CRAWLING FROM THE WRECKAGE
Watching Brookside at the moment makes me think of that great old Dave Edmunds song of the above title - and in Brookside, this can be applied in more ways than one.
Brookside has been crawling from the wreckage of bad ratings and low viewing figures for the better part of a year now, seeking to shake off the dumbed-down detritus of bad writing, bad acting and general apathy on the part of cast and production crew. It’s a programme in the throes of a slow death, and it’s painful to watch. Mind you, if it were an animal, we’d put it out of its misery and fast.
Everything it touches turns to ... well, to shit, for lack of a better word.
We’re promised a provocative storyline echoing back to the controversy of the Jordache saga in the Imelda storyline. Instead, we get a marathon saga jinxed from the very beginning with curiously similar goings-on in real life. Viewers started to watch with praise and interest. Now they are either bored or running a mile with distaste in their mouths.
We’re promised a ‘typical Liverpudlian family’ in the Gordons. Instead, we get a poor man’s Ray Winstone as the Dad (honestly, I keep waiting for him to call one of the lads ‘a muppet’), a dopey, wannabe trendy mum whose idea of child rearing is to gratify every desire and to view the world with the opinion that her children never do wrong. Consequently, she’s presented the world with four of the most self-centred, self-absorbed, arrogane and rude brats whose attitudes vary from dim to downright ugly. They have no morals, no intelligence and no empathy for the human race.
Now, this week, Brookside’s about to crawl from the wreckage LITERALLY of yet another explosion on The Parade, this time encompassing a helicopter ploughing into the garage. Great tact, Brookside. It’s a given, according to the erudite inhabitants of the Official Forum, that MOST people in Liverpool watch Brookside. Wonder how, if this be the case, the Gilligan family enjoyed the scenes of the helicopter crashing into a building last week? Wonder if it conjured up images of the imagined last moments of their nephew, brother, son, uncle, cousin Ronnie on the 101st floor of the WTC last September? Gee, they must have felt a surge of pride, thinking that the death of their relative inspired such a dynamic storyline as this.
Of course, this is a quick-fix way to renovate the Parade - yet again - as well as getting rid of a couple of characters, who made it patently obvious that they didn’t want to stick around and fiddle while Rome burned. Bernie Nolan got a job on the Bill with that snipey, little Paul Marquess? Kill the bitch off then. Let the helicopter fall on her fat arse.
John Barton doesn’t like working with Scousers then, the Cockney git? Vaporise him.
Ellison wants a singing career? Who needs her. Kill her off - only make her death a slow one, enacted by a body double. Pneumatic blonde bimbos come a dime a dozen, after all.
Still after all the blaze of glory, et al, after a fortnight where the considerable lack of talent enjoyed by most of the Brookside cast was paled into insignificance by the polished performances of the Mancunian ACTORS who portrayed the drugs gang, Brookside ONLY managed to garner 1.4 million viewers. Hardly the stuff of success, n’est-ce pas?
But wait ... What light on yonder windowsill I see ... It is the East, no, wait ... There seems to be a positive plethora of new posters queueing up to post on the Offal Forum. People we’ve never heard of before, ranging from the truly illiterate, to the mentally challenged adolescent, to the slavering froth-mouthed pervert, who’s curiously articulate. Some say they’ve been lurking but never posted before - only felt compelled to do so by the sheer brilliance of recent Brookside episodes. One sad girl, who’s a Scot, openly laments that she lives only in the desire to be a Scouser or a Geordie - even though she’s never visited either place - she watches Brookside and Byker Grove, so she knows all about Liverpool and Newcastle. Crikey, that’s like saying reading Gone With The Wind makes you an expert on Georgia. (I can hear Tootle choking now!)
My guess, along with that of a lot of other cynics, is that most of these NEW people are, in fact, Mersey TV employees under STRICT orders to post positive feedback on the Offal Forum, as a pr exercise. Is it working?
Well ...
I’ll leave you with this thought. This Wednesday, Brookside goes head-to-head at 8pm with ... EASTENDERS!!!
Nudge-nudge-wink-wink ... Say no more.
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In the kitchen of Sitcom House, Dire Muddie absent mindedly puts the laundry on and then turns to gaze sadly out the rear window. (Gee, no wonder Brookside Close is always so pristine ... Women - and Ron Dixon - are ALWAYS doing laundry).
We then cut to a shot of a city rubbish truck emptying some wheelie bins into its entrails.
Across the Close at Bicker-Bicker House, Ma Gordon’s ALSO doing some laundry. She fishes through the pockets of Pa’s trousers and comes across a disposable lighter.
Back at Sitcom House, as Adele enters the kitchen, Dire firmly announces her intentions of phoning the police about Marty’s whereabouts again. After all, it’s been more than 24 hours. Adele now has a cynical view of the situation. As if the police are going to drop all their on-going investigations and just look for her dad, she sniffs. She flops down at the table. And by the way, she remarks to her step-mother, Dire STILL hasn’t told Adele what happened before Marty went missing the last time.
Dire suddenly becomes evasive. Er, it’s all a bit of a mishmash, she says, cryptically.
Adele narrows her eyes and stares at Dire. Something big must have happened to make him go off like that, the girl reasons.
At that moment, Plank enters, speaking to someone on his mobile, telling them he’ll see them later. As it’s lunchtime, Dire tells Adele to have a sandwich and then return to school.
School’s a waste of time, snorts Adele, who’s attitude to education has changed 180 degrees since June. As a matter of fact, she tells Dire, she only went in to show her face, in case people spread lies about Marty; but she promises to try to do some reading later, instead.
Plank sits down at the sitcom table too, and tells Dire she’d do well to phone the bizzies now.
Dire flops into a nearby chair and muses about how down Marty seemed when he left. (Hardly surprising, since they’d just had another major row). Oh, she knows Marty’s not the suicidal type, she continues, but she couldn’t help wondering all last night - what if he truly felt he had nothing for which to live? Immediately, she’s voiced that thought, she and Plank exchange concerned looks, and Plank offers her the wooden hand of comfort.
The rubbish truck approaches the wheelie bin in which Marty was dumped. The hydraulic arm lifts the bin and dumps its contents into the belly of the truck.
Rabbity Ruth, snorking some snot, wiggling her runny nose and chomping her gap-toothed choppers, hops into the Bicker-Bicker kitchen to be confronted by an indignant Ma. Ma waves the offending lighter under Rabbity Ruth’s bogey-strewn nose. Pa’s not doing very well, is he? She asks, rhetorically.
Rabbity Ruth snorks back some snot and licks the remaining liquid from her upper lip. Probably her fault, she assesses, accurately and coldly. She’s causing all sorts of stress for her parents. (And does she care? Does she, bollocks!)
Oh, Ma and Pa are fine, Ma claims - and being the arrogant one-celled idiot that she is, of course, Ma is WELL qualified to speak for Pa. They’re just worried about all this macho argy-bargy with Dan the Man and the hapless Sean.
Did Ma tell Pa about what happened the day before? Ruth suddenly asks.
No, replies Ma. But Dan the Man and the hapless Sean are like two trains running on the same track in opposite directions toward each other. She can see it all turning nasty.
In fact, she continues, Rabbity Ruth just simply HAS to take control of the situation.
Rabbity Ruth asks how she can do that.
Ma tells her to use her feminine guile (and keep her mouth shut).
Across the Close, Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen rings the doorbell of Hotel Corkhill. She rings again, then peers through the letter box. She rings a third time and then backs down the drive, to peer upwards at the dwelling. Are people in Liverpool REALLY so stupid? You ring a doorbell and no one answers. You leave. Simple. End of story. Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen is carrying a bag of some sorts.
From camera left, Jimmy saunters down the street, carrying a shovel. Finally Helen notices him, commenting on the fact that Jimmy looks as though he’s been busy.
Jimmy smugly informs her that he’s working on Ray’s and Jessie’s garden.
Helen looks a tad uneasy. She’s worried about seeing Ray, but Jimmy tells her Ray’s out buying varnish for all the new furniture he’s building.
Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen proffers the plastic bag to Jimmy. She’s finished putting new zips on Jimmy’s trousers, she informs him, bobbing her head up and down.
Oooh, says Jimmy, in his best Frankie Howerd voice, he hopes these are stronger than the last.
All the better to keep the beast within, quips Helen, in a truly disgusting aside.
Well, Jimmy leeringly suggests, why not go inside and see if these can, indeed, contain the beast.
(YUCK! Maurice Bessman should know better).
Next door, Dire’s on the phone with the police, taking the name and number of a WPC Miles, as Christy Muddie enters. Seeing her finish the call, he immediately asks if that’s about news re Marty.
She called the police, Dire informs Christy.
The police? Christy scoffs. Why, Marty’s name is mud with them. They don’t give a toss.
It’s their job, Plank speaks up.
‘Get real,’ chides Christy. ‘The bizzies stitched him up the last time. Any chance of a cuppa?’
Dire sighs and heaves herself toward the fridge. Opening it, she discovers that there’s no milk.
What did the bizzies say? Asks Christy.
Dire says that they wanted a description of Marty.
‘That’s not difficult,’ snorts Christy. ‘Five-foot-eight and looks like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulder.’
And they wanted to know about the circumstances before he left, Dire adds, sadly.
Which were? Prods Adele.
He was under pressure from the police investigation, sighs Dire, in frustration.
‘And no wonder,’ rants Christy. ‘That’s all down ter the police. Joost look at the state o’the garden. They made a right show o’this family!’
Adele snaps at Christy to let Dire speak.
They also wanted a relative’s address, Dire adds.
Immediately, Christy begins to panic. ‘Yer didn’t give them MY address, didjer?’ He witters. ‘Only, I don’t want them coomin’ round mine!’
‘Stop thinkin’ o’yerself!’ Plank exclaims. ‘This is me dad!’
Dire strolls absently out to the conservatory. Oh, and they wanted some recent photos of Marty, and they gave her a contact number.
There’s some pictures taken last Christmas, Adele offers. Dire tells her to get the photos and get them around the police station.
Adele jumps from the table, telling all to text her if they hear anything.
‘That’s not like Marty,’ Christy muses, after Adele leaves. ‘Marty shoulda been round mine lookin’ fer a place ter stay.’
Dire turns sharply to Christy. Does Christy mean Marty left her?
No, Christy says, but he’s read about blokes who crack and just go walking.
And does Christy mean that Marty’s cracked? Asserts Plank.
‘Yer think yer know a person, and yer really don’t,’ muses Christy. ‘Any chance of a butty?’
Dire, with a fed-up look on her face, stomps into the kitchen.
Next door at Hotel Corkhill, Jimmy examines Helen’s needlework on his trousers. This is a job well-done, he says, patronisingly. Helen jokes about being a whiz on the sewing machine.
A whiz! Exclaims Jimmy. She’s a genius. Only now they have to see if the trousers really do keep the beast within, and he rolls onto Helen on the sofa, in a gross scene of fat flesh and fat arses. Helen pushes Jimmy’s chin from her face. Er, isn’t he supposed to be working for Ray?
Jimmy replies that he’s entitled to an extended lunch hour, as is everyone in Liverpool. They start to snog, but are interrupted by the doorbell.
Helen sits up, giggling stupidly, while Jimmy goes to answer the door.
SOO-PRISE! SOO-PRISE! It’s Sylvia Morgan.
In her cultured, cultivated voice, she asks Jimmy if Helen happens to be within.
Her luck’s in, Jimmy says. Helen’s just inside, and he ushers the older woman in.
Helen farts, in a total shock that sends her to her feet. What’s Sylvia doing here? She asks.
Why, she’s come to see Helen, Sylvia replies.
But, Helen stutters, she thought Sylvia didn’t want to see her again.
It was all a bit of a rush for her the last time, Sylvia says. However, if Helen doesn’t want her to stay -
Oh, yes! Protests Helen.
Jimmy interrupts to ask if Helen wants him to make some tea or ‘do one.’ Helen replies that she wants Jimmy to stay.
Meanwhile, Ray’s down at the garage shop - which appears to be a branch of Harrods, where one can buy anything, even furniture varnish. As he wanders from shelf to shelf, he’s followed closely by Leanne, who’s using Ray as a sounding board - which is about as useful as a chocolate teapot, considering Ray’s stone deaf.
Of course, Leanne continues in full flow, she’s not big-headed enough to call herself a CLASSIC beauty.
Er, classic beauty, Ray echoes, as if a thought stirred in his memory. Like Jane Russell, he offers.
Leanne looks genuinely puzzled. ‘Didn’t she have a brother named Jack?’ She asks.
Ray continues visually scouring the counters. ‘That was a dog,’ he replies, absently.
Leanne continues, wondering aloud if she should enhance her natural beauty be cosmetic means, just as Dr Parr enters the garage, marches to the counter and buys a pack of chewing gum. He interrupts her musings to make his purchase, and Leanne takes advantage of the fact that he’s a medical person to ask him a question.
What exactly does he know about botox?
For a moment, Dr Parr and Ray exchange wary glances.
Er, it’s derived from botulism, Dr Parr stutters.
‘That can kill yer,’ ventures Ray. ‘Why, it killed a buncha pensioners about twenty years ago.’
But botox is a weakened form, Dr Parr hastily adds, seeing Leanne’s look of ignorant horror.
Only, she wanted to use it for her creases, Leanne explains, indicating her forehead with her finger. Oh, and she was thinking about collagen injections too - give her lips more of a pout like Angelina Jolie’s. What does Dr Parr think? She finally asks.
Dr Parr begins to stutter once more. Well, er, he’s not a plastic surgeon -
‘But yer a doctor,’ says Leanne.
Dr Parr moves his mouth for a moment, as if struggling to find the words, glancing apprehensively at Ray for help. Ray affects to look elsewhere. Finally he blurts out loudly that Leanne is absolutely fine the way she is. Don’t change a thing. And then he scurries for the safety of the surgery, as Leanne preens behind his back.
Sylvia Morgan is back at Hotel Corkhill, trying uneasily to break the ice.
And how is Stephanie? She asks Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen, politely. She would love to meet her. She even brought the child a present. And she reaches into her bag and takes out a small, slender jewelry case. A bracelet.
Helen takes the gift and manages to smile uneasily, but she’s genuinely puzzled. Why, exactly, has Sylvia returned? She asks.
Sylvia smiles condescendingly and laconically shrugs her shoulders. She suddenly realised, she explains, that the more contact she had with Helen, the higher the risk of people finding out about her illegitimate daughter. Still, she wanted to know more about Helen, and about Stephanie. She stops in her discourse and casts a sidewise glance at Jimmy, who’s sitting in the background in the Hotel Corkhill lounge, as Helen and Sylvia share a pot of tea in the kitchen.
Jimmy notices the look. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he calls out, looking up from the paper he’s reading. ‘I’m like the butler, me - see noothink, hear noothink.’
Helen instinctively lowers her voice, however. Does this have anything to do with Sylvia’s husband? She asks.
It’s nothing to do with her husband, Sylvia says, emphatically. Her past is her past, and he knows nothing of it. It’s politics, she explains, apologetically. It would be so EASY to drag her past through the mud -
At that remark, Jimmy looks up suddenly, and Sylvia notices. She apologises for the way that phrase sounds, she continues. She sighs, saying that she tried to rehearse her speech all the way here. It all sounded so easy, and then she apologises to Helen for her past behaviour.
Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen bobs her head up and down and accepts the apology. But she wants to know if Sylvia rehearsed the speech she spoke the first time she visited.
Sylvia admits that she thought this moment would never come.
In other words, Helen says, bitterly, Sylvia managed to put Helen’s existence out of her mind.
Oh, she tried to think of Helen every day, Sylvia says, blithely. But the truth is, Sylvia did such a good job pretending that Helen wasn’t her daughter, that she simply had to face the truth that Helen was exactly that.
Helen tells the older woman that there’s no need to say that.
But she must, Sylvia insists.
Then Sylvia should behave like her mother, Helen admonishes. She only looked for Sylvia Morgan in order to find out some answers to her own past, Helen explains. Then Sylvia comes back into her life and snubs her. What exactly does Sylvia want now?
Sylvia’s clearly rattled by this outburst and starts to gather her bag and coat. Rising, she garbles that she must go, but Helen stops her, in a panic.
Next door, whilst Plank’s on the phone, Dire sits at the sitcom table, gazing at the photos from last Christmas, showing a happy family. Christy stands near the fridge and breaks the silence.
‘I could do with a cuppa,’ he hints.
There’s no milk, replies Dire, absently, still studying the photos.
Has anyone tried Marty’s phone? Christy asks.
Voice mail, replies Dire.
How about texting? Suggests Christy.
Loads of times, says Dire, just telling him to come home. Oh, if ONLY she knew he was OK.
Look, Christy offers, rattled by the atmosphere, Plank’s here. How about Christy goes to the garage and buys some milk?
Dire begins to weep.
Back at Hotel Corkhill, Helen struggles to get Sylvia to stay, by maintaining that she understands Sylvia’s motives now.
Everyone hopes for fairytale endings, says Sylvia, sadly.
Noothink wrong with that, says the Sage.
Sylvia continues putting on her coat, to Helen’s dismay; but she tells the younger woman that she has to see Ray. Jimmy offers to check to see if Ray’s in and also if the coast is clear.
Sylvia looks puzzled by that remark.
Jessie, Helen explains.
As Jimmy glances out the window, he notices Ray cross the Close and enter the bungalow. There’s your man, he calls to Sylvia. As Sylvia approaches the front door, Helen stops her again, asking if she’ll come back after seeing Ray.
Of course she will, Sylvia promises.
Jimmy escorts Sylvia down the Corkhill path, pausing to display his gardening finesse in the front garden. There you go! He brags. Bet they don’t grow flowers like that in Iceland, he continues. As a matter of fact, he’s doing a bit of gardening work for Ray -
As the two start toward the bungalow, Rabbity Ruth hops from Number 5 and starts to walk across the Close. Suddenly, her attention is caught by a horrible sight coming from the pathway to the Parade.
OMIGOD! She screams.
Marty Muddie, bloodied and filthy, stumbles blindly onto the Close. Jimmy leaves Sylvia’s side and rushes to Marty. ‘What’s happened?’ He asks. As Helen appears on the Corkhill doorstep, Jimmy shouts at her to ring the Muddies’ doorbell. In the meantime, he puts a supporting arm under a flagging Marty and tries to help him to Sitcom House.
Sylvia, looking distraught, continues toward the door of the bungalow, where Ray sees her.
As Helen frantically rings the Muddies’ doorbell, Dire and Plank appear at the door. Helen immediately takes Dire by the arm and leads her into the front garden.
Jimmy is still struggling to help Marty, who’s shoving him weakly away and insisting that he’s all right, when - in reality - he’s practically crawling.
Helen suggests calling an ambulance, as Rabbity Ruth watches in horror.
Reaching his door, Marty turns and snarls at the congregating crowd, telling them all to go away.
Adele, in the midst of all this crisis, has, however, decided to go to work, honing her retail skills at the hands of the one-celled Ma Gordon. As Adele enters the garage, all corn-rowed and fake-tanned, Ma observes that it’s obvious Adele DIDN’T go to Cornwall. Adele preens, tosses her cornrows in an imitation of a horny pony and jiggles her newly-enhanced tits, which shimmer under her ‘Stop for a Snack and a Bite’ invitational sweatshirt. There was a change of plan at the last minute, she giggles.
So Adele had no intention at all of going to Cornwall, Ma deadpans behind the counter.
Did Dire tell her then? Accuses Adele, narrowing her piggy eyes.
No, Ma confides, it’s just that Ma has four just like Adele back at Bicker-Bicker House.
Now, certain that trendy Ma is really on her side, as Ma lets her hooligans do anything from adultery to intimidation under her benevolent roof, Adele begins to enthuse about her holiday. Ayia Napa was WON-derful, she gushes. She certainly wishes she were there now.
Well, says Ma, hopefully, if Adele stays in school, then she can do what she wants - like her Bitch - and take a gap year. A gap year is a wonderful thing. It keeps the parents’ blood pressures up and the bank balance down.
Adele remarks ruefully that it’s as though a dozen kids were keeping the blood pressures up at Sitcom House. Has Ma heard about Marty Muddie?
At the other end of the garage, where Leanne is half-heartedly working at stocking shelves and listening to Adele’s conversation with Ma, Christy suddenly dashes in. Leanne’s efforts at eavesdropping are thwarted at the overdue sight of her beloved.
‘And joost where’ve YOU been?’ She catterwauls at Christy, upon clapping eyes on him.
Christy’s shifty eyes dart about the garage warily. Family crisis, he mutters, under his breath. He had to give some support to Dire and the kids.
Well, why didn’t he tell her? Leanne castigates. She could have helped him support them with it.
Christy pulls himself up to his full height of 5 feet 7 inches and replies with added dignity, ‘Some things a man has ter do on his own.’
Leanne looks at him sceptically, one hand on her hip, as she hears that po-faced claim. ‘Yeah?’ She queries. ‘Well, yer’ll be doin’ a lot on yer own if yer don’t see ter me needs. I’ll have yer know that there are plenty of oother men interested in me.’
Like who? Christy wants to know.
Well, Leanne grins maliciously, she happened to have a private consultation with that Dr Parr, who told her he likes her JOOST the way she is.
Christy suddenly looks jealous. Well, he sniffs, he certainly hopes that someone else was present during this ‘private consultation’ and that Parr kept his hands off the merchandise.
‘I can’t help it if men joost flerrrrt with me,’ pouts Leanne, but she’s interrupted by the sound of Adele’s mobile ringing at the other end of the garage.
Adele finishes the call and shouts to Christy that Marty’s home, and the two dash from the garage.
Back at Sitcom House, Plank is on the phone to the Walk-In Centre, telling the receptionist that a doctor is needed urgently at the Muddies’. The unseen, unheard receptionist asks if Marty were capable of walking, to which Plank replies that he can only just about walk. No, Plank continues, he doesn’t want an ambulance.
The camera pans back to reveal Marty, battered and bloodied, fidgeting uncomfortably on the sitcom sofa. Dire kneels by him, imploring him to stay still.
‘I suppose I had it coming,’ grumbles Marty, sotto voce. ‘That’s what they do ter child-killers, isn’t it?’ He adds. ‘Only it shoulda been a bunch of women with baseball bats.’ And he looks at Dire pointedly through his blackened eyes. He’s heard her say as much, he says. ‘Just leave them paedos alone with a boonch o’women,’ he parrots.
Who did this? Dire wants to know.
Plank now comes and stands over his stricken father. ‘It was the Cloughs, wasn’t it?’ He asks.
‘No,’ protests Marty, wincing. Then, seeing Plank’s unbelieving face, he confesses. ‘Yes, it was.’
Plank immediately announces his intention of ‘getting’ the Cloughs, while Dire announces that she’s calling the police. Marty implores them both to lay off anything.
At that moment, Christy and Adele burst into the house, Adele immediately falling to her knees in front of Marty. As Christy enters the room, Plank shoots him a serious look, telling his uncle that he and Christy have a ‘job to do.’ Upon hearing that, Dire and Marty simultaneously tell the two men that nothing must be done to the Cloughs.
‘And no police either,’ adds Marty, now speaking with difficulty. ‘Just the doctor.’
The doctor won’t come, says Plank. They say to bring Marty down to the medical centre.
But Christy thinks otherwise. Plank’s right, he says. The Cloughs have to be shown.
‘JOOS DO WHA’ME DAD SAYS!’ Cries Adele, having received elocution lessons from Emily.
Marty should go to the hospital, says Dire, firmly.
‘No hozzy,’ says Marty, and then he looks up at Christy. ‘Have yer got yer van?’ He asks.
Christy nods.
‘Then it’s the medical centre or noothink,’ announces Marty.
Across the Close at the bungalow, Ray invites Sylvia Morgan in for tea, but Sylvia is reluctant. She’s OK outside, she says. But Ray has Eccles cakes, he says, persuasively. He remembers how much Sylvia liked those.
She just wants to apologise, Sylvia says; but Ray says that there’s no need.
Oh, but there is, Sylvia protests. She behaved abysmally. She shouldn’t have told Helen about the abortion.
Well, muses Ray, scratching the back of his head and looking at the ground, people say and do what they like when it comes to love.
Sylvia says she’ll just say what she has to say and then go.
Back at Hotel Corkhill, Helen’s made up that Sylvia Morgan has come back.
The Sage, putting on his indulgent cap, purrs that he knows Helen is happy about this, but at the same time, he advises, she has to ask herself why Sylvia came back.
But Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen tries to change tack. She really should ask about Marty Muddie, she witters. He was in a right state, poor man.
Forget about him, wafts the Sage. Why has Sylvia come back?
She told Helen why she came back, Helen says defensively.
The Sage raises his massive eyebrows, sceptically. To make sure Helen didn’t go to the papers and spoil Bard’s career?
Oh, she admitted as much, dismisses Helen. But at the same time, Sylvia wanted Helen’s forgiveness, and Helen believes her.
The Sage peers at her suspiciously. Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen has to keep one step ahead of this Sylvia Morgan, he warns her.
Helen replies that she needs to believe that’s why Sylvia came back.
The Sage says that he just doesn’t want to see Helen all over the place again.
Having arrived at the Medical Centre, Christy and Dr Parr help the injured Marty into an examination room, followed by Dire. As the Doctor and Christy help Marty onto the table, Dr Parr makes small talk, remarking about Marty being in a bit of a state. Marty assures the doctor that he’ll be all right.
Oh, he’s supposed to say that, witters Dr Parr, apologetically, and then he thanks Christy for his help, effectively dismissing him from any further part in the consultation.
Christy eyes the doctor squarely and remarks that he, himself, is very fit for a man his age. (Which seems to me to be roughly the same age as Max Farnham - so why hasn’t anyone remarked on Leanne seeing an older man?) In fact, Christy continues, some would say he’s rather handy.
Dr Parr now asks Christy politely to step outside. Christy views this, incorrectly, as an invitation to a fight. No need to get like that, Christy says, hastily. He merely wants Dr Parr to know about stepping onto Christy’s territory - his family and, er, people close to him.
Dr Parr doesn’t understand what Christy’s going on about.
‘I’m talkin’ about them private consultations at the garage,’ Christy explains.
Dr Parr just tells Christy to go outside, as he turns to devote his full attention to Marty. The first thing to garner the doctor’s attention is Marty’s left eye, which is virtually swollen shut. How did this happen? The doctor asks.
Dire starts to answer, but Marty interrupts and says that he was mugged. Dr Parr looks at him sceptically.
Well, the doctor begins, did Marty not think to phone the police or an ambulance from the place where the mugging occurred?
Marty chokingly replies that he didn’t want to make a fuss.
Dr Parr examines Marty’s chest, which is bruised (surprisingly quickly too). What did he get mugged for? The doctor quips, sarcastically. His heart? What did the police say?
No bizzies, grunts Marty. No fuss.
Ray brings a tray of tea into the sparsely furnished lounge of the bungalow, telling Sylvia that he’s glad the two of them met again, even with all the ensuing bother.
Sylvia deprecatingly says that she shouldn’t have said anything about the abortion to Helen. It should have just been something kept between her and Ray.
Well, Ray remarks, he got a family of sorts out of all this. A grandchild too. Why, she’s Sylvia’s granddaughter too.
Sylvia demurs. She doesn’t think Helen thinks that way.
If he smooths the way with Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen, Ray promises her, anything is possible.
Outside, we see the red van of the hapless Sean pull up.
The hapless Sean and Luke emerge from the van and walk up the drive to Bicker-Bicker House, only to be met by a surprised Rabbity Ruth. Ruth remarks that she didn’t expect to see Sean that day, and Sean apologises for his behaviour of the previous day.
This is getting to be too much, Rabbity Ruth warns him.
Sean looks around suspiciously and asks the whereabouts of Dan the Man.
He’s at an interview, Ruth tells him.
‘He’s the problem,’ remarks Sean, bitterly. ‘He knows joost which buttons ter push, and access ter Luke’s the main one.’
Luke pipes up that he wants to show Sean a picture. Sean suggests that he and Rabbity Ruth hop inside for a talk.
‘No heavy stuff,’ sighs Rabbity Ruth, reluctantly agreeing.
Back at Hotel Corkhill, however, Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen can’t seem to keep away from the curtains of the front window. Wafting fragrantly by, the Sage placidly observes that Helen seems to be on ‘Sylvia-Watch’. Reluctantly letting go of the curtain she’s clutching, Helen farts and replies that she just doesn’t want Sylvia to forget to call in when she’s left Ray’s.
If she forgets, the learned Sage declaims, it’s not because of what happened today or because she doesn’t want to see Helen. Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen needs to put up a defensive shield of sorts, the Sage advises. Finding a long-lost daughter is the biggest thing to happen to Sylvia in her life. She’s not about to walk away and not see Helen again. Happy Smiling Helen needs to be prepared, he urges. She’s hurting, but so is Sylvia Morgan.
Happy Smiling Helen bobs her head in earnest obedience, as the doorbell rings.
Jimmy answers it to find Sylvia standing there. Ray’s fine, she announces, and then asks Jimmy to ring for a taxi. She looks pointedly at Helen.
Over at Bicker-Bicker House, Luke is proudly showing his father a picture he’s painted. It’s of Mummy, Daddy and Luke.
He’s a good, little artist, chomps Rabbity Ruth, snorking back some snot, as she pats her po-faced kid away.
The hapless Sean continues to gaze at the depiction. ‘Yer can’t beat a kid fer honesty,’ he says.
No heavy stuff, reminds Rabbity Ruth.
The hapless Sean tells Ruth that the two of them need to organise things. Luke is important, Together they had to come up with some sort of strategy for access to the child.
Did the hapless Sean get that idea from his solicitor? Rabbity Ruth sneers, sarcastically.
No, answers Sean, from his mother.
Looking shame-faced, Rabbity Ruth asks after Sean’s mother.
She’s gutted about the divorce, he confesses, but she does say that the two of them have to make an effort. The truth is, says Sean, that the two of them need to meet, on neutral ground, with no parents and no Dan to hinder them.
Fine, snaps Rabbity Ruth. Where does he suggest?
What about the bar where she works? (OH, where else?) Just call and give him a time, says Sean, and he’ll be there. AND he’ll be chilled, he adds. He rises to leave, saying a fond farewell to Luke.
Dr Parr finishes his examination of Marty as Dire stands nearby. What’s the verdict? Asks Marty.
Dr Parr looks at him severely. ‘You need immediate medical attention and you need a hospital,’ he snaps.
No, says Marty, indignantly.
‘But I’m limited in what I can do for you,’ protests the doctor. ‘Cuts and lacerations, OK, but your ribs are broken and for that you’ll need a chest X-ray. But I’m more concerned about your left eye. You need specialist attention.’
‘What if I don’t go?’ Asks Marty, belligerantly.
‘Your broken ribs could puncture your lung,’ assesses Dr Parr.
‘Maybe not,’ says Marty, evasively.
‘And a detached retina could cost you your sight,’ finishes Dr Parr. Listen, he continues, Marty could say whatever he wants about what happened to him - mugging, whatever. But HIS job is to treat and advise. NOW, would Marty let him call an ambulance?
Sitting in the Corkhill kitchen, Sylvia Morgan is waxing lyrical about winter in Iceland. Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen is listening raptly.
Oh, it sounds lovely, she squeals. She’d love to go there ... Er, one day.
Well, why doesn’t she? Asks Sylvia, blithely oblique.
Helen jumps at the supposed invitation. Why, why, she and Stephanie could come for Christmas, she exclains.
Er, no, interjects Sylvia, suddenly horrified at what she’s done. No, Christmas is a bad time for them. Er, Bard has too many official receptions, and there’s this conference in Norway they’d planned to attend -
She’s interrupted by the arrival of the taxi she ordered, sounding its horn. Sylvia rises to leave, saying that she wished she could have stayed longer.
Oh, cries Helen, alarmed. Is she going back to Iceland now?
Sylvia replies placidly that she’s returning the next day.
Then it’s just au revoir, says Helen, dramatically. Sylvia must promise Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen never to say good-bye, always au revoir. (I’m sure this is from some 1930’s film - or maybe Celia Johnson said it to Trevor Howard?)
Sylvia, looking uncomfortably, reluctantly promises. If that’s what Helen wants, she fudges. She then leaves for her taxi.
Helen rushes to the front window to watch Sylvia leave.
Standing behind her, Jimmy smiles smugly. ‘What did I tell yer?’ He asks, rhetorically.
Helen turns to face him, defiantly. Sylvia said that this time there would be no more good-byes.
She’s a politician’s wife, he scoffs. She’s learned a few of her old man’s tricks. She didn’t say ‘yes’ to no more good-byes, she said, ‘if that’s what you want.’
Well, Helen believes her, Happy Smiling Helen asserts, and she believes her about the forgiveness too. In fact, Helen was too harsh on her before. Now they’re trying to build some sort of relationship. Sylvia Morgan is back in her life after thirty-odd years. Why, she only saw her a handful of times as a child. She HAS to do this, she vows. And Jimmy has to let her.
Maurice Bessman wrote this. Bad one.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002