The Lady in the Van

- (MAN SCREAMS) - (TYRES SCREECHING)

- (VEHICLE CRASHES) - (WOMAN GASPS)

The smell is sweet, with urine only a minor component,

the prevalent odour suggesting the inside of someone's ear.

Dank clothes are there, too,

wet wool and onions, which she eats raw,

plus, what for me has always been the essence of poverty,

damp newspaper.

Miss Shepherd's multi-flavoured aroma

is masked by a liberal application of various talcum powders,

with Yardley's Lavender always a favourite.

And currently it is this genteel fragrance

that dominates the second subject, as it were, in her odoriferous concerto.

But as she goes, the original theme returns,

her own primary odour now triumphantly restated

and left hanging in the house long after she has departed.

Tell her.

- Miss Shepherd. - Hmm?

In future, I would prefer if you didn't use my lavatory.

There are lavatories at the bottom of the High Street. Use those.

They smell. And I'm by nature a very clean person.

I have a testimonial for a clean room, awarded me some years ago.

And, do you know, my aunt, herself spotless,

said I was the cleanest of all my mother's children,

particularly in the unseen places.

The writer is double.

There is the self who does the writing, and there is the self who does the living.

And they talk. They argue.

Writing is talking to oneself.

And I've been doing it all my life,

and long before I first saw this house five years ago.

Fifteen? Number 10 fetched 17.

Come on. I thought you had a play on in the West End.

These houses have got so much potential,

once you get rid of the junk-.

There you have it. Gloucester Crescent.

Good street. On the up and up.

Big motor, have you? Loads of room.

Watch out...

- Just be a few minutes. All right, governor.

You're not Saint John, are you?

Saint John who?

Saint John, the disciple whom Jesus loved.

No. The name's Bennett.

Oh, well, if you're not Saint John, I need a push for the van.

It's conked out.

The battery, possibly. I put some water in. Hasn't done the trick.

Well, was it distilled water?

It was holy water, so it doesn't matter if it's distilled or not.

'Course, the oil is another possibility.

That's not holy, too?

Holy oil? Well, in a van, it would be far too expensive. Now.

I want pushing around the corner. So...

Are you wanting to go far?

Possibly. I'm in two minds.

I'm turning left!

- (TYRES SCREECH) - (BENNETT EXCLAIMS)

Oh, is that it?

I need... I need the other end.

Well, that's half a mile away.

I'm in dire need of assistance.

I'm a sick woman.

Dying, possibly.

I'm just looking for a last resting place, somewhere to lay my head.

Do you know of anyone?

Hmm?

Bye-bye, madam. Mind how you go.

A proper writer might welcome such an encounter as constituting experience.

Me, I have to wait and mull it over.

She saw you coming.

She's old.

You wouldn't get Harold Pinter pushing a van down the street.

No, unlike me.

But then I'm too busy not writing plays and leading my mad, vigorous creative life.

Yeah, you live it, I write it.

Welcome. Hello.

All moved in? Hello. Yes.

Was the move good? Yes, thank you.

Well done.

It's a pretty house.

Not as big as ours, of course, but then you're unattached.

No, it's attached to the house behind.

I mean you. You're single.

Oh.

Sickert once lived in the street, apparently. Dickens' abandoned wife.

Now it's the usual North London medley.

Advertising, journalism, TV. People like you, writers, artists.

Anything in the pipeline?

Well, I have got a play on in the West End.

Of course you have, yeah.

Dare one ask?

Uh, thirteen five.

- Oh, my God. - Yes, I know.

We're twice as big, so what does that make ours worth?

Mind you, our new neighbour won't help the prices.

Yes, we've met.

Last year she was in Gloucester Avenue. Now it's our turn.

She seems to have settled at 66.

Will they mind? I hope not.

We like to think we're a community.

Well, it's nice to talk to you.

So, what play has he got on?

We saw it. That domestic thing.

Gone.

Hmm.

That's litter, Mummy. Those are her things.

We thought you might like some pears. They're from our garden in Suffolk.

Pears repeat on me.

- Ah. - (RECORDERS PLAYING IN HOUSE)

Were you planning on staying long?

Not with that din going on.

I know what you're thinking.

Still, it's nice to feel we're doing our bit for the homeless.

I'd like to keep it like this. Simple.

- Monastic. - Quite.

- This is my bedroom. - Nice.

So, do you like being in the play?

Love it. Love it.

So English. Just what people want.

Bed looks comfortable.

Well, maybe you could come around and give me a hand with the decorating.

Sure. My girlfriend's a dab hand at the painting.

Hello, darling. You look a character.

Yes. This is Camden Town.

Oh, yes! I'm here most days.

I teach. And the pavement is my blackboard.

Now, I also sell pencils.

A gentleman came by the other day.

He said the pencil he bought from me

was the best pencil on the market at the present time.

You're against the common markets, I see.

Me? Who said it was me?

- You're not the writer? - Not necessarily.

But I'll go so far as to say this.

They're anonymous.

And they're a shilling! You've only given me sixpence.

Well, it says there, "Saint Francis hurled money from him".

Well, yes, but he was a saint.

He could afford to.

Sodding beggars!

I'm not a beggar! I'm self-employed, and this gentleman is my neighbour.

Oh!

On the move again? You didn't stay long.

No. Because it was non-stop music.

Lucy is doing her O levels.

It's the noise levels I'm worried about.

- (TYRES SCREECHING) Wave, darling.

Bye, darling.

Don't stay up too late. Bye, darling.

Sorry about all this.

- Glyndebourne. - Cosi.

Oh, lucky you. Have fun.

Oh. Look out. Madam's on the move.

So, whose turn will it be now?

- Slow down. - I don't want to miss the curtain.

- Mrs Vaughan Williams? - No. The Birts.

No!

Sixty-two.

No. Who?

No! No!

- No, darling, that's us! - Stop the cab!

Sorry! Sorry!

Sorry!

Sorry, you can't park here.

No, I've had guidance. This is where it should go.

Guidance? Who from?

The Virgin Mary. I spoke to her yesterday.

She was outside the post office in Parkway.

What does she know about parking?

Rufus, tell her we're going to Glyndebourne!

I need a ruler.

I must measure the distance between the tyres and the kerb.

See, one and a half inches is the ideal gap.

I came across that in a Catholic motoring magazine

under "Tips on Christian Parking".

This isn't Christian parking. It's a fucking liberty.

Rufus.

You try to be nice, and where does it get you?

Darling.

Well, you didn't stay long outside 66.

Not with that din.

They're not musical, are they?

Who?

You know, 61.

No. They go to the opera. Are you all right?

What with all this to-do,

I think I'm about to be taken short.

Can I use your lavatory?

No! The flush is on the blink.

I don't mind. (MOANS)

Where is it?

Where is it?

Thank you.

(ON PHONE) I've got a meeting at the BBC.

What about?

It's just something I'm writing.