TERMS AND CONDITIONS
Brookside’s Official Forum, and - ergo - Brookside, seem to be a mite tetchy at the moment, regarding storylines, or spoilers. They’re forbidding them being discussed on the O F. This comes to light as a result of the ubiquitous Moley’s revelations concerning the EXPLOSIVE November plotline in celebration of Brookside’s twentieth anniversary, after which ‘nothing will ever be the same again.’
I hate that expession, because it usually presages something going from bad to worse. I have a cousin who’s in the USAF and who’s married to a real Yankee Irish Catholic girl from NYC. I mean, this woman would make Dire Muddie look like a lapsed Catholic. After 9/11 last year, I was having a telephone conversation with her and every other sentence out of her mouth was ‘nothing will ever be the same again.’ And it’s not for her - it’s worse. The US Economy has taken a nose-dive, she has less spending power at the malls with her credit cards, and her fighter pilot husband might be paying a courtesy call to Saddam at any time.
So be careful of what you say.
Still, the O F, shouldn’t have to worry about censorship. It has its own self-appointed thought police in full attendance ready to pounce at a moment’s notice on anyone saying anything derogatory about Brookside, its actors, Liverpool and Liverpudlians.
So, widely interpreted, the Terms and Conditions are as follows:-
Everyone is welcome to post on the Official Forum, but you must endeavour to say only positive things about the show.
No one should EVER mention the fact that Dean Sullivan is over-used, over-exposed, overbearing and over here. Your post will be wiped.
The Gordons are the best thing since sliced bread, especially Kirsty’s perpendicular tits; and when male posters refer to her, one hand should be firmly down the front of their trousers, grasping their dicks.
Never ever criticise Liverpool or Liverpudlians. Phil Redmond may take a dim view of the city and its residents, but it’s not right for anyone who doesn’t live there to point out the fallacies of such a perfect haven of repose. Your post will be wiped.
NO SPOILERS. We want the storylines to be a surprise. It might detract from your minds about how long they’ll eventually turn out to be.
And no e-mail addresses, please - but never mind, Sara Sinha’s crawled out of the woodwork again, five years older since her last flame war at the beginning of the year and now banned from the computer room at Keele University, she’s moving in the exalted social circles of Prince William at St Andrews, having admitted to spending three years of her youth in a mid-Western American state about which she knows nothing because she’s never been there. Anyway, doesn’t matter if you don’t list an e-mail address, Rsara might not be much of a liar, but can she hack into a computer!
You have been warned.
And for those of you who MISSED Moley’s spoilers:-
There’s an armed robbery on The Parade. The robbers, probably something to do with Ted Robbins, flee onto the Close, divvying up and seeking shelter in Hotel Corkhill, where Jimmy, Lindsey, Timily, Jerome and Nikki are taken hostage, and at Bicker-Bicker House, where one of the robbers, high on drooks, rapes Kirsty Gordon. (Go, rapist! Kill her!)
An armed squad of police arrive and there’s a shoot-out. Stray bullets kill two cast members - probably Jerome and Jessie. Oh, and a police helicopter crashed into some of the houses. Nice memory for the Gilligan family, who lost Ronnie in the WTC disaster.
The show begins with a shot of Marty Muddie, face of wuddy, sitting in the Manor Park Police Station’s interrogation room.
As he awaits his fate, the bizzies are busy disrupting the Muddies’ lives on the Close. Dire stares distractedly out the front window as a bizzy places a hammer and saw in the boot of a car.
Across the Close, Ron Dixon stands, nose pressed against the glass of the front window, watching every move the bizzies make.
Back at the cop shop, DI Clancy, smiling his tight, little Callum Finnegan smile, enters the interrogation room. Marty immediately exclaims that he has nothing to do with this.
Not even condescending to reply, Clancy turns to a police constable who has been waiting with Marty and instructs the man to take Marty back to custody and get him something to eat. As the policeman ushers Marty from the room, Clancy tells Marty that Marty’s solicitor is in court in Runcorn and will be unable to attend a questioning until later. So Marty’s on rest break until then.
The other policeman ushers Marty from the room, as Marty exclaims again and again that he has nothing to do with this.
Ant, meanwhile, sits pretending to watch television in the sitcom lounge, which is inhabited by police. Brigid stomps furiously into the room, muttering in outrage that she never thought she would live to see the day that a police constable would be rummaging through her personal things. How humiliating! She huffs. Dire turns from gazing out the window.
They’ve just taken away a hammer and saw, she groans. She can’t believe it. Antony, meantime, lies prone on the sitcom sofa, toying with the remote control and earwigging everything.
Brigid tries to comfort Dire, telling her that Marty will be home soon. With any luck, his solicitor was probably with him now.
As Ron stares out the front window, Mike enters the room with a basketful of laundry. He sees his father gawping and demands to know what Ron’s doing, putting down the ubiquitous laundry basket and leading Ron by the arm back to the sofa.
Ron protests that he’s trying to see what’s happening with the bizzies over at the Muddies’.
Mike implores Ron to sit down. He’s supposed to be resting.
How can he relax, reasons Ron, when this is the first piece of excitement since they found Trevor Jordache under Number 10’s patio?
Mike begins a verbal chastisement of his father for even mentioning Trevor. How can Ron think to do that, especially with Rachel around? Doesn’t he realise all this is bound to bring up memories for her? Anyway, he asks, where are Ray and Jessie?
‘Keeping away from me,’ Ron says, self-satisfyingly.
Mike mumbles that he can’t blame Ray and Jessie for that.
Two more days, muses Ron, happily, and they’ll be ensconced in their own bungalow. Ron starts to rise again from the sofa to peer out the window, but Mike ticks him off. He’s supposed to take it easy for two or three days, Mike reminds him.
Well, in that case, wheedles Ron, nothing’s stopping Mike from taking a peek out the window and telling Ron what’s going on.
Mike stoutly refuses. And furthermore, he cautions, none of this Memory Lane stuff about Trevor Jordache when Rachel’s around. Those bizzies crawling all over the place are bound to bring back memories for her.
Ron squirms briefly on the sofa and delicately informs Mike that he’s ‘dying for a slash’. Would Mike help him upstairs to the loo?
Mike’s face is covered in reluctance.
Next we’re treated to the singularly unappetising shot of Jimmy’s jean-clad arse, reminiscent of the classic scene from the Frank Capra 1936 movie, Platinum Blonde, only in that film the camera followed a lingering shot of Jean Harlow’s silk clad arse as she showed Wallace Beery down a long hall in her mansion. We watch Jimmy’s arse twitch from side to side as he preens onto the Close, carrying a tray of what appears to be miniature conifers. As he rounds the corner approaching his house, he stops abruptly, seeing several police cars pull to a standstill and DI Clancy dash from the first, into the Muddie household.
Jimmy sidles sidewise into the door of Hotel Corkhill and peers suspiciously around the corner of the front door at the emerging bizzies arriving next door.
Inside Sitcom House, Dire, Brigid and DI Clancy stand in the middle of the sitcom lounge. Shouldn’t Marty be allowed a phone call? Brigid demands of the ferret-faced detective. Dire just wants to know what’s going on. Would someone tell her, please? She begs.
Smiling the smug, tight, little smile, DI Clancy sarcastically tells Dire that Marty’s on a rest break until his solicitor is out of court.
Well, can’t he come home until then? Dire pleads.
DI Clancy informs her that the police are allowed to hold Marty for up to 36 hours. They need to conduct a thorough search of the Muddie property.
‘But what on EARTH are you looking for?’ Demands Brigid, imperiously. ‘You’ve already taken the place apart! How long is this supposed to go on?’
DI Clancy glances down at the older woman with near-contempt and informs her coldly that he would like a word with Dire on her own.
There’s a moment’s hesitation, until Dire advises Brigid to remain in the kitchen, whilst she talks to the detective in the conservatory. Then she and he step into the conservatory and shut the adjoining door. Dire sits down wearily, but the detective stands menacingly over her, establishing his psychological advantage.
Immediately, they’re alone, he asks her abruptly if SHE type that phoney letter from Imelda Clough?
Dire is aghast at the accusation. Why, she doesn’t even know how to turn a computer on! She protests.
The detective eyes her suspiciously, ever smiling that tight, little constipative smile. ‘That’s exactly what yer’oosband said,’ he remarks, callously. ‘Don’t yer think it odd that two people your age don’t know anythink about computers?’
Dire explains that she’s a hairdresser, and her husband is a caretaker. What need would they have for computers? She asks, rhetorically. The technology simply passed them by. She sees, however, that the cynical copper is still gazing at her with a look of disbelief.
‘We bought the computer fer RDele,’ she explains, wearily.
And who’s Dele? Clancy snaps.
Her stepdaughter, sighs Dire.
And where is she? The copper demands.
On holiday in Cornwall, Dire says.
And where was she on the date of 23rd August? He demands. Did she leave on holiday before that?
Dire screws her eyes up, focusing on him. Why? She asks.
The letter from Imelda Clough was post-marked the 23rd, the detective explains, swiftly, and it was probably written that day too (well, wouldn’t the file in the computer tell him as such?) Who else has access to the family pc? He asks.
Why, Antony and Plank, Dire says, slowly. But they’d never do anything like that.
He may have to speak to them both eventually, the policeman remarks tightly. (This guy looks so repressed, I reckon he’s a perv). And if THEY didn’t type the letter, he continues, who did?
Dire exclaims in desperation that she doesn’t know.
The detective remains stony-faced and impassive, as if anything more than the little constipative smile would crack his face in two. It doesn’t take much imagination, he answers her, when a person’s being question about another person gone missing, to conceive the idea of a letter written home by the so-called ‘victim’.
Marty had noothink ter do with this, swears Dire, speaking through clenched teeth. And he had noothink ter do with Imelda Clough going missing and he DIDN’T send that letter.
Suddenly, the detective looms ferociously over Dire, who’s still sitting down. ‘YOU wrote that letter!’ He says, fiercely. ‘YOU were the loyal wife, so you can spare me your pathetic responses!’
Dire is utterly aghast and near tears in her denial.
‘What a pathetic, little stoont ter pull,’ he sneers. ‘A letter saying all is well!’
Dire rises and then slowly sits down in uncomprehending horror, as the merciless policeman continues musing about Imelda’s fate. Quite a coincidence, he remarks. Two girls go missing, both guilty of bullying boys. And Marty Muddie happens to werrrk at both schools the girls attended. There’s a link, he finalises.
It’s a coincidence, insists Dire, but her resolve is wavering.
The policeman snorts derisively. Coincidence? That letter was posted locally and found on the hard disk of the Muddies’ PC. Lots of coincidences, wouldn’d Dire say?
Dire leans back in her seat, looking weary.
Look, DI Clancy changes tack, he’s seen many wives lie for their’oosbands. It rarely werrrks. The truth is always the best way, he winks, confidentially.
Dire suddenly jumps up. Marty DIDN’T do it! She exclaims, wildly.
Didn’t do what? Teases the policeman, coming the innocent and loving every minute of it.
‘What-what you’re sooggestin’,’ finishes Dire in a small voice.’Marty couldn’t do anythink like that.’
Alerted by the raised voiced, Brigid storms into the conservatory, her bosom heaving like the prow of a ship. She openly berates the detective for bullying Dire. She heard every word, she adds, righteously. As Brigid rants, Ant is seen lurking in the background to the scene.
‘I’m only doin’ me job,’ insists DI Clancy, in mock innocence, ‘which is investigatin’ the disappearance of a little gerrrrl.’ He pushes past Brigid and turns briefly to address Dire. He may want to speak to HER later, he adds, ominously, but at the station.
As Ant tries to enter the conservatory, Brigid pushes him peremptorily back into the house. Ant can just help his Nin tidy up, she orders, after the mess that THAT LOT (and she virtually spits the words) left. Antony protests, but Brigid severely orders him to do as he’s told. Then she turns back to a shaking Dire, pronouncing the detective a ‘bullying swine’,
Upon hearing those words, Dire’s fragile composure breaks and she erupts crying in Brigid’s arms.
‘Oh, Moom!’ She sobs. ‘I don’t know what ter do! He made it sound so bad!’
Next door at Hotel Corkhill, Jimmy creeps surreptitiously out the back door and moseys down his back garden next to the fence separating his property from the Muddies’. Trying to look nonchalant, he eyes up DI Clancy as the man walks pensively around the Muddie back garden and stops to study the recently-built pond. Clocking this, Jimmy raises his cloven, Hapsburg chin (surely this is a sign of the Devil - like cloven hooves?), and backs unobtrusively into Hotel Corkhill.
And now for something completely different ... And totally unnecessary, in my opinion.
Ma Gordon stands, clipboard in hand, on the forecourt of the garage, trying to record the levels of the petrol gauges and hoping no one will realise how hopelessly illiterate the wretched piece of white trash is. Her dirty, stringy hair hangs limply by the sides of her face. She is a walking warning for the Health and Hygiene Commission. Rabbity Ruth hops toward her from within the garage, a silly smile covering her face and her silly, rabbity gapped teeth dominating her trailer trash features. She tells Ma that there’s a coffee inside with Ma’s name on it that she’s made.
Ma’s not interested in the coffee. As Rabbity Ruth’s just hopped over from the Close, Ma’s wanting to know what’s happening at the Muddie house. Rabbity Ruth is all excited at the prospect of relating gossip, however unfounded it might be. She’s so excited, she forgets to snork back her snot and a green globule hangs precariously on the edge of her left nostril. There are two police cars round there, she gasps, breathlessly, and they’ve been taking stuff out of the house all morning long.
Ooooh, breathes Ma in wonder. Makes yer wonder, don’t it? All that stoof Leanne’s been saying, she speculates.
That’s rubbish, declares Rabbity Ruth. Anyway, she’s of the opinion that it could have soomthink ter do with ..... DA DA DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! - drooks.
Drooks? Repeats Ma, querulously, shaking her head as she enters the garage, followed by a hopping Rabbity Ruth. She doesn’t think Adele would be inter drooks, she opines.
(Are you sitting comfortably? Because you’re about to hear the single most stupid line in practically ALL of Brookside’s history!) Well, the oldest boy could be, Ruth reckons. After all, he’s in and out of his van all the time. (Oh, and that makes him a pusher. Well, the man who lives down the street from me must surely be a pusher. He’s in and out of HIS van all the time. Oh, and it’s white. And that would make the hapless Sean, soon to be ex-husband of Rabbity Ruth, a prime suspect in the drook pusher stakes too. After all, he’s in and out of his van all the time.)
Oooh, I hope not, whines Ma, trying to sound like Sue Johnstone in The Royle Family. That’s why they moved away from their old place - so Ali the Ginger and the Brookside Bike wouldn’t be tempted to use drooks. (Er, I think they might actually be more likely to push them, those two.)
Well, continues Rabbity Ruth. It could be smuggling - cigarettes and the like.
Better not tell Pa, whispers Ma.And the two share a tasteless giggle.
(Axe, please).
Ma tells Rabbity Ruth that it’s good to see her smile again, and Rabbity Ruth admits that she’s still not sure about letting the hapless Sean see Luke.
Ma remarks about the flowers Sean sent and thought they were meant to be a truce or something similar.
They didn’t mean anything, Ruth sulks, stubbornly, and she’s wuddied about the hapless Sean having Luke. The hapless Sean is so unpredictable, she continues. He could have a completely different attitude tomorrow.
Well, sighs Ma. No one can predict the future, but Luke IS Sean’s responsibility for the rest of Sean’s life; so Rabbity Ruth will have to deal with Sean for a long time to come. A father-son bond, philosophises Ma, is one that simply won’t go away.
‘Worse luck,’ mutters Rabbity Ruth, sullenly.
Ma raises her sparse eyebrows. Well, she huffs, hands on hips, SHE hasn’t forgotten, even if Rabbity Ruth has, that it was RUTH who walked out on the marriage, not Sean.
Rabbity Ruth affects a wide-eyed look of injured innocence.
Back at Sitcom House, Dire is calming down after cracking under the pressure. She wails plaintively to Brigid that she didn’t write that letter. Brigid replies that she believes her daughter. Why, Dire continues, she can’t even believe that something like that is even on the kids’ computer. That means yet another link between the Muddies and Imelda Clough.
DI Clancy enters the room again, from the back garden, smiling the supercilious, tight, little constipative smile. He has some good news, he tells her, tersely. Marty’s solicitor has showed up, and he has to go. As he walks into the room, he does his off-putting party piece of turning suddenly and gazing into the back garden.
The garden pond, he begins, who made it?
Dire confirms that Marty built the pond.
When? Asks the copper.
Dire struggles to remember. Brigid, however, remembers. It was the day her bus to London didn’t show up, she informs the policeman. Jubilee Day.
Meanwhile, Jimmy stands in the back garden of Hotel Corkhill, eyeing DI Clancy and the police crew who have arrived with shovels and picks. Tim wanders into the garden, staring at the scene next door. What’s going on at Plank’s? He asks.
That’s what he’s trying to find out, answers Jimmy through clenched teeth, eyes never leaving the garden next door.
Who’s inside? Tim whispers.
Jimmy shrugs slightly, hands firmly in pockets. (Do you think he plays pocket billiards in these scenes?) Couple of uniforms and someone who looks like CID, he replies.
This has got to be soomthink ter do with that missing schoolgirl, Tim reckons, firmly. Did Jimmy know that the bizzies had Marty in for questioning awhile back?
No kidding! Whistles Jimmy. ‘Hey, yer don’t think he did a Trevor Jordache with her?’
And Plank also said, Tim continues, that another girl went missing at another school where Marty used to work.
Jimmy shudders. He never had Marty Muddie pegged as some sort of serial killer - like that Fred West, he adds. Suddenly a thought occurs to Jimmy. Why, the bizzies might joost want ter coom and search theirs. He turns swiftly to Tim. Tim hasn’t got anything dodgy in that house, has he?
Tim firmly denies this.
Because this would joost put the mockers on Jimmy and Helen, it would, Jimmy warns. Jimmy walks over to the fence and pretends to study the conifers he’s just bought. Tim asks if he needs any help in planting them.
‘What?’ Jimmy asks in disbelief. ‘From YOU?’
Well, Tim admits, Emily would never forgive him if he didn’t find out what was going on next door.
Ron is reclining on the sofa, watching Mike sort the laundry in the kitchen. He’s not pleased with what he sees. How many times must he tell Mike, Ron nags, not to put dirty clothes next to clean ones.
Mike makes a tutting sound.
Well, Ron continues, hasn’t Mike ever heard about them super bugs. After all, he’s spent time in that filthy hospital with all them microbes and such. Not to mention merr-ders and car crashes. Get that dirty stuff moved, he orders, irascibly.
Mike complies, muttering that Ron was more and more like an old woman. In fact, he was worse than Ray and Jessie, combined.
Thank God, they’re outa here on Friday, Ron sighs. He continues to watch Mike critically, next telling him off about putting the clothes in organised piles. ‘Here,’ he says, struggling to rise, ‘let me do it.’
Mike rushes into the lounge and gently pushes Ron back onto the sofa. Ron’s meant to be chilling out, he reminds him.
He could never do that, watching Mike, Ron mutters. But while Mike was up, Ron wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea.
Another one? Shrills Mike, taking the proffered cup.
And, Ron adds, he’s ready for another slash, if Mike wouldn’t mind helping him up the stairs.
‘Boot yer only went half an hour ago,’ whines Mike. ‘Yer oughta stop drinkin’ so mooch tea - that might help.’
‘And while I’m on the bog,’ Ron continues, as Mike helps him to his feet, ‘you can sneak a peak out the winder at the Muddies’. Jacqui’s said that the bizzies are after questionin’ that Marty Muddie over that missing gerrrrl. They think he’s done it.’
Back at Manor Park Police Station, DI Clancy hands Marty the suspect letter, sealed in a plastic bag. Marty looks at the object with horror, protesting that he never wrote the letter. (Any fool can see the handwriting on the envelope is clearly that of a child.
The letter was posted on the 23rd of August, DI Clancy informs him. Does Marty remember what he was doing that day?
Marty gives a little shake of his head. Why, he was working at the school.
‘Sure about that?’ The bizzie asks.
Marty replies that he works all weekdays. (HA ... Excuse me ... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA)
DI Clancy then informs Marty that the police have been through his office at the school - oh, don’t wuddy, they had a warrant - and the time sheet for the last month clearly showed that Marty didn’t go to work that day.
Well, Marty stutters, during the summer holidays, he doesn’t work everyday.
Did he write that letter that day? The policeman asks again.
‘I told yer,’ Marty says, wearily on edge, ‘I don’t even know how ter werrrk a computer.’
There are enough computers at the school, the detective reasons. Maybe Marty learned to use them after hours. (Er, sorry, when was Marty ever at the school after hours?)
Marty shouts that computers are beyond his ken. He didn’t write the letter!
Plank pulls up in his van, dashes out and runs into the house, confronting the first police officer he sees. What’s going on? He demands, grabbing the man by the collar of his shirt. Where’s the evidence? Then he calms down and apologises. What’s this about a letter? He asks Dire. Why would they think his dad sent a letter? Marty didn’t know the first thing about computers.
She’s told them that again and again, wails Dire. They found a letter to the police from Imelda Clough on the family computer.
Plank turns to dash into the conservatory, but Dire stops him. They’ve taken the pc away, she says. For tests. Then she narrows her buggy eyes and glares at Plank. Did HE write that letter?
No, protests Plank, but Dire doesn’t believe him. He’s lied to her before, she reminds him, about Jan. What exactly does he know about this?
He doesn’t know anything, shouts Plank, and then he looks suspiciously at his step-mother. Surely she doesn’t believe that his dad would ...
Marty is still facing an inquisition. Clancy tells him that the police had a nose around his garden. Looks as if Marty had been doing some work there. Digging, he adds.
Marty doesn’t understand.
The pond, prods the plod, imploring Marty not to act soft. When was it built? Jubilee Day, is that right? Where exactly was the family on Jubilee Day?
Marty shrugs desperately. He doesn’t know.
Clancy paces about the room. He doesn’t understand. Jubilee Day was an extra bank holiday. Time for rest and relaxation. An extra day off work and Marty spends it working on a pond?
The rest of the family was at the local party, Marty mutters.
Why didn’t he go? Clancy wants to know.
He did, Marty says.
But not until after the pond was built, the policeman clarifies. Why did he build that pond?
Marty shrugs again. He’s always wanted one.
Did he have one at his old house? Asks Clancy, when he worked at St Wilfrid’s? That was Jenny Black’s old school, he adds. And Marty’s. Why the sudden interest in ponds?
Marty asserts through clenched teeth that he has nothing to do with this.
Suddenly the policeman slams both hands down onto the table and leans over Marty menacingly. ‘Where’s Imelda Clough?’ He demands, roughly. ‘Where is she? Where’ve yer put her? Yer killed her, didn’t yer?’
‘NO!’ Shouts Marty. Then he whispers again, that he had nothing to do with this.
The detective pronounces that the interview is suspended and stops the tape. He then tells the custody officer to take Marty back to custody. As he’s led out the door, Marty goes shouting that he had nothing to do with Imelda’s disappearance.
Antony stands at the back door of the conservatory, suddenly noticing that the police crew are getting ready to do something to the pond. He shouts for Dire. Dire, Plank and Brigid come running. Dire’s mouth is open to catch flies. They’re dregging the pond. Next door, Jimmy and Tim watch from the back door of Hotel Corkhill.
Ron now sits on a chair in the kitchen folding clothes as Mike takes them from the dryer. Whose lekkie is Mike using? He wants to know.
Mike replies that he’s using Ron’s. They can’t run Max’s every day, he explains. That’s too risky.
Never mind. Ron orders Mike to plug the machines into the extension cord. Mike protests. What if he gets caught?
‘I make the decisions round here,’ Ron announces, tetchily. ‘Now ploog it in!’ Then he and Mike start to argue until Jacqui walks into the room. She stands and watches the floor show for awhile before asking what’s going on. Ron tells her how useless Mike is. Mike moans that Ron is on his case all the time.
Stop bickering, Jacqui orders.
‘If RMichael doesn’t shape oop,’ Ron whinges, ‘he’s gonna bankroopt me.’
Mike demands Jacqui’s support, asking her if the laundry service has been all right so far.
Jacqui nods in agreement, but if Ron doesn’t calm himself down, she warns, he’s going to give himself another heart attack.
No, Mike protests, HE’LL have one first.
Jacqui tells Mike to take a break - go see Rachel next door or something. She’ll take over here. As Mike stomps out, she suggests that she and Ron go for a short walk. Ron’s in agreement. That way, he says, he’ll be able to see if anything’s happening at the Muddies’.
‘There’s not much wrong with you,’ Jacqui chides.
Back at Sitcom House, Plank has his suspicions about the origin of the letter. He corners a guilty-looking Antony in the kitchen. He’s seen Ant messing around that pc, he says. He hopes the kid hasn’t downloaded anything he shouldn’t have.
Antony plays the little innocent, opening his eyes wide and protesting that he didn’t write the letter.
Plank then goes to the conservatory back door, where Dire stands watching the crew dig. There’s no way they’ll find anything, he vows to Dire. Dire merely wants to know why Marty was so keen to build a pond.
Plank throws her a look of disgust. Don’t even begin to think that, he warns.
Brigid appears, leading Antony, to announce that she’s taking Ant downtown for a bit.
Why? Dire asks.
Brigid hints that Dire knows why.
They won’t find anything, insists Plank.
Still, Brigid insists, this isn’t the place for a little boy. (Er, Ant is twelve).
But the police said they might want to speak to Ant, Dire reminds her mother.
‘What’s this all got ter do with a child?’ Brigid huffs.
Ant protests. He doesn’t want to go downtown. He wants to wait here for his dad.
He might not be back tonight, Dire tells him.
Plank orders him to do as he’s told and go with his Nin.
Next door, Jim and Tim try to stand unobtrusively in the back doorway of Hotel Corkhill, having a conversation, but all the while clocking the proceedings in the Muddie garden. Jim wonders at Tim being home at that time of day and asks if he’s got any work on.
Tim shakes his head. Emily’s the only one bringing in a wage at the moment, he says. In fact, he hardly sees her (and so do we).
It’s the same with Happy Smiling Fatarse Fartarse Helen, concurs Jimmy. Helen’s been forced to do holiday cover at the bingo club.
Well, Emily’s been covering for Dire, Tim tells him. Then he wonders. Does Jimmy think Marty Muddie’s capable of killing a schoolgirl?
The Sage shrugs in reply, before issuing his philosophical words of wisdom. ‘Who knows what any of us are capable of?’ He opines. ‘I mean, who’da thought I would try ter walk through the Mersey Toonnel.
Tim remembers suddenly to ask if Jimmy’s been taking his tablets. Jimmy gives him a withering look and suggests that they begin working on planting the conifers. They walk toward the fence where the conifers still sit in their tray, waiting to be planted. Tim counts them. Jimmy didn’t get very many, he minges.
Hey, Jimmy informs him, he wants ter know what the price of these things are! Jimmy reckons those garden centre places are right rip-offs. Someone’s onto a good earner there, Jimmy remarks, like that feller he read about in The Echo - the one whose stolen lorry knocked down an abandoned bank and then the same feller sold on the debris, brick by brick. He looks at Tim, knowingly and Tim reddens.
Garden centres, Jimmy reckons, are those sorts of scams.
Jacqui helps Ron slowly from the house, beginning their slow walk. Ron’s uncertain about the state of things at Number 7. As he steps from the doorstep, leaning on Jacqui’s arm, Jacqui wonders if he wouldn’t be better off staying with her and Max for a bit. At Number 7, he says, he’ll get no rest.
Ron demurs. He’ll only end up getting on Maxie’s nerves, he reckons, rightly.
Like he’s getting on Mike’s nerves now, offers Jacqui.
Ron becomes speechless with indignation. Mike joost- joost - winds him oop, he finishes, flexing his hands in frustration. Mike’s joost so ... So ... Useless. No, Ron determines, he has to remain at Number 7 and keep an eye on the situation there.
Jacqui confesses that she thinks SHE’S getting on Max’s nerves at the moment, herself. Ron looks at her sharply. Is HER marriage OK? He wants to know.
Jacqui nods. Yes, she confirms, but Max is always on at her about ditching Rachel and hiring a proper nanny for the children.
That’s Maxie, Ron quips, tactlessly. His type would be a Swedish blonde, no doubt. As they pass Sitcom House, Ron glances that way. Looks like no bodies have been brought out yet, he says. He pauses in his efforts for a breather, as Jacqui urges him just to walk to the post box and then back to the house.
As they begin to walk slowly again, Jacqui asks Ron his opinion of what she should do about Rachel.
Ron sighs for a moment. Well, he begins, tentatively, Mike and Rachel could certainly do with the money Jacqui pays Rachel, there’s no doubt, but ...
But what? Jacqui urges.
But Maxie’s right, Ron says.
As Tim and Jimmy work on the conifers, Tim spies Plank in the back garden and calls him over to the fence. Tim looks at the police crew furiously digging in the garden.
They’ve made a right mess of the place, says Plank, deprecatingly. Tools are all over the place.
Tim notes that the bizzies have dug up Marty’s pond.
They’re well over the top, mutters Plank, glaring pointedly at the police crew.
What are they looking for? Asks Tim.
Plank shrugs. He saw Marty dig that pond, he says, indignantly. There’s noothink there. Anyway, he finishes awkwardly, he has to go back inside. Dire’s in a state, he tells Tim.
As Plank walks toward the conservatory, Jimmy approaches Tim, wanting to know what Plank said.
He didn’t say anything, says Tim, evenly, staring after his friend. The police forensics crew pass by en masse.
‘I reckon this is it,’ murmurs Tim, with more than a hint of sadness in his voice. ‘The bizzies have deffo got Marty Muddie down for merrder.’
Jacqui and Ron have finally made it to the post box. Ron clings to the apparatus for a moment with one hand, clutching his heaving chest with the other, taking a momentary respite. He takes the opportunity to disclose some home truths to Jacqui. He never thought he’d hear himself say it, he confesses, but he’s actually glad Jacqui and Max Farnham got maddied.
Jacqui is visibly surprised.
No, Ron insists, he means it. He could see now that Jacqui and Max were made for each other.
Does Ron mean Max FARNHAM? Jacqui teases. That same Max Farnham, who’s a stuck-up, middle-class, toffee-nose, little so and so? Just who does he think he is? She imitates Ron’s familiar line about Max.
Well, Ron explains, just look at what he, himself, had made of his life. And Mike, look at him, university degree and then nothing thereafter. Mind you, he loves the bones of his son’s backside, but it’s got to be said that of the two kids, Jacqui’s done all the running and she’s not even thirty. He knows that she would never have been happy with any boy from the estate, or even Lord Snooty. No, Ron reckons, Max is the best for her, and Max knows best regarding their kids too.
Jacqui is the only Dixon who’s got it together, Ron continues. The ONLY mistake she ever made was to sell Harry to Max and Susannah. Ron presses Jacqui, wanting to know why she did that. Was it soomthink between her and Maxie? He asks.
Jacqui cuts him short. She doesn’t want to talk about that. It’s all in the past.
Well, people talk, Ron tells her. Did she do it for the money? He asks. Or did she genuinely do it for Max and Susannah?
Again, Jacqui brushes the question aside, uneasily. It’s history, she insists.
‘People say things,’ Ron implores, his voice beginning to rise.
‘People?’ Repeats Jacqui. ‘Yer mean Bev?’
‘All’s I’m sayin’,’ Ron explains, ‘is that it’s more than a coincidence ter soom that yer together. People are bound ter woonder if Susannah were pushed down them stairs or if she fell.’
Jacqui pulls away from Ron and wheels around to face him, angrily. ‘People like Bev have evil minds,’ she tells him, pointedly. Anyway, she wants to know why Ron thinks she should bin Rachel as a childminder. Why does Ron think Max is right?
It all goes back to what Ron meant when he said Max was right for her, Ron begins. People like Max Farnham want the best for their children - pre-school, private education, all that - so when the kids reach their teens, they have a head start on all the others.
OK, says Jacqui, but why should she bin off Rachel.
Ron insists that he has to agree with Max that Rachel is unsuitable for the children as a minder. And besides, Jacqui can’t hope to subsidise her brother and his wife for the rest of their working lives. It’s time, really, that Mike and Rachel started to stand on their own two feet. After all, they’re meant to be adults. Ron tells Jacqui that he’s not wuddied at all about her kids; but he IS wuddied about Josh and little Beth - because of their parents, he adds.
Look at Bev, he continues. There she is with a childminder for Josh and she’s already moaning about the cost. She can’t afford to pay the woman, and - God knows - Josh is a handful. Ron tells Jacqui that he now regrets making her give up her Saturday job as a teenager in order to help work with him in the Moby. He wishes he’d been able to give Mike and Jacqui a better start.
Jacqui protests. Why, she’s learned all her business nous from Ron, especially working in the Moby, she says. That’s why it’s important that Ron gets well, so he can look after his grandchildren.
Plank and Dire sit anxiously on the sitcom sofa in the sitcom lounge. Dire wails about not being able to stand much more waiting. Plank reminds her that the police are entitled to hold Marty for 36 hours, at least.
Suddenly, the phone rings. Dire and Plank exchange looks of dread, before Dire dashes to answer it, tersely. After a second, all the stress drains from her face and she looks extremely relieved. It’s Adele, and Dire suddenly remembers to wish her a happy birthday.
Jacqui is settling Ron back onto the sofa when Mike comes in. Rachel’s giving the kids their tea, he tells her, and Max phoned to say he would be home soon.
Jacqui notes that Mike seems to have calmed down and jokes to Ron that she better get home quick before Max batters Rachel about using too much electricity. Honestly, their electric bills have been so high since they moved into Number 8. Max is certain something’s wrong. He’s got the lekkie board coming out soon to test the place. She tells her father and brother good-bye and leaves.
Once the door shuts, Ron hisses to Mike to get the plugs changed over pronto. Ron tries to get up to urge Mike to move faster, but collapses from the pain in his chest.
Dire finishes her falsely cheerful phone call with Adele and puts the receiver down, whilst Plank continues to sit on the sitcom sofa, glaring stonily at his stepmother. She should have told Adele what’s going on, Plank pronounces. Dire throws him an open-mouthed, tragic look. She couldn’t do it, she says.
‘We’re fallin’ apart here, and she should be back!’ Exclaims Plank.
‘What good could she do?’ Sobs Dire, desperately. (In my opinion, Adele coming back would only depress people even more).
Back at the Dixons’, Ron is continuously offering Mike unsolicited advice in the form of spiteful criticism. In fact, it’s become too much for Mike to take. He can’t werrrrk like this anymore, he declares. Ron’s doing his head in.
‘You can’t werrrk full stop!’ Says Ron, bitterly.
Mike storms into the lounge where Ron’s propped up on the sofa, grasping a bit of laundry in one hand and poking his boney finger toward his sternum as he speaks to emphasise his own importance. ‘Listen,’ he begins, ‘I ran this company fer two weeks and everythink went OK!’
Ron brushes him aside with the wave of his hand. ‘Yer ran a company fer two weeks and yer think yer the managing director of ICI!’ He scoffs. ‘Look at yer! Yer haven’t done anythink since yer left uni, except fer bein’ a wage slave. Yer know noothink about responsibility!’
‘And don’t yer be tellin’ me how ter roon me own business!’ Ron continues, wagging a finger at Mike. ‘If I was fit’n healthy, YOU’D be out of a job, but yer’d still expect me ter put a roof over yer head.’
All the time Ron’s saying this, Mike stands before him, clasping the piece of laundry in one hand and clenching his other fist, biting his lip to keep from replying. The rant is too much for Ron, who starts to gasp for breath in decompensation. He needs to lie down upstairs, he gasps. He needs Mike to help him to his bed. Mike merely glares at Ron with ill-concealed hatred.
Back at Sitcom House, Dire and Plank still sit side-by-side on the sitcom sofa. Plank announces that he’s hungry and Dire springs to her feet and turns into the kitchen. Plank protests that he could fix himself something, but Dire tells him to stay seated. She needs to keep busy, she says.
However, once she’s in the kitchen, she screams for Plank to come into the room. Plank rushes into the kitchen and follows his stepmother into the back garden.
The police crew are peering into a large aperture where the Muddie pond used to be. One man jumps into the hole.
They’ve found something, says Plank, tonelessly.
Dire turns her head away and starts to weep.
Barry Woodward wrote this.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002