THE UNINTENTIONAL HERO
Brookside have dropped a clanger big-time with the Gordons. Oh dear, nothing’s going as planned. We have a pretty - well, if you call big gapped teeth and a receding hairline pretty in a woman - young girl married to a lout of a husband who gets drunk and beats her up.
Do we think of poor Mo Morgan and shudder? Do we remember Mandy Jordache and sympathise?
Do we ... BOLLOCKS!
We root for the hapless male. It’s obvious that Brookside intended the hapless Sean Smith, husband of that canting slut Ruth Gordon Smith, to be a pejorative character. Everything about him stank of negativity, from his spikey black hair, to his whingeing, little scally face, to his facial piercings. Goodness, gracious me, how DID a nice girl like that end up with a loser like Sean?
But the question really being asked is ... What the hell did poor Sean ever do to deserve a bitch like that?
We love him. We want him to shove the rod already propping up Dan’s arse through his miserable square head. We want him to fix the gap in Ruth’s over-large teeth with his fist and send her upper lip back up her nostrils where it belongs. We root for him, we URGE him to succeed.
And that’s dangerous. Those whom the gods love, they will destroy - well, the gods of Brookside DON’T love Sean, we do. The gods of Brookside TELL us who they want us to love - Jimmy, the Brookside Bike, any fit lad that’s gr8 - you get the picture. We’re not meant to love Sean, but we do - so odds are on he’ll go the way of Greg Shadwick and Luke Musgrove.
Save our Sean ... SOS!
This episode starts with Marty Muddie standing dejectedly in the Muddie back garden (in more ways than one!), and gazing sadly at the gaping hole which formerly held his pond.
Next door, Emily, wearing her top which doubles as a dress, stands on a chair in the Hotel Corkhill kitchen, trying to look out the top of the kitchen window into the Muddie garden. It’s a gratuitous shot for all the ladolescents to enjoy Ms Ellison’s legs. Thousands of boys between the ages of 14 and 16 (and a few pervy old ones) wasted valuable spermatozoa that evening.
Across the Close, Jessie packs her last few belongings in the Dixon lounge, whilst glaring at Ron, who’s lying on the sofa, flexing his toes.
Marty is now sitting forlornly by the remnants of the pond. Dire stalks hesitantly toward him, asking him what he’s doing.
Marty spreads his hands wide in a helpless gesture. Look at this mess, he gesticulates, indicating the pond. They could have at least put the garden right.
Well, Dire coos soothingly, at least Marty’s back.
For now, Marty mutters, although his solicitor WAS talking about possibly suing the police for wrongful arrest. That detective sergeant Clancy sure has a downer on him, he adds. And the man’s WRONG! There’s no real evidence to link him with the disappearance of Imelda Clough.
Dire accuses Marty of forgetting what all this is REALLY about, and she reminds him that they have other things about which to wuddy - like maybe they should discuss the fact that Antony had forged that letter.
As they talk, next door Jimmy creeps about the Hotel Corkhill rear garden, earwigging their conversation, as he pretends to hang his washing on the line.
Marty admits that he’s not thinking straight at the moment.
At that moment, Jimmy shouts a greeting to the Muddies. All the bizzies gone now? He asks. The Muddies glare in silent reply. Dire turns her glare on Marty and orders him inside. They depart. Jimmy shrugs and enters Hotel Corkhill.
Emily, by now, is sitting at the kitchen table, doing what all the other female characters do on Brookside, putting her lippy on. When Jimmy enters, Emily eagerly asks him if he managed to hear what the Muddies were saying?
Well, Jimmy begins, he asked if the bizzies had gone, and Marty and Dire totally blanked him.
Bev’s place was buzzing last night, Emily says, confidentially. The talk was all about Marty merr-dering that schoolgirl.
Marty didn’t murder anyone, Jimmy’s quick to say.
Why did they dig up his garden then? Challenges Emily.
‘Behave,’ Jimmy warns her. ‘If the bizzies had anythink on Marty Muddie, he’d be oop in court this mornin’ and remanded. What’s he doin’ outside?’
The bizzies’ll be back, promises Emily, seriously. And when they do, she reckons they’ll dig the whole place up. Why, Tim told her that Plank told him that another girl had gone missing at another school where Marty had werrrked, five years ago.
Tim told him that too, Jimmy says, absently.
Well, SHE thinks Marty Muddie is a paede, Emily announces, stolidly. (This is quite a different opinion to what she held only a few weeks ago.)
‘Behave,’ Jimmy admonishes again. ‘The bizzies didn’t find anythink.’
They did, Emily maintains. They dug up a telly ... Although she can’t quite figure out what a telly has to do with all t his.
At the mention of the discovered television, Jimmy’s face lights up. Emily wonders if the telly were a plant to hide the real evidence.
Jimmy laughs. (Er, didn’t he SEE them dig the telly up?)
Emily implores him not to laugh. She’s determined to know why someone would beddy a telly, and she aims to find out.
Across the Close, Ron’s sitting in the Dixon kitchen, attempting to fold clothes and whingeing at a Mike, who’s clearly working against a deadline. Ron can’t see how Mike managed to stay up all night on that security job, he whinges, and not be able to get up on time for the laundry.
Look, Mike snaps, he’s on this laundry thing practically 24/7. He was at it until 9pm last night.
There’s a sound of clutter coming down the stairs and we hear Ray announce to Jessie that he’ll move the new television into the bungalow first.
The Hiltons are going at last, Ron hisses triumphantly to Mike. Nine months they’ve lived in Ron’s property, thanks to Mike, he adds, bitterly.
Mike hisses back that he was merely trying to be a good neighbour.
Ron continues carping in a low voice. He’s not had a moment’s peace since he came out of prison because of those two -
He’s in the middle of a rant when Ray and Jessie clomp into the room. Ron promptly shuts up and smiles sweetly at Jessie, who returns his look with a glare. Off then? Ron asks, falsely pleasant.
Ray gives a chirpy answer, and Jess glares sullenly. Ray’s quite excited about the move, himself, he ventures chattily.
Jess hurries Ray along. She has to get off, she says.
But, Ray protests, he thought she was going to help him with the move.
She has to go to the shops, Jess snaps. SOMEONE has to get something in to eat. And then Emily promised to do her hair.
But, Ray whines again, he wants Jessie to stay and help him with the move.
‘There’s nothing TO move,’ Jessie points out. ‘The place is bare.’ Anyway, she’ll be back for lunch. (Er, didn’t Jessie and Ray get vouchers for furniture from the insurance company? Why haven’t they been looking, buying and storing?)
Well, then, Ron pronounces, that’s just enough time for Ray to carry Jessie across the threshold, into their very own little loov nest.
Ray points out that he needs Jess to help him with the new bed, that’s being stored in Jacqui’s garage.
Oh, Mike can help Ray with the bed, Ron offers, profusely. Mike begins to sputter and protest. He’s busy, he says.
‘Any decent neighbour wouldn’t think TWICE about helping out,’ Ron quips, meaningfully to Mike. ‘Besides, moving that bed should only take five minutes.’
Jess quietly approaches Ron and leans over him. ‘Thank you SO much for having us,’ she sneers, sarcastically.
‘My pleasure,’ replies Ron, with equal sarcasm.
Jessie storms out of the house for good.
Once she’s gone, Ray asks Mike if he’s really OK to help him with the bed. Mike hesitates in answering, but Ron buts in. Go ahead, he gees Mike, can’t he see that Ray’s desperate to move.
Actually, Ray giggles, he’s glad Jessie’s gone out. He’s got a delivery coming - a surprise for her, just to perk her up. He rubs his hands together with glee.
Inside Sitcom House, the discussions about the part Antony played in Marty’s arrest continue. Marty is adamant that he wants Ant kept out of this situation. (If he only knew!) But Dire protests that Antony had done a very serious thing.
Yes, agrees Plank. Ant could actually get done for wasting police time.
Marty warns Plank to stay out of the argument.
It’s not about Antony wasting police time, Dire points out. It’s about all the trouble Ant’s managed to cause Marty.
Antony’s had a very difficult year, Marty defends him. The kid’s been through a lot, and he’s afraid all this stuff is bound to affect Antony.
He’s only twelve, defends Brigid.
Plank, however, is openly contemptuous. He still can’t believe Antony would do something that stupid.
Marty is clearly exasperated. Antony was only trying to protect his father, he says. Dire gives him a hard look of disbelief.
‘But yer didn’t DO anythink,’ she sarcastically reminds Marty.
‘Whaddayer mean?’ Marty asks, rhetorically. ‘I gorroff with it.’ Then, realising his poor choice of words, he reiterates that the solicitor is talking about suing the police. There was no evidence. This is ALL about a frightened kid trying to protect his father.
What if they come back? Dire pursues.
They won’t, answers Marty, with false confidence. There’s no evidence.
What if they find more? Dire pushes, relentlessly.
‘DON’T YER BELIEVE ME?’ Shouts Marty. ‘I’VE DONE NOOTHINK!’
Plank and Brigid glace disgustedly at the couple and slope away.
Dire, however, won’t give up her quest, and stalks relentlessly towards Marty. Where was he the night before the bizzies came? She demands.
As if she cares, Marty scoffs. She kicked him out, if she cared to remember.
Dire starts to sputter a lame defence. She was shocked by Marty’s disclosures, she says. She was angry. Her kicking him out was a spur of the moment act.
Marty confesses that he slept at the school. He had nowhere else to go. He’s not proud of it, but he has at last told her all about Jan.
Dire sneers at him unsympathetically. She’s got to go to work, she says, coldly.
Poor Marty’s left rolling his eyes in despair.
Mike and Ray stumble into the bare bungalow, laden under the weight of Ray’s new bed and the headboard. Mike tries to excuse himself, once the bed’s been assembled, but Ray protests that he needs help with the mattress. Also, he adds, there are a couple of boxes left standing on the landing at Ron’s that need moving - er, if Mike doesn’t mind, that is.
Mike protests that he really has to leave, as he’s busy that afternoon, but Ray chooses this moment to be selectively deaf. Besides, he witters, Mike has to keep an eye out for Ray’s delivery of Jessie’s surprise.
Mike looks increasingly stressed.
At Sitcom House, from an upstairs window, Brigid tetchily watches Marty, below in the garden, fill in the gaping hole left by the destroyed pond.
Something very unusual is happening at New You Salon, formerly Jacqui D’s. It’s BUSY! Emily sits at the receptionists’ desk at the forefront of the salon, speaking to a potential client on the telephone in a silly, posh voice. (As an actress, Jennifer Ellison will never develop beyond the character variety, simply because of the fact that she cannot dissimulate her broad Scouse twang). She tells the client politely that she CAHN’T promise that Dire will be able to do the client’s hair, as Dire’s having yet more time off. Family problems, YEW know. But there’s young Caroline, who’s very good, who’ll be happy to do the client’s hair.
Hanging up the phone, she approaches Caroline, proprietorily, to tell her that she’s fitted someone in for a mid-morning appointment. At that very moment, Dire pounds into the salon, to Emily’s abject surprise.
Eeem, she begins to explain to Dire, she’s fitted Mrs Lowe in for 11:10 with Caroline.
Dire frowns. She’s always done Susan Lowe, she explains. Mrs Lowe is one of her oldest clients.
Emily mumbles, falsely apologetic, that she didn’t think Dire would be in because of - yer know - all them family problems.
Dire glares at the girl, evenly. ‘Yer never said that, didjer?’ Dire asks.
Emily rolls her eyes in exaggerated penance. Well, norrexactly.
Dire looks at her dubiously, asking if everything had been all right at the salon.
Sound, confirms Emily. (Er, question, here. Emily is barely more than a trainee. How does she rate taking charge of the salon in Dire’s absence? Surely, there are other stylists employed there with sufficient seniority?) Yes, Emily continues, self-consciously, everything was sound - that is, apart from Joanne, who rang last night. She wanted to know why Dire needed so much time off this time.
Dire whirls around to face Emily, who assumes an air of injured innocence. Emily should have told Joanne to ring Dire at home, Dire scolds.
Oh, Emily adds, helpfully, she told Joanne that might be a little incoon-venient.
Dire screws her lips up in distaste at Emily’s undermining. ‘I’ll ring her this mornin., ‘ she mumbles.
As she turns, Emily follows in her footsteps, insincerely asking if everything were all right at home. She, Emily’s been dead wuddied, she vows.
Everything’s fine, assures Dire, bitchily.
Brigid brings the ubiquitous laundry basket full of dirty clothes into the sitcom kitchen, where she’s scared out of her wits by the presence of Marty Muddie standing at the counter. She thought surely he’d be in the garden, she gasps.
Burying another schoolgirl? Taunts Marty.
Don’t be daft, huffs Brigid.
Marty wants to know where Antony is, and Brigid informs him that she’s sent the lad around to his mate’s Carl’s house.
Why? Marty asks.
Brigid shrugs. Carl’s his best friend, and Antony hasn’t seen him for a couple of days.
Marty swiftly accuses her of keeping Antony out of his way. Brigid admits that it’s basically because of the atmosphere in the house at the moment. With all that tension, it’s best if Antony DID keep out of the way.
‘Yer mean until I’m locked oop and charged with merr-der?’ Marty finishes her thought. Oh, and by the way, what does Brigid think about Antony forging that letter?
Brigid admits that she was shocked to learn that Antony had done that, but she agrees that the lad only did it to protect his father.
Marty stares at his mother-in-law with bitterness. ‘Yer think I did it, doncher?’ He sneers.
Brigid can only protest lamely.
Ma Gordon drives onto the Close from her long commuter trek from the garage across the way. She stops outside Hotel Corkhill as she notes the Sage working diligently on his rockery. She admires the Corkhill garden from the portable sofa inside her car. Oooh, Jimmy can coom and do their garden, when he’s finished there - she means it, after all, they’re poor white trash, and trailer trash can only grow stinkweeds from the cracks in the pavement.
The doorbell rings at the Muddies’ and Brigid, who’s ready to go out, answers it, shouting out to Marty that he’s got a visitor and ushering Christy Muddie through to the rear garden. She stops long enough to tell Marty that she’s off to the shops and then over to Ron’s and departs.
Christy tells Marty that he got Marty’s message.
Where’s he been? Marty asks, still surveying the mess of the garden.
A little shopping trip to Belgium, winks Christy, nudging Marty.
‘Well, I hope yer didn’t tread on anyone’s toes,’ Marty observes, pointedly, moving away from Christy.
Christy notices the state of the garden. The pond’s a mess, he says. What happened?
Without warning, Marty turns, flinging himself, attached to the collar of Christy’s jacket, against Christy and ramming his brother against the wall of Sitcom House.
‘That computer was knock-off!’ He exclaims. ‘You told me it fell off the back of a lorry brand new!’
Christy is trying to protest, but to no avail.
‘Where’d yer get it?’ Marty demands.
(Er, forgive my innocence, but what’s the difference between ‘knock-off’ and ‘falling off the back of a lorry’? Stealing is stealing.)
Poor Mike is still trapped into helping Ray, who shouts from the bedroom of the bungalow for a drill piece. Mike looks in Ray’s untidy toolbox and shouts back that he can’t find one. Anyway, he continues, he has work to do, himself. After all, Ron’s not supposed to be left on his own for any length of time.
Oh, that’s all right, chatters Ray, aimiably, walking into the bungalow’s kitchen. Ron said Ray could borrow Mike for awhile.
Mike looks at Ray as if the older man had suddenly sprouted a second head. Ron said what?
That Ray could borrow Mike for awhile, Ray repeats, innocently. (So Mike has now become Ron’s chattel).
Without another word, Mike storms out of the bungalow, as Ray shouts after him that the drill piece necessary might just be in another toolbox.
Marty, meanwhile, pushes Christy forcibly into the sitcom kitchen, berating him on the price of his previous carelessness.
‘Me family think I’m a merr-derer,’ he rants, ‘and now I don’t know if the bizzies are gonna do me fer receiving stolen goods.’
Christy has other things on his mind, however. Er, just how much do the bizzies know? He asks worriedly.
They know the computer was a used one, Marty tells him. Forensics discovered that. They know it was knock-off.
But surely Marty can’t have been so naive as not to have sussed that! Christy cries.
‘Not soom chemist’s pc in a new box!’ Shouts Marty.
Christy’s worried, however, that Marty might have landed him in it with the police.
‘I should have,’ says Marty, through clenched teeth. ‘Instead, I told them soom bull about a computer in every home in the inner city. Said I got it off soom scally in a pub. I’ll never take another thing off you!’ He says. That bizzie is just as determined to pin him for receiving stolen goods, simply because he doesn’t have enough evidence to arrest him for Imelda Clough’s disappearance.
How’s Dire taking all this? Christy wants to know.
Marty shrugs. She’s pushing Marty to admit soomthink. Even Plank believes Marty did it, and Brigid - Brigid’s tiptoeing around as though Marty were the Yorkshire Flaming Ripper!
What about the Jan thing? Christy asks.
Dire kicked him out, Marty mutters, hopelessly.
But she had him back, Christy reminds him.
But for how long? Asks Marty, rhetorically. Dire won’t even TALK about Jan.
Marty might be wuddied about the computer, Christy offers, in an attempt to be helpful, but the bizzies have noothink on him regarding Imelda Clough. So they came and they turfed up the garden, shrugs Christy. That copper’s been left with egg on his gob. They won’t be back.
That’s exactly WHY he’ll want to do Marty for soomthink, Marty reckons. Clancy’s vindictive. He asks Christy to give him a lift to work.
As Emily does Jessie’s hair, she bends close to her ear, out of Dire’s earshot, and gossips about Marty. She tells Jessie that Tim told her another girl at a school where Marty previously worked had gone missing. Jessie’s horrified face is reflected in the mirror.
When was this? She hisses.
About five years ago, Emily whispers. Suddenly, they become aware of Dire’s reflection, gazing at them critically from the mirror.
Standing up straight, Emily sees Dire holding an empty milk bottle and smarms at her, offering to get milk in order to make tea and coffee.
The shampoo bottles need filling when Emily’s finished, Dire deadpans.
Ron lies on the sofa, with a large business file open on his lap. Suddenly he hears Brigid’s off-key voice bellow out, ‘Hel-looooo!’
Ron makes a face and calls a like greeting back, asking Brigid to ‘coomm i-i-i-n!’
What’s the door doing open? Brigid demands.
Oh, that’s Mike. He’s off helping Ray to move, Ron says blithely.
Brigid immediately kicks off about Ron being left on his own. Where is everyone? She demands. She doesn’t think Ron’s being adequately cared for in that house, she opines. She doesn’t think anyone realises just what a serious operation Ron’s had.
Ron protests that he’s OK. After all, he has Mike and Rachel.
But where are THEY? Asks Brigid, looking about the room. And what about the laundry? She strides purposefully to the kitchen and immediately begins to sort the clothing. Ron jerks himself into a sitting position and pries Brigid about information on the police investigation at the Muddies’. Everything across the road OK? He asks.
Just a misunderstanding, replies Brigid, shortly.
Ron continues to ask questions, but is shut up by Brigid asking if he has to go to the toilet.
Ron’s about to answer when Mike storms in, ranting that he’s not about to be used as a slave for the neighbourhood.
Ron picks up a receipt from amongst the business records and waves it about. What is this receipt for bath towels? He asks.
Mike stops in the middle of his rant and looks at his father uncomfortably. Er, well, he stammers, he had an accident when Ron was in hospital and put a black sock in with a white wash.
Ron practically jumps off his chair. ‘This has set me back forty quid!’ He exclaims.
‘I was up ter me eyeballs in werrk!’ Mike protests. ‘It was one mistake!’
Brigid trots into the lounge, scolding Mike about upsetting his father.
What’s she doing here? Mike wants to know.
‘I’m looking after Ron,’ Brigid explains, huffily, ‘as YOU’RE obviously not capable. You left him on his own.’
That’s not fair! Mike exclaims. Ron’s had him running after Ray Hilton all morning.
Well, then Mike can just carry on running after Ray Hilton while she fixes Ron something to eat.
Ron dramatically clutches his chest.
Mike didn’t stop to think that his father might want something to eat, did he? She pesters.
Mike looks royally fed up. Ron smiles.
We hear the front door of the bungalow open and Jessie calls out to Ray. Standing in the middle of the lounge, Ray does an exaggeration of a start and dashes to the foyer, shouting to Jessie to shut her eyes as he runs to her. The camera pans behind his fleeing figure to two objects sitting in the middle of a bare lounge, covered with sheets.
Next we see Ray, guiding Jessie, his hands held over her eyes, into the lounge, with Jess protesting vociferously. She’s not a kid anymore ... She hates surprises ... Ray will muss her hair, which she’s just had done ... Yadda yadda. Ray slowly guides her into the lounge, imploring her to keep her eyes shut until he tells her to open them.
‘Will you hurry oop!’ Jess snaps, impatiently, stamping her foot on the carpetless floor. ‘I have things to do!’
Swiftly Ray removes the sheets from the covered objects to reveal two upright, upholstered geriatric chairs, complete with attached plastic trays. They were probably bought knock-off from an old person’s home. Laughing with glee, Ray plops himself down in one of the chairs and slaps the plastic tray loudly, telling Jessie that she can open her eyes now.
Jess opens her eyes and promptly opens her mouth even wider in unfeigned horror.
Dire Muddie stomps purposefully from the Salon onto the Close, passing Ma Gordon en route to her shift at the garage. Ma greets Dire, asking breezily if Adele were still on her holidays. Dire glares at her threateningly and, ignoring her, tries to pass by; but Ma is undeterred. Ma turns and follows her, purposely raising her voice and clearing her throat to attract Dire’s attention.
She repeats that she was wondering when Adele would be back from her holiday.
Next week, snaps Dire, striding toward Sitcom House, with Ma in her wake.
And is she having a good time? Ma calls after Dire, speaking about Adele.
‘Why doncher ask her yerself next week when she’s back?’ Shouts Dire, entering the Muddie house and slamming the door behind her.
Ma stands for a moment staring after her and shaking her lank-haired, white trash head slowly, as Emily approaches her from the direction of The Parade.
‘Is yer boss always so rude?’ Ma whines to Emily.
‘Whaddayer expect?’ Emily snarls, not stopping to chat. ‘She’s on edge, waiting fer the bizzies ter coom after the serial killer.’
Poor Ma is left to wonder. (Gee, the residents of Brookside Close hate the Gordons just as much as the viewers do. Phil Redmond, take note.)
Dire enters Sitcom House, banging the door behind her. Brigid is startled by the noise and asks her daughter what’s troubling her.
Oh, that GORDON woman, Dire spits, trying to buttonhole her, noseying around about Marty!
Take no notice, Brigid advises, calmly.
But she can’t help it, wails Dire. She can actually FEEL people staring at her, and then there was Emily trying all morning to undermine her in the salon with Joanne, all because she’s had so much time off. Does Brigid know that Dire actually caught Emily gossiping with Jessie about Imelda Clough? Finally, she admits that she shouldn’t have kicked off at Marty that morning. Oh, she presumes Marty went to work? She asks as an afterthought.
Brigid shrugs. Who knows? She was at Ron’s when Marty left.
Dire doesn’t understand exactly what Brigid means by her euphemistic ‘who knows’.
Brigid has to explain, rather succinctly. ‘Look,’ she begins. ‘Marty cornered me. He actually thinks it sounds as if I didn’t believe that Antony wrote the letter. And he accused me of keeping Antony out of his way too. He’s upset with me.’
What else did he say? Dire demands, coldly.
Nothing, Brigid sighs, but the question has to be asked: Just how well does Dire know Marty?
Dire walks past her mother, holding her head in her hands. She’s struggling, she says, forcefully, to keep the doubts out of her head, but she never expected a remark like that from Brigid.
Plank enters the kitchen briefly and sits down, as Brigid tells him he has casserole for tea. Suddenly a text message alert sounds on his mobile and he dashes out. Dire asks him what his hurry is, and Plank responds by saying that some woman needs a new big end. (This is supposed to be a clever double entendre).
Brigid begins to rant about the waste of food, but Dire tells her off shortly, saying it’s only a bit of casserole.
Back at the bungalow, Jessie is still in a state of shock about the chairs. Ray, still sitting in his, motions her to sit in the other one. Take a breather, he encourages. Their television quiz would be on soon.
Just then, the doorbell rings, and Jess turns in distaste to answer it. She vows never to sit in that chair, as she opens the door and Emily bounds in. She’s brought some flowers for her Nan, and as soon as she sees the his and hers chairs, she bursts into laughter.
Is that what Jessie calls ‘minimalist’?’ She asks. Those chairs belong on a geriatric ward. Jessie agrees.
‘I don’t expect to sit in a chair like that until I’m at least a hundred,’ Jessie huffs. She picks up a furniture catalogue filled with modern stuff. THIS is what she wants, she says, waving the book at Ray.
That? Shrieks Ray, looking at the book. That modern stuff! Why, that’s all slap-dash rubbish. But if Jessie wants modern stuff, he’ll build it for her; and it will be handmade and built to last.
‘Don’t talk roobbish!’ Jess exclaims. ‘You’re impossible!’
Marty Muddie trudges into Sitcom House to find Brigid and Dire stuffing their faces at the sitcom table. Dire asks him grudgingly if he wants something to eat, but Marty ignores her.
There’s been an emergency meeting of the governors called for the next day by Mrs Plummer, he says, in a voice reminiscent of a sleepwalker. He sits down, dejectedly. It’s about him; it has to be. The kids are back next week.
Dire is unsympathetic. Marty’s being paranoid, she reckons.
‘I’m bein’ investigated fer merr-der!’ Shouts Marty, impatient at his wife’s thickness.
‘There IS no merr-der,’ Dire points out. ‘There’s no body.’
The phone rings suddenly, and Marty and Dire exchange a look of blind panic; but it’s only Adele, and Marty sighs with relief when he hears her voice.
Jimmy is about to fix himself a sandwich when Emily enters, asking where Tim is. Jimmy looks up, his gob full and mumbles rudely, that Tim’s on a job and won’t be back until 8PM - and by the way, a letter came in the post for Emily.
Emily rips open the envelope. It’s the notice for her beauty college graduation ceremony to be held the following month, she announces. From that date, she’ll be a fully qualified beautician. By the way, she continues, have the bizzies been next door again?
Jimmy swallows a gobfull of sandwich. No, he answers, because there’s no serial merr-derer to investigate.
Emily continues to stare disgruntledly at her graduation notice. Hmph! She snorts. A lot of good them qualifications would do her. Joanne’s not moving the salon now, nor does she plan to open a nail bar next door.
Well, the Sage suggests, Emily could always move jobs, work elsewhere. (Er, sorry, but IS there elsewhere other than the Parade?) Ah, Emily’s reason is that she wouldn’t make as much dosh as she makes working at New You. (GIVE ME A BREAK! She wouldn’t earn as much working at a NAME hair salon in the centre of Liverpool or Manchester as she would working at what has essentially become a suburban blue rinse parlour? Or is it that she simply ISN’T as good as she likes to think herself? WHO REMEMBERS when Emily was presented as the more intelligent one of the Shadwick sisters? The one whom Nikki says always had academic subjects come easily for her, whilst Nikki had to work for her school success? Too much bleach on the brain, I reckon).
Oh, well, then, Jimmy resumes, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice that’s totally lost on Emily, yer’ll joost haveter hope that they sack the serial killer’s wife and then Emily could get HER job.
Of course, Emily takes his suggestion seriously. Why, she could run that place on her head, she brags. (Er, wasn’t it only a few weeks ago when Emily was offended by Debbie Gordon gossiping with Leanne about Marty killing Imelda? Writers, liaise with each other!)
Jimmy raises his eyebrows, sardonically. Afraid that won’t happen, he muses, on the flimsy evidence of one beddied telly. And speaking of that telly, he adds, cryptically, HE knows who beddied it, and it wasn’t Marty Muddie.
Who? Asks Emily, excitedly, her eyes widening.
Three guesses, teases Jimmy.
Go on, Emily urges. Tell.
Jimmy juts out his phallic Hapsburg chin and widens his eyes maniacally. ‘Sinbad,’ he says.
Marty is finishing his telephone conversation with a drunken Adele, telling her her phone battery will run down (before her mouth does, I might add) and that he loves her. Just as he rings off, Dire pounds into the room, whining that she wanted to talk to Adele. She glares at Marty, sulkily. Marty notices her look, but she attributes it to being tired.
Adele sounded as though she’s been on the Scrumpy, Marty observes. Brigid calls out that his dinner’s in the oven. She’s going to have a bath and scoot back to Ron’s, she adds, disappearing upstairs.
Glaring pointedly at Marty, Dire pushes past him, following her mother and saying that she has to change the bed.
Emily calls out to Jimmy that she’s off to meet Tim at the bar on The Parade. Jimmy, however, stops her. Er, he just wants to know when Emily plans on finishing the makeover she started on his house.
Well, she begins, she HAS been looking at some furniture in a magazine, now that she has all this overtime accumulated from filling in for Dire. (Sorry, this doesn’t ring true. If that salon pays so well, why is Dire always skint? And, for all intents and purposes, Emily is STILL a trainee. Surely a trainee wouldn’t be called upon to fill in for a manager at a hairdressing salon? Discuss, please).
Well, Jimmy proposes, he could always chip in (er, with what? He doesn’t work and gets paid next to no rent from his lodgers). That way it would be a nice surprise for Nikki when she gets back from holiday.
Emily’s face clouds over with reluctance. The thing is, she says to Jimmy, scrunching up her obviously botox’d forehead (hey, anybody notice this? Ellison’s forehead used to be a myriad of wrinkles when she first joined. Now it’s as smooth as a baby’s bum, even when she frowns!), Nikki might want to move back into the bungalow with Jessie and Ray. That was why Emily didn’t say anything further about finishing the makeover for Hotel Corkhill. She didn’t want to go about changing the house, especially if Helen were thinking about moving in, she explains.
(Sorry, but DOESN’T ANYONE EVER THINK ABOUT HELEN’S DAUGHTER?!!!!!)
Jimmy shakes his head firmly, jutting the priapic, Hapsburg jaw to the forefront. That’s not going ter happen, he confides, in a peculiarly strangulated voice. And anyway, Nikki would always be welcome at Hotel Corkhill.
Back at the Dixons’, Ron eases himself up slowly from the sofa, as Mike enters the room. Seeing his father struggle, he asks if Ron’s OK.
Ron tells him, shortly, that he needs the loo. Mike responds by asking Ron to wait a moment, and he’ll see him up the stairs; but Ron’s agitated by something else.
As Mike finishes his brief task, and takes Ron by the arm, ushering him into the foyer and up the stairs, Ron remonstrates with his son. After all, he points out, Mike’s supposed to be looking after Ron and Ron’s business. Er, is Mike sure the business is doing OK? He asks, suspiciously.
Yes, replies Mike, impatiently, literally pushing Ron up the stairs, now and eager to change the subject, and Ron would be better off if he used some of his money to hire a private nurse.
Ron shakes his head, his voice suddenly quavering with worry. He can’t afford it, he admits, sadly.
But the money’s coming in, protests Mike, inanely.
Half-way up the stairs, Ron turns to face his son squarely. ‘The problem is,’ he says, evenly to Mike, ‘yer ruinin’ me business.’
Mike continues to push his father up the stairs, stuttering a hasty protest.
‘Don’t say different,’ Ron warns, stopping at the top of the stairs. ‘I seen the letter cancellin’ the contract at Swanbank -’
‘Pops, it was too much werrk,’ interjects Mike, rapidly. ‘Them sheets was filt’y and there was joost no money in it -’
Now Ron interrupts. ‘Yer had no right ter do dis!’ Ron exclaims. ‘Can yer not imagine how bad this’ll look if it gets out? Yer USELESS!’
Mike drops Ron’s arm abruptly. ‘And yer always sayin’ that about me?’ He retorts. ‘What about RJacqui, eh? Never her! She’s always yer blue-eyed gerrrl! Yer joost think I’m soom sorta scally no-mark!’
‘I never said that!’ Asserts Ron, but Mike turns abruptly and pounds down the stairs.
‘Well, I’ve had enoof!’ Mike exclaims. ‘I’m outa here!’
Ron turns frantically and calls after Mike, imploring him not to leave, begging him to at least help the older man to the loo, before he wets himself.
Mike turns in the doorway and sneers up at Ron, unsympathetically. ‘You’ve gorra laundry business. Sort it out yerself!’ Mike storms away, leaving Ron virtually in tears on the landing.
At that moment, Brigid enters the doorway, gazing quizzically after the departing Mike and asking rhetorically what’s been happening. Then she lifts her eyes to Ron, noticing a large wet spot spreading across the front of his trousers and down the inside of his leg, ending in a puddle on the carpet beside his foot.
Ron sobs uncontrollably, as Brigid dashes up the stairs and hugs him to her, soothing him.
Across the Close, at Sitcom House, Dire stands at the sitcom kitchen counter, lost in thought. Marty enters the kitchen, unheard by her, and touches her on the shoulder. She jumps suddenly into the air. Marty recoils at her reaction.
Collecting herself, she offers the lame excuse that she was miles away in thought.
‘No yer weren’t,’ observes Marty in a low, but accusing voice. (OH, NEIL CAPLE IS SUCH A MARVELOUS ACTOR!). ‘Yer tryin’ ter avoid me - joost like Brigid and all the rest.’
For a long moment, the couple stare coldly at each other, Marty realising for the first time in nine years that his hard-faced wife never really loved him at all. Finally, Dire breaks the silence. She’s tired, she sighs. She wants a long soak and an early night.
She turns and walks past Marty toward the door into the sitcom lounge.
Marty stops her in her tracks. ‘D’yer believe I had noothink ter do with Imelda Clough’s disappearance and that girl at St Wilf’s?’ He asks.
She turns her head, but doesn’t meet his stare. ‘Of course,’ she lies, weakly.
‘And what kind of answer is that?’ Spits Marty.
She finally turns and looks at him imploringly. ‘I’m tired, and I want ter go ter bed,’ she pleads, whispering for once. ‘Leave me alone ... Please.’
Barry Woodward wrote this. Passable.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002