The Corn Is Green

---

Hey, Watty!

Stop!

What do you think of Wales?

- Gorgeous, isn't it?

- Very hilly.

It's very bumpy.

Goodbye.

Meet you at the house.

Anybody at home?

Good day, sir.

- Anyone home?

- Squire.

Oh, delicious lady, delicious surprise.

How are you, Jones?

Making the most of your half-day.

- Good afternoon, sir.

- Squat, man.

- No ceremony with me.

- I'll just get these out of sight.

Any sign of the new inhabitant?

Any moment now, I think,

if the train from London was on time.

And why, dear lady, did I not see you

at the Travazelis wedding?

Naughty man.

I sat with you at the breakfast.

Mr. Jones.

- Colonel?

- Colonel Moffat.

We must welcome him properly.

What is this? Is he married?

With children?

No mention of it in his letters.

- Do you speak English?

- I do.

Well, be a dear and hold that.

- Why don't you say something?

- Never speak till I'm spoken to.

- Who was that?

- My mommy. Never had no daddy.

It's heavy.

Give us a hand.

Oh, heavy.

Full of books, I shouldn't be surprised.

Don't stand there gawking.

Come on, give us a hand with the luggage.

Tallyho, I thought we'd lost you.

- Oh, dear. Good afternoon.

- Kitchen through here?

And garden through here.

Has anybody got a sweetie?

No.

Lovely.

Bigger than I expected.

So this is my house.

No, it isn't.

Well...

Isn't this Pengarth house?

The name of the building, I mean.

- Yes, it is.

- And it isn't yours, damn it.

- Belongs to this...

- Moffat.

Yes. Yes, it was left me by my uncle,

Dr. Moffat. I'm Miss Moffat.

And you must be Miss Ronberry,

who so kindly corresponded with me.

- How do you do?

- Do sit down.

But those letters were written by a man.

Well, if they were, I've been grossly

deceiving myself for all these years.

Surely you signed your name very oddly.

My initials, L.C. Moffat.

You see, I never felt that Lily Christobel

really suited me.

L.C.

I thought it meant lieutenant colonel.

Yes, but there was a military title

afterwards.

M.A., Master of Arts.

A female Master of Arts?

Any objections?

How long is this going to last?

Quite a long time, I hope...

...considering that we've been waiting

for it for 2000 years.

Are you saved?

Are you saved?

- Am I what?

- Are you high or low?

- I beg your pardon.

- Church or chapel?

I really don't know. Low, I suppose.

And now you know all about me.

What do you do?

I'm afraid I don't do anything.

Good heavens. Nothing at all?

What a waste.

- Well, I mean to say...

- Mr. Treverby owns the hall.

Interesting. I never had much to do

with landed gentry.

If I may say so, dear lady,

that is patently obvious...

...and I will not intrude

on you any longer.

Right, sir. Turn, sir. Out, sir. March.

- Good day, Jones.

- Good day, sir.

Nobody could say

that I've made a conquest there.

What's the matter with him?

- Oh, he's really very nice.

- When you get to know him?

- Yes.

- I'm afraid I'll never have the time.

I do thank both of you.

You've arranged everything

quite splendidly.

I like this house. May I look about?

Oh, yes, of course.

Dear, where's his lordship?

Took offense and left.

- At her?

- I'm afraid so.

Ain't she a clinker?

She is unusual.

She's a clinker, that's what.

Terrible strong-willed though.

Would bring me here.

I said, "No," I said.

- "Not with my past," I said.

- Your past?

Yes, before she took me up.

But now, what with her...

And since I've joined the corps.

- The corps?

- Yes.

The Militant and Righteous Corps.

Singing and praying

and collecting full blast.

I've been a different woman ever since.

- Are you saved?

- Yes, I am.

So am I. Ain't it lovely?

But what was your past?

Light fingers.

Light?

Fingers.

Terrible. It was everything:

Pennies, brooches, spoons, tiddly.

Every time there was a do,

everything went.

And I always knew it was me.

- Kitchen all right?

- Ain't seen no mice yet.

- I'm going outside.

- Oh, dear.

Come look at this.

Come out here a minute.

This barn out here.

- Is it mine, by any chance?

- No chance.

It belongs to the Gwalia farm,

but the farm burned down.

Sir Herbert Vesey owns it.

He lives in London.

Then it's available.

I mean, it could be bought or rented.

I suppose so.

We'll find out, we'll write him a letter.

- Can we get in?

- Only too easily.

But you haven't come down

to farm, have you?

Hardly.

Perfect.

Perfectly awful, the smell.

I like the smell of cow dung.

Don't you, Mr. Jones?

I don't think I ever thought about it.

- Room for 30 desks here, blackboard there.

- Desks?

- Cloakroom, office.

- Office?

We haven't properly met.

John Goronwy Jones, isn't it?

Goronwy.

- Goronwy.

- Yeah.

You've had a grammar-school education.

You work as a clerk in a law firm

and you're not happy in your work.

How much do they pay you?

Why, 33 shillings a week.

- I'll give you 34 and your lunch.

- You will?

Yes, I will.

I don't expect to pay you anything.

You've had a fair education,

you live alone in a large house...

...and have a quite ample annuity.

- I will give you lunch, naturally.

- Give me lunch?

Well, you can't pretend your life is so full

that you have no time for a worthy cause.

Well, not completely full

at the moment, perhaps.

But when the right gentleman

comes along...

If you're a spinster well on in her 30s,

he's lost his way and he isn't coming.

Why don't you face the facts

and enjoy life, same as I do?

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes