PENSAMIENTOS DEL REGRESO
Now that I’ve returned home, unpacked, dealt with catastrophes that occurred in our absence - chief amongst them being a poisoned cat, the unweaned kittens she left behind and a cracked hose on my washing machine, I’ve been endeavouring, amidst last-minute school shopping, visits from long-lost schoolfriends of Daughter Number 1 and missed footie practices for One and Only Son, to re-acclimatise myself to the UK, after an absence of less than a fortnight.
Youngest daughter has now declared, with the wisdom of her seven years, that she’ll never go abroad again, because everytime she does, a pet cat is killed in some way.
Whilst away, the very English husband made a pilgrimage each day to the little news kiosk on the corner of the street where our Spanish family live to buy the British newspapers, so we were able to follow the AWFUL events as they unfolded in Soham. I don’t know which was infinitely more distressing - the actual deaths of the innocents involved or the primal reactions of the crowd to one of the alleged killers as she was taken away in a police van.
As a parent, I can’t help feeling paranoid everytime ANY of my three
children are out of my sight now, but as a
being, the media coverage of
this event sickens me too - inasmuch as people are innocent until proven guilty
and there will ultimately be no way either of those people can hope to have
a fair trial with all the medial hoopla surrounding this case.
People descry the fact that this couple might not come to trial because of this, but I would remind people of a trial of another child killer, who is, today, part of the legal profession properly, thanks to the manoeuvres of the good old British press and its long arm which extends worldwide.
I’m thinking of Louise Woodward, who shook Matthew Eappen to death back in 1997 or so. When she was on trial and sentenced to 20 years, the press engaged upon a frenzied attack on the US court system (based on that very British Blackstone, I might add). It extended to the fog-horned voiced Mrs Jean Jones being given weekly Concord flights (courtesy of THE SUN) to lead a chorus of protest outside the courtroom daily. This led to the judge in the case being intimidated to such a degree that he gave the most lenient of sentences possible, which led to a mass appeal for donations to Louise’s appeal fund, which was appropriated by Mr and Mrs Woodward to fix up the family home, get Ma Woodward’s teeth fix, buy a designer original Chelsea tractor for the family to gad about in as well as designer gear and a pad for Pa Woodward’s mistress. It lead to £9k being swindled out of the lame-brained Brit-American attorney who harboured la Woodward for months on end in Massachusette (until attorney got drunk and confessed to a local traffic cop that, yes, she did know Woodward killed the kid), and it led to Woodward being flown home First Class on British Airways to take a place at South Bank University where she recently qualified as - you got it - a solicitor.
What a slap in the face for the memory of Matthew Eappen, and no one even blinks. NOW ... For Matthew Eappen, substitute the names of Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman. For Louise Woodward, substitute Ian Huntley and Maxine Carr, and what would such a story entail ... Practically mass bloody revolution and a vote of no confidence in the legal system and the ‘unbiased’ British media.
Reading a backlog of soap literature my sister-in-law kindly saved for me, I see that, although Eastenders is going to table a storyline where the Beale children and Charlotte Banks go missing, Brookside will soldier on with Imelda and Co. The first taped episode I watched was that of the 16th August. Imagine my surprise when I heard Christy Murray echo the phrase: ‘Ah, yes! The caretaker killer!’ AND THIS WAS BROADCAST ON THE EVE OF HUNTLEY’S ARREST!
I also read in Inside Soap, that the Imelda storyline is set to run until at least February. Well, there won’t be a murder in that case - habeas corpus. There simply won’t be a body.
Before I begin in earnest on the taped episodes, let me say that I’m glad I didn’t miss anything in the fortnight I was away. The taped episodes gave me proof of that!
It’s another morning at Hotel Corkhill, and the Sage stares solemnly at a black-and-white faded photo of a small girl and a young woman. It’s Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen, before middle-aged spread and flatulence overtook her, along with her real mother Sylvia Morgan.
Marty Muddie, next door, is seen ending a telephone conversation that clearly must have been traumatic. He stares moodily into the distance as he continues to hold the receiver long after the call has ended.
Across the Close, at Bicker-Bicker House, Pa Gordon fiddles with his nicotine patch, as Rabbity Ruth, snorking back a breakfast of green bogies, wiggles her bunny nose, gnashes her enormous gap-grinned choppers and hops into the lounge.
As the Sage wafts fragrantly around the Hotel Corkhill kitchen, Tim jumps into the lounge, wearing a black, sleeveless teeshirt and what appears to be black lycra cycling shorts, thus enhancing his image as a gay icon. Tim grabs a bowl of cereal and mutters to Jimmy that Emily’s in a bad mood because Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen was taking an inordinately long amount of time in the bathroom - apparently cleaning. (Although, I must say, Emily is probably loathe to enter the bathroom after Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen’s flatulence). Also, Tim continues, Helen’s mentioning soomthink about changing the sheets on the beds twice a week now that Nikki is away.
(Er, sorry ... Are we to assume that Nikki’s hygiene leaves a lot to be desired? And what the hell is Helen doing worrying about cleaning Jimmy’s house when she’s got a home of her own AND A TWELVE YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER TO WORRY ABOUT? Memo to self: Raise this point on the Official Forum and then take a long wait because they won’t be able to answer).
Speaking of sheets, Tim jokes, turning around on the Corkhill sofa, he reckons Jimmy got a lot of action between his last night, what with Happy Smiling Helen being on a buzz after her long-lost mother showed up.
The Sage grimaces and works his enormously phallic chin up and down before finding the appropriate words. Last night, he admits, was a total downer. Besides that, he was worried that Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen might now feel that she doesn’t need Jimmy anymore. Last night, he says, she joost clammed oop. Didn’t want ter talk about Sylvia or anythink.
Tim is puzzled. He thought things with Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen would be great once the elusive Sylvia Morgan showed up.
Jimmy raises his eyebrows and tells Tim that he should have SEEN Sylvia Morgan.
Tim nods knowingly. Some things, he says, are best left alone.
At that moment, the phone rings and Jimmy answers it. It’s Nikki, who can’t be parted from the Sage for an instant. He settles down to have a talk with his favourite disciple.
Next door at the Muddies, Dire is preparing to leave for work, and she’s helping an unwell Brigid to settle herself on the sofa. Brigid looks positively horrible - drawn and exhausted (although if this were a young Brookside actress supposed to be ill, she’d look as though she were up for a fashion shoot). Dire settles her mother gently on the sofa and asks if Brigid’s sure she’ll be all right there for the day.
Brigid assures her, and Dire marches into the sitcom kitchen, where Marty’s standing, wuddying about the phone call. HONESTLY, Dire brays, SHE’S THE WORST PATIENT WHEN SHE’S ILL, ME MOOM.
Marty doesn’t reply to that comment. Instead, he quietly informs Dire that the police have just rung again, and they want him to come down to the station again for questioning. Only not today, he adds, with a hint of sarcasm. One of the detectives involved is on holiday. Next week will do. They want to keep him sweating.
JOOST BECAUSE MARTY CAN’T REMEMBER WHERE HE WAS ON THE DAY IMELDA CLOUGH WENT MISSING! Scoffs Dire. MARTY HAS NOOTHINK TER SWEAT FER.
Brigid staggers unsteadily to the door of the sitcom kitchen and announces to Dire that she thinks she WILL go back to bed after all. She turns and staggers unsteadily to the stairs.
Ignoring Marty’s concern for his plight, Dire witters about how it’s not like Brigid to admit when she’s ill. And as for Marty’s police interview, it’s only routine, isn’t it?
Marty is certain that the police are trying to pin the girl’s disappearance on him. He’s certain of it.
BOOT YER’VE NOOTHINK TER HIDE! Maintains Dire.
As it’s Thursday, 14 August, it’s A-Level results day. The post brings Bitch Gordon’s A Levels to Bicker-Bicker House. Ma Gordon stands staring at the envelope with aching curiosity. Oooh, she whines to Pa. Should she open the envelope?
Pa, picking at his nicotine patch as though it were a scab unwilling to fall off, snaps at Ma to leave the envelope alone until she was told to open it.
Ma snaps back at Pa about picking at the patch. Pa has to dash off to work, because he has a meeting with the union.
Rabbity Ruth hops through the lounge, wiping green snot from her face on the sleeve of her white top. It’s not like Pa to tell the family where he was going to, she remarks, cattily, or whom he was meeting.
Pa ticks the cheeky slut off about her attitude. She’d better straighten that up a bit, because she’s going to have a fight on her hands with Sean over access to Luke. After all, she was the one who caused the marriage to end, with her adultery.
Rabbity Ruth is much put out by her father’s truthful remarks and snorks back some excess snot noisily. How could her father be so disloyal to his own daughter? She sniffs, hurtfully. He KNOWS she doesn’s want the hapless Sean to have anything to do with Luke, and yet, Pa Gordon goes around being all buddy-buddy with the hapless Sean? Hmph! She snorts, spewing green bogies about the already mingey sofa, she was going back to her old home to collect the rest of hers and Luke the bunny’s things.
As she hops past Pa Gordon, Pa informs her that the hapless Sean is STILL Luke’s father.
Rabbity Ruth turns and glares at Pa, allowing the green snot to run down from her rabbity, little, poor white nose. ‘Dan was right,’ she hisses. ‘Sean can’t be troosted.’
CAN THIS WOMAN’T CONTRACT BE TERMINATED NOW, PLEASE?
Bev’s dropped by Number 7, and Mike opens the door and lets her in. Inside, Ray’s standing staring out the front window, whilst Rachel concerns herself with stuffing her face at the breakfast table. Bev’s stopped by to finalise arrangements for Mike looking after Josh that day. Is Mike SURE, she asks, solicitously, that he doesn’t mind taking Josh by the hospital to visit Ron?
He doesn’t, Mike assures her, although he’s not sure Ron will be up to much with visitors. He’s bound to still be groggy from the anaestethic.
Oooh, speaks Rachel, shovelling salted porridge into her moon-mouthed face, oooh, ma-in thing is Ron bet-teh.
Well, Bev jokes, with Josh visiting him, Ron’ll be back on the critical list by teatime.
Rachel suddenly has a thought. Oooh, she says to Mike, doan M-eye-ke’ave den-tist ‘pointment terday?
Ray suddenly turns from his vigil at the window. Is Mike seeing that mate of Gary’s then? He asks.
Mike nods. He couldn’t very well turn back a freebie, not when Gary Parr saved his father’s life.
‘He’s a good lad, that Gary,’ Ray affirms.
Mike tells Bev that after the hospital, he’ll have to take Josh with him on the laundry rounds.
Bev nods wearily. As long as Josh is kept busy, she sighs. She asks Mike how he’s managing with Ron’s illness?
Oooh, speaks Rachel, shoving yet more porridge into her gob, ‘he’s roon off feet.’
Mike snorts briefly and remarks that Ron will most likely have another heart attack when he finds out Mike’s running his business.
‘Cheer oop,’ Bev says. ‘Yer’ll have Ron Dixon wishin’ he was six feet oonder. ‘I reckon Ron’ll be proud of yer.’
Mike is doubtful, however.
Well, Bev has some good news for him. A certain delivery company has already been onto her about a reference for Mike.
OOOH, squeals Rachel, porridge dribbling down her fat chin, ooh, that were deliv’ry comp’neh M-eye-ke had in-teh-view with. Oooh, M-eye-ke in wi’chance there. Doan ask fer ref’rence wi’out job in m-eye-nd.
Suddenly, Ray spots Pa Gordon leaving the house. He dashes outside as we see Pa Gordon pull away. Pa’s parked arrogantly, blocking the Dixon driveway. As he pulls away, Ray reaches behind the hedge in the front garden and produces several parking cones, which he plants across the driveway, prohibiting parking.
Jimmy’s finishing his conversation with Nikki on the phone. He tells her not to worry. He’s all right. He’s about to tell her that when she phones next time, to reverse the charges (where does Jimmy get the money to fund his lifestyle? Memo to self: ask this on Official Forum and expect deafening silence), when her connection breaks.
Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen bounces into the room, wearing jeans which look as though she were melted and poured into them and a read denim top which is about to burst all its buttons as it reveals her lagery mid-riff. How does she look? She asks Jimmy. Apparently, she thinks she looks swell and not like mutton dresses up as lamb, because she’s had an idea that she and Jimmy should take Sylvia Morgan out to dinner. She wants her birth mother to know that SHE could make an effort, even if Sylvia can’t. It looks as though Sylvia could only afford her five minutes of her time, she remarks bitterly, before farting.
Jimmy, catching the scent, asks if Helen’s nervous, but Helen assures him that she isn’t.
Because, Jimmy continues, manipulatively, he doesn’t want ANYTHING to come between the two of them.
Helen maintains that she wants to talk things over with Sylvia, things about her birth and why Sylvia gave her up for adoption. (I WOULD HAVE THOUGHT THAT WAS REASONABLY SIMPLE. SYLVIA WAS AN UNMARRIED WOMAN, PREGNANT IN THE EARLY SIXTIES, BY A MARRIED MAN. IT WAS SIMPLY UNTHINKABLE FOR ANY SELF-RESPECTING SINGLE WOMAN TO KEEP A CHILD CONCEIVED OUT OF WEDLOCK IN THOSE DAYS. THERE WOULD BASICALLY HAVE BEEN NO FUTURE AT ALL FOR EITHER OF THEM. SO SHE DID THE BEST THING AND GAVE THE CHILD UP FOR ADOPTION. END OF STORY. NO OTHER. This is Brookside trying to give a modern-day slant to something that happened forty years ago. Won’t work).
But why? Jimmy wants to know. Hadn’t Helen heard all this from Ray Hilton.
Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen, swallows a belch and looks determined. She wants to hear Sylvia’s version of events, WITHOUT Ray around, she says. And she’ll deal with this issue on her own, thank you very much, she tells Jimmy, severely.
As Dire Muddie continues with her endless preparations to leave for work, she nags Marty to be sure and look in on Brigid before he leaves.
Marty doesn’t pay any attention to her nagging. Instead, he wonders aloud if he should consult a solicitor.
No, says Dire. What’s the matter with Marty? He hasn’t thought about this thing in weeks. Why is he suddenly wuddied now?
At that moment, Brigid staggers into the lounge, bidding everyone a cheery ‘Morning’.
Dire looks at her mother with surprise. She thought Brigid said she wanted to go back to bed.
For an instant Brigid looks agitated, then tells Dire that she’s only come downstairs to do the ‘thing’.
‘What thing?’ Asks Dire.
‘The thing, the thing!’ Insists Brigid, getting more agitated. ‘I only came down to put the tea thing on.’
‘The kettle?’ Queries Dire.
Brigid nods furiously, pushing past Dire.
Marty wonders that, if he shouldn’t call a solicitor, perhaps he should call Christy.
But why? Dire wants to know.
Marty says that Christy knows how the bizzies operate. Marty has no idea what they’re like, how they try to mix things up. How they might try to bring up other things -
Like Plank’s broken arm? Asks Dire, suddenly.
Back at Bicker-Bicker House, Ma Gordon stands in the kitchen, staring moodily at Bitch’s A-Level letter. She eyes the kettle in the foreground, suspiciously.
Meanwhile, Rabbity Ruth has hopped over to her former home and puts her key in the lock of the door. She tries to turn it, but the door won’t open. Looking up, she sees the hapless Sean, suddenly not so hapless, grinning at her from the other side of the glass.
She snorks back some snot and shouts at the hapless Sean. Oh, he hasn’t changed the locks has he!
The hapless Sean smiles mischieviously and nods his head, before disappearing within the house.
Rabbity Ruth shouts through the glass that she needs ter get her stoof.
‘And I need ter see me son!’ Retorts the hapless Sean. (I’m beginning to like the hapless Sean more and more, except that he sounds exactly like Clint Moffatt).
As Jimmy’s left on his own in the kitchen of Hotel Corkhill, Tim bounces into the room again. Tim’s doing a lot of bouncing lately, but he doesn’t have the blubber to pull it off the way Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen does.
So, he quips, when’s Cilla due to arrive?
Cilla? Questions the Sage, screwing up his piggy, little face.
‘Surprise, surprise,’ Tim jokes.
Jimmy sighs. It’s not like on the telly, he says. In fact, he confides to Tim, he’s beginning to think Helen blames him for all that’s going wrong with this search for her mother thing.
Tim’s not at all sympathetic. Jimmy got too involved with this thing. He shouldn’t have. Tim could have told him that the whole thing would turn out exactly the way it did.
But why? Demands Jimmy.
Tim shrugs, nonchalantly. He simply couldn’t see it ending any other way, he says simply.
Jimmy screws his face up accusingly and juts his massive chin out threateningly. (Christ, you could shelter from the wet under that chin - not that I’d want to). If Tim had the chance to see his dad again - he begins.
If Tim found out after all these years that his dad were still alive, he says, that he hadn’t really died, he’d kill the man himself. (I don’t get this. I thought Tim had a really good relationship with his father before the man died).
Jimmy muses that Helen has a lot to resolve. She has lots of questions to answer.
Tim puts on his analyst’s cap and comes away sounding more like he has a grip of psychology than Dr Nikki could ever hope to have. Helen’s just angry at Sylvia Morgan for giving her up for adoption when she was born, he says, scathingly. She just has lots of resentment to throw in Sylvia’s face and she’s hoping that she’ll get to hear Sylvia say she’s sorry. But she won’t, he continues, because Sylvia’s already justified her actions in giving her child up for adoption long ago. Instead, Sylvia wants to hear Helen say that Helen forgives her. But she won’t hear that either.
‘It’s about knowin’ where yer coom froom and who yer arrrre,’ purrs the Sage.
That’s bollocks! Says Tim. Tim’s dad had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the way Tim turned out. (Very true - it’s one’s environment).
‘Yer DNA would say otherwise,’ philosophises the Sage.
His dad wasn’t there to help him and back him up, argues Tim. He wasn’t there to give Tim advice, or to watch him play footie or teach him to drive. All that, he did on his won, he says. And if he came into contact with his dead dad again, all these years later, there would be no point in asking him any of those so-called profound questions years too late, because the two of them would be like strangers.
(And Tim is a character I’m beginning to like more and more).
The Sage, never able to think of anything or anyone other than himself, wonders if one day Wills will think that way of him.
That’s different, Tim scoffs. Jimmy sees Wills regularly.
But he’s not there for the boy for the little things, reasons Jimmy.
Tim tells Jimmy that he’s a great dad.
But what if, later, Wills doesn’t want to know Jimmy? What if he hates him? Why, Jimmy would hate himself too, if he had to spend years listening to Jackie slag him off. (So the de-habilitation of one of the most noble characters ever seen on Brookside - Jackie Corkhill).
Jimmy muses aloud that he thought he had it all sussed until Sylvia Morgan showed up yesterday.
Rabbity Ruth is shouting through the letter box at Sean, dripping snot all over the carpet. She backs away into the front garden, shouting at the windows that this is all so petty. Suddenly, the hapless Sean appears at the upstairs window. Rabbity Ruth bends down again and shouts into the letterbox that she needs her clothes. This won’t help Sean see Luke, she threatens. In fact, she wasn’t about to let the boy see him. Sean was just mental, that’s what he was.
As she’s ranting this through the letterbox, the hapless Sean begins to throw items of her clothing out of the window onto the lawn one by one. Rabbity Ruth suddenly notices this and hops about picking up bits of clothing. ‘You’ll ruin them!’ She cries to Sean.
‘Go away!’ The hapless Sean shouts, in reply. ‘I’m not welcome at yer padents, and you’re not welcome here. Go away! And don’t coom back oonless it’s with me son!’
Dire Muddie STILL hasn’t left for work yet. Instead, she’s still badgering that other victim male, Marty, to disclose soomthink from his murky past. In fact, Dire states, she feels that Marty’s keeping soomthink from her. If it’s joost about Plank breaking his arm, well, Marty should joost tell the bizzies -
It’s not that! Marty agonises.
Well, Dire was going ter find out, she announces. In fact, she’s going ter call Christy right now. He’ll know. He knows everything. And she grabs the phone and dials Christy’s number. He answers and she begins battering right away. She wants to ask Christy soomthink about soomthink she didn’t know about until weeks ago - soomthink about when Marty was maddied ter Jan -
Suddenly, Marty grabs the receiver from her hands. He interrupts and tries to make a joke of it with Christy, saying Dire was just fooling around for a laugh. He puts the phone down.
By now, Dire is desperate with curiosity. If Marty’s wuddied about soomthink from his past bothering the police, then she, as his wife, needs ter know-
‘ALL RIGHT!’ Shouts Marty, in resignation. ‘I’VE GOT A POLICE RECORD ... BUT NOT FROM THE TIME STEVE BROKE HIS ARM ... FROM THE TIME I HIT JAN!’
(OK, if he’s got a police record and it’s one of domestic violence, how did he get jobs as caretaker in two schools? Surely, there would have been a police check? Memo to self: Bring this up on Official Forum, and prepare to be spun out of existence).
Dire, needless to say, is gob-smacked.
Tim is parked outside what appears to be Emily’s college. From behind a man in a tipper lorry toots him furiously. Tim, annoyed, moves up the street a bit, and the tipper passes him, tooting for his attention.
Ray is preparing to go out and is moving the purloined traffic cones in order to get his car out of the drive. As he’s doing this, the same silver Mercedes from the day before pulls onto the Close and parks outside. (NOW PAY ATTENTION: YOU’RE ABOUT TO WITNESS A GREAT BROOKSIDE INCONSISTENCY - AND IT’S GLARING!!!!!) Sylvia Morgan is at the wheel and gets out on the driver’s side.
Ray recognises her from afar and, mouth agape in horror, ducks swiftly behind the hedge.
The Sage opens the door and Sylvia enters Hotel Corkhill.
Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen farts a greeting. Actually, she says rudely to the woman, she’s surprised Sylvia bothered to turn up at all. Helen wasn’t sure she would see Sylvia again.
Sylvia looks faintly displeased and remarks politely that she thought she would have met Helen at Helen’s house that day.
Sorry, snaps Helen. Not possible.
Oh, Sylvia remarks genteely. She gathers there’s a child in question. (Well, actually, there is, Sylvia, but Helen conveniently forgets her daughter when she wants to pant like a bitch in heat after Jimmy).
The Sage officially informs Sylvia that she has a granddaughter, Helen’s daughter Stephanie, who was originally eighteen, but is now twelve and looks sixteen.
And before Sylvia asks, snaps Helen again, her daughter knows very well who her grandparents are - full stop.
Taken aback by Helen’s white trashy, ignorant rudeness, Sylvia replies that she didn’t for one moment doubt that the child did know who her grandparents are.
Jimmy invites the woman to sit down and for a few moments there is some meaningly small-talk. Jimmy asks Sylvia how she likes her hotel. Sylvia says she’s pleased with the view of the River, and remarks how much Liverpool has changed since she last lived here.
Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen pointedly tells Sylvia that they wanted to take her out to dinner and maybe have a tour of the city afterward.
That’s right, echoes Jimmy, smugly. Did Sylvia know that Liverpool has more museums than any city in Britain except London (and less knowledge and intellectual ability?) That’s why Liverpool’s bidding to become the European City of Culture, he adds.
Sylvia thanks them very prettily for their hospitality, but says that she simply won’t have time for dinner and a tour during this visit.
Why not? Jimmy attempts a joke. It’s not European City of Culture until 2008!
Sylvia hesitantly explains that she has to be in London the next day for a conference on re-forestation.
The penny drops suddenly with Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen. So that’s why Sylvia was in Britain in the first place! It wasn’t that she came solely to see Helen! Helen was shoe-horned into Sylvia’s busy schedule.
Sylvia explains that she had to have an excuse to come to Britain, and as she sits on a lot of committees, this was the perfect time to visit Helen.
Dire is now sitting on the sitcom sofa, waiting for Marty’s explanation of his police record as a wife-beater. How did it happen? She demands to know.
Poor Marty stands before her, hands helplessly empty and at his side and looking wonderfully bleak in that honest way Neil Caple has of conveying hopelessness. (WHY hasn’t this man been nominated for an award? I demand to know!) He’d had enough, he admits, wearily. Jan wasn’t listening to anything he said and she was going out of her way to provoke him into reacting.
Dire folds her arms severely and throws him one of her bug-eyed, hard-faced looks. She can’t believe Marty had never told her about soomthink like this! She wails.
Marty continues with the tale. He and Jan had had a particularly vicious row after he found out she’d been having an affair. She was threatening to leave him and take the kids with her. He couldn’t believe what she was saying. SHE’D had the affair and she was carrying on as though HE were at fault. (Perhaps he was. There are two sides to a marriage. Like Rabbity Ruth, we’ve only heard Marty’s side). Thing was, Marty continues, at the best of times, Jan didn’t even give a toss about the kids.
‘Yer didn’t tell me about that part either,’ Dire remarks sourly. ‘And that’s still no excuse ter hit her.’
Marty clenches his fists desperately. She’d pushed him too far! He says, in a strangled voice. He was frustrated by her actions and her words.
‘Yer think yer know soomone,’ Dire murmurs, pensively.
Marty admits that he’s so ashamed of himself. He never told Dire because he was afraid of what she might think. He was afraid of losing her. (Do I smell a Richard Hillman here? Hmmmm ...)
Tim is now on a building site. He sees a tipper truck dumping a massive amount of builders’ rubble.
Back at an uneasy Hotel Corkhill, Jimmy politely serves Sylvia Morgan tea as she attempts to explain her presence to Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen. She was unable to come to Britain without a valid excuse for her husband, she says. In fact, she couldn’t tell her husband about Helen’s existence.
Why couldn’t she? Hisses Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen.
It’s more what other people would say, rather than her husband’s reaction, Sylvia explains, delicately.
Other people? Repeats Helen. Just how important is this man?
‘Hey,’ speaks the Sage, aggressively, ‘it’s not a one-way street, yer know. Helen’s got a right ter know about you too!’
Helen reckons cynically that Sylvia’s husband’s probably loaded and that Sylvia was afraid he would cut off her allowance if he found out Sylvia had an unknown child.
It’s not her husband, Sylvia reiterates. But the press would hang him out to dry if they knew.
What is he? Sulks Helen, acting like a twelve year-old. The Prime Minister?
Sylvia says that her husband is very high up in politics.
‘Bard!’ Exclaims Jimmy, in disbelief. ‘The fisherman?’
That was a long time ago, remarks Sylvia, icily.
There was a time when Sylvia wasn’t so worried about the papers, sneers Helen, referring to the picture some thirty years ago in The Echo. Just why did Sylvia Morgan come all this way to see her?
‘To ensure you don’t come poking your nose in my affairs and causing trouble,’ snaps Sylvia, harshly.
Helen replies that Sylvia could have done that by phone.
Sylvia Morgan looks at Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen with pity, shaking her head. ‘Where DOES all this anger come from, Helen?’ She asks rhetorically. You had a happy childhood, after all. I know. I was there. I was unmarried and pregnant with a child. And you’ve no idea what pressure I was put under, especially by that swine who got me pregnant.’
‘By "swine", I take it yer mean Ray Hilton?’ Asks Jimmy, delicately.
‘So you’ve met him then?’ Sylvia asks, looking at Helen, sceptically.
‘Let’s joost say he’s not far away,’ reckons Jimmy, tactfully.
‘So,’ continues Sylvia, speculatively, ‘you’ve probably heard Ray Hilton’s version of events.’ She looks at Helen severely. ‘That sod! He could always twist a woman round his finger until she did what he wanted. I gave you away because I thought you’d have a chance of a better life, and you did.’
A better life for Helen or for Sylvia, sneers the ungrateful, pig-headed Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen.
‘I was in no position to bring up a child,’ says Helen, simply. ‘And so I considered the best option.’
Helen accuses her of not being bothered about bringing up a child.
(IS THIS WOMAN SEVERELY MENTALLY CHALLENGED? DOESN’T SHE KNOW ENOUGH OF SOCIAL HISTORY TO REALISE WHAT A SINGLE, PREGNANT WOMAN FACED IN THE FIFTIES AND EARLY SIXTIES? SOCIALLY STIGMATISED. SHE SHOULD TALK TO JESSIE).
Mike has returned from visiting Ron to find Ray and Rachel in Number 7. Rachel asks how Ron was. Mike says Ron was basically knackered. Jacqui was there, with Harry and Emma. She never stopped gabbing about what she had to pay for Ron having the treatment privately. (Er, sorry, but that doesn’t sound like Jacqui at all).
Mike says Ron joked to Jacqui that he would have had a heart attack sooner if it would have helped. But with three grandchildren and a grumpy daughter there, he was finding it hard to relax. Ron moaned about coming to hospital for a bit of peace.
Ooh, observes Rachel, Ron moost be bet-teh if mo-anin’.
AND he’s been to the dentist, Mike says, AND the treatment wasn’t free. It was just a 25% discount.
Oooh, says Rachel, boot Gaddy say free.
Well, counters Mike, that’s not what the dentist says.
Ooh, says Rachel, ooh, she’ll have word wi’ Gaddy. And she lunges toward the phone. (Why do these trailer trash suddenly opt for being on first-name basis with a professional they’ve sought to slander?)
Mike stops her, by taking her arm. He wasn’t about to crawl, he says. Besides, the bridgework will probably fall out when they’re on holiday.
Oooh, moans Rachel, they woan be on holideh fer years.
Nah, Mike assures her confidently. He’s got the money all sussed. He plans on borrowing money off his dad’s business in order to finance their holiday. No probs. (Oh, fraud? Like using Ron’s business as collateral and fraudulently obtaining a loan and then blowing the money on a holiday. Mike IS stupid.)
OOOh, says Rachel in wonder, ooh, how would they pay back?
Mike ignores her question, barrelling ahead. Oh, and he wasn’t taking that delivery job either. He was going to sink all his energies into turning Ron’s laundry business around for him. He was going to look after his dear old dad. And he couldn’t do that if he had some job as a glorified errand boy.
Oooh, says Rachel, wrinkling her forehead and blinking furiously, and did M-eye-ke rem’beh ter pick oop ole folks laun-dreh?
Nope, announces Mike, cockily. In fact, he’s cancelling that contract right away.
Rachel begins to protest.
Mike silences her. It simply didn’t pay well and it took them too much time to do it. He plans on spending the time they would have wasted doing the OAPs’ laundry, touting for new custom. Then they could spend extra time looking after other clients.
Rachel wrinkles her forehead even more and looks at Mike dubiously.
Mike takes offence. Rachel was always onto him about showing he had a bit of ambition, he moans. Well, that’s exactly what he was doing now. He needs to show Ron that he’s not a no-mark.
‘OOoh, well, awr-eye-ght then,’ concedes Rachel, dubiously. ‘If yer sure yer kno-ah what yer doin’.’
(Which means that Mike doesn’t and Ron will end up being up shit’s creek without a paddle).
Back at Hotel Corkhill, stung by Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen’s ignorant remarks, Sylvia rises from her seat and announces that she’s going.
‘Great,’ sneers Helen. ‘Just go.’
‘I should never have come here,’ Sylvia says, forcefully.
Suddenly Helen bounces to her feet, and the house shakes mightily. Wait! She cries. Sylvia’s never even told her if she has any brothers of sisters to speak of.
Sylvia quells her. ‘Don’t even try to contact me,’ she warns, ominously.
Now the Sage buts in with his tuppence. ‘Hey!’ He shouts at Sylvia. Helen’s been to a lot of trouble to find Sylvia. She needs ter know these thinks - about brothers and sisters and the like.
Sylvia Morgan looks at Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen coldly. ‘Why should I divulge anything about my life to you?’ She sneers also. ‘You wouldn’t risk me meeting your daughter. Now you are NOT to contact me again, do you understand? No further contact. June saw to it that you had a good life, Helen. She often told me what a good daughter you were. Why can’t we just be happy for each other?’
‘Is that all yer came fer?’ Says Jimmy, belligerantly. ‘Ter warn her off?’
********WARNING WARNING WARNING!!!! MAJOR INCONSISTENCY ALERT!!!!!********
Sylvia sighs wearily and asks if JIMMY WOULD CALL HER A TAXI. (When the silver Merc she drove onto the Close is parked outside. As PornMan wrote this episode, we’ll see his mind was obviously on other things.)
Back at Sitcom House, Marty dons his jacket and wearily announces to Dire that he’s going for a pint.
Dire is sitting like a statue on the sitcom sofa. She replies tonelessly that Marty should have told her this ages ago. When did they ever have secrets from each other? She asks rhetorically. Well, if he ever did that to her, he’d be out. Full stop.
He just hit Jan the once, Marty pleads. That doesn’t make him a wife-beater.
But what must have made him hurt her like that? Wails Dire.
He was trying to protect his children, Marty says, desperately.
‘But it’s so not you,’ Dire wails. That must be what the bizzies have seized upon!
As Sylvia Morgan waits outside Hotel Corkhill in the spot where her silver Merc was standing. (What happened? No one even mentioned that she drove it. Didn’t the actors, at the time, query the script inconsistency, or are they too stupid? Memo to self: Ask this question on the Official Forum and wait for it to get wiped), anyway, as she waits for the mythical taxi, which seems to have wiped her Merc into oblivion, she’s joined by the self-serving Sage, in a distinctly proselytising mood.
The Sage stands beside Sylvia for a few moments as she tries to pretend that he is as non-existent as the car in which she drove onto the Close; finally, he observes that taxis must be more reliable in Iceland, as Sylvia would probably have to wait a long time fer one ter appear in Liverpool. And didn’t they have a higher standard of living all around in Iceland? He continues, sneeringly.
He thought about emigrating once, Jimmy confides to her, as she’s still chosen not to speak a word in reply. Ter Newcastle. Yessir, Sylvia Morgan was one lucky woman. How often the persecuted, Christ-like, misunderstood Sage wished that he could make the final break with his past and all it entails. Take his house, for example, he say, indicating Hotel Corkhill with his thumb.
That was a house full of noothink but bad memories. He pauses for a moment and then states condescendingly that he can’t believe Sylvia doesn’t feel guilty about what she did to Helen, but he does understand that she did what she thought was best at the time. (Oh, how BIG of him. Were I Sylvia, I would have slapped his face resoundingly. Annabelle is right. This man is the scum of the earth. Discuss on Soapbox and Brooksider, please). In a manipulative manner, Jimmy sighs and tells Sylvia that there’s no point in regretting what she’d done. In fact, he says, he has regrets about helping Helen to find Sylvia in the first place. Things were going great with him and Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen until Helen found Sylvia - gee, that would mean things were going well until the day before, fancy that!
Sylvia feels the need to apologise to the Sage.
Jimmy continues by saying that he was jealous of Sylvia. Jealous because she made the break, and he didn’t have it in him to get out of this situation.
‘Yer see,’ he says, leaning over from the waist and sneeringly leering at the uncomfortable Sylvia, ‘I gotter hang around and deal with the faaaaaaalllout.’
He taps his head with his forefinger. ‘That’s why I’m mental,’ he says, confidentially, noting Sylvia imperceptibly recoil. ‘I’m not like you, who can coom in here and stir oop a hornets’ nest and then get out. I get ter stay and get stoong.’
As he gesticulates wildly with her, Ray peeks through the curtains at Number 7 and watches the show.
Well, he says, wiping his hands symbolically, as the taxi arrives, he hopes Sylvia doesn’t get to miss her conference. Meanwhile, he continues, playing the ultimate guilt game, he’ll just stick around here and put Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen back together again. Sylvia shouldn’t even think about staying and facing up to her responsibilities. (What responsibilities? She gave them up 40 years ago). She shouldn’t even think about staying and giving Helen another day out of her life. (Er, as I recall, wasn’t Sylvia on hand when Happy Smiling Helen was growing up?) Sylvia should just go ahead and do another runner, he concludes. Maybe she just wasn’t qualified to pick up the pieces.
As Sylvia, maintaining her dignity in the assault on her character, tries to get into the cab, she turns to tell the Sage, that she would see what she could do about stopping by the next day; but she couldn’t promise.
(Sorry, what a pathetically, maudlin and sentimental scene. Not only was it badly written and performed, discontinuity aside, it only served to heighten what a self-engrossed charlatan Jimmy Corkhill is. This is a terribly detrimental character, who doesn’t even have a redeeming side to him, as Kat Slater, and even Richard Hillman have. AXE NOW.)
When Pa Gordon returns from a hard day loading trucks and lying to agents and brokers about their contents and schedules, he flops on the mingey, flea-infested, slimey (from Dan’s arse) sofa in Bicker-Bicker House. Ma sits glued to the television set, watching what appears to be some CCTV footage taken at the garage. Ma, not even glancing at him, remarks sadly that Bitch still hadn’t called. (Oh, maybe she’s dying somewhere from malaria! One can live in hope).
She must be confident, Pa remarks.
Ma turns and faces him eagerly. Bitch, the supremely intelligent Bitch with her brains in her tits and who could have got into Oxbridge, got 2 B’s and a D, which doesn’t say much about her intellectual ability. Is that good enough for Liverpool? Ma asks Pa anxiously.
Pa doesn’t know, but Scouse standards aren’t normally very high.
Oooh, whines Ma, nervously, they wanted 3 B’s. How flexible are they? (Probably not very, which means she’ll end up at John Moores again, like everyone else, or behind the bar at Bar Brookie, again, like everyone else).
Suddenly Pa twigs that Ma’s opened Bitch’s results. His Sarf London morality (something dreadfully lacking in Liverpool) is highly offended. He’s even more highly offended by the fact that Ma seems particularly attentive to a marathon viewing of CCTV goings-on in the forecourt of the garage. What on earth was Ma doing? Pa wants to know.
Shh! Ma hushes him, because watching CCTV takes a lot of concentration. Leanne insisted that Ma take some CCTV tapes home to watch, for some reason. Anyway, how is Pa coping with his patches? She asks.
‘Ah’d cope foine if ye’d orl stop askin’ me’ow ah was copin!’ Pa replies, irascibly.
Not too stressed, she hopes, sneers Rabbity Ruth, licking the green encrusted snot from the top of her lip with the tip of her tongue. Anyway, Pa would be glad ter know that his bezzy mate, the hapless Sean, has succeeded in locking her out of her own marital home, she informs her parents, in a highly affronted manner. Poor Rabbity Ruth! In her misguided mind, she’s more sinned against than sinning!
So Pa’s negotiations with the hapless Sean worked really great! Ruth finishes.
Pa glances up at this spawn from his loins and reminds her cuttingly that she was the one who left that home for another man’s bed. ‘Ah go’ no sympafy for ye,’ he tells her.
Rabbity Ruth whines that Pa doesn’t have ter remind her every five minutes.
Not to be outdone, Pa replies that he doesn’t blame the hapless Sean in the least for trying to get one over on her.
Rabbity Ruth hops in high indignation towards the opening leading up to the stairwell. Well, she huffs, she wants her soft Sarfeast Pa ter know that SHE decides who sees Luke the bunny - not the hapless Sean and not Pa Gordon! And she hops upstairs in high dudgeon.
Just as Rabbity Ruth hops from the room, Ma Gordon gives a little yelp of surprise. She now know why Leanne was insisting on her watching the CCTV tapes. We see on the screen the shadowy figure of Ray Hilton enter the forecourt on foot and grab two parking cones, scurrying off with them in each hand.
The doorbell rings at Hotel Corkhill, and Jimmy answers it, only to find Ray rushing in past him.
‘Is she here? Has she gone?’ He demands, breathlessly.
Jimmy advises him that maybe he’d best go speak with Helen, as she was quite upset.
Ray appears not to hear what Jimmy’s said. He’s more concerned with Sylvia. ‘It’s Sylvia, isn’t it?’ He blubbers. Oh, he did BEG Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen not to go looking for that woman!
‘Caam down, caam down,’ urges Jimmy, trying to quell Ray’s witterings, ‘else yer’ll be doin’a Ron Dikko.’
Ray seems even more agitated. ‘She told her, didn’t she?’ He whimpers to Jimmy. ‘Sylvia told her.’
‘Told her what?’ Jimmy asks, perplexed.
Ray suddenly realises that he’s said one thing too many, and now he tries desperately to cover his tracks. Er, he’d best not say then, he hedges.
Jimmy’s mouth hangs open in awe. ‘And people say I gorra screw loose!’ He exclaims. Well, he continues, it seems as if old Raymundo has done an awful lorra thinking about himself here, and what seems to come out continuously is lie after lie after lie. Now what was it Sylvia was supposed to have said ter Helen that’s got Ray in such a state? He demands, forcefully.
Ray starts to tremble and begins backing away towards the door, holding his arms up defensively before him and shaking his head. Just then we hear bouncing footsteps down the stairs and Tim appears, bewildered at the commotion caused by Jimmy and Ray.
All the while Ray’s backing desperately towards the door, Jimmy’s advancing on him, his massive chin stuck out belligerently, as he speaks to Ray through gritted teeth. He wants Raymundo ter know that he’s put himself on the line fer ‘H’ (which could mean Helen OR heroin, take your pick).
Ray warns Jimmy in a trembling voice that it’ll be Jimmy who’ll be doing a Ron Dikko if he’s not careful, himself. At that remark, Jimmy grabs Ray around the collar and starts forcing the older man toward the front door. Ray resists, as Jimmy tells Ray to get out.
Tim grabs Jimmy from behind and manages to pull him off Ray, as Jimmy bellows for Ray to get out. And he’ll tell Helen whatever he wants, he shouts after the departing man, because he’s sick to the back teeth of all the grief Ray caused forty years ago.
Yeah, yeah. Big yawn. Big bore.
Neil Jones wrote this. I could do better - at least my consistency would
be 100%. Big load of whopping shit. Brookside doesn’t have a chance.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002