by David Mamet
VIOLET: Yes, sir.
ARTHUR: Violet, will you ask Master Ronnie to come down and see me, please?
GRACE: Arthur—he’s in bed.
ARTHUR: You told me he wasn’t ill.
GRACE: He’s not at all well.
ARTHUR: Do as I say, please, Violet.
VIOLET: Very good, sir.
She goes out.
ARTHUR: Perhaps the rest of you would go in to luncheon? Grace, would you take them in?
GRACE: Arthur—don’t you think—
ARTHUR: Dickie, will you decant the bottle of claret I brought from the cellar? I put it on the sideboard in the dining room.
DICKIE: Yes, Father.
He goes out.
ARTHUR: Will you go in, Desmond? And John?
The two men go out toward the dining room in silence.
GRACE still hovers.
GRACE: Arthur?
ARTHUR: Yes, Grace?
GRACE: Please don’t—please don’t—(She stops, uncertainly.)
ARTHUR: What mustn’t I do?
GRACE: Please don’t forget he’s only a child.
ARTHUR does not answer her. CATHERINE takes her mother’s arm.
CATHERINE: Come on, Mother.
She leads her mother toward the dining room. At the door GRACE looks back at ARTHUR. ARTHUR walks into the study, closing the doors behind him.
24. INT. WINSLOW STUDY. DAY.
ARTHUR picks up his glasses from their place next to the magnifying glass. He reads the letter.
HOLD.
There is the sound of a knock at the door. He lays the letter down.
ANGLE, ARTHUR’S POV.
RONNIE, in a bathrobe, stands on the threshold.
ARTHUR: Come in. (Pause) Come in and close the door.
ANGLE. ON THE DOOR.
As RONNIE enters, camera takes him into the room.
ARTHUR: (Cont’d.) Come over here.
RONNIE walks slowly to bis father. ARTHUR gazes at him steadily for some time, without speaking.
ARTHUR: (Cont’d. At length) Why aren’t you in uniform?
RONNIE: (Murmuring) It got wet.
ARTHUR: How did it get wet?
RONNIE: I was out in the garden in the rain.
ARTHUR: Why?
RONNIE: (Reluctantly) I was hiding.
ARTHUR: From me?
RONNIE nods.
ARTHUR: (Cont’d.) Do you remember once, you promised me that if ever you were in trouble of any sort you would come to me first?
RONNIE: Yes, Father.
ARTHUR: Why didn’t you come to me now? Why did you have to go and hide in the garden?
RONNIE: I don’t know, Father.
ARTHUR: Are you so frightened of me?
RONNIE does not reply. ARTHUR gazes at him for a moment, then picks up the letter.
ARTHUR: (Cont’d.) In this letter it says you stole a postal order.
RONNIE opens his mouth to speak.
ARTHUR: (Cont’d. Stops him) No, I don’t want you to say a word until you’ve heard what I’ve got to say. If you did it, you must tell me. I shan’t be angry with you, Ronnie—provided you tell me the truth. But if you tell me a lie, I shall know it, because a lie between you and me can’t be hidden. I shall know it, Ronnie—so remember that before you speak. (Pause) Did you steal this postal order?
RONNIE: (Without hesitation) No, Father. I didn’t.
ARTHUR: (Staring into his eyes) Did you steal this postal order?
RONNIE: No, Father. I didn’t.
ARTHUR continues to stare into his eyes for a second.
ARTHUR: Go on back to bed.
RONNIE goes gratefully to the door. He lays down the official envelope.
ANGLE, INS. HOLDING ON THE OFFICIAL ENVELOPE.
As ARTHUR slides it and the letter under the magnifying glass.
DISSOLVE TO:
25. INT. PRINT SHOP. DAY.
A woodstove with a vase of flowers on it. Pan past a window, open, the curtains blowing. A spring day.
A BRAWNY MAN, wearing a folded newsprint compositor’s cap, removes a proof sheet from a press and hands it to a shirtsleeved EDITOR, who tacks it on a board and begins making proofreading marks on it with a red pencil.
We push in to read.
“The Osborne Cadet”
The hand of the editor, with the red pencil, inserts a u in the word Osbourne.
“Sir, I am entirely in agreement with your correspondent, Democrat, concerning the scandalously high-handed treatment by the Admiralty of the case of the Osbourne Cadet.”
The EDITOR’s hand continues making corrections in the sheet. Sound of a railroad train whistle. EDITOR takes the corrected sheet from its position on the wall. Screen goes black for a second.
26. EXT. TUBE PLATFORM. DAY.
Tight two shot, two MEN IN BOWLERS, one reading a paper, the other reading over his shoulder, the man reading turns the page, the other man cranes his head. One wears a badge saying, “I’m for the Winslow Boy.”
ANGLE, HIS POV. AS THE PAGE TURNS.
It reads: “The Osbourne Cadet. The efforts of Mr. Arthur Winslow to secure a fair trial for his son, having been thwarted at every turn …”
27. INT. SUFFRAGETTE OFFICE. DAY.
DICKIE seated at a desk in the suffragettes’ office. Next to him, a young woman SUFFRAGETTE (we will see her again in the gallery at the House of Commons) is typing. DICKIE, his schoolbooks beside him, reads from a newspaper.
DICKIE: “Thwarted at every turn by a Soulless Oligarchy.” Soulless Oligarchy, that’s rather good. “It is high time private and peaceful citizens of this country woke to the increasing encroachments of their ancient freedoms.”
SUFFRAGETTE: … tell me a piece of news.
She gets up, takes the bit she was typing, and moves farther back into the office, followed by DICKIE and camera.
DICKIE: I’ll tell you a piece of news. Saw a chap on the train today, had on brown boots. Brown boots, I Arst yer.
SUFFRAGETTE: Did he have on a brown suit?
DICKIE: That doesn’t excuse it.
Camera takes them to CATHERINE, who is sitting in a small semicubicle in front of a suffragette-rage banner.
SUFFRAGETTE: (Handing the typed sheet to CATHERINE) Can you get this out by this afternoon?
CATHERINE: I have to go to the Law Library.
The SUFFRAGETTE walks over to another SUFFRAGETTE and asks the same question. The camera stays on DICKIE and CATHERINE.
DICKIE: Fighting on Many fronts, ’z’ at it, Cath?
CATHERINE: Yes, that’s right, darling …
DICKIE: “Cannon to the Right of you,” ’n’ so on …?
CATHERINE: … mmm.
DICKIE: They paying you here yet?
CATHERINE: No, I just do it for the sport of the thing.
DICKIE picks up the newspaper again, and reads.
DICKIE: The other’s from Perplexed. “What with the present troubles in the Balkans, and the further inquiry at which the Judge Advocate of the Fleet confirmed the findings that the boy was Guilty… dah, dah, dah … This correspondence now must cease.”
He lays down the newspaper.
ANGLE, INS.
The paper reads, “This correspondence now must cease.”
ANGLE.
They walk to the door.
DICKIE: (Cont’d.) You know, but I rather see Perplexed’s point. Well (Pause) ’n any case, it will blow over, before the wedding. (Pause. He looks at her.) Postponed again?
CATHERINE: His father’s out of the country.
DICKIE: Nothing wrong? I mean, I’m not going to have to “quirt him with my riding crop,” am I … as he comes out of his Club?
CATHERINE: This correspondence now must cease.
She pins a suffrage button on his coat.
DICKIE: Oh, Lord, late f’ra meeting with the guv …
28. INT. BANK LOBBY. DAY.
Several men and women banking. Camera follows DICKIE as he enters the bank, carrying hi
s books. He approaches a CASHIER, who looks up from his books.
CASHIER: May I help you …?
Recognizing DICKIE, he nods him through a wooden door behind him and heads him into a corridor.
29. ANGLE, INT. ARTHUR WINSLOW’S OFFICE. DAY.
A small, neat, wood-paneled room. As DICKIE enters, ARTHUR rises. A BANK OFFICER and CLERK leave.
ARTHUR: Would you close the door, please?
DICKIE does so. There is a tray of coffee on the table, and a fire behind ARTHUR’S desk.
ARTHUR: (Cont’d.) I must ask you a question. But before I do I must impress on you the urgent necessity for an absolutely truthful answer.
DICKIE: Naturally.
ARTHUR: Naturally means “by nature,” and I am afraid I have not yet noticed that it has invariably been your nature to answer my questions truthfully.
DICKIE: Oh. Well, I will this one, Father, I promise.
ARTHUR: Very well. (He stares at DICKIE for a moment.) What do you suppose one of your bookmaker friends would lay in the way of odds against your getting a degree?
Pause.
DICKIE: Oh. Well, let’s think. Say—about evens.
ARTHUR: Hm. I rather doubt that if at that price your friend would find many takers.
DICKIE: Well—perhaps seven to four against.
ARTHUR: I see. And what about the odds against your eventually becoming a Civil Servant?
DICKIE: Well—a bit steeper, I suppose.
ARTHUR: Exactly. Quite a bit steeper.
Pause.
DICKIE: You don’t want to have a bet, do you?
ARTHUR: No, Dickie. I’m not a gambler. And that’s exactly the trouble. Unhappily I’m no longer in a position to gamble two hundred pounds a year on what you yourself admit is an outside chance.
DICKIE: Not an outside chance, Father. A good chance. It’s the case, I suppose.
ARTHUR: It’s costing me a lot of money—
DICKIE: I know. I must be—still, couldn’t you … I mean, isn’t there a way …?
ARTHUR: Not good enough, Dickie. I’m afraid—with things as they are at the moment. Definitely not good enough. I fear my mind is finally made up.
There is a long pause.
DICKIE: You want me to leave Oxford—is that it?
ARTHUR: I’m very much afraid so, Dickie.
DICKIE: Oh. Straight away?
ARTHUR: No. You can finish your second year.
DICKIE: And then what?
ARTHUR: I can get you a job here in the bank.
DICKIE: (Quietly) Oh, Lord!
Pause.
ARTHUR: (Rather apologetically) It’ll be quite a good job, you know. Luckily my influence here still counts for something.
DICKIE: (Getting up) Father—if I promised you—I mean, really promised you—I mean, isn’t there any way—
ARTHUR again shakes his head slowly.
DICKIE: (Cont’d.) Oh, Lord!
ARTHUR: I’m afraid this is rather a shock for you. I’m sorry.
DICKIE: What? No. No, it isn’t really. I’ve been rather expecting it, as a matter of fact … Things … things are tight.
ARTHUR: Yes. “Things are tight.”
DICKIE: And you’re, um, still hoping, still hoping to brief Sir Robert Morton.
ARTHUR: We’re hoping.
DICKIE: That’d take a bit of tin—
ARTHUR: Yes. It would, Son.
DICKIE: (Pause) Ah ha. Still … still, I can’t say but what it isn’t a bit of a slap in the face.
Pause.
ARTHUR looks at his watch.
ARTHUR: There is a journalist coming to see me. Perhaps you would see me to a cab.
DICKIE: Of course, Father.
DICKIE begins to gather his books.
ARTHUR: (With a half smile) I should leave those there, if I were you.
DICKIE: Yes. Thank you. Good idea.
ARTHUR picks up a walking stick and starts for the door.
ARTHUR: I must thank you, Dickie, for bearing what must have been a very unpleasant blow with some fortitude.
DICKIE: Oh. Rot, Father.
DISSOLVE TO:
30. INT. WINSLOW HALLWAY. DAY.
Shot over a cream-colored envelope on a hall stand, as ARTHUR, followed by MISS BARNES, a journalist, and FRED, a photographer, enters the house.
31. INT. WINSLOW STUDY/DRAWING ROOM. DAY.
Camera takes them, into the study, now turned into a study/war room. Pans over books titled Maritime Law, The Admiralty and the Civil Courts, et cetera.
MISS BARNES: (VO) My paper usually sends me out on stories which have a special appeal to women—stories with a little heart, you know, like this one—a father’s fight for his little boy’s honor—
ARTHUR: (VO) I venture to think this case has rather wider implications than that—
He moves to his desk, opens mail and peruses it, as they speak.
ARTHUR: (Cont’d. To MISS BARNES) Forgive me …
He hunts in his desk for his glasses, which are next to the magnifying glass, under which is the old letter from Osbourne.
MISS BARNES: Oh, yes. Now, what I’d really like to do is to get a nice picture of you and your little boy together.
ARTHUR: My son is arriving from school in a few minutes. His mother has gone to the station to meet him.
MISS BARNES: (Making a note) From school? How interesting. So you got a school to take him? I mean, they didn’t mind the unpleasantness?
ARTHUR: No.
MISS BARNES: And why is he coming back this time?
ARTHUR: He hasn’t been expelled again, if that is what you’re implying. He is coming to London to be examined by Sir Robert Morton, whom we are hoping to brief—
MISS BARNES: But do you really think he’ll take a little case like this?
ARTHUR: It is not a little case, madam—
MISS BARNES: No, no. Of course not. (Pause) Well, now, perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me a few details. When did it all start?
ARTHUR: (Puts on bis glasses and hunts in bis desk for papers. VO) Nine months ago. The first I knew of the charge was when my son arrived home with a letter from the Admiralty informing me of his expulsion. I telephoned Osbourne to protest and was referred by them to the Lords of the Admiralty. My solicitors then took the matter up. We applied to the Admiralty for a Court-Martial. They ignored us. We applied for a civil trial. They ignored us again.
MISS BARNES: … yes.
ARTHUR: Yes. But after the tremendous pressure had been brought to bear—letters to the papers, questions in the House, and other means open to private citizens of this country—the Admiralty eventually agreed to what they called an independent inquiry.
MISS BARNES: Oh, good!
ARTHUR: It was not good, madam. At that independent inquiry, conducted by the Judge Advocate of the Fleet, against whom I am saying nothing, mind you, my son, a child of fourteen, was not represented by counsel, solicitors, or friends. What do you think of that?
MISS BARNES: Fancy!
ARTHUR: You may well say “fancy.”
MISS BARNES: And what happened at that inquiry?
ARTHUR: What do you think happened? Inevitably he was found guilty again, and thus branded for the second time before the world as a thief and a forger—
MISS BARNES: What a shame!
ARTHUR: I need hardly tell you, madam, that I am not prepared to let the matter rest there. I shall continue to fight this monstrous injustice with every weapon and every means at my disposal. Now, it happens I have a plan—I have approached, I might say “petitioned,” Sir Robert…
MISS BARNES: Oh, what charming curtains! What are they made of?
She rises and goes to the drawing room window. ARTHUR sits for a moment in paralyzed silence.
ARTHUR: (At last) Madam—I fear I have no idea.
There is the sound of voices in the hall.
MISS BARNES: Ah. Do I hear the poor little chap himself?
She moves into the hallway. ARTHUR follows.
32. INT. WINSLOW HALLWAY. DAY.
ANGLE. OVER THE CREAM-COLORED ENVELOPE.
The hall door opens, and RONNIE comes in boisterously, followed by GRACE. He is evidently in the highest of spirits.
RONNIE: Hullo, Father!
He runs to him.
ARTHUR: Hullo, Ronnie.
RONNIE: I say, Father! Mr. Moore says I’m to tell you I needn’t come back until Monday if you like. So that gives me three whole days.
ARTHUR: Mind my leg!
RONNIE: Sorry, Father.
ARTHUR: How are you, my boy?
RONNIE: Oh, I’m absolutely tophole, Father. Mother says I’ve grown an inch—
MISS BARNES: Ah! Now that’s exactly the way I’d like to take my picture. Would you hold it, Mr. Winslow? Fred! Come in now, will you?
RONNIE: (In a sibilant whisper) Who’s she?
FRED: Afternoon, all. (To MISS BARNES) … losing the light, miss …
MISS BARNES: Yes. I was … might we go to the Park …? (To GRACE) Do you know, do you know, I was thinking, might we go to the Park, do you think? (To RONNIE) You could put on your uniform …
ARTHUR: No, I don’t …
MISS BARNES: Something to stress his youth, then, his, d’you have any cricket clothes …?
ARTHUR: Grace, dear, this lady is from the Beacon. She is extremely interested in your curtains.
GRACE: Oh, really, how nice.
MISS BARNES: Yes, indeed, I was wondering what they were made of.
GRACE: Well, it’s an entirely new material, you know. I’m afraid I don’t know what it’s called, but I got them at Barker’s last year. Apparently it’s a sort of mixture of wild silk and—
FRED: Losing the light, miss.
MISS BARNES: If we could, do you see, put him in Cricket Costume, d’you see? Something which would say, both England, and Youth.
ARTHUR: Alright.
FRED: (Picking up his apparatus) I’m going to set up.
MISS BARNES: Yes, and can you come along quickly, do you see, if we are going to get this picture.
GRACE: Yes. (To RONNIE) We’ll meet you in the Park …
She rummages in the hall stand. We see, in the FG, the cream-colored envelope.
GRACE: (Cont’d.) … I found the Name of the Material.
MISS BARNES: Good-bye, Mr. Winslow. And the very best of good fortune in your inspiring fight. It was good of you to talk to me, and I’m sure our Readers will be most interested.