every night,

"and that's where the kiddy died, last Friday.

I said, "What of - neglect?" She said, "No, leukaemia."

He said, "You'd better get your hat and coat on."

I've got two social workers come.

One white, one black.

Maureen, I'm supposed to call the white one.

Shocking finger nails.

Ginger hair, and last week a hole in her tights as big as a 50p piece.

She looks more in need of social work than I do.

Puts it all down to men.

"Oh, we all know about men, don't we, Irene?"

I never said she could call me Irene.

I don't want to be called Irene.

I want to be called Miss Ruddock.

I'm not Irene. I haven't been Irene since Mother died.

But they all call me Irene - her, the police, everybody.

They think they're being nice, only it's just a nice way of being nasty.

The other one's Asian. Mrs Rabindi.

Sits, talks.

She's right enough.

Something daubed on her door last week.

She says it's what you get to expect if you're Asian.

I said, "Well, there's all sorts gets chucked over my wall."

We sit and talk, only she's a bit of a boring woman.

I tell her I loved my mother, and she says how she loved her mother.

I say I'm frightened to walk the streets,

and she tells me how she's been attacked herself.

So it doesn't get you any further.

It's all, "Me too."

ANGRILY: Social work.

More like chiming in.

I'm on what's called a suspended sentence.

It means you have to toe the line.

If I write any more letters, I get sent to prison.

The magistrate said I was more to be pitied than anything else.

I said, "Excuse me, could I interject?"

He said, "No, your best plan would be to keep mum."

Big fella.

Navy blue suit.

Poppy in his buttonhole.

Yeah, looked a bit of a drinker.

Maureen says I should listen to local radio.

Join these phone-in things.

Chat to the disc jockey and choose a record.

She says they're very effective in alleviating loneliness

and the sense of being isolated in the community.

I said, "Yes, and they're even more effective

"in bumping up the phone bill."

Maureen's trying to get me on reading.

SHE SCOFFS

I suppose to get me off writing.

Says books would widen my horizon.

Fetches me novels, but they don't ring true.

I mean, when somebody in a novel says something like,

"Oh, I've never been in an air crash,"

you know this means that five minutes later they will be.

Say, "Trains never crash," and one does.

In stories, saying it brings it on.

So if you get the heroine saying,

"Oh, I don't suppose I shall ever be happy,"

you can bank on it there's happiness just around the corner.

That's the rule in novels.

Whereas in life, you can say you're never going to be happy

and you never are happy,

and saying it doesn't make a ha'porth of difference.

That's the real rule.

Sometimes I catch myself thinking,

"Oh, it'll be better the second time round."

But this is it.

This has been my go.

SHE BREATHES HEAVILY

New policeman now.

Walks the streets the way they used to.

Part of the new policy.

Community policing.

He smiles.

Passes the time of day.

Keeping an eye on things.

Certainly keeps an eye on number 56.

In there an hour at a stretch.

I timed it the other day.

And when eventually he comes out,

she's at the door in just a little shorty housecoat thing.

He's in there now.

He wants reporting.

WOMEN LAUGH

I ought to be writing up my diary.

Mrs Proctor's got us all on keeping diaries

as part of literary appreciation.

The other girls can't think what to put in theirs.

Me? I can't think what to leave out.

Trouble is I never have time to write it up.

I'm three days behind as it is.

I am that busy.

Cos in a morning, it's occupation,

and I've opted for bookbinding and dressmaking.

In dressmaking, Mrs Dunlop's chucked me in at the deep end,

and I'm running up a little cocktail dress.

I said, "I never have cocktails."

She said, "Well, now you've got the dress, you can."

That's what it's geared to, this place - new horizons.

It's in shantung with a little shawl collar.

Lucille's making me a chunky necklace for it in Handicrafts.

I share a room with Bridget, who's from Glasgow.

She's been a prostitute on and off and did away with her kiddy,

accidentally, when she was drunk and upset.

Bonny little face, you'd never think it.

Her mother was blind, but made beautiful pastry

and brought up a family of nine in three rooms.

You don't know you're born, I think.

I'm friends with practically everyone, though, besides Bridget.

I'm up and down that corridor,

and more often than not, I am still on my rounds when the bell goes.

They laugh at me, I know, but it's all in good part.

Lucille says, "You're funny, you, Irene.

"You don't mind being in prison." I said, "Prison?"

I said, "Lucille, this is the first taste of freedom I've had in years."

Of course, I'm lucky.

The others miss the sex.

Men, men, men.

They talk about nothing else.

Mind you, that's not quite the closed book it used to be.

Bridget's taken me through the procedure step by step

and whereas previous to this,

if I'd ever found myself in bed with a man I should have been

like a fish out of water.

Now, as Bridget says, at least I know the rudiments.

Of course, I can't ever see it coming to that at my age,

but, still, it's nice to have another string to your bow.

They have got me smoking now and again as well.

I mean, I shan't ever be a full-time smoker cos I'm not that type,

and I don't want to be, but, still,

it means if I'm ever in a social situation

when I'm called on to smoke, like when they're toasting the Queen,

I shan't be put off my stroke.

But, you see, that's the whole philosophy of this place -

acquiring skills.

I sailed through the secretarial course.

Miss Macaulay says I am their first Grade I.

I can type like the wind.

And Miss Macaulay says we mustn't let the grass grow under our feet,

and if she goes down on her knees in Admin,

they might - repeat, might - let me have a go on their word processor.

And then the plan is Stage One - I go on day release for a bit.

Followed by Stage Two - a spell in a resettlement hostel,

where I'll be reintegrated into the community.

And finally, Stage Three - a little job in an office somewhere.

I said to Miss Macaulay, "Will it matter my having been in prison?"

She said, "Irene, with your qualifications,

"it wouldn't matter if you'd been in the SS."

SHE CHUCKLES

Oh, God...

But the... The stuff some of them come out with!

Oh, you have to smile.

I mean, they have words for things

I didn't even know there were words for,

and, in fact, I swear myself on occasion now,

though, only when the need arises.

Like the other evening - I'm sat with Shirley during Association,

and Shirley's very obese, I think it's glandular,

and we're trying to put together a letter to her boyfriend.

Well, she says it's her boyfriend, only I had to start

the letter three times because first go off, she says his name was

Kenneth, and then she said it was Mark,

and then finally she settled on Stephen.

She stammers, does Shirley.

I think she just wanted a name she could say.

I don't believe she has a boyfriend at all,

just wants to be in the swim.

She shouldn't actually be in here, in fact,

because she's not all there.

There's nowhere else to put her, apparently -

she sets fire to places.

Anyway, we're sitting in her room concocting this letter

to the pretend boyfriend when Black Geraldine waltzes in,

drapes herself across the bed and starts chipping in,

saying, oh, was this boyfriend blond and did he have curly hair?

And then nasty personal-type questions

she should know better than to ask Shirley.

And Shirley's getting confused and stammering and Geraldine's laughing,

so finally I threw caution to the winds

and I told Geraldine to fuck up.

She screams with laughing, goes running down the corridor saying,

"Oh, do you know what Irene said? Do you know what Irene said?"

And when she'd gone, Shirley said, "You shouldn't have said that."

I said, "I know, but sometimes it's necessary."

She said, "No, Irene. I don't mean you shouldn't have said it,

"only you got it wrong. It's not fuck up."

I said, "What, is it?"

She said, "It's fuck off."

She's good-hearted.

LAUGHTER

CLOCK TICKS

WHISPERING: Sometimes Bridget will wake up in the middle of the night

shouting, dreaming about the kiddy she killed...

..and I go over and I sit by the bed

and hold her hand till she goes off again.

There's my little clock ticking...

..and I can hear the wind in the poplar trees by the playing field.

Oh, maybe it's raining.

And I'm sitting there...

..and I'm so happy.

CLOCK CONTINUES TICKING