SECRET BROOKSIDE OUTAKE DISCOVERED
Rumour has it that a secret Brookside outake, filmed recently behind the backs of the production crew, has found its way into the official Mersey TV wheelie bin. Maybe it was Moley, maybe it was Benji the Binman who found it, but it was swiftly destroyed - only not before the contents of the film were leaked to the press.
Apparently, the film was left to roll in the empty lounge of Number 5, fondly known as Bicker-Bicker House, showing the predominant piece of furniture as centrepiece. After a couple of silent seconds, we see a large, but shadowy figure loom into the background, The figure, a male, looks surreptitiously left and right and then steps, camera centre, into the spotlight.
It’s Pa Gordon. Glancing again to his left and his right, he sits down on the mangey sofa, raises the right buttock of his fat arse and extracts a couple of objects from his right trouser pocket. We see that he has a cigarette lighter and packet of 20 Benson & Hedges. He pauses to light a ciggie, inhaling luxuriously before exhaling in ecstatic pleasure as he relaxes, leaning back against the sofa, his arms resting above his head. The packet of fags and the lighter rest prominently on the coffee table in front of him.
Languidly, he takes another long drag of a fag, and as he exhales, he holds the lighted ciggie inches in front of his beatifically smiling face, appraising and caressing it as though it were the body of a divinely beautiful woman.
‘Oh, you li’l beaugh’ee!’ He exclaims softly.
Suddenly, however, he hears the whirr of the camera, and he realises that he’s caught on film. Swiftly, he sits up straight and glances about nervously looking for a place to extinquish his cigarette. Seeing none, a slyly defiant look slowly crosses his face, as if he remembers who and what the character of Alan Gordon is REALLY, albeit secretly, supposed to be. He squares his shoulders and faces the camera, in character.
The following monologue begins:
‘Ello ... Mah name is Alan ... Alan Mitchell Go’don. Ah’d loik ter take vis oppertyoonigh’ee ter say a big ‘ello ter me Augh’ee Peggy. Vat’s Peggy Mitchell, Queen Vic Pub, Albert Square, Walford, E20. Oh, and ter me cousins Phiw an’ Billy an’ Sam, an’ me cousin Grant’s ex- and curren’ly Phiw’s ex-piece, Shaz.
‘Me mum, Maivis Mitchell, was me Uncle Eric’s sister - and she married vis roigh’spiv Neville Go’don from Lewisham - ‘im wha’ run wiv Mad Frankie Fraser an’orl. Fact is, it was me dad, wha’ taugh’me orl vere was about smugglin’ in ciggies an’booze an’ sellin’ it ona quiet ter pubs and them about. Vat is, till the ol’bill caugh’im at it an’ e got sent down.
‘An ol’cow name o’ Mo ‘Arris acted as’is fence (an’ a lot mo’van vat, if yer know wha’ Ah mean - nudge-nudge-wink-wink), an’ she got sent down an’all.
‘Me mum got the roight case o’the willies then, an’sent me orf ter Wawford ter live wi’me Augh’ee Peggy and me cousins. Well, Ah got inter a spot o’bovver vere and had ter ligh’out fer Scouse Town. It was easier ter do the smugglin’vere orf the lorries and the ships from Ireland an’all.’
(Leans confidentially into the frame of the camera, pausing to light another fag).
Whispers: ‘Fact was, vese Scousers - very stupid. Fink vey go’igh orl just coz the poxy Beagh’les started’ere!Ah made management at me’aulage firm in no time. But no’wivough a proice.
‘See, Ah met vis Scouse gel, roigh’ol’ tart she was’n all - rough-type yer know - the sort me ol’mum or me Augh’ee Peggy would send me orf ter wash me willie wiv lye soap after meegh’in’er. ‘Er name was Debbie - DEBS, she loiked ter call’erself in them days.
‘We-he-he-he-he-ll, Ah can tell you, SHE fough’ she’d discovered a gold moine when she met me. Talked o’nuffink but goin’ Sarf ter live in bleedin’ London an’orl. Well, befo’ Ah knows it - Bob’s your uncle - the cow’s up the duff, and Ah’m the daddy.
‘She didn’ let no grass grow under’her arse after vat an’orl - coz free more sprogs followed. An’ere Ah sit, Augh’ee Peggy, surrounded by bleedin’Scousers in me own’ome!
‘Oh, Ah know you’ll say Ah made me own bed’ard, Augh’ee Peggy, but yo’nephew’as seen the error of’is ways, and Ah’m’ere ter say ter you ter ge’ough orl the yeller ribbons’n tie’em round the Square, coz big Al’s comin’ome.
‘Ere, whaddya fink Ah did, eh? ‘Id most o’me redundancy money, and orl the bits Ah kept back from me smugglin’ days an’ ...
‘AH BOUGH’THE E20 ORF VAT ITALIAN GEEZER!’
(Whispers again) ‘An’no’a poxy Scouser knows a fing abou’igh!
‘So get the spare room ready at the Vic, Augh’ee Peggy. Yer favourite nephew’s comin’ome.’
Tape suddenly finishes.
Wishful thinking.
Dire and Antony still sit by the bedside of a sleeping Brigid, looking with tender concern at her and each other.
Marty, meanwhile, is still standing on the porch outside the copshop. Straightening his tie, he turns, with great resignation to his fate, and enters.
Tim stands beside the immobile tipper, waiting for Plank to arrive.
Back in a different part of the hospital, Jacqui stands beside Ron’s bedside, as a nurse sits facing him on the bed. She holds an emesis, or kidney, basin under his chin and brusquely orders Ron to cough again. Jacqui’s eyes are filled with wuddy. Outside the room, Ray and Jessie peer through the small window at the proceedings within.
Meanwhile, at the Dixon house, Josh is still seated on the sofa in the living room, beating his plaster cast with a tin of tuna. He hears Rachel calling to him, as she enters from the garden, and hastily, he covers the tin of tuna with a cushion from the couch. Rachel enters the kitchen area and asks Josh if he’d prefer her to bring his picnic lunch inside.
‘If yer like,’ says Josh, obligingly, adding that he’s really tired.
As Brigid slowly regains consciousness, she opens her eyes to behold the massive mask-like face of Dire only inches from hers. (That’s enough to make the staunchest of stomachs heave, I should imagine). Dire smiles her trademark rigor mortis smile and her plaster of Paris make-up begins to crack under the strain.
‘Go ahead,’ Brigid murmurs, dozily. ‘Tell me the worst.’
Dire whispers lovingly that her mother has an infection in her urinary tract (now listen to this - it’s important for later - someone on the writing staff had a late brainstorm).
Brigid doesn’t understand what a ‘urinary tract’ is, so Dire explains that Brigid has an infection in her waterworks. They’ve put her on a drip to get some antibiotics into her system.
Brigid struggles to sit up a bit. Is that ALL? She demands.
Dire nods, not dropping an inch of smile. In fact, the doctor says Brigid will be right as rain and back down the bingo before anyone knows it.
So it wasn’t a stroke? Brigid asks, almost with disappointment. Why, she thought she was at death’d door!
She glances briefly about the ward.
‘Ohhhh,’ she murmurs, with distaste. ‘I don’t like them curtains.’ Then she looks at Dire. ‘Any chance of a cuppa?’
Tim walks about outside the cab of the tipper, as a man approaches, walking his dog. Tim, who always feels guilty, tries his best to look innocent and greets the man, before climbing back into the cab of the tipper and attempting to start it again.
Josh, meanwhile, is having no luck with the tuna tin in breaking his cast. He hobbles on one leg into the Dixon kitchen and opens one of the kitchen drawers, only to find some table knives and forks. He grabs a handful of the knives with his grubby, germ-infested, little hands and lets them drop back into the drawer with a clatter.
He then opens the next drawer down, where - EUREKA! - he finds a stout pair of scissors. His thuggy, little face lights up with glee as he removes the scissors from the drawer and hops back to the sofa.
Over at NNT, however, poor, beleagured Sammy Rogers-Daniels-Whatever lets the phone drop dejectedly. Katie, who’s tidying up the lounge and rummaging through a pile of CD’s, asks Sammy when Louise is calling back.
Tomorrow, says Sammy, making the word sound as if she’s said ‘Temodda’. She utters the word with dread, because - as she explains - when Louise DOES call back, she’ll only have Tania nagging her and Tania’s dad nagging her as well to make a decision about whether or not Louise can go with them on holiday to Spain ... AGAIN.
Katie can’t see the problem. If Sammy doesn’t want the kid to go, she should just tell Louise that she can’t go with the Morans.
‘Boot, Louise has her heart set on it!’ Wails Sammy, sounding puerile, herself.
‘Well,’ Katie shrugs, ‘tell’er yer got ahead o’yerself and that yer think Tania’s dad’s a gangster.’
Sammy moans that she doesn’t want Louise to go to the Costa del Crime. She keeps imagining her daughter getting involved in some sort of gang war or something.
(Er, I have a question here ... When Max and Jacqui moved houses, Jacqui was called back into work suddenly because her ‘manager’ at the Health Club, presumably had to rush off to Spain - ‘something about her daughter’. That was the time Nisha discovered the picture of Ted Moran in the local paper alongside a story about him being wanted in connection with the death of another gangster. Presumably, Sammy MET Ted Moran during that foray.)
Katie selects a CD and goes to the stereo to put it on. Sammy asks her what she’s playing, and Katie replies, ‘Viva Espana.’
Sammy throws a cushion at her.
(***HINT: This is supposed to be funny!*** HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA ... Not).
Plank’s van pulls up alongside Tim’s stolen tipper. As he gets out of the van, Tim rushes up to him, hurrying him along. Plank follows Tim to the tipper, all the time berating himself for being a mug. What’s wrong with the tipper? He asks.
Tim shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t know. It just conked. It cut out, and started again. Then it cut out here, and now it’s dead.
‘Like your brain,’ comments Plank, as he fiddles with some of the mechanisms of the tipper. (Ol’Plank’s livening his repartee up a bit.)
Ray and Jessie still sit in the corridor outside Ron’s room, but Jessie begins to gather their things together in preparation to leave. Poor Ron, mutters Ray. It sounds as though he’s really going through it in there.
Ron’s coughing blood, tuts Jess. That can’t be good.
Well, Ray sighs, it’s better out than in. Then he remembers something
to tell Jess. He’s just seen Tom Carroll’s wife in hospital - from
the bingo. It’s arthiritis, she’s got. Hmmm ... He muses. Makes yer
think ... The frailty of the
body and all. Yes, old age surely takes its
toll.
Jessie gives an involutary shudder as the couple move away. She hates hospitals, she says, with distaste. She always feels as though she’ll catch something from one of them.
‘Oh, yer won’t catch old age, Jess,’ says Ray, following in her wake. ‘It catches YOU.’
Rabbity Ruth is snorking back some snot, which she wipes away from her upper lip, and hopping about the kitchen in Bicker-Bicker House, when the front door opens and Luke the po-faced bunny hops in followed by Dan the Man, oozing a trail of green slime in his wake.
Rabbity Ruth hops up in down in feigned delight at seeing her son. Dan the man phonily implores the kid to tell his mother what he did in the park. Then, not waiting for the kid to find the words, Dan the Man announced that Luke only scored 10 penalties past him - that’s 10 on the trot, he adds, as if for emphasis.
Rabbity Ruth, losing what little interest she has in her son, sends him off to wash his hands, and thanks Dan the Man for taking the little bugger to the park. It gave her some much-needed space and hopefully it tired the little nuisance out. Oh, and while they were at the park, she did some shopping at the garage and had a chat with Ma.
Dan the Man’s ears prick up like the prick he is and he glides through his slime into the snot-filled kitchen. Is that ‘chat’ as in ‘official chat’? He wants to know.
Rabbity Ruth nods, spraying snot about. It seems that Ma and Pa are wuddied about Luke the bunny (far more than she is, by the sound of it). Ma and Pa both think that Luke should see more of the hapless Sean.
Without batting an eyelid, Dan the Man announces that he thinks Ma and Pa are absolutely right.
Poor Rabbity Ruth is shocked beyond belief at this betrayal. Even if the hapless Sean DRINKS? She asks.
Well, remarks Dan the Man, full of malicious benevolence, he can understand why poor, hapless Sean has turned to drink. Why, it was bad enough when Rabbity Ruth binned him off for Sean, and they didn’t have any kids.
Rabbity Ruth, remembering her youthful betrayal, begins to apologise abjectly to Dan the Man.
Dan the Man, a Jimmy in training if ever there was one, holds his hand up in a silent command for her to cease apologising. One can’t go back on the past, he says.
Hmmmm, Rabbity Ruth appears to try to reason this dilemma out, Sean IS Luke’s real father, and if he didn’t see his real dad, he’d miss out on so much, she supposes. Why, she can’t imagine what it would have been like without her dad, when she was growing up.
Dan the Man asks Rabbity Ruth if it’s just the hapless Sean’s drinking that wuddies Ruth about allowing Luke the bunny to see him. Because, he continues, if he, Dan the Man, were separated from his son and then got to see him regularly, that would be enough, alone, to stop him drinking.
Rabbity Ruth frowns hard and cups her weak, little, poor-white chin in her hand for a moment. Why, she announces, suddenly, she thinks she’ll actually let the hapless Sean see Luke.
For one brief moment, the camera lingers on Dan the Man’s face. He smiles briefly in cold triumph, the smile not meeting his eyes. What if Luke doesn’t want to see the hapless Sean? He teases.
Rabbity Ruth busies herself in the kitchen. Oh, he’ll want to, she assures Dan, confidently. In fact, the little pest talks about Sean all the time. He even drew a picture of Sean.
That’s because Sean is his real father, Dan the Man tells her, and that’s something Dan will never be. (And thank God for that, he adds to himself). Whatever Rabbity Ruth decides, he promises, magnanimously, Dan the Man will support her fully.
Ray and Jessie now negotiate the narrow stairwell at the hospital. (***WARNING: MINI PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT ABOUT TO TAKE PLACE***)
Ray, following Jessie, asks if she’s certain she doesn’t want to stop by to see Brigid.
Oh, Brigid’s sure not to want them poking their noses in her business, Jessie scoffs, anxious to be away. Not if Brigid’s poorly, any road.
Puts it all into perspective, remarks Ray, as he descends the stairs, all these old people in hospital.
Jess admits that she doesn’t know how Dr Nikki’s generation will cope with medical expenses. (Easy, scotch the National Health and entice employers to establish private medical plans for their employees and their dependent families). She, herself, feels very vulnerable with the state of the National Health. Why, she might have to pay out for treatment the way Ron almost did.
Oh, Jess would be all right, Ray teases. After all, she has the money from all her shares.
Jess turns and rounds on Raymundo fiercely. She saved that money all those years, she tells him, for her enjoyment in her old age. She didn’t save it to be able to pay out for some operation. What angers her is that people who never saved a day in their life for anything, claim out for all sorts; and she can’t claim for anything, because she’s got a bit of savings.
Dire sits by Brigid’s bed and unpacks some items from a carrier bag. She tells Brigid she’s brought a few personal items for her. Brigid asks about Antony’s whereabouts, before Dire tells her that Antony’s gone to the hospital shop for some sweets. Dire’s brought a nightgown and dressing gown for Brigid.
Brigid remarks that she can’t believe a urinary tract infection would make her so ill. (Nor can I, quite honestly).
Dire nods, telling Brigid that Dire thought Brigid was having a stroke.
Funny thing, says Brigid, but she can’t remember a thing about coming here at all. Then she takes a long look at her surroundings. Why, she remarks, in surprise. They’ve actually put her on a geriatric ward! Turning to Dire in horror, she asks if this is all she has to look forward to in her life? She doesn’t even feel middle-aged!
Dire tries to soothe her, telling her she’ll be out soon enough, but Brigid wants to go home today.
Dire tells her that they would have to see what the doctor would say.
‘Oh, they won’t keep me in any longer than necessary,’ susses Brigid. ‘They’ll need this bed for someone who’s really poorly ... And old,’ she adds, under her breath.
Dire laughs, tinklingly.
As Plank continues to tinker with the lorry, Tim hops about frantically, asking him again and again what’s wrong with the thing?
Plank looks up from his tinkering icily and tells Tim shortly that he’ll tell him what’s wrong when he, himself, knows. He glances ahead at the deserted bank. Who owns that? He wonders.
It’s been abandoned for ages, Tim says, and asks Plank how long his tinkering will take.
That depends, says Plank, cryptically.
Typical mechanic, mutters Tim. Stretch out the labour for some more dosh.
‘Am I gettin’ paid fer dis den?’ Asks Plank, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Foon-neh, I thought dis was a favour.’ Then he announces to Tim that he’s found the source of the problem. There was a mess of earth in the lorry’s fuel line.
Is that all? Tim asks. Er, can Plank fix it?
For a price, says Plank.
Now that Ron’s stabilised, Jacqui asks him if it’s OK for her to leave, as she wanted to pick the kids up from Rachel’s. Oh, and is Ron sure he doesn’t want her to phone Anthea?
Ron shakes his head, wearily. If Anthea really thought anything of him, she’d be right there, right now. (Er, but she doesn’t KNOW Ron! What a stupid comment). Apart from a welcome home card, Anthea hadn’t bothered to get in touch with him since his release. Why bother now, because he’s stuck in hospital?
As Jacqui starts to leave, Ron reminds her how lucky she is to have Rachel look after Harry and Emma.
Yes, Jacqui replies, but - but ... Rachel isn’t really stretching the kids, she finishes, uneasily.
Ron raises his eyebrows at that remark. Well, he says, Jacqui wasn’t really stretched that mooch when she was a kid, herself, and she turned out OK.
‘Do yer think I’m bein’ too foossy?’ Jacqui asks Ron.
Ron sets his mouth in a line of disgust, soddy, disgoost. ‘That’s Maxie’s influence,’ he almost spits it out. ‘Yer not terrnin’ all middle-class on yer al’dad, are yer, Rjacqueline?’
No, Jacqui assures him. She just wants the best for her kids, that’s all, and her dad. She bends and kisses Ron on the forehead, advising him to ring for the nurse if he starts to cough again.
As she reaches the door, she turns and tells him she means for him to be good, and not to go trying to burst his stitches.
As Josh begins to cut into his plaster cast with the pair of scissors, Rachel suddenly appears at the kitchen door again, prompting Josh to hide the scissors with the cushion. Is Josh coomin’ out? Rachel asks again, bringing his food in for him and setting it by his side.
Josh tells her he’s tired, and Rachel says she’ll bring his drink into him. As she leaves, Josh picks up a carrot stick and cuts it maliciously.
Back at NNT, Sammy is actually washing dishes in the kitchen sink. As Katie walks by, Sammy suggests that they go to the pictures that evening.
Katie snorts that Sammy is simply trying to avoid making a decision about whether or not Louise should be allowed to go to Spain with the Morans, or the Morons would be an even more apt name.
No, Sammy protests. It’s just that they both had the chance of a night off and should enjoy each other’s company.
Katie replies that she can’t go to the pictures tonight, because she was hoping to see Nick - that is, if she could ever get in touch with him. His mobile is off at the moment.
Sammy shoots her a suspicious look.
Katie explains that he’s turned his mobile off to avoid the phone - that way, playing one job off against another. (Well, thank you, Brookside, that explains why the hell I can’t get MY builder to return any of my flippin’ calls!)
Sammy asks if Katie’s sure he’s not playing one girl off against another.
Hey, remonstrates Katie, she really likes Nick.
Oh, never mind Sammy, her sister scoffs. She’s just jealous, that’s all. She can tell from Katie’s face that she really likes Nick. And there she sits, not able to get anyone to go to the pictures with her.
What film did Sammy want to see? Katie asks, suddenly.
Sammy’s baffled. She thought Katie didn’t want to go.
Well, jokes Katie, she thought maybe Sammy wanted to see a gangster film.
(***HInt: THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE FUNNY. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!***)
Sammy moans.
Listen, Katie tells her yet again, if she feels that Louise shouldn’t go on holiday with these people, Sammy should just tell her that she can’t go. End of story. After all, Sammy IS Louise’s mother. She shouldn’t be so paranoid. Louise would just have to get over it.
Oh, she keeps imagining her daughter involved in some sort of gangland feud, Sammy wails.
Then tell the kid she can’t go, urges Katie. (This is a turn-up for the books! A few weeks ago, katie was telling Sammy that it was perfectly all right for Louise to go on holiday with the Morons, that all she’d notice was the fancy house et al).
Plank has finally finished tinkering with the lorry. Looks like it’s fixed, he announces.
Tim replies, after watching what Plank has done, that he could have done that, himself.
‘Yeah, boot yer didn’t, did yer?’ Quips Plank.
Brigid, surprisingly recovered from her ordeal and dressed in her own nightgown and dressing gown, sporting an ostrich feather collar, walks slowly up the hospital stairs on the arm of a priest. They’re on their way to Ron’s room.
‘His name is Ron Dixon, Father,’ she tells the priest, chattily. ‘I’m sure he’s of no particular faith,’ she continues, ‘but he’ll welcome a blessing from you all the same,’ she finishes, smiling cosily.
Rabbity Ruth and Dan the Man lie entangled in each other’s arm on the mangey sofa. Rabbity Ruth is examining Dan’s hand, which has ‘LFC’ written on it in ink. Liverpool Football Club? She laughs, enquiringly.
No, Dan the Man explains to her in a bored tone, ‘Luke’s’ Football Club. Luke was the manager, and Dan the Man was the bootboy or whatever.
Awwwww, coos Rabbity Ruth. It’s a shame that Dan the Man can’t see more of Luke.
Dan warns her that she shouldn’t let Sean or her parents hear her say things like that.
Her parents? Remarks Rabbity Ruth, languidly cocky. Oh, she’s quietly working on them about that! Still, she continues, it WOULD be better if they did have a place of their own.
Oh, yeah, jokes Dan grimly, where? A flat in Paris or a yacht in Mallorca?
How about a loft in New York City? She rejoinders.
Definitely hot a grotty bedsit, Dan muses. Wherever they lived, would have to have a big garden for Luke the bunny’s hutch (probably a reality, for Dan, as he’d love to put the kid in one).
Rabbity Ruth wants to know if Dan the Man is planning a fantasy future or a real future.
Oh, real, Dan assures her. A real house and garden, with real kids and furniture and carpets ...
And a mortgage and a loan and bills, Ruth finishes.
The dream just became a reality, snaps Dan.
Brigid and the priest quietly open the door to Ron’s room, as he lies sleeping in the bed. There he is, Brigid whispers to the priest. He doesn’t look very well, does he? She says.
Approaching the bedside on tiptoe, Brigid touches Ron gently on the shoulder, telling him that she’s brought someone to see him. The priest stands by her side.
Ron opens his eyes and they fall directly on the crucifix, hanging around the priest’s neck.
Ron’s eyes now open wide in horror. ‘Bloody hell!’ He exclaims. ‘Am I on me last legs?!’
Tim climbs into the cab of the lorry and tries to start the engine. On the third attempt, it starts.
‘Brilliant!’ He shouts over the noise to Plank, giving his mate the thumbs-up sign. Then suddenly he starts reversing the truck in the direction of the bank, building up speed as he approaches the building. He crashes into the structure and there’s a massive explosive sound, followed by dust and debris, which cover Plank, who watches in surprise and wonder.
Tim immediately grabs his mobile phone and speaks to ‘Dixie’ as he scrambles from the truck. The job’s done, he says. Now he’s outa there. He shouts to Plank to get into the van and the two scurry off.
As the Dixon doorbell rings, Rachel goes to open it, passing Beth, Harry and Emma, stuffing their faces with chocolate biscuits and watching a video on the television like three zombies. Jacqui enters, apologising to Rachel for being early, but she thought Rachel wouldnt’ complain if she were early once for the kids.
She pauses at the door of the lounge to tell Rachel about Ron’s episode of spitting blood.
Oooh, says Rachel, that were awfool.
Jacqui nods. She was certainly frightened, she agrees. She even thought Ron was on his way out, but the nurse told her that it’s normal for a person to cough up blood after heart surgery. Anyway, had the kids behaved? She asks.
Oooh, Rachel replies, leading the way into the lounge. ‘Kids f-eye-ne. Joost watchin’ vid’yo no-ah.’
Jacqui enters the lounge and watches in horror at the three kids glued to the television set and dowing chocolate biscuits. Eeeeem, she begins, turning to Rachel, is this all they’ve been doing?
‘Whaddyer me-an all?’ Rachel asks.
Eeeem, couldn’t Rachel have spent time reading to the children or playing counting or colour games with them? Jacqui asks, uneasily. (Well, yes, she could have done, but Rachel can’t read and she can’t count).
Rachel’s distinctly miffed. Kids were only’avin’ foon.
‘Eeem, yes,’ replies Mrs Farnham, quoting the Gospel according to Max, ‘and in the meantime oother kids their ages are doin’ computers and all.’ Couldn’t Rachel try some educational games with them, instead of just plopping them in front of a telly?
Rachel is very miffed now. Oooh, she says, blinking with fury. Oooh, kids’ad picnic in gyaaaaden.
Jacqui clears her throats and tells Harry and Emma that it’s time to go home now. Harry and Emma pay her no mind, only continue staring at the television and scoffing biscuits. ‘Coom on,’ Jacqui urges, impatiently. ‘Yer can watch telly at home.’
The kids ignore her.
By now, Jacqui’s beginning to get annoyed. Is this ALL Rachel can think to do with kids? Plop them in front of the television? (Er, sorry, but I seem to recall the five minutes that Mrs Farnham was a full-time, hands-on mother that she seemed always to have the kids placed strategically in front of the television with a video or DVD. In fact, Max, himself, once remarked about how much time the children spent in front of the box.)
OOOOOH, remarks Rachel, wrinkling her forehead in wuddy and anger. All day did what kids do-ah no’mly. Only sat in front o’tel-leh f-eye-ve minutes.
Hmph! Huffs Jacqui. She urges the children to move once more. And they get enough chocolate biscuits at home as well, she mutters under her breath.
Oooh, defends Rachel. Kids’ad carrot sticks and apple sl-eye-ces in gyaaaden.
‘And biscuits for after,’ remarks Jacqui, primly, pursing her pseudo-bourgeois lips in disdain.
By now Rachel the Dim is almost incoherent with desperation as she smells the whiff of the money Jacqui pays her get fainter and fainter. Ooooh, she cries, snapping her eyelids open and shut in rapid succession, oooh, she ne-veh give kids biscuits. Oooh, Josh moosta opened biscuits.
‘Look, I’m not gettin’ at yer,’ Jacqui tells Rachel. ‘I’m joost echoin’ what Max would say if he saw’em in this state.’
Suddenly, both women are distracted by the appearance of Josh, who hops into the room on one leg, having removed his cast from the other.
‘Ta-DAAAAAH!’ He exclaims.
Brigid now sits cosily by Ron’s bedside, helping herself to the grapes he’s received. Ron’s awake now and chatting with her. He’s amazed that the nurses would let Brigid wander about in hospital like that, after being so ill and all.
Oh, those antibiotics they fed her were absolutely amazing, Brigid vows, amidst mouthfuls of grapes. Truth is, she adds, confidentially, she was depressed and wanted to see how Ron was faring. Besides, there was no one on her ward under the age of 80! So, she pulled rank and told one of the nurses that she used to be a staff nurse at that hospital and that a walk around would do her good. (Now, do you find it hard to believe that a staff nurse wouldn’t know what the hell a urinary tract infection is, and would have to have it described to her as a problem ‘with her waterworks’? I do. In fact, I think someone had a brainstorm whilst writing this episode!)
Ron, too, is surprised. He had no idea Brigid used to be a nurse.
Brigid nods. Yes, indeed, she was, only she did her time here when this place was a REAL hospital, with REAL Nightingale wards. She had to give it all up when she had Dire, she says. Oh, she thought about going back from time to time, but ...
Ron replies that he could just about picture Brigid as a matron.
There’s a lot of that attitude needed nowadays! Exclaims Brigid, forcefully. Why, some of the nurses are just so familiar with patients. On her ward, they ALL call her ‘Brigid’ and not a single one calls her ‘Mrs McKenna’. Suddenly, she stops her rants and leans closer to Ron by his bedside. Er, would Ron mind her asking him a personal question? She whispers.
Ron squints his eyes in reply.
‘Well, just look at the two of us!’ She says, brusquely. ‘Sat here like a pair of old crocks!’ Does Ron really feel old? She asks him.
Well, Ron replies, truthfully, he didn’t until he came into hospital.
Exactly! Brigid makes the point. Why, in her ward, it was like the waiting room for the Pearly Gates.
‘It’s more like the Firey Furnace fer me, after soom o’the names I called that priest-feller,’ Ron wuddies.
Father Thompson? Brigid coos. Oh, he means well, she assures Ron. He was only making sure she didn’t get lost on the way to Ron’s ward. He’s very nice, really.
Ron makes a face. Yeah, but the diseases he must carry, he remarks. A priest goes from maternity ward ter morgue, Ron continues. He sees all sorts. Unseen germs, is what Ron’s talking about, he explains. A priest is a breeding ground for infection ter spread like wildfire.
All the time Ron’s talking about this, Brigid gradually begins to go green around the gills and stops eating the grapes. She rises unsteadily to her feet. She thinks she’ll go back to her own ward and rest, she announces. She felt a sudden twinge.
Oh, by the way, Ron says, as she turns to leave. Brigid never did tell him what she was in for - not one o’them superbugs or flesh-eating diseases, he hopes.
No, Brigid replies. Just an infection in her waterworks.
‘Infection!’ Exclaims Ron. ‘Yer gorra infection and they’re lettin’ yer swan about the’ozzy! That’s all I need is an infection in me waterwerrrks!’
Who know? Smiles Brigid, tapping him on the shoulder as the does turn to leave. Maybe they’ll be able to do a bypass down there!
Rabbity Ruth and Dan the Man are engaged in a massive snog on the mangey sofa, when all of a sudden there’s a sound of a ball bouncing down the stairs. Luke the bunny appears on the stairway shortly afterward.
Uh-oh, Rabbity Ruth remarks reluctantly, someone wants to play football.
Dan the Man hides a noticeable grimace and rises slowly. And why not? He says, paraphrasing Barry Norman. He ushers the kid out the door, attempting with bad grace to be friendly with a child he clearly hates.
Rabbity Ruth looks royally fed up.
The Dixon doorbell rings again, and this time Rachel admits Bev. Poor Rachel! It just hasn’t been her lucky day in looking after kids. She’s shown to be a part of the ineffectual underclass of mothers who depend on the television to be a childminder.
From the look on Rachel’s face as she opens the door - i.e., wrinkled forehead and furiously blinking eyes - Bev knows something’s not right. What’s wrong? She asks.
Unable to articulate a word, Rachel points to Josh, sitting just inside the lounge on the sofa, sans plaster cast. Bev’s eyes do a saucer imitation as she stomps toward the cheekily grinning child.
‘What happened?’ She bellows in a timbre that would make Dire Muddie blush.
Rachel tells Bev that Josh cut off the cast, himself. Bev immediately looses her rag with Josh. Was he out of his mind? He should have had that done professionally, at the hospital.
Josh holds up Rachel’s scapula. He lost that down the cast as he was scratching, he explains rapidly. He thought Rachel might need it.
That’s no excuse! Sputters Bev, in a rage.
Ignoring her, Josh grins tauntingly and stands up, hopping about from one leg to the next.
Look! He commands. The leg’s well again! It’s a miracle! It’s like magic! ‘I’m back to normal!’ He shouts.
‘Yeah,’ quips Bev, with dread, ‘Yer mobile again.’
Marty Muddie leaves the police station. From the bleak look on his face, we know he’s been put through the wringer. He pauses briefly on the porch of the station and glances at the smiling picture of Imelda Clough. Making a fist, he strikes the picture with fury.
Enjoying some privacy at last, Ron tucks into his grapes with gusto. However, remembering his lecture about germs to Brigid, his face turns a queer shade of green and he puts the grapes back on his night stand.
Rachel the Dim had plodded over to NNT in high moral dudgeon at her perceived injustice at Jacqui’s hands, in order to regale Katie and Sammy with the gossip. She sits hunched in the middle of the sofa - really someone OUGHT to do something about Tiffany Chapman’s posture; it’s diabolical! Katie and Sammy have listened - Katie sympathetically, because she’s jealous of Jacqui, and Sammy more objectively.
Tim and Plank drive swiftly away from the scene of the abandoned lorry and the smashed bank. Plank is puzzled. What was all this in aid of? He asks as he manoeuvres through the traffic.
Tim smiles cheekily. Well, he said he was going to rob a bank, didn’t he? He just never told Plank why and what for.
Who was the fella Tim phoned? Plank asks.
The fella who bought all the builders’ rubble off them previously, Tim explains. He wanted rubble from something big and Tim got it for him.
But, remarks Plank, that was a building.
‘Not anymore,’ quips Tim.
Oooh, Rachel finishes, she’s sor-reh ter go-ah on.
Katie assures her that she’s not going on at all. Anyway, she shouldn’t have let Jacqui go on at her.
Oooh, Rachel fumes, she joost couldn’t oon-dehstand Jac-keh. Jac-keh’er mate fer yee-ahs, and there she were, talkin’ ter Rachel l-eye-ke Rachel were piece o’dirt. (Rachel, understand this. Your association with Mike, has entitled you to free entry into the whingeing, whining, blame apportioning, benefit-scrounging underclass of society. Welcome to the free ride at Jacqui’s expense; for people like the Max and Jacqui Farnhams of this world will continue to subsidise you until the day you die).
Sammy shrugs unsympathetically. Well, Jacqui’s married to a toff (as Sammy once was). She’s like that with everyone now. Rachel should just learn to ignore her and get on with it.
Ooooh, hisses Rachel, she felt joost l-eye-ke tellin’ Jac-keh wha’ter do wi’her Har-reh’n Emmer, she did! Then she adds, in a weak, little, poor white voice ... ‘Boot I need moon-neh.’
She gets up to leave and Katie walks with her to the door, easily forgetting how she lately supported Jacqui in her crisis concerning Mike, and eager to stir shit again. Rachel shouldn’t wuddy about this, she encourages, as long as Rachel knows she was in the right.
Jac-keh doan think Rachel’s r-eye-ght, Rachel grumbles. All Jac-keh cares ‘bowt is’er precious kids. (Er, sorry, but Jacqui IS those precious kids’ mother; she’d be piss poor if she didn’t care about them, you dozy cow!) All Jac-keh care bowt is kids gettin’ balanced d-eye-it an’ games fer re-adin’’n wr-eye-tin’.
Sammy jumps to Jacqui’s defence. Surely, Rachel the Dim can’t blame Jacqui for wanting the best for her children? She asks, rhetorically. Why, Sammy’s the same with Louise, and Rachel will be the same with Beth, when Beth’s older. (Ah, but only if it costs Rachel nothing and the taxpayer everything - or unless Max, Jacqui or Ron foot the bill).
Rachel takes umbrage at Sammy’s remarks, knitting her furry brows together in her classic frown and blinking furiously. Ooooh, joost what do Sam-meh mean? Oooh, Rachel doan oon-dehstand. Sam-meh say Rachel second best. (No, Rachel. Bottom of the social heap. Underclass. Trailer trash).
Katie, ever the ignorant and still jealous as sin of Jacqui’s success, retorts that Rachel should remind Jacqui that Jacqui’s paying her to be a child-minder, not a dietician and a teacher. If Jacqui wants that, Katie sneers, maybe she should triple Rachel’s wages.
(Ah, the interpretations of the great unwashed! What an interesting take on the duties of a child-minder! A child-minder does more than the perfunctory tasks of basic child care. A child-minder, like a nanny, is paid to interact with said child in the absence of a working parent. No parent in their right mind would leave a child with someone whose idea of intellectual stimulation is to plop the kid in front of the television and gorge him on crisps and sweets all day long. Sorry, but child-minders ARE paid to be dieticians and teachers, because they are infinitely MORE than babysitters, who only care for children for a few hours at a time and occasionally. I’m afraid it says a lot for Rachel’s innate parenting skills, if she’s the best example of motherhood Brookside has to offer).
Ooooh, vows Rachel, seriously, agreeing with Katie. Ooooh, she joost mought do tha’!
As Plank and Tim near the Close, Plank is still curious about Tim’s ‘bank job’. Whose truck did Tim use? He asks.
The truck? Says Tim. Oh, that belonged to the bloke who wanted the rubble. The plan was, Tim explains, for Tim to nick the truck and wreck it by ploughing it into the building, making it look like a joyride, then abandon it. The man, ‘Dixie’, then calls the bizzies to report the theft, thus claiming on his insurance, and makes the owner of the abandoned building an offer to remove the rubble. He’s quids in and so’s Tim, he adds, as they park on the Close. To the tune of some 300 pounds, he taunts Plank. And that 300 quid could have been split with Plank, if Plank had only had the bottle to go through with the scam.
As the dust-covered lads emerge from the van, Ray and Jessie pull onto the Close and park. Ray calls out a greeting to the lads, remarking that they look as though they’ve been hard at work.
Well, comments Jessie, as they walk toward Number 7, it’s nice to see them do an honest day’s work for a change.
If Jess is meant to look after Ray in his old age, Ray jokes, stopping her en route to Number 7, hadn’t she best get inside and get the kettle on while Ray puts his feet up?
As a smiling Tim turns to enter Hotel Corkhill, Plank stops him and hands him a piece of paper.
What’s this? Tim asks, peering at it.
That’s the fee for fixing the lorry, says Plank, cockily.
‘A hoondred quid!’ Exclaims Tim. ‘I thought yer did it fer free!’
‘If it wasn’t fer me,’ says Plank, smugly, ‘yer wouldnta fixed yer trook, and yer couldn’d do yer job.’
He taps the piece of paper with his forefinger. ‘It’s called "overheads",’ he quips, and leaves Tim standing.
Marty Muddie returns to the hospital to encounter his hard-faced wife waiting in the corridor. How did the meeting with the bizzies go? Dire asks, verbally pouncing on him and ignorning his careworn and fatigued face.
Marty equally ignores her question, choosing, instead to ask how Brigid is faring.
Oh, her moom, Dire says, dismissively. Oh, she’s on the mend, all right - telling everyone and everybody how she could run the hospital better. More importantly, she nags, how was the interview?
Marty attempts to shrug the event off, by saying that it was merely ‘routine’.
Dire knows better, however, commenting that Marty looks terrible. Is this the last time the police will want to see him?
‘I doubt it,’ Marty sighs, with dejected resignation. ‘The bizzies will always find soomthink.’
Dire begins to lose her rag, raising her foghorn voice. ‘BOOT THEY CAN’T BEGIN TER POOT YER THROUGH THAT NIGHTMARE AGAIN -’
‘Leave it,’ Marty quietly orders her. ‘Like I said, it’s only routine.’
‘OH, THERE’S MORE TO THIS!’ Dire bellows. ‘AND AS SOON AS I’M FINISHED HERE, I’M GOIN’ RIGHT DOWN TER THAT POLICE STATION AND FIND OUT WHAT’S GOIN’ ON!’
‘You’re not ter go anyplace near that police station,’ warns Marty, through clenched teeth.
‘WHY NOT?’ Pursues Big Dire, following the berated man, as he turns away from her, her arms akimbo and her eyes bulging. ‘JOOST WHY NOT?’
Suddenly, Marty whips round to face her, his face contorted with rage. ‘BECAUSE I SAID SO!’ He shouts, angrily. ‘YER NOT TER GO ANYWHERE NEAR THAT PLACE! NOW STAY OUT AND STAY AWAY!’
And he storms away from her down the corridor, leaving her make-up-caked face, staring, horrified and hardened, into the camera.
Peter Cox wrote this. Not half bad.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002