Parade's End

Oui?

Qui?

Non.

Dites...

Dites a ce monsieur que c'est trop tard.

Too bloody late.

Thank you...

- The Dover train booked through to Paris. - Right you are, sir.

I wish you every happiness, Chrissie.

Marrying in Paris is a backdoor way out of it.

What do they say at the office?

Sylvia's mother was married in Paris, I let it be known.

Thank you for that, Vinnie.

But she's bitched me, old man.

I don't even know if the child is mine.

Tea tray at 6:30.

Yes, madam. Goodnight, madam.

Sylvia!

Sylvia!

- Mr Drake! - Sylvia!

- God damn you, I won't be... - Quite so.

Thank you, Evie.

Won't your wife be wondering where you are?

I won't be sent away like an errand boy!

This is not fair. And you're drunk.

Sylvia, don't do this!

What? Save myself from ruin?

I'm pregnant, you fool!

Whatever you want, it can't be that... that ox!

What I want is to die.

Death is what I...

No, Gerald, don't. Darling, don't. It's not fair...

Don't...

I cut away early from a ghastly weekend party.

- Are you going up to town? - Yes.

My name is Tietjens.

I'm Sylvia... Satterthwaite.

I know.

We will take a small house in Knightsbridge. Lowndes Street.

Her mother will live with us.

- Mrs Satterthwaite has contributed handsomely. - I see.

I haven't seen that pretty box before.

Gerald Drake gave it to me.

Have you no shame?! On your wedding day!

When did he give it to you?

- Last night. - Oh!

You're a lying devil to say such a thing!

Didn't I see her with it on the Channel ferry!

So you're going to give me away twice in one morning?!

- Did Father send word? - He sent me.

- And my mother? - Your mother's soft,

and brought you up soft. Not your fault.

Second wife, late child, no Yorkshire woman - a bad combination.

My mother is Yorkshire.

Oh, South Riding, by a whisker.

Will you give me a cigarette?

No, I will not give you a cigarette, and I'm glad your father's dead

not to know today's work, and I'm sorry for your mother.

Well, don't be. Christopher Tietjens is a Godsend.

God-sent is one thing that he is not!

So, you get yourself trapped by a papist bitch carrying a baby.

Yes! I won't marry now.

You're next, after me, and after you, it's that whore's child,

who will be the 14th Tietjens of Groby.

One heard things about you. That you were a wrong 'un.

But better a wrong 'un than a mug.

Yes, I suppose I was a mug.

And yet, there's something glorious about her.

Let Marchant go.

What's the matter, old fellow?

We had a nasty dream, didn't we?

- Now, lie down. - No, no.

I know what to do.

A glass of warm milk, Marchie. It's the best thing for bad dreams.

Now, a little conversation till we're sleepy, that's what I do.

I had bad dreams sometimes when I was little.

You see that?

I could nearly touch Groby Tree from the night nursery window.

There's all sorts of things hanging on the tree.

They bring good luck.

There's a wishing well in the stable yard.

They say it's twice as deep as Groby Tree is high,

and you can drop a penny in it and make a wish.

Should I tell you how long it falls?

I used to count, as long as this...

One,

two,

three,

four,

five,

six,

seven, eight,

nine,

ten.

Soft.

Oh, Mr Christopher!

- Telegram, sir. - Thank you, Bridget.

- While you're there, please, Bridget, teapot. - Yes, ma'am.

"Maisie Mulgrew wishes it to be known that she is enjoying

"sexual connection with Captain WM O'Donnell."

- What? - No! China!

You! Pulling the strings of the shower bath.

"The honourable Mrs Frederick Mulgrew, whose husband, we hear,

"is spoken of for the Vienna Embassy,

"enjoys the polo with Captain WM O'Donnell."

That's Maisie getting even with Frederick Mulgrew for his fling with Lady Egret.

You have no reason to say so.

Thank you, Bridget - Darjeeling.

And Mr Tietjens needs more coffee, I expect.

Oh, I don't think Maisie's got the gumption to go through with it.

But the readers like a whiff of sex coming off our crowd,

like a vapour,

like the steam on the water at the crocodile house at the zoo.

I'm bored!

Only you could be bored with the end of the world upon us.

- Who says? - I says.

The Prime Minister has asked the King to create

400 Liberal peers so the working classes can have free medicines.

Oh, but I see the Association of Domestic Servants

is against the Insurance Bill. Why would that be, I wonder?

Now is your chance to ask. Thank you.

- Go on, then. - Well, Bridget?

I'm sure I don't know, sir.

Well, I'm sure I do. It is because the National Insurance Bill violates

that beautiful intimacy that exists between a servant and their mistress.

The Association of Domestic Servants is Tory through and through!

It is the duty of employers to look after

the welfare of their employees, and those who don't should go to prison.

- Who thinks that? - I am the last, except for a few dukes,

like your cousin, Westershire.

- Do you wonder I can't bear him? - No.

You married above your intellect and don't take kindly to disadvantage.

However, the new Liberal peers won't be necessary.

The Upper House will cave in and vote to make itself irrelevant.

- And is that the end of the world? - No.

- The world ended long ago, in the 18th Century. - Ha-ha!

Do you know what he's doing?!

He's making corrections in the Encyclopedia Britannica!

If I'd killed him, no jury would convict!

Look, it's him with the purple Rolls.

You've been giving the mare less liquorice in her mash.

- I told you she'd go better. - Trust you to remember, sir! Thank you.

Morning!

- Good morning! - Good morning, sir.

Tietjens! Did you receive my telegram?

And a very good morning to you, too, Macmaster. So you looked over my figures.

Yes, and the Chief will have my head if I give them to him.

Well, don't, then. You asked for my help.

- Yes, and you've weighted the calculations as though... - As though people became ill

according to what they have to pay for medical treatment!

They do, it will ruin the Exchequer, and I intend Sir Reginald to know it.

Suppose you could bolt with a new man every week and no questions asked.

- Ripping! Can I have this? - No.

But the question is, how long would it stay ripping

before you're simply yawning to get back to your husband?

- How long? - It's not a riddle, Sylvia.

- I'm asking. - Mmm.

Well... It would have to be weekends only.

One would still need a home, a husband for show midweek,

and a place to store one's maid. I couldn't do without Hullo Central.

Mrs Tietjens is not at home.

Oh, but she...

- Sylvia, you are such a rotter. - Well, I'm not dressed for a picnic.

Anyway, I've realised there's no point in a fling if one's husband doesn't notice.

- I'd go! - It's no use, Potty loves me!

He wants me to leave Christopher and go abroad with him.

Oh, I'd like to shake him!

- Who? - My husband, of course.

Shake some reaction out of that great lump!

Do you happen to have a cigarette?

Yes, of course.

Thank you.

Now look here, don't be obtuse, Tietjens.

Dammit, man, is the department's duty to support Waterhouse

and make his case to the house. Do you understand?

Minister has to show the figures for the insurance bill will balance.

Well, they won't. And I should have thought it was this department's duty to tell him so.

Tietjens, you're the cleverest young man in London, Macmaster says,

and I'm inclined to believe him.

But he and I, with our blunt instruments,

have managed to grasp something that you cannot.

- Why thank you, Sir Reginald. - Which is...

that if they don't get what they require from you, they'll put some

competition-wallah head clerk on it and take our credit from us.

I simply wish you to be aware of the fact...

there's no difficulty in adjusting the calculations to produce

a more congenial result.

I can let Macmaster have it in the hour and 10 minutes remaining

but I insist on his taking credit for it.

Good man.

Votes for women!

It's him, it's Waterhouse!

What the devil is going on here?

- Keep moving, sir. - Excuse me.

This way, please.

We came through without a scratch. Thanks, Bertram.

My fault for inviting a liberal. Christmas spirit, you know?

Will you be going on to Diana's?

- Merry Christmas, Victoria. - Merry Christmas...

- Christopher! There you are at last. - Yeah, sorry.