A Fine Pavement

[thunder rumbling, rain falling]

Maybe today.

Hm.

Hm.

- You did say you went shopping yesterday, Mrs. Hartridge,

did you?

- Oh, I am sorry, Colonel-- no use.

We're fresh out of it, and I should

have checked yesterday before I made up my list.

- The marmalade, then, Mrs. Hartridge.

That will do, thank you.

I know how you love the jam.

What about a spin today, Colonel?

Time for you to get out and about.

- I was thinking about a walk, actually.

Why not?

Where shall we go?

I meant on my own, really.

There's a walking path, several kilometers,

not very busy.

Runs completely through Oxfordshire.

Completely repaved.

Best thing for me, really.

- You know I can't do that, Colonel.

I can't leave you on your own.

With your sight?

Now, what would happen if you fell or got lost?

- Nothing! Absolutely nothing!

For God's sakes, woman, why do you think

I've got that bloody mobile phone?

- You don't even know how to use it, though, Colonel.

Really!

It would mean my job if the agency knew

I was letting you wander on your own.

It's just a walk.

I know what we can do.

Why not a trip to see your old friend Mr. Peeks?

Your friend from the war?

You always seem to enjoy his company when we go out there.

At the hospice?

: Well, that'll cheer me up, certainly.

It's not me, Colonel.

You must understand.

You've had three housekeepers fired in the last three years

for letting you wander on your own.

It's agency rules.

Remember what your brother said.

If it happened again,

he wouldn't be held responsible.

You'd have to leave the house.

Quite a piss-up I heard it was, too.

: Two bottles of Macallan.

I only had a shot of it, meself-- they insisted.

: If I were ten years younger...

Oh...

Ta!

Aren't you afraid

you're going to unsettle your stomach with that?

Maybe, Colonel.

But I'd rather the blood in me stool than the blood in me eye,

if you take my meaning.

Have you heard from anyone?

I wouldn't exactly say heard.

Here.

Cramwell.

260 Squadron. - Yeah.

You remember Cramwell, sir?

Betcha, Betcha Cramwell.

Betcha Cramwell...

My God, man, where has he gotten himself to in all these years?

- Moved to Canada, can you believe it?

Was living with his daughter someplace

outside Montreal with a French name

I couldn't pronounce.

- What is this? It's not a newspaper.

- Nah, it's a print-out from the internet.

That's how I get all my news these days.

You might try it yourself, sir.

Not all the new things is bad these days, really.

Fair number of seniors on it-- great way to get in touch.

I suppose so.

What are you listening to now?

- Ah, it's the recaps from the last match.

We beat Spain, did we?

- No, embarrassed them, three-null, ha!

This new goalie, Kokot, he's a machine.

What's so funny, sir?

- Kokot, he's a Slovenian. - Oh.

Well, I know he's from somewhere like that.

I was going to say Czech or Hungarian.

No, Peeks.

Names are shared throughout the region,

by the Slovaks, the Croats, and even the Germans.

Kokot is purely Slovenian.

- You'd be in a position to know, would you, sir?

I would.

Means rooster.

I remember a farmer, in particular,

who used to come to the head of the soup line...

Kokot...

Kokot.

Who is that?

Where?

There, sitting in the corner.

She's been sitting that way for over an hour, I'm sure.

- Huh, I didn't realize your eyes had improved so much

with those glasses. - No, they haven't.

Just you get used to seeing the shadows

in the corners of your eye and... then they move.

- She moved? - Hm.

Well, that's news.

Hadn't moved as far as I can tell since I been here.

- It's a woman? - Hm.

Nurse...

- Yes, sir? - May I ask...

What's wrong with her?

Her?

Not a thing.

She's been here long as I can remember.

Never says a word, far as I can tell.

I think she's a mute.

I wouldn't worry about her, sir.

Forgive me, old chap.

Righto.

Excuse me.

:

:

Nurse... Nurse!

What is it, sir? There's no need to shout.

- How long has this woman been here?

- I can't be exact, but I'm sure it's at least five years.

What of it? - Five years!

And in all that time,

nobody has bothered to find out what language she speaks?

- Don't take that tone with me, sir!

This is a hospice, not a hotel.

- Do you know where she's from?

- I couldn't tell you-- could be Liverpool, for all I know.

Slovenia!

Where's that?

Good God, woman-- Yugoslavia!

If I hadn't detected her origins,

that poor woman might have spent the rest of her life

in the equivalent of solitary confinement!

You... should be... ashamed.

- How dare you speak to me like that!

It's not my business to know where everyone comes from,

only to make sure they're seen to.

- I want tea brought for the both of us.

- My dear Colonel, this is not an inn.

We do not provide hospitality.

:

: How kind of you to introduce yourself.

Well, I, I haven't yet.

My name is Malcolm, I'm a retired soldier.

- Malcolm? - Hm.

Surely, you're one of us?

Ah, there you are, Peeks.

Go to the head nurse,

ask her to get my housekeeper, Mrs. Hartridge.

She's sitting in the car probably smoking cigarettes.

I want her to bring refreshments to this woman

and myself immediately.

Sir!

Talk to you later!

It's not for me, it's for her.

I'm sorry I can't remember more of your language.

There was a time.

It was my job, you know.

Intelligence, communications.

There is something I wish I could tell you.

Perhaps when I get home tonight,

I'll write it down, translate it.

I'm sure my old box of dictionaries

is around someplace.

There was a time when I could have recited

an old folk tale about a thieving chicken.

- Ah, sorry to have abandoned you, Peeks.

Not at all, sir.

Obvious there's a connection here.

So... what is the connection?

Just the language, old chap.

Oh, is that so?

Thought there might be something else.

Well, language brings back