mind I’ll be ringing for pain relief before my guests reach the Heathview car park. She’s probably right.
Keira takes a sip of green tea then rests the cup and saucer on my dressing table. ‘Is there a loo?’
I can feel Sylvia’s eyes burning holes in me. ‘Sylvia,’ I say. ‘Would you show Keira the washroom in the hall?’
Sylvia is barely able to contain herself. ‘Certainly,’ she says, and although I cannot see her, I know that she is preening. ‘It’s this way, Ms Parker.’
Ursula smiles at me as the door closes. ‘I appreciate you seeing Keira,’ she says. ‘She’s the daughter of one of the producer’s friends so I’m obliged to take a special interest.’ She looks to the door and lowers her voice, chooses her words carefully. ‘She’s not a bad kid, but she can be a little… tactless.’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’
Ursula laughs. ‘It comes of having industry parents,’ she says. ‘These kids see their parents receiving accolades for being rich, famous and beautiful-who can blame them for wanting the same?’
‘It’s quite all right.’
‘Still,’ says Ursula. ‘I meant to be here. To play chaperone…’
‘If you don’t stop apologising, you’re going to convince me you’ve done something wrong,’ I say. ‘You remind me of my grandson.’ She looks abashed and I realise there is something new within those dark eyes. A shadow I hadn’t noticed earlier. ‘Did you sort out your problems?’ I say. ‘On the telephone?’
She sighs, nods. ‘Yes.’
She pauses and I remain silent, wait for her to continue. I learned long ago that silence invites all manner of confidences.
‘I have a son,’ she says. ‘Finn.’ The name leaves a sad-happy smile on her lips. ‘He was three last Saturday.’ Her gaze leaves my face for an instant, alights on the rim of her teacup, with which she fidgets. ‘His father… he and I were never…’ She taps her nail twice against her cup, looks at me again. ‘It’s just Finn and me. That was my mother on the phone. She’s minding Finn while the film’s shooting. He had a fall.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘Yes. He sprained his wrist. The doctor wrapped it for him. He’s fine.’ She is smiling but her eyes fill with tears. ‘I’m sorry… goodness me… he’s fine, I don’t know why I’m crying.’
‘You’re worried,’ I say, watching her. ‘And relieved.’
‘Yes,’ she says, suddenly very young and fragile. ‘And guilty.’
‘Guilty?’
‘Yes,’ she says, but doesn’t elaborate. She takes a tissue from her bag and wipes her eyes. ‘You’re easy to talk to. You remind me of my grandmother.’
‘She sounds a lovely woman.’
Ursula laughs. ‘Yes.’ She sniffs into a tissue. ‘Goodness, look at me. I’m sorry for off-loading all this on you, Grace.’
‘You’re apologising again. I insist you stop.’
There are footsteps in the hall. Ursula glances at the door, blows her nose. ‘Then at least let me thank you. For seeing us. For talking to Keira. Listening to me.’
‘I’ve enjoyed it,’ I say, and surprise myself by meaning it. ‘I don’t have many callers these days.’
The door opens and she stands. Leans over and kisses my cheek. ‘I’ll come again soon,’ she says, gently squeezing my wrist.
And I am unaccountably glad.
Film Script
Final draft, November 1998, pp. 43-54
THE SHIFTING FOG
Written and directed by Ursula Ryan ©1998
SUBTITLE: Near Passchendaele, Belgium. October 1917.
45. INT. DESERTED FARMHOUSE-EVENING
Night falls, along with heavy rain. Three young soldiers in dirty uniforms seek refuge in the ruins of a Belgian farmhouse. They have walked all day after becoming separated from their division in a frantic retreat from the front line. They are tired and demoralised. The farmhouse in which they shelter is the same they were billeted in thirty days earlier on their way to the front. The Duchesne family have since fled as the wave of hostility swept through the village.
A single candle flickers on the bare timber floor, tossing long, jagged shadows onto the walls of the abandoned kitchen. Echoes of the house’s past life remain: a saucepan by the sink, a thin rope strung before the stove, heavy with abandoned laundry, a child’s wooden toy.
One soldier-an Australian infantryman called FRED-crouches by the hole in the wall where a door once stood. He hugs his shotgun to his side. In the distance, the sound of sporadic shell fire. Angry rain pelts the already muddy ground, filling ditches to overflowing. A rat appears and sniffs a large dark patch on the soldier’s uniform. It is blood, black and rotten with age.
Inside the kitchen, an officer sits on the floor, propped against a table leg. DAVID HARTFORD holds a letter: its flimsy, stained appearance suggests it has been read numerous times. Asleep beside his outstretched leg is the skinny dog that has followed them all day.
The third man, ROBBIE HUNTER, appears from one of the rooms. He carries a gramophone, blankets and a handful of dusty records. He places his load on the kitchen table and begins searching the cupboards. In the back of the pantry he finds something. He turns and we draw slowly closer. He is thinner than before. World-weariness has sobered his features. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes, and the weather and the walking have tangled his hair. A cigarette hangs from between his lips.
DAVID (without turning)
Find anything?
ROBBIE
Bread-hard as a rock, but still bread.
DAVID
Anything else? Anything to drink?
ROBBIE (pausing)
Music. I found music.
DAVID turns, sees the gramophone. His expression is difficult to read: a combination of pleasure and sadness. Our view shifts, trailing from his face, down his arm to his hands. The fingers of one are wrapped in a dirty makeshift bandage.
DAVID
Well then… What are you waiting for?
ROBBIE sets a record on the gramophone and the crackly song begins to play.
MUSIC: Debussy’s Claire de Lune.
ROBBIE makes his way to DAVID, carrying the blankets and bread. He goes carefully, easing himself onto the floor: the trench collapse has left him with more injuries than he lets on. DAVID’S eyes are closed.
ROBBIE takes a pocket knife from his bag and begins the difficult task of breaking the stale bread into portions. The task achieved, he places one on the floor near DAVID. He throws
