by Louise Welsh
Her mother was dead and buried, but felt perfect exquisite pain of love when she looked up through the earth and saw the burned child covered in ashes.
“Milk the cow, burned child, and bring back all the milk,” said the stepmother, who used to rake the ashes and milk the cow, once upon a time, but the burned child did all that, now.
The ghost of the mother went into the cow.
“Drink milk, grow fat,” said the mother’s ghost.
The burned child pulled on the udder and drank enough milk before she took the bucket back and nobody saw, and time passed, she drank milk every day, she grew fat, she grew breasts, she grew up.
There was a man the stepmother wanted and she asked him into the kitchen to get his dinner, but she made the burned child cook it, although the stepmother did all the cooking before. After the burned child cooked the dinner the stepmother sent her off to milk the cow.
“I want that man for myself,” said the burned child to the cow.
The cow let down more milk, and more, and more, enough for the girl to have a drink and wash her face and wash her hands. When she washed her face, she washed the scabs off and now she was not burned at all, but the cow was empty.
“Give your own milk, next time,” said the ghost of the mother inside the cow. “You’ve milked me dry.”
The little cat came by. The ghost of the mother went into the cat.
“Your hair wants doing,” said the cat. “Lie down.”
The little cat unpicked her raggy lugs with its clever paws until the burned child’s hair hung down nicely, but it had been so snagged and tangled that the cat’s claws were all pulled out before it was finished.
“Comb your own hair, next time,” said the cat. “You’ve maimed me.”
The burned child was clean and combed, but stark naked.
There was a bird sitting in the apple tree. The ghost of the mother left the cat and went into the bird. The bird struck its own breast with its beak. Blood poured down on to the burned child under the tree. It ran over her shoulders and covered her front and covered her back. When the bird had no more blood, the burned child got a red silk dress.
“Make your own dress, next time,” said the bird. “I”m through with that bloody business.”
The burned child went into the kitchen to show herself to the man. She was not burned any more, but lovely. The man left off looking at the stepmother and looked at the girl.
“Come home with me and let your stepmother stay and rake the ashes,” he said to her and off they went. He gave her a house and money. She did all right.
“Now I can go to sleep,” said the ghost of the mother. “Now everything is all right.”
III
Travelling Clothes
The stepmother took the red-hot poker and burned the orphan’s face with it because she had not raked the ashes. The girl went to her mother’s grave. In the earth her mother said: “It must be raining. Or else it is snowing. Unless there is a heavy dew tonight.”
“It isn’t raining, it isn’t snowing, it’s too early for the dew. My tears are falling on your grave, mother.”
The dead woman waited until night came. Then she climbed out and went to the house. The stepmother slept on a feather bed, but the burned child slept on the hearth among the ashes. When the dead woman kissed her, the scar vanished. The girl woke up. The dead woman gave her a red dress.
“I had it when I was your age.”
The girl put the red dress on. The dead woman took worms from her eyesockets; they turned into jewels. The girl put on a diamond ring.
“I had it when I was your age.”
They went together to the grave.
“Step into my coffin.”
“No,” said the girl. She shuddered.
“I stepped into my mother’s coffin when I was your age.”
The girl stepped into the coffin although she thought it would be the death of her. It turned into a coach and horses. The horses stamped, eager to be gone.
“Go and seek your fortune, darling.”
THE GOURMET
Kazuo Ishiguro
Kazuo Ishiguro (b.1954) Kazuo Ishiguro was born in Nagasaki, Japan. His family came to Britain in 1960. He read English and Philosophy at the University of Kent. Ishiguro has worked as a grouse-beater at Balmoral, a community worker in Glasgow and a residential social worker in London. He studied Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia, where he was mentored by Angela Carter. Ishiguro won the Booker Prize in 1989 for The Remains of the Day. He lives in London.
1. A CHURCH IN A LONDON STREET. 1904. NIGHT.
A large church set back from the street. A horse-drawn carriage stands outside.
Close shot: a wooden plaque on church gate reading:
I was hungered and ye gave me meat
I was thirsty and ye gave me drink
I was a stranger and ye took me in.
Matthew 25:35
2. CHURCH CRYPT. NIGHT.
Point of view: unseen protagonists as they search around the darkened crypt with a lantern. The lantern reveals ragged men heaped one on another, sleeping in whatever posture the conditions allow. A chorus of snores.
3. CHURCH. NIGHT.
Viewed from the pulpit. Shadows. We see the empty pews by the moonlight coming through the windows.
Breathing is heard. At first barely discernible, it grows clearer: the sounds of two men in physical exertion. Their shapes emerge from the shadows, coming slowly towards us down a side aisle: two men dressed in cloaks and hats. They are carrying something heavy between them.
We hear whispering again, sinister, the words barely discernible.
WHISPER 1: Perhaps over there. [Heavy breath.] Over towards that door.
WHISPER 2: Yes, yes. [Heavy breath.] We’ll take it through to the vestry.
WHISPER 1: Just a little further now. As you say, the vestry.
4. VESTRY. DOORWAY TO BACK ROOM.
The vestry is a small bare room, which we see by the moonlight through a window. At the moment, we are interested only in the doorway which leads through to a back room. This doorway has no door – it is black and ominous, like the gateway to another world.
Meanwhile, the whispers continue.
WHISPER 1: Yes, indeed, you’re quite correct. We should cut it along this piece…
WHISPER 2: Yes, yes. [Heavy breath.] We’ll take it through to the vestry.
WHISPER 1: Just a little further now. As you say, the vestry.
5. CHURCH. NIGHT.
Long shot: the Church. We are zooming in slowly. Sound of horse hooves in the distance.
6. VESTRY. DOORWAY TO BACK ROOM.
Still moving in on the black doorway. The whispers continue.
WHISPER 1: Yes, yes. I think that direction.
WHISPER 2: You think we should cut it along here?
WHISPER 1: Yes, indeed, along that strip there. As you say.
We have now come right up to the doorway, but there is utter blackness across the threshold.
We then move down slowly, in time to see a thin line of blood run out from the blackness towards us along the vestry floor.
7. AIRPORT RUNWAY. DAY. 1985.
Jet-liner coming into land.
8. ROOF. CAR PARK OF AIRPORT TERMINAL. DAY.
Carter stands at the edge of the roof, watching the landing.
Carter, mid-twenties, slim, dapperly dressed in chauffeur’s uniform. Even if he were not wearing dark glasses and his cap pulled down low, his face would probably reveal little emotion; as it is, there is something sinister and assassin-like about him.
He looks at his watch, then back out towards the runway. Evidently, this is the plane he has been waiting for. He walks off out of shot with an almost deliberate lack of hurry.
9. CARRIAGEWAY. DAY.
Rolls Royce in motion.
10. CAR.
Carter is driving. He continues to wear his dark glasses, as he will do throughout the film.
Manley Kingston
is in the back seat, preoccupied with something on his lap.
Manley is in his fifties; large, formidable British upper-class presence. He wears a habitual expression of disdain and boredom, but there is also a maverick streak in his face – a hint of the decadent or criminal.
Close up: photograph of church in Manley’s hand. The church is the one we saw in scene one. The photograph has emerged from an attaché case on Manley’s lap.
On Manley: studying the photograph as though to commit its details to memory.
Close up: open attaché case into which Manley returns the photograph amid other documents. Evidently, he only happened across it while searching for something else, and he now continues through the contents of his case. We glimpse two sketch plans (of the church) and three mortis keys on a ring. Each has a large tag; one is marked ‘vestry’. Manley’s hand moves these aside as he continues to search. Carter continues to drive silently, while Manley remains preoccupied with the attaché case.
In the ensuing exchange, there is just a hint of malice and sarcasm in Carter’s voice – but no more than a hint, and Manley is too preoccupied to notice. Carter has a London working-class accent.
CARTER: Weather nice in Brazil, was it, Sir?
MANLEY: [Not looking up from his case.] Paraguay. [Pause.]
CARTER: Beg your pardon. Sir?
MANLEY: Paraguay. I’ve just come from Paraguay.
CARTER: Sorry, sir. Madam told me you were in Brazil.
MANLEY: I suppose I was. I became tired of the place.
Manley has found what he was looking for – an address card. He leans forward and holds it out for Carter.
MANLEY: We’re going to drop in at this address on our way home, if you will, Carson.
Carter takes the card without turning, glances at it and puts it on the dashboard. Manley settles back in his seat and gazes out of the window, a preoccupied look still on his face.
CARTER: Carter, Sir.
MANLEY: What?
CARTER: Name’s Carter, Sir.
MANLEY: [Turning back to window, impatiently.] Oh yes, yes.
Move in on Carter’s face. It is impossible to tell what is going on behind his glasses.
11. LONDON.
A series of shots of the Rolls’s journey into London.
12. DR GROSVENOR’S HOUSE. DAY.
Rolls halts in front of a very expensive house. Manley gets out, studying an address card. He waves carelessly towards the car, then walks to the house.
13. DR GROSVENOR’S ENTRANCE HALL.
A hum of conversation coming from within the house. The doorbell rings.
The figure of Watkins as yet not clearly seen comes into shot and opens the door. Manley is on the doorstep.
WATKINS: [Off: cheerfully.] Good afternoon, Sir.
MANLEY: Ah. My name is Manley Kingston. Dr Grosvenor is expecting me.
WATKINS: Come in, Mr Kingston. [Following Manley’s gaze.] Oh, we’re having a little reception. Eduardo Perez is in London, and he wished to premiere some of his new dishes.
MANLEY: [Distracted] Is that so?
Manley goes on looking through into the inner room. Watkins, who should really be leading him in, is delaying doing so to savour these few moments with a celebrity. He beams admiringly at Manley. Manley begins to move further into the house.
MANLEY: Dr Grosvenor about?
WATKINS: [Suddenly remembering himself.] Why yes, of course. Let me get you a drink, Mr Kingston, then I’ll go and find him.
14. DR GROSVENOR’S HOUSE. RECEPTION ROOM.
An elegant, spacious room of a private house, large enough to hold comfortably the twenty or so guests present. The guests are middle-aged to elderly, formally dressed, men far outnumbering women. This could be a gathering of university professors or classical music critics. They stand conversing in groups of three and four, holding wine glasses.
Watkins is leading Manley across the room towards the wine. Two male guests break off talking as Watkins and Manley come past them. They steal interested glances at Manley, looking him up and down, then stare after him, somewhat disapprovingly. We can hear amid the general hubbub the following exchange, taking place elsewhere in the room:
MALE VOICE 1: But I do think I agree with you on the whole. You have a genuine point there. That whole generation, their central themes were far too centred on protein. Far too centred on protein… [Then in lowered voice.] I say, look, I believe that’s Manley Kingston. That fellow there…
15. RECEPTION ROOM. ONE CORNER.
Watkins and Manley have reached the table with the wine. Watkins hands Manley a glass.
WATKINS: I’ll go and find Dr Grosvenor. Won’t be a moment, Mr Kingston.
Watkins goes out of shot. Manley turns to the table with a preoccupied air. His back is to the camera and the rest of the room.
Meanwhile, amid the general hubbub, we hear:
MALE VOICE 2: Not at all, not at all, don’t get me wrong. I’m very fond of de Montière’s work. He does have a splendid sensitivity towards textures. But don’t you find his soufflés in particular a little – incoherent?
Two guests we have not yet seen have come up to Manley. These are Proterston, a grey distinguished-looking man, and a Japanese, Takeda. Initially, it is not clear if they have come simply to replenish drinks, or if their interest is in Manley.
Manley remains with his back turned. Proterston attempts to catch Manley’s attention. Meanwhile, Takeda is staring at Manley as though he is an exhibit in a museum.
FEMALE VOICE: But I suppose one can’t help getting the feeling de Montière achieved his best work in the mid-sixties. I suppose there I do have to agree with you… [Fades into general hum of conversation.]
PROTERSTON: [Finally deciding on the direct approach.] Excuse me, it’s Mr Manley Kingston, isn’t it?
Manley turns, startled out of his thoughts. He has not touched his wine. Proterston smiles genially. Takeda continues to stare.
MANLEY: Er – yes. Indeed.
PROTERSTON: This is a genuine pleasure. My name is Proterston.
Proterston clearly hopes Manley will recognize the name.
MANLEY: [No sense of recognition.] Oh really?
PROTERSTON: [Gives small self-conscious laugh.] As a matter of fact, I published an article about you quite recently, Mr Kingston. In Gourmet Academica, the spring issue. I thought perhaps you might have come across it.
MANLEY: [With little interest.] I’m afraid I didn’t.
Manley now becomes aware of Takeda staring up at him. Manley looks down at him with distaste.
PROTERSTON: Oh – er – this is Mr Takeda.
TAKEDA: [Heavy accent.] Great honour. [He continues to stare at Manley without offering his hand.] Great honour. Manley Kingston. Great great honour.
PROTERSTON: I should point out, Mr Kingston, my article was entirely in support of your – er – approach. I’d been an admirer of yours for some time and thought, well, in my own small way, I should add my voice to the ranks of your supporters.
Manley is searching the room for Watkins.
MANLEY: Very grateful. I’ll keep a look out for it.
Takeda now speaks a great torrent of words in his native tongue. He addresses Proterston while gesturing dramatically towards Manley. Proterston nods throughout. Manley continues to look over at some point behind the camera.
PROTERSTON: Mr Takeda was wondering what had brought you over to London. He was wondering if in fact you had a specific project in mind – here in London?
Clearly, Proterston is himself very eager to know the answer. But Manley has been signalled to from across the room. He puts down his glass and starts to move off. He remembers Proterston and Takeda at the last moment.
MANLEY: Oh, excuse me. Delighted.
16. RECEPTION ROOM.
Manley moves through the guests towards Watkins, who is standing near some double doors. Watkins, smiling eagerly, has his arm raised in preparation for ushering Manley through the doors.
17. DR GROSVENOR’S HOUSE. HALLWAY.
Manley comes through doors held open by Watkins and they move towards the stairs.
18. DR GROSVENOR’S STUDY. EARLY EVENING.
Dr Grosvenor likes to work in a darkened atmosphere. Perhaps this is why he has drawn the blinds, although it is not yet dark outside. The source of light is a powerful desk lamp.
The room is used for consultative purposes as well as for its owner’s private study. A client’s chair faces Dr Grosvenor’s desk. Behind the desk, bookshelves. The books we can see are about food; not cookery books, but serious studies with titles like Eating Rituals of the Aborigines in the Nineteenth Century, Protein and Culture, The Evolution of the Carnivore.
Dr Grosvenor, fifty-five, elegant, assured, but also with an air of depravity; he may be a wealthy doctor in private practice who performs shady operations.
MANLEY: You mentioned in your letter, Doctor, you were having difficulty obtaining one of the solutions I requested…
DR GROSVENOR: [Cutting in.] Oh no, no. A very minor problem. I have everything you asked for.
MANLEY: Ah.
DR GROSVENOR: And may I say, Mr Kingston, I’m very happy to be of assistance to you. An honour.
MANLEY: Mmm.
DR GROSVENOR: [A small laugh.] Forgive me, I suppose you must be getting rather impatient.
He opens a drawer in his desk. Before removing anything, he looks teasingly at Manley.
DR GROSVENOR: [Continuing.] You look rather like a hunter, Mr Kingston, just before his big kill.
He smiles and produces an attaché case. He puts it on the desk, opens the lid, then turns it towards Manley.
DR GROSVENOR: [Continuing.] I think you’ll find everything in order.
MANLEY: Ah.
Manley leans forward hungrily.
Over the shoulder: the attaché case contains papers and documents packed in an orderly manner, uppermost of which is a large photograph of the church we saw in scene one. The case also contains a small metal box.