John Finnemore's Souvenir Programme series 9 episode 5

This is John Finnemore's Souvenir Programme.
[intro music]

Narrator: 1990: Long Buckby

Deborah:
Russ? Over here!

Newt:
Goodbye.

Jerry:
Uncle Newt!

Newt:
Oh, hello, Jerry!

Jerry:
Good lord. Is that the same hat you wore at Myra's wedding?

Newt:
Oh, yes, I imagine so, why? Oh! Ha, I see. Yes, awfully resilient these old things. Deborah was looking for you. Did she find you?

Jerry:
Well, yes, she did, but she needn't have done. I have no intention of doing a poem. Is that how the family see me now? As a sort of verse menace that has to be fended off, lest I perpetrate a poem at a funeral.

Newt:
[laughs] No, certainly not. You can do one at mine if you like.

Jerry:
No, you don't need to say that.

Newt:
No, no, I shall enjoy it. Well, I-- I won't. But I am right now enjoying the idea that there will be one.

Jerry:
Oh, yes. It seems a shame you won't hear it though. I suppose I could do it before... the event. So you can hear it?

Newt:
Um... No, thank you.

Jerry:
Oh well, just as you please.

Newt:
Oh, no, no, I'm certain I would enjoy the poem. But I'd have to choose a face to listen to it with. I wouldn't enjoy that at all. You know, grateful or modest or teased or--

Jerry:
[laughs] Yes, I see. Anyway. Oh, this is all nonsense in any case -- you'll outlive us all.

Newt:
Oh, good heavens, I hope not. I would pay you your ha'penny in advance, but I fear they've stopped making them.

Jerry:
Well you could make it a whole penny, I suppose.

Newt:
Oh! Oh, you consider you've earned a raise! Of a hundred percent!

Jerry:
[laughs]

Narrator: 1975: Hook Norton

[sound of hedge clippers]

Man with foreign accent:
[clears throat] Excuse me?

Newt:
Yes? Hello.

Man with foreign accent:
Mr. Nightingale?

Newt:
Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, did I used to teach you? Just remind me -- I usually do remember; it just takes a while.

Man with foreign accent:
No, we've never met, but I always wanted to meet you.

Newt:
Really?

Man with foreign accent:
Yes, you see-- I had a walrus for a pet. Why I bought it, I forget. I fed it kedgeree and rusks, and used best Blanco on his tusks.

Newt:
... Sun's awfully hot today, isn't it? I wonder if you're feeling quite uh...

Man with foreign accent:
Did you not write that?

Newt:
Oh! Oh, yes. Um, I see! Quite possibly, yes. Either my nephew or I. I don't remember it, but [through laughter] I recognize the style.

Man with foreign accent:
Well, as you see, I learnt it years ago, but I still have it by heart.

Newt:
Oh, that's most gratifying! They were designed to stick, you know.

Man with foreign accent:
I know. Anyway, yesterday I had dinner with a mutual friend of ours and told him I'd always wanted to meet the author. He said it was probably one of yours.

Newt:
Yes, I'm afraid so. Animals were rather our speciality. Animals and kings, for some reason.

Man with foreign accent:
Well, thank you.

Newt:
No, not at all. So... did it work?

Man with foreign accent:
Well, I'm here.

Newt:
Yes, I suppose you are. Well, look, what am I thinking? Come in, come in! Do you like lemonade?

Narrator: 1969: Great Rollwright

Woman on TV:
Dr. Bachman, if I can turn to you. Can you give us some idea of what will be running through these men's minds?

Man on TV:
Well, Patsy, first of all, I have to tell you, I'm probably not the best qualified--

Mrs. Mill:
What in the world is going on here?

Student:
Please, Miss, we--

Mrs. Mill:
It is half past three in the morning! Is that a television set?

Student:
Please, Miss, it's alright, Mr. Nightingale said--

Mrs. Mill:
I don't wish to hear what Mr. Nightingale may or may not have said. Whatever it was, I'm sure it was not that you might smuggle a television set into the common room and watch it in the middle of the night.

Newt:
Ah, in point of fact...

Mrs. Mill:
Mr. Nightingale! Mrs. Palmer!

Newt:
Hello.

Mrs. Palmer:
Hullo.

Newt:
I-- I should explain. Um, the television set is mine. Or rather I've-- I've rented it for the occasion.

Mrs. Mill:
What occasion?

Newt:
Well-- the landing on the moon.

Mrs. Mill:
You mean, this is all in aid of--

Newt:
Mrs. Mill, I wonder if I could have a quick word with you outside.

Mrs. Mill:
I think that would be a very good idea. [door opens] Am I to understand that you have allowed these girls to stay up all night in order to watch some foolish American walk on the moon?

Newt:
Two of them, hopefully. They're in my lower fifth and sixth set, you see. The girls, obviously, not--

Mrs. Mill:
Mr. Nightingale, it is half past three in the morning!

Newt:
Yes, I'm afraid I wasn't consulted about the timing.

Mrs. Mill:
We will discuss this further in the morning. For now kindly retrieve your television set and leave.

Newt:
Ah... But, um, now the girls have stayed up this long. The landing's expected within the next half an hour.

Mrs. Mill:
I have given you my answer.

Newt:
I really do think they-- they need to see it.

Mrs. Mill:
I disagree with you.

Newt:
And also I need to see it. You see, it took the devil of a time to set up the aerial -- I'm worried it might go phooey if I disturb it.

Mrs. Mill:
Mr. Nightingale, you're a grown man! I might even say an elderly man. Not a rocket-addled small boy!

Newt:
No, rather not. When I was a small boy, it was all flying machines we loved. Of course, they were science fiction until I was 12 when those two American boys launched the Wright Flyer. And now, as you rightly point out, I am an old man, and two American boys are about to walk on the moon! Seems rather worth seeing.

Mrs. Mill:
Do I understand that you intend to defy my authority in front of the girls in my charge?

Newt:
Oh, no, no, no, no, no, absolutely not. I-- But I suppose what I thought I might do is just very quietly defy it out here.

Narrator: 1951: York to London

[train noises]

Patrick:
But will he be impertinent?

Newt:
Impertinent? No, Father. I shouldn't think so. Whyever should he be impertinent?

Patrick:
I don't know why he should be, but people so often are. I shan't answer him if he's impertinent. I give you fair warning. I shall leave him high and dry.

Newt:
I'm sure he wouldn't dream of being impertinent. All he is going to do is ask you about your work and then invite you to name the records.

Patrick:
Ask about my work?

Newt:
Yes, of course.

Patrick:
Oh, I don't like that. Why should he wish to know about my work?

Newt:
Because-- because that is the-- the whole raison d'etre of the program, Father, to invite a person of note to choose eight pieces of music and to discuss his life and work.

Patrick:
Life? I certainly shan't discuss my life.

Newt:
Not life in the sense of--

Patrick:
No, no, no, I'm perfectly willing to name the records, but let that be an end to it.

Newt:
But he-- all he will do, Father, is ask you about your book.

Patrick:
Why ask about it? Why not simply read it?

Newt:
This is your opportunity to explain to the public why they should read it.

Patrick:
What, like a salesperson?

Newt:
[impatient noise]

Patrick:
No, I don't like that at all. The book has been written, the book has been made available for purchase. Should persons wish to read it, that course is open to them.

Newt:
So you're just going to announce the names of the records and then sit there like an owl.

Patrick:
Not like an owl.

Newt:
Marvelous.

Narrator: 1944: Spetwith

Newt:
Oh, hello, Jerry. Something for the ditty box?

Jerry:
Possibly.

Newt:
Fire away.

Jerry:
The aardvark has two eyes, of course.
He also has two A's.
His A's he puts before his name.
His eyes are on his face.

Newt:
Ha! Funny. Here's your ha'penny. Hmm. A's and face, there?

Jerry:
"Faze."

Newt:
Mm. Anyhow, he's got three A's. Oh, ah, so, hang on.
The Aardvark has two eyes, of course.
He has three A's as well. Ha!
And that is how he got his name.
He's such "aardvark" to spell.

Jerry:
Oh, like hard work!

Newt:
That was the idea. You think not?

Jerry:
Maybe.

Newt:
Put it in the "nearlys" pile.

Narrator: 1940: Marylebone

Spencer:
And this is my hutch, or backwater. So I suppose you know where you are.

Newt:
Ah, no, beyond Baker Street, I haven't the least idea, Spencer Minor. Oh, I'm so sorry, Spencer. But I infer you're the... what, Secret Service?

Spencer:
Oh, no. Good lord, no. They're all Whitehall way. We're the SOE, the scruffy little brother. Not even that really. The disgraceful cousin.

Newt:
What's the difference?

Spencer:
Very broadly speaking, they find things out. We make trouble. Now. I have a rather queer job to offer you. I don't know if you can guess.

Newt:
A job suited to a provincial science teacher in his 50s? I certainly cannot.

Spencer:
No. Cruel of me really. I only asked you because you hadn't the least chance. Well now. We communicate with our agents in the field by wireless transmissions. In code, naturally. And of course, it's imperative the codes never be written down but carried in the agent's head. So, we use something called a poem code. A passage of text is agreed upon which the agent knows by heart. It may be the Lord's prayer or it may be "The Lambeth Walk". Thereafter, for each transmission, a new key is derived from the text by a process I need not bore you with.

Newt:
Oh, no, please, I would be fascinated.

Spencer:
By a process with which the Official Secrets Act forbids me from boring you.

Newt:
Ah, I see. Of course.

Spencer:
The weakness is this is, should even a single message be compromised it reveals to the other side a few words of the agreed text. And if those words were, say, "hallowed" and "tresspasses"...

Newt:
Oh. Yes, I see. Or indeed "Lambeth" and... "oy".

Spencer:
Quite. So what we need are entirely original verses known only to the agent and handler which no interceptor could possibly deduce from a few stray words. This would allow us to tailor the poems precisely to our needs. It should be intensely memorable, unpredictable, and ideally consists of 26 words, for reasons with which, again, I need not bore you.

Newt:
Is the number of letters in the alphabet covered by the Official Secrets Act?

Spencer:
It wouldn't at all surprise me if it were. Anyway, I thought of those pieces of nonsense you made us learn at school and wondered whether this might in any way be up your street.

Newt:
You want me to write nonsense poetry?

Spencer:
Precisely.

Newt:
I see. So when my future pupils ask me, "What did you do in the war, sir?"

Spencer:
Well, the good news is, you won't be allowed to tell them. So, what do you think? Can you help us?

Newt:
Of-- of course, I should be honored.

Spencer:
Good show. And the more the merrier, if you can manage. There's rather an intense demand.

Newt:
Oh, well, if volume is what you're after, would it be in order to ask my nephew to help me out?

Spencer:
Why, is he good?

Newt:
He's quite promising.

Spencer:
We'll have to run checks on him. Which service is he in?

Newt:
He's not been called up just yet.

Spencer:
Oh. Well, look, do you think you could get him to help without telling him what it's for?

Newt:
I think I probably could. Yes.

Narrator: 1939: Spetwith

Newt:
Hello, my dear. Have you been out?

Vanessa:
I've been sewing shirts for sailors.

Newt:
Oh, is this one of those round games? Am I to say I've been sewing shirts for sailors and, uh, making mead for monks?

Vanessa:
No, the dashed sewing circle!

Newt:
Ah.

Vanessa:
Uncle, I really don't know how I can stick this for the duration.

Newt:
I see.

Vanessa:
I only wish I could join the ATS or something, something useful.

Newt:
Well then, why can't you?

Vanessa:
Well, Jerry, of course.

Newt:
Oh my dear, I hope it goes without saying, Jerry is most welcome to stop here with me, with you or without.

Vanessa:
Oh. Uncle, really?

Newt:
By all means! If he's agreeable, of course. Mind you, I don't quite see you in the ATS.

Vanessa:
Oh, why not?

Newt:
They will rather expect you to follow orders.

Vanessa:
Or give them.

Newt:
In time, no doubt. But to begin with, I think definitely follow them.

Vanessa:
Ah, well, there are other forms of war work, no doubt. I can type. Could I not be some big wig's secretary?

Newt:
And take down his dictation?

Vanessa:
Ah. Surely there must be some sort of war work where one can retain one's autonomy.

Newt:
If there is, I have no doubt you will find it.

Narrator: 1924: York

[classroom noises]

Newt:
When considering Plato, it is imperative always to keep in mind the nickname by which Plato was invariably known. Good morning, gentlemen.

All students:
Good morning, Mr. Nightingale.

Newt:
Five merits to the first boy to tell me the nickname by which Plato was invariably known. ...No? Very well. One merit to the first boy to ask me the nickname by which--

[all students speaking at once]

Newt:
Thank you. Thank you. That will do. Uh, Hawkwell by a whisker I think. Well, since you ask me the nickname by which Plato was invariably known, it was... Plato. Yes, Plato's real name is obscure, generally thought to be Aristocles, which I freely admit sounds made up. Plato, or Platon, comes from "platýs", meaning, as Sanders is bursting with eagerness to tell us once he tears his gaze from the ceiling...

Sanders:
Uh, wide, sir?

Newt:
Wide, yes, well done. Or in this case, broad. Seneca tells us, if we care, Allroyd, to listen to Seneca, rather than to Spencer Minor, equally worthy of our attention as those two sages no doubt are, Seneca tells us that Plato was named "broad" for his broad shoulders. So the thing to bear in mind about Plato is that he was the sort of chap everybody called beefy. Now Plato was, of course, the teacher of Aristotle, but he did not teach Aristotle that heavy things fall faster than light things. Aristotle worked that one out all by himself, and he was of course--?

All students:
Wrong!

Newt:
Wrong, yes, as with the four-legged flies and the monstrous women, Aristotle was once more talking through his hat. But because of his big curly beard, no one questioned him until 1592 -- write that down -- when he was proved wrong by... Spencer Minor?

Spencer:
...Plato?

Newt:
Always a good strategy when one hasn't been listening at all to say the first name I bellowed as I came in. But on this occasion, alas, Spencer Minor, it has failed you -- take two demerits. It was, in fact, Galileo in 1592, who went up the Tower of Pisa, dropped a great big ball of lead and a tiny little ball of lead over the side, observed them hit the ground also at the same time, and gave the ghost of Aristotle a very hard stare indeed. For he had proved that -- write this down -- [chalkboard writing noises] the ratio of gravitational mass to inertial mass is essentially unity. Or, to put it another way -- write this down also and have it for me by heart by Monday --

Whether they're large, or whether they're small,
has no effect on the rate which things fall.
But whether you choose to accept this or not'll
depend on your faith in that fool, Aristotle.

Narrator: 1911: Leeds

[applause]

[cello and piano music]

Susanna:
[singing] Professor Samuel Small and son
were known to be the best bar none
at imitating birds in music halls.
Tralalala.
And nightly they would chirp and trill
to represent with subtle skill
some feathered friends familiar to you all.
But then disaster unforeseen
upon the day he turned 16.
An awful change occurred to Albert Small.
Now he sang

Newt:
“Tweet tweet tweet” trills the nene,
“tralala” the skylark sings,
the chaffinch chirps “chirrup chirrup”,
the nightingale croons “ringading”.

Susanna:
I'm sure you've heard the fatal flaw --
his tone was good, his pitch was poor,
for nightingales have notes that Bert now lacked.
[very high pitched] Tralalala!
The trouble is there really are
no ways to turn yourself soprano.
Vainly Albert fought against this fact.
He tried to think falsetto thoughts,
he wore strange surgical supports,
and yet when he stepped forward in the act,
he still sang

Newt:
“Tweet tweet tweet” trills the nene,
“tralala” the skylark sings,
the chaffinch chirps “chirrup chirrup”,
the nightingale croons “ringading”.
It's no use, Pa, I'm baritone,

Susanna:
cried Bert,

Newt:
I'll quit and on my own
do card tricks or dramatic monologues -- hahaha!

Susanna:
But old Sam Small said, "Not so fast.
Your birding days may well be passed.
But have you thought of imitating dogs?"
A gleam came into Albert's eye,
he said,

Newt:
Well, Pa, I can but try.

Susanna:
And now he holds the audience agog
as he sings

Newt:
“Woof woof woof” goes the wolfhound,
“arf arf arf” barks the chow,
the bloodhound howls “ow ow ow ow”,
the big borzoi replies “bow wow”.

[applause]

Narrator: 1911: York

[ringing]

Newt:
How do you do?

Gally:
[over the phone] You don't say "how'd you do" on the telephone, you ass.

Newt:
Oh, what do you say?

Gally:
I don't know. Anything.

Newt:
Anything but "how do you do".

Gally:
I just start on in. Look here, can you drop everything and rally around?

Newt:
No, certainly not.

Gally:
Well, you must. I need you to do me a colossal favor. It's Gally, by the way, did I say?

Newt:
You didn't but I thought perhaps it was.

Gally:
Now then. Can you get to Leeds by five?

Newt:
I absolutely cannot.

Gally:
Well, you must. So do. I need you to fill in for me at the second house at the City Varieties tonight.

Newt:
Fill in?

Gally:
Yes, deputise, you know. Play, in short, the cello.

Newt:
What, on-- onstage?

Gally:
No, on the fire escape outside. Yes, you ass! Naturally on the stage.

Newt:
I can't do that.

Gally:
Of course you can do that.

Newt:
What and sing? With Susanna?

Gally:
Lord, no! Heaven forfend. We've retooled the program, cut all the duets. No singing for you at all. Except a bit possibly in Albert Small -- a line or two at most. You could do it standing on your head. Don't, of course, but you could. All right. Be at the stage door at five; Sue will give you the dots. You can wear my togs, of course -- you haven't got beastly fat or anything lately, have you?

Newt:
Uh, no!

Gally:
That's alright, then. I take it you have a top hat.

Newt:
Of course I don't have a top hat! What would I want with a top hat?

Gally:
Buy one!

Newt:
I'm not going to--

Gally:
A young blood like yourself ought to have a top hat. You can wear it to... I don't know, weddings and state openings of Parliaments. Last you a lifetime. I'll pay you back for it when I'm rich and famous, a development we expect imminently. Cheer-o!

Newt:
Wait, though! Am I, am I supposed to be you?

Gally:
What? No! No, I thought perhaps you could be my brother.

Newt:
I am your brother.

Gally:
Oh, yes. But I-- I mean to say, Stage Gally's brother.

Newt:
Yes, but am I supposed to be a man?

Gally:
Yes, rather.

Newt:
But I am a man.

Gally:
I know! All works out rather neatly, doesn't it?

Newt:
But won't they be disappointed if they're expecting a... a male impersonator and they get... an actual man?

Gally:
To be quite honest with you, I think they'll just think you're fearfully good. And now I really must go. See you at five. Oh, only I won't, but Sue will.

Newt:
Gally!

Narrator: 1904: Spetwith

Patrick:
I don't say you are not respectable, Gally. I pay myself the compliment that you are respectable. The question is whether this proposed course of action is respectable.

Gally:
You never objected to the concert parties.

Patrick:
An occasional amateur appearance at a concert party is one thing -- to tour the country as part of a professional troupe seems to me quite another.

Gally:
Well, if it aids your deliberations, Pa, the thing to fix your mind upon is that I'm most certainly going. So your choice is merely whether I go with a father's blessing or under a father's curse.

Lettie:
Oh, but do listen to your father, Gally. After all, is it quite safe for a young lady?

Gally:
Well, there's two of us, remember, Mother. Susanna will keep an eye out for me and I for her.

Lettie:
Well, yes. And Miss Clark's very pleasant young lady, but--

Gally:
Uh, Mrs. Noone now.

Lettie:
What's that, dear?

Gally:
You're behind the times, Ma. Old Sue got hitched this summer -- she now sails under the banner "Mrs. Noone".

Newt:
Susanna's married?

Gally:
So the vicar tells us, and he ought to know.

Lettie:
To whom?

Gally:
Oh, awfully decent chap -- a captain in the Coldstream Guards.

Lettie:
Oh! Well did you hear that, Father?

Patrick:
And... will Captain Noone be travelling with you?

Gally:
One would imagine so, young love being what it is.

Patrick:
Well, that alters the case, of course. Lettie, my dear, may I speak with you for one moment in the withdrawing room?

Lettie:
Yes, of course. [footsteps]

Newt:
You ought to be all right now.

Gally:
Yes, I think so. Apart from anything else, Father will be so dashed tickled he successfully used the withdrawing room. [Newt laughs] All the time we've lived here, that's the first occasion anyone's withdrawn into it. [both laugh]

Newt:
So, Susanna is married?

Gally:
She is.

Newt:
To a captain in the Coldstream Guards?

Gally:
You hear that, Toby? Sometimes I think he understands every word we say!

Newt:
Big wedding, was it?

Gally:
Super colossal.

Newt:
I don't recall you going.

Gally:
Didn't. Had an engagement in Harrogate, couldn't get out of it.

Newt:
Oh, I see. But... Susanna got out of it.

Gally:
Yes.

Newt:
So you did your double act... on your own.

Gally:
I sang solos.

Newt:
Didn't know you had any solos.

Gally:
Well there's a dashed lot you don't know.

Newt:
Mm. Well, I'm awfully keen to meet Captain Noone.

Gally:
Ha! I like that. You don't imagine I'm ever going to introduce a foul infant like you to Captain Noone, do you?

Newt:
No. No, I don't imagine you ever will.

Gally:
Well. So long as that's understood.

Newt:
Unusual name, Noone. Does he spell it with an E?

Gally:
Yes, as a matter of fact, he does.

Newt:
I thought he might. ...And a hyphen?

Gally:
[long pause] You little beast! I suppose you think you're awfully clever.

Newt:
No, not really. I'm not sure it's quite as subtle as you think it is. Can you change it?

Gally:
Well, I've told Ma and Pa now. Besides we want to rename the act "Midnight & Noone" -- got a bit more dash to it, no?

Newt:
Oh, but Nightingale's such a jolly good name for a singer.

Gally:
Some singers, no doubt. Not one that sounds like me.

Newt:
[laughs] No, perhaps not. Oo, but you know, there might be a song in there, you know?

Gally:
What?

Newt:
Well, you as one of those... um, those chaps who imitate birds.

Gally:
Ooh! There's something in that. Thanks.

Narrator: 1899: Spetwith

Patrick:
Ah, I win.

Lettie:
Well done, Father.

Gally:
Oh, yes. Jolly well done.

Patrick:
Now then. What do we have here? A paper hat. A sort of... small horseshoe? What does one do with that?

Mr. James:
I think it's a sort of favor, Nightingale. One just keeps it.

Patrick:
Oh! Thank you, James. And the motto: [clears throat] "Why are Christmas bells like an obedient scullery maid? They peal, peel whenever they are tolled, told." Ha! Ah, yes, I see. Very good.

Newt:
I don't understand, Father. Might you explain it to me?

Patrick:
When you're a little older, my boy.

Gally:
Goodness, is it racy?

Patrick:
Certainly not! Merely somewhat abstruse.

Mr. James:
I must confess, Nightingale, it's a little too deep for me as well. If you did care to explain?

Patrick:
[hems and haws] Well, I, I take it to be a tonal joke. The repetition of the key words evoking the echo of the bell and the, the repetitive labour of the maid.

Mr. James:
Ah, I see. Quite the range these mottos have. Mine was just a pun on snow.

Gally:
Let me see.

Patrick:
There's no need.

Gally:
Oh you ass, Father.

Lettie:
Gally!

Gally:
No, well, I apologise. But really. One oughtn't read out the part in parentheses, you know, that's by way of explanation. The joke is, the bells peal p-e-a-l when they are tolled t-o-l-l-e-d, and maids peel p-e-e-l -- potatoes and so forth -- when they are told t-o-l-d.

Patrick:
Well naturally I took that much as given.

Gally:
Oh, did you, indeed?

Patrick:
Alright, who's next? Oswald, my boy.

Newt:
Oh, but Pa, but you haven't put your hat on.

Jerry:
No.

Newt:
Well, but. Aren't you going to?

Jerry:
I think not.

Gally:
Oh go on, Father, you must.

Patrick:
I must do nothing of the sort. I do not care to.

Gally:
Whyever not?

Lettie:
Mr. James is wearing his, dear.

Patrick:
And very well he looks in it.

Mr. James:
Thank you, my dear fellow.

Patrick:
Not at all. But I prefer not to.

Gally:
It's only a bit of fun.

Patrick:
I do not object to fun.

Gally:
Ring out the bells! Father does not object to fun.

Patrick:
I merely ask that it be in its right and proper place.

Gally:
And... you don't consider that place to be inside a Christmas cracker on Christmas day?

Patrick:
The matter is closed. Continue with your cracker, Oswald.

Newt:
Oo, I got a... What is it?

Gally:
You blow into it, fat head.

Newt:
Oh. [kazoo noise] Oh! Oh, topping! And the hat. I may wear the hat, mayn't I, Father?

Patrick:
You may.

Newt:
[paper noises] Oh! Oh, it ripped!

Gally:
Not surprised. The kid has a head like a soccer ball -- I've always said so.

Newt:
Oh, Mother, it's ripped.

Lettie:
Nevermind, Oswald.

Gally:
Well for heaven's sake, the solution's clear enough -- surely you can have Father's.

Patrick:
Uh, now--

Newt:
Oh!

Patrick:
I'm not sure of that.

Gally:
Whyever not?

Patrick:
Well, this hat is mine.

Gally:
But you refuse to wear it.

Patrick:
That is beside the point.

Gally:
It's not so very far beside the point.

Patrick:
The point, Gally, is that Oswald failed to take sufficient care of his hat, and he must therefore abide with the consequences. I'm sure Mr. James agrees with me.

Mr. James:
Oh. Well--

Gally:
But if you'd put your hat on, it would have ripped too.

Patrick:
That I very much doubt.

Gally:
Well of course it would! Your head is if anything, much--

Lettie:
Gally!

Patrick:
I do not wish to debate the question further. The plain facts of the matter speak for themselves. Oswald and myself were each given a paper hat. Oswald's is now torn. And mine is not.

Mr. James:
Pardon me, Nightingale, but I rather think it is.

Patrick:
No it isn't.

Mr. James: [ripping noise] Yes, it is.

Newt:
[in an awed whisper] Mr. James!

Patrick:
Well, Mr. James, so it might be, but, so is your own! [paper noises]

Lettie:
Oh!

Mr. James:
Touché! I am undone.

Patrick:
Well, you see, sir, you are served with your own medicine!

[all laughing]

Mr. James:
I am! I am!

Gally:
[tearing noises] Here goes Mother's!

[all laughing]

Lettie:
Oh!

Patrick:
There, Gally. Now that, you see, is what I call fun in its proper place.

[dog whining]

Gally:
Oswald, let Toby out.

[outro music]
John Finnemore's Souvenir Programme was written and performed by John Finnemore with Margaret Cabourn-Smith, Simon Kane, Lawry Lewin, and Carrie Quinlan. Original music was composed by Susannah Pearse and performed by Susannah Pearse and Sally Stares. The producer was Ed Morrish and it was a BBC Studios production.

Patrick:
[clapping hands together] And now, a Christmas treat. You children are always pestering me for stories, and I never can think of any, but it so happens that when Mr. James here and I were schoolmasters together, he was celebrated for the ghost stories he would tell the boys at Christmas, and he has very kindly consented to tell you one now.

Gally:
Truly?

Newt:
A ghost story?

Mr. James:
Well, of course, I'd be glad to, Nightingale, but really, it's a rather a dry old thing for children. I'm not sure they'd care for it.

Newt:
Oh, we would! We would, we would!

Gally:
Oh, yes, rather!

Lettie:
Go on, Monty, do it.

Mr. James:
Well. Since you ask me for a ghost story, perhaps you would care to hear the singular history of the Rose Garden of Westfield Hall in the county of Essex...