My Boy Jack

MAN:
Yellow forms, please.

Wait here.

Are your people in the navy?

- No. Yours?

Oh, yes.

My father's captain of the Unity.

What does yours do?

- He's a writer.

John Kipling?

Come on, Kipling.

Where the hell are you?

I'm a great admirer of your father's.

Will you tell him

I just polished off Kim?

Absolutely loved it.

Yes, I will, sir.

You're wearing spectacles.

- Yes, sir.

Shall we start with the eyes then,

and work backwards?

Allah's teeth. Where are they?

Ah, come on, come on, come on,

come on, come on.

Thank you.

His Majesty is expecting you, sir.

- Thank you.

Don't worry, I have it about me.

I shall catch you on the way out.

Thank you, sir.

Stand on the cross, please.

Turn around.

And read the letters on the chart,

starting at the top.

H, A, L...

...without the spectacles.

Two hours, 57 minutes.

Yes.

Oh, at last.

Congratulations.

- Thank you, Your Majesty.

Marvellous run.

Awful close.

- Whisky?

It's a bit early.

- Oh, bugger the time.

Got to toast your triumph.

I've been tinkering with fourth gear,

it adds a little something.

Plus a new stretch of tarmac

near Lamberhurst.

To the shattering

of the three-hour barrier,

on the Bateman's-windsor run.

To the Silver Ghost.

- The Silver Ghost.

How's the family?

- Well, as we speak,

my son will be plum in the middle

of his medical for the navy.

Ah.

Big day.

- Absolutely.

How's your youngest?

- Not good.

Big heart, weak body.

May I read you something?

- Fire away.

This morning's Times.

'Rudyard Kipling,

speaking yesterday at a meeting...

'attended by more than 10,000 people,

'painted an alarming picture of life

in this country under German rule.'

You think they'd invade?

- I know they would...

...and our Government will be there

to welcome them ashore.

Soft-centred bloody tribe.

The Prime Minister has asked

me to beg you, those were his words,

to hold back at this sensitive time.

Why?

He believes there's still a chance

of avoiding war.

He's wrong.

- He thinks your pessimism is premature.

One million German soldiers...

...are sitting on the Belgium border

ready for the off.

It depends how you define premature.

- Quite.

Our heads are buried in the sand, sir.

We have a tiny professional army,

our weapons are 50 years old.

If we don't get our skates on,

we will pay the price.

But are you prepared to ease up a bit?

At least in public?

Certainly not.

Glad to hear it. More whisky?

Kodaks.

This is private property.

You are trespassing, please leave now.

Mrs Kipling...

- Now, please.

And take your Kodaks with you.

Is Mr Kipling available?

- No, he is not available.

You British journalists

are unbelievable.

You treat my husband like a zoo animal.

Now if you really admire him so much,

you would respect his privacy.

How would you like it...

...if I came tramping over

your garden uninvited?

Sir, you have a very distinctive face,

and I would be happy to describe it

to the police.

Leave, please.

The injured soldier.

Thank you for this, sir.

- What an ever so impressive sight.

How far did you fall?

Fifteen feet.

- Allah be praised.

Fifteen feet is high.

Did it hurt a great deal?

- No.

That was a stroke of luck.

Now your father tells me

you've read the first Jungle Book.

Yes.

- But not the second.

No.

Here you are, Arthur.

Is Mowgli in it?

Every page is chock-a-block with Mowgli.

And I've written your name and my name

in the front,

so we don't forget who we are.

And I've done a very silly picture

of you plunging from your apple tree.

But that's in pencil, so you can

rub it out as soon as I've gone.

Thank you.

Kodaks in the garden again.

Did you see them off?

- Oh, yes.

Oh, that's good.

Derry and Toms

are selling women's underwear...

...in the suffragette colours.

Purple and green stripes.

- Don't you dare.

There you go, Josie.

- I never imagine her ageing.

She's always seven,

but she's always older than me.

Funny.

She'd be 22 now.

- And 32 days exactly.

Do you know

what my mother used to call her?

The Little American.

Really?

- Mmm.

She spoke with an American accent

until the day she died.

Much to my mother's delight.

RUDYARD:
Jack.

Jack.

Jack.

Where's the Admiral?

- He's fixing the motorcycle with Peter.

Well, how did he get on?

They turned him down.

ELSIE:
He wasn't allowed

to wear his specs for the eye test.

For God's sake.

Do they want volunteers or not?

It seems sensible to me.

Bird, wearing spectacles

does not make one a bloody invalid.

I didn't say...

- I am not rising to the bait.

God, that is par for the course.

Are you going down to see John, sir?

- I am.

Could you tell Peter

we'll be going home in 10 minutes?

I will, indeed.

Peter, your mother wants you

ready for the off in ten minutes.

Really?

- Really.

Don't be downhearted, old man.

I'm not.

- Good.

The navy has always been tough

on that sort of issue.

We'll attack on another front.

What's the point of specs

if you can't use them?

I know, it makes me spit blood.

These people have no imagination.

But we must buck up and look forwards.

Did they realise who you were?

- One of them did.

Right.

Look, the army would be

a completely different kettle of fish.

I wanted to join the navy.

- I know, but onwards, old man.

What if I organise a private examination

with the Army Medical Board,

just as a preliminary canter?

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