Original subtitles

We have indeed fought the brave fight to keep Cornbolts Village School open.

It has been a fight fought with energy and vigour.

The authorities said there was no need for the school, but the motto of St

Cornbolts was always quality, not quantity.

And looking out at all your young faces, I know that the battle was worth the

fight.

I now call upon the headmaster to say a few words.

Here we are.

Loved ones, parents, pupils, friends.

A new term is about to begin.

A term of challenge and opportunity.

In all my years in the ministry, I've never heard such a rotten, boring

Shh, Philip, he'll hear you. Not his, mine.

Onwards and upwards.

Per ardua ad actra.

Through difficulty.

The sky's the limit.

I tell you, Emma, it was like an out -of -body experience.

Out of what?

Out -of -body.

When my soul leaves the physical shell and hovers in the air watching me being

played boring.

Boring, boring, boring, boring, boring, boring, boring.

Just plain boring.

And I sat there looking at this dreary old twit droning at those poor

defenseless kids and I thought, who the devil's this?

Then I looked again and I thought, most of all, God, it's me.

It's certainly the first time I've actually envied my feet.

What do you mean? They've gone to sleep.

And they weren't the only ones. You've certainly written better speeches.

I shouldn't have had to write it at all. I mean, there was a time when I'd just

stand up and whatever was in my heart, in my mind, would just sort of bubble

out. It has to be said, an equal amount of rubbish used to bubble out with it.

Well, at least it was spontaneous rubbish. There's no excuse at all for

considered waffle.

Then why didn't you try bubbling this morning?

Well, frankly, I didn't trust myself.

I actually think that keeping that school open is a complete waste of time.

What? If it was there for the local kids, I could see some point in it, but

just catering for a handful of isolated middle -class children being made even

more isolated middle -class. They should be in a real school where they have a

chance to be bullied and miserable like everybody else.

What's going on about this time?

What do you mean? What's going on? I could hear you moaning halfway up the

drive. I was not moaning, Miranda. I was simply expressing a vague

dissatisfaction. Yeah, it's probably the start of the male menopause.

The male menopause?

Come back here, Miranda.

What do you mean?

No, thank you. My state of mind has nothing whatever to do with a male

menopause, or the female one, for that matter, has it, Emma? Not the female

certainly.

What's an article about middle -aged crisis doing in a teenage magazine?

Stuff that have to cope with you when you get it.

I don't moan that much, do I? No, no, you just express a vague

every now and then. Well, it has to be said, Emma, that I'm not entirely happy

with my lot. Oh, we're not a bad lot as lot go.

I'm not talking about you lot. I mean my lot, my life, my career.

You have a sense of futility.

Yes. You think you've come to the end of the road.

Yes. You feel you're in a rut.

There's no escape, that life holds no more surprises.

Yes. That's it exactly.

You really are amazingly perceptive. Not really, Philip. It's all in this

article here.

And if it's not middle -aged crisis you've got, it's a jolly good imitation.

It is not.

Look.

Just forget it.

What are you doing?

Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear.

These are all the golf clubs we have.

It was all that was in the Jumbo sales. They look pathetic.

Well, you only use one at a time, don't you? Well, I know that. Of course I know

that.

The point is, Major Andrews wants me to partner him this afternoon.

Sir Monty Harris is staying with him and he thinks we can persuade him to donate

some cash for a new church roof. You shouldn't let him bully you into these

schemes. You haven't played in years.

That's the whole point. Sir Monty likes to win. And with me playing against

him... How could he possibly lose?

Well, not that bad.

Aren't you? There are plenty of players far worse than me. Yes, but they have

the good sense not to play.

Shut up.

Philip! What the devil's keeping you? Oh, sorry, Major. My lace is broken.

never mind about that now. Look.

If we want that new church roof, it's Michael Cimonte likes you. So, for

heaven's sake, don't mention God.

Would I be asking him for money if he wasn't? No, he's just sick of the

or was dragging the Almighty into politics.

But I told him you were one of the old school clergy.

Am I?

In fact, I said to him, if it wasn't for the dog collar, you'd hardly know he

was a vicar at all.

Hello, Philip.

Hello, Bill.

Sturmfuhrer Andrew, still telling you how to be a vicar, eh?

No wonder you're thinking of leaving us for pastures new.

Who told you about that?

I'm treating the Archdeacon in Banbury for piles.

That always breeds a certain intimacy.

Can't say I fancy this new parish you've been offered, though. Sounds like a

real inner -city slum. Oh, that's what makes it so attractive. In another few

years, I won't have the energy for a challenge like this.

What does Emma think about it? Oh, I haven't actually got round to mentioning

to her yet. You feel her response might be something less than rapturous, eh? I

don't want to worry her until I'm absolutely sure it's what I want. I've

debating it with myself endlessly.

What does the Almighty have to say on the subject?

Well, communications between us have broken down recently.

Then the golf course is the perfect place to re -establish it.

Really? Oh, absolutely.

I pray all the time out there.

I didn't know you were religious.

Oh, I'm not. But to improve my golf, I'll try anything.

I'm sorry to start you. Mrs Lamb? Yes.

I'm Alec Dugdale, vicar's warden of All Saints.

Oh, how do you... how do you do? Or at least I would be if we had a vicar.

Oh, I'm afraid my husband isn't here, Mr Dugdale. Oh, he wasn't expecting me. I

just felt like getting out of Edendale for a while.

Sorry? Edendale. That's where All Saints is.

Reverend Lamb was offered it by the bishop over a month ago.

And, well, we've heard nothing since, so I thought I'd come and lean on him a

bit.

I'm not quite with you, Mr Dugdale.

Philip's been offered your parish.

Oh, thanks. That's right.

Didn't he kill you?

No.

He didn't.

Of course.

See what a beautiful parish you've got already. If he suggests moving, you'll

probably kill him.

I'll probably kill him anyway, Mr Dundale.

I lost the toss, so he's in a good mood to start with.

Mount here.

This is Philip Lamb.

The Lamb of God, eh?

This is my company secretary, Archie Dilforth.

Here, you've a few slate clues.

Oh, yes,

of course.

Sir Monty was actually christened in your church, I believe. Haven't been

there since, of course.

Still, I might see my way to put a new lid on your God box.

Well, that depends on the sort of mood I'm in by the end of this match, eh?

I did say you were rotten, didn't you?

Abysmal. Good, sir.

Do you mind?

I'm sorry, everyone.

Sorry.

Bad luck.

That was my practice week.

Yes, of course it was, Monty.

Sorry.

But mind if I take that again? I wasn't quite ready.

Not at all, Monty.

I think we're in big trouble.

Why?

He's worse than I am.

Ah, that's more like it.

Absolute scorcher, Sir Monty.

Anyone see where it went?

Sorry this has come as a bit of a surprise.

Thanks for the tea.

You still haven't told me what happened to your last picker, Mr Dugdale.

Oh, lovely man he was.

With us for 12 years.

Passed over 18 months ago.

Oh, I'm so sorry.

So was we.

Of course, we'd seen it coming for quite a while.

Had he been ill for a long time?

No, he'd been drinking a long time.

I never missed a service.

Even though there were times when I had to hump him into the pulpit.

I was all very fond of him.

I'm sure you were. I'm just surprised that they gave your parish to someone

a drink problem.

Oh, before he come to us, he never had one.

What are you playing at, Philip?

Golf. Well, no, it's pretty awful. It's a damn sight better than some Monty

Deppers. Exactly.

You're trying too hard. I'm not trying at all. Ah!

What? Just find my ball.

Right.

He's not looking at the moment. Hit it that way.

What? We're all square.

But if you lose this last hold, Sir Monty will win the match.

Come on, come on.

Remember, if you want that new church roof, botch this next shot.

Coming, Monty.

God, this is the best I can do for you.

God only knows, Major.

The most amazing thing happened on the golf course. Something pretty amazing

happened here, too.

It was like a sort of... a sort of sign.

I had more than a sign. I had a visitation.

The poor chap from Edendale, claiming to be vicar's warden of all saints, said

you'd been offered the parish down there.

Obviously, if there's any truth in it, you'd have told me straight away. So I

gave him some tea.

Made all the right comments and sent him away happy.

Now, what happened on the golf course, darling?

By the way, Peter made these biscuits at school today. Did you know he's taking

cooking instead of pottery? Not that there's much difference in the end

I didn't want to worry you until I was absolutely sure it was what I wanted.

And now you're sure? Yes, I'm absolutely, absolutely sure.

At least I think I am.

And are you planning to consult the rest of your family about any of this? Well,

of course I am, and you have every right to be angry. I'm not angry, Philip.

Hurt, confused, betrayed, perhaps, but not... Not angry.

Supper!

Emma, they need me at Edendale. And we need you here. Oh, who needs me here?

Apart from our faithful little band of locals, more people turn up for the

rubbing that attends the services. The place is like a graveyard till Friday

lunchtime. and it suddenly fills up with au pairs, volvos and corgis. It's not a

village any more. It's Sloane Square in the marsh. Every home's a second home.

Well, this is our one and only. And neither wild horses nor menopausal males

will drag me out of it. Emma, please.

We'll continue this after supper, Philip. I don't want to upset the

What about upsetting me?

Hi, Dad.

Not those disgusting biscuits again.

You haven't had one yet.

And I don't intend to unless they're a stomach pump handy.

Charming.

Did you make the bread, Mum? Yes.

Hmm. Thought so.

And just what's wrong with it? I didn't say there was anything wrong with it.

Then why did you say so?

I recognised it from last time.

This soup smells delicious.

First Peter's biscuits and now my bread. Really delicious.

Peter, don't read comics at the table.

It's not a comic. It's a new computer magazine.

I don't care if it's the New Testament. Put it away and join in the

conversation.

Conversation. Mum's made more bread.

Not again.

I think the bread's wonderful. In fact, it's only surpassed by this delicious

homemade soup.

It's out of the packet.

Is it? Is it? Well, it's still very delicious.

Then? What?

The conversation.

Don't read at the table.

Emma, Emma, if you want to fight, don't waste time on the warm -up box. The main

contender's right here. I don't want to upset the children.

Don't mind us. If you want to fight, go right ahead.

I hope it's more interesting than the conversation.

Right. All right. All I ask is that you put the situation in as objective a

light as possible.

For the past months, your father has furtively been scheming to uproot us

this beautiful village with its wonderful old vicarage and gardens and

us down to a parish so ghastly its last incumbent died of drinking no same...

for objectivity.

Where is this parish?

Oh, it's about 100 miles from here, one of those new towns 20 years ago. It's

called Edendale. Don't let the name fool you.

They give you the key to the city if you can find an unvandalised phone box.

It's just a possibility I'd like to explore, that's all. It means meeting

church council, having a chat with everybody. Sorry, Dad. I think it's a

idea. That goes ditto for me also.

I'm sorry too, Philip, but you're on your own in this.

I know you've been miserable these last few months.

But I'm damned if we're all going to be miserable with you.

Excuse me.

Emma!

I was lying about the soup!

Elliot? Oh, I'm in here, Major. Oh, there you are. Did you get my message?

What message? I left your instructions with Emma.

I've managed to persuade Sir Monty to come to morning service.

So just make sure your sermon's up to scratch.

Up to scratch? Try picking it up with a few references to the Prime Minister.

Sir Monty's dotty about her.

Oh, no, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to change my sermon just to suit the whims

of your friend.

Now, look, Philip, we need that new roof. So you impress him, or we may need

new vicar as well.

Come on, Dad, you'll be late.

Matthew 7, 18 to 20.

What? Matthew, chapter 7, verses 18 to 20. That's the lesson, isn't it?

Yes, yes, that's right. Well, I'm reading it.

Good.

Make a change on the riot act.

Nothing?

A sound tree cannot bear evil fruit, nor a bad tree good fruit.

Thus, you will be known by your fruits.

Here endeth the lesson.

We shall now sing hymn number 444, omitting the third and fourth verses,

Loving Shepherd of Thy Sheep.

If we have them, who is to judge if they are good fruits or bad fruits?

I'm quite crazy when it comes right down to it. Who gives toughness one way or

the other?

My wife just advised me to get up here and bubble.

I think she means I should speak from the heart.

I don't know how seriously she meant it.

Because what's in my heart is a frightful sense of loss.

Not of faith, but of purpose.

Have any of you been down to the pub recently?

The bar was a couple of barrels with a plank across it, and they only served

three kinds of beer.

Mild, bitter, and legless.

And they served 50 different kinds of beer, and all of them disgusting.

And it's all wood panelling and horse brasses.

And in the half, summer or winter, they've got this gas log fire.

It looks very good, but of course the logs don't burn.

It doesn't give off much heat either.

But the landlord was delighted with it.

It doesn't smoke and needs little or no attention.

And then I realized I had a lot in common with those fake logs.

I don't burn much anymore, don't give off much heat, need even less attention,

and I've been a non -smoker for years.

In fact, I'm not even sure I'm still combustible material.

But I'd like another chance to find out one way or the other.

I used to think of myself as a firebrand.

Now I'm afraid I'm little more than a damp squib.

Hello.

Hello.

Did I make a complete fool of myself?

Absolutely.

But at least you weren't boring.

No, I wasn't, was I?

You know, I actually felt a sort of flicker of the old flame again.

I'm glad I mislaid that sermon. Oh, you didn't mislay it, Philip.

What? I tore it up.

You did what?

I tore it up.

You tore up my sermon? Yes.

Why?

Yes, it was a stinker, wasn't it?

Emma, I've got to get out of this parish before my brain shrivels to the size of

the major's golf balls.

Please, look.

Come with me to Edendale. No, Philip. It'll be a new environment. No. A new

challenge. No. A new me.

What the devil do you think you're doing?

I'm kissing my wife, Major. Any objections?

I mean in the pulpit. Sir Monty's driven off in a furious rage, so bang goes our

new roof.

I'm sorry I didn't manage to mention the Prime Minister.

It's what you did mention that did the damage. I suggest you sit down and write

him a letter of apology at once.

The hell I will.

I beg your pardon? If he didn't like what I said, he can shove off. What?

And come to think of it, you can shove off too.

If you know what's good for you, Philip. If I knew what was good for me, I'd

have told you to shove off ages ago.

In all my years as Vickers Wharton, I've never been spoken to like this before.

That could be part of the problem, Major.

Right.

My God, I enjoyed that. Yes, I could see you did.

Well, why the digging should I apologise to Sir Monty for heaven's sake?

You mean you don't know?

What?

Fifty kinds of beer and all of them disgusting.

What's that got to do with Sir Monty? It's his brewery owns the pub in the

village. Oh, my God.