The Last Days of Chez Nous & Two Friends

by Helen Garner

  The camera keeps rising, finds the cypress trees, and holds them.

  THE END

  TWO FRIENDS

  screenplay by

  HELEN GARNER

  directed by

  JANE CAMPION

  produced by

  JAN CHAPMAN

  for the

  Australian Broadcasting Corporation

  CAST LIST

  CO-LEADS

  LOUISE

  Emma Coles

  KELLY

  Kris Bidenko

  PERFORMERS

  JENNY

  Kris McQuade

  JIM

  Stephen Leeder

  FATHER

  John Sheerin

  MATTHEW

  Sean Travers

  ALISON

  Kerry Dwyer

  PHILIP

  Martin Armiger

  CHRIS

  Debra May

  MALCOLM

  Peter Hehir

  LITTLE HELEN

  Lisa Rogers

  KATE

  Amanda Frederickson

  CHARLIE

  Tony Barry

  KEVIN

  Steve Bisley

  UNIFORM SHOP ASSISTANT

  Lorna King

  RENATO

  Giovanni Marangoni

  WALLY

  Rory Delaney

  WOMAN

  Elizabeth Gentle

  PRINCIPAL

  Lynne Murphy

  SOULA

  Emily Stocker

  TEACHERS

  Sher Guhl, Neil Campbell

  SYNOPSIS

  Louise and Kelly are two fourteen-year-old friends. Their story is told in five separate periods—over one year, moving backwards in time towards childhood.

  NOTE

  In this version of Two Friends, Louise’s mother is called Jenny, while in the film itself her name is Janet. I have made this change here in order to avoid confusion with another Janet, a character in a later novel, Cosmo Cosmolino (1992). My double use of the name was completely accidental, though no doubt it has a meaning.

  PART ONE

  JULY 1985

  It’s ten o’clock on a winter morning.

  A white station wagon with tinted windows turns into the carpark of a city motel. It parks and Jenny and Jim get out. He is wearing a dark suit and tie, she is dressed in unremarkable winter clothes: boots, skirt, a jumper. They walk into the building without speaking to each other.

  Jenny and Jim approach the desk of the motel. Behind it are two women, one about fifty, an experienced-looking office worker, the other only a teenager; they are engaged in office tasks. Jenny and Jim glance at each other to see who will speak first.

  JIM (hesitates): Whereabouts is the…um…wake?

  GIRL: Up there. Turn right at the top.

  The couple head for the stairs.

  GIRL: Who’s it for?

  WOMAN: Some girl.

  GIRL: I didn’t see anything in the paper.

  WOMAN: It’s not news any more, that kind of thing. Poor kid.

  GIRL: What is a wake, anyway?

  Jenny and Jim enter a soulless convention room. A table is set with casks of wine, glasses, cups, an urn, plates of sandwiches; formal flower arrangements, a visitors’ book. People are standing around, the kind of people who don’t look comfortable dressed up. Greetings are quiet, emotional, but people are smiling. Several teenagers lean against a wall, smoking in a tearing, amateurish way.

  A couple, obviously parents of the dead girl, are receiving people at the centre of the room. They have the odd, swollen, glowing eyes of people in an extreme emotional state barely controlled. The mother has a gold chain round one ankle, under her stocking; otherwise they are conservatively dressed.

  Jenny and Jim get themselves a drink. They are awkward, standing about. People they know greet them: people who are clearly no longer their close friends.

  WOMAN: Haven’t seen you two together for donkey’s years.

  Jenny and Jim stand together, side by side, and talk without looking at each other: not through hostility, but rather through long years of familiarity, a sense of unthinking solidarity between them, although they parted long ago.

  JENNY: How can people bear it?

  JIM: I don’t suppose they can.

  JENNY: Do you ever try to imagine if Louise…

  JIM (he knows what she means and cuts across her in a light, tense voice): Look—if Louise died, if anything happened to her, I’d try and be thankful that she’d already had a good crack at life. I’d try to think about that.

  Pause. They drink and look around. This exchange has upset them. Jim is smiling but breathing slightly too fast.

  JENNY: I’ve got to get her a new case for the French horn.

  JIM: What’s that worth?

  JENNY: Heaps. A bomb.

  JIM: Gawd. Still…

  JENNY: But it is important, isn’t it?

  JIM (alarmed): You don’t think she’s at risk, do you?

  JENNY: Course not. You know she’s not.

  JIM: But they’re all at risk, aren’t they. Maybe you can’t tell till it’s too late.

  JENNY: Louise is all right.

  JIM: What about her mate, though. The sexy one.

  JENNY: Kelly’s dropped out of sight.

  JIM: IS she all right?

  JENNY: I don’t know. I don’t think so.

  Jim sees the dead girl’s father momentarily free, and puts his glass down.

  JIM: Come on, Jenny.

  He walks up to the father, who turns. It takes a second for the penny to drop.

  FATHER: Jim. Oh, mate.

  Jim puts his arms round the father. Jenny stands aside watching. They all stand still. The two men separate.

  JENNY: I loved what you said about her at the church.

  Father nods, can’t speak.

  JENNY: We hadn’t seen her for so long.

  The father controls himself with an effort. He leans forward, takes their hands. He speaks with difficulty, urgently, in a low, harsh voice.

  FATHER: Listen. Listen. Everybody’s sad. Everybody’s grieving. But when people who’ve got a daughter come up to me…I can see the terror in their eyes.

  They do not answer. They nod, and step back. Someone else approaches the father. Jim and Jenny walk away. The father calls after them.

  FATHER: Jimmy! I’m sorry I didn’t go over the fence with you that day at the Springboks.

  He is weeping. His face is screwed up.

  Late that afternoon: the empty sand at Bondi Beach.

  Kelly steps off the beach with a fairly horrible looking bloke, Panky. Kelly is dressed in full regalia: hair gelled, white make-up, tube skirt, huge holey jumper, torn fishnet stockings, pointed flat shoes, all in black. Something tied round her head.

  Panky is Anglo-Saxon, pale, weedy, weak-looking; looks as if he might turn nasty. Kelly seems the stronger of the two. They set off up the street together. Their demeanour is that of people who’ve been together some time. They walk to a bus stop. A bus comes and Kelly steps towards it.

  PANKY: See you about ten.

  He does not wait for the bus to pull away but turns and walks off.

  The same afternoon.

  Jenny is leaning out of the upstairs bedroom window of her house. She sees Louise in school uniform come struggling down the street from the bus, lugging the French horn.

  JENNY (shouts): Louise! Matthew’s here to see you. He’s downstairs.

  Louise’s face: interested but not pleased. She disappears with the horn through the back gate.

  Louise enters the lounge room. Matthew is standing beside the table, as if not sure whether he’s welcome. He is a rather soft-looking boy, tall and fair, with a fashionable haircut, not good looking. Louise is half-pleased, half-cross to see him. She greets him brusquely, and leaves him standing there while she goes to get something to eat, as kids do mechanically on returning from school: peels a mandarin and stuffs it in, but does not offer him one. Th
ey sit at the table. Conversation is awkward: Louise has little hostly charm.

  MATTHEW: How’s school?

  LOUISE: Oh, pretty foul.

  Pause.

  MATTHEW: I’ve been to the Ballroom a few times lately.

  LOUISE: I hate the Ballroom. People just walk around and pretend to be half dead and listen to foul bands.

  MATTHEW: Guess who I saw down there.

  LOUISE: Who?

  MATTHEW: Kelly.

  LOUISE (pretends to be less interested than she is): What did she look like?

  Jenny comes in. Matthew stands up, revealing his upbringing. Jenny walks through the room.

  JENNY: Anyone want a cup of tea?

  Jenny disappears into the kitchen.

  MATTHEW: She sent you her love.

  LOUISE (coldly): Thanks.

  Pause.

  LOUISE: What did she look like?

  MATTHEW: All right.

  He shrugs; like many boys he is not good at the kind of detail Louise is after.

  LOUISE: Oh, come on!

  MATTHEW: What?

  LOUISE: How did she look?

  MATTHEW: How do you mean?

  LOUISE: What was she wearing, for example?

  MATTHEW: I didn’t really notice.

  Pause.

  LOUISE: Did she tell you her address?

  MATTHEW: Oh, she’s not living anywhere.

  Pause.

  LOUISE: But where does she sleep?

  MATTHEW: They’re squatting. In an old fruitshop. She said it was really nice inside.

  LOUISE: Who’s ‘they’?

  MATTHEW: She was with a bloke.

  LOUISE: What sort of a bloke?

  MATTHEW: I think his name was Panky.

  LOUISE: Yes, but what sort of bloke?

  Matthew makes a big effort to remember some details.

  MATTHEW: Quite old. About twenty. He was wearing a singlet. They were on acid. They said they were.

  We get the impression that a lot of Matthew’s knowledge of the ways of the world is pure bluff.

  Jenny enters as he mentions the acid; she’s carrying milk and cups.

  JENNY (lightly): Do you mean to say people still do acid?

  MATTHEW (clearly bluffing now—repeating things he’s heard): I think they mix it with other things. Bourbon, or serepax or something.

  JENNY: Who are you talking about?

  MATTHEW: Kelly.

  JENNY: Kelly. (She steps closer.) Is Kelly all right?

  MATTHEW (wary of another interrogation): I think so.

  JENNY (interrogating): Is she—you know—thin? What did her skin look like? Did you look at her eyes?

  LOUISE: Oh Mum. Don’t embarrass me.

  MATTHEW: I didn’t notice. Sorry. I think she had a bruise on her face. Just here. (Points to his jaw.) Can I put a record on?

  Jenny goes out to the kitchen.

  Matthew goes to the stereo and starts to sort through the records. Pulls one out.

  MATTHEW: Nic Kershaw.

  LOUISE (hastily): That’s not mine. It’s Mum’s.

  Later the same afternoon, Louise sits in school uniform at the dining room table doing her maths homework. She is alone in the orderly room. The window looks out over the street. There are underclothes drying on the heater. Other kids pass, evidently students at the local high school—not in uniform, but dressed in bright exaggerated clothes. Their voices can be heard through the closed window; staccato speech full of fuck this and fuck that; laughter in bursts.

  Louise plugs on with her work. She does not even look up. A boy jumps up, in passing, to look in: his head pops up comically over the window sill.

  An open box of Kleenex sits on the table beside the neat ruler and pencilcase.

  Meanwhile, in the city, Kelly gets off a bus. She walks past the town hall. She posts a letter. She walks purposefully towards another bus stop: she clearly has a destination.

  Early the same evening, Louise is sorting things in her bedroom. She has her head in the cupboard. Jenny stands at the door with an apron on.

  LOUISE: She’s a bitch. She never rings up. She said she was coming to the concert on my birthday and she never turned up. I bought her a ticket and everything. I paid for that ticket.

  JENNY: Maybe she had a reason.

  LOUISE: And she took my flower press and never brought it back.

  JENNY: Surely neither of you is likely to be needing a flower press.

  LOUISE: That’s not the point. Nanna gave it to me. It’s mine. Stupid moll.

  JENNY: Louise! What a way to talk!

  LOUISE (reckless; almost in tears): I don’t care. She’s hardly a person any more.

  Kelly goes into a big chemist shop and examines some vases. They are ugly and cheap. She considers them carefully, counts her money, chooses one and takes it to the counter.

  CHEMIST (in a friendly tone, despite her outlandish appearance): For yourself, is it?

  KELLY (hostile): No—why?

  CHEMIST (pauses to control irritation): If it’s a present I can wrap it for you.

  KELLY (mollified): Oh. Thanks. It’s for my mother. It’s her birthday.

  He wraps it. She fiddles with things on a nearby shelf. He keeps an eye on her.

  She takes the parcel and goes out of the shop.

  That evening, Jenny and her friend Alison are standing in Jenny’s kitchen. Jenny is cooking. She looks upset, as if she’s been talking about something and has stopped for a moment.

  Alison crouches at the open fridge and fills up two unmatching glasses from a cask of wine.

  JENNY (bursts out): Somebody has to pick up the load. Kids have to be looked after. Look at Kelly. What’s her mother thinking of? How can she have just let her go? They let her go. She’ll end up like that poor kid they buried this morning—dropped in the gutter. Just left there all night.

  Alison listens.

  JENNY: I feel responsible for Kelly.

  ALISON: Oh Jenny. Don’t be silly.

  JENNY: I do. I should have done something.

  ALISON (flatly): What? What could you have done?

  JENNY: I don’t know. Something. Gone and talked to her parents. It probably wouldn’t have helped. But at least I could have tried.

  ALISON: Tried what? You can’t stop them, when they want to leave.

  JENNY: But Kelly’s such a clever girl.

  ALISON: Not clever enough, evidently.

  JENNY: I even thought of taking her on myself at one stage.

  ALISON (laughs): That’s ridiculous. She would have driven you bananas.

  JENNY: That’s what Philip said. That’s what everyone said. But somebody ought to have done something. Don’t you think so? What do you think?

  Pause.

  ALISON: I used to think of handing Wally over to you. To anybody.

  She laughs. Jenny tries to.

  ALISON (sentimentally): Remember them when they were little? They were like little fairy creatures—sort of sexless. Remember when Wally used to ring up Louise and play his violin to her over the phone?

  Jenny goes on preparing the meal, without answering, but listening.

  ALISON (draining her glass, picking up her bag): He busks every Saturday morning at the market. He makes a fortune. He’s so cynical.

  JENNY (not paying attention): Is that somebody knocking?

  ALISON (teasing): Haven’t you given him the key yet?

  Alison opens the back door. Philip stands there grinning. They greet each other and she goes out the gate. Philip enters. Jenny is very pleased indeed to see him. Her greeting is slightly more enthusiastic than his.

  It’s almost dark. Kelly in her black regalia is walking down a street, with the restricted gait of a girl wearing a hobble skirt.

  She approaches a house. She opens the front door with a key and goes in.

  Inside the house, we see a domestic scene: almost a tableau. In spite of the fact that it is still being renovated (which seems a permanent state, in this house: a ladder, bags
of cement against a wall, a long piece of heavy timber leaning in the corner), on this evening it is warm and comfortable: curtains are drawn, a heater is going, TV on the news but the sound turned down low.

  At the table sit Malcolm, Kate, Chris and little Helen. They are laughing. On top of the fridge we can see a round chocolate cake with unlit candles stuck in it. Chris is standing up with a ladle ready to dish out soup. Her back is to the door that leads into the hall. This door opens, soundlessly. Kelly appears. At first no one sees her. Then little Helen spots her and jumps up with a cry of pleasure.

  LITTLE HELEN: Kelly!

  We see Chris’s face: a flash of delight, then she turns and sees the apparition in torn black holding a small parcel. The sight is a shock to Chris: it wounds her.