The Ploughman’s Lunch

by Ian Mcewan

  JAMES. C’mon. I don’t want any jokes about this.

  JEREMY. No jokes. James is in love.

  EDWARD. Congratulations. Who with?

  JEREMY. A glamorous young lady way above his station . . .

  JAMES. Bastard.

  JEREMY. Name of Susie Barrington. Daughter of the eminent historian, Ann Barrington, step-daughter of scandalous Matthew Byrd the acclaimed sack-artist . . .

  Lay over Jeremy’s account on next scene and fade down slowly.

  24. Interior. Susan’s flat. Late evening.

  A sumptuously cluttered place. A chesterfield. Deep armchairs, silk cushions, prints, coffee table, books. Clearly an inherited place.

  Susan is pouring coffee. James sits across from her, jacket off sunk in cushions.

  Jeremy’s voice-over recedes.

  SUSAN. Mummy and I—we were more like lovers, really, or sisters. Then a couple of years after Daddy died, and not long after I left Oxford, she started seeing various men and I was furious. I really was upset. I stopped going home, I never phoned. I went round telling everyone how awful her books were. And she hardly seemed to notice, and that made me angrier. Then I got a job I was interested in, and I started to see lots of different men, and I suppose I grew up a little and began to understand. So I wrote her a long letter, almost seven pages, saying how sorry I was, and how I was worried that we were drifting apart. And do you know,

  (A pause.)

  she wrote me a poem, a really beautiful poem about mothers and daughters.

  JAMES. How nice.

  SUSAN. It makes me weepy just to remember it. So we were fine again, and then she got married to Matthew who’s a womaniser and a bit of a yob, but quite nice really, makes TV commercials. What about yours?

  JAMES. Both dead.

  SUSAN. That must be rather nice, in a way. I mean, you don’t have any . . .

  The door bell rings loudly.

  Damn. They’re early.

  JAMES. Who?

  SUSAN. I called you a taxi.

  JAMES. Very thoughtful.

  SUSAN (a gesture of helplessness). Well, you know . . .

  25. Exterior. Front door, Susan’s flat. Late evening.

  A minute later. James and Susan stand at the front door. Portico and steps down to street. Taxi waits. They kiss. Susan draws back.

  JAMES. Again?

  SUSAN. Yes, if you like. Call me at work.

  James descends the stairs. Susan closes the door.

  26. Interior. Cocktail bar. Early evening.

  A cocktail bar, a self-conscious imitation of the American model. James and Jeremy sit on high stools at the bar. Tall colourful drinks are just being set down in front of them. On a TV there are scenes of the departing Royal Navy fleet.

  JEREMY. To the Fleet.

  JAMES. To the Fleet.

  JEREMY. And the Argies.

  JAMES. The Argies.

  Jeremy reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out an envelope.

  JEREMY. Now, top secret file.

  JAMES (reaching for it). Come on. Hand over.

  Jeremy puts the envelope out of James’s reach.

  JEREMY. Uh-huh. Tell me what you think of this first.

  JAMES. It’s shit.

  JEREMY. You approve!

  JAMES. Let me see.

  JEREMY. Get away. You’ll see when I’m ready. First I want you to reflect on my noble behaviour, on how your interests are closest to my heart, how I lay awake at night worrying . . .

  JAMES. Jeremy, just let me see what you’ve got.

  JEREMY. You’re so hard. All right then. I was chatting to some people from the diary page, and the name of Barrington came up. I expressed an interest . . .

  JAMES. Oh yes . . .

  JEREMY. . . . an innocent interest, and found out that last year Vogue ran a series called ‘Mothers and Daughters.’ Number seven, Ann and Susan Barrington. Being a decent, loving friend I went to the files and made a copy for you.

  JAMES. Let me see.

  JEREMY. Ah, ah. There’s more. The piece celebrates the undying affection between the eminent left-wing historian and her dazzling daughter. Then the news editor, who happened to be in the room, said that years ago, when he worked on The Guardian, Ann Barrington had written a very good piece on . . . guess . . . Suez. It was 1966, the tenth anniversary.

  Jeremy hands over an envelope which James now opens.

  She’s never written a book on it, but she clearly knew a lot.

  JAMES. Mmm . . .

  JEREMY. It’s obvious what you have to do. Your way into the daughter’s pants is through the mother, up the Suez Canal . . .

  JAMES. You’re so gross.

  JEREMY. She’s very nice, apparently. Lives in Norfolk. And very left-wing. You’ll have to watch yourself there.

  JAMES. Ha ha . . .

  JEREMY. According to this, the daughter goes up to stay quite often. You’ll need to get yourself invited for the right weekend.

  JAMES. You’ve really got it all worked out, haven’t you?

  JEREMY. No need to thank me, if you don’t want to. Just pay for these drinks.

  BARMAN. That’ll be eleven pounds, sir.

  27. Interior. Polytechnic. Day.

  James walks along a busy corridor in a polytechnic. In a recess to one side is a games room. Along the walls are Space Invader machines by the dozen. Students stand at the machines intently, their faces illuminated by the glow. We see some expertly handled Space Invader action. James approaches one of the players and asks directions. Without looking up the student points down the corridor.

  28. Interior. Corridor. Day.

  James stands outside the doors of a lecture hall. Inside a lecture is in progress. We catch a few words.

  James pushes the door open.

  29. Interior. Lecture Hall. Day.

  The lecturer glances back and acknowledges his presence.

  James stands at the back of the hall for the end of the lecture.

  LECTURER. A vacuum had been created. If the United States did not fill it, it was assumed the Russians would.

  Pause.

  Next week I shall be considering the extent to which the behaviour of nation states or governments may be judged by the moral criteria we normally apply to individuals. Thank you.

  The students stand and begin to move out. James and the lecturer move towards each other and shake hands.

  30. Interior. Lecturer’s room. Day.

  James and the lecturer sit separated by a low table. A tape-recorder is on the lecturer’s side of the table.

  LECTURER. Well, what you need to understand . . .

  JAMES. No, sorry, could you lean forward a bit when you speak.

  LECTURER. Oh. Is this all right? Um . . . you see, through the late summer and early autumn of 1956 the Egyptians were running the canal, their canal, that is, quite efficiently. Traffic was passing through unimpeded, for Nasser didn’t want to provide the West with any reason for invading his country. Is that loud enough, by the way?

  JAMES. It’s OK.

  LECTURER. Right. So by the time the British and French launched their invasion at the beginning of November the main economic reasons for doing so had largely evaporated. What remained, especially for the British, were the more marginal and emotional arguments.

  31. Interior. James’s flat. Evening.

  The lecturer’s voice continues on the tape. James pours a drink as he listens and walks towards his desk.

  LECTURER (voice over). Using the language of private behaviour you could say that this was an affair of the heart—the idea was to teach Nasser a lesson, to appear capable of acting independently, and to maintain face in the world, particularly the Arab world.

  James switches the tape recorder off. He picks up the Vogue ‘Mothers and Daughters’ article and pins it to the map of Egypt.

  32. Interior. A community hall. Evening

  A poetry reading, given by Edward Long, has just come to an end. There are about fifty present, and
empty chairs behind. Jeremy and James are in the audience.

  Edward is reading the last stanza of a poem.

  EDWARD. And so the ferry moves

  across the bay,

  Top heavy as a wedge of wedding

  cake,

  Leaving us to return to our hotels.

  Gulls in nautical trim cry their

  farewells,

  Then drop with avaricious eyes to

  take

  Souvenirs from the debris of the day.

  He pauses.

  Thank you very much.

  There is earnest applause which peters out. Now, a tense silence.

  Edward stares impassively at the audience until he catches the movement of a half-raised arm.

  Yes.

  The questioner is a middle-class, middle-aged woman, rather twittery.

  WOMAN. Me?

  EDWARD. Yes.

  WOMAN. Oh, yes, well I thought I’d start the thing off by asking, you know, and you’ll probably think it’s a stupid question that you get all the time, but could you tell us a little of how you actually get ideas, I mean, your poems are quite extraordinary and beautiful and I wondered how they, well, you know, came about.

  During this, Jeremy has caught James’s eye and they have started to giggle silently. This continues through the scene. They hunch up and turn away from each other, shaking quietly, half recover, become aware of each other, or of the absurdity of the questions, or of Edward’s attempts to deal with them, and they fold up once more. From Edward’s point of view we see their heads duck down.

  EDWARD. It isn’t a stupid question, but it is a difficult one to answer. I get ideas in much the same way as anyone does. Perhaps the difference is that I take them more seriously. I write them down—odd scraps of things. Then I seem to know when I’m ready to start work on a poem. It takes shape as I write it, very slowly.

  While Edward answers, the woman nods vigorously.

  James and Jeremy recover in the brief pause between questions. They lift tear-stained faces, then crack up at the next question.

  A young man, anorak, flat auto-didact’s ‘does-the-team-think’ voice. Piece of paper in hand, he stands, trembling.

  MAN. You are one of the most praised poets of your generation of younger poets, and the Sunday Times has called you a cross between Dante and Philip Larkin. What is your reaction to this?

  EDWARD. Well, it’s silly really. (Catching sight of Jeremy and James.) It’s journalism. Yes?

  A serious-looking student has his hand raised.

  STUDENT. Yes. What is the poet’s role in society today?

  Close in on James, drawing breath. A sudden sharp yelp from Jeremy fighting for air. All heads turn. The two are almost off their seats onto the floor. We close in on them and hear their moans of ‘No, no’ and ‘Stop, stop’, and ‘Sorry!’

  33. Interior. Newsroom. Late morning.

  The newsroom. The teleprinters. The sheets arriving on the copytaster’s desk. On the TV monitor there are pictures of the Fleet. On the PA a voice announces ‘Edward Du Cann on Four’.

  We find Philip standing by the bulletin desk. He is a graduate trainee, 23 years old. Earnest in manner, slightly ingratiating.

  Immensely pleased with what he has just read, he moves towards the summaries desk with a piece of paper in each hand.

  PHILIP. James, look at this. At last.

  James is standing by a secretary, dictating.

  JAMES. Wait . . . and with talks at the United Nations still making little progress, tension and anxiety settled on MPs of all parties in Westminster. Speaking on the Jimmy Young Show earlier today, Mrs Thatcher said the the prospects of a peaceful solution did not look encouraging. What is it?

  PHILIP. Take a look at these.

  James glances over the sheets.

  JAMES. Not bad.

  PHILIP. Fifteen news items. I got exactly the same running order as the bulletin desk. They’re all old pros.

  JAMES. Terrific.

  Philip moves on to show someone else nearby. We hear him explain his triumph again.

  James makes a gesture and expression of contempt for the benefit of the seated secretaries.

  A group of journalists passes through. James catches one of them by the arm.

  JAMES. Can I use the phone in your office?

  JOURNALIST. Sure.

  34. Interior. Office. Late morning.

  A small bare office. A few minutes later. James is speaking on the phone to Susan.

  JAMES. You’re being very elusive . . . tell them you’re ill . . . or leave early then . . . do it properly, tell them a lie . . . Ok, come when you can. You’ve got the address . . . yes, it will be nice. ’Bye . . .

  35. Interior. James’s flat. Night.

  Susan sits cross-legged in the centre of James’s bed. James lies along one edge, head propped on elbows. They’ve been drinking coffee. We have the sense of a long evening of intimate talk, but not much else so far. A pause before Susan speaks.

  JAMES. Why not stay?

  SUSAN. I have to be up early. (She stands.)

  JAMES. Me too.

  SUSAN (straightening herself at the mirror. James standing close). Two or three years ago I would have stayed. And fucked you.

  JAMES. Too late. Just my luck.

  He stands behind her and kisses her neck. She turns and they kiss. Susan pulls away. She taps James’s nose with her forefinger.

  SUSAN. Now I’m more wary. I must be getting old.

  She reaches for her coat. James helps her.

  JAMES. You don’t trust me.

  SUSAN. I don’t trust anyone. That’s what comes of working in television.

  JAMES. In radio we’re different.

  SUSAN. I bet. Thanks for the drink.

  He opens the door.

  JAMES. I might see you in Norfolk over the weekend.

  SUSAN (smiling). You just might.

  She closes the door on her smile.

  36. Interior. Squash court. Day.

  A day later. A glass-fronted Squash Court. James and Jeremy are into a game. Both are inept and very unfit.

  We come in on a rally. Jeremy misses an easy ball and lets his racket drop. James sits down with his back to the wall. Jeremy gets his cigarettes from a corner of the court. They inhale smoke as if it were fresh air.

  JEREMY. That’s enough of that.

  JAMES. We’ve been playing ten minutes for Christ’s sake.

  JEREMY. Far too long.

  A pause. Some keen squash players appear at the door, peer in and go away.

  JAMES. What have you been up to?

  JEREMY. Well, everyone’s desperate for a new Falklands angle. Purdy’s come up with a real dog. Workers’ rights in Argentina. So I’ve been running round getting people to do things. But no one’s keen. Workers’ rights. When did anyone on that paper give a damn about workers’ rights? I said to Purdy, ‘Look, tits, bingo, jingo, horoscope, sport, celebs, gossip and the occasional firm stand on—’

  JAMES. The torture of small children—

  JEREMY. On the torture of very small children, but don’t start telling them about their rights—

  JAMES. Hold those rights.

  JEREMY. Tame those rights . . . you know, we’re even freighting in a couple of exiled Argie trade unionists from Paris for a TV tie-in. One of them had his balls tap-danced on by the secret police. The other one had to be hosed off the wall of his cell after the police—yes, my good man?

  A muscular coach in a tracksuit, is rapping on the glass door. And opening it. He wears a short towel around his neck.

  I’m sorry. This is a private conversation. You’ll have to wait. Outside.

  COACH. You can’t smoke in here. This is a squash court.

  JEREMY. Well we booked it for a smoke, didn’t we, James?

  JAMES. And we’re not quite finished.

  COACH. Come on. Out!

  A few players have gathered to watch outside.

  JEREMY. The court is ours for
another half hour. Please run along.

  The coach advances into the court, picks up their rackets and stands over them. He pushes a racket under Jeremy’s chin.

  COACH. I said, out.

  JAMES. On the other hand, we might be more comfortable at the bar. I’ve got some news on Suez.

  JEREMY (racket still under his chin). A serious drink might be of use, I suppose.

  37. Interior. James’s flat. Morning.

  James adjusts his tie in the mirror. The phone rings. Lay over James’s voice into Scenes 38 and 39.

  JAMES. Oh, hello, Dad, I’ve been meaning to phone you. How is she? . . . Oh . . . in the night? . . . Oh God. What does the doctor say? . . . Look, I will, I will. I promise. But it’s impossible at the moment, now with the crisis on. I’m working night and day . . . Look, tell her I’ll come as soon as I can. I promise . . . Look, Dad, I’ve got to dash. Give her my love. Yes . . . bye.

  38. Exterior. Brixton. Day.

  James walks down a Brixton street, down a narrow road to a set of lock-up garages. A group of black kids are playing football here. James steps round puddles, careful not to muddy his shoes. He scowls at the kids and unlocks his garage.

  James backs his car out of the garage. An early sixties Jaguar saloon. He gets out to close the garage door. The game of football rages around his car, as if it was not there.

  39. Exterior. Car-wash. Day.

  Ten minutes later. A car-wash. From the driver’s point of view we watch the revolving brushes advance and engulf the car.

  The phone conversation ends. James reaches down and pushes a tape into the car tape deck. We will hear the recording all through James’s journey, to Scene 41.

  LECTURER (voice-over). You see, if we talk of a nation, like an individual, acting emotionally, we can also speak of it acting deceitfully. Britain and France had entered into a secret agreement with the Arabs’ deadly enemy, the Israelis. The agreement was signed or initialled by the Foreign Secretary, Selwyn Lloyd on or about October 23, at Sevres. The Israelis were to attack Egypt on an agreed date. British planes based in Cyprus were to precision bomb Egyptian airfields to protect Israeli cities from retaliation. After putting out an ultimatum to both sides to withdraw to ten miles from the Canal, which of course the Egyptians would have to ignore since the Canal is 100 miles inside their territory, the British and the French would invade on the pretext of ‘separating the combatants’. That became something of a catch phrase: ‘Separating the combatants’.